People always ask me why I've come from sunny Australia to cold, grey London. I always tell people I wanted new challenges and to have Europe on my front door step. When I arrived I compiled a list of places which I wanted to see - Stockholm, Dublin, the French Riviera, Cinque Terre, Copenhagen, Croatia, etc etc.
The last couple of trips I've done I've had the pleasure of being able to travel with a companion. So it was great to be able to head out to explore the world again on my own - the lone traveller and his own two feet. Being the control freak I am and having little time to prepare for my trip, I decided to take the easy option and visit an English speaking country on my list. There were plenty of cheap flights to Dublin, and scored a 1 pence flight from Dublin to London! Unfortunately taxes and charges and everything else added to the cost, but still, better than paying 30 pounds for a flight.
As usual I was way too early for my flight from Heathrow, only to find my Aer Lingus flight (yes, I deliberately chose to fly the Irish flag bearer) sitting on the tarmac for an hour while the congestion cleared. I was non-plussed really - I just sat there and contemplated life and listened to the sweet sounds of Irish accents waft around me.
On accents. I just love the Irish accent. Their rolling "r" sound and the melodic sing-song is enough to make you swoon for hours. Though, I can confirm that "northern Ireland is more sing-song than southern Ireland". On the flight, two Irish lads sitting next to me were having a quiet conversation of mostly swear words. Amusingly, the "f this and f that and she's a f-ing b*" discussion sounded so friendly and upbeat with their Irish accents you could be forgiven for thinking that they were talking about the posies of flowers they were going to give to their mums for Christmas.
When discussing this with my flatmate, I have since been advised that my accent has gone slightly English. Aghast at this thought (but secretly pleased at my incredible assimilation), I asked her for proof. Apparently when I had been on the phone to the plumber (my tap broke), all my questions ended with a downwards inflection. I pondered over this on yet another delayed train journey. When Aussies ask a question, the inflection goes up. Asking "would you like a cup of tea?" in English English ends in a downwards inflection. And apparently my inflections are now heading south. Admittedly, I do mix between the two - when introducing myself as an Aussie I do nasal it up a bit. And when talking to the Brits my modulation is increasingly "how now brown cow".
As is the manner in which I speak. "How bloody bizarre" is now replaced by "how very odd". "How are you" has been killed off with "Alright?". And "that'd be great" chewed up and spat out with "I should be most grateful". Yes, I should be so grateful that this brown cow is slowly turning into a ponce.
But back to Dublin. After getting an enormous green stamp in my passport, it was off to wander the streets. Dublin is an incredibly compact city. After walking for about 2 hours, I had done the complete circle and thought to myself "what next?". So I ended up backtracking and going into a few buildings such as the National Library and wandering around the very pretty Trinity College grounds where I felt like an interloper amongst the young crowd. I tried to get into the Irish Parliament, but to my annoyance discovered that you could only visit by appointment. So much for open democracy. I visited the National Photography Gallery where they had an incredibly beautiful exhibition of B&W photographs done by an Irish photographer. Pictures of the most mundane things like the wood planks on a jetty can be absolutely magnificent in black and white.
By happy coincidence, my old mate from Uni Liam, happened to be in town as well that weekend and we arranged to meet up for a bite to eat and a drink. At dinner I had an Irish stew which Liam seemed to enjoy more than I did, and I had my first Irish Guinness! It's probably not something I would ever choose to drink again - a very heavy and creamy lager, but I was glad for the experience. We wandered around the rather touristy Temple Bar area which is a series of cobbled lanes of arty shops and pubs blaring out quaint Irish music. We ended up at a nice bar and had a yarn with the friendly barmen and was introduced to the rather mellow Kilkenny lager which was more to my liking.
Back at the hostel in my 12-bed dorm without the usual necessities such as lockers or having more than 1 shower or toilet for 12 people, I met an American girl who talked and talked and talked at me for over an hour. She was lovely, but I barely had a chance to open my mouth to ask what her name was. Upon meeting nameless American girl from San Francisco the next morning at breakfast I was relieved to find that her chatter was drowned out by a very loud and most unbecoming Aussie surfer girl who was such a "get-up-and-go-and-get-my-vegemite-true-blue-bonza-she'll-be-right-hooley-dooley-maaaaaaate-no-worries-sheila" that I almost renounced my upwards inflection right then and there. It was almost as bad as the Aussie bloke who was parading around his "CATS CATS CATS CATS CATS" scarf around Dublin airport. Dude. There is no need to parade around your allegiance to Geelong.
My final hours in Dublin were spent wandering around O'Connell St, reportedly to be one of the widest streets in the world. There was a street market down one lane where all I could hear was market stall proprietors yelling "forrrr for a tenerrrr". Sorely tempted, I stopped myself from buying 4 tins of chocolates for 10 euros which i would have needed to lug all the way back with me. I wandered by Dublin's largest cathedral, the Christ Church, but decided that I only had the funds to pay for entry into one church. So I decided to go into St Patrick's given its famous Irish namesake. There wasn't anything particularly special, but it was nice and peaceful. Lunch was an expensive affair where I gave up from trying to deal with the cold and found a crepe shop where I settled in with a 5 euro crepe (oh my lorrrd!) and a copy of The Irish Times. Bliss. Nothing better than hot food and a broadsheet newspaper at a communal table - in other words, no lonesome table for 1.
But it was back to London on my 1 pence flight where I had to keep telling myself that for one pence I would be able to put up with the rude Ryanair staff. Of course, the Ryanair gates were in the old basement of the newly refurbished Dublin airport, and of course Ryanair "forgot" to load the catering trolleys on to the flight. Not many happy campers on that flight.
And talk about stamina. Upon landing at Gatwick it was straight on the train to head north to Camden to celebrate David's birthday. Alex was there too which was great, and we had a nice Indian meal with David's friends in Kentish Town. By then I was knackered and had no energy for another Kingfisher beer - so it was back down south to home.
I'm off to see my family over Christmas (not in Australia though, so you'll still have to visit me here), so I've come to the end of the road for my 2007 blog. In December 2006 I would never have thought that I would be sitting in my lovely flat in London writing about my travels to Dublin. With all the usual ups and downs and one step forward two steps back, I'm optimistic for a great start out of the blocks in 2008.
Hoping that everyone has a wonderful and safe festive season. And now, given how little money I have, I am now going to make my lunch for tomorrow. Gone are those hot lunches at the Rialto - in comes the salami, cheese and rocket baguettes. Alright, the baguettes are slightly more expensive, but at 30 pence you can give me a bit of credit. What a bloody difference a year makes for sure.
See you in '08.
Tuesday, 18 December 2007
Sunday, 9 December 2007
the acceleration
The rush towards Christmas becomes more hectic each year. There's always Christmas drinks and parties and get-togethers. A celebration of the festive season and a celebration of the fact that we've all survived the year and can enjoy some time out with our families and friends. A time to look forward to barbecues in the sunshine. Of sitting in the sun with a nice breeze and a glass of chilled white wine. Of thinking of what presents you're going to give. And receive of course. I just need to remember to practice my "I'm very pleased with this shit that I got for kris kringle" face.
This Christmas I'll be meeting my family in Thailand for a short holiday. Not quite the white Christmas I was looking forward to, but some sun and sand will have to suffice for now. What a shame. I mean, really.
It has been a bit of a wild ride the past few weeks. I said goodbye to the Ministry of Justice to start a new post at the Health Professions Council. Just as I was getting comfortable at the MoJ and enjoying the company of my colleagues, off I went again to start afresh. And to have all the stresses of trying to make a good first impression and learning new processes and names. I don't shy away from the fact that it's been heaps stressful, but I figure if I don't drop dead now, that I'll be able to handle far bigger stresses when I finally push everyone else off the corporate ladder so I can enjoy some time being the big cheese and earn mega-bucks and act like I'm superior to everyone else.
My first week at the Health Professions Council has been interesting in a myriad of ways, and so far the people have been pretty friendly with the new interloper. I've already been out for drinks twice, and whether that's indicative of me turning into an alcoholic or something far more sinister bubbling below the surface, I won't speculate. Two points of order, Mr Speaker. I've enjoyed for the first time in my life having a tea-lady in the office who makes me a cup of tea at 10am and 2.30pm every day. I could get used to this. But then, my brother has had his own secretary from day 1, so I guess I have some way to go to catch up. The other great thing is that people play their i-pod in the office, and while I'm not usually a fan of music at the office because it can be distracting, I'm liking that I can listen to music I would not hear of ordinarily.
Went to check out Oxford last weekend which was a nice little breather away from London. Oxford is a grand old dame of England, with uppity old buildings and the like. Beautiful in the sunset, not so beautiful in the drizzling rain. I learnt some interesting things on the "official" tour, such as Oxford University not having one single campus, but a university having a multitude of colleges. The guide pointed out that people wearing "University of Oxford" tees are less likely to be students at Oxford as students' allegiance is to their college first, rather than the whole institution. I wondered how I would have turned out had I managed to study at such an exemplary institution where you have 1:1 teaching in your subject. I'm not sure how I would have coped with such intensity, but the chance to talk about politics for hours on end would have been incredibly inspiring. Understandable then how important Oxford is in terms of its prodigious output - Prime Ministers, literature, scholarly thought.
Little wonder I didn't graduate from Oxford. Poor old Melbourne University is perishing in its own thoughts of me being a member of its alumni.
My parents sent me a care package in the post this week. I was thrilled that in the package was a pile of newspapers with all the analysis of the Australian election. I know i labour on politics a lot in my blogs, but I've come to realise how much my interest in politics forms such a part of my life.
He says the man who would never dare to run for public office himself.
This Christmas I'll be meeting my family in Thailand for a short holiday. Not quite the white Christmas I was looking forward to, but some sun and sand will have to suffice for now. What a shame. I mean, really.
It has been a bit of a wild ride the past few weeks. I said goodbye to the Ministry of Justice to start a new post at the Health Professions Council. Just as I was getting comfortable at the MoJ and enjoying the company of my colleagues, off I went again to start afresh. And to have all the stresses of trying to make a good first impression and learning new processes and names. I don't shy away from the fact that it's been heaps stressful, but I figure if I don't drop dead now, that I'll be able to handle far bigger stresses when I finally push everyone else off the corporate ladder so I can enjoy some time being the big cheese and earn mega-bucks and act like I'm superior to everyone else.
My first week at the Health Professions Council has been interesting in a myriad of ways, and so far the people have been pretty friendly with the new interloper. I've already been out for drinks twice, and whether that's indicative of me turning into an alcoholic or something far more sinister bubbling below the surface, I won't speculate. Two points of order, Mr Speaker. I've enjoyed for the first time in my life having a tea-lady in the office who makes me a cup of tea at 10am and 2.30pm every day. I could get used to this. But then, my brother has had his own secretary from day 1, so I guess I have some way to go to catch up. The other great thing is that people play their i-pod in the office, and while I'm not usually a fan of music at the office because it can be distracting, I'm liking that I can listen to music I would not hear of ordinarily.
Went to check out Oxford last weekend which was a nice little breather away from London. Oxford is a grand old dame of England, with uppity old buildings and the like. Beautiful in the sunset, not so beautiful in the drizzling rain. I learnt some interesting things on the "official" tour, such as Oxford University not having one single campus, but a university having a multitude of colleges. The guide pointed out that people wearing "University of Oxford" tees are less likely to be students at Oxford as students' allegiance is to their college first, rather than the whole institution. I wondered how I would have turned out had I managed to study at such an exemplary institution where you have 1:1 teaching in your subject. I'm not sure how I would have coped with such intensity, but the chance to talk about politics for hours on end would have been incredibly inspiring. Understandable then how important Oxford is in terms of its prodigious output - Prime Ministers, literature, scholarly thought.
Little wonder I didn't graduate from Oxford. Poor old Melbourne University is perishing in its own thoughts of me being a member of its alumni.
My parents sent me a care package in the post this week. I was thrilled that in the package was a pile of newspapers with all the analysis of the Australian election. I know i labour on politics a lot in my blogs, but I've come to realise how much my interest in politics forms such a part of my life.
He says the man who would never dare to run for public office himself.
Monday, 3 December 2007
the little things
Some things never change. The satisfaction derived from dunking Tim Tams into a cup of tea after arriving home from work (and now that I'm living in England, the satisfaction of doing that doubles automatically). Enjoying a walk in the cold air listening to music.
And new pleasures. Watching the Thames from my bedroom window. Choosing which museum to go on the weekend. Last weekend it was the Victoria and Albert Museum - a powerhouse in the breadth and depth of its design collections. Writing in my blog and thinking back to what I've done and where I've been. Playing pool with my cousin in Chinatown and giving puzzled looks to Chinese gang-sta boys running around with British accents. And receiving puzzled looks when these British Chinese boys hear our Australian accents. Sadly, my ability in ensuring the cue hits the little white ball at the correct velocity and angle has been found wanting. David 2. Taffy 0.
Of course, when you move to a new city everything isn't always beer and skittles. There are the days when I just want to close my eyes and wait for the blackness to recede. But the end of the blackness only shows you that there's no other option but to push on. As my mum said to me before I left: breathe. smile. relax.
In my darkest days there is the joy of having friends so close, yet so far away. Truth be told, I'm not sure if I would ever survive without technologies such as skype and messenger. Maybe Telstra was a force for good after all.
Of course, the thing that has changed the least has been my appetite for politics. I was insatiable in devouring news of the election. For the first time in many years I missed watching the ABC and the count, but had to make do with a radio broadcast on the internet.
Vale the Australian Democrats. Your scrutiny of legislation in the Senate will be missed by the Australian people. But it's time to open a new chapter for progressive politics in Australia.
It's time for the sun to come out.
And new pleasures. Watching the Thames from my bedroom window. Choosing which museum to go on the weekend. Last weekend it was the Victoria and Albert Museum - a powerhouse in the breadth and depth of its design collections. Writing in my blog and thinking back to what I've done and where I've been. Playing pool with my cousin in Chinatown and giving puzzled looks to Chinese gang-sta boys running around with British accents. And receiving puzzled looks when these British Chinese boys hear our Australian accents. Sadly, my ability in ensuring the cue hits the little white ball at the correct velocity and angle has been found wanting. David 2. Taffy 0.
Of course, when you move to a new city everything isn't always beer and skittles. There are the days when I just want to close my eyes and wait for the blackness to recede. But the end of the blackness only shows you that there's no other option but to push on. As my mum said to me before I left: breathe. smile. relax.
In my darkest days there is the joy of having friends so close, yet so far away. Truth be told, I'm not sure if I would ever survive without technologies such as skype and messenger. Maybe Telstra was a force for good after all.
Of course, the thing that has changed the least has been my appetite for politics. I was insatiable in devouring news of the election. For the first time in many years I missed watching the ABC and the count, but had to make do with a radio broadcast on the internet.
Vale the Australian Democrats. Your scrutiny of legislation in the Senate will be missed by the Australian people. But it's time to open a new chapter for progressive politics in Australia.
It's time for the sun to come out.
Monday, 19 November 2007
the diversity and similarity
A quiet Friday afternoon in an open plan office is generally never that controversial. Except, for when colleagues, unaware that an Australian interloper, sitting in their midst, are giving their views on Australians and its respective cities. Of particular note was the shellacking given to our dear Melbourne. It is "nice" and "cosmopolitan", but full of people who are "so far up their arses" and "pretentious" and "boring". Why, I disagree with you, kind sir. It's only because we live in a more liveable city than London are we allowed to become "up ourselves" about our little city. So Melbourne has its flaws such as being rather boring at times and irritatingly insular when the football season is on, but I'm damned if I'm going to sit here and cop a beating on behalf of my fellow Melburnians. I will rise up with courage... and write about it in my blog.
Whimper.
Now that I am unsure what else to write in my blog, I will fill it with inane chatter about the weather. (In fairness to me however, an English friend has told me that it is absolutely a cultural trait of the British to talk about the weather when filling in gaps in conversation).
There are some beautiful chestnut trees just inside the gates to the residential complex where I live. In the autumn, little soon-to-be-hooligans would throw fallen chestnuts at each other, and I've watched the trees turn into a magnificent mass of yellow leaves. More and more, the yellow leaves would scatter itself around the ground, until this morning, the frost shrivelled up the leaves and left the ground bare. In defiance of the cold, I have now unpacked my thickest winter jacket, and discovered that I have a ridiculous number of jackets. I have the jackets which I had brought with me from Melbourne which are laughably inadequate for an English autumn. In addition, I have 2 new jackets which I bought - 1 which would only survive an early autumn here, and another which would survive a late autumn. Some people collect stamps (Err... me circa 1990). Some people collect bags. And I collect jackets. (And speaking of clothing, I have since been informed that referring to "pants" here means underwear. So when I said to someone about me wearing black pants, I was certainly not referring to my underwear. 'Scuse me. My black trousers.)
But enough of the weather and pants/panties. Last week after having a coffee with Rob and his girlfriend, we decided to go for a walk and found ourselves at the red-carpet launch of a movie at Leicester Square. I dare say it will be my first and last time I ever join the throngs of stupid people to go to watch crowds of stupid people taking pictures of crowds of stupid people. Screaming girls, screaming older women, screaming older women complaining about screamings girls being hoisted on the shoulders of screaming girls, moronic "I'm so fabulous that I'm on the red-carpet" hosts on big-screen TVs, crowds of tourists jumping over barriers, etc etc etc. Horrendous. I am living in the land of Shakespeare (yawn) and Churchill - and this is what I get?
And speaking of democracy, I have finally been sent my postal vote ballot papers in the mail. I will sit down with a nice cup of tea and mark all my Senate preferences below the line. All 68 of them.
In another beauty contest, I was able to catch the National Portrait Gallery's exhibition of The Photographic Portrait Prize one evening before a nice Chinese dinner with my cousin and aunt. I quite enjoyed the small exhibition, but given the narrow terms of reference - that is - you take picture of a person to enter the competition - there was a limit on what there was to see. What was not limited however was the diversity of issues and types of people that were captured in these photos. In one review of the Exhibition, the critic noted that there seemed to be an abundance of ginger-haired people in the photos. Perhaps the judging panel at the Photographic Portrait Prize had the same thinking like the rest of us 20 million Australians. We're going to replace a short, glasses-wearing, nerdy, economic conservative with another short, glasses-wearing, nerdy, economic conservative.
A somewhat tenuous link, I know. And just for the record, the short, glasses-wearing, nerdy, economic conservative does not refer to me. If only.
Whimper.
Now that I am unsure what else to write in my blog, I will fill it with inane chatter about the weather. (In fairness to me however, an English friend has told me that it is absolutely a cultural trait of the British to talk about the weather when filling in gaps in conversation).
There are some beautiful chestnut trees just inside the gates to the residential complex where I live. In the autumn, little soon-to-be-hooligans would throw fallen chestnuts at each other, and I've watched the trees turn into a magnificent mass of yellow leaves. More and more, the yellow leaves would scatter itself around the ground, until this morning, the frost shrivelled up the leaves and left the ground bare. In defiance of the cold, I have now unpacked my thickest winter jacket, and discovered that I have a ridiculous number of jackets. I have the jackets which I had brought with me from Melbourne which are laughably inadequate for an English autumn. In addition, I have 2 new jackets which I bought - 1 which would only survive an early autumn here, and another which would survive a late autumn. Some people collect stamps (Err... me circa 1990). Some people collect bags. And I collect jackets. (And speaking of clothing, I have since been informed that referring to "pants" here means underwear. So when I said to someone about me wearing black pants, I was certainly not referring to my underwear. 'Scuse me. My black trousers.)
But enough of the weather and pants/panties. Last week after having a coffee with Rob and his girlfriend, we decided to go for a walk and found ourselves at the red-carpet launch of a movie at Leicester Square. I dare say it will be my first and last time I ever join the throngs of stupid people to go to watch crowds of stupid people taking pictures of crowds of stupid people. Screaming girls, screaming older women, screaming older women complaining about screamings girls being hoisted on the shoulders of screaming girls, moronic "I'm so fabulous that I'm on the red-carpet" hosts on big-screen TVs, crowds of tourists jumping over barriers, etc etc etc. Horrendous. I am living in the land of Shakespeare (yawn) and Churchill - and this is what I get?
And speaking of democracy, I have finally been sent my postal vote ballot papers in the mail. I will sit down with a nice cup of tea and mark all my Senate preferences below the line. All 68 of them.
In another beauty contest, I was able to catch the National Portrait Gallery's exhibition of The Photographic Portrait Prize one evening before a nice Chinese dinner with my cousin and aunt. I quite enjoyed the small exhibition, but given the narrow terms of reference - that is - you take picture of a person to enter the competition - there was a limit on what there was to see. What was not limited however was the diversity of issues and types of people that were captured in these photos. In one review of the Exhibition, the critic noted that there seemed to be an abundance of ginger-haired people in the photos. Perhaps the judging panel at the Photographic Portrait Prize had the same thinking like the rest of us 20 million Australians. We're going to replace a short, glasses-wearing, nerdy, economic conservative with another short, glasses-wearing, nerdy, economic conservative.
A somewhat tenuous link, I know. And just for the record, the short, glasses-wearing, nerdy, economic conservative does not refer to me. If only.
Monday, 5 November 2007
the non-stop fireworks
Tis the season for fireworks.
In the lead up to Guy Fawkes day, Guy Fawkes day itself and now the aftermath of Guy Fawkes day, there have been non-stop fireworks going around London. Being conveniently located on the banks of the Thames, we have prime views of fireworks that people are lighting up across the Thames. On Saturday night we could see literally the entire north side of the Thames light up with about 4 lots of fireworks going on. At one point we couldn't decide where to look - east? west? east? - it was ridiculous the abundance of fireworks going on.
I think I have now been way overexposed to fireworks. I can hear enormous ka-booms happening all around, and I sit here at my table with the curtains drawn, ignoring the festivities outside. Yes, I have been incredibly spoilt. I guess you need to be here to understand why I find fireworks rather boring now.
With London getting colder and a growing inclination to hibernate indoors with a glass of red and a good book, it has been an achievement every time I force myself out of the house to do the grocery run or gasp! go and check out what London has to offer. Frances and I went to see Ratatouille on Saturday afternoon which was great fun. Highly recommended - it was very cute and very witty, and being the sap I am, I love a happy ending. Only in movies mind you - I'm way too bitter and twisted to enjoy such sacharine nonsense outside of reality.
Of course, there were plenty of good morals for children in the movie - don't steal, be loyal to your friends, have a good attitude to life, keep your mind open, etc etc etc. Worthy sentiments. What was not so worthy were the little shits that were running up and down the aisles during the films. Disgraceful. As I complained to my boss today, I didn't yell at them, lest I get stabbed in the back. It's quite bad nowadays where people are fearful of standing up to disrespectful youngsters behaving antisocially - everyone is afraid of being attacked with a knife.
Anyhow. Back to frivolity (hang on, this dried up old prune is going to check out the ENORMOUS fireworks that are happening outside my window). What made me almost cry with laughter however was the short Pixar animation before Ratatouille started. It was about a little green alien sitting a test for spiriting away a human to their UFO. The expression of the examiner and the sweaty desperation of the alien candidate had me in hysterics. Another Pixar great (along with the "For the Birds" short which is also worthy of your viewing).
To prevent my brain becoming pickled I went to the Imperial War Museum on Sunday to check out a new exhibition they have - "Weapons of Mass Communications: War Posters". It was a fascinating collection of posters used to spur people to join the army in World War 1 and 2 - displaying not just British posters, but German and French and Austrian posters as well. The collection interestingly also contained anti-war posters of today to provide a balanced viewpoint.
The Ministry of Justice also keeps on sending me out into the field to continue my education of the justice system. I was sent to meet the Chief Inspector and Duty Prosecutor of the Newham Borough police station today which was another eye-opening experience. Unfortunately most of the time was spent in meetings, but I do intend to go back to tour the station and to meet with some of the officers to hear their views. I am quite privileged to be able to gather different viewpoints on what makes the justice system tick. Are defendant witnesses being looked after adequately? How does the relationship between the Crown Prosecutor and the Crown Court assist to get the case to trial? What can the department do to better equip information sharing between different justice agencies?
These are all questions that deserve time and effort and I finally feel like I can help to make a difference. And it's a good feeling.
Just like watching a brilliant display of fireworks, really.
In the lead up to Guy Fawkes day, Guy Fawkes day itself and now the aftermath of Guy Fawkes day, there have been non-stop fireworks going around London. Being conveniently located on the banks of the Thames, we have prime views of fireworks that people are lighting up across the Thames. On Saturday night we could see literally the entire north side of the Thames light up with about 4 lots of fireworks going on. At one point we couldn't decide where to look - east? west? east? - it was ridiculous the abundance of fireworks going on.
I think I have now been way overexposed to fireworks. I can hear enormous ka-booms happening all around, and I sit here at my table with the curtains drawn, ignoring the festivities outside. Yes, I have been incredibly spoilt. I guess you need to be here to understand why I find fireworks rather boring now.
With London getting colder and a growing inclination to hibernate indoors with a glass of red and a good book, it has been an achievement every time I force myself out of the house to do the grocery run or gasp! go and check out what London has to offer. Frances and I went to see Ratatouille on Saturday afternoon which was great fun. Highly recommended - it was very cute and very witty, and being the sap I am, I love a happy ending. Only in movies mind you - I'm way too bitter and twisted to enjoy such sacharine nonsense outside of reality.
Of course, there were plenty of good morals for children in the movie - don't steal, be loyal to your friends, have a good attitude to life, keep your mind open, etc etc etc. Worthy sentiments. What was not so worthy were the little shits that were running up and down the aisles during the films. Disgraceful. As I complained to my boss today, I didn't yell at them, lest I get stabbed in the back. It's quite bad nowadays where people are fearful of standing up to disrespectful youngsters behaving antisocially - everyone is afraid of being attacked with a knife.
Anyhow. Back to frivolity (hang on, this dried up old prune is going to check out the ENORMOUS fireworks that are happening outside my window). What made me almost cry with laughter however was the short Pixar animation before Ratatouille started. It was about a little green alien sitting a test for spiriting away a human to their UFO. The expression of the examiner and the sweaty desperation of the alien candidate had me in hysterics. Another Pixar great (along with the "For the Birds" short which is also worthy of your viewing).
To prevent my brain becoming pickled I went to the Imperial War Museum on Sunday to check out a new exhibition they have - "Weapons of Mass Communications: War Posters". It was a fascinating collection of posters used to spur people to join the army in World War 1 and 2 - displaying not just British posters, but German and French and Austrian posters as well. The collection interestingly also contained anti-war posters of today to provide a balanced viewpoint.
The Ministry of Justice also keeps on sending me out into the field to continue my education of the justice system. I was sent to meet the Chief Inspector and Duty Prosecutor of the Newham Borough police station today which was another eye-opening experience. Unfortunately most of the time was spent in meetings, but I do intend to go back to tour the station and to meet with some of the officers to hear their views. I am quite privileged to be able to gather different viewpoints on what makes the justice system tick. Are defendant witnesses being looked after adequately? How does the relationship between the Crown Prosecutor and the Crown Court assist to get the case to trial? What can the department do to better equip information sharing between different justice agencies?
These are all questions that deserve time and effort and I finally feel like I can help to make a difference. And it's a good feeling.
Just like watching a brilliant display of fireworks, really.
Wednesday, 31 October 2007
(all the way to) the top
Seeing Les Miserables one Saturday night in London with my dad was the perfect entree to my weekend getaway to Paris. Not that there was revolution in the air, or unrequited love, pursuits of prisoners or the rescue of orphans, but its antithesis - food, shopping, wine and carousing down the banks of the Seine.
With my dad in Europe for business meetings, and my sister staying in my little flat for a work conference, it was perfect timing to enjoy an autumn in Paris, and a great excuse to take off a Friday to take a long weekend. I couldn't have asked for a nicer start to my mini-holiday. A very civilised lunch in a local cafe with a very patient waiter - where triumphantly I ended up ordering herring (that was the only thing I could find in our tiny tourist dictionary) and a piece of porc. Then, a ride along the clackety metro taking us straight to the Eiffel Tower where my sister and I prodded my long-suffering dad into climbing the Eiffel Tower by foot. Funnily enough Dad did very well - we powered past some rather unfit people as they clutched the railing, panting for breath. Dad did get tired though, and we left him at the first level.
But it was all the way to the top for the rest of us. Having been to the top of the Tower before, I had seen it all before, but I did marvel at how beautiful Paris was, admiring the trees turning their colours in the cool autumn afternoon. A walk to the Arc de Triomph and a stroll along the Champs Elysees perfected a cruisy afternoon. I was however, very pleased to be able to do some shopping along the Champs Elysees. The first shop I entered I found a great duffle coat. Having searched the globe for a duffle jacket that would fit my rather skinny frame for the past 2 years, I knew I wanted the coat once I put it on, twirling in front of the mirrors. Another guy, stopped to look at me and my twirling and immediately put on the same jacket as I was wearing. We looked at each other and knew that the jacket was the goods. We both ended up buying the jacket, and wearing it out of the shop. Mutual validation - you should try it sometime.
Dinner was going to be the death of me. Having continued to snack on coffees and pastries all day, I continued on my path of gluttony with soup, duck and a very rich creme brulee. It was a rather uncomfortable night later as I lay in bed, a days worth of food churning in my stomach. But it was well worth it after months of eating supermarket sandwiches. Poor me.
The next day dawned with an early morning kwa-sson so we could beat the early morning crowds at the Notre Dame cathedral. We spent a little bit more money to go into the Cathedral's treasury where we saw a few of the more precious items on display, including the robes worn by one of the monsignors hundreds of years ago. I've always found cathedrals to be relaxing places (sans rude tourists taking flash pictures while people are in the middle of a prayer), and it was nice to take a moment to light a candle and think and reflect.
This rather mild form of contemplation continued on at the Musee D'Orsay with its excellent collection of contemporary art. I enjoyed seeing the Van Gogh collection again, and my sister, dad and I picked our favourite pictures so that we might buy some prints later. After a couple of hours however, the return on investment had its margins slashed (read: we got sick of art and wanted to eat lunch and go shopping) and on leaving, found that dad & sister had been to the gift shop and bought me a print which I had been wanting to get for a long time. Tres happy!
The rest of the afternoon was spent moseying through Parisian boutiques, ending up at the Galarie Lafayette - an enormous but very glitzy department store which on that day wasn't glitzy at all but completely packed out with hoardes of shoppers. Admittedly we did drop a few euros on some rather nice clothes here and there (well, the main beneficiary being my sister) but it was all good fun trying on the designer labels and making myself feel all ooh la la.
Voila.
On our final day of Paris we headed off to Versailles where we wanted to visit the Palace. An hour's drive netted us a big disappointment when we saw the line to get in to the Palace which we estimated to be at least a 2 hour wait. We decided against it given that time was against us and headed into the city centre where a very cute old little lady directed us to the centre and told us to visit the markets.
I am usually not a fan of markets, but it was quite fun to see the cakes, the cheese and all the fresh produce. I scored a bottle of red wine to bring back with me and a loaf of olive bread to bring back on the Eurostar home. But our Paris trip wasn't quite complete without a quick visit to an outlet shopping centre in suburban Paris (well, "outlet" is a bit too cheap a way to describe it given the first cab off the rank was Burberry, closely followed by Bally and then Ferragamo). There was some more twirling, and I scored a cool pair of Campers and a couple of designer ties for bargain prices. Go me.
However, as we soon found out we weren't going anywhere on the freeway back to central Paris for our train home to London. Stuck in a monumental traffic jam, we sweated and chewed our fingernails for 2 hours as we inched forward, killing us slowly with anxiety. We made it - just - after fighting through the chaos of everyone wanting to take the last 2 trains back to London. With a stamp at French immigration, a stamp at British immigration - we were off!
Only to arrive back to London and find ourselves in a massive queue for cabs. I have never been in a Black Cab before, and I don't think I will take another go after watching the spiralling meter chew through all my pounds. The cab driver laughed at me when I told him that I took the night bus rather than a cab - well, he should bloody well know how expensive it was.
The next day I dispatched my sister off to Heathrow with her suitcase in peak hour chaos - she was not a fan of London public transport having been jostled and pushed around on the trains. Having fought my way on to the Tube with her suitcase, I turned around and found my sister standing forlornly on the platform, people hustling her out of the way - like sharks circling fresh (tourist) blood. Needless to say, someone's poor brother had to haul his sister onto the Tube before she got left behind.
Just one final note to satisfy my ego. I won a reward and recognition award from the head of the Strategy Development and Projects Division for my suporting work on a few projects. Was a bit embarrassed, but pleased all the same. I ges I can spel and speek propa inglish arfta orl.
Onwards and upwards (to the top!)
With my dad in Europe for business meetings, and my sister staying in my little flat for a work conference, it was perfect timing to enjoy an autumn in Paris, and a great excuse to take off a Friday to take a long weekend. I couldn't have asked for a nicer start to my mini-holiday. A very civilised lunch in a local cafe with a very patient waiter - where triumphantly I ended up ordering herring (that was the only thing I could find in our tiny tourist dictionary) and a piece of porc. Then, a ride along the clackety metro taking us straight to the Eiffel Tower where my sister and I prodded my long-suffering dad into climbing the Eiffel Tower by foot. Funnily enough Dad did very well - we powered past some rather unfit people as they clutched the railing, panting for breath. Dad did get tired though, and we left him at the first level.
But it was all the way to the top for the rest of us. Having been to the top of the Tower before, I had seen it all before, but I did marvel at how beautiful Paris was, admiring the trees turning their colours in the cool autumn afternoon. A walk to the Arc de Triomph and a stroll along the Champs Elysees perfected a cruisy afternoon. I was however, very pleased to be able to do some shopping along the Champs Elysees. The first shop I entered I found a great duffle coat. Having searched the globe for a duffle jacket that would fit my rather skinny frame for the past 2 years, I knew I wanted the coat once I put it on, twirling in front of the mirrors. Another guy, stopped to look at me and my twirling and immediately put on the same jacket as I was wearing. We looked at each other and knew that the jacket was the goods. We both ended up buying the jacket, and wearing it out of the shop. Mutual validation - you should try it sometime.
Dinner was going to be the death of me. Having continued to snack on coffees and pastries all day, I continued on my path of gluttony with soup, duck and a very rich creme brulee. It was a rather uncomfortable night later as I lay in bed, a days worth of food churning in my stomach. But it was well worth it after months of eating supermarket sandwiches. Poor me.
The next day dawned with an early morning kwa-sson so we could beat the early morning crowds at the Notre Dame cathedral. We spent a little bit more money to go into the Cathedral's treasury where we saw a few of the more precious items on display, including the robes worn by one of the monsignors hundreds of years ago. I've always found cathedrals to be relaxing places (sans rude tourists taking flash pictures while people are in the middle of a prayer), and it was nice to take a moment to light a candle and think and reflect.
This rather mild form of contemplation continued on at the Musee D'Orsay with its excellent collection of contemporary art. I enjoyed seeing the Van Gogh collection again, and my sister, dad and I picked our favourite pictures so that we might buy some prints later. After a couple of hours however, the return on investment had its margins slashed (read: we got sick of art and wanted to eat lunch and go shopping) and on leaving, found that dad & sister had been to the gift shop and bought me a print which I had been wanting to get for a long time. Tres happy!
The rest of the afternoon was spent moseying through Parisian boutiques, ending up at the Galarie Lafayette - an enormous but very glitzy department store which on that day wasn't glitzy at all but completely packed out with hoardes of shoppers. Admittedly we did drop a few euros on some rather nice clothes here and there (well, the main beneficiary being my sister) but it was all good fun trying on the designer labels and making myself feel all ooh la la.
Voila.
On our final day of Paris we headed off to Versailles where we wanted to visit the Palace. An hour's drive netted us a big disappointment when we saw the line to get in to the Palace which we estimated to be at least a 2 hour wait. We decided against it given that time was against us and headed into the city centre where a very cute old little lady directed us to the centre and told us to visit the markets.
I am usually not a fan of markets, but it was quite fun to see the cakes, the cheese and all the fresh produce. I scored a bottle of red wine to bring back with me and a loaf of olive bread to bring back on the Eurostar home. But our Paris trip wasn't quite complete without a quick visit to an outlet shopping centre in suburban Paris (well, "outlet" is a bit too cheap a way to describe it given the first cab off the rank was Burberry, closely followed by Bally and then Ferragamo). There was some more twirling, and I scored a cool pair of Campers and a couple of designer ties for bargain prices. Go me.
However, as we soon found out we weren't going anywhere on the freeway back to central Paris for our train home to London. Stuck in a monumental traffic jam, we sweated and chewed our fingernails for 2 hours as we inched forward, killing us slowly with anxiety. We made it - just - after fighting through the chaos of everyone wanting to take the last 2 trains back to London. With a stamp at French immigration, a stamp at British immigration - we were off!
Only to arrive back to London and find ourselves in a massive queue for cabs. I have never been in a Black Cab before, and I don't think I will take another go after watching the spiralling meter chew through all my pounds. The cab driver laughed at me when I told him that I took the night bus rather than a cab - well, he should bloody well know how expensive it was.
The next day I dispatched my sister off to Heathrow with her suitcase in peak hour chaos - she was not a fan of London public transport having been jostled and pushed around on the trains. Having fought my way on to the Tube with her suitcase, I turned around and found my sister standing forlornly on the platform, people hustling her out of the way - like sharks circling fresh (tourist) blood. Needless to say, someone's poor brother had to haul his sister onto the Tube before she got left behind.
Just one final note to satisfy my ego. I won a reward and recognition award from the head of the Strategy Development and Projects Division for my suporting work on a few projects. Was a bit embarrassed, but pleased all the same. I ges I can spel and speek propa inglish arfta orl.
Onwards and upwards (to the top!)
Thursday, 25 October 2007
the train journey
I usually love train journeys. There's the stressless boarding of trains without the security checks, the fact that you can watch the countryside roll past, and the chance to wander up and down the carriages to stretch your legs.
I am currently re-considering this rather romantic notion since my last train trip to Leeds a couple of weekends ago. First, someone spilt yoghurt on me at the station. Now usually, this is not a real problem, you just wipe it off and get on with life. But since I was going to see the Scottish National Orchestra later that evening, I was wearing my good shoes, my good pants, and I had even put on a shirt outside work hours. In fact, I was feeling very pleased with myself as I had perfected the preppy look (indeed, when I was walking out of Leeds train station, a lady asked me if the train I had got off had come from London). But now, I had streaks of yoghurt on my shoes.
Then I found my reserved seat was being occupied by someone who clearly had made herself comfortable. After kicking her out of my seat, I was even more pleased with myself with being assertive enough to do it. I've realised that I've become far more assertive - being meek will give people the impetus to make you eat earth, not inherit it, when you are living in London. Being pleased was a shortlived feeling when the lady's heavy suitcase fell on my head. Not one person asked me if I was ok as I replaced the suitcase precariously above me, all while the lady's little girl continued to throw a tantrum, wailing and sulking and moaning and stamping on the ground.
Impressed, I was not.
Things improved later that evening after a nice meal with my uncle and a really nice evening at the orchestra. Sitting in the audience watching the orchestra members file on stage, I realised I missed being on the stage - just for a little bit. That nervous buzz in the air as you take your seat - the glare of the lights, the expectation sitting heavily in the air (which is usually just the overbearing warmth in the hall). As my concentration sharpened, I remembered the little things that you forget with the passage of time. The protocol of the deputy leader of the orchestra leading the tuning of the orchestra. The oboe's clear note, piercing through the fine tuning. The leader, the most senior of the violin players walking on. The conductor acknowledging the applause.
I wasn't sure whether I was going to be able to last 2 hours worth of intense classical music. But I had underestimated the beauty of the music. In a Ravel piece, the violins, together, would peak above the woodwind, and graciously ebb away to an oboe or bassoon or clarinet soloist. There was serenity at last - I do wonder however whether this newfound appreciation of classical music was as a result of my classical music traning as a kid (read: being made to play the piano and violin like every good Chinese boy), or whether the fact that I had been so removed from classical music that this was in fact a re-birthing for me?
Though, on the other hand, does anyone want to go clubbing with me in London?
I am currently re-considering this rather romantic notion since my last train trip to Leeds a couple of weekends ago. First, someone spilt yoghurt on me at the station. Now usually, this is not a real problem, you just wipe it off and get on with life. But since I was going to see the Scottish National Orchestra later that evening, I was wearing my good shoes, my good pants, and I had even put on a shirt outside work hours. In fact, I was feeling very pleased with myself as I had perfected the preppy look (indeed, when I was walking out of Leeds train station, a lady asked me if the train I had got off had come from London). But now, I had streaks of yoghurt on my shoes.
Then I found my reserved seat was being occupied by someone who clearly had made herself comfortable. After kicking her out of my seat, I was even more pleased with myself with being assertive enough to do it. I've realised that I've become far more assertive - being meek will give people the impetus to make you eat earth, not inherit it, when you are living in London. Being pleased was a shortlived feeling when the lady's heavy suitcase fell on my head. Not one person asked me if I was ok as I replaced the suitcase precariously above me, all while the lady's little girl continued to throw a tantrum, wailing and sulking and moaning and stamping on the ground.
Impressed, I was not.
Things improved later that evening after a nice meal with my uncle and a really nice evening at the orchestra. Sitting in the audience watching the orchestra members file on stage, I realised I missed being on the stage - just for a little bit. That nervous buzz in the air as you take your seat - the glare of the lights, the expectation sitting heavily in the air (which is usually just the overbearing warmth in the hall). As my concentration sharpened, I remembered the little things that you forget with the passage of time. The protocol of the deputy leader of the orchestra leading the tuning of the orchestra. The oboe's clear note, piercing through the fine tuning. The leader, the most senior of the violin players walking on. The conductor acknowledging the applause.
I wasn't sure whether I was going to be able to last 2 hours worth of intense classical music. But I had underestimated the beauty of the music. In a Ravel piece, the violins, together, would peak above the woodwind, and graciously ebb away to an oboe or bassoon or clarinet soloist. There was serenity at last - I do wonder however whether this newfound appreciation of classical music was as a result of my classical music traning as a kid (read: being made to play the piano and violin like every good Chinese boy), or whether the fact that I had been so removed from classical music that this was in fact a re-birthing for me?
Though, on the other hand, does anyone want to go clubbing with me in London?
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