Suburban nightmare

I've found another place I could never live - the suburbs between Brisbane and the Gold Coast. It's my favourite bit of travelling: gaining insight into the way other people live. For this family we're staying with, this is their suburban dream. Sprawls of identical 'blocks' with perfect white air-conditioned houses with perfect white interiors, with the odd school at appropriate intervals and at the centre of it all, The Mall. The characterless, air-conditioned bubble of shops, cafes and restaurants. And all this in the perfect climate.

You'd have to drag me kicking and screaming into living here!

Starstruck

For someone medium-used to being around relatively big-name celebs on an occasional basis, I never expected to find myself starstruck in Sydney, and least of all by a building. I'm completely in awe of that oh-so-famous Sydney Opera House.

The fantastic backstage tour (thank you mum and dad) got me into the fascinating guts of it, I've walked round it in all sorts of light and now as we wander 'home' after a wonderful concert audience experience, I'm gushing. I can't get enough of it and just want to be able to keep coming back.

Grumpy old men

I've clearly been spoiled by the generally friendly service at backpackers and hotels in New Zealand. It was a relief to discover here in Sydney that interesting characters at reception are not extinct. The receptionist at our central city 'backpackers hotel' is SO grumpy he can barely bring himself to even take our money off us.

What's in a ring?

It's very exciting to be engaged and I absolutely love my beautiful ring. And there's the rub. I'm still very much getting used to having it on and I adore the sparkliness. But I've watched enough newly engaged girls make a big deal of flashing around their new rock and hate the habit, that I've become completely self-conscious about my own left hand. I don't want to be that girl, so I find myself consciously hiding my left hand. I wonder when I'll grow out of that...

Fireball

It was waiting to happen. The end of season party was great. Earlier in the afternoon the boys set the silliness level by using an industrial bladder of ketchup as a pinata.

Now it was dark, the homemade brazier - welded together lift and groomer parts - was lit and had already had an old snowboard and boots offered to the flames. Fireworks were on the go and the boys were larking around jumping over them. The games came to an abrupt end when one of the lads jumped on a firework, sending it shooting amongst the onlookers and some of it into the house. No major injuries or fires - we were lucky.

The luck was destined to run out when some of the maintenance crew found the hidden petrol and started lighting petrol-soaked toilet rolls to kick around the garden. At this point we left in the interest of self-preservation.

Sometime after that it seems someone knocked/kicked/threw (who knows) the remaining petrol over someone standing by the still-burning brazier. He's lucky to be alive. He's lucky it never got to his face and he 'only' has second degree burns to his right hand, arm and leg to show for it.
I guess that if enough alcohol can lead you to believe you can safely drive a vehicle at 100km an hour even though you're seeing double and can barely walk straight, it could also fool you into thinking you're immune to the lethal combination of petrol and fire. Really though? How stupid can you get?!

Final curtain (again)

A third ski season at Mt Ruapehu has come to an end. It feels sadder than the previous two. I've put heart and soul into this job and made huge progresses for the department. I've been part of a brilliant team, including the most trusting and supportive manager I've ever had and it'll be hard to say goodbye. I'm not going anywhere for once - I move to a different role in HR next week. Maybe that's why this year feels harder. As the place empties out and friends scatter across the world again, I'm reminded that it's definitely easier to leave than to be left.

A whole year...

Yep, can you believe it, a whole year. Crazy.

To heat or not to heat

Last night I experienced my first chimney fire. G assures me we were lucky - if we'd not caught it before we went to bed, it could have burnt the house down... Thanks mate.
We only cleaned the chimney a month ago too, which made it particularly unexpected. In an attempt to bring at least a semblance of warmth and dryness to our draughty old house, we keep the fire going 24hrs (albeit on low heat while asleep or out). Apparently, this might have caused tar to build up inside the chimney, risking chimney fires.
So we'll keep more of an eye on it now, having fully scraped out the flue. But once again: why oh why oh WHY isn't central heating standard here?!!

If Ya Gettin' Down

I doubt very much that there is anyone in the world who needs to be educated on the reminiscent qualities of music. Having recently discovered the 'shuffle absolutely everything' function on my mp3 player, I'm experiencing Rachmaninov followed by Rammstein, Top Gun straight after the Gorillaz and following a very jumbled version of memory lane. An old favourite blasted over Charlie's speakers on the way home tonight, bringing with it a special memory of my fabulous sister.

Almost 3 years ago now, at home, watching her big sister unsuccessfully hide her nerves while packing for her big trip (that she's yet to really return from), Kathy found a 1990s compilation CD - one of the 'Now That's What...'s or 'Huge Hits' or something. She carefully selected the tracks and there we both were, boogying round the room to Five's 'If Ya Gettin' Down', nerves gone.

Crippled Charlie

It finally happened this morning: I crashed Charlie, my car. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place - or to be more precise: the choice between the rock in the middle of the road and the black ice all around it. To swerve or not to swerve, that was the question. I know that if I swerved, the most likely outcome would be flip the car and plough into the bank. I prefer to stay upright so I chose the rock, blew out my front left tyre and controlled the aftermth as best I could.
No mobile reception. Couldn't call G. Headlights coming towards me. RAL logo on the side. Thank god - the wonderful M & B skated across the road, helped me change the wheel and slow down any trffic that might not spot the situation and drive right into us in the dark. Despite a fairly smashed in front crner, she drives!

She's driving like a dream after 4 weeks work done on her by my personal pit-crew. Initial inspection by panelbeater friend indicates no major mechanical or structural damage, so she should be safely repairable! Can't help feeling I came out of that pretty lightly all in all.

Cats of distinction

Over time, I have become mildly obsessed with the beautiful machines G works with - the large red snow groomers, often referred to as snowcats or cats.
They're so cool! (yes, I'm a geek). These big, sleek things on tracks crawling all over the mountain in the middle of the night when no one else is about.
'Winch cats' are particularly fancy - hauling almost half their weight up and down a 1000m long cable (followed ineviatibly, for Scots, with giggles about the fact that my boyfriend goes out winching and grooming at night).
I'm almost at the point of identifying each cat by sight and knowing their 'personalities'. For example, 301 is the old faithful granddad, 303 is the devilcat and 403 is the new kid on the block with a bit of an attitude problem.
There really is nothing like sitting in the passenger seat of one of these beasts behind the massive floor to roof windscreen and watching the sun rise.

These are a few of my favourite things...

Continuing the Julie Andrews inspired theme...
In a proactive attempt to not always see National Park and another winter on Mt Ruapehu as a mild form of incarceration, I regularly take time to remind myself of some of the great things about living here:
- our little house with the bath on the deck and the cosy log fire
- no traffic lights
- venison in chocolate and plum sauce at The Station
- natural hot rivers you can bathe in only an hour away
- dinner, Shortland Street and girls' nights in with Bex
- the mountains - there's no view quite like it, and there's certainly no working environment quite like it!
- amazing skiing in the winter
- hanging out with Gregg and his beloved machines
- mountain muffins

It's not all that bad ;o)

Mary Poppins village

National Park Village, my current home, is a very strange place. It's small, structured on a grid of 4 main streets by 4. It includes a mixture of holiday homes, hostels and timeshare apartments, family homes and barren pieces of land sandwiched between the railway and SH47, the petrol station at one end and the school at the other. 4 year-round bar/cafe/restaurants. 1 shop (in the petrol station). The village was originally built around the sawmill (that recently closed - the latest local victim of the recession). Many of the original houses, including ours, were only meant to be temporary wooden shacks. Instead, most of them became permanent, extended wooden shacks. Dotted between them, flash holiday homes have cropped up. The resulting mix is really rather odd. And there are so many surprising little back streets I keep discovering that don't seem like they should be able to fit in such a little settlement. It certainly feels incredible that I should be able to continue to make new discoveries here on an almost daily basis!

Observations of a returning expat

I started making a list of random observations about the UK when I was most aware of them - my first weeks back home last christmas after 2 1/2 years away. I completely forgot to do anything with the list, so here it is:
- pedestrian crossing lights are much bigger but less noisy
- Friday nights are so very messy
- it's much cheaper to use a mobile phone
- there are a lot of knickers above the jeans waistline and current fashion is terrible
- in NZ they advertise heavily against gambling; in the UK they advertise gambling websites
- the variety and range of products available in the shops is IMMENSE
- I haven't seen an umbrella in ages, but they're everywhere in the UK and people persist, despite strong winds, almost to the point of ridicule
- central heating, double glazing and insulation ROCK
- prices seem cheap because I forget to convert and I've forgotten the value of the pound
- it's so nice not to be surrounded by tacky, poncey personalised license plates
- post offices are hard to find and don't offer anywhere near as many services
- it doesn't get much more christmassy than christmas in Scotland
- I finally appreciate the value of the omnipresent streetlong solid shop canopies in NZ
- why doesn't Britain have the public toilet system of NZ?
- Long Tall Sally is the bees knees
- tipping, I'd completely forgotten about tipping...
- what's with the terrible documentary-style pieces in the middle of BBC news?! that's real dumbing down
- accommodation, food and wine are damn expensive
- the UK is still much more cash-based, I'm not used to having to regularly visit a cash machine, but it's great that they don't charge me extra for not using my own bank's ATM
- aaaaaah, Never Mind the Buzzcocks, Have I Got News for You, need I go on? they just don't have this sort of humour or TV in NZ
- Scots are just as friendly as kiwis, hurrah!

Thing is, I adapted back to the UK pretty quick. And I've adapted back to NZ almost as fast.

Sign of the times?

Have they always been there and I'm only just noticing them? The Wellesley Street windscreen washers. One is equipped with a squeedgie and bottle of water. The other settles for water, a toothbrush and his cardigan sleeves...

I guess I've been lulled so much by the persistent assertion of a wonderful NZ social welfare system that such scenes feel like they simply shouldn't be capable of occurring.

Back down under - group email

It feels like I never left New Zealand. It feels like I was never back in the UK for almost 3 months. Life's such a funny thing.

But I am back. My trip home was amazing and it was fantastic to see everyone I was able to catch up with. Sorry if I didn't get round to seeing you. I intentionally dedicated as much time as possible to my family and had great fun walking down many memory lanes (including the discovery that my SRC election poster with 'those legs' is still partially attached to the Ashton Lane door, 6 years on - nice one Carla), sorting through and throwing out loads of my old stuff, playing in the snow with the dog etc etc.

Thank you in particular to the lovely Alicia for looking after me (and us) so well in Edinburgh, and the very wonderful Lindsay for so much time in Glasgow and Munich and, well, just for being great. The time went by in a flash. I have so many good new memories and also have refreshed many old ones. It was fab to remind myself that the UK is still very much home. We'll be back again before we know it, I reckon. Thank you for all my lovely send-offs. It was bloody hard to leave, I tell you. But NZ is my immediate future and, well, we'll just see what happens after that. I miss you all very much.

Brilliant news: I've already got my work permit! Immigration NZ, Hamilton Branch, excelled themselves by turning it round in only slightly more than 24 hours (usual processing time 30-60 days). So I can work here legally for at least another year.
I'll be spending most of that as Schools & Groups Co-ordinator back at Mt Ruapehu for the winter. It's a complex job that I can really get my teeth into. Yay! That starts in a few weeks.
In the meantime I've landed a job running a venue in the Auckland Festival, which is where I am just now. It's good to be back doing this sort of work. Its also GREAT to see long lost festival faces, some of whom I've not seen since I last worked at Assembly in Edinburgh 3 years ago. It's a lovely venue (Bruce Mason Centre) and at the moment we're hosting an excellent show - Circus Oz. Check them out if they come your way. Gregg's been up to stay at weekends too, giving him an insight into this side of me.

So yeah, that's that. Hope you're really well. Do let me know your news and stay in touch. I'm also going to try and keep my flickr photo page and my blog more frequently updated. Let me know if you'd like access to read my blog and I'll send you an invite.

Take care

Over and out.

Extraordinary European Airport Experiences

Flying back home from Munich was made particularly interesting by the stewards imitating farm animals to communicate sandwich fillings to each other down the length of the aircraft. I'm not sure you've truly lived until you've seen a fully uniformed flight attendent flapping his elbows or pushin up her nose.

Only slightly more extraordinary was the gentleman sat next to me in the gate waiting for the miming air hostess flight.
I was surrounded by what was clearly a large contingency of conference attendees on their way home after 2 days of networking and whatever. My neighbour, a large chap of Indian origin, was yapping away to a couple of Russian delegates in heavily accented 'Indian' English. He then turned and started chatting to an English colleage in perfect Queen's English. But when a phonecall from the Glasgow office interrupted the conversation, he switched to a flawless weegie accent. It was like sitting next to 3 different people at once. Now there's multiculturalism for you!

Losing my edge

I’m steeled to it in SE Asia and would expect to find it in somewhere like South America, for example, but I was caught completely offguard by mini-scammers in Paris. The couple of unknown middle-Eastern origin who work the trains with a petition showing support for Kosovo’s orphans, then point at the obscured ‘donation’ column next to your name. The masses of black men at the bottom of Montmartre steps who hassle you to the point of rudeness with their ‘let me make you a lucky bracelet’ act. The ‘German’ guy at the station with his ‘my ticket’s been stolen, can you spare me 5 euro so I can phone home’ routine.

It’s certainly made me less eager to return to Paris. And clearly living in NZ is wearing away my cynical edge.

Nederlish

It’s always an experience going back to where I grew up in Belgium. I forget how terrible the driving is, how nobody queues for anything, and how huge the houses are in the area we lived. I didn’d realise they still don’t have a full smoking ban in public places. All of these things haven’t actually changed since my last visit 3 years ago, but for some reason they really stick out a lot more this time round.

It’s also always fascinating for me to see what my Dutch is like after years of hibernation. I still sound like a native, but my vocabulary is very rusty. I’m a lot less chatty because I just don’t have access to the same rich array of words that I possess in English. Because we moved away before I became an independent adult, the Dutch language of adult life is much less available to me because I rarely had reason to use it before we moved to Scotland 10 years ago. On the flipside, my friends seem to have become more patient with my stumblings and the odd thrown in ‘English word in a Flemish accent’. Or maybe I’ve become more resigned to the fact that that’s how it’ll have to be. That said, after only three days, I’ve started thinking in Flemish again…

Airline giggles

I had to giggle. It was bad timing, but the security officer scanning my hand luggage at Glasgow Prestwick Airport saw the humour. I’d just had to remove the four layers of coats and cardigans I’d put on only minutes previously to satisfy the security officer’s colleagues that my hand luggage was within the weight allowance (after which one of the guards told me with concern not to overheat and to drink enough water – water I’d now have to buy at an inflated price because, of course, no liquids over 100ml are allowed through). This kilo of coats and cardigans had earlier been removed from my checked luggage to get it below the 15kg allowance (5kg less than most other airlines) – the checked luggage I’d already had to pay 15GBP extra for just to put it in the hold.

Every member of staff I dealt with looked appropriately embarrassed by the stupidity of the whole system and were very tolerant of my barely suppressed giggles.
Needless to say, this is one budget airline I’ll think twice about flying with again.

Captives underground

The pace of life in London is SO fast. A book my brother gave me has research statistics indicating it has the twelfth fastest pace of life on the planet (www.paceoflife.co.uk). It astounds me every time I visit.

Underpinning much of this lifestyle is the London Underground. It becomes obvious how (understandably) beholden much of the population of this vast mass of a city is to the spaghetti of tunnels filled with trains, when they suspend service of some lines at the weekend for things like Olympic upgrades and general maintenance. Hernias erupt across the replacement bus services, eyes pop and tempers flare, mobile phone companies double their profits as traffic lights hold us up once again.

Understandable, but there is no way I could ever live in a city where life becomes so dependent on a beast like the London Underground.

‘Memoires of a Mediocre Man’ - Intro

I have a particularly wonderful and love-living grandfather. In less than a year he turns 90 and he’s still chipper as ever. He has always talked of writing his memoires – ‘Memoires of a Mediocre Man’. The title is as far as he has ever got.
I’m spending a couple of days with Grandie, so thought I would share some of my favourite of his stories.

How Eileen met Tom (and how Tom became a pathologist) – from ‘Memoires of a Mediocre Man’

Having qualified as a doctor just before World War II, Grandie became part of the Royal Army Medical Corps. His participation in the war was less than eventful. Or so he claims. His unit was intended to join the D-Day effort, but instead was posted to Calcutta at the last minute, so, much to his disgust and disappointment the only action he saw was the daily German mini-bombardment of his base on the east coast of England.

On his return from the war he picked up where he’d left off and merged back into the NHS system, only to find he had trouble finding a job at the level of experience he had. After an especially despairing interview, he stomped off downstairs to find his friend to share his indignation and declare he had no intention of accepting the job. Instead of his friend, he was confronted by a rather beautiful pair of legs, topped by an equally pleasing face. Eileen.
Grandie took the job so he could stick around and have a shot at wooing this lovely woman. Being a shy and polite young man, he hadn’t yet succeeded when that short contract came to an end and he just HAD to find a way to remain in the area longer to get his girl. So he took the one placement going – one in pathology.

When Eileen asked Grandie if she could go with him to watch the Medicals’ Third Rugby Team play, he realised she must like him too. They dated. He proposed to her on Gosforth Pier. And that is how Eileen became my grandmother-to-be, and how my grandfather became a pathologist.

Baby Drama – from ‘Memoires of a Mediocre Man’

At the age of one, my mum got a head cold which then worsened. Gran called Grandie upstairs because the baby was turning blue. After an examination, both Grandie and the GP diagnosed pneumonia. Grandie dashed off to get a can of oxygen and mask while the GP fetched penidural – liquid penicillin. Baby mum was having none of this. She protested, she cried, she spluttered and coughed, and coughed up a glob of mucus that had been blocking her left lung and caused it to collapse. Within minutes the infant close to death was a pink gurgling baby again.

The second drama of the night was that, in the process, Grandie missed the final episode of his favourite sci-fi series, ‘Quater Mass’.

A new companion

Well hello there 2009. You made it here eventually, it's so nice to finally meet you! We've been talking about you a lot - there are high expectations. Sorry, you missed 2008, he just left. But you can pick up where he left off. I'm looking forward to spending time with you. One day at a time though, eh. Let's not rush into anything too fast.