Preparation Anxiety

Palms sweating. Jaw tight. Lungs hurting. Headache. Nausea. I’m about to travel to Barcelona. Strangely enough, I’m not in the least bit scared of flying. I live for the thrill of take-off – the exhilarating feeling of your stomach meeting your heart for just a split second. What terrifies me is everything before: packing, getting to the airport, checking in.

Naturally, I think of everything that can go wrong. Everything from the usual – forgetting my passport, misplacing my luggage, terrorist attacks - to the neurotic and extremely obscure – tripping over and cracking a tooth, losing a shoe to the infamous tube station ‘gap’ that passengers are so frequently encouraged to ‘mind’, spontaneously losing my vision.

I’ve had to develop specialised breathing techniques to deal with this stress – breathing in for 6, holding for 3, breathing out for 6. But, occasionally, in the midst of the 3 second holding period, I start to worry that my diaphragm has stopped functioning, and force myself to perform an emergency exhale.

Perhaps I am better to just hold my breath completely until I am safely buckled into my seat. And then a Gin & Tonic will definitely be in order. Adios.

Romancing alone

It is hard to be a romantic. Or, rather, it is hard to stay a romantic. In most relationships, both intimate and platonic, I have been the one to do ‘the little things’: hide notes under pillows, bestow spontaneous bunches of flowers, abandon schedules in favour of long languorous walks, quality conversations and a good bottle of red. In short, I like for experiences to be long, slow and memorable.

That my gestures are seldom returned has never mattered to me before. One Valentine’s Day, I drew a giant pink chalk heart, containing my/my boyfriend’s initials, onto the bridge that he walks across every day on his way to work. Actually, I started out with chalk, but this didn’t work very well so I finished off the job with bright-red lipstick. Even though the pigment has washed off, on rainy days the oil stain still casts a faint silhouette like the ghost of our love.

I guess acting this way has always come naturally to me, because it is exactly like my mother. Her motto has always been that the best things in life are not things. Through her attitude, she has maintained my faith in the world. Just because you’re broke, it doesn’t mean that you can’t laugh; just because your voice is off key, it doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t sing. She refuses to be bound by budgets and discipline and fear and trivialities. And she is one of the most well-adjusted, loving people I know.

But lately, I am starting to lose faith. When all you do is give and call and express and feel, yet it seems like so many people around you are concerned with being productive and efficient and disconnected and cold, then YOU start to ‘give’. Romance needs to be nourished by love, the two need to coexistent if they are to be indissoluble.

Me in Paris. You may think that I am doing a vain, dreamy, I'm pretending the camera isn't there face... but I actually didn't know I was having my picture taken. My vision was too obscured by my giant sunglasses!

Piss of Aussie, piss off

I willingly admit that I am a tall, blonde hypocrite. Australians in London really piss me off. On my train-ride back from Paris, two “chicks” from Perth were sitting behind me, speaking in inescapably loud voices. Their accents swung between crass Aussie (of the Kath & Kim variety) and crass English (of the cockney offshoot), drilling on my nerves like the dental tools of Satan. As much as we criticize Kylie for her British treason, at least she’s acquired a refined English accent. Between large gulps of VB, the Eurostar twits were speaking in a dialect that would make Queen Elizabeth excrete in her Royal Depend Pants.

“Naaah mate, this ‘chick’ was hell wicked, she was awwwright she was, got us well sorted.”

“As much as I’ve had an awesome time, I can’t wait to go home. The weather here is rubbish. I’m so glad that I live in Perth.”

No, I’m so glad. I’m so glad that THEY live in Perth, and that I don’t. As much as I wouldn’t want to wish their god-awful accents on my friends and family back home, I yearn for them to be locked inside a Contiki Bus with their own species of beer guzzling fools. Final destination - Perth.

Adelaide of the world

"Australia is the Adelaide of the world."
-Ben Lee

Difficult to cheese

One of the great thrills of my childhood was dining at the David Jones top-floor café with my Grandma – Margie. “Order whatever you like dear,” she would declare with great pride. My request was always the same, “I’d like a cheese sandwich with no crusts please.”
“Is that all you want? You can have anything you like remember!”
“No, just a cheese sandwich thank you. But don’t tell Mum!”

Lactose intolerance is one of the great injustices of my existence. I love cheese. Blue. Cheddar. Bocconcini. Brie. Ricotta. I love cheese… but I suffer. On occasion, I forget about my allergy and spoil myself. Sadly, the guilt is instantly written on my face – quite literally. Large quantities of cheese, amongst many other unsightly side-effects, make the outer-edges of my nostrils turn bright pink.

This phenomenon has made my parents into cheese psychics: you’ve been eating cheese again haven’t you Louise. And there is no denying it.

Consequently, cheese has become a narcotic of sorts: instantly pleasurable and endlessly alluring. Today was an enormous test of strengths. My friend Andy introduced me to Neil’s Yard – the greatest cheese shop in London.

He warned me before entering, “Now, they are going to offer you samples. Say yes to everything because the cheese is fantastic.” So the trap was set. Starting with a fresh mozzarella, followed by a cheddar (described by the enthusiastic sales assistant as ‘a cheese to be eaten by men who win wars’) and finishing with a ‘stinking pope’ (which tastes much better than it sounds), every mouthful was so delightful that I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry out of pleasure; a pleasure unrequited. I love cheese, but it hates me.

Mum, you’ll be pleased to know that for the first time, I resisted. Besides samples, which I can hardly be blamed for because they were placed directly into my palm, I left empty handed.

(Thankfully, with a very large ocean between us, she can't check my nose for proof.)

Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes

After reading over my Blog entries for the past month, I suddenly realised that I do a hell of a lot of complaining. Thus, in the interest of proving that I do experience joy, here is an abbreviated list of my ‘small pleasures’:

Top 5 small pleasures (June/July)

Secretly taking my shoes off under my desk at work.
Adding an extra sugar into my coffee.
Inhaling the smell of clean sheets.
Romancing myself (eg. placing lit candles around the bath, lighting
incense and playing slow jazz…) and feeling touched by how much effort
I have gone to.

Top 5 small pleasures (July/August)

Quietly singing Country ballads as I walk down the streets of inner-city London.
Eating cereal in the morning... and the afternoon.
The unrequited, and slightly inappropriate, sexual tension between young male/female characters in Japanese animations. (‘They’re just pals!’)
Frequently dreaming about my Black Fender Guitar (‘It will be mine, oh yes, it will be mine!)
Speaking Japanese in a very small, squeaky voice.

Flowers grow out of dark moments

I didn’t want to return from my lunch break today. Prior to my Wagamamas escape, I was having a nightmare of a day. With my colleague 3 days late from her Mauritian getaway, and no word of her return, my work load had suddenly doubled. I was cursing her Island home and all of its sun-kissed residents. The thought of her lying on a white beach, sipping frozen Margaritas made me want to toss my ‘I Love My Work’ mug at the wall. And I love that mug – however sardonic the message may be.

As I returned to my dim little work corner, I noticed a bunch of bright pink flowers, wrapped in polka-dot paper sitting on my desk. On them was a yellow post-it note:

Smile Little Aussie!
J xx

J (Jacqui Ward), my friend, colleague and resident ray of sunshine, had read my Blog for the first time today, thus discovering my recent work-place disillusionment.

All afternoon, I have gazed happily upon my pink Gerberas. They have tranformed my desk into a pleasant island of its own. Flowers grow out of dark moments. Jacqui Ward is my friend!

I blame birthdays

Before I left Australia, I dreamt of acquiring thosands of pounds in the UK and shipping them back to my home shore like a pirate hauling in his treasure. My mind was lost in fantasies of black Fender guitars, Chloe handbags and tropical holidays. Bursting out of my jeans wasn’t quite what I had in mind.

Since being in London, I have gained the wrong kind of pounds. It’s what everyone calls the Heathrow injection – perfectly fit, slim and healthy Aussies arrive in the UK and, within mere months, pack on some serious KGs. One may attribute this to a lack of exercise, but I’ve walked up flights of stairs that would make Jacob’s Ladder look like a matchbox.

I blame birthdays. Everyone in my office proudly parades a selection of crème-filled, chocolate coated, sugar dusted cakes on their special day of birth. And, I suspect, the celebrations last for more than just 24 hours Over four months, out of a staff of 21, there has been at least 30 tempting tea-breaks of this nature.

The horrifying part is that, by refusing to accept a slice, you are refusing to celebrate their birthday; therefore repudiating their very existence on this earth. Saying no to their cake is like saying ‘I wish you were never born!’ and, no matter how much I yearn for this prophecy to be true for 90% of my colleagues, my inherent Catholic guilt tells me it’s the wrong thing to do.

I eat cake to celebrate other people’s lives (because that’s what Jesus would have done… because he was way cool) and, in doing so, am ruining mine! I don’t think it is just a coincidence that, if I weighed all the cake I have eaten (approx 3 kilos) it would equal the weight I’ve gained whilst living in the UK.

Does the Mummy stink?

An olfactory distraction

Most people are fascinated by Egyptian mythology because of the gods, the goddesses, the temples, the rituals, the mummies… When I saw a 3D documentary called ‘Mummy: The Inside Story’ at the British Museum last night, all I could think about was one thing, the same thing I always ponder in the Egyptian section of the museum – do Mummies stink?

I was really hoping that we would have question time after the film so that I could ask this very question. Sure, the 3D glasses allowed us to SEE into the remains of the unopened, 3000-year-old mummy of Nesperennub – into his cranium and spine and muscles and inner ‘secrets’ - but I really felt like something was missing. I was hoping for something more… olfactory.

As the final credits rolled, we were ushered into a tiny room featuring Nesperennub and his wife in thick glass cabinets. But, alas, not an Egyptologist in sight. Desperate for answers, I subtly sniffed the glass surface. Nothing. With little left to do, my thoughts came back to the thing that I know best – food.

What food would a Mummy smell like? Thankfully, I picked up some clues during the documentary to point me in the right direction.

First clue: Immediately after death, Egyptian bodies were covered head to toe in salt and left for 40 days and forty nights in order to withdraw excess moisture. This got me thinking about two key food groups: salted herring and cured meats (particularly salami… no proscuitto). Second clue: Once the salt is cleaned from the skin, the body is painted with clear resin. Obviously, this leads me to another possible hypothesis: toffee drizzled profiterole cake.

But neither of these clues have ‘nailed’ the issue for me. I will remain unsatisfied until, one day, I can smell a Mummy for myself.

To be and to have

When Sonja, my best friend and flatmate, arrived home last night, she could see that I was feeling blue. (Maybe not blue, more like a ‘mean red’ – agitated and exhausted and rather cheesed off). Without having to explain anything, she knew that my mood had been provoked by work. Sitting on my bed, our regular place of in-depth discussions, I explained my current career dilemma: feeling undervalued and under-stimulated, dreading walking through that 4th floor door every morning. Sonja listened patiently, as she always does, offered a few words of consolation but knew that, in reality, I can’t afford to quit. ‘You are just going to have to sit it out.’

We ate delicious curry on our balcony and listened to Patti Smith, the luminescent blue sky as our backdrop, and I tried to forget my worries… but they kept creeping back into my mind.

It took me hours to get to sleep and, when I finally did, I dreamt about work – about being criticised and talked about and mocked. I woke up feeling exhausted and deflated… and then I spotted a note under my door. The front of it read ‘My Dear Franky’ – in Sonja’s gently looped handwriting.

‘I can’t even imagine how hard it is for you right now… because of the person you are you will grow every day no matter what happens.’

Her heart-felt words brought tears to my eyes and made me realise that, no matter what happens in life, beautiful friends make everything bearable. So many people have interesting jobs and high salaries, but might never know what real friends are, much less know how to be a friend themselves.

Sonja’s letter went on to say ‘I wish I could be a better friend,’ not knowing that in this very utterance, she was embodying the essence of friendship. The best thing you can do for a friend, is to simply BE their friend.

The coveted Women's Weekly Birthday Cake Book train. Every kid wanted one.

Remembering the greats

Why am I always talking about food? And if I’m not talking about it, I’m thinking about it. What will I have for lunch? What can I make for dinner? Where can I find some fresh basil to make pesto? And, of course, chocolate. Mmm chocolate.

I’ve been this way since I was a kid. It started with the Woman’s Weekly Birthday Cake book. Due to years of adoration, the book’s spine was cracked and pages were stuffed back into place, but it didn’t stop me from reading it day after day. I would spend 364 days a year agonising over my cake of choice – the train, no the swimming pool filled with jelly, no the duck covered in crisps. (Thankfully, Mum always said no to that last one… who the hell thought it was okay to put crisps onto a cake?)

Since living in the UK, my passion for food has merely intensified. The only explanation I have for this phenomenon is that, in general, food over here sucks. Vegetables don’t taste like vegetables and meat doesn’t taste like meat and, if it mildly resembles the flavour it claims to possess, then it is obscenely, unattainably expensive.

And, so, all of the great meals (and animals) I’ve ever eaten have been elevated to a nostalgic, almost erotic status. The thought of a good steak makes me tingle, memories of my sister’s fried rice make my heart flutter (is that counted as incest) and don’t even get me started on Tasmanian oysters. Take cover Australia, I’m coming home soon.

And eat their sandwiches too...

They lure us with their fancy sandwiches and baskets of crisps, grapes, orange juice and high expectations. But do they really want us to attend? I hate the constant Steering Group meetings at my work place. They are such a façade. Collaboration my arse. One person (usually the same person) always has their hands placed firmly on the wheel, their eyes staunchly fixed on the road ahead, and the rest of us are the squabbling children in the back seat. If the driver could have it their way, they would kick us all out and make us walk. That way, they could have all the power and eat their sandwiches too.

Sometimes blood just aint enough

My liver is aching. It’s pathetic. If you wake up with sudden visions of the night before: tequila slammers, more tequila slammers, noodles from that delicious Vietnamese dinner hanging from your throat like Alien tendrils as you clutch the toilet bowl, then you expect a hang-over. More so, you deserve a hangover, you take it like a nail through the hand for your evening of sins. But, when all you’ve had is a few quiet and awfully civilised glasses of red wine, then you feel like you’ve been taken for a ride with no bicycle seat. I should not have to bear this cross!

My family would be so ashamed. I come from a heritage of drinkers. Alcohol tolerance is in my blood. I have an uncle who drove through flood waters to a local brewery because his keg was running low; a grandfather who enquired at a very posh Western Australian winery if the Cabernet Sauvignon came by the flagon; and a great Aunty who drank so much gin that everyone was advised to ‘stand-back’ at her cremation. So what happened to me?

Reading makes immigrants of us all

"Reading makes immigrants of us all. It takes us away from home, but more important, it finds homes for us everywhere."
- Jean Rhys

The culprit

London is making me into a tight-arse (or Monthly pay is the Bain-Marie of my life)

On Tuesday, whilst standing in the Baked Goods section of Tescos, I was trying to invent crafty ways to make £20 stretch for 2 weeks. All of a sudden, a radiant light beamed from the pre-packed muffin rack, guiding my eyes towards a ‘Marked Down’ sticker. “50p, four muffins for 50p,” I said vociferously, clenching my fingers into a joyful air-punch. Lowering my hand, I felt dirty. My father would be so proud, and I hate that my father would be proud. I needed to wash, to cleanse myself with anti-bacterial soap, fresh pound notes and extravagant purchases. But first, I would buy the muffins.

Highly Skilled Person Calculator (or Premium Person Test)

I resent the fact that I am not eligible to apply for a Highly Skilled Migrant Visa. They really don’t test any skill worth testing. Sure, I’m not a doctor, don’t have a Masters Degree or PhD, have minimal earning power and limited achievement in my chosen field, but I have skills that I can offer the United Kingdom. I am a Premium Person.

Age* (Maximum 5 points)
HSMP age requirements
If you are under 28 years of age you will gain 5 additional points and it will be easier from you to come under HSMP.

Appearance* (Maximum 10 points)
If you are marginally more attractive than our rather average-looking population, you will gain an additional 10 points. If you have any of the following features, this section will not apply to you: your height is below 180cm, you have an ugly orange-tinted tan, funny haircut and/or perm, facial warts and/or double chin.

HSMP Priority Application* (Maximum 50 points)
HSMP priority requirements
This is limited to people with an irreverent sense of humour as there is a currently an influx of conservative, uptight British citizens.

__ Find the following terms amusing: fire retardant, swing sniffer, spam castanet – 50 points
__ Blush, guffaw and swallow your barley sugar in response to these terms – 0 points.

Spouse’s or Partner’s Achievements (Maximum 15 points)
HSMP spouse’s achievements requirements
You can gain points under this category if you have been living together with your spouse or partner for at least two years who has a bachelor degree, or equivalent vocational or professional qualification, and still manages to give you at least 5 orgasms a week.

__ Bachelor degree, or equivalent vocational or professional qualifications – 10
points
__ 5 orgasms a week – 5 points
__ Not applicable – minus 15 points

Other Requirements*
Other HSMP requirements
Please note that if you tick the last option of any of the following, you will not be granted entry on the basis of HSMP to the UK.

__ You are proficient in English, Yiddish, some Italian and know Pi to 15 decimal-
places.
__ You are not proficient in English, but can show that English ability is not
necessary to do your job. E.g You work with your ‘hands’.
__ None of the above (not eligible)


__ You intend to make the UK your main home – but refuse to fully integrate by
compromising your personal hygiene, accepting the bad quality of fruit and
vegetables, forgetting your manners and believing that Marks & Spencers make
tasty salads.
__ You will continue to spend most of your time outside the UK – not eligible.

The Blonde Truth

"It is great to be a blonde. With low expectations it's very easy to surprise people."
- Pamela Anderson

Sometimes you just need a boot up the arse (or Chinese No!)

Self-deprecation has worked rather nicely for me in the past. It's fast, free and usually attracts attention.

Why does this kind of thing always happen to me?
What am I doing with my life?
Why does everything seem easier for other people?
I don’t have any skills.
I’ve put on at least 5 kilos in Italy.
I’ve put on at least 10 kilos in New York.
And let’s not even talk about London.
I’m too tall.
I can’t find shoes to fit my giant baguette feet.

And so the list continues…

There’s something oddly addictive about it – like touching a bruise or eating spoonfuls of Nutella.

Self-deprecation has become a humorous, idiosyncratic part of me: Louise; Franky; Lulu; Tall Idiot (that’s one I came up with myself); Companyetti (but I can’t take credit for that one); whatever the hell you people are calling me these days.

My family have never been alarmed by this kind of behaviour. After all, I come from generations of self-deprecators. It’s kind of our schtick. (Except for my Sicilian side of the family who, out of all of us, probably have the most reason to dislike themselves – with their wonky eyes, giant piano-key false teeth and tight gentleman’s perms.)

But, yesterday, Hin wouldn’t indulge me. Upon hearing about my missed yoga class, cranky boss, lost Jonathon Safran Foer novel (with only 20 exciting pages left to read), and resultant declaration of my general ‘lack of skills, Hin proclaimed that he would take me out to dinner. Yet, from the moment he arrived at my door, my self-pity would not be acknowledged. In fact, I was lectured.

“At some stage Louise, you are just going to have to admit to yourself that you have skills.”

I told him that he should be kinder to me.
I told him that he didn’t understand me.
I cried.

And then, suddenly, I realised that he was right, I realised that I was exhausted from years and years of negative thoughts… and that this has to stop.

Thank you Hin, for the boot up the arse. Okay yes, I admit it, I have skills.

This is me, a little bit too happy to be riding the tube, with the London Underground smog blowing through my hair.

Nama-fucking-stay

At this time on a Tuesday morning, I am usually in Adho Mukha Svanasana position, feeling very proud of myself that I am even out of bed. The remainder of the day is usually followed by a feeling of utter Zen, a feeling which clashes comedically with my anxious colleagues at the Royal Town Planning Institute. If the world was a giant stress ball, it wouldn’t be big enough to pacify the tensing hands of these neurotics.

This morning, however, I couldn’t be further from Nirvana.
This morning, I could make Woody Allen look like Buddha.
This morning began smoothly… that is the strange thing.
I woke up feeling refreshed, had a lovely hot shower & plenty of clean work clothes to choose from, remembered to take my sandwich out of the fridge and was running 5 minutes early for my train. A perfect prelude to a 7.15am yoga class.

Within 10 minutes I realized that I’d caught the wrong train, needed to walk 20 minutes to my gym and had no hope in hell of making my Ashtanga class in time. After a short bout of Tourettes syndrome, and a brief affair with self-loathing, I regained my calm and walked leisurely to work, vowing that I wouldn’t be ‘like them’.

Arriving early to the Royal Happy Shack, I consoled myself, I would have a chance to catch up on emails, filing and well-needed research. And yet, as I said my first good morning, my greeting was met with a solemn grunt. My boss was in a particularly bad mood and I could feel it like a kick in the Yoni before I even closed the door behind me. At that moment, all of my conscientious enthusiasm was lost, and here I am writing my blog. Namas-fucking-stay.

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

"You cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness."
- Jonathon Safran Foer