Googlemas

A happy and safe Christmas to you all. Especially to Google for using kangaroos in their holiday icon today. Be safe.

Because I am a proud Australian

Q. What do Geraint Jones and Michael Jackson have in common?
A. They both wear gloves for no apparent reason

Astoundingly original and imaginative content

Because that's what you come here for, right? I aim to please.

Christmas meme

1. Hot Chocolate or Egg Nog?
Egg nog, but only at Christmas. Gingerbread lattes are preferable.

2. Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree?
Well, he doesn’t usually wrap bicycles.

3. Coloured lights on tree/house or white?
White. Small.

4. Do you hang mistletoe?
No, kisses aren’t in short supply in our house.

5. When do you put your decorations up?
Well, I wasn’t going to at all this year, but put up our tiny tree on Sunday.

6. What is your favourite Christmas dish?
Roast chicken. But since moving to the UK I have become very partial to mince pies.

7. Favourite Christmas memory?
Sitting around my aunt’s huge country table on their verandah, with the whole extended family, when I was a kid in Australia. The food was endless and the presents were fantastic.

8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa?
When I was watching an episode of The Sullivans with my mum at the age of about 12, and two of the adult characters were saying how sad it was that Santa wouldn’t be coming to little Johnny that year. I asked mum why not. We were staying on the Sunshine Coast and she took me for a walk on the beach to explain. I was devastated, and fiercely determined that none of my younger siblings would find out. Actually…. if we were staying at the Sunshine Coast it was probably just before Christmas – what a nightmare time to find out!

9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve?
No.

10. How do you decorate your Christmas Tree?
I’ve tried to start a tradition of buying one special ornament each year, and I have a couple of ornaments my nephew has given me, but we also have garish tinsel. It’s a cheerful tree.

11. Snow! Love it or dread it?
I wish we would have a white Christmas in London. Snow is still a novelty to me and the only time London looks clean (until people start walking in it).

12.Can you ice skate?
Never tried. My balance is not great so it’s probably just as well.

13. Do you remember your favourite gift?
One year the poet gave me a handmade book of all the poems he’d written for me. It must be time for an updated version! Of course, I think I was more excited the year Santa brought me a Barbie Townhouse, or maybe the Barbie Campervan… or the Barbie Beauty Salon. Those tiny curlers were so cute.

14. What’s the most important thing?
Kindness, and sparing a thought for the original Christmas and those less fortunate.

15. What is your favourite Christmas Dessert?
I hate Christmas pudding. Is there anything else?

16. What is your favourite Christmas tradition?
After Christmas Eve mass, my parents would gather us all around the piano to sing Christmas carols and hymns. I miss that.

17. What tops your tree?
A beautiful red, glittery and feathered bird I bought in Brisbane last year.

18. Which do you prefer: giving or receiving?
Giving is fun. Getting is also fun.

19. What is your favourite Christmas Song?
O Little Town of Bethlehem

20. Candy canes, yuck or yum?
Too sweet!

Gingerly

Apologies for the lack of posts. I've been busy making gingerbread people.

This fellow was an experiment using some linseed/sunflower seed/almond meal mix in the standard recipe and he and his cohort are a resounding if fattening success! Strangely good with Stilton.

And so it ends

Yesterday was a great day, more about that later

Last post for NaBloPoMo and it's a cop-out picture post, with thanks to our livingroom window sill.

Every November these plants excel themselves and shamefully I have no idea what they're called. Winter flowers are always so unexpected, and so very appreciated.

Happy Booffitaire*

Today is the poet's birthday. Today is the day he reasserts his 12-years-older-than-me-ness, after 48 days of being only 11 years older. I'm sure he's very relieved. That's far more exciting than presents.

Curiously, the number of poems in the collection he has just finished is the same as the age he will be tomorrow.

I've taken the day off work and we're heading into central London for a day of hopefully happy and cultured activities befitting a poet and his wife. First off we're going to hit the half price ticket booth in Leicester Square, to see if there's any chance of a cheap matinee musical - Les Miserables is his preference - then it's time for lunch. After lunch, If the musical doesn't pan out, we'll make our way to the National Gallery for the Velasquez exhibition. Then I'm sure we'll be hungry again, by which time we can walk over to the South Bank for dinner and Waves, a multimedia production based around Virginia Woolf's 'The Waves'.

I've taken Thursday off too. After all that culture I may need to sleep in.

Happy Booffitaire, my poet!

* 'booffitaire' = birthday, courtesy of the poet's mum's Italian accent.

Spit on this

Why do people spit on the street? Never in Australia, except maybe for a random teenage boy trying to look tough, have I seen people spitting on the streets the way they do in London. I am beyond disgusted by this.

Today, within the space of a minute, on a small side street in Camden Town, I was graced with the presence of not one but two spitters. Thankfully only one was preceded by a loud, drawn-out and juicy hawking. It took all my presence of mind not to grab the spitting idiots and promise that I would hunt them down when the flu pandemic hits because they will be guilty of malicious infection-spreading behaviour, and I hope you don't have TB because that's a really nice thing to spread too. Ok, I'm too much of a wuss to actually do it, and I'm probably just making the flu and TB things up because I'm so grossed out, but I want to every time.

Apparently this is not unusual in some Asian cities. Years ago a friend visited Hong Kong and, as well as the spitting, was stunned to see a business-suited gent lean over and calmly vomit into the gutter on his way to work. At least he used the gutter. I don't know whether to be proud or ashamed that while camping on Moreton Island in the 90's, I made my drunken stumbling way to our hole-in-the-ground toilet before I threw up. The brown snake killed not far from that spot the next day was not a happy surprise.

But I digress. Spitting is one area where the internet cannot possibly annoy me as much as real life. Internet people may use the word cliche incorrectly. They don't spray their slimy bodily fluids, accompanied by disgusting noises, over the places I want to walk.

Day 27 and counting

Blog fatigue is setting in.

This is slightly late for Thanksgiving, but I am so thankful we do not have a television right now, because every year around this time my ire is significantly raised by all the newspaper and magazine, not to mention radio, coverage of I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here. Blah blah z-list celebrities blah blah witchetty grub smoothies blah blah insects blah blah ooh! a snake! blah blah jungle. Excuse me? Jungle? What jungle?

In Australia, in terms of treed spaces we have the bush, and we have the rainforest. We also have the black stump, but that's a story for another day. We have scrub. We have national forests. What is this 'jungle'? We have no jungle in Australia*. I guess to the poor little British celebs anything that doesn't come enclosed by garden walls is pretty scary and may seem jungle-like, but come on, Jason Donovan is in there this year. I know he's no Aussie pin up (anymore), but doesn't he have the balls to stand up and say, 'NO, Ant and Dec, you freaky freaksters, as an Australian I know not of this jungle you are forever mentioning. We are in the bush, dudes!'

Imagine how annoyed I'd be if I actually watched the show.

* I don't care what the actual definition of a jungle is and whether it matches the Australian environment in which this show is filmed. All I know is that I have never ever heard an Australian describe any part of Australia as jungle.

Web writing nag number 1

People, you cannot say that something is ‘cliché’. Cliché is a noun. Either say that it is ‘a cliché’, or that it is ‘clichéd’.
I thank you.

Blog to die for

http://cupcakeblog.com/

With photography to match. Yum!

Un-PC

I get a completely inappropriate buzz from writing notes on post-its emblazoned with the name of an antipsychotic.

The Hello Project

My hometown is Brisbane, the capital city of Queensland, Australia. Also known as Brisvegas, Brisboring and Brisneyland. When I worked in advertising in Brisbane, colleagues from the ‘big smokes’ of Sydney and Melbourne would sometimes comment that it was more like a big country town than a city. Certainly from the vantage point of having lived in London for 8.5 years, I can see their point. We have skyscrapers and busy streets in Brisbane, but the ambience is not that of a big city. Thank goodness.

One of the things I love about Brisbane is that people say hello to and smile at strangers. Not just in the suburbs, but in the heart of the CBD too. Not all the time and not everywhere, but it happens. It’s one of the things I miss most about home – the friendliness. I really enjoy walking through the streets of the centre of town and smiling and saying hello to random people, it gives me a real buzz and makes me feel connected. Maybe if I lived in a small community like a village in the UK it might be similar, but the big city vibe of London is certainly not friendly, and rather isolationist.

Which is why I started to say hello to strangers here, on the streets of North London (even I’m not masochistic enough to try it on Oxford Street, on the rare occasions I venture into that hellhole). I’ve had many and varied reactions – from surprise, a quick smile and muttered ‘hello’, through complete shock and a look of disgust, to blank looks and being completely ignored. I invariably walk away with a broad smile – sometimes because of the look on the face of the person I’ve just so completely discombobulated, other times because they’ve responded in kind. I persevere, if only because it amuses me to make some people realise that the figures passing them on the street are real live human beings who might (shock!) actually want to interact with them.

Hence the Hello Project. My most successful venture so far has been saying hello to a little old guy I used to see almost every weekday morning on the way to the train station. He’d be coming back from the corner shop with his newspaper, and I’d be walking to catch the train for work. That first morning, just before he passed me, I said ‘hello’ and smiled. He was completely taken aback and kind of choked, staring at me. I smiled to myself and kept walking. The next morning, I did it again, and he tentatively murmured ‘hello’. I kept at it for weeks, occasionally using the rather more British ‘good morning’, and before long I could see him registering my presence from the end of the street: he straightened up and a little bounce came into his step. He would say ‘hello’ cheerfully with a big smile in response to my greeting, and we would both continue with our day, at least one of us (me) heartened by our contact. I haven’t seen him for over a year now, and I miss our ‘hello’s’.

The poet and I are so close to booking our flights to Australia for 2007. I can’t wait to be back in the land where not one person gives you a dirty look for smiling at them.

Perks

One of the perks of being married to a poet is getting to work and finding in my bag a framed poem, written to me while I lay sleeping early this morning.

Autonono

What is it with the rash of relative youngsters writing ‘autobiographies’? I’m 36, and while I may not be a celebrity or have a jetsetting life, I know that it would be a rare person my age who could write a decent autobiography. Even someone who’s been kept hostage by aliens in a cave for 5 years - that could be a good book, but it wouldn’t necessarily be an autobiography.

We have the likes of Billie Piper, Jordan and Kerry Katona, none of whom has reached the ripe old age of 30, cluttering up the bookstores with their 'autobiographies' while I can imagine there are scores of older, better writers who are hard pressed to get their work published. David Beckham, Jade Goody and Gary Barlow - what exactly am I meant to take away from their recounting of their lives so far? And that's just the UK. Damn this celebrity-obsessed culture, and a publishing world dictated by marketing.

The best autobiographies I've read were written by those in their 60’s, 70’s, 80’s or older. In my opinion, Sharon Osbourne should have waited another 20 years, although I'm sure her book is entertaining. I want to read books by people who have actually lived, have seen the world change, have maybe had children, grandchildren, changed careers…. People who have had the time to look back and reflect on their life, not just write a retrospective diary. Or, even better, have it ghost-written. And yet Wayne bloody Rooney gets £5 million for a five-book deal. He’s, what, 21?

So, youngish celebrities, listen up. If you must share your stories, and the tabloid mags won’t interview you often enough, write a blog. Charge for it if money is an incentive – your fans will pay. You’ll save so many trees and with all that writing practice you might even write a decent autobiography in 50 years time.

I'll let Lucie Cave, ghostwriter of Jade Goody's book, have the (almost) last word:

All of these people who emerge from shows like Big Brother now know just how much they can sell their first interview for. They're far more clued-up than ever before. The celebrity autobiography is a natural extension of that. It's become the must-have accessory for anyone who's reached a certain level of fame.

Maybe that's my gripe. I don't want to read an accessory.

Day Twenty

I guess if I had done Nanowrimo, I might have 2/3 of a novel sitting in front of me right now. 2/3 of a very bad and completely unpublishable novel, that is. At least my blog amuses me.

Read this article in the Guardian yesterday. I find it hard to believe (but also strangely plausible) that in some parts of child-soccer-playing America, parents and coaches are not allowed to keep score. Nobody wins or loses.

There's also a school district where, in gym class, the children are jumping rope for exercise - but without a rope. They don't want the kids who trip over the rope to feel bad and lose precious self-esteem. By removing the actual rope, kids can simply pretend to jump rope, and no kid gets embarrassed.

Or every kid gets embarrassed.

Dweck found that in America, 85% of parents think that telling your kids "you're so smart" was an important thing to say and did it daily. Unwittingly, they were depriving their children of what really mattered - the conviction that an industrious work ethic will bring them success. Confidence might breed success, but artificial confidence doesn't. It actually lowers ambition.

Of course if every kid in the class gets a gold star, gold stars won't mean anything. And no one is going to feel good about themselves for getting a gold star, not even the kids who have done well. In fact, the kid with the best self esteem in that class might just be the one who got the smiley face sticker when the teacher (omg disaster!) ran out of gold stars. Because she's obviously special. Right? Smiley stickers will be coveted.

How can people start out with the best intentions and get it so wrong? I've been reading this excellent book and I really like the author's take on how we've gone wrong with self-esteem.

Our schools today are full of ... programs that reward kids with everything from gold stars on up for what are really minor or insignificant achievements. Today's parents are cautioned not to be critical of their children under any circumstances; the message is that unconditional love and acceptance build self-esteem. But the flaw in this logic is obvious. True self-esteem requires an accurate appraisal of one's own abilities in comparison to those of others. With a healthy sense of self, you can accept your weaknesses... There are real differences in abilities, which are rewarded differentially by life. Unconditional acceptance seeks to deny those differences and build a phony self-esteem, vulnerable to puncture by life's experiences. (Richard O'Connor, Ph.D.)

Praise our kids, yes. But don't praise them for every little thing and for everything equally so that they never learn the value of their efforts.

From the Guardian article again:

Generation Zero was raised in this culture, with Dr Frankenstein's results. Case in point: today, 94% of high school seniors believe they are going to college. That's their plan, their ambition. But only 63% of them will actually enrol. That gap between their plan and reality has never been wider. And 64% believe they will have a career as a "working professional," when just less than 20% will.

They've been given inflated ambitions, without being taught the necessity of effort. They are unequipped to respond to failure.

Phew, I've never been so glad to be a Generation Xer. My self-esteem might be a little low at times, but it's mostly realistic.

Ever been given the evil eye by a goldfish? Me neither, until today.

I swear I fed him as usual.

Autumn days

Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.
(Albert Camus)

10 things about me

(From a meme from Adri)

1) I adore stationery shops, expecially the ones with art supplies and myriad colours and textures of paper. I could spend hours, and thousands of pounds, in a good one.

2) I am irritated by and feel sad for people who spend their entire journey on public transport glued to their mobile phones. Serial callers who hang up from one call and immediately dial someone else, as though they cannot bear to be alone (or in public) in silence. I don't have a mobile phone, it would interrupt my reading.

3) The best mobile phone ringtone I have ever heard was the very realistic croaking of a frog. I was sure that guy was going to pull a frog out of his bag.

4) I don't pay enough notice to expiration and best before dates. The poet, however, will hunt for the latest date, but this is not about him.

5) I am perturbed by the fact that we only have one original copy of our marriage certificate. I envision scenes at Heathrow Customs, desperately trying to prove that I am married to a British citizen and entitled to live here, even if they took back my indefinite leave to remain visa.

6) I have a hot water bottle at work. I also used to keep one at work in Brisbane, where the semi-tropical climate made me look a real weirdo.

7) I've only been drunk on gin once and I will never touch the stuff again. Too many tears.

8) I started adding raw garlic slices to my sandwiches a couple of weeks ago to combat a nagging cold. Now I can't stop. Sandwiches taste too bland without it.

9) I don't suffer martyrs gladly.

10) I loved calculus at school. Now all I remember is enough to help me work out exchange rates.

Call me Germaine *

Apparently I have a limp.

One of the girls at work today asked me if my leg was hurting, because she noticed me limping. My leg wasn't hurting, and I didn't know I was limping**, although come to think of it, my thighs felt rather tight. In a not-good way as opposed to lean, toned thighs. I think I used to have some of those.

But then I am the queen of tight muscles - the muscles in the side of my calves are so tight that I can sprain a ligament in my foot just by stretching it the wrong way. Go me! I discovered this a couple of weeks ago after my foot felt a bit funny and 'stuck' one afternoon, and gradually became more and more painful until I couldn't walk on it and almost fainted in the Indian takeaway after I limped there in search of spicy comfort. (Curry, in case you were wondering. As opposed to Asian porn.) One emergency trip to the osteopath that night (thanks to my brother-in-law for driving me), the pain diminishing even in the waiting room, a diagnosis of slightly sprained ligaments***, and by the next morning I could walk again. This was a bonus as the previous night I had resorted to crawling up the stairs and coming down them on my bottom. I had hoped to not have to do that at work.

So, limping. Another friend at work asked me some time ago whether I was limping one day as we walked somewhere together. I hadn't been aware of it, but I sure am now.

Anyway, here's hoping it's only slight, otherwise how have I got to the age of 36 without anyone telling me I have a limp?!

* Germaine Greer has a limp. But then I wouldn't have noticed, considering I didn't even know I have one.

** Limp is a very strange word/part of a word. Especially when it's used as many times as I have used it in this post. Do you get that with words - look at the same word often enough in a short period of time and it just looks all wrong?

*** This year has seen me injure my feet an incredible 4 times. Two 'broken' toes (didn't have xrays but medical opinion seemed to think so), one badly sprained ligament that didn't heal for about 10 weeks (caused by stubbing my toe! wtf?) and now this latest fleeting sprain. Which hurt like hell and had me whimpering and clutching at my foot when I wasn't crawling home from the Indian takeaway. It wasn't agony, like the ovarian cyst pain I've had, but it was intense. And then it wasn't.

I need to work on relaxing my calves to help with the ligament issues, but apart from incredibly painful massage, there seem to be no exercises that really stretch those muscles. Any ideas?