Lately I've been noticing how perspective shifts with age. It seems obvious I know, but I've recently encountered a few things that have really highlighted this point.
One of my nephews recently had his birthday. He rang me up and we had an interesting conversation for about 20 minutes. He told me all about his day at school, birthday celebrations and his successes in the swimming pool and on the cross country track. I spent a lot of the time trying to remember whether it was his eighth birthday or his ninth. He's a pretty straight talker, so I decided I'd just ask him straight out. He told me firmly he was now nine years old. I was impressed and commented that he'd be 10 next year! Double figures!
His response: "And soon I'll be 13, Aunty Tanya!"
Wow. Can you imagine yourself at the age of say, 41, telling people that soon you'll be 45? Or that you are 41 and 3 quarters?
I remember striving to be older too. I can't remember when it changed, but sometimes it backfired. I never told my mother that when I went to see "Grease 2" at the cinema in Toowoomba when I was about 13, a man sat next to me and flirted with me. He even asked me out on a date. He claimed to be the drummer with the band Ol 55. I didn't really know who they were, but I somehow knew that I was too young to be going out on a date with a drummer from a rock band. Besides, I was there to see the movie and his Mr Musk aftershave was overpowering. He smelt like a Lifesaver lolly. To his credit, he backed off when I told him I was 13. (I was an early bloomer.) Thus a pattern was established where I usually have a drummer (or some other rock musician) somewhere in my life.
Yesterday afternoon a group of high school students boarded the train. Three girls and a boy. they looked to be about 14 years old. They were talking about school and who was taking ballroom dancing class. Three of the four confirmed they were going to glide around the floor. In relation to someone else they noted "he's only taking it to meet girls" and "only the socialites take ballroom". Some things never change.
(When I was at boarding school, ballroom dancing was offered as an extra curricula activity on a Sunday evening for grade 11 and 12 students. It was always booked up because it was a way to interact with the opposite sex once a week, even if it was under the instruction of an aged couple clad in brown and the fluorescent lights in the assembly hall. We wore our school uniforms. My beau at the time (Jason) was a ballroom dancing champion and we used to continue to dance through the supper break and were the only couple who could do the jazz waltz. We had nothing to do with the incident involving a Grammar boy dropping the brown clad instructress during the Pride of Erin. The whole circle came to a halt. But the music kept on playing. Goodness only knows what would have happened if it was the speedier Heel and Toe polka!)
It became clear that someone called Dean was taking ballroom dancing this year and this caused one of the girls to blush.
The boy said: "Dean likes you."
One of the girls: "Who's Dean?"
The boy: "The one she likes."
The Girl in Question: "I don't like Dean."
Another girl: "Who's Dean?"
The Girl in Question: "The short stumpy one who's really funny. With the curly hair."
Then the Girl in Question again: "What does Dean think of me?"
The boy: "Hyperactive. Loud. A bit all over the place. We don't really talk about you at all." Brutal.
I could hear the heart of the Girl in Question breaking from where I sat. Yes, she'd denied liking Dean, but I could see from her crestfallen face that she actually loved Dean. She was taking ballroom dancing! And so was Dean! The truth is Dean probably loves her too, but hides it from his friends to be cool.
What a great moment it is to discover the freedom of being honest and expressing your true feelings. Time ticks away and before you know it, the moment has passed. So now, I declare, I took ballroom dancing to be able to touch and be held by boys (under supervision). I never really cared about the dancing.
Thursday, 11 August 2011
Wednesday, 10 August 2011
The Russians are coming.
When the opportunity to be picked up from the hotel by a shuttle bus to the airport presented itself, it seemed like a good idea. The concierge was charming and thus appeared knowledgeable. There seemed no doubt that we would be collected at 8am on the dot and I would be at the international terminal by 8:45am. All for $1 less than the train fare and without the hassle of wrangling bags at the train station. Off we went for dinner at Rockpool Bar and Grill (do have the crab salad as a cold entree - divine) leaving the arrangements in the hands of the charming concierge.
On arrival back at my room, there was a note from the concierge with details of our pickup and the shuttle tickets. Perfect.
Right at 8am the following morning, an anxious looking man with a heavy accent came into the lobby and asked if we were waiting for the airport shuttle. He took our bags and we followed him. He wasn't interested in our tickets. In fact, he didn't seem interested in very much. I greeted him warmly and noticing we were the only passengers, explained that one of us was going to the domestic airport and the other the international terminal.
"We go to both terminals," was his curt reply in a thick Russian accent.
Right. He then was involved in tense conversation over the two way radio. I didn't hear the content, but could tell that things weren't going too well. I focussed on the conversation with my travelling companion which was interrupted when the driver pulled up and said, "You need to get on the other bus." What other bus? Where was I? Was this some kind of raid? There was no further explanation.
Sure enough, there was another bus. With another unhappy and tense looking driver. We'd already been driving for 20 minutes in what seemed to be circles and I could see there was no way I would be at the airport by 8:45.
Being naturally curious, I asked what was going on. The two-way radio started crackling away, filled with more Russian voices. People weren't where they were supposed to be. Nobody had tickets. Passengers were waiting for a long time. They were getting angry. The drivers were frustrated. There was a lot of sighing. I imagined a lot of shrugging and eye rolling. Whoever was in charge of running this outfit needed to get another line of work. Five more hotels were visited. Every new passenger was slammed between the eyes by the gruff handling of the driver. To distract myself, I turned my attention to the drama playing out on the radio.
It went something like this -
"Come in Boris.....Boris...Boris where are you?"
"I am here."
"Where are you?"
"I am here."
"Are you at the domestic terminal?"
"Why you want to know?"
"Because there are passengers waiting."
"I be there."
"When?"
"Minimum 10 minutes."
It didn't sound hopeful. He could be hours!
Then Nick, another driver, called into the base.
"What do you do when the passenger doesn't have the paper?"
"What paper?"
"Paper."
Silence. Minutes passed. I assumed the paper problem had been solved. Then base called Nick the driver again:
"Nick, where are you?" (Here we go again, I thought.)
"I am waiting for passenger."
"Where is the passenger?"
"He went to get the paper."
"How long ago?"
"About 10 minutes now...He leave is luggage and his wife."
"You should not let the passenger leave."
"What could I do? He was very angry. He was not of stable mind."
Silence.
In the meantime, we were still driving around in circles and getting no closer to the airport ourselves. What the hell kind of shuttle bus service was this? I'm sure the charming and knowledgeable concierge at the hotel did not knowingly put us in the hands of this mad Russian outfit who trained at the Basil Fawlty school of customer service.
Our driver started to get a bit tetchy at the comic potential I was highlighting in the radio play we were listening to. He turned the sound down! What about the man and the paper? What happened to his wife? Did the people waiting at the airport ever get picked up? What was going to take Boris "minimum 10 minutes"? We will never know.
Every encounter I've had with the Russians has been hilarious.
I interacted with another Boris when I lived in Brisbane. I was awoken one morning by noise at my window. My bedroom window was very high off the ground, so imagine my surprise when I saw a man's face at the window. At 6am. Smiling.
As I looked at him, alarmed, he said with a thick Russian accent: "Hello. I am Boris the Painter. This is my brother Alex. We paint the house." The face of his brother Alex appeared at the window.
The real estate agent had failed to notify us that the house was to be painted. By Boris the Painter and his brother. Or anyone else for that matter. We did recall a strange voicemail message that some shadowy character had left a few weeks earlier. "Hello. I am Boris the painter. My brother Alex and I, we paint the house. This is Boris the Painter." Oh, that's what that was about.
One morning I went to collect the newspaper from the front lawn only to find Boris the Painter and Alex the brother in a fist fight with the next door neighbour! The neighbour was claiming there was lead paint and Boris the Painter was not taking proper precautions in dealing with it. I'm in my dressing gown with three men I don't know refereeing a boxing match on the front lawn at 6:45 in the morning.
I turned to Boris. "Boris, is this true?" I could tell from the look in his eyes and the way he shrugged (sheepishly) that it was. I sent Boris and Alex away to get proper equipment and admonished the neighbour for having a fight rather than a conversation about the problem.
Then there was the time I was an emergency soprano for the choir at the Russian Orthodox Easter service. When I took the call, I said that I couldn't speak Russian. I certainly couldn't read it and I didn't know any of the music. These concerns were apart from the fact that the service would start at midnight, be entirely in Russian and finish at about 5am. Still they needed me and I'm all for having an experience that gives you a story to tell later.
I arrived at the church. I was handed a faded, crumpled piece of music that had been copied on one of those stencil machines (remember the print would come out purple and smell like methylated spirits?). I could barely read it, let alone sight read it. Then I was issued with a candle and advised that we'd be singing as we processed around the outside of the church. Thank goodness for the candle - I'd be able to read my music. Not that the candle will help me read, sing or understand Russian.
So off we went on our five hour singing tour of the church grounds on the windiest night of the year. I don't know what kind of singing I did that night. I was very preoccupied with devising a strategy for reading my music without setting it on fire while trying to stay upright in my billowing robe as I completed endless laps of the uneven ground outside the church.
I succeeded. I was exhausted. Then I was presented to the priest who was delighted to discover my first name was Tanya ("Good Russian name. Are you good Russian girl?") and he offered me his ring to kiss. I was obliged.
Miraculously, I made it to the airport by 9am to catch my international flight from Sydney to Melbourne.
On arrival back at my room, there was a note from the concierge with details of our pickup and the shuttle tickets. Perfect.
Right at 8am the following morning, an anxious looking man with a heavy accent came into the lobby and asked if we were waiting for the airport shuttle. He took our bags and we followed him. He wasn't interested in our tickets. In fact, he didn't seem interested in very much. I greeted him warmly and noticing we were the only passengers, explained that one of us was going to the domestic airport and the other the international terminal.
"We go to both terminals," was his curt reply in a thick Russian accent.
Right. He then was involved in tense conversation over the two way radio. I didn't hear the content, but could tell that things weren't going too well. I focussed on the conversation with my travelling companion which was interrupted when the driver pulled up and said, "You need to get on the other bus." What other bus? Where was I? Was this some kind of raid? There was no further explanation.
Sure enough, there was another bus. With another unhappy and tense looking driver. We'd already been driving for 20 minutes in what seemed to be circles and I could see there was no way I would be at the airport by 8:45.
Being naturally curious, I asked what was going on. The two-way radio started crackling away, filled with more Russian voices. People weren't where they were supposed to be. Nobody had tickets. Passengers were waiting for a long time. They were getting angry. The drivers were frustrated. There was a lot of sighing. I imagined a lot of shrugging and eye rolling. Whoever was in charge of running this outfit needed to get another line of work. Five more hotels were visited. Every new passenger was slammed between the eyes by the gruff handling of the driver. To distract myself, I turned my attention to the drama playing out on the radio.
It went something like this -
"Come in Boris.....Boris...Boris where are you?"
"I am here."
"Where are you?"
"I am here."
"Are you at the domestic terminal?"
"Why you want to know?"
"Because there are passengers waiting."
"I be there."
"When?"
"Minimum 10 minutes."
It didn't sound hopeful. He could be hours!
Then Nick, another driver, called into the base.
"What do you do when the passenger doesn't have the paper?"
"What paper?"
"Paper."
Silence. Minutes passed. I assumed the paper problem had been solved. Then base called Nick the driver again:
"Nick, where are you?" (Here we go again, I thought.)
"I am waiting for passenger."
"Where is the passenger?"
"He went to get the paper."
"How long ago?"
"About 10 minutes now...He leave is luggage and his wife."
"You should not let the passenger leave."
"What could I do? He was very angry. He was not of stable mind."
Silence.
In the meantime, we were still driving around in circles and getting no closer to the airport ourselves. What the hell kind of shuttle bus service was this? I'm sure the charming and knowledgeable concierge at the hotel did not knowingly put us in the hands of this mad Russian outfit who trained at the Basil Fawlty school of customer service.
Our driver started to get a bit tetchy at the comic potential I was highlighting in the radio play we were listening to. He turned the sound down! What about the man and the paper? What happened to his wife? Did the people waiting at the airport ever get picked up? What was going to take Boris "minimum 10 minutes"? We will never know.
Every encounter I've had with the Russians has been hilarious.
I interacted with another Boris when I lived in Brisbane. I was awoken one morning by noise at my window. My bedroom window was very high off the ground, so imagine my surprise when I saw a man's face at the window. At 6am. Smiling.
As I looked at him, alarmed, he said with a thick Russian accent: "Hello. I am Boris the Painter. This is my brother Alex. We paint the house." The face of his brother Alex appeared at the window.
The real estate agent had failed to notify us that the house was to be painted. By Boris the Painter and his brother. Or anyone else for that matter. We did recall a strange voicemail message that some shadowy character had left a few weeks earlier. "Hello. I am Boris the painter. My brother Alex and I, we paint the house. This is Boris the Painter." Oh, that's what that was about.
One morning I went to collect the newspaper from the front lawn only to find Boris the Painter and Alex the brother in a fist fight with the next door neighbour! The neighbour was claiming there was lead paint and Boris the Painter was not taking proper precautions in dealing with it. I'm in my dressing gown with three men I don't know refereeing a boxing match on the front lawn at 6:45 in the morning.
I turned to Boris. "Boris, is this true?" I could tell from the look in his eyes and the way he shrugged (sheepishly) that it was. I sent Boris and Alex away to get proper equipment and admonished the neighbour for having a fight rather than a conversation about the problem.
Then there was the time I was an emergency soprano for the choir at the Russian Orthodox Easter service. When I took the call, I said that I couldn't speak Russian. I certainly couldn't read it and I didn't know any of the music. These concerns were apart from the fact that the service would start at midnight, be entirely in Russian and finish at about 5am. Still they needed me and I'm all for having an experience that gives you a story to tell later.
I arrived at the church. I was handed a faded, crumpled piece of music that had been copied on one of those stencil machines (remember the print would come out purple and smell like methylated spirits?). I could barely read it, let alone sight read it. Then I was issued with a candle and advised that we'd be singing as we processed around the outside of the church. Thank goodness for the candle - I'd be able to read my music. Not that the candle will help me read, sing or understand Russian.
So off we went on our five hour singing tour of the church grounds on the windiest night of the year. I don't know what kind of singing I did that night. I was very preoccupied with devising a strategy for reading my music without setting it on fire while trying to stay upright in my billowing robe as I completed endless laps of the uneven ground outside the church.
I succeeded. I was exhausted. Then I was presented to the priest who was delighted to discover my first name was Tanya ("Good Russian name. Are you good Russian girl?") and he offered me his ring to kiss. I was obliged.
Miraculously, I made it to the airport by 9am to catch my international flight from Sydney to Melbourne.
Tuesday, 9 August 2011
View from the 17th floor
Here's what I could see from the window of my hotel in Sydney.
 |
| Looking down. |
 |
| Looking right. |
 |
| Looking left. Someone needs to fix the clock. As my friend Wayne pointed out it's "eternal lunchtime". Not so bad I suppose. |
Doing it by hand
I love paper. I can happily drool over stationery for hours. All those books and empty pages waiting to be filled. Some writers find the emptiness daunting. I don't. I love the promise of discovery - what story is waiting to be told in this book?
Sometimes lines inspire me. Other times I crave the freedom of a completely blank page. I think it allows me to continue to fantasise that one day I'll be able to draw. Lately I've taken to the grid page. If I'm in the mood, the mechanics of moulding my handwriting to be beautiful within the squares is just what my left brain needs to let my right brain go off and play.
I chose not to bring my laptop on this trip. It was just one more thing to carry and I didn't think I'd really need it. Little did I know that this writing habit I'm cultivating has me in its grips and I am feeling compelled to write. This gave me an excuse to visit a stationery shop and take five hours to choose a small, lovely notebook. It has lines and fine margins lightly dusted with colour. Spiral bound. Black cover.
So I am actually writing. In the true sense of the word. I am guiding a pen across the page and rediscovering how my handwriting looks. It's almost alien as I rarely actually write with a pen or pencil these days. I write:
Sometimes lines inspire me. Other times I crave the freedom of a completely blank page. I think it allows me to continue to fantasise that one day I'll be able to draw. Lately I've taken to the grid page. If I'm in the mood, the mechanics of moulding my handwriting to be beautiful within the squares is just what my left brain needs to let my right brain go off and play.
I chose not to bring my laptop on this trip. It was just one more thing to carry and I didn't think I'd really need it. Little did I know that this writing habit I'm cultivating has me in its grips and I am feeling compelled to write. This gave me an excuse to visit a stationery shop and take five hours to choose a small, lovely notebook. It has lines and fine margins lightly dusted with colour. Spiral bound. Black cover.
So I am actually writing. In the true sense of the word. I am guiding a pen across the page and rediscovering how my handwriting looks. It's almost alien as I rarely actually write with a pen or pencil these days. I write:
- shopping lists
- appointments in my diary;
- notes in the margin of a book or on a script;
- notes on my music scores;
- notes on a knitting pattern or recipe;
- my score in a game of Scrabble;
- my name when I use my credit card;
- in the squares of a crossword or Sudoku;
- the lyrics of a new song;
- the input of participants in a course I am facilitating (on a flipchart or white board).
Bits and pieces. It is rare to sit and write for an extended period with a pen and paper. The writing corn on the middle finger of my right hand, long dormant, is reawakening. My muscles are protesting as my hand tries to keep up with my thoughts.
I heard the other day that some government somewhere has decided to discontinue teaching handwriting as a core skill to primary school children. Instead it will be offered as optional in the "art" stream. It's a shame, but probably realistic.
I do wonder what will happen to the art of reading personality through handwriting - "graphology". I remember borrowing a book on the subject from the library when i was about 13. I thought I'd be able to discover who I really was by analysing my handwriting. Once I had faced my true self, my plan was to change the bits I didn't like by changing how I crossed my "T's" or how my "Y" looped. I didn't get very far.
The analysis part is harder than you think. Especially if you're 13.
The analysis part is harder than you think. Especially if you're 13.
The process of writing in long hand feels different in my brain. It's not as fast as typing (I'm a touch typist - approximately 90 words per minute), so the brain doubles back and wants to edit and change direction. As I look back over these pages many words have been crossed out, phrases added, sentences reconsidered. I can see my original thoughts and judge whether my first thought or next thought was better. When typing, the edits are invisible. The early drafts are gone before they're finished!
All the situations in which I use handwriting will be obsolete soon I suppose. Eventually we probably won't even have to be able to sign our names. That will be some quaint branch of arts and crafts. Except when you're famous and need to autograph something.
I will always handwrite my love letters though.
Saturday, 6 August 2011
The butler did it.
I love the first moments in a hotel room. All the doors and signs and leaflets and hidden things and tiny soaps and shampoos. Not that I would ever use the shampoos on my expensive hair.
There was a time in my life when I travelled all the time but the first moments of exploration never lost their charm.
There are some rules:
1) The cheaper the hotel the more:
a) dangerous the room;
b) stupid the guests are anticipated to be;
c) need for signs explaining the danger inherent in every aspect of the room.
2) Regardless of price, all hotel rooms should be judged on the sensitivity of the lighting in the bathroom.
3) The more expensive the hotel, the less chance there will be a complimentary biscuit to dip in your cuppa, but at least the tea won't be Liptons.
4) The cheaper the hotel room the greater the need to reassure us the toilet has been hygienically cleaned and sealed - as if one of those paper strips proves it. The glasses are also cleaner because they've been wrapped in paper bags.
To explain rule number 1...I'm in a five star hotel room right now. (Judging by my fellow guests when I checked in, we'd all booked the mystery hotel deal on lastminute.com) I am trusted to operate the kettle, the toaster and even the hairdryer without the need for signs written in 60 point Comic Sans font warning of the potential for my demise if I so much as think of misusing the equipment. I am even able to operate the "in room climate control" from a panel that looks like it could operate the space shuttle. I can relax here without the fear of danger lurking in every corner. No concern about the wrong flush flooding the room.
I don't know about you , but if I'm going to fork out for a nice room, I don't want to see a 180 year old woman under fluorescent light staring at me from the mirror in the stark white bathroom. A soft golden light that makes me look 17 and in love is what I expect. I don't think that's too much to ask.
The bathroom in this room is fantastic. It looks like the set for an Imperial Leather commercial. There are separate lighting zones - the shower has its own light with a separate switch. Very relieved there's a telephone right by the loo. I'll be making all my calls from there - at $50 a minute. I can also control the volume of the television from the toilet. I can't actually see it but it's such a relief I'll be able to hear it over the non-environmentally rated shower head which allow me to empty the harbour during my morning ablutions.
Thank goodness they left the door open or I wouldn't have been able to find it. All the doors are very discreetly designed.
I like a cup of tea. My preference is for loose leaves in a teapot, but I know that's not going to happen on my budget. It barely happens in high end restaurants. As I write I'm enjoying a Twinings English Breakfast tea with those weird little milks. I'm very happy it's not Liptons (loose leaf pencil shavings in a draw string bag) but I notice there's a not a milk arrowroot to be had with it. The twin pack of Arnott's bickies seems to be the domain of the country motel. I have stayed four star where there's a nice macadamia short bread on offer, but rich people clearly don't eat biscuits.
Then there's the mini bar. Resembling a shrine where we come to worship the overpriced god of alcohol, soft drink and chips. Anyone for a $10 beer, $5 Pepsi, $6 packet of chips or a $6 mini Toblerone? I'll be worshipping without the imbibing as I slip into my robe and wonder how I survive at home.
Must go, the butler just arrived and I need to get him to type this.
There was a time in my life when I travelled all the time but the first moments of exploration never lost their charm.
There are some rules:
1) The cheaper the hotel the more:
a) dangerous the room;
b) stupid the guests are anticipated to be;
c) need for signs explaining the danger inherent in every aspect of the room.
2) Regardless of price, all hotel rooms should be judged on the sensitivity of the lighting in the bathroom.
3) The more expensive the hotel, the less chance there will be a complimentary biscuit to dip in your cuppa, but at least the tea won't be Liptons.
4) The cheaper the hotel room the greater the need to reassure us the toilet has been hygienically cleaned and sealed - as if one of those paper strips proves it. The glasses are also cleaner because they've been wrapped in paper bags.
To explain rule number 1...I'm in a five star hotel room right now. (Judging by my fellow guests when I checked in, we'd all booked the mystery hotel deal on lastminute.com) I am trusted to operate the kettle, the toaster and even the hairdryer without the need for signs written in 60 point Comic Sans font warning of the potential for my demise if I so much as think of misusing the equipment. I am even able to operate the "in room climate control" from a panel that looks like it could operate the space shuttle. I can relax here without the fear of danger lurking in every corner. No concern about the wrong flush flooding the room.
I don't know about you , but if I'm going to fork out for a nice room, I don't want to see a 180 year old woman under fluorescent light staring at me from the mirror in the stark white bathroom. A soft golden light that makes me look 17 and in love is what I expect. I don't think that's too much to ask.
The bathroom in this room is fantastic. It looks like the set for an Imperial Leather commercial. There are separate lighting zones - the shower has its own light with a separate switch. Very relieved there's a telephone right by the loo. I'll be making all my calls from there - at $50 a minute. I can also control the volume of the television from the toilet. I can't actually see it but it's such a relief I'll be able to hear it over the non-environmentally rated shower head which allow me to empty the harbour during my morning ablutions.
Thank goodness they left the door open or I wouldn't have been able to find it. All the doors are very discreetly designed.
I like a cup of tea. My preference is for loose leaves in a teapot, but I know that's not going to happen on my budget. It barely happens in high end restaurants. As I write I'm enjoying a Twinings English Breakfast tea with those weird little milks. I'm very happy it's not Liptons (loose leaf pencil shavings in a draw string bag) but I notice there's a not a milk arrowroot to be had with it. The twin pack of Arnott's bickies seems to be the domain of the country motel. I have stayed four star where there's a nice macadamia short bread on offer, but rich people clearly don't eat biscuits.
Then there's the mini bar. Resembling a shrine where we come to worship the overpriced god of alcohol, soft drink and chips. Anyone for a $10 beer, $5 Pepsi, $6 packet of chips or a $6 mini Toblerone? I'll be worshipping without the imbibing as I slip into my robe and wonder how I survive at home.
Must go, the butler just arrived and I need to get him to type this.
Friday, 5 August 2011
Serendipity
Today was one of those days. One of those good days where everything feels good, you're in sync and nice little things happen along the way.
I woke up before the alarm went off. 45 minutes before I had planned and so was able to savour a little lie-in and the fact that I was already ahead of schedule. I arrived at the train station and the train pulled in, on time, a couple of minutes later. The journey to the city really did only take 12 minutes. I arrived at my first gig of the day (I was volunteering as a roleplayer for people being trained as mediators) right on 11am only to find that everyone had already gone to their separate break out rooms. I knocked on the first door I came across and that was the room I was supposed to be in.
During the morning I met a professional contact I hadn't seen for a while. In the space of 5 minutes it became clear that we could be professionally valuable to each other. I was able to give her one of my brand new business cards which has my photo on it. She commented that the photo was a great idea, because she'd always be able to link my name and my face. One of her colleagues then joined us and asked for two business cards because she could see a link that was valuable to make.
I skipped out of there and went to collect my mail. There was a letter there addressed to my post office box number, but it wasn't for me. Another man was returning a letter to staff that had also been put in his box by mistake. As we left, he turned to me and said: "I hope that wasn't a cheque for a million dollars that you just gave away." I laughed, but thought if it was a cheque for a million dollars, it wasn't mine anyway and I'd just returned it to its rightful owner.
Off to catch a tram for my next appointment.
I arrived at the tram stop and discovered I had a 14 minute wait and that would mean I'd be late for my appointment. I decided to board the tram that was waiting and connect with a train down the road. When the tram I was on arrived at the train station, the tram I needed was waiting at the red light. I was able to change trams and arrived at my appointment with 5 minutes to spare.
My appointment was with the hairdresser. I walked upstairs and was covered in capes and towels, when I received a message that a friend of mine whom I hadn't seen for a while was at the basin downstairs. She had seen me as I walked up the stairs past her. I went down to say hello while she was having her hair washed.
I walked out of the hairdresser and the tram was waiting for me. I made the journey home without getting caught in the rain.
You might read this and think "so what?" Well I think life is all about how you see things. I choose to see today as a string of happy coincidences or discoveries - serendipity - which left me feeling good about the world. Maybe it stemmed from the fact that I volunteered today and have given a lot of my time and skills lately to help others.
I logged onto my computer and checked in for tomorrow's flight. I couldn't print my boarding pass because of some kind of error (I don't think the airline system likes the fact I use Google Chrome as my browser). Instead of getting frustrated about potential hassles at the airport tomorrow, I'm wondering who I'll meet in the queue.
I woke up before the alarm went off. 45 minutes before I had planned and so was able to savour a little lie-in and the fact that I was already ahead of schedule. I arrived at the train station and the train pulled in, on time, a couple of minutes later. The journey to the city really did only take 12 minutes. I arrived at my first gig of the day (I was volunteering as a roleplayer for people being trained as mediators) right on 11am only to find that everyone had already gone to their separate break out rooms. I knocked on the first door I came across and that was the room I was supposed to be in.
During the morning I met a professional contact I hadn't seen for a while. In the space of 5 minutes it became clear that we could be professionally valuable to each other. I was able to give her one of my brand new business cards which has my photo on it. She commented that the photo was a great idea, because she'd always be able to link my name and my face. One of her colleagues then joined us and asked for two business cards because she could see a link that was valuable to make.
I skipped out of there and went to collect my mail. There was a letter there addressed to my post office box number, but it wasn't for me. Another man was returning a letter to staff that had also been put in his box by mistake. As we left, he turned to me and said: "I hope that wasn't a cheque for a million dollars that you just gave away." I laughed, but thought if it was a cheque for a million dollars, it wasn't mine anyway and I'd just returned it to its rightful owner.
Off to catch a tram for my next appointment.
I arrived at the tram stop and discovered I had a 14 minute wait and that would mean I'd be late for my appointment. I decided to board the tram that was waiting and connect with a train down the road. When the tram I was on arrived at the train station, the tram I needed was waiting at the red light. I was able to change trams and arrived at my appointment with 5 minutes to spare.
My appointment was with the hairdresser. I walked upstairs and was covered in capes and towels, when I received a message that a friend of mine whom I hadn't seen for a while was at the basin downstairs. She had seen me as I walked up the stairs past her. I went down to say hello while she was having her hair washed.
I walked out of the hairdresser and the tram was waiting for me. I made the journey home without getting caught in the rain.
You might read this and think "so what?" Well I think life is all about how you see things. I choose to see today as a string of happy coincidences or discoveries - serendipity - which left me feeling good about the world. Maybe it stemmed from the fact that I volunteered today and have given a lot of my time and skills lately to help others.
I logged onto my computer and checked in for tomorrow's flight. I couldn't print my boarding pass because of some kind of error (I don't think the airline system likes the fact I use Google Chrome as my browser). Instead of getting frustrated about potential hassles at the airport tomorrow, I'm wondering who I'll meet in the queue.
Thursday, 4 August 2011
4 inches of love.
 |
| My blanket laid across the foot of my queen size bed. |
For the last 6 weeks, I've been obsessed with 4 inches of love. 150 sets in fact. I've been doing my annual knit for charity project. This year it was 4 inch (10cm x 10cm) squares to be made into blankets to assist the Fistula Hospital in Addis Ababa in Ethiopia.
Fistula is an obstetric injury which women can sustain during prolonged labour and/or unassisted child birth. It can result in urinary and faecal incontinence which leaves the women who suffer these injuries as outcasts from their communities. It can be fixed through surgery and 93 per cent of women are cured.
In 1974, Australian Dr Catherine Hamlin AC and her husband Reg established the Fistula Hospital and changed sufferers' lives with surgery and treatment.
Blankets and shawls are needed for the hospital and I have been told that when the women leave the hospital they are given a new dress and a shawl or blanket.
Initially I started just to knit up bits and pieces of yarn I had left over from other projects. It takes 150 squares to make the required size blanket of 1 metre x 1.5 metres. When I was halfway there, I decided that I would keep going. It took 4 weeks to knit the squares - mainly knitting in front of the television of an evening - and almost 2 weeks to sew them all together and finish off with a crocheted border.
One of the things I love about knitting is that every single fibre of the yarn has passed through my hands. As I knit, I think about the person I'm knitting for and a lot of love goes into whatever it is that I'm making. I feel a deep connection.
I don't know who will end up with this blanket that I have made. I know it will be appreciated by the recipient and I hope the beautiful colours and warmth give them as much joy as its making has given me.
More information about the hospital can be found on their website. Ways to support this work are also detailed.
If you can knit, consider making a square or two ( you don't have to do 150) every single one will be appreciated. Search for the "Stitches for Sisters" group on facebook or Ravelry.
Wednesday, 3 August 2011
Dignity be damned!
When I sat down on the train yesterday I realised that the zip on my jeans was undone. Because we've been having a gorgeous warm flush of weather in Melbourne, my modesty wasn't preserved by my overcoat. My hip length jacket and belt buckle all pointed to where my knickers were on display. No one said a word. I don't even know if they had noticed, but I felt that everyone would notice if I tried to pull the zip up. Lucky I was carrying a large handbag and managed to balance my copy of "Jane Eyre" and my handbag to obscure what was going on in my lap. I fixed it.
It's not the worst episode of public-wardrobe-failure-accompanied-by public-embarrassment that I've ever suffered - or witnessed.
Three words: "stay up stockings".
Two other words: "they don't".
Put them together and you have a situation impossible to come out of with any dignity intact. Luckily, I was on King Street during the morning peak where no one knew me and everyone was too intent on pushing each other over in their rush to get to work, that I fantasise that no one actually noticed my shame.
For the uninitiated, stay up stockings are stockings that have a little ridge of sticky, plastic, rubbery stuff at the top of each leg.* It sticks to your thigh and is supposed to stay up without the need for a garter belt. Great in theory! They stayed up while I walked around the house. They stayed up as I walked to the tram stop. They stayed up as I boarded the tram. The were fine during the journey. As I stepped off the tram I felt the first tremors of trouble.
Just a little frisson of tension giving way. Just on one leg. Then I felt it start to ROLL. Down my leg. In front of the world. Thankfully, I was wearing a skirt that had some length to it. Once that stocking started to move, there was no reattaching it to my leg. I clutched at it, trying to be discreet and walk while holding the stocking up, carry my handbag, laptop, brief case. Then the other one started to give way. I thought about truth in advertising for about a second, cursing the very words "stay", "up" and "stockings".
What I really wanted to do was hoick my skirt up and pull the damn things off, but something deep down stopped me doing this. I was on King Street and probably could have got away with it at a time other than 8:15 on a busy Tuesday morning. Loaded like a pack mule, I now had to bend at the waist far enough to grasp the stockings to keep them far enough up that no one could tell what was happening. I looked like I'd been struck down with some degenerative muscular disease overnight.
I made it to my building, but hadn't contemplated the full horror of contending with my situation in a closed space where the people there knew me. Gone was my anonymity. No more sympathetic glances or mean glares as passers-by shook their heads at the wild-eyed crazy woman with the weird camel gait. Thank god it wasn't raining as well - carrying an umbrella would have broken this camel's spirit.
I lurked in the foyer until there was a break in the foot traffic when I made a break for it and secured a lift by myself. The doors were almost closed when suddenly they sprang open again and in walked a colleague. I almost cried. But I didn't. I just let the stockings go. Slipped my shoes off and ripped those suckers off like it was something I did everyday. I put my shoes back on.
And then I smiled. Like a maniac. He shook his head and had the good sense not to say a word.
And that's why you don't believe the advertising.
* I was thrilled to later discover that my ultra sensitive skin reacted to this sticky, plastic, rubbery ridge and I sustained a blister where the stocking had been adhered. Until it wasn't adhered any more.
It's not the worst episode of public-wardrobe-failure-accompanied-by public-embarrassment that I've ever suffered - or witnessed.
Three words: "stay up stockings".
Two other words: "they don't".
Put them together and you have a situation impossible to come out of with any dignity intact. Luckily, I was on King Street during the morning peak where no one knew me and everyone was too intent on pushing each other over in their rush to get to work, that I fantasise that no one actually noticed my shame.
For the uninitiated, stay up stockings are stockings that have a little ridge of sticky, plastic, rubbery stuff at the top of each leg.* It sticks to your thigh and is supposed to stay up without the need for a garter belt. Great in theory! They stayed up while I walked around the house. They stayed up as I walked to the tram stop. They stayed up as I boarded the tram. The were fine during the journey. As I stepped off the tram I felt the first tremors of trouble.
Just a little frisson of tension giving way. Just on one leg. Then I felt it start to ROLL. Down my leg. In front of the world. Thankfully, I was wearing a skirt that had some length to it. Once that stocking started to move, there was no reattaching it to my leg. I clutched at it, trying to be discreet and walk while holding the stocking up, carry my handbag, laptop, brief case. Then the other one started to give way. I thought about truth in advertising for about a second, cursing the very words "stay", "up" and "stockings".
What I really wanted to do was hoick my skirt up and pull the damn things off, but something deep down stopped me doing this. I was on King Street and probably could have got away with it at a time other than 8:15 on a busy Tuesday morning. Loaded like a pack mule, I now had to bend at the waist far enough to grasp the stockings to keep them far enough up that no one could tell what was happening. I looked like I'd been struck down with some degenerative muscular disease overnight.
I made it to my building, but hadn't contemplated the full horror of contending with my situation in a closed space where the people there knew me. Gone was my anonymity. No more sympathetic glances or mean glares as passers-by shook their heads at the wild-eyed crazy woman with the weird camel gait. Thank god it wasn't raining as well - carrying an umbrella would have broken this camel's spirit.
I lurked in the foyer until there was a break in the foot traffic when I made a break for it and secured a lift by myself. The doors were almost closed when suddenly they sprang open again and in walked a colleague. I almost cried. But I didn't. I just let the stockings go. Slipped my shoes off and ripped those suckers off like it was something I did everyday. I put my shoes back on.
And then I smiled. Like a maniac. He shook his head and had the good sense not to say a word.
And that's why you don't believe the advertising.
* I was thrilled to later discover that my ultra sensitive skin reacted to this sticky, plastic, rubbery ridge and I sustained a blister where the stocking had been adhered. Until it wasn't adhered any more.
Tuesday, 2 August 2011
Begging or busking?
It seems not a day goes by without coming across someone asking me for money. I'm not talking about the electricity supplier, the bank or the real estate agent, but random people in the street, cafes or trains.
Last night when travelling into the city by train, a man made an announcement to the carriage that he was a "homeless, freestyle rapper" and could we "spare any change". I looked up briefly from my book ("Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte) but quickly went back to it. He spoke very loudly, but I didn't hear him rap as he swept through the carriage. He was well-dressed, carried a very full backpack and the most fantastic thick, dark, curly hair. He had an accomplice and as the rapper moved to the next carriage, the accomplice was told to get off at the station and meet him in the middle of the next carriage. I didn't hear him rap. I also didn't give him anything. I would have liked to hear him rap. Maybe if I had, I would have given him something, but his business model required the money first and then the art.
Last week, I came across Wayne who often sits outside David Jones in the Bourke Street Mall. He's homeless and a talented artist. He sits and draws intricate designs, some of which have been printed and made into blank greeting cards. I bought 5 cards from him, delighted to have them in my stash next time I needed to send handwritten greetings of any kind. I paid him about $12, I think.
There have been two occasions where I have succumbed to a story and given money to someone who is just asking. They weren't offering to do anything for me. They just told me their story.
One was a woman who looked to be in her thirties. I was sitting at a cafe table outside in Brisbane one evening. She had a beaten down look about her, but otherwise looked like anyone else. She asked me for $25 so she could get accommodation for the night. I gave it to her. I didn't even hesitate. Was it because she was a woman?
The other was a young man whom I heard talking to another passenger on the train. He wanted a small, odd amount of money - I can't remember how much exactly, but say it was $3.80. He sat in the seat opposite me and started by saying: "I bet you're going to tell me to go away."
Something in that opening, just made me want to prove him wrong. He looked to be about 17 and he looked like he'd been living hard. One arm was in plaster and a sling. He didn't look physically well. He told me about his life - kicked out of home by his parents, jail a couple of times for stealing and drug offences. Right now he was in a horrible boarding house where he didn't feel safe and was trying to find a way out. He was in pain and his arm needed medical attention and he was terrified of going back to jail. He didn't want to steal anymore.
Something about his story and the way he looked made me open my purse. I didn't have $3.80 in change, but had a $5 note and gave that to him. When he asked for my address so he could bring me the change, I immediately felt that I'd been fooled, perhaps even cheated.
I didn't give him my address, but I did leave him with the money. Was he genuine or was he a clever salesman who knew just how to close the deal? How can you tell?
Another night I was walking in the city with a male friend on the way home after an evening out, when a well-dressed woman came up to us and told this incredibly detailed story about how her car was in a nearby carpark but she had run out of petrol and needed $17 to buy petrol and get the car out before it closed. She even went to so far as to ask for bank account details so she could return the money.
As she focussed all her attention on my companion I smelt something fishy. When I considered where we were compared to where she claimed her car was parked it just seemed off. I can't remember what the end of the encounter was, but I know I felt uneasy.
I am a regular giver to a charity and will happily sling change towards buskers I come across. I buy the Big Issue when I see it. I don't know what it is about people coming up and directly asking for money when I'm in a cafe or sitting on the train that makes me suspicious and uneasy about giving money.
On the way home today there was a man sitting in a city lane way, enjoying the sunshine. As well as the milk crate he was sitting on, he had another on which he propped a portable CD player. Dire Straits incongruously blared "Twisting by the Pool" as he clutched a stubby of beer and sang along. I don't think he was busking. I think he was just there.
People sitting nearby looked as though they would happily pay him to go away. He wasn't a great singer, but he looked happy and harmless in his simple enjoyment. And he wasn't asking anyone for anything.
Last week, I came across Wayne who often sits outside David Jones in the Bourke Street Mall. He's homeless and a talented artist. He sits and draws intricate designs, some of which have been printed and made into blank greeting cards. I bought 5 cards from him, delighted to have them in my stash next time I needed to send handwritten greetings of any kind. I paid him about $12, I think.
There have been two occasions where I have succumbed to a story and given money to someone who is just asking. They weren't offering to do anything for me. They just told me their story.
One was a woman who looked to be in her thirties. I was sitting at a cafe table outside in Brisbane one evening. She had a beaten down look about her, but otherwise looked like anyone else. She asked me for $25 so she could get accommodation for the night. I gave it to her. I didn't even hesitate. Was it because she was a woman?
The other was a young man whom I heard talking to another passenger on the train. He wanted a small, odd amount of money - I can't remember how much exactly, but say it was $3.80. He sat in the seat opposite me and started by saying: "I bet you're going to tell me to go away."
Something in that opening, just made me want to prove him wrong. He looked to be about 17 and he looked like he'd been living hard. One arm was in plaster and a sling. He didn't look physically well. He told me about his life - kicked out of home by his parents, jail a couple of times for stealing and drug offences. Right now he was in a horrible boarding house where he didn't feel safe and was trying to find a way out. He was in pain and his arm needed medical attention and he was terrified of going back to jail. He didn't want to steal anymore.
Something about his story and the way he looked made me open my purse. I didn't have $3.80 in change, but had a $5 note and gave that to him. When he asked for my address so he could bring me the change, I immediately felt that I'd been fooled, perhaps even cheated.
I didn't give him my address, but I did leave him with the money. Was he genuine or was he a clever salesman who knew just how to close the deal? How can you tell?
Another night I was walking in the city with a male friend on the way home after an evening out, when a well-dressed woman came up to us and told this incredibly detailed story about how her car was in a nearby carpark but she had run out of petrol and needed $17 to buy petrol and get the car out before it closed. She even went to so far as to ask for bank account details so she could return the money.
As she focussed all her attention on my companion I smelt something fishy. When I considered where we were compared to where she claimed her car was parked it just seemed off. I can't remember what the end of the encounter was, but I know I felt uneasy.
I am a regular giver to a charity and will happily sling change towards buskers I come across. I buy the Big Issue when I see it. I don't know what it is about people coming up and directly asking for money when I'm in a cafe or sitting on the train that makes me suspicious and uneasy about giving money.
On the way home today there was a man sitting in a city lane way, enjoying the sunshine. As well as the milk crate he was sitting on, he had another on which he propped a portable CD player. Dire Straits incongruously blared "Twisting by the Pool" as he clutched a stubby of beer and sang along. I don't think he was busking. I think he was just there.
People sitting nearby looked as though they would happily pay him to go away. He wasn't a great singer, but he looked happy and harmless in his simple enjoyment. And he wasn't asking anyone for anything.
Monday, 1 August 2011
Four legs and a curtain
As I walked into a city train station on my way home just now, I walked past one of those photo booths. You know the ones where you sit on a seat, pull a curtain across, put money in, have your photo taken several times by the machine and then walk away with the photos. The curtain doesn't go all the way to the ground. I've always found this strange, but it's interesting to see the legs and feet of the people who are in there.
I wonder about them. What's the urgent need to have a photo taken right now? Who are they and what's their story?
It's all in the angle of the legs.
Tonight there were 4 legs. As there often are. They were entwined in such a way that it was difficult to imagine how they were sitting, until you realised that it wasn't at all difficult to imagine how they were sitting. The curtain didn't really make their nook (nooky?) private and from the outside, I felt vaguely voyeuristic.
The long set of legs looked sturdy in sensible brown trousers and lace up casual shoes. The smaller set of legs was encased in bottle green trousers and were flighty. There was laughter coming from the booth as the angles of the legs changed rapidly and frequently. The curtain undulated with the movement of the people behind it.
I remember in the book "Sex Bombs and Burgers - How war, porn and fast food created technology as we know it" by Peter Nowak there was discussion about what happened as photography became more accessible and people could get photos without the need to go somewhere and have someone else take the photo. Apparently the first photo booths didn't have curtains. And then someone realised that they needed to have curtains because people photographed themselves engaging in sexual activity. Now we have the half curtain.
Was it always half a curtain? I don't know if it has always been a half curtain or whether it was halved as a rationalist cost cutting measure.
The bigger question is what would happen in there if it was a full curtain?
I wonder about them. What's the urgent need to have a photo taken right now? Who are they and what's their story?
It's all in the angle of the legs.
Tonight there were 4 legs. As there often are. They were entwined in such a way that it was difficult to imagine how they were sitting, until you realised that it wasn't at all difficult to imagine how they were sitting. The curtain didn't really make their nook (nooky?) private and from the outside, I felt vaguely voyeuristic.
The long set of legs looked sturdy in sensible brown trousers and lace up casual shoes. The smaller set of legs was encased in bottle green trousers and were flighty. There was laughter coming from the booth as the angles of the legs changed rapidly and frequently. The curtain undulated with the movement of the people behind it.
I remember in the book "Sex Bombs and Burgers - How war, porn and fast food created technology as we know it" by Peter Nowak there was discussion about what happened as photography became more accessible and people could get photos without the need to go somewhere and have someone else take the photo. Apparently the first photo booths didn't have curtains. And then someone realised that they needed to have curtains because people photographed themselves engaging in sexual activity. Now we have the half curtain.
Was it always half a curtain? I don't know if it has always been a half curtain or whether it was halved as a rationalist cost cutting measure.
Sunday, 31 July 2011
Sunday, Sunday
Ah, Sunday.
It took me a while to have the full, lovely understanding of Sunday. As a child Sundays often involved getting dressed up and going somewhere I didn't want to go, to see people I didn't want to see. It also took a long time to get there in the car. They did end with "Disneyland" on TV before bed, or when I was a little older, "The 6 Million Dollar Man". He was bionic and my brother had the Steve Austin action figure. It was a doll really.
Sundays meant sport on television: in the summer the endless hours of slow moving cricket; in winter the thuggery of men covered in mud playing rugby league or rugby union. Worse still were the days of motor racing or the days when the cricket was on the radio. At 6pm the battle over whether the television would stay on the ABC for "Countdown" or be switched for the first serving of news on channel 9. It was a battle that couldn't be won, but every Sunday I fought with enthusiasm and optimism as though my life would end if I didn't see "Countdown".
At boarding school, Sundays were either filled with the excitement of an outing for the day (after church), or a long, blank day.
The whole boarding house went to the 8am Anglican church service in town, wearing our white church dresses and panama hats in summer and our blazers and navy blue serge tunics with a white shirt and tie, a beret on our heads. No breakfast before church, instead we would swoop on trays of white bread and strawberry jam and stuff our faces - and sometimes pockets - to sustain us on the walk to church, the boredom of the service and the walk back to school. We walked two abreast, there and back.
The driveway would fill with cars and girls going out for the day, while the rest of us went to the dining room for a quieter breakfast than usual. After lunch, the boarding houses were locked and we were required to go outside. The school had lovely grounds and in summer we'd take a blanket and school books and a battery powered radio/cassette player out and lie in the sun snoozing and reading and writing letters either to a boy at Grammar or our parents. Often I would spend these hours in one of the piano practise rooms so small and cold it resembled a cell.
There was something uncomfortable about being locked out of your home for 3 hours while jealously awaiting the return of the girls who had been out for the day.
At university, Sunday meant study or work at the part time job to supplement Austudy. It was like any other day of the week, nothing special about Sunday at all.
And then there was my first weekend after I entered the "proper" workforce. After working Monday to Friday, Saturday was spent doing household chores and grocery shopping and getting ready to go out. And then it was Sunday. Nothing to do except whatever I wanted. The luxury of reading in bed, late breakfasts or long lunches with friends. A scraped together supper and the Sunday night movie on television.
That's the kind of Sunday I had today in the unexpected winter sun. Good friends and lots of laughter. For hours.
Ah, Sunday.
It took me a while to have the full, lovely understanding of Sunday. As a child Sundays often involved getting dressed up and going somewhere I didn't want to go, to see people I didn't want to see. It also took a long time to get there in the car. They did end with "Disneyland" on TV before bed, or when I was a little older, "The 6 Million Dollar Man". He was bionic and my brother had the Steve Austin action figure. It was a doll really.
Sundays meant sport on television: in the summer the endless hours of slow moving cricket; in winter the thuggery of men covered in mud playing rugby league or rugby union. Worse still were the days of motor racing or the days when the cricket was on the radio. At 6pm the battle over whether the television would stay on the ABC for "Countdown" or be switched for the first serving of news on channel 9. It was a battle that couldn't be won, but every Sunday I fought with enthusiasm and optimism as though my life would end if I didn't see "Countdown".
At boarding school, Sundays were either filled with the excitement of an outing for the day (after church), or a long, blank day.
The whole boarding house went to the 8am Anglican church service in town, wearing our white church dresses and panama hats in summer and our blazers and navy blue serge tunics with a white shirt and tie, a beret on our heads. No breakfast before church, instead we would swoop on trays of white bread and strawberry jam and stuff our faces - and sometimes pockets - to sustain us on the walk to church, the boredom of the service and the walk back to school. We walked two abreast, there and back.
The driveway would fill with cars and girls going out for the day, while the rest of us went to the dining room for a quieter breakfast than usual. After lunch, the boarding houses were locked and we were required to go outside. The school had lovely grounds and in summer we'd take a blanket and school books and a battery powered radio/cassette player out and lie in the sun snoozing and reading and writing letters either to a boy at Grammar or our parents. Often I would spend these hours in one of the piano practise rooms so small and cold it resembled a cell.
There was something uncomfortable about being locked out of your home for 3 hours while jealously awaiting the return of the girls who had been out for the day.
At university, Sunday meant study or work at the part time job to supplement Austudy. It was like any other day of the week, nothing special about Sunday at all.
And then there was my first weekend after I entered the "proper" workforce. After working Monday to Friday, Saturday was spent doing household chores and grocery shopping and getting ready to go out. And then it was Sunday. Nothing to do except whatever I wanted. The luxury of reading in bed, late breakfasts or long lunches with friends. A scraped together supper and the Sunday night movie on television.
That's the kind of Sunday I had today in the unexpected winter sun. Good friends and lots of laughter. For hours.
Ah, Sunday.
Saturday, 30 July 2011
The Glee of Singing
Last night I sang my first concert gig with the choir I joined last year. As long as I've had independent thought I have been a member of a choir and I can't imagine life without the weekly joy of coming together with others to sing.
While there is much pleasure to be had - it's known that singing creates an endorphine rush - choirs can be very strange beasts, especially when it comes to wardrobe. Simple instructions will become rapidly distorted as the desire to advertise one's individuality becomes overwhelming. My theory is that because singing in a choir is the ultimate team sport requiring people to blend together, suppression of star quality is only possible up to a point. Therefore evidence of rebellion becomes apparent at the last possible moment.
From time to time I have been required to wear some incredible things for various performances, but I figure that's the job and it's not about me anyway. I've even worn yellow. And I don't wear yellow. I don't own any yellow clothes. There is nothing yellow in my house, except some post it notes and a lemon.
At one stage I sang in a large classical choir while I was in Brisbane. Our costume was essentially a big white nightie with a reversible satin triangle that went over the head and added a splash of green or blue depending on what colour had been chosen for the particular concert. We were supposed to look like angels. This was an adult choir. The nighties were hideous, but very comfortable to wear and they were unflattering on everyone regardless of size or shape. No one complained about that. The argument was always about whether this concert should be blue or green. As though it made a difference to how we sounded. I swear I heard the thesis put that Mozart's Requiem just felt more green than blue.
White shoes were required. White shoes. The only white shoes I owned were my Dunlop Volleys. Truthfully they were probably more of a dull grey after some wear so decided that my flesh coloured character shoes would be the better option. I stood in the second back row in a choir of 150 people. No one would notice what I had on my feet. I was caught by the Wardrobe Inspectorate* as I was about to walk on stage.
"Where are your shoes?" she hissed.
"On my feet," I replied, looking down to check.
"Those aren't white. Take them OFF."
"But..."
"No 'buts', they're not white. Take them off. We wear white shoes in this choir."
So I took them off and walked on stage in stockinged feet. Flesh coloured shoes/flesh coloured feet - what's the difference? Mozart's not going to notice.
Then I moved to Melbourne. The essential difference between Melbourne and Brisbane is that the choirs in Melbourne all wear black. Now you'd think this would be foolproof method of suppressing the mavericks. Woe betide the Wardrobe Inspectorate who doesn't think to specify what kind of black. It could be velvet, sparkly, shaggy, sheer, patterned. Or more usually, covered in dandruff. Instructions must head off any ability for anyone to express anything other than a love and loyalty to their choir.
That's why I was relieved to discover that the wardrobe for my current group is "black with red". We were also given permission to "bling it up". What looked red on me at home in my mirror suddenly looked like a crimson pink when standing next to someone else wearing a tomato red dress. But no one cared! It was such bliss because everyone was there for the joy of singing together. And I had the added comfort of knowing that I wouldn't have an allergic reaction to my costume half way through the show!
The relaxed approach meant that wardrobe dilemmas were of a different flavour.
One of the altos packed the two right shoes from different pairs. She avoided having to go on in black socks by being the same size as another woman who had a spare. A fellow soprano confided that she had put on a "foundation garment" which she was finding quite uncomfortable. Other details she provided was that it went around her middle, but the problem was the fat wasn't being "sucked in" it was being redistributed: some of it was now moving up and spilling over the top of the garment, while the rest was changing the shape of her legs. I urged her to take it off. I was concerned I would see her spleen pop out her ear or her feet would burst out of her shoes during the romantic ballad and we'd all end up covered in something. Now THAT's a wardrobe malfunction. Eat your heart out Janet Jackson.
My rule now is that if anyone mentions bringing scarves in as the feature piece of the wardrobe, I resign. Immediately.
*Choirs are breeding grounds for people looking to add meaning to their lives through the exercise of petty power. My father's term for them is "nametag carriers". The Librarian and Treasurer are those to be most feared as this is where there is much power to be exercised.
While there is much pleasure to be had - it's known that singing creates an endorphine rush - choirs can be very strange beasts, especially when it comes to wardrobe. Simple instructions will become rapidly distorted as the desire to advertise one's individuality becomes overwhelming. My theory is that because singing in a choir is the ultimate team sport requiring people to blend together, suppression of star quality is only possible up to a point. Therefore evidence of rebellion becomes apparent at the last possible moment.
From time to time I have been required to wear some incredible things for various performances, but I figure that's the job and it's not about me anyway. I've even worn yellow. And I don't wear yellow. I don't own any yellow clothes. There is nothing yellow in my house, except some post it notes and a lemon.
At one stage I sang in a large classical choir while I was in Brisbane. Our costume was essentially a big white nightie with a reversible satin triangle that went over the head and added a splash of green or blue depending on what colour had been chosen for the particular concert. We were supposed to look like angels. This was an adult choir. The nighties were hideous, but very comfortable to wear and they were unflattering on everyone regardless of size or shape. No one complained about that. The argument was always about whether this concert should be blue or green. As though it made a difference to how we sounded. I swear I heard the thesis put that Mozart's Requiem just felt more green than blue.
White shoes were required. White shoes. The only white shoes I owned were my Dunlop Volleys. Truthfully they were probably more of a dull grey after some wear so decided that my flesh coloured character shoes would be the better option. I stood in the second back row in a choir of 150 people. No one would notice what I had on my feet. I was caught by the Wardrobe Inspectorate* as I was about to walk on stage.
"Where are your shoes?" she hissed.
"On my feet," I replied, looking down to check.
"Those aren't white. Take them OFF."
"But..."
"No 'buts', they're not white. Take them off. We wear white shoes in this choir."
So I took them off and walked on stage in stockinged feet. Flesh coloured shoes/flesh coloured feet - what's the difference? Mozart's not going to notice.
Then I moved to Melbourne. The essential difference between Melbourne and Brisbane is that the choirs in Melbourne all wear black. Now you'd think this would be foolproof method of suppressing the mavericks. Woe betide the Wardrobe Inspectorate who doesn't think to specify what kind of black. It could be velvet, sparkly, shaggy, sheer, patterned. Or more usually, covered in dandruff. Instructions must head off any ability for anyone to express anything other than a love and loyalty to their choir.
That's why I was relieved to discover that the wardrobe for my current group is "black with red". We were also given permission to "bling it up". What looked red on me at home in my mirror suddenly looked like a crimson pink when standing next to someone else wearing a tomato red dress. But no one cared! It was such bliss because everyone was there for the joy of singing together. And I had the added comfort of knowing that I wouldn't have an allergic reaction to my costume half way through the show!
The relaxed approach meant that wardrobe dilemmas were of a different flavour.
One of the altos packed the two right shoes from different pairs. She avoided having to go on in black socks by being the same size as another woman who had a spare. A fellow soprano confided that she had put on a "foundation garment" which she was finding quite uncomfortable. Other details she provided was that it went around her middle, but the problem was the fat wasn't being "sucked in" it was being redistributed: some of it was now moving up and spilling over the top of the garment, while the rest was changing the shape of her legs. I urged her to take it off. I was concerned I would see her spleen pop out her ear or her feet would burst out of her shoes during the romantic ballad and we'd all end up covered in something. Now THAT's a wardrobe malfunction. Eat your heart out Janet Jackson.
My rule now is that if anyone mentions bringing scarves in as the feature piece of the wardrobe, I resign. Immediately.
*Choirs are breeding grounds for people looking to add meaning to their lives through the exercise of petty power. My father's term for them is "nametag carriers". The Librarian and Treasurer are those to be most feared as this is where there is much power to be exercised.
Friday, 29 July 2011
The Loud Talker
Melbourne's trains are the perfect gallery for indulging in one of my favourite things: observing people.
The other day I arrived at Southern Cross station during the evening peak. From the top of the escalator to platform 14 I could see the platform was packed with people. They were standing in rows, all facing the same way. In the setting of the soaring roof of the station they looked like the congregation in a cathedral; MX newspaper replaced their hymnals and prayer books. At this time of the afternoon they were washed in the pale light of the winter sun as it set. They are united in a common objective: to have the train run on time; yet separated by the specifics of their prayers: to get a seat on an overcrowded train; not to forget to pick up milk; not to get caught without a ticket by a ticket inspector; to find a way out of the job they hate; to find the strength to walk in the front door, wondering whether the argument is over; to not have a loud talker in their carriage.
I found a seat that day and pulled out my book ("Bossypants" by Tina Fey). I read the same sentence ten times before I gave up, knowing I had no hope of progressing during this journey, for I had a loud, over-sharer in my carriage. Her monotonous declarations were further magnified by the otherwise generally silent demeanour of her fellow passengers.
"No," she had told her boss that day. She didn't want the pay rise, thanks very much, because it would mean she would have to give up her Health Care Card and lose her concession status. The bonus is okay though, because it doesn't put her over the threshold, but no, she's not interested in a pay rise.
I felt like I was part of a tabloid current affairs television show, aimed at finding welfare disincentives set up by a socialist Government. I was amazed at how many times it was necessary for her to repeat this information to her conversation partner. I also learnt how she felt about the requirement to keep the Government informed about her circumstances. What an impost! "You'd think they'd know that I'd tell them if my situation changed!" she declared.
She was talking so loudly she may as well have been on her mobile phone. The lecture lulled. Commuters sought refuge in empathetic eye contact with each other. Breaths were held...
"I can't believe the seat reservation policies of airlines. Fancy having to pay to select a particular seat. It's a rip off. That's what it is." Perhaps the pay rise would have helped her pay for this, I thought.
Teeth were gritted. Body language shifted. Wasn't she listening? Couldn't she feel the wave of hostility pulsating towards her? No. She couldn't. This woman was sitting behind me and I just had to get a look at her. There was no way to do it subtly, so I just turned around and looked. I'm sure I had the same face I use when there's someone talking in the movies. She drew breath momentarily. We made eye contact.
She was an ordinary person, apparently talking to the woman sitting opposite her. I'm not sure what the purpose of this other woman was. She couldn't be heard. Would she have taken the pay rise? There was no space for her to contribute.
I also learnt that she's staying at the Ramada Inn while she's in LA. She's nervous about driving on the other side of the road. She's done some preliminary research into what to see while in Hollywood. She has very strong views about all aspects of airlines and aviation in general. She's really angry about her boss threatening her status as a welfare beneficiary.
She ran out of steam. Just as I arrived at my stop. Naturally.
The other day I arrived at Southern Cross station during the evening peak. From the top of the escalator to platform 14 I could see the platform was packed with people. They were standing in rows, all facing the same way. In the setting of the soaring roof of the station they looked like the congregation in a cathedral; MX newspaper replaced their hymnals and prayer books. At this time of the afternoon they were washed in the pale light of the winter sun as it set. They are united in a common objective: to have the train run on time; yet separated by the specifics of their prayers: to get a seat on an overcrowded train; not to forget to pick up milk; not to get caught without a ticket by a ticket inspector; to find a way out of the job they hate; to find the strength to walk in the front door, wondering whether the argument is over; to not have a loud talker in their carriage.
I found a seat that day and pulled out my book ("Bossypants" by Tina Fey). I read the same sentence ten times before I gave up, knowing I had no hope of progressing during this journey, for I had a loud, over-sharer in my carriage. Her monotonous declarations were further magnified by the otherwise generally silent demeanour of her fellow passengers.
"No," she had told her boss that day. She didn't want the pay rise, thanks very much, because it would mean she would have to give up her Health Care Card and lose her concession status. The bonus is okay though, because it doesn't put her over the threshold, but no, she's not interested in a pay rise.
I felt like I was part of a tabloid current affairs television show, aimed at finding welfare disincentives set up by a socialist Government. I was amazed at how many times it was necessary for her to repeat this information to her conversation partner. I also learnt how she felt about the requirement to keep the Government informed about her circumstances. What an impost! "You'd think they'd know that I'd tell them if my situation changed!" she declared.
She was talking so loudly she may as well have been on her mobile phone. The lecture lulled. Commuters sought refuge in empathetic eye contact with each other. Breaths were held...
"I can't believe the seat reservation policies of airlines. Fancy having to pay to select a particular seat. It's a rip off. That's what it is." Perhaps the pay rise would have helped her pay for this, I thought.
Teeth were gritted. Body language shifted. Wasn't she listening? Couldn't she feel the wave of hostility pulsating towards her? No. She couldn't. This woman was sitting behind me and I just had to get a look at her. There was no way to do it subtly, so I just turned around and looked. I'm sure I had the same face I use when there's someone talking in the movies. She drew breath momentarily. We made eye contact.
She was an ordinary person, apparently talking to the woman sitting opposite her. I'm not sure what the purpose of this other woman was. She couldn't be heard. Would she have taken the pay rise? There was no space for her to contribute.
I also learnt that she's staying at the Ramada Inn while she's in LA. She's nervous about driving on the other side of the road. She's done some preliminary research into what to see while in Hollywood. She has very strong views about all aspects of airlines and aviation in general. She's really angry about her boss threatening her status as a welfare beneficiary.
She ran out of steam. Just as I arrived at my stop. Naturally.
Thursday, 28 July 2011
Beginnings
Imagine what it feels like when you've come up with the "perfect" name for your blog, only to discover that someone else is using that name for their blog. Okay, so that's annoying. But then, you go and look at the blog that has "your" name and discover that it's an ultra right wing, conservative blog written by someone who appears to be a religious zealot. That's disturbing. It made me question my very values. I spent hours in conversation with myself: "But what does it mean that I came up with the perfect name and someone with values so far from mine thought the same thing?" You get the drift.
I let it go. Madness may lie that way.
And here I am, posting for the first time on my new blog that is self-titled. Nothing wrong with that. Rock stars do it all the time. If you consider naming something after your Twitter name counts as "self-titled". Hmmm. Looks like I've got something to discuss with myself tomorrow.
What's it about? I am a compulsive observer of life. I'm one of those people who doesn't listen to an iPod on public transport. And I catch public transport everywhere. The reason is that I love to eavesdrop on conversations and discover that most of us seem to speak rubbish a lot of the time. Especially on public transport. Loudly. (Note to self - must write about this.) I have some time on my hands and am hungering to establish the habit of regular writing. (I used to have penpals - remember them? - must write about this.)
So "divacultura", the blog, written by divacultura the Twitter girl, will roam widely and wildly on whatever takes my fancy. I can promise that it will be spelt correctly and apostrophes will be accurately placed. These things matter to me. Additionally my aim is to entertain and provoke my audience daily.
I'd love you to join me.
I let it go. Madness may lie that way.
And here I am, posting for the first time on my new blog that is self-titled. Nothing wrong with that. Rock stars do it all the time. If you consider naming something after your Twitter name counts as "self-titled". Hmmm. Looks like I've got something to discuss with myself tomorrow.
What's it about? I am a compulsive observer of life. I'm one of those people who doesn't listen to an iPod on public transport. And I catch public transport everywhere. The reason is that I love to eavesdrop on conversations and discover that most of us seem to speak rubbish a lot of the time. Especially on public transport. Loudly. (Note to self - must write about this.) I have some time on my hands and am hungering to establish the habit of regular writing. (I used to have penpals - remember them? - must write about this.)
So "divacultura", the blog, written by divacultura the Twitter girl, will roam widely and wildly on whatever takes my fancy. I can promise that it will be spelt correctly and apostrophes will be accurately placed. These things matter to me. Additionally my aim is to entertain and provoke my audience daily.
I'd love you to join me.
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