Oh dear.

Another sad, abandoned blog. I can even see the tumbleweeds across the ether.

One might cite the 'excuses': university, work, social life. But anybody who knows me will know none of those excuses wash with myself, but then, to whom am I writing anyway?

To be perfectly honest, it has mostly been from a complete lack of inspiration. In London, in Europe, life was full of stories, full of life itself. Here, things take on a sallowed quality. The brightness of the sun (Ozone hole) seems to diminish the brightness of the world. It is overpowering. Thankfully, rain has finally arrived. Perhaps this will refresh everything, from the parched sands to the dry and emptiness of my head.

I think the most likely answer is: stop being lazy and morose and do; be. Shame that taking one's own advice always seems to be near-impossible.

Christkindl

"Secret Santa is a Western Christmas tradition in which members of a group are randomly assigned other members to whom they anonymously give a gift. Often practised in workplaces, or amongst large families, participation in it is usually voluntary. It offers a way for many people to give and receive a gift at low cost to those involved." Wikipedia.

One need not scroll far down to see my unbridled enthusiasm for Christmas. Reading Mrs Trefusis's latest post brought on a wave of nostalgia for the simple joy of baking Christmas cakes with my grandmother, running through her garden with my cousins and being frequently stung by bees hiding amongst the fallen jacaranda flowers (forget not that I grew up in the southern hemisphere). It often took several days before the swelling in my feet went down. But now that I have returned to the heat (and gosh it has been hot lately, hottest November on record) I am also nostalgic for peacefully white, wintry landscapes of my spiritual northern home. The pictures of Britain in a cold snap have left me in fits of envy. Though I remember fully the chaos of London snow last year, the memories I take from those days are of strangers playing together in the snow, reveling in a Dickensian world of white. Billions of pounds may have been lost, but after all, it's only money.

Which brings me to Christmas. I feel a miserly scrooge-type character, but I am entirely unhappy about a recent spate of Secret Santas pervading my nice quiet world. I am entirely opposed to the idea. I am a poor student and I object to being forced to buy complete strangers tat. Instead, I am baking gingerbread biscuits, and to hell with people's reactions. You will get what you are given and be happy I am bothering at all! I have long been of the opinion that gift-buying is a most inefficient function of money. We waste money on things people invariably do not, have never, and never will want. It is an inefficiency at both ends. And we all have to behave so politely about being bought such things as wallets. Now, I already have a wallet. I have had for many years. What on earth possessed you? Did you suddenly have an epiphany, Oh! The very thing. A Wallet. I'm almost certain that he will need one. Well, how do you think I have managed to carry around the various cards and monies I have done the past 10 years?

That said, I am always incredibly touched that people would think to get me anything, and feel incredibly guilty if I don't like something. But, I'm sorry. I am an increasingly old and bitter man. I want for nothing and need for little. If you want to show your affection, or to wish me a happy Christmas, write me a card (home-made), bake something, create something. Write me a poem. I want a piece of you, not of your wallet.

I worry this attitude will increasingly alienate me from friends and family. Mr London Street recently wrote of peer pressure. The same side of the family with whom I would always make Christmas Cakes at the onset of Advent has now moved away from the simple joys of Christmas, to a highly organised Secret Santa operation. All family members have strict instructions as to whom they buy for, how much they spend, and frankly, what they buy. I have ordered my mother (who is a reluctant member of the board) to opt our branch of the family tree out of the nonsense. I have told her if she doesn't insist on it, I shall. And of the two of us, she is the more likely to be tactful. Christmas should not be about brutally commercial organisation. It should be fun, spontaneous, well-fed amongst good company. It should be a celebration of life and family (and food). I think when children are involved, there should absolutely be plenty of beautifully wrapped gifts under a Christmas tree. The latest thing simply must be in a stocking, so long as children are giving a thorough appreciation for how lucky they are, considering so many other children have so little.

Am I hugely out of step with the rest of the world? Have I any right to impose my will on the rest of the family? Should I keep calm and carry on? Am I fundamentally wrong? Any thoughts welcome and appreciated.

7/7

I've just realised 7/7 is in fact a whole. The completion of a picture. I wish I could feel more of a completeness about my life at present, but the more I accumulate, the more that seems to slip through my fingers. 

In terms of the things I like, I feel I have covered most bases. Transport to sustenance. Perhaps I can choose something that is important to me, something I do my best to show to whomever, whenever. Mrs Trefusis mentioned me and manners, something about which I can be very particular. Example: I simply loathe people who are rubbish at introductions. It really is too awful, I have no mechanism to deal with the awkwardness of being left to the wayside as a friend chatters on without making any attempt to introduce one to tuther. Are you specifically not introducing me? Or are you simply blind to the fact we are as Adam to one another? Either way, for some reason, it bothers me.

As, yet again, I have descended into writing about that which I don't like, I'd better move on quick smart. There is a vague connection, because what I wish to say I do like is kindness. I think kindness is so very important, it costs absolutely nothing and can greatly affect a person's day to day existence. I have been extraordinarily lucky in that I have known some of the kindest people imaginable. London, one of the world's great metropoles, is not somewhere I necessarily expected to discover it. The vastness of everything and, in particular, the number of people does not necessarily engender a sense of abounding kindness. But it is there that I was the beneficiary of some wonderfully good turns - extra streams of income when they were invaluable; hot, home-cooked meals when they were so very welcome; friendship in some low times and even, in moments of utter desperation, a roof over my head.

Kindness can take many various forms, be it a word, an act, a gesture, even an offer. It can be conscious or sub-conscious. In a world of increasing disenfranchisement, hedonism, selfishness, chicanery and one-upmanship, I think it is important to reflect on what it is to be human, what humanity entails. To me, one of our greatest achievements as a species was developing a conscience, rising above natural selection, empathy and kindness. Yet the downside of our developed thought has been to allow ourselves to divide - be it politically, racially, religiously, by gender, sexuality, background, hair colour, eye colour - and hate. And I'm in no way suggesting I'm above the negativity, I am often guilty of wishing ill on complete strangers. Bus drivers and club bouncers in particular.

However, what I hope by writing this is that it will serve as a reminder to myself, and to anybody else who should stumble across it for that matter,  to be better. It costs absolutely nothing to smile. To be kind, in its truest form, can make all the difference between somebody having a good and a bad day. I know on the very greyest and rainiest of days we feel far from any sense of joy, so therefore to share whatever remnants within there are seems ridiculous. But to do so is to multiply it tenfold. I promise. I spent yesterday at the funeral of a good friend's father. He had committed suicide out of depression, quite tragic. Certainly, the sense from the readings was that this was an incredibly kind, honest, decent and noble person, who had been overwhelmed by the horridness of the world around him. What was so touching, despite the grief, was the outpouring of kindness the local community showed this family, and I am convinced that this support was invaluable to them.

Our world can be a desperately dark place at times. It is within all of us to find that metaphorical sunshine, and to perhaps re-assess how we treat our fellow human beings. I don't mean to sound like the resurrection of Ralph Waldo Emerson, but I do believe we can all, even in the very smallest of ways, collectively make our human experience just that little bit happier.

"Give all to love; obey thy heart." 
Ralph Waldo Emerson

6/7

Nearly there..
It's a rather sorry indictment of my work ethic that I happen to be at "work" this very minute, and only now do I progress further with my meme. Oh well.

I could say I like it when I'm not at work, but that would be dull and stating the obvious. I think there are few people who would choose work over play, but I suppose it is only through working one can appreciate the free time. Why is it that I sound more and more like my mother with every passing day?

Right, so something I do quite like is a train. Trains are lovely! A childhood of reading (apologies to Mrs Trefusis) Enid Blyton, Agatha Christie and even J. K. Rowling left me with a distinctively glamorous view of trains. Be they the vehicle for a picnic followed by the inevitable adventure, the scene of a crime, or the means to reach a secret school of magic; there is a definitive style of transportation unparalleled. Now I love flying, and I do even enjoy driving, occasionally. Although motoring laws in this country are so boring, at 30mph I feel as though I might as well just walk. But there is something somehow romantic about trains. It feels so much more communal. Buses I abhor. In London, they're quite charming, but here the very opposite. They are loathsome, space-polluting, noise-polluting travesties which should be done away with. Although my judgement is very much skewed by recent terrible experiences. I do my best to be a good citizen of the world, and not to drive when it is possible to not do so. Well, my goodness is it obvious why people avoid buses. And they almost always smell terrible. But this is not supposed to be a post on what I dislike, is it?

Trains: The shared glances with fellow commuters when the peace is disturbed by some unsavoury type, well it's quite fun, isn't it?! It is a very delicate, dignified way to travel. None of that stop-starting, but graceful gliding into stations, an elegant annonceur informing passengers of their next stop, and an over-whelming sense of being above the internal-squabblings of the road-user world outside. I have found trains to be infinitely more reliable. A train schedule is somehow much more set in stone, and very rare will circumstances affect it. Buses, as the old adage goes, are nowhere to be seen for an hour then suddenly up turn three. Now, I am aware of a great many shortcomings in the locomotive department. The wrong leaves, the wrong snow, the mere existence of snow - all have dented its credibility. But I argue none of the fun of train travel has been extinguished. I'm blessed to have a lovely commute. I walk ten minutes through Karrakatta Cemetery, then am privy to fifteen minutes of very attractive scenery. Half of the journey follows the coast, before reaching the port of Fremantle. It's lovely to start the day overlooking the waves undulating towards the sandy beaches. And then Fremantle itself is lovely, one of the few places in this country to have successfully preserved its heritage. Some of it may be crumbly, but overwhelmingly, it is so gorgeously English. perhaps that's why I like it?

I keep reading of ideas to improve our rail system, of introducing light rail networks to deal with urban sprawl so as to keep apace with population growth. Well I do hope there is some substance behind all the good intentions. A world of more rail is to me, very appealing.

1/7

Quite why Mr London Street enjoys my writing I as yet do not understand. My naive, spoilt and archaic tone rather chills me as I re-read posts, but nonetheless it is more than flattering to receive a compliment from such an admirable writer. I certainly owe it to him to attempt "Seven Things I Like", the meme in which he has tagged me. Perhaps it will restore me to a more regular writing pattern. This assumes I can think of seven things that I both like and can write at length on....

So I shall start with a place I like a little too much. London. Londres. The capital of the United Kingdom:

Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 3, 1803 

"Earth hath not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! The very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!"

William Wordsworth

I couldn't more eloquently describe my affection for the place. Despite being written more than two hundred years before I came to be in the city, it is as true and stirring a picture of London as ever it was then. What I love about this poem is the extraordinary contrast to his poem London 1802. The two could have been written in completely different cities for all the similarities in sentiment they share.

However for myself, it is this fabulous contrast that speaks to me best. London is the tale of two cities. The darkness and the light, the rich and the poor, the beauty and the beast, the West and the East, the North and the South. London never failed to uplift when I was down, but it could equally bring me crashing back down to Earth if ever I lost sight of where my feet ought to be. It is a city that brought a great richness to my life, and will do so to anybody who is prepared to embrace it.

Although I rather feel my time there ended prematurely, I can at least recognise that I was fortunate enough to be there at all. Many never have such a wonderful opportunity as I had, to enjoy the complete and unattached freedom of youth in London. What I must also do my best to understand is that, while for now we are apart, this could in a few years be remedied with some rather had work. Sadly I have always shied away therefrom, and thus my confidence isn't too high. But hopefully this will give me the necessary motivation... Goodness knows it can't hurt.

Five Years...

The Rose Beyond the Thames has playfully tagged me in a game. How could I resist?



What a Difference Five Years Can Make.



Essentially:



Where were you five years ago? 
In my final year of school. Too busy socialising and trying to be popular to study.

Where would you like to be five years from now? 
In London. Doing anything frankly, so long as it's in London.

What is on your to-do list today? 
Well to write this, to squeeze various people into timeslots for afternoon tea, organizing my music play-lists and to tidy.

What five snacks do you enjoy? 
Biscuits, houmous and crudités, chocolate, crisps and toast.

What would you do if you were a Billionaire? 
Ever so much. Return to London, firstly. I'd do my best to leave a positive legacy for the world. Philanthropy and investing in green technology spring to mind. I'd also make use of the freedom to study and work for my own pleasure, but this question has simply made me sad and wistful. Oh and I'd do a lot of shopping, but in one go at the beginning. I'd create a wardrobe which never required any addition beyond socks.


And so, to pass the parcel (no obligation, naturally!)...


Blonde Moments

Mrs Trefusis

Smack Crumple Bang

The Divorcee Dares To Dream

Fashion's Most Wanted

Hopefully theirs are much more inspiring than mine.

Cultural Awareness Programme

It seems all I do now is apologize for delayed posts. The problem is there is often so little to say, and so little that feels worthy of being written and posted. Upon returning, it has been difficult to avoid the onset of a depressed malaise. I could have fallen into that quagmire, but I have and am trying desperately to avoid it.

The method I have used has been to keep busy. Very busy. Exceedingly so. Difficultly, the first weekend was spent without any form of telecommunications (The Big Storm 2010) and therefore I spent the long days gardening. Almost beside myself with boredom I cleared guttering, swept, pruned and was just generally helpful. I became, in essence, a recluse for some time. Shunning everybody bar my family and a few close friends, I created a heightened sense of isolation, already heightened by the fact I am in the most isolated city in the world. I felt very much an outsider, a foreigner, and stranger. Who were these people, and who was I?

Of course life cannot be lived in that manner. I embarked on a cultural awareness programme (CAP), the sort which would hopefully life my spirits, and remind me of the array of such things available. And also, because I simply do not know what is there any more. A lot changes in three years. Much never does, however the superficial certainly will. And curiously, there has been a makeover of sorts. Some are utter travesties. The village of Claremont has been destroyed by a soulless Westfield-style development. Hideous. But other pockets are thriving. The liquor licensing laws were relaxed in 2007, and because of this, a plenty of small, quirky and quaint bars have sprung up in small alleys and off anonymous-looking car parks. One, named Ezra Pound, has the flair of it's namesake, and plenty of charm. It serves cocktails in jam jars, something that delights me for reasons unknown. Another, named The Bird, could have emerged straight out of Dalston.

The food options are as good as ever they were, but alarmingly expensive. Ditto coffee. This part of the world has always made exceedingly good coffee because of it's very strong Italian heritage. And it is good: certainly no Starbucks here. But equally, one pays for it. I am often asked "However did you afford to live in London, isn't it terribly expensive?". I do so love the opportunity to correct ignorance in others.

Another resolution inspired by the CAP was a determination to meet new people. The bubble in which I grew up well and truly burst when I escaped, and I mean not to let it inflate again, entrapping me. Because of this, I have made some truly wonderful new friends. Of course I shan't ever fully shake off the past, and nor do I wish to. It informed a large part of the person I am and there is still value in it, and in those people. I just wish to not become a slave to it, like so many others.

So, there it is. A small insight to the long weeks past; dark and saddening, yet silvery glimmers of hope for whatever is to come.

Adieu Angleterre

In the midst of the chaos of a very tiny student bedsit in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, the home of Parisian existentialism, I feel wonderful. The muscles in my neck are sore from a combination of  a very peculiar makeshift bed and too much red wine. The sirens blare, the bells chime constantly, and I remind myself just how much I love this city. Why? It's hideous in so many ways, so grandiose, so filthy, so smelly, so very un-English. But this city has a complete hold on me, in a way London couldn't ever. London is the best city in the world, but Paris is still remarkable in its way.

There is something so very adulte about Paris, and somehow one feels the energy of Napolean, Sartre and even Audrey Tautou all rolled into one; undulating as soon as one exits le Métro.

But I am filled with sadness, because the white cliffs of Dover seem so far away, and when I shall see them again is uncertain. My final destination is a scorched, barren land which is currently enjoying temperatures in the high 30's (over 100 for the Americans out there). And it feels me with pure and utter dread.

My last days in Britain were an absolute whirlwind. Clubs, countryside, the hospital, a short film (featuring more interesting leg-wear), a great deal of time on the Tube and also a lot of alcohol and wonderful Italian food. I implore anybody who can a) get there and b) find somewhere to sit, try Polpo on Beak Street in Soho. Just delicious. I'm sure I heard the collocation "taste sensation" muttered by somebody. The likelihood was that this was uttered by myself. Mais ça y est. I shall miss so much, and so many. The United Kingdom is one of the very finest countries in the world, I shall not stay away any longer than is absolutely necessary. If they will have me back, of course. I probably wouldn't, personally.

I suppose one other benefit of finding oneself in a pays francophone, is that French is rather the done thing. I have been pleasantly surprised by the ease at which my language has returned to me, and while I am a little hesitant at times, I arrive eventually. Much to my delight, I have twice been mistaken for a native. Or at least a local (NB the difference). I always try my best to be "one of us". Fitting in seems so important for me, I wish to blend in invisibly in one sense, and yet to be taken notice for doing so. Hence my very definite 'Anglocisation' (there may well be an actual word which I haven't yet discovered, for now this will do) while in the Mother country.

Apologies for the highly scattered thoughts, perhaps this is more of an insight into my deranged psyche than normal. Ah, that word is such a wonderful false friend!

Au revoir tout le monde. Je vous remercie pour tout.

Look Out In The Blackout!

Don't you just love some of the campaigns and slogans spearheaded by the Ministry of Information during the war? Of course we all know "Keep Calm and Carry On", it's sensible and very British advice remains equally useful to this day, and as such has had something of a revival. It may also be that the charming red posters are easily transposed to cushions and coffee mugs and as such has been revived to a profitability unthinkable at its introduction in the 1940's. The Ministry of Information clearly missed a trick there. Of course besides the beastliness of war, one would be forgiven for thinking the 1940's as drab, dour, dull. With this island so very near the brink of total disaster, it all must have been rather depressing. Or it might have been, but the indomitable spirit of the British people couldn't have been more underestimated. A group in London is trying to recreate this spirit, and By Jove! it was a smash.

Called The Blitz Party, this bi-monthly night of "Forties fashion and frolics" is a perfect example of what makes London so fabulous a city. The variety on offer on any given night - week or weekend - is quite overwhelming and often rather over-stimulating. The problem with such boundless choice is that, when one chooses to do nothing at all, it's almost a betrayal. A betrayal of London itself. Or perhaps that is just me, anthropomorphizing again. Regardless, last month I made sure my evening did not fall into this treacherous black hole of nothing, and off I went to somewhere beyond Old Street. And with some people from DRA, funnily enough, but oh didn't it take forever to find the venue? We wandered the icy lanes for what seemed an age, lacking any of the remote stoicism for which the Forties is famed.

We were also attired in our forties fashions. Sadly I couldn't locate an RAF uniform (I wanted something passable as authentic. Most costume shops seem to prefer the more is more approach, which is definitely NOT Forties.) So I had to manage with something from my own wardrobe - Tweed and Chinos. It was grandfather-ish enough to work, or I do hope so at least. My friends were wonderfully turned out, although with possibly more of a German feel than anything else. At the time, I suspect I would have been accused of spying, of being a fifth columnist for appearing with such fine Teutonic specimens. But upon arrival, it was clear some people had taken a leaf out of Prince Harry's book.

However people had dressed, such a wonderful effort had been made. All the ladies looked film studio perfect: the hair, the dresses (or trousers in the case of the Women's Land Army), the shoes... It was heavenly. I've always loved the style of the 1940's, because to me it IS style. There is little style in the present day, but then I am old-fashioned and like Boden and Barbour. Of course, it being slightly film sett-ish I doubt that the dance hall was filled with an accurate representation of the "swing bands, sand bags and glad rags" that entertained a war-weary public, but for me, it was jolly good and did the job marvellously. We had champagne in quaint coupes, Spitfire ale, and danced to jazz and swing. The venue also had a slight air-raid shelter quality to it, which added greatly to the atmosphere. Most people were in very high spirits, keen to do the whole thing properly and of course, to keep calm and carry on. I think for my companions there was a lowlight as they queued for their coats. Normally a simple concept for a British crowd, it seems the high spirits may have got in the way of manners and good sportsmanship. I was rather running out of things to say to an acquaintance when they returned, and such a thing would usually take at least half an hour.

Emerging into the cold air of very early morning London, it was difficult to set aside the images of hundreds of people merry-making in a Forties fashion, dancing away in my head. The grim reality of getting home, of trudging through the grey and the cold made me consider those who were doing so seventy years beforehand. How did they feel, suddenly resurfacing after an evening of escapism and a rare opportunity for fun? For them, the return to reality meant remembering there was a war to be fought, things with which they must make do and mend. The very real threat of losing loved ones and indeed, of falling victim themselves. I'm unsure what people of that generation would make of The Blitz Party, nor am I even sure what to make of it myself. Is it somehow distasteful, or a celebration of triumph through adversity? It certainly couldn't exist in Germany, and thus is it disrespectful? For now I shall not mention it to the grandparents...

Whatever conclusion I eventually make, it simply reinforces to me what an incredible Mecca of culture this city is. I'm so thankful to have had the opportunity to see and to do and to try all that London has to offer. Even if I fail to take up an offering, the choice remains there; endless, for another evening.

Ms Welch and Mr Chips

Thanks again to Mrs Trefusis for a fabulous exhibition recommendation (Beauty Through A Lens). This lady's intimate knowledge on all things to do and see in London is too enviable, but equally she removes all the hard work for the philistines, such as myself. 

It is a wonderful exhibition of the work of Terry O'Neill, one of Britain’s most popular photographers at the Chris Beetles Art Gallery in St James's. Some of the images are quite breathtaking, such is their intimacy.

I was also rather struck by how very seamlessly the subjects would fit into a modern context of fashion and beauty. Such people are so extraordinary timeless, the magic translates across the decades, the generations. Or perhaps it is cyclical? To me, the people in the photographs could not merely be limited to the London of yesteryear, but could be quite easily seen promenading the streets of my London.

O'Neill is a wonderful photographer because he truly knew his subjects. As such, he had no trouble capturing that very human sense of vulnerability. Something so intimate could only be offered to a friend.

One such human was Raquel Welch. At one point she was the most famous and desired woman on the planet, but it was only at home that I was treated to a lovely tale featuring Ms Welch. (Such an hilarious name, it reminds me of Wellington boots.) My friend's grandfather spent a long time as headmaster of one of England's public boys' schools, Sherborne. During his leadership, the musical film Goodbye, Mr Chips, starring Peter O'Toole and Petula Clarke was filmed at Sherborne. As headmaster, he was quite involved with the production and often O'Toole would join him for lunch.

The American production team decided to ship the headmaster and his wife to America to help with promoting the film. His role I presume, was to be the stereotypical Englishman that Americans would consider quaint and charming and therefore spend money at the cinema on the film. While not so commercially successful, the film was nominated for Academy Awards and O'Toole won the Golden Globe that year (1970) for his role. It is the Academy Awards that brings me to Ms Welch. This wonderfully innocent and very English headmaster was sat right next to this American deity. Naturally, he had absolutely no idea who the woman to his right was. The photographs show him animatedly discussing something, which my friend tells me was most like something meta-philosophical or some such thing. Despite much of the world's press snapping away at them, he seems oblivious. And Raquel, for her part, seems genuinely interested. Perhaps for the first time in years, somebody was speaking to her without any idea - nor care - of who she was. And about something other than her films, or Hollywood in general. I rather love this.

Breaths of fresh air, physical and metaphorical can be wonderful. They energise with vigour and give us the impetus to carry on, somehow renewed. Both the film Goodbye, Mr Chips and the photographer Terry O'Neill reward us with such a feeling, so go; do!

Images: copyright Terry O'Neill.

Whatever do you Meme?

From the Taxi...
 
A very highly ranked member of the Bloggerati, and incidentally one of my idoles, has sent forth a meme from her Taxi. I shall do my utmost to live up to her immensely kind words.

What is always so difficult with such exercises is the degree of emotional self-examination required. It is in much the same way as my relationship with mirrors; sometimes the reflection is rather terrifying. The next day I may be Narcissus incarnate. Thankfully, I have always found the strength to turn away from the looking glass and unlike Narcissus, have not - thus far - perished. Today is more an example of the former than anything else. Lack of sleep, travel, aeroplanes and Heathrow do not a good mixture make, and this is before I even look at my face. However, ten things it is and will be...

1: I am Australian...
Frequently I forget this, as do many of my friends. There is usually laughter, then shock when new acquaintances discover the truth. It is often quite embarrassing. In my self-important manner, I am embarrassed by my own country and heritage. In many ways it is a terrific, industrious nation, full of enterprise and opportunity. And talent. I was extremely lucky to grow up there. However. It is also severely dull and very, very hot. And I want more.

2: I am snobbish...
...To the point of obsessiveness. What is "done" and "not done" echoes in my head insufferably so. I have known myself to miss my Tube station because of this. A hierarchy exists in my mind and it tends to categorize within nanoseconds. Very bad. I have no idea where this comes from, and how I managed to exempt myself from the scrutiny. I have tried to unlearn this affliction, but it sneaks up behind me all too unexpectedly.

3: I like to be paid attention...
I dislike being invisible. My ego demands fame/infamy on any scale whatsoever, but I hope I keep this much more under control. I think I do so, in public at least. However, beware alcoholic lubrication. This is why I like acting, it is an excuse for public exhibition and the adrenaline rush is better than chocolate etc. etc. I think it was another reason to blog: another opportunity to be noticed.

4: I have embarrassing musical tastes...
I do like some "socially acceptable" music. I can't think of much though. Think Abba, which at least proves the Australian in me. 'Nough said. Just re-read that header and have visions of a choir of taste buds, with the sweet singing soprano and so forth. 

5: I am naturally pessimistic...
Certainly if the last four are anything to go by. I measure my achievements against others' and I frequently come out the lesser. Hence the snobbery, possibly. I have impossibly high standards and find it hard to compromise. This does not mix well with my sloth-like being. I would make a fabulous monarch, I just need my own nation. As these first five have invariably been negative, I shall attempt five positive notes about myself. Hmm.

6. I am kind...
Hopefully the majority would agree. It is perhaps a secular synonym for being Christian towards others. I think it is incredibly important to be kind to people. It is a lesson many seem to have lost, or perhaps they missed out on bedtime stories courtesy of Enid Blyton. Real kindness is so difficult to find, yet it is (usually) so appreciated. Small acts can make an enormous difference to people. I find that smiling, politeness and empathy can completely change the outcome of a horrid day. Naturally this need not erode the steeliness of the stiff-upper lip and nothing is more irritating than the perpetually happy chap we all avoid, but I think there is a space somewhere that more people could try to find.

7. I love the countryside...
London is a very oppressive place to be 365 days a year. I think it is the most wonderful city in the world and I have loved (very nearly) every minute of living here. But nothing beats the English countryside. In rain or shine, it is magical. The yearning for fresh air, fields and drinkable water is rather like seasickness, with the obvious difference excepted. Trudging over muddy fields in Wellington boots - bliss!

8. Snow...
I have mentioned the stuff before on here. To many, snow means miserable weather and inconvenience. All anathema to me. I love it wholly and absolutely. I become a toddler, filled with excitement and joy. It's cold! And white! And it's falling on me! Of course, as a toddler this is not actually articulated by words, merely a gabble of noises and giggles. But it must have been hilarious for all the onlooking Swedes.

9. I seek adventure...
I have been incredibly lucky in all my adventures thus far. Things happen, good and bad, but somehow, something has always come up. I don't necessarily crave jungles or desert islands, but exploring the unknown and discovering new destinations, people, foods are all things I truly enjoy. That said, I do have a low comfort threshold. Pickled herring or Västerbottenspaj is one thing, but fried cockroaches? I think not. Ditto walks on the moors versus climbing Mont Blanc.

10. I am not afraid to be myself...
One thing that has struck me is how many people have said they like me because of this. Particularly in Sweden. Do they like "me" or do they just like this trait in others and wish they had it as well? Or both? Overall, I do like myself. I also care about how others perceive me. Which I then juxtapose by not caring so much about what others think. Perhaps I should be allowed to hold two contradictory ideas in my head... I'm not afraid to! I think moving to London has allowed me this freedom. There are infinite opportunities to meet people and equally to forget them. It's too exhausting to remember who one was on that particular day, when one met Whatshisname.

All the blogs on my list I have enjoyed at some stage or another, though I have sadly not kept so up-to-date with all of them. Here are some, an eclectic mix, I think:

Psynopsis
An intriguing mixture of fashion and health, Teutonic style.

Reality Strikes Back
One of my irritatingly brilliant peers. An ongoing story of his charity work in East African refugee camps. Did I mention he established the charity by himself?

Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast
Why stop at six? So this blogger says, and rightfully so. If you enjoy books, but wish you read more.

The Tea Appreciation Society
I love tea. So do they.

Go Fug Yourself
Because the voice in my head as I read makes me laugh out loud. I can be frivolous too!

Un Vieux Vélo
As a fellow city cycling enthusiast, I must recommend this one.

Miriam Levine
A wise poetess from across the pond.

Mrs Trefusis Takes A Taxi
An extra one, simply because I wouldn't have commenced writing in the first place without her.

Listlessly Listing

Opening my diary at random, I came directly to an entry labelled "Week of Action". Recognising my pretentious jargon, I tried to re-familiarise with the person who was writing at the time, to remember the difficulties he faced.

At this point, my role as an Au Pair could no longer continue, courtesy mainly of the credit crunch. As mine was a live-in position, this meant drastic change was afoot. My home for a year was to be no more. In many ways I knew this was a good thing. A year is a long time at twenty, and for some time I had thought about moving on. I had seen, done, learned so much, but perhaps it was right to finish at that point, before too much monotony set in. So the action required involved finding a new job and somewhere to live. Difficult enough to find one of these in a short space of time, but two... I do remember finding this enormously hard to juggle. I think a year of living and partying had left me with little reserves and therefore little breathing space. Most claustrophobic.

However other actions where required that week, too. Things were very busy at Drama School, with lots of words to learn for an upcoming performance. Committing words to memory is obviously an essential part of acting, but each time I would leave it dangerously late, and wonder how on earth I managed it the previous time. I expect I would tell myself to not think about it, but to do. The precedents probably left me over-confident, and I have often been concerned about my hubristic tendencies. With best intentions, I was attempting to get "ahead of the game", by learning those lines as soon as possible. I think I must just enjoy writing lists, because there was absolutely no possibility I would be prioritising words over accommodation. The very idea is laughable, but there it is, in the list. Writing lists makes one feel pro-active, productive, professional - just pro! However it does not; at least not in my case, translate into action and achievement. But the intentions are always there. Can one get through life by good intentions?

The final item on the list of action related to a fellow nanny. A stunning but sporadic friend from home, who came by an ostensibly good position with an upper-class family. I say sporadic because for months we would speak all the time, then suddenly for almost a year I would hear nothing. It was at the end of one of these nothing periods that she contacted me, and naturally I felt rather a friend of convenience. However when in a new country, one must take advantage of as many friends and contacts as one can. And in the course of the year, she and I became good friends once again. However, her behaviour one evening left me utterly appalled.

It was in early December, but already very cold. Her sister and some friends were visiting, and we arranged to all go out. As it was a Thursday, we chose Punk, where we had had many fun evenings over the course of the year, and thought it would be nice to share this with the outsiders. The evening started ferociously badly, as I was kept waiting for ages outside the tube station. I utterly hate being made to wait, and think it most discourteous. Obviously five, ten minutes is absolutely fine and to be expected in a city like London. But almost half an hour? I think not. And I made no secret of the fact I was in a poor mood, which in retrospect was rather graceless. Of course I don't think I was actually rude, just colder than usual. Quite literally. Then one of the friends insisted on finding the appropriate cash-point, for only one would do. Exasperated, I said I would meet them inside the club. Rather low on funds, I didn't want to miss the free entry threshold! Eventually they did find me, and we made full use of the happy hour. Such fun!

Punk is, or was, one of those rather fun and frivolous places. That night there was the usual dress-up box and also a hair stylist. Naturally I wanted to take full advantage of this facility, enjoying several style changes. The friends found me - or so I assumed - terribly amusing, which probably spurred me on. It was also a good excuse to leave a circle of chatter focussed on small-town gossip over cheap white wine. Most dull. I am of course always keen to catch up on news, but London quickly makes anything else very insignificant. When I go out, one of the things I love to do is dance, good music allowing. It certainly was that night, and I tried to encourage people in my group to join me. No deal, apparently. Bored of them, I went by myself and made some new friends, hopefully in a less twee manner. After some time, I went looking for my friends. Absolutely no sign inside. Nor were they outside, amongst the smokers. Unbelievably, they had left me by myself without even saying "good night". I was furious, and appalled. I chose not to think about it then, and returned to the people I met dancing. Much more fun and the night carried on much, much later.

Weeks passed before I heard anything from my friend, and I was so cross I completely ignored any contact from her. The series of events that this incident began have been some of my most memorable. In a strange way I am grateful for her unfair behaviour. But I was not brought up to do such things, and find it very difficult to forgive others for this reason. Again the middle-class demon rears his well-washed head. However I included her in this list of action, because her departure from London was imminent. I very nearly decided not to meet with her, but felt this would be petty. It would not punish her, but myself. So I did, and I am glad I did. We had a lovely evening and I was able to put my grievances behind me. I don't think I will ever be able to see her or the others in the same light I once did, but I harbour no resentment.

And of that week of action, I can quite clearly see that I did manage to achieve things. Perhaps not all of those things on the list, but then lists are dull.

No-One Expects A Spanish Inquisition

One of my guilty film pleasures would definitely be the Rom-Com genre, Brit-Rom-Coms in particular. I am sure I can in part thank my Father for this, the man who counts Notting Hill and Love Actually amongst his favourites. Our tastes diverge once the Westerns are reached, which is fine. In fact, I should probably be grateful as I usually used the television void for reading.

One of my favourites would have to be Sliding Doors. I think it is often overlooked as a film... Unsure in itself where it fits into the genre. For me it has everything: London, Gwyneth, Calvin Klein, a thought-provoking premise and an ending left for us to draw our own (hopefully happy) conclusions.

It is the premise that most fascinates me. The what-ifs of life can be all-consuming. The idea that the chance missing of a train/tube/bus/ plane/meeting/whatever could have such an impact upon one's life. The infinite copies of me who enjoyed better (or worse) fortunes than me throughout all the daily minutiae. I think it resonates particularly for Londoners. We all hurry, ignoring our fellow commuters (unless you're a potentially deranged Scot) rushing from A-B-C-A or worse.

Last night I had some very pleasant cheese and mulled wine at The Providores on Marylebone High Street, enjoying people-watching beneath the rather naff Christmas lights. We watched with bemused horror at rather hairy incidents of road rage (definitely not pursuing a career in taxi-cabs now), middle-aged, middle-class ladies falling off the kerb completely trolleyed and blatant attempts to ignore the polite queuing system.

Returning to Islington late in the evening led me to Bond Street station, where an infuriatingly inaccurate timetable board left me waiting amongst the vomiting (and probably worse) late-night passengers for far longer than tolerable. Finally, on the way to my connecting station, I knew I would be cutting it fine for the last Victoria Line tube.

Jumping out and navigating the jostling crowds, filthy looks from enormous, security-guard sized men, squeezing between people and the carriages and then a mad-dash though a labyrinth of tunnels amongst dozens of like-minded others. Breaking into a sprint up the stairs to the platform, there it was! The last train. And a seat too, so civilized. Of course I had to get through the closing doors first. Naturally it is not a wise idea, and is very bad for the trains apparently. Well-practised though, I sneaked through, only for the train to pull away from all the people who didn't quite make it.

It is quite iconic. The doors closing, and that very wicked sense of schadenfreude. Well possibly that is just me, but it certainly gave me something to ponder on the journey home (very unattractive passengers). What if I had missed it, how would I have got home, at what time would I have finally made it, would any good come of it, or something bad? The same for the journey I actually made, would I discover something awful, be mugged, lose my keys... Infinite possibilities for mayhem!

Thankfully, I returned safe and sound and even had a brief chat with my youngest brother. But one never really knows what will or will not be, which is - for me at least - a huge part of the joy. And the infinite possibilities this city possesses. Good AND Bad, but always exciting.

God Jul!

Or how one says Happy Christmas in Sweden.

I know it is 6 weeks early, but I am spending Christmas with my friend in Umeå, north Sweden. She has just posted a picture (albeit of miserable quality) of the snow, now beginning to settle. Having grown up in a Mediterranean climate, snow is something psychological. A childhood of hot Christmases... the clash between the carols, the decorations and the story of the birth of the Lord himself, with the reality of opening presents in 40 degree heat. I am convinced it is somehow damaging. My younger brother has never even seen the stuff in the flesh - nothing wrong with that, of course, but I do rather feel he is left out.

And of course snow has many downfalls. London in February after two days of snow is a good example. But that night of the first of February 2009, there was some wizardry about. Something very enchanting about this great city being silenced by a white down. A childlike instinct led me outside to Fitzroy Square, and what a sight. Cries of joy, snowballs, armies of snowmen, friends and complete strangers together being playful and having fun. I hadn't been so touched for some time. Naturally I joined in the revelry and made some fabulous friends. One of whom had the most adorable lisp. Was the lisp the highlight or the snow? Who knows.


At any rate, I eagerly anticipate the ice skating, skiing and snow mobiling of a Swedish Christmas. Hejdå!