NANOWRIMO 2011

 

 That is all.

AUSTRALIA II: WORKING FOR DA MAN

I thought that my plan to travel to Australia for Christmas, after having only just visited in March/April, was a bit extravagant. I mean, it's not the cheapest, quickest or most pleasant flight on the planet. In fact, it usually takes me at least a year until the memory of that flight fades enough for me to even contemplate booking another. So when I was told by my employer that I had to attend a meeting in Canberra in September, five months after my most recent flight and just two months before my next, I was less than thrilled. Six trans-global economy class flights in under nine months? Surely that counts as a breach of my human rights?

Grainy kangaroo footage

Once I got over my disappointment that the meeting wasn't taking place somewhere closer and more exotic, like Jamaica or Zambia, I eventually managed to muster a small semblance of enthusiasm for the unexpected return to my homeland. Even so, it was tempered by a strong aversion to cramming myself into an economy class seat for 24 sleepless hours, and a fear that I'd be physically unable to arrange the meetings and run the workshop when I landed at the other end.

Regular readers know that jetlag is not my friend. Despite this, I was surprisingly functional and relatively coherent during those first few days. It must have been the fear of performing badly that pushed me through the mind fug of jetlag-induced sleep deprivation. I also found myself unexpectedly enthusiastic about showing my British, African and Caribbean colleagues the joys of Canberra. I suspect that if I'd been there with a bunch of Aussies, I'd have been unable to think of any joys to show them.

They were lucky I found one!

Once my meetings and workshop were over and the international delegates had departed, I was free to catch up with friends. Whilst I had valiantly held jetlag at bay while I was working, it attacked me with a vengeance as soon as I stopped. Jetlag is evil. My brain imploded, I was completely shattered, and I'm afraid my friends didn't get to see the best of me - but I enjoyed myself nonetheless. Hopefully that's some small consolation to those of you who had to suffer me nodding off during the midde of conversations and my inability to string together a complete sentence. Hopefully?

There was NO WAY that I could handle submitting to the return economy class flight just four days after landing, so I had arranged to spend a week with my sister in Sydney. Hooray!

J was at work every day, so most of our activities were evening (and therefore alcohol)-based. She had moved into her own place since my last visit, and proudly took me to some of her favourite Sydney spots. I also dragged her out to introduce her to some of my friends, so we had quite a busy social schedule that week. My favourite day saw us spend the afternoon at an event celebrating Saudi Arabia National Day (the nibblies inexplicably consisted of pies, sandwiches and spring rolls), eat dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant in Newtown, and then head out to an Oktoberfest-themed Beer and Sausage Fundraiser hosted by Tibetan Buddhists. Carniverous and booze-swilling Tibetan Buddhists, evidently.

Breakfast in Sydney, lunch in Saudi Arabia, dinner in Vietnam, supper in Germany, and partying in Tibet. Sydney, eh? Whatta town.

PARIS

I can't believe it took me so long to travel to Paris. J'adore! J'adore!

Actually I know exactly why it took so long. It was a promise that my 8 year-old self made after the French government's appalling bombing of the Rainbow Warrior in Auckland in 1985. I swore that I would never, ever set foot in that country as long as I lived. I also threw out my beloved Bic four-colour retractable ballpoint pen because it had Made in France written on the side. I was young, but I was principled.

So it was the determination and will of that little girl, carried with me as I aged and she drifted into the past, that gave me the self-control to live four years in the UK without once skipping across the Channel to France. Even now, twenty-six years later, a part of me feels really bad for breaking her vow. But there's only so much of "You've never been to Paris?" "You MUST go to Paris" and "Paris is lovely this time of year, want to come?" that one human being can withstand. And word to the wise, younger me, that religious education stuff they're pouring into your brain right now is all bollocks. You should zone out during lessons and use the time more constructively. Learn how to draw.

Anyway, Paris.

It was just a short weekend trip, and I saw nowhere near enough of that lovely city, but it was enough for me to know that I'll have to go back. I went to the Louvre and the marvellous Musée d'Orsay. I spent a half day on a walking tour of the city, and an evening drinking way too much wine in a little café not too far from the Moulin Rouge. Catching up with an expat English friend, we spent another evening drinking yet more wine and dancing to a live jazz band in an underground cavern bar. 

 
C'est très bien!

C'est magnifique!  

C'est Gérard Depardieu! (Sorry. Must learn more French.) 


Au revoir mon ami....

TO BREED OR NOT TO BREED?

I ♥ CYANIDE AND HAPPINESS

GLASTONBURIED

Blaerlge preepot snerg cnergsha fnigl toopsnoger zlub.

That’s what this entire post would have looked like if I’d tried to write it the day after returning from Glastonbury. My brain was fried, and my body and soul were completely and utterly exhausted.

I LOVE GLASTONBURY!

Last year I’d got a free ticket for six days in exchange for working just three shifts behind a bar; this year I’d forked out £195 to get in as a regular punter. The rationale was that I'd have more time to see bands than I did the previous year, but as it turned out I saw fewer. I’m afraid I'm well on my way to becoming one of those people that I spoke about last year: the ones who hang out at Glasto, actively avoid the main stages, and go around annoying first-timers by saying "It's not about the music, man, Glastonbury is about so much more than music". I share this in the hope that the first phase of recovery from being a wanker, is acknowledging that you are a wanker.

This year, there were three distinct phases to my Glasto experience: 

Phase 1: The Journey

This phase was much longer than the distance between London and Glastonbury might suggest. It started with me waking up at seven in the morning: bouncy and excited and ready to hit the road. I just had to wait until the driver - my flatmate - woke up.

Two hours later, I was a lot less bouncy, but MUCH more ready to hit the road. And increasingly tempted to hit my flatmate. I kept looking out the window (he was sleeping in the garden) (don‘t ask) and imagining that I saw movement and signs of waking every time a leaf fluttered near his feet or a moth floated past his beard.

Another hour passed, and I began to seriously consider acting upon my fantasy of drenching him with the garden hose and trying to pass it off as an unexpected afternoon shower.

Eventually he woke, and much MUCH later we set off to collect another of his friends from the other side of town. Despite our arrival being many hours later than expected, the other guy still needed over an hour to get himself ready. That saying about girls taking longer than guys to get out the door is utter bollocks.

We eventually hit the road and started the very long journey west-ish to Glastonbury. "West-ish" is the best description of our route  that I can provide, as the boys refused to use a map and insisted on navigating using only the sun. What on earth had I got myself into?

Mud Lake? Swan Mud-pit?

In the end, the journey turned out to be a lot of fun. This despite that fact that I endured the two most traumatic "bush pee" experiences of my life. The first time, I was doing my business and, feeling in danger of going slightly off-balance as I was - er - winding up, put my hand on the ground to steady myself. I felt a stabbing pain and for a wild second though that I'd shoved my hand into a cactus. When I looked, though, all I could see was normal-looking grass, dirt, and a green, leafy plant. There were no sharp or spiky objects to be seen. Weird. As I was walking back to the car, my hand started to feel warm, getting worse as time passed. By the time I rejoined the boys, little welts had started to appear and the whole palm of my hand was stinging. Ouch!

I was too embarrassed to tell my friends (even though one of them was a doctor) and sat for a while watching with detached interest as the weird marks grew more defined on my burning hand. I was trying to figure out what exactly had caused them. A snake? No. It didn't look like a spider bite either. Bull Ants? Maybe. The sting felt similar, but less itchy. And I didn't think they had Bull Ants in England. Eventually, after about ten minutes flicking through my mental database of potential nasties, I realised what must have caused it. I actually felt quite pleased once I worked it out. I felt I'd reached a milestone of sorts, I'd now had what I considered a quintessentially British experience, bringing me closer to Enid Blyton and the dozens of characters in English stories I'd read as a child. I'd finally become acquainted with the Stinging Nettle.

The second of my traumatic bush pee experiences took place a couple of hours later. As you can imagine, I was scanning the ground intently for the innocuous-looking nettle plant and, having found a bare patch of ground that was blissfully nettle-free, settled down to the task at hand. It was only then that I lifted my head to look around me. Turning to the right, I nearly fell over with fright. There was something there. In the gloomy darkness. Sitting just a couple of metres away, it looked like a deer or maybe a large dog. By now I was mid-stream, so there was precious little I could do in the immediate term without risking a potentially embarrassing splashing incident. I kept my eyes glued fast to the beastie, willing it not to move until I could finish, button up, and get the hell out of there. It stayed still. In fact, it stayed unnaturally still. When I finished, I crept slowly, hesitantly, a little bit closer, to see what it was. It was dead, that's what it was. I squealed like a girl and rushed out from beneath the bushes and back to the car. In my efforts to avoid anything that remotely looked like a nettle, I'd wandered into the undergrowth and squatted next to an animal corpse to do a wee.

I stopped drinking water at that point.

The journey was relatively uneventful from then on, although it did take a long, long time to navigate ourselves to the right festival carpark. We pulled into the wrong carpark in the middle of the night, and after waiting an hour for the boys to return from their walk to the Lost Ticket office (and enduring three sets of security guards shining their torches into my face and demanding that I move the car to an authorised car park) we finally moved the vehicle to its final resting place and could relax. Relax we did. The car park was The Place To Be in the middle of the night. There were loads of people who, like us, were delaying the inevitably long and arduous walk into the festival by cranking some tunes, having some drinks, and chilling out.

We'd heard that there was rain on the way, so eventually had to summon up the will to load our gear and make the trek in to the festival campsite. We were very heavily laden, and the journey was torturous. I'm not using that word lightly. One friend was using a wheelbarrow to push along the camping equipment, food and drink that couldn't fit in his backpack, however it was so muddy that the wheel kept clogging up and he could barely move it. I don't think I've ever seen anyone that close to a nervous breakdown. I had two hands full of my camping gear, in addition to a heavy backpack and wellington boots that kept getting trapped in the mud as I tried to move forward. It was tedious and unpleasant and seemingly neverending. In realtime, I think it took just over one hour. In perceived time, it took at least four.

Eventually my flatmate and I went ahead of the wheelbarrow-man to try to find the campsite spot that his other friends had staked out for us in advance, and to gather volunteers to go back and help our almost-fallen comrade. When we arrived, exhausted, I was pleased to be able to escape the search and rescue duties and instead set up my tent. I crawled inside just as the first drops of rain started to fall. Dawn was breaking, and I slept for just a few hours before being woken by the sounds of fellow campers coming to life around me.  

Phase 2: The Festival

Glasto! At last!

I woke up the next morning with a bunch of strangers, who quickly became friends. (That's what it says on Facebook, so it must be true). The wheelbarrow-man hadn't been able to muster the energy to pitch his tent, so was asleep on the ground beside his heavily-laden barrow. As more of my flatmate's friends emerged, we helped unpack the wheelbarrow and discovered that in addition to the usual camping gear, his stash included a solar-powered sound system, what seemed like a lifetime supply of tinned chickpeas, and two framed paintings to decorate his tent. Classy.

It was a great setup, and formed a fantastic base for the four days ahead. It rained on and off on Thursday, and absolutely p*ssed it down on Friday night when I was trying to watch U2, but the rest of the weekend brought glorious sunshine and warmth. There are no words to explain how much I enjoy attending the Glastonbury Festival of Contemporary Performing Arts. Well, maybe three words. Capitalised. With an exclamation mark.

I LOVE IT!

My highlights: Sliding down the Rabbit Hole and discovering another secret passage within its secret bar; hiding from the rain in a cushion-strewn cinema tent while screaming along with a room full of strangers at the gory goodness of Machete; sitting in The Front Room in Croissant Neuf listening to, singing with and laughing at passionate performers; sitting on logs at the back of the West Holts field, drinking up the sunshine while sipping cider; dancing with a hundred strangers on a hill behind The Park while Pulp played Disco 2000 to packed crowds below; going to see Coldplay on a whim and realising that - unexpectedly - Chris Martin is flipping fantastic.

I had two friends arrive on Friday afternoon for their first-ever Glasto, and had such fun introducing them to my favourite spots. Determined that they enjoy the full Glastonbury experience, despite their having only two days at the festival, I dragged them around relentlessly and kept them out dancing all through Saturday night until well after the sun had risen. They returned to London on Sunday: broken, weary,  sleep deprived, but converted into passionate Glasto fans. My work here was done. 

Phase 3: The Farewell

Some people always leave Glastonbury on the Sunday night. Many more, demonstrating astounding acts of self-discipline that are beyond the abilities of yours truly, wake up early on Monday morning and depart at first light. We took a more relaxed (some would say sedentary) approach to our departure.

Sleeping in as much as was possible inside boiling hot tents, we awoke to a festival graveyard. Practically the whole field had left early, abandoning tents, gazebos, chairs, food and booze. I put on my (metaphorical) Womble hat and had a brilliant time scavenging, gaining a huge swag of camping equipment goodies.

Our departure was similar to our arrival, in that it took hours and hours longer than it should have and was somewhat traumatic. It involved excessive amounts of sitting around waiting for people, long hikes on tired legs, heavy loads on tired backs, the spillage of half of my worldly possessions into a puddle of mud, the splashing of said mud onto most of the left side of my body, and an almost incapacitating drop in my blood sugar levels due to having to wait until 6pm to eat my first meal of the day.

Things picked up after I ate. We stopped for a "pub lunch" (this is at 6pm, remember) at the lovely Pelican Inn in Stapleford. After wolfing down my food and spending a fun-filled fifteen minutes in the brilliant playground out the back, I went inside and talked myself on to one of the pub trivia teams. I love pub trivia. When the boys came in I managed to get them hooked on the pub quiz as well. Yes! Eventually, though, we had to leave. The day was quickly disappearing and we had a long journey ahead. Now I'll never get to know if my guesses turned out to be correct or if my adopted team ended up victorious. My one great regret of the trip.

So my Glastonbury 2011 adventure officially ended when we arrived back home at one in the morning. Unpacking could wait, showering could not. There really is nothing better than one's first post-festival shower. Coming a close second was the sensation of crawling into clean sheets on a real mattress. I think I genuinely was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

I was exhausted but also so happy that I'd made it to my second Glastonbury festival. There's no other festival like it. I'm gutted that there won't be one in 2012, but it only makes me more determined to make sure I'm around in summer 2013 so I can go again. Bring it on!!

ASTROLOGY - WHAT A LOAD OF...ER..?

According to the stars in the (daylight) sky above the hospital at the exact time of my mother's final push all those years ago, astrology.com has decreed that my approach to life and real motivation were destined to turn out as posted below. Even more surprising than the fact that some people genuinely believe that spheres of gas located hundreds of light years away can influence the personality development of a mini-human, is the fact that astrology.com's description actually seems to describe me quite well. At least, it describes the way I think of myself. How did they do that? Do you think they hacked into my Facebook profile and cross-referenced with my Twitter stream? Maybe sent an undercover agent to interview my mother in the guise of being an old school friend? Or have I been subjected to so many years of brainwashing by society that I have unwittingly developed into the very person that the astrology nutters claimed I was always going to be?

Then again, with probably half a billion people on the earth sharing my star sign, I suppose they're bound to stumble across someone who fits the generic profile eventually. Now, while you read all about me below, I'm off to put my money on horses with the numbers 5, 6 and 13 while I await the arrival of a dark and enigmatic stranger into my life.

How You Approach Life and How You Appear To Others

    You are a gentle, sensitive person with a deep understanding of people and a very tolerant, accepting, nonjudgmental approach towards life. In a noisy, competitive atmosphere you are often receding and withdrawn for you are not an aggressive, forceful person, and you intensely dislike conflict. In fact you tend to be somewhat passive, to wait, watch, observe, feel and know much - but to act little. Letting things resolve or work themselves out in their own way, rather than directing or forcing your will upon them, is often your way of dealing with problems.

The Inner You: Your Real Motivation

    You are a gambler and an adventurer at heart, one who loves to take risks, to discover and explore new worlds, and to take the untried path rather than the safe, reliable one. You are an independent soul, freedom-loving, and often very restless. You need a lifestyle that provides opportunities for travel, movement, change, and meeting new people. A steady routine which offers much in the way of security but little in the way of space and freedom is odious to you.

EATING ORANGES IN VALENCIA

I love London, but sometimes I just need to GET THE HELL OUT.

Being homeless and jobless was getting on my nerves. So one fine (meaning: cold/wet/grey) Tuesday, at about 8:30pm, I decided to start looking for flights and accommodation so I could spend a few days in Spain. Twelve hours later, my plane took off from Gatwick and I was on my way to Valencia, Spain. God I love Europe. 

I cannot recommend last-minute getaways enough. My previous record had been deciding to go to Portugal on a Tuesday and flying out on a Friday. This time, I'd barely left enough time after confirming the tickets to pack and sleep. That's a good thing. I think it's best to get out and away before you have time to change your mind and do something more sensible with your time and money.

Beautiful scenery...

This trip was the best idea ever. Spain was warm and sunny. The temperature ranged from 25 to 35 degrees. The wine cost less than two euros per glass. I ended up extending my original two-day trip by another two days so that I could see all that I wanted to see.

My first priority upon landing: eating some paella! Valencia is the home of paella, and should a traveller not happen to know that before arriving, they would surely pick it up quickly from the profusion of fridge magnets, t-shirts, and other tourist paraphernalia proudly proclaiming the fact. I had a hot tip from a local about where to find the best paella in town, and navigated my way to a little place tucked in the corner of a beautiful paved square. It was quite early for lunch, and the only other customers in my part of the restaurant were two priests having an animated discussion and sharing an enormous pan of paella. And I really mean enormous. The base of the pan was probably the size of one of those gigantic New York pizza trays. It. Looked. Delicious.

...Funky cafes

I hadn't eaten since waking at 4.30am to catch my flight, so I was really, really looking forward to this paella. Flicking through the menu, my heart sank as I realised that the enormous pan that the priests were sharing was the only size available. Nooo!!! I checked with the waitress as well, but no - that was it. Hungry as I was, ordering an entire paella pan only to discard three quarters of it just wasn't an option. I was gutted. I sadly ordered a couple of small tapas dishes to fill the gap and a glass of wine to console my disappointed taste buds.

By the time the wine arrived I'd managed to cheer myself up again and put it all into perspective. Twelve hours earlier I had been sitting inside a tiny London apartment watching the rain fall against the window outside; now I was sitting in a taverna in Valencia watching two priests chat to each other in Spanish while I sipped on wine and read a book. Life really was good.

After delivering my wine, the waitress went over to check on the priests. They had an in-depth conversation, with the waitress looking over at me a couple of times. I had no idea what was going on. She eventually walked to me to explain. Apparently the priests wanted to offer me the rest of their paella.

What What WHAT???

They had both eaten their fill, but still had about a third of a pan left (I told you they were big pans). Oh my lordy lord. I nodded gleefully, only to realise a split second later that only one of the four varieties of paella on the menu was suitable for my vegetarian tendencies. To be so close to glory and then to lose it would be heartbreaking. I crossed my fingers and asked the waitress which kind it was......VEGETARIAN! Spain became so very awesome at that point.

Off to a spectacular start, Valencia just kept on delivering. The two glasses of house white that I drank with lunch turned out to cost just one euro fifty each; the small salad I'd ordered more out of curiosity than anything else was mouthwateringly delicious (mango, prawns and cheese - who'd have thought it?); I met some fellow travellers and joined them for an epic four hour wander to and from the City of Arts and Sciences (photos below); and before heading out to dinner we found the location of a supermarket where Spanish wine was priced at only one euro fifty per BOTTLE. Good, good times.

 

The next day brought more wandering and touristing. Exploring the Catedral de Valencia, I was creeped out by their collection of relics (which included a skull, a pile of bones, and a withered old arm) before being surprised to find that one of the chapels within held the Holy Grail. Literally, THE Holy Grail. Vatican-endorsed, so it must be true. (Speaking of which, have they done anything about the whole 'infallibility of the Pope' thing yet?). A better advertising campaign by the Cathedral would have saved Indiana Jones and Monty Python a hell of a lot of time and effort in searching for it. 'The Grail' was nicer than the one that Indy found in his Last Crusade - it had handles and everything. I texted my grandma to tell her that I'd seen the Holy Grail, and she was suitably impressed. Hopefully it made up for not getting to see the Pope when I was at the Vatican last year.

I just can't emphasise strongly enough how much I loved Valencia. After four days of exploring, there were still things I didn't get a chance to do/see/eat/drink. I spent only one afternoon strolling on a sandy beach by the Mediterranean sea, but could have spent days. Even two weeks wouldn't have been long enough to get my fill of sitting in cafes overlooking beautiful medieval squares and watching the world go by.

Spain. Good.

HOMELESS BUT HOUSE-SITTING

I love finishing contracts. I love travelling without being constrained by a return-to-work date. I love having no rent to pay - except for storage costs -  and having all the time in the world to explore and relax and discover what really makes me happy.

I hate returning to London with no home, no job, and sod-all money in the bank. Reality sucks.

 

I'm very lucky, however, to have fabulous friends who took pity on me when I first returned and let me stay in their spare room while I recovered from jetlag and tried to get my job-hunting head screwed on. 

 

Since then, I've spent time cat-sitting in Southwark while a mate took a short trip back to Australia, and am now house-sitting a lovely apartment on the riverside in Vauxhall for the delightful SR. SR is travelling for the next month or so, and though she doesn't have cats that need feeding or plants that need watering, she's very generously offered her home to me while I try to find a rental property that doesn't smell like socks and have mould growing out of the wall. Just doing her part to keep down the number of hobos living on the streets, I guess. Thanks S!!

SINGAPORE

I'm not entirely sure that my three-day stopover in Singapore on my way back to London is really deserving of its own blog post. My stay there consisted of little apart from eating and sleeping. And then eating some more. Singapore knows how to do cheap and delicious food remarkably well.

I had spent the last couple of days of my Australia trip dreaming about how great my first laksa in Singapore was going to taste. As it turned out, I didn't have the chance to eat a laksa until my very last day, when I had it for breakfast. But that's only because I was so busy shoving as many other divine delicacies into my mouth as I could.

I stayed at a really nice hostel in Chinatown, which was situated directly over a dim sum restaurant. Yum. There was also a food center directly across the road, so it was quite an effort to promp myself to move further than 20 metres every day. For those who aren't familiar with Singapore, food centers are like a food court, except instead of McDonald's and Oporto and crap, you have  informal hawker stalls. It's like Singapore picked up all it's street food vendors, and plonked them indoors. In fact they may well be the actual origin of food centers. I was too busy eating to do any research.

When I wasn't eating, which wasn't often, I explored the rest of Chinatown, walked to and around Little India, and discovered some very trendy boutiques on Haji Lane in the Arab quarter. Well, I wasn't eating while I was walking, but I have to admit that I did sample some Indian food in little India and middle-eastern food in the Arab Quarter. It would have been rude not to.

The closest I got to a shopping centre was a trip to the famous Mustafa Centre in Little India. Known as "the shopping mall that never sleeps", it offers twenty-four hour access to just about any piece of crap that you have the urge to buy. I hate shopping, so I don't know what possessed me to enter the maze. I got out as soon as I could afterwards, having purchased only two things that I didn't know I urgently needed until I saw them.

This was my third or fourth trip to Singapore, and once again I didn't get myself over to Sentosa Island. Oh well. Next time Gadget, next time.

AUSTRALIA: WEDDINGS, PARTIES, ANYTHING

The end of another contract presented me with yet another opportunity to strap on my backpack and hit the road. Wanderlust is such an expensive affliction. This time, I was heading downunder.

It had been almost two years since I was granted my most recent UK visa and escaped...I mean, departed...Australia. My experience down there during my exile hadn't been great: I'd had a family medical emergency that resulted in the loss of a loved one, and I'd felt depressingly powerless and trapped by the whole visa application process. As such, my memories weren't that fond and even two years later it was with some reluctance that I embarked on this trip. I was excited by the prospect of meeting my two nephews for the first time, and of seeing my good friend get married, but overall my sense was of trepidation.

Fast forward one month and I'm feeling kind of weird about leaving! Not that I don't want to, mind you, but this trip turned out to be a lot more fun than I expected. Though I didn't get to meet one of my two nephews, I absolutely ADORED the one I did meet, plus I reconnected with a lot of friends that I hadn't seen for years. My four week trip took in five cities: Brisbane, Rockhampton, Canberra, Sydney and Melbourne. I met five baby humans who didn't exist when I was last in Australia, and an even larger number of grown up people who I love to bits. Oh, and I met three famous people. More of that later, though. Let's start at the very beginning. (And I must warn you, this post covers a whole month so it is LOOOOOOOONG).

Brisbane
I feel a little bit sorry for Brisbane, I never really give it much of a chance. I frequently end up using Brissy as a base to recover from (or in this case, exacerbate) jetlag. Even though I have a number of wonderful friends in Brisbane who very generously offer me a spare bed or sofa whenever I visit, I always make it a point to stay at a hotel or hostel my first night after landing. I'm really poor company when jetlagged: I have trouble stringing coherent sentences together, lose my sense of humour, and tend to nod off in the middle of conversations. I made the mistake this time of choosing a hotel that had a backpackers bar next door, so instead of having an early night to help adjust my time zone from GMT to GMT+10, I went to the bar, met a friendly group of twenty-four year old lads and partied the night away with them.

The next morning - which was actually the next afternoon or, according to my body clock, the previous evening - I decided that I'd stay at the hotel longer rather than inflict myself on a real human being that I actually wanted to remain friends with. That first day was spent wandering around in the sun, willing my body clock to snap into Australia time. Brisbane seemed to be a lot prettier than when I lived there in the late 1990s. I noticed a lot of new construction and public art installations - most of them aesthetically pleasing. The new Roma Street Parklands were a welcome green space in the middle of the city.  They'd also built a Gallery of Modern Art, which looked interesting enough that I felt bad about skipping it in favour of an afternoon nap. There were no evident signs of the floods that had torn through the city a couple of months earlier - at least not anywhere that I went - and the city looked all new and improved and shiny.

Some evidence of the Brisbane I remembered was still there though. I was a little bemused, and then just plain amused, by a sign I saw on a local bus (see right). Any city whose problem with people spitting whilst seated inside a moving bus is sizeable enough to warrant its council investing in signs and DNA Kits is somewhat unlikely to scale the reputational heights of Paris, Milan or New York.

I enjoyed the few days I spent in Brisbane. My jetlag was almost, but not completely, under control when I set off for my next stop...

Rock Vegas
Good old Rockhampton: Beef Capital of Australia. In flicking to my journal for notes to help me write this post, I noticed that I'd failed to write anything at all about the time I was there. In fact, the following entry starts off by noting the same thing, and I had excused the omission by writing (and I quote):

You know how it is, I was so busy (catatonicly bored) that I didn't have the time (inclination) to record everything I was (not) doing.

Charming.

I did have some good times in Rocky, though. The hands down highlight was when I met my two year old nephew for the first time. He's the cutest, sweetest, happiest little toddler this side of Alpha Centuri. (Apologies to any of my readers who have their own children of that age. I'm not apologising for any offence caused, mind you, I'm just sorry for you that your children are so vastly inferior to my nephew). I also met up with the few childhood friends I have who still live there, spent time with my grandma, and managed to win third place in a pub trivia quiz in a team consisting only of me and my mum. Damn we're good. (And yes, there were more than three teams in the quiz).

All in all I had quite a good time. I never want to live there again, but it's where most of my family are which makes it a good place to visit. For very short periods. Which is not too different from the way I felt about the next place on my itinerary...

Canberra

This brought me to the entire reason for my trip to Australia: I was to be a bridesmaid at my friend's wedding. T and I shared a flat about ten years ago when she was finishing university and I was working as a Graduate Trainee at a government department. I'd lived with her again the last time I'd been in Canberra, when I was doing contract work to help me secure a new UK visa, but it had been two full years since we'd seen each other. And I'd yet to meet her soon-to-be husband.

Luckily, he turned out to be a really cool guy. (I shudder to think how awkward it would have been if I'd thought he was a knob). T was the best bride that a bridesmaid could ask for. She was completely relaxed about the outfits - giving us a colour and no other restrictions. In fact, she was completely relaxed about pretty much everything. Apparently she drew the line at her fiance's request that he be carried head-first down the aisle to the Superman theme, but I wouldn't say that counts as being overly-demanding. On the morning of the wedding, a time which I imagine many brides are stressing out and worrying about how they look in the dress, T was chowing down on some leftover roast meat she'd pulled out of the fridge. Damn I wish I had that girl's metabolism.

The wedding was lovely. Her dress was amazing. I don't even like wedding dresses, so when I say it was amazing I really really mean it! I gave a speech at the reception, which was actually quite fun. I'd written notes the morning before (procrastination: a lifelong affliction) and ad libbed a bit on the day. I can't remember a lot of what I said, but strangers were coming up to me later saying how much they liked it so whatever my panic-stricken brain blurted out mustn't have been too bad. T is very artistic and had made most of the wedding decorations herself, which was incredibly cool. It made the event seem so much more personal than an off-the-shelf table setting. And as an added bonus, it freed up more money in their budget to spend on the food. Mmmmm. That food was de-frickin'-licious. In fact, writing about it now is making me hungry. Time to move on.

Although I didn't have much time outside wedding obligations to catch up with many of my Canberra friends, I did get to see a few. And three of my best London buddies happened to be in Canberra at the same time as me. Two for a wedding (not the one I went to, that would have been TOO awesome) and one to visit his folks. Even after having a really good few days in Canberra, the next stop was one that I was  looking forward to...

Sydney

The view from my sister's room

My most recent Australian hometown. I lived in Sydney for the two years before I flung myself across the planet to London, and my sister had moved here from interstate just weeks earlier. She was crashing with one of our London buddies, L, who had relocated to Australia and only been in Sydney a month or so herself. I was really looking forward to showing them both my favourite parts of town.

Bondi Beach. Der.

I arrived on a Friday, so while my sister and L were at work, I was wandering along Bondi Beach, visiting cafes and bookstores, eating expensive but delicious food as I gazed over the sandy expanse of the beach below. The next few days were spent showing my sister and L my old haunts, meeting friends and playing with their children, and generally enjoying the sunshine, open space and familiarity of Sydney. Eating, drinking, and catching up with old friends had definitely been the theme of my trip so far. And I suspected it would be no different at my next stop...


Melbourne
I've never lived here, but if not for my unexpected love affair with London this is the place I'd be. Melbourne is brilliant. I had six days to spend here, timed to coincide with the fantastic Melbourne Comedy Festival.

By now it will come as no surprise to you that I spent many of those days meeting people, eating food and wandering the streets. I picked up some factory outlet bargains on Bridge Street in Richmond, and finally got to catch up with some friends I hadn't seen since they left Vietnam seven or eight years earlier.

On my second last day, I was in St Kilda with E (the sister of the groom at that amazing wedding in Italy) and mentioned that I hadn't been able to get a ticket to see my favourite comedian, Danny Bhoy, perform that evening. E suggested that I pop into The Arts Centre anyway, and ask if they had any returns. So I did as she suggested, but the woman at the box office confirmed they were completely sold out. Oh well, at least I tried.

I went off to..ahem..use the facilities, and when I stepped back into the foyer I saw that same box office woman waving me over. This looked good! She'd been looking for me, and was about to give up (come on - I didn't take THAT long in the Ladies). She said that one of the promoters had just released a seat for the show tonight, which meant that it was one of the best seats in the house. Yippee!!

Oooh! Ossie Ostrich!

I raced home to shower and get changed, making it back just in time for the show. I love Danny Bhoy. He's cute and Scottish and funny and travels a lot - what's not to love?

Afterwards, I joined the crowds having a post-show drink at the bar outside. Part of me was hoping that Danny Bhoy would stroll in too, so that I could walk up to him and introduce myself without sounding like a blubbering lunatic. I probably didn't write about the time I met him after a gig in Newcastle, did I? I hope I didn't. It was SO humiliating.

Danny Bhoy didn't show, but I ended up having an unexpectedly huge night and met three other famous people. It all started because I decided to pop my head into the Hi-Fi Bar before going home. The Hi-Fi Bar is where all the after-hours comedy festival action takes place. It wasn't yet open when I got there, and as I was desperately hungry I decided to find somewhere to eat instead. The only option nearby was a 'greasy spoon' selling crumbed fish and chiko rolls out the front and serving standard spaghetti and chips on plastic tables inside. I had just ordered a piece of fish to eat out of its soggy, grease-lined bag, when Mark Watson walked past and sat down inside.

Mark Watson! He's an English comedian and a familiar face on a few of the better British panel entertainment shows. (He looks like this). I really like Mark Watson. He sat down alone and so, emboldened by a mere two glasses of wine, I walked over and asked if I could join him. Without a trace of stalker-fear flickering across his face, he said yes. So we sat and chatted while he ate his spaghetti and I finished my soggy fish-in-a-bag. Jeez he's a nice guy.

Once I'd eaten my fish I got up to leave so that Mark could finish his meal in peace. He was very sweet and asked for my name, saying that we might bump into each other in London. Not bloody likely, but very sweet all the same. By now the Hi-Fi Bar was open, and as I was chatting to the doorman trying to get a sense of whether it was worth going inside, Rich Hall walked past and down the stairs into the bar. It's so weird to see people you only know from television in real life, so I kind of a did a double-take. The doorman just shrugged and before I could open my mouth to ask if that was who I though it was, Arj Barker walked in too.

Sold.

I went in to the venue, bought a beer, and went downstairs to catch a few of the comic performances. After Arj Barker's slot I decided to check out the upstairs bar. Here I bumped into Hung Le, a Vietnamese Australian comic who I'd seen at an illegal gig in Ho Chi Minh City in 2002. I knew there was no way he'd remember be, but I don't really like being in bars by myself so I bowled over to say hello. He was completely and utterly off his face, but very talkative and quite friendly. A few minutes later, a big group of festival comics came up to say hello to Hung. Because he and I had been deep in conversation, they all assumed that Hung knew me from the comedy circuit and that I was a comedian too. Brilliant. It was through hanging out with these guys that I later met Rich Hall and Arj Barker. To be fair, I only exchanged a few words with each of them. Rich was gruff, but not rude; Arj was wasted and almost fell over. But I still met them both so that totally counts.

I rolled home at 4am, then struggled through the next day. I had lunch with friends who I'd not been able to catch on previous visits, and was pleased to learn that they too were suffering from last night's indulgences. So no pressure to be too chirpy. Phew. A couple of us continued on to a lazy Sunday DJ session in the city, but I bailed relatively early so I could drag myself home to pack before my obscenely early flight.

So that was it. My time downunder was all over. Little did I know then that I'd be back in Australia two more times before the year was out.

NIGERIA

I knew there had to be an up-side to dealing with the tedious bureaucracy of working for an international organisation. And there was! Travel to Africa!

I had two trips to Nigeria as part of my work for an organisation that I will not name. They were both quite full-on in terms of workload, and my policy of not identifying myself on this site means I can't even tell you about the type of work I was doing there. Alas, you'll have to be satisfied with looking at some pictures instead. They were all taken in the capital city, Abuja. I realise that none of them are particularly good, but I was busy working and didn't have time to be artistic and crap. Leave me alone!

Oooh, and I forgot to mention that both my trips took place during the British winter, which made my impression of Abuja so much more positive.

Aso Rock in the background

This is just a dirt road...but it's IN AFRICA!!

Actually, it wouldn't feel right to post a blog about a new country I've visited without mentioning the food. The food consisted of a variety of starches (maize, cassava, yam, plantain) and a whole lotta meat. None of these suited my..er.."refined" palate, so I wasn't overly impressed with the cuisine in general until I discovered one notable exception: Jollof Rice. Oh my god, almost too delicious for words. It's rice fried with lots of spices and onion and tomatoes. Okay, so it doesn't sound that delicious when I describe it, but it really really is. Here's a photo that looks nothing at all like the stuff that I ate but hopefully makes you think that I could be telling the truth about the extent of its deliciousness. Which I totally am.

Outside the Wuse Market

Hmm, I'm not actually doing that well at giving you a text-free blog post after all. Oh well.

I think this building looks like a giant coffee table

I know Abuja is not at all representative of the rest of Nigeria, let alone West Africa, but I still feel pretty pleased about finally setting foot on the African continent. Now I need to arrange a proper trip there. And to learn how to cook Jollof Rice.

Yum.

THE FORTUNE COOKIE OF DOOM

Fröhliche Weihnachten & Gelukkig nieuwjaar !

(For those without the energy to click on Google Translate, that's Merry Christmas in German and Happy New Year in Dutch.)

(I hope.)

Christmas in Berlin 
Another year, another white Christmas.Yay!

After making a drunken promise at my mate's wedding in Italy to spend New Years and Christmas with two Aussie girls I'd only just met, we all surprised ourselves by actually following through with the plan. J was living and studying in Amsterdam, and already had plans to spend Christmas in Berlin visiting friends. E was living in London, not too far from my place, and like me was up for a spontaneous adventure, so we decided on Christmas in Berlin and New Years in Amsterdam.

J had organised a Berlin apartment in the very trendy area of Freidrichshain, and was already there to greet E and me as we arrived from London. It had been snowing on and off in London for the past month (a hyperventilating British media were calling it 'The Big Freeze'), but that was nothing compared to what awaited us in Berlin.

PROPER SNOW! It was gorgeous, at least a foot deep in most places. Despite our being Antipodeans - and thereby most charitably described as 'a bit useless' in snow - it proved no deterrent as we hit the streets to explore bars, check out squats and visit the usual tourist hotspots. We also spent half a day on a brilliant free walking tour that showcased Berlin's vibrant street art scene. Despite my outrageously poor choice of footwear (note to self: wearing gumboots in deep snow will turn them into mini freezers) I thoroughly enjoyed this walk and would recommend it to anyone interested in street art and the cultural history of Berlin.

The Holocaust Memorial from above...

...and from inside

On Christmas Day, we went to a local restaurant to feast. It was lovely and atmospheric, candlelit and wood- panelled. We felt very happy with ourselves for finding such a gem. This happiness was shattered about twenty minutes later when my earmuffs burst into flames.

Perhaps I should explain.

I love(d) those earmuffs. Only a day earlier I had been talking about how wonderful they were, making the other girls try them on so they too could experience the warmth and toastiness that only my very special favourite earmuffs could deliver. Walking into the warm restaurant, I placed my earmuffs on the table in front of me while we perused the menu. One minute my earmuffs were fine, they were having a good time, soaking up the Berlin scene, as you do. The next minute...well, do you remember how I said the restaurant was candlelit?

Somehow my earmuffs migrated close enough to the candle to catch alight. J was the first to notice it, and started flapping her hands in front of her face and saying "oooh, oooh, oooh" while leaning back in her chair to create distance between herself and the burning earmuffs; E gave a little squeak of surprise, but otherwise remained still, captivated by the increasingly impressive flames in front of her; while I just stared, open-mouthed, my heart sinking as I witnessed the demise of my most favouritist winter wardrobe item ever.

Luckily for all of us, a quick-thinking waitress standing nearby reached over E's head, picked up the flaming earmuffs, and ran into the kitchen to extinguish them under a tap. A minute later, she returned to present me with the charred remains of my beloved. It was a very sad sight to behold on a wintry Christmas day.


I must say, the girls were very supportive in my time of bereavment. And, adopting the classic tactic used by parents across the world after the loss of a loved pet, they went out the very next day and bought me some extremely-similar-but-not-identical earmuffs. The new ones were purple instead of blue, so I felt that I could wear them without betraying the memory of my original earmuffs. RIP, little blue earmuffs, RIP.


Who needs art galleries, when you have stuff like this around the corner?

Roa

Despite the flaming earmuff debacle, the trip to Berlin was absolutely fantastic. I was now questioning the wisdom of having agreed to spend New Years in Amsterdam (a city I'd already visited twice before) instead of soaking up more Berlin goodness, but onwards we went.

New Year's Eve in Amsterdam

After having such a great time in Berlin, it was somewhat reluctantly that we boarded the train for Amsterdam. Still, the fact that two of my very best London buddies would be joining us there had me excited and enthusiastic again soon enough. And, as I should always have expected, we ended up having a great time.

We went to two places I'd managed to avoid on my previous trips to Amsterdam: the Van Gough Museum (culture schmulture) and the Anne Frank House (too depressing to visit alone, and my Dutch friend wasn't keen to go a second time). They were both fabulous in very different ways. The Anne Frank House is haunting, and quite confronting. I defy anyone to go in there, really pay attention, and not have tears well up in their eyes. It's shocking.

When it came time to see in the new year, we tagged along to a house party with J (who, if you remember, was living and studying in Amsterdam at the time). The house was amazing, with wooden floors and big glass windows overlooking one of the main canals. The party was fun, but by golly gee those Dutch sure do go mad for the firecrackers. The streets were full of people, rugged up in their winter clothes, igniting these loud and flammable devices from well before midnight until quite a while after. At various stages of the night, people from the party went downstairs to get a closer look at the merriment and, not wanting to be too much of a spoilsport, I eventually went down too.

Now I'm not a huge fan of firecrackers. As a young whippersnapper I took very much to heart the warnings of adults about the dangers of firecrackers and their tales of children who had blown off arms and/or legs when attempting to light them. In fact, firecrackers were illegal in my home state and even when I moved to  places where they were allowed I had absolutely no desire to get anywhere near them. So it was with trepidation that I succumbed to peer pressure and followed my friends downstairs, out onto streets full of dozens of people shooting off firecrackers in all directions. I was being very brave, and trying to get into the spirit of the festivities, but I'd still jump and back away every time I heard one go off. Which was roughly every 60 seconds.

So I was naturally feeling jumpy, when suddenly somebody threw something at me from behind and I felt it bounce off my jacket. I turned around but couldn't find the culprit. That was all it took to send me and my nervous disposition scurrying back down the street and upstairs into the relative safety of the apartment (I say 'relative' safety, because even the people at the party were letting off firecrackers out the window, and one of them had already blown back inside the apartment. You can perhaps see why I was so nervous?) It was only the next day, when I grabbed my winter jacket from the back of a chair, that I noticed a hole had been burnt completely through the thick hood and part-way into the layers of jacket beneath it. Using my amazing powers of deduction, I realised that the thing I'd felt hit me the night before had been a goddamn firecracker! Two inches from setting my hair on fire! Aaaaaahhh! What was it with me and flammable objects on this trip?

On the first day of 2011, my London buddies and I wandered around streets that were blanketed with paper from exploded fireworks. We discovered a very cool place in De Pijp for a leisurely Prosecco-enhanced brunch, and met the girls in the afternoon at another funky cafe for more eating, drinking, and relaxing. The next day, it was time for four of us to set off on our train/ferry/bus trip back to good old London town. Despite the memory of my flaming earmuffs, and having almost being set alight myself by a firecracker, it had been a marvellous New Years. And, as I noted most ineloquently in my diary, it "sure beat the hell out of New Years 2010 in Glasgow."

Happy New Year everyone!!!