Australia, like the rest of the world (or at least the countries directly involved), is full of news of Delhi’s bungled preparations for the Commonwealth Games. Every day there seems to be a new disaster to befall the Games, whether it’s a venue roof or footbridge collapsing, filthy rooms in the athlete’s village, or terrorism threats. All in all, it’s not looking great and a few Aussie competitors have even bowed out, believing it not safe to compete. Security has been a massive issue and, considering the very real threat of a terrorist attack, that is something that should be paramount. However, a few days ago an Australian journalist managed to walk into the main stadium with a suitcase full of detonators completely unchecked. When the journalist confronted a security guard and asked him if this would happen when the Games had started, he laughed. It’s good to know that they’re taking the possibility of serious, life-threatening attacks seriously.
So, what to do in such a situation, when even the security guards seem to be pretty useless? There is one obvious solution, at least to Delhi’s Games Officials - bring out the super monkeys! Of course. These large monkeys have been brought in to chase away smaller monkeys from venues where they have been a nuisance. Apparently, monkeys are a real problem in Delhi and are a common sight everywhere, running amok in government buildings, hospitals and prisons. The Deputy Mayor of Delhi fell to his death in 2007 after being attacked by a group of monkeys on the terrace of his home. Delhi really can’t catch a break can it? The majority of the super monkeys will be deployed outside the boxing and hockey stadiums (seen as the most vulnerable to monkey attacks, though I’m not sure why – perhaps monkeys really don’t like boxing and hockey), with two in reserve ‘in case of an emergency’. It’s good to know that their emergency plans include the deployment of two monkeys. Bring out the big guns, it’s time to let the monkeys loose!
They have monumentally cocked up so far but I do feel sorry for Delhi, and India as a whole. As the Beijing Olympics in 2008 was a display of China’s new-found global dominance to the world, so was the Commonwealth Games supposed to be an example of India’s shining light. At the moment, the reverse seems to be happening. Quite frankly, the whole thing is one big embarrassment. The Indian media has dubbed them the ‘shame games’. Perhaps, as the officials are promising, it will all come together at the last minute. At least they’ve got the super monkeys - nothing could possibly go wrong with those flying crusaders at the ready, right?
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Are You For Real Estate?!
The Mother has sent me a clipping from a recent issue of Hong Kong’s biggest English-language newspaper, The South China Morning Post. It is an article detailing the housing shortage gripping the Pilbara, and the astronomical prices of houses as a result. It made me laugh, not because this isn’t a very real issue because it is. As the article reports, the median house price in Karratha is a whopping AU$775,000, 49 percent more than Sydney’s. If you want to rent a four-bedroom home here, you’re looking at AU$10,000 a month – that’s triple the average apartment rent in Manhattan. It’s absolutely ridiculous and completely unaffordable by anyone who’s not making a mint in mining or oil and gas. The crazy living costs, which don’t just end at house prices – you pay an arm and a leg for food and entertainment too – make it very difficult for those in the services sector to live here. Some end up having to ‘hot-bed’, renting a bed which is taken by someone else as soon as they get up.
No, that’s not what I find funny except in a crazy, surrealist sort of way. What made me laugh out loud is the way the journalist of this article described Karratha, as a ‘fly-ridden, cyclone-prone outpost’. I’m sure the tourism board and council would have been happy about that. Come and visit Karratha, you’ll love it as long as you have a passion for flies and cyclones. WA’s government acknowledges there’s a severe problem regarding the dichotomy which exists between the workers needed to sustain this resources boom (which accounts for a great deal of the money being generated in the state) and the lack of housing able to accommodate them. That is where the new ‘Pilbara Cities’ scheme comes into place. Western Australia Premier Colin Barnett is planning to transform the Pilbara’s hubs into sustainable cities, places where people move to permanently, who live here rather than just work and wait to go back to their real homes. Money is being poured into the scheme, which plans to build extensive facilities such as shopping centres, cinemas, restaurants and marinas, as well as affordable housing, in the hope of attracting 50,000 people to places like Karratha by 2035. Clearly, they’ve got a long way to go. Who would want to live in a ‘fly-ridden, cyclone-prone outpost’? With a reputation like that, the government will never manage to encourage skilled workers and their families to up sticks and make a life for themselves in Karratha. They need to change hearts and minds. And perhaps invent some sort of widespread fly eliminator.
No, that’s not what I find funny except in a crazy, surrealist sort of way. What made me laugh out loud is the way the journalist of this article described Karratha, as a ‘fly-ridden, cyclone-prone outpost’. I’m sure the tourism board and council would have been happy about that. Come and visit Karratha, you’ll love it as long as you have a passion for flies and cyclones. WA’s government acknowledges there’s a severe problem regarding the dichotomy which exists between the workers needed to sustain this resources boom (which accounts for a great deal of the money being generated in the state) and the lack of housing able to accommodate them. That is where the new ‘Pilbara Cities’ scheme comes into place. Western Australia Premier Colin Barnett is planning to transform the Pilbara’s hubs into sustainable cities, places where people move to permanently, who live here rather than just work and wait to go back to their real homes. Money is being poured into the scheme, which plans to build extensive facilities such as shopping centres, cinemas, restaurants and marinas, as well as affordable housing, in the hope of attracting 50,000 people to places like Karratha by 2035. Clearly, they’ve got a long way to go. Who would want to live in a ‘fly-ridden, cyclone-prone outpost’? With a reputation like that, the government will never manage to encourage skilled workers and their families to up sticks and make a life for themselves in Karratha. They need to change hearts and minds. And perhaps invent some sort of widespread fly eliminator.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
The Best Show On Earth
Last year I spent my birthday in Pattaya doing a bit of shopping and having an aromatherapy massage, the year before that I was viewing the English capital city from the London Eye, but nothing could top this year. I thought that my birthday in 2010 would be a wash-out as, after all, there is not a great deal to do in outback Australia – no city to explore, no amazing shops, no luxury spas, no museums. But what Karratha lacks in urban entertainment, it certainly makes up for in entertainment provided free of charge by nature and we were given an exclusive show at the beach on my birthday this year.
The first act was Ray, a red-edged stingray swimming steadily up the beach in the shallows, keeping to the shoreline to ensure we had the best view. How very kind of him. His dark, phantom-like shape gracefully glided along in a perfectly straight line. Ray was followed by The Dancing Dolphins, who put on a great show. The breaching dolphins leapt into the air, seeming to hover for a few seconds before diving back down into the sea, only to re-appear and do it all again. They effortlessly jumped straight up, curving their bodies as they flew, re-entering the water with barely a splash. It was a beautiful thing to watch and it felt like they were doing it just for us. This was better than anything I’ve ever seen at a sea-life centre and knowing that they hadn’t been trained, that they are free and happy, made it all the sweeter. We felt like the privileged few to have been granted a private viewing.
The third act to take centre stage was a rather playful turtle, who swam around in the shallows near the rocks, which seemed to house an abundance of food for him. He was rather pre-occupied with stuffing his face but every now and again he would stick his little head up out of the water, look around and then dive back under. He seemed to forget that he was performing to a crowd – I think his manager needs to have words with him. Later in the day, as the tide was rapidly receding, leaving rock pools in its wake, we spotted a small red octopus. Or rather, we were spat at by a small red, decidedly grumpy octopus. A reluctant performer perhaps – he certainly had an attitude problem. Maybe he was just working the emo look. Any time we got in any way close to him, he’d spit water at us, I assume to warn us away. A small guy trying to act tough.
On top of the main acts we were also treated to performances by pelicans, small fish, and an assortment of coastal birds. We paid nothing to see this live sea-life show and it was the best I’ve ever been too. Despite my doubts, Karratha served up a truly first-class birthday.
The first act was Ray, a red-edged stingray swimming steadily up the beach in the shallows, keeping to the shoreline to ensure we had the best view. How very kind of him. His dark, phantom-like shape gracefully glided along in a perfectly straight line. Ray was followed by The Dancing Dolphins, who put on a great show. The breaching dolphins leapt into the air, seeming to hover for a few seconds before diving back down into the sea, only to re-appear and do it all again. They effortlessly jumped straight up, curving their bodies as they flew, re-entering the water with barely a splash. It was a beautiful thing to watch and it felt like they were doing it just for us. This was better than anything I’ve ever seen at a sea-life centre and knowing that they hadn’t been trained, that they are free and happy, made it all the sweeter. We felt like the privileged few to have been granted a private viewing.
The third act to take centre stage was a rather playful turtle, who swam around in the shallows near the rocks, which seemed to house an abundance of food for him. He was rather pre-occupied with stuffing his face but every now and again he would stick his little head up out of the water, look around and then dive back under. He seemed to forget that he was performing to a crowd – I think his manager needs to have words with him. Later in the day, as the tide was rapidly receding, leaving rock pools in its wake, we spotted a small red octopus. Or rather, we were spat at by a small red, decidedly grumpy octopus. A reluctant performer perhaps – he certainly had an attitude problem. Maybe he was just working the emo look. Any time we got in any way close to him, he’d spit water at us, I assume to warn us away. A small guy trying to act tough.
On top of the main acts we were also treated to performances by pelicans, small fish, and an assortment of coastal birds. We paid nothing to see this live sea-life show and it was the best I’ve ever been too. Despite my doubts, Karratha served up a truly first-class birthday.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Summertime Blues
I have today learnt a couple of valuable lessons that will help me segue into life in summertime Karratha.
1)Never open your mouth when running, even to breathe. It is an incontrovertible fact that you will swallow at least one fly and probably more. You must master the technique of breathing in and out through your nose only if you don’t want to be like that old lady. You know, the one who swallowed a fly. Hopefully I won’t die. But then I won’t be swallowing a horse.
2)Always bring water with you when you go for a run, even if it is 5pm and you’re only running for 20 minutes. It is still only spring here and it is hot. It is very, very hot. 36 degrees centigrade today. Thank God for air-conditioning. Unfortunately, that only works at home and not while you’re running outside. Water is essential to ensure you don’t collapse in a heap by the side of the road.
I am sure I will learn further lessons, all the hard way, in the next few months. Summer in Karratha is going to be tough but with air-conditioning, ice cream and chilled white wine I am sure I will get through it. I’m not sure how much longer I will be able to run outdoors though. Jane Fonda might once again become my friend.
1)Never open your mouth when running, even to breathe. It is an incontrovertible fact that you will swallow at least one fly and probably more. You must master the technique of breathing in and out through your nose only if you don’t want to be like that old lady. You know, the one who swallowed a fly. Hopefully I won’t die. But then I won’t be swallowing a horse.
2)Always bring water with you when you go for a run, even if it is 5pm and you’re only running for 20 minutes. It is still only spring here and it is hot. It is very, very hot. 36 degrees centigrade today. Thank God for air-conditioning. Unfortunately, that only works at home and not while you’re running outside. Water is essential to ensure you don’t collapse in a heap by the side of the road.
I am sure I will learn further lessons, all the hard way, in the next few months. Summer in Karratha is going to be tough but with air-conditioning, ice cream and chilled white wine I am sure I will get through it. I’m not sure how much longer I will be able to run outdoors though. Jane Fonda might once again become my friend.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Free and (not so) Easy
It turns out that being a freelance writer is hard work. When I was in PR, chained to my desk in a stuffy office, having to deal with pushy journalists, hundreds of phone calls and getting called in to meetings, I thought freelancers had it all. They didn’t have a boss to answer to, they didn’t have to prove how successful they had been over the past month to senior management, they didn’t have to get up at an ungodly hour, dress in a suit and travel an hour on the train to get to work. I longed to be a freelancer and, more than anything, I longed to write for a living. I didn’t want to have to beg journalists to include our products in their magazines anymore, feeding their egos and treating them to drinks, lunches, treatments – I wanted to be the one who’s ego is fed, who is taken out and fawned over. I wanted to be the one who held the power of the press in my hands and who is sent products and asked to experience spa treatments. But more than anything, I wanted to write and only write, to be able to sit in front of a computer all day and tap away at my keyboard, happily playing with beautiful words, crafting them into articles and features. I wanted to be able to get up when I wanted, to throw on some comfy clothes and work wherever it suited me – on the kitchen table, in the garden on a sunny day, in a coffee shop, even in bed if that’s what I felt like. I wanted to be answerable to no-one but myself and the publications I wrote for. I wanted to be able to only write what I was passionate about, to work on projects that I thought were fun and exciting. I wanted the freedom of being my own boss without the massive overheads and crippling responsibility of owning and running a fully-fledged business. I’ve wanted all this for years and now, finally, I am a freelance writer and journalist. I’m getting paid to write - how great is that?
But – and here is the big but – it isn’t quite the nirvana I thought it would be. It involves a lot of hard graft, especially at the start. You’re working for yourself now, you don’t automatically get paid no matter what. You can’t always just leave it ‘till tomorrow or Monday. If you want to get paid, and get asked to work again, you have to deliver amazing results and on deadline. I have been working twelve hour days, six days a week, and freelance writing does not pay mega-bucks so you struggle on and still have to check for discounts at the supermarket. Oh, and something else nobody told me, you can’t just pick and choose cushy jobs, especially not at the start – you won’t get offered the fun, exciting, glamorous, headline-grabbing stuff for years, if you ever do. At the beginning you need to take whatever is offered to you, you need to establish a good reputation for quality work, you need contacts and you need experience.
But –and here is the bigger but – it is all completely worth it. One hundred percent. I love writing, some types more than others, but any writing is better than some of the corporate stuff I used to have to do. And working for myself is a revelation – yes, it’s hard work and yes, you have to have immense self-discipline but the satisfaction and self-pride you get when you’re even offered job, let alone when you complete a job well and get paid for it, is worth it all.
But – and here is the big but – it isn’t quite the nirvana I thought it would be. It involves a lot of hard graft, especially at the start. You’re working for yourself now, you don’t automatically get paid no matter what. You can’t always just leave it ‘till tomorrow or Monday. If you want to get paid, and get asked to work again, you have to deliver amazing results and on deadline. I have been working twelve hour days, six days a week, and freelance writing does not pay mega-bucks so you struggle on and still have to check for discounts at the supermarket. Oh, and something else nobody told me, you can’t just pick and choose cushy jobs, especially not at the start – you won’t get offered the fun, exciting, glamorous, headline-grabbing stuff for years, if you ever do. At the beginning you need to take whatever is offered to you, you need to establish a good reputation for quality work, you need contacts and you need experience.
But –and here is the bigger but – it is all completely worth it. One hundred percent. I love writing, some types more than others, but any writing is better than some of the corporate stuff I used to have to do. And working for myself is a revelation – yes, it’s hard work and yes, you have to have immense self-discipline but the satisfaction and self-pride you get when you’re even offered job, let alone when you complete a job well and get paid for it, is worth it all.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Friends With (Political) Benefits?
So it seems that Kevin Rudd’s settling in nicely to his new role as Foreign Minister. He’s done pretty well out of all this really – Julia Gillard may have unceremoniously kicked him out the back door but he’s having the last laugh. She gets to deal with all the headaches of being Prime Minister which, at the moment is centred around the controversial and deeply divisive issues of the mining super-tax, asylum seekers and climate change measures, while he gets to jet off around the globe, meeting foreign dignitaries and having a lovely time. Most recently, he visited the United States where he met with both Hilary Clinton and Barack Obama. Tony Blair may have had a ‘special relationship’ with George Bush but Kevin Rudd seems to have a very special relationship with Hilary Clinton.
Hil and Kev bantered like a couple of flirtatious teenagers at the press conference they held. After gushing that “I feel very much as if I am here among old friends, we’ve known each other for a long time and I look forward very much to working with you,” Rudd revealed, with a twinkle in his eye, that when Clinton visits Australia in November, “we intend to make it a very good time”. Clinton gave one of the dirtiest laughs I’ve ever heard, Rudd smiled knowingly and insisted that he meant it, “not in the sense that you all think.” Clinton was then quick to reply, “Oh I’m not so sure about that.” Wait, so he did mean that they’re going to have a good time in that way?! It sounds like Hilary’s going to give her husband a taste of his own medicine! “We’re a hospitable people,” Rudd explained. Very hospitable apparently. Good on him, he deserves a bit of fun after the year he’s had!
Hil and Kev bantered like a couple of flirtatious teenagers at the press conference they held. After gushing that “I feel very much as if I am here among old friends, we’ve known each other for a long time and I look forward very much to working with you,” Rudd revealed, with a twinkle in his eye, that when Clinton visits Australia in November, “we intend to make it a very good time”. Clinton gave one of the dirtiest laughs I’ve ever heard, Rudd smiled knowingly and insisted that he meant it, “not in the sense that you all think.” Clinton was then quick to reply, “Oh I’m not so sure about that.” Wait, so he did mean that they’re going to have a good time in that way?! It sounds like Hilary’s going to give her husband a taste of his own medicine! “We’re a hospitable people,” Rudd explained. Very hospitable apparently. Good on him, he deserves a bit of fun after the year he’s had!
Friday, September 17, 2010
The 'O's Taking Over Australia
Want to know what the biggest news in Australia has been this week? You may be thinking that the American hiker freed from jail in Iran after more than a year made top news here. Or perhaps the evacuation of the Eiffel Tower following a bomb threat. You would be wrong. Not even the signing-in of Julia Gillard as Australia’s first elected female Prime minister was given much coverage. There have been just two stories making the headlines Down Under over the past few days. For a while, at the beginning of the week, all Australia could talk about on its news broadcasts, chat-shows, and current affairs programmes was the tenth anniversary of the Sydney Olympics. Yes, a sporting event that happened ten years ago was given precedence over globally important, breaking news stories. Hosting the Olympic Games is obviously a massive coup for a nation but, seriously, it was a decade ago. If I saw any more clips of Cathy Freeman crossing the line in her hooded unitard, I would have thrown something at the TV. And I quite like that TV. Then again, looking back to an event ten years ago is far more exciting than discussing the dreary and uninspiring election campaign which resulted in a load of politicians deciding (and... really... dragging... out... the... decision...)who was to lead the country anyway. Aha! I see what they’ve done there – good diversion tactic, Australia! Take all your citizens back to a time of national pride and celebration and hope that they forget about the longest, most drawn-out and down-right boring election ever to be held.
All talk of the Sydney Olympics was silenced mid-week as the country began to look forward to the most exciting thing to happen to it since that magical September ten years ago. Not since the height of Beatle-mania has a people been caught up in such mass hysteria. And all this because Oprah Winfrey is visiting. Oh my God, Oh my God, I think I’m gonna faint – not Oprah, the Queen of all she surveys?! This is like the best thing ever to happen to Australia since Kylie started wearing hot pants!! The news has been full of her impending visit, accompanied by three hundred audience members and hundreds more film crew and general entourage. It has been the leading headline on every single news broadcast since Oprah announced it on her show on Tuesday. When I say announced it, I of course mean screamed it. Again and again and again. “We’re going to Australia! We’re going to Australiuuugh! We’re going to Auuussstraliuuughhh!!!” It was like she was on drugs, she was just repeating it over and over again like some mad old lady. Perhaps it was because her audience was going absolutely ballistic and she wasn’t sure if they were actually able to hear her over their screams. Now that’s what you call mass hysteria. Screaming, crying, jumping up and down like crazed loons. I’m surprised those women didn’t need to be hospitalised and sedated with horse tranquilisers after that. It was frightening. God knows what they’re going to be like when they actually get here.
But Australia can’t wait. Or at least the Australian Tourism Board can’t. For Oprah, one of the richest people on TV, isn’t paying for this hugely expensive trip – Australian Tourism is, shelling out a whopping AU$3 million for the pleasure of having her and a load of Americans invading the country. According to Martin Ferguson, the Tourism Minister, it is money well spent as it will put Australia on the map. Yes, perhaps Americans will even be able to find it on a map now. And no, Australia’s not in Europe, that’s Austria. Let’s hope those American audience members actually know where they’re going. OK, so her show is watched by 40 million Americans and is broadcast in 145 countries so Australia will undoubtedly get great coverage – over eight days they will travel across the country, visiting many of Australia’s tourist hotspots - but I don’t think she deserves quite as much adulation as is being bestowed on her. What I found really sad in its sheer, hopeless, shameless desperation is the plea from someone from the Western Australia Hotel Association to Oprah to visit the state as it has been left out of the nation-wide plans. According to him, Tourism WA only found about the visit hours before the public announcement. Saying something along the lines of, if Oprah doesn’t come to Western Australia that will be the end of tourism him forever, he sounded like a teenager having a tantrum. Maybe we in WA should be thankful – do we really want hundreds of screaming, over-excited Americans invading this beautiful part of the world? The rest of Australia can have them.
Now, what of importance is going on in the world? Let’s get back to reporting proper news, please!!
All talk of the Sydney Olympics was silenced mid-week as the country began to look forward to the most exciting thing to happen to it since that magical September ten years ago. Not since the height of Beatle-mania has a people been caught up in such mass hysteria. And all this because Oprah Winfrey is visiting. Oh my God, Oh my God, I think I’m gonna faint – not Oprah, the Queen of all she surveys?! This is like the best thing ever to happen to Australia since Kylie started wearing hot pants!! The news has been full of her impending visit, accompanied by three hundred audience members and hundreds more film crew and general entourage. It has been the leading headline on every single news broadcast since Oprah announced it on her show on Tuesday. When I say announced it, I of course mean screamed it. Again and again and again. “We’re going to Australia! We’re going to Australiuuugh! We’re going to Auuussstraliuuughhh!!!” It was like she was on drugs, she was just repeating it over and over again like some mad old lady. Perhaps it was because her audience was going absolutely ballistic and she wasn’t sure if they were actually able to hear her over their screams. Now that’s what you call mass hysteria. Screaming, crying, jumping up and down like crazed loons. I’m surprised those women didn’t need to be hospitalised and sedated with horse tranquilisers after that. It was frightening. God knows what they’re going to be like when they actually get here.
But Australia can’t wait. Or at least the Australian Tourism Board can’t. For Oprah, one of the richest people on TV, isn’t paying for this hugely expensive trip – Australian Tourism is, shelling out a whopping AU$3 million for the pleasure of having her and a load of Americans invading the country. According to Martin Ferguson, the Tourism Minister, it is money well spent as it will put Australia on the map. Yes, perhaps Americans will even be able to find it on a map now. And no, Australia’s not in Europe, that’s Austria. Let’s hope those American audience members actually know where they’re going. OK, so her show is watched by 40 million Americans and is broadcast in 145 countries so Australia will undoubtedly get great coverage – over eight days they will travel across the country, visiting many of Australia’s tourist hotspots - but I don’t think she deserves quite as much adulation as is being bestowed on her. What I found really sad in its sheer, hopeless, shameless desperation is the plea from someone from the Western Australia Hotel Association to Oprah to visit the state as it has been left out of the nation-wide plans. According to him, Tourism WA only found about the visit hours before the public announcement. Saying something along the lines of, if Oprah doesn’t come to Western Australia that will be the end of tourism him forever, he sounded like a teenager having a tantrum. Maybe we in WA should be thankful – do we really want hundreds of screaming, over-excited Americans invading this beautiful part of the world? The rest of Australia can have them.
Now, what of importance is going on in the world? Let’s get back to reporting proper news, please!!
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Driving Sales
Yesterday The Parents signed the agreement to buy their parking space – refer back to my blog entitled ‘Spaced Out’, August 30th for more on that – so, soon, they will be the proud owners of their very own rectangle of concrete. This may not seem very exciting to most of you but in Hong Kong, parking spaces are like gold dust. It’s a savvy investment and means that they will no longer have to pay the monthly rent on their old space. Plus, this space is enclosed by a wall on three sides, meaning that they will not have to park next to anyone else – it will be their own little cocooned space. Ironically, although this is one of the things that attracted them to this particular space (there is so much to consider when buying a parking space) as it means that they will no longer have to put up with inconsiderate drivers parked right up against the line and they are less likely to be knocked, scraped or scratched by others, it actually made it a whopping HK$300,000 less than other spaces. Other spaces that were in fact in worse positions. Apparently, this is because many Chinese drivers do not like to be enclosed by wall as they worry that they will bash the doors of their huge BMWs and Mercedes against it. The space is plenty big enough to accommodate such cars (even if most of Hong Kong isn’t – monster ‘look how rich and successful I am’ cars are completely unsuitable for driving in a crowded city but of course they hold the most status and driving, as is most things in Hong Kong, is all about the S word) but most Hong Kong drivers are crap. Fact.
There are a few things you have to learn in order to be a competent driver in Hong Kong:
1) Your indicators are purely for decoration - you do not have to employ them at any time, and especially not when turning.
2) By contrast, your hazard lights should be used as often as possible – they are a brilliant multi-usage tool and can be used to indicate that you are slowing down, turning left or right, stopping in an inappropriate spot, having a conversation with your children, or changing your the station on your radio.
3) On a highway, you can drive in any lane you like, whenever you like. Fancy having a bit of a spin in the outside lane, even though you are pootling along at your own leisurely speed? Go ahead. Don’t want to move lanes at all? Just stay in the middle lane. There are a whole four lanes – just pick whichever one takes your fancy!
So you can understand why most drivers would prefer to pay thousands of dollars more in order to park their very expensive cars more easily. I am personally slightly worried about my own driving skills – with lanes in Karratha as wide as two lanes back in the UK and parking spaces big enough to fit the biggest of 4WDS, I think I might get a bit of a shock when I return to the narrow streets of Reading. Tight parallel parking on our street is not going to be fun. And, just remind me, what are traffic lights?
There are a few things you have to learn in order to be a competent driver in Hong Kong:
1) Your indicators are purely for decoration - you do not have to employ them at any time, and especially not when turning.
2) By contrast, your hazard lights should be used as often as possible – they are a brilliant multi-usage tool and can be used to indicate that you are slowing down, turning left or right, stopping in an inappropriate spot, having a conversation with your children, or changing your the station on your radio.
3) On a highway, you can drive in any lane you like, whenever you like. Fancy having a bit of a spin in the outside lane, even though you are pootling along at your own leisurely speed? Go ahead. Don’t want to move lanes at all? Just stay in the middle lane. There are a whole four lanes – just pick whichever one takes your fancy!
So you can understand why most drivers would prefer to pay thousands of dollars more in order to park their very expensive cars more easily. I am personally slightly worried about my own driving skills – with lanes in Karratha as wide as two lanes back in the UK and parking spaces big enough to fit the biggest of 4WDS, I think I might get a bit of a shock when I return to the narrow streets of Reading. Tight parallel parking on our street is not going to be fun. And, just remind me, what are traffic lights?
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
The Fun To Be Had With A Tyre
When we were busy trying to get our tyres out of the sand on Sunday, we could have been tyre-throwing (which, incidentally, was just what I felt like doing on several occasions that afternoon). If there’s one thing the outback is good for, it’s random events. Country towns don’t get major art exhibitions or West End stage productions so they have to create their own entertainment. Not content with sporting competitions, fun days or fetes, the Karratha Enduro and Motorcross Club hosted a car and bike show which included a, and I quote, ‘His & Hers Tyre Throwing Competition’. I am devastated – if only I had known, I would have been the first to sign up. I do love me a bit of tyre-throwing.
After a quick search on Google, the only other reference to tyre throwing competitions I found was in The Bahama Journal, a local newspaper in the Bahamas. They too hold such a contest, the first one being last year, and, if the paper is to be believed, it went down an absolute storm. What I loved was this comment made by the organiser: ‘"I came up with the idea by simply brain storming on something Bahamians can do to have fun and I hope this becomes a fun hobby for us in The Bahamas. You don't need to go to the gym, you don't need to get fit, you can go to any junk yard or tyre shop and get an old tyre, practice, and have some fun," he said.’ Who needs museums, art galleries, cinemas and theatres when you have an old tyre?
After a quick search on Google, the only other reference to tyre throwing competitions I found was in The Bahama Journal, a local newspaper in the Bahamas. They too hold such a contest, the first one being last year, and, if the paper is to be believed, it went down an absolute storm. What I loved was this comment made by the organiser: ‘"I came up with the idea by simply brain storming on something Bahamians can do to have fun and I hope this becomes a fun hobby for us in The Bahamas. You don't need to go to the gym, you don't need to get fit, you can go to any junk yard or tyre shop and get an old tyre, practice, and have some fun," he said.’ Who needs museums, art galleries, cinemas and theatres when you have an old tyre?
Monday, September 13, 2010
That Sinking Feeling
“Bloody Poms!” As we drive unsteadily away from the beach, that is exactly what I imagine the two large Australians must be saying to each other. Followed, I expect, by much laughter, their rotund beer bellies shaking with mirth. Flash back an hour and we’re lugging our chairs, esky and bags laden with towels and books and the essential first aid kit (beaches are prime biting/stinging/chomping areas –anything could happen both in sea and on land) up the beach and over the sand dunes to where we left the car. I had wanted to stay a bit longer to explore the rock pools that were gradually being formed by the receding tide but The Husband insisted we leave to get back to play some tennis. I was still talking about the fascinating marine life we could have discovered when we were in the car reversing but The Husband wasn’t listening to me – he looked distracted, concerned, slightly panicky. “I need to concentrate,” he said, “so will you please be quiet for a moment?” From the tone of his voice, I knew it wasn’t just a tactic to get me to stop talking for the sake of it. He was worried. And that was when I realised that the car was juddering forwards as he attempted to manoeuvre it. Then it wasn’t juddering. It wasn’t doing anything except making a screeching noise. “We’re stuck,” he said. “Oh God, we’re stuck!”
We got out of the car to assess the situation and discovered that we were indeed stuck in the sand. We had parked there twice before without a problem but it appeared that the recent rain had softened the sand, causing the car to sink into it and lose traction (or that’s what the aforementioned large Aussies said anyway). There followed forty five minutes of a series of failed attempts to get the car out of the soggy sand. The Husband dug out the sand around the wheels, he placed rocks behind them (which I hauled across the dunes like Xena, Warrior Princess... OK, more like an ungainly Neolithic cavewoman, unattractively bent double with swinging arms but Xena is a better image), he got into position to push the car as I attempted to drive it. Naturally, loud arguments were had. And The Husband got a face full of sand. It was not a pretty scene. Eventually, I persuaded him that he had to swallow his man-pride and ask for help. I was not going to be stranded on a beach all night with no sleeping bag and just a cereal bar to keep my hunger at bay. Head bowed low in shame, he trekked across to where we could see a couple of trucks in the distance. Ten minutes later, one of the large Aussies roared up to me on a quad bike, jumped down, belly wobbling like jelly, and assessed the situation. He looked around the car, under the car and in the car, before peering at me through thick, wiry eyebrows. “This isn’t bogged down, it’s just a bit stuck,” he said, through a Father Christmas beard, “we’ll have it out no problem. Now, does it have low range?” I looked at him with clear confusion and confessed that I had no idea what low range was. After that, he didn’t ask me any questions. In fact, he didn’t even look at me. It was as if I wasn’t there. I mean, fancy not knowing what low range is. I expect I’ll be forever known as ‘that Pommy Sheila who didn’t know what low range was’.
Minutes later, The Husband appeared over the crest of a dune in a monster 4WD. He was sat next an identical large Aussie, also with Father Christmas beard and crazy caterpillar eyebrows. The Aussies knew what they were doing – they had probably pulled Utes out of rivers, across deserts, in from the sea through crashing waves. They looked like they had done it all, seen it all and took our little problem completely in their stride. They told The Husband what to do and he obeyed and within ten minutes they had pulled us out. We thanked them profusely and they told us not to worry, that everyone gets stuck at least once. I’m sure, though, that as we pulled away out of earshot they chuckled over our stupidity. Bloody Poms.
We got out of the car to assess the situation and discovered that we were indeed stuck in the sand. We had parked there twice before without a problem but it appeared that the recent rain had softened the sand, causing the car to sink into it and lose traction (or that’s what the aforementioned large Aussies said anyway). There followed forty five minutes of a series of failed attempts to get the car out of the soggy sand. The Husband dug out the sand around the wheels, he placed rocks behind them (which I hauled across the dunes like Xena, Warrior Princess... OK, more like an ungainly Neolithic cavewoman, unattractively bent double with swinging arms but Xena is a better image), he got into position to push the car as I attempted to drive it. Naturally, loud arguments were had. And The Husband got a face full of sand. It was not a pretty scene. Eventually, I persuaded him that he had to swallow his man-pride and ask for help. I was not going to be stranded on a beach all night with no sleeping bag and just a cereal bar to keep my hunger at bay. Head bowed low in shame, he trekked across to where we could see a couple of trucks in the distance. Ten minutes later, one of the large Aussies roared up to me on a quad bike, jumped down, belly wobbling like jelly, and assessed the situation. He looked around the car, under the car and in the car, before peering at me through thick, wiry eyebrows. “This isn’t bogged down, it’s just a bit stuck,” he said, through a Father Christmas beard, “we’ll have it out no problem. Now, does it have low range?” I looked at him with clear confusion and confessed that I had no idea what low range was. After that, he didn’t ask me any questions. In fact, he didn’t even look at me. It was as if I wasn’t there. I mean, fancy not knowing what low range is. I expect I’ll be forever known as ‘that Pommy Sheila who didn’t know what low range was’.
Minutes later, The Husband appeared over the crest of a dune in a monster 4WD. He was sat next an identical large Aussie, also with Father Christmas beard and crazy caterpillar eyebrows. The Aussies knew what they were doing – they had probably pulled Utes out of rivers, across deserts, in from the sea through crashing waves. They looked like they had done it all, seen it all and took our little problem completely in their stride. They told The Husband what to do and he obeyed and within ten minutes they had pulled us out. We thanked them profusely and they told us not to worry, that everyone gets stuck at least once. I’m sure, though, that as we pulled away out of earshot they chuckled over our stupidity. Bloody Poms.
Friday, September 10, 2010
That's Just Swell
Regular readers of my blog will know how petrified I am of all the (many, many) venomous, man-eating creatures that this great country is home to. What you might not know is that this fear stems from the fact that if there is something in the vicinity that will bite/sting/claw/crush, it will bite/sting/claw/crush me. On every holiday I have ever been on, I have been injured in some way, usually by a nasty winged creature. I thought that I had been spared on our honeymoon, that it was God’s way of rewarding me for no longer living in sin. Thirteen wonderfully relaxing, indulgent and incident-free days went by in our luxurious beach-side resort in Mauritius. But God clearly hadn’t forgiven me as I was stung by a monster bee on our last day. It landed on my back. I thought it was a fly. I swatted it. It stung me. And, being a bee, it left its stinger in me. The (very new) Husband was ordered to run back to our room and fetch the first aid kit. I of course had insisted we walk quite a way down the beach to find the best spot – the best bit of sand, best bit of sea, best sun lounger, least number of people – so he had to run quite a way there and back. I think at this point he was probably wondering what he’d got himself into. I, meanwhile, lay whimpering face down on the sun lounger because it really, really hurt. Eventually he returned, armed with tweezers, bite cream and, most important of all, antihistamine tablets. Because, ironically, not only am I the most likely target for stingers and biters, I also react badly and swell up. It’s like they know, like they deliberately pick the human who will be most badly affected.
I suppose I should have been thankful that it chose the last day of the holiday to sting me. On holiday in Spain once, I was stung on the leg by a wasp on the first day and had to spend the rest of the fortnight with the affected area covered. This resulted in some rather interesting sunbathing techniques to keep that part of the leg in the shade but as much of the rest of me in the sun as possible. The lengths I will go to for a tan. At least I had no plans for the holiday but to lie and read and do as little as possible. Part way through the Tour of Britain, I was stung by a wasp right on my ankle. Not only did I have a very full and active itinerary, but the vicious, spiteful wasp chose to sting me four days before The Best Friend’s wedding. I took antihistamine immediately, put my foot up as soon as we were home and was grateful to note before I turned out the light that night that the swelling was minimal.
I woke the next morning with a heavy feeling foot. Assuming it was pins and needles, I attempted to shake it but struggled even to lift it. Whipping back the duvet, I saw with horror that my ankle had ballooned. I had a fat person’s ankle with rolls. Actual rolls. It was huge. Over the next couple of days, despite packing it with ice and resting it as often as I could, it merely got bigger and turned an angry reddish/purplish colour. It would seem that, bar your face (a fate which could so nearly have befallen me as I am pretty sure I batted the wasp off my chin whereupon it landed on my ankle), your ankle is the worst place to get stung as it is in constant use. All that walking was causing fluid to build up and settle in my foot/ankle/lower leg, giving me the fat person look or, as The Husband referred to me throughout that period, ‘Club Foot’. This was clearly not good. I was due to be Maid of Honour in a matter of days. I had to be able to walk, I had to be able to fit into my heels, I had to be able to walk in my heels. The swelling had not gone down much by the big day but, luckily, I had shoes with adjustable straps and I just had to remember to pop the offending club foot behind me whenever the photographer loomed. And, as soon as the dinner ended, I kicked off my heels and threw on a pair of flat sandals.
Anyway, I have gone a bit off-point here but the crux is this – I am frighteningly long-overdue a bite/sting/claw/crush in Karratha. The difference is that in Australia a fat person’s ankle would be the least of my worries. Here, in the country that is home to many of the world’s most painful, poisonous and deadly creatures, I could be in real trouble. And that is why I am so petrified of anything that moves.
I suppose I should have been thankful that it chose the last day of the holiday to sting me. On holiday in Spain once, I was stung on the leg by a wasp on the first day and had to spend the rest of the fortnight with the affected area covered. This resulted in some rather interesting sunbathing techniques to keep that part of the leg in the shade but as much of the rest of me in the sun as possible. The lengths I will go to for a tan. At least I had no plans for the holiday but to lie and read and do as little as possible. Part way through the Tour of Britain, I was stung by a wasp right on my ankle. Not only did I have a very full and active itinerary, but the vicious, spiteful wasp chose to sting me four days before The Best Friend’s wedding. I took antihistamine immediately, put my foot up as soon as we were home and was grateful to note before I turned out the light that night that the swelling was minimal.
I woke the next morning with a heavy feeling foot. Assuming it was pins and needles, I attempted to shake it but struggled even to lift it. Whipping back the duvet, I saw with horror that my ankle had ballooned. I had a fat person’s ankle with rolls. Actual rolls. It was huge. Over the next couple of days, despite packing it with ice and resting it as often as I could, it merely got bigger and turned an angry reddish/purplish colour. It would seem that, bar your face (a fate which could so nearly have befallen me as I am pretty sure I batted the wasp off my chin whereupon it landed on my ankle), your ankle is the worst place to get stung as it is in constant use. All that walking was causing fluid to build up and settle in my foot/ankle/lower leg, giving me the fat person look or, as The Husband referred to me throughout that period, ‘Club Foot’. This was clearly not good. I was due to be Maid of Honour in a matter of days. I had to be able to walk, I had to be able to fit into my heels, I had to be able to walk in my heels. The swelling had not gone down much by the big day but, luckily, I had shoes with adjustable straps and I just had to remember to pop the offending club foot behind me whenever the photographer loomed. And, as soon as the dinner ended, I kicked off my heels and threw on a pair of flat sandals.
Anyway, I have gone a bit off-point here but the crux is this – I am frighteningly long-overdue a bite/sting/claw/crush in Karratha. The difference is that in Australia a fat person’s ankle would be the least of my worries. Here, in the country that is home to many of the world’s most painful, poisonous and deadly creatures, I could be in real trouble. And that is why I am so petrified of anything that moves.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Editorial Apology
It has come to my attention that there were some factual errors in the blog entitled ‘Crossing the Great Divide’ (September 2nd) and I would like to make a formal apology to The Father for misrepresenting him. He has pointed out to me, and I quote, “Though mum may never have been north of Watford before meeting me, I had then already been to Scotland (as far north as John O’Groats), Lake District, Yorkshire Moors, etc. many times with my parents on caravanning holidays.” I was actually unaware of this great pioneering spirit in the Reed family – John O’Groats is the furthest north you can venture in mainland Britain – but then they did emigrate to Australia, which is a pretty long way to travel. Of course, although it may be thousands of miles from the UK, Australia is in the Southern Hemisphere so perhaps that merely supports my argument about Southerners. The Father has always been at great pains to highlight the fact that his family were ‘salt of the earth’ kind of people (though I’m not sure that many of the working class lived in a five bedroom detached house in the wealthy Home County town of Beaconsfield) and therefore, I’m sure, was deeply offended by the insinuation that he turned his nose up at the North. All I can do, in recompense, is offer him my sincerest apologies.
Of course, to be fair to the facts, I must also add his second correction to the blog referring to my comment that his family would always by-pass Birmingham. “The reason for staying on the peripheral motorway and not going into Birmingham was not because my parents were trying to get somewhere else but because we were all too frightened to go into central Birmingham, though we did on that trip go into central Glasgow ... with the car doors locked!” He may be a stickler for the facts, but I don’t think this latter comment backs up his case for being a man of the people. Indeed, it supports my theory that Southerners are a totally different kettle of fish to Northerners. They just don’t get each other. I lived in Birmingham for many years and yet there were parts of the city in which I always engaged the central locking and, back in the Sixties and Seventies, Glasgow did have quite a violent reputation so I’m not sure I would have been brave enough to venture into the centre even in a locked car.
I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the fact that Brits are not one homogeneous people. It simply makes for an interesting, diverse mix. One thing’s for sure - there’s nowt as queer as folk.
Of course, to be fair to the facts, I must also add his second correction to the blog referring to my comment that his family would always by-pass Birmingham. “The reason for staying on the peripheral motorway and not going into Birmingham was not because my parents were trying to get somewhere else but because we were all too frightened to go into central Birmingham, though we did on that trip go into central Glasgow ... with the car doors locked!” He may be a stickler for the facts, but I don’t think this latter comment backs up his case for being a man of the people. Indeed, it supports my theory that Southerners are a totally different kettle of fish to Northerners. They just don’t get each other. I lived in Birmingham for many years and yet there were parts of the city in which I always engaged the central locking and, back in the Sixties and Seventies, Glasgow did have quite a violent reputation so I’m not sure I would have been brave enough to venture into the centre even in a locked car.
I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the fact that Brits are not one homogeneous people. It simply makes for an interesting, diverse mix. One thing’s for sure - there’s nowt as queer as folk.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Happily Ever After
I love a good wedding. When else, apart from at Ascot, can you wear ridiculous creations on your head and still be taken seriously? When else can you get so dressed up in the middle of the day? When else can you start drinking at midday and not stop until midnight (other than Christmas when it is law that you must start drinking at breakfast)? When else do you become best friends with someone you’ve never met before (but have completely forgotten their name in the fog of your hangover the next morning)? I love how different weddings can be, how personal to the couple getting married in everything from the venue to the outfits. Most of all, I love that moment when the couple officially become legally entwined - the sense of joy, of celebration, of knowing that you’re witnessing something monumental, not in the grand scheme of things in the world but in that couple’s life. Yes, I’m an old romantic at heart and can’t help but well up during the vows. At the first wedding we went to this summer, the bride choked up and could barely utter her vows through sobs. Only a hard heart would find it difficult to tear up at that. The Husband did not shed a single tear but perhaps he was just trying to be manly.
What can often be the best part of a wedding is bumping into people you haven’t seen in years, especially when you had no idea they were going to be there. Of course, if you purposefully haven’t seen them in years (bitter exes, the guy you still owe a tenner to, people you just can’t stand), at least there is always a steady supply of alcohol to get you through it. Ditto for bad speeches, the interminably dull second cousin you’ve been sat next to, and that time of night when the music starts and you’re pulled onto the dance floor by the pervy uncle who you know will feel your arse throughout the entire duration of the song. Of course, alcohol can also be a bad thing, especially when you have been drinking since midday. When it causes you to trip over in front of the grandparents, dance like a stripper (even though at the time you are certain that you are the best dancer in the world), chat-up the cousin with the bad breath and lazy eye, and wake up the next morning with make-up smeared over your face and on your pillow, a head that feels like it might just implode and a tongue that feels too big for your mouth, that is when it is bad. All you can hope for in those situations is that everyone else was just as drunk as you and therefore a) didn’t notice you embarrassing yourself and b) caused themselves just as much embarrassment.
Luckily, at the first wedding I was dancing the ceilidh so much I didn’t have time to drink (and was so thirsty each time I came off the floor that all I craved was water – those Scottish barn dances are brutal!) and as Maid of Honour at the second wedding I didn’t start drinking until later in the evening so by the time I was slurring my words, so was everyone else! Being Maid of Honour was a real, well, honour, and I performed my duties with gusto. The best weddings, really, are those in which you care deeply about both bride and groom and get to watch them make a lifelong commitment to each other. You get to be there on the best day of their lives and share in their happiness. That’s what really makes a good wedding – the constant smiles on the faces of the newlyweds. For, in the immortal words of Ewan McGregor’s Christian in Moulin Rouge, “Love is a many splendored thing, love lifts us up where we belong, all you need is love!”
What can often be the best part of a wedding is bumping into people you haven’t seen in years, especially when you had no idea they were going to be there. Of course, if you purposefully haven’t seen them in years (bitter exes, the guy you still owe a tenner to, people you just can’t stand), at least there is always a steady supply of alcohol to get you through it. Ditto for bad speeches, the interminably dull second cousin you’ve been sat next to, and that time of night when the music starts and you’re pulled onto the dance floor by the pervy uncle who you know will feel your arse throughout the entire duration of the song. Of course, alcohol can also be a bad thing, especially when you have been drinking since midday. When it causes you to trip over in front of the grandparents, dance like a stripper (even though at the time you are certain that you are the best dancer in the world), chat-up the cousin with the bad breath and lazy eye, and wake up the next morning with make-up smeared over your face and on your pillow, a head that feels like it might just implode and a tongue that feels too big for your mouth, that is when it is bad. All you can hope for in those situations is that everyone else was just as drunk as you and therefore a) didn’t notice you embarrassing yourself and b) caused themselves just as much embarrassment.
Luckily, at the first wedding I was dancing the ceilidh so much I didn’t have time to drink (and was so thirsty each time I came off the floor that all I craved was water – those Scottish barn dances are brutal!) and as Maid of Honour at the second wedding I didn’t start drinking until later in the evening so by the time I was slurring my words, so was everyone else! Being Maid of Honour was a real, well, honour, and I performed my duties with gusto. The best weddings, really, are those in which you care deeply about both bride and groom and get to watch them make a lifelong commitment to each other. You get to be there on the best day of their lives and share in their happiness. That’s what really makes a good wedding – the constant smiles on the faces of the newlyweds. For, in the immortal words of Ewan McGregor’s Christian in Moulin Rouge, “Love is a many splendored thing, love lifts us up where we belong, all you need is love!”
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Keeping The Doctor Away
It seems that a trip to Somerset really isn’t complete without a healthy intake of cider, for on my return to the West Country county, with The Husband in tow this time, we visited a cider farm. You can taste cider at numerous establishments in Somerset – in every village there is some sort of a sign, usually homemade, painted with an unsteady hand (perhaps after a few too many tastings of their own) and often with more than one spelling mistake, advertising the opportunity to sample ‘authentic Somerset scrumpy’. Cider has had somewhat of a renaissance recently. Until only a few years ago, anywhere outside of Somerset it was seen as the drink of choice by fifteen year olds, tramps and old men but it has suddenly become trendy again. With dozens of special blends in retro bottles hitting the shops and cider festivals now a firm summer date in many West Country cities, cider is being tried by those who might usually turn their noses up at it. Like me. With memories of cheap, fizzy, artificial-tasting mass-produced cider drunk in my youth and a really rather terrible murky, fetid-smelling cider once tasted in a horrible pub in Taunton, I was not keen on sampling any more of the stuff. But, when in Somerset and all that. And a farm on a lovely summer’s day couldn’t be a bad way to spend an afternoon – there was also the promise of huge chunks of cheese to be gobbled so my taste buds and tummy would be happy even if I didn’t like the cider.
After a romp across the Mendips, we felt we had earned some cheese and cider so off we drove to a farm we were assured was authentic, cheap and, most importantly, produced magnificent cider. What we weren’t told was that it was nigh-on impossible to find. Our local expert, Somerset born and bred, had been once before but got a taxi there and was highly inebriated when he left (so much so in fact that he accepted a lift back by a couple of locals with whom they had been drinking – he sat on a garden chair in the back of a white van. It was OK though, he wore a hard hat). We took a few wrong turns up farm driveways and narrow, twisting country lanes bound for nowhere before we eventually spotted a sign on A4 paper, in biro, with a tiny arrow pointing towards ‘Wilkins Farmhouse Cider’. This was a local farm for local people. They obviously weren’t bothered about cashing in on the tourist craze for cider. And that appealed to me greatly – we were about to visit a truly authentic farm.
Pulling into the farmyard, we weren’t disappointed. There was no car-park, no maps, no signs, no explanations, no ‘History Of...’ boards. Just a farmyard, a farmhouse and the outbuildings in which the cider is made. Plastic school chairs are dotted inside the outbuildings, sat on by bearded men with scruffy hair, reading newspapers and chatting about tractors and racing as they sip their mugs of cider. The Wilkins family have been producing cider since 1917, and have got fairly good at it. We were given glasses of cider straight from the barrels, with a choice of sweet or dry. I plumped for dry but later tried a combination of dry with just a dash of sweet – my own special, customised blend. This is the sort of place where you’re encouraged to stay for hours, going back to pull yourself further half-pint tasters whenever you want, and the owner himself likes nothing more than a bit of a chat. We drank our cider out in the sun on a picnic table after a wander round the orchard (where Wilkins picks each apple by hand) and I don’t know whether it was the setting, the weather or if it really was good cider, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. I’m not the only one – Johnny Rotten is a fan and Mick Jagger’s brother often pops in for a cider or two. Wilkins, a ruddy-faced man with a thick Somerset accent and deep laughter lines, has won awards for the quality of his farmhouse cider, something he attributes to the fact that he ‘tastes it, not tests it’ – he has been drinking cider since he was six and admits to drinking at least four pints a day (it used to be sixteen but he has since cut down)! He actually insists that cider is good for you - 'never been sick a day in my life, I haven't'. Well, you know what they say - an apple a day keeps the doctor away!
We left after trying several glasses, having bought huge chunks of cheddar and stilton (both absolutely divine)and twenty pints of cider (in two 10-pint vats, one of which we would consume that night) and paid only a few pounds each. This could be the last place in England where you can get a true bargain.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Mind Games
Being so far from museums, galleries, theatres and cinemas, we like to expand our minds at the weekends by playing intellectual games, activities that require us to give those little grey cells a bit of a workout. Which is exactly why we played beer pong on Saturday night. The name might suggest that this is some sort of drinking game invented by American college students with diminishing brain cells. And yes, OK, this is exactly what it is but in my defence it does require some adept hand-eye co-ordination, a skill that should never be undervalued. Sadly, we were all terrible at it and after fifteen minutes of taking it in turns to aim the ball at the cups on the other side of the table produced not a single result, it denigrated into a mad ball-launching free-for-all with little yellow balls flying everywhere. When we all agreed that throwing a ping-pong ball into multiple cups of alcohol that you are then forced to drink was extremely unhygienic, we progressed to the numbers game which was just like a maths competition. Well, you had to be able to recognise numbers and then perform the appropriate action that corresponded to that number anyway – extremely high-brow tasks such as starting a rap that each player then had to develop. Hey, that at least involves a certain way with words and sounds. We then played 21, which does require the ability to count to 21 and even remember your times tables. I had to know what a multiple of two was so that I could stand up and dance while I sang it. When that started to hurt the brain too much, we played that intellectual classic, Uno, a game that requires all your mental faculties to be on top form – you have to match colours and numbers. Actually, in the early hours of the morning after a few glasses of wine too many, that really isn’t such an easy task.
Oh God, get me to a city quickly.
Oh God, get me to a city quickly.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Trustworthy Citizens
The Husband is also a member, although that is more through force than by choice. I have found, however, that he can often be persuaded to visit a property with the promise of a cream tea in the tea rooms afterwards. And with just that promise, on the way back from Leeds to Solihull we took a slight detour off the motorway to visit an important historical home, Hardwick Hall. Those of you who have read Philippa Gregory’s The Other Queen will recognise the name, as it was built by Bess of Hardwick, sometime keeper of Mary Queen of Scots during her time under house arrest. It is one of the most significant Elizabethan country estates in England, having been little altered in four hundred years, and therefore provides a fascinating insight into Elizabethan life. That, to me, is far more interesting than the virtual world that so many people my age spend their spare time inhabiting – this is real life, lived by our ancestors hundreds of years ago when the world was different beyond recognition. Why someone would rather play a computer game or watch a film when real life is so interesting is beyond me.
I think, though, that The Husband might be one of those. As I was peering at every piece of furniture and reading every sign, he was getting more and more ratty. It was time to take him for his promised cream tea. Except that the tea room was packed full of people and there was nowhere to sit. So we quickly left and headed towards the nearby working mill, something with cogs and moving parts, something that made something tangible. This was more his thing. In theory, it was fascinating – a watermill constructed in 1849 still milling flour to this day. I could have looked around it in about five minutes but we were kindly given a guided tour by the stewards who explained the workings to us in minute detail. I smiled and nodded, not really understanding a word of what they were saying. Every time I went to say thank you and turn to leave, The Husband, his engineering brain fully engaged, would ask another question. I now know how he feels when I ask about furniture or paintings in the houses.
Still, we both came away having learnt many new things. I learnt that it is perfectly acceptable to prominently display your initials by carving them into the stonework of your house and The Husband learnt that, unless you are perfectly happy never to leave, it is not wise to ask an old man who loves to talk a single question.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Crossing The Great Divide
I don’t really do the North. Not because I don’t like it, it just seems like a very long way away – or that’s what I tell myself anyway. Being born a Southerner, it was never encouraged to venture north of Watford. The Parents knew nothing about the north of England, except what every Southerner knew to be fact – It’s Grim Up North. They have travelled the world and yet, until The Brother made the monumental decision to go to Durham University – Durham, as in near Newcastle, as in almost Scotland; you couldn’t get much further north – they had not been further north than Birmingham, my old university. At the time, it was quite a brave move for me to choose Birmingham University – as The Father said more than once, “I’ve driven around Birmingham a couple of times – you’d only drive around it to get somewhere else”. Birmingham was the furthest north anyone in my family had ever been. I was an intrepid explorer, braving the unknown. The unknown turned out be rather nice, as it happened – Birmingham wasn’t what it once was. Of course, I struggled to meet a Brummie in the university itself, most of the students were fellow Southerners.
That seems to be the case not only with the university in Leeds, but the city itself. All I kept hearing were southern accents. Not once did I hear anyone say, “I’m just goin’ up t’moor” or any other classic Yorkshire phrases. Then again, we had driven up to visit a couple of The Husband’s school friends, both from Solihull, who had settled with their partners in Leeds after attending the city’s university. Perhaps a lot of Leeds Uni students had stayed in the city after graduation – the centre was awash with young, overly-trendy sorts with all the newest clobber and hairstyles. There was not a ‘nowt’ to be heard anywhere. The old stereotypes of northerners being vulgar, uncouth and poor are just that – old. There is tremendous wealth ‘oop north’ now – the opening of Harvey Nichols in Leeds fourteen years ago is testament to that. In a massive reversal, many Southerners are packing up their bags and moving northwards for a better ( cheaper, more relaxed) quality of life.
We spent our time in Leeds shopping, eating and drinking in a grand fashion. We visited the designer shops in the Victorian Quarter (where I felt distinctly unfashionable), had a very civilised cup of tea on the terrace of a listed classical building overlooking parkland, drank cocktails in a canal-side bar, and dined exceedingly well. We couldn’t have done better in London. Now if they could only do something about the weather, which unfortunately does continue to be Grim Up North...
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The Scariest Question In The World
The Husband had been in the country for a mere five hours and with me less than an hour when the Big Question reared its ugly head again. When? On its own, it is a seemingly innocuous question. It could be in reference to any number of normal, everyday events. When shall we eat dinner? When are we going to go to the supermarket? When do you want to see that film at the cinema? The Husband knew that it was not such a simple when? He knew exactly what it referred to as we have had this when? conversation more than a few times recently. And if that didn’t convince him that he knew what I was talking about, our destination left little doubt. We were on our way to Reading to meet up with two good friends who had recently had a baby.
Pre-baby, the father was one of those men who made it very difficult for one to imagine him as a dad, a responsible care-giver to a little person. Before their baby was born, he struggled to look after himself, let alone another human being. I hoped that seeing him with his baby would convince The Husband that if he can do it then anybody can. I also hoped that if I asked The Husband in his sleep-deprived, slightly delirious state, he would be more likely to answer the when? question with a joyful and exuberant ‘right now!’ We met them in a cafe chosen specifically for its child-friendliness and spoke to them about the realities of being parents. There is a lot to consider when you have baby. Who’d have thought that such a tiny person would need so much stuff?! You can’t just leave the house on a whim – you have to plan each outing with military precision. Firstly, you have to make sure you have all the right gear – nappy bags, extra clothing, toys, books, a first aid kit... the list is endless. Then you have to consider the logistics of the exercise. Can you walk there or will you have to take the car (if the latter form of transport is required there is a whole extra list of requirements – the father had to drive home to pick up a different car as the one he had brought wasn’t baby-suitable)? Are you going to a baby-friendly venue - can you navigate a pram around the space without too much difficulty, do they mind if you breast-feed, will they get snooty if your baby starts to wail? All that can be just for a trip down the road. The couple had recently been for a short holiday on the south coast and couldn’t see out of the back window of their car, so rammed full of all the extra baby necessities was it. They had to make do with a small holdall between them as there wasn’t room for their stuff.
I guess that’s what happens when you have a baby – you have let another person take over your lives in every way. You can’t be selfish anymore, the baby must always take priority. It was a sobering thought. So do I still think that it’s worth it? One look at their faces when they held their baby daughter, when they played with her and gazed at her and talked about her and there is no doubt in my mind. I would happily squeeze all my stuff into a small holdall to have that.
Pre-baby, the father was one of those men who made it very difficult for one to imagine him as a dad, a responsible care-giver to a little person. Before their baby was born, he struggled to look after himself, let alone another human being. I hoped that seeing him with his baby would convince The Husband that if he can do it then anybody can. I also hoped that if I asked The Husband in his sleep-deprived, slightly delirious state, he would be more likely to answer the when? question with a joyful and exuberant ‘right now!’ We met them in a cafe chosen specifically for its child-friendliness and spoke to them about the realities of being parents. There is a lot to consider when you have baby. Who’d have thought that such a tiny person would need so much stuff?! You can’t just leave the house on a whim – you have to plan each outing with military precision. Firstly, you have to make sure you have all the right gear – nappy bags, extra clothing, toys, books, a first aid kit... the list is endless. Then you have to consider the logistics of the exercise. Can you walk there or will you have to take the car (if the latter form of transport is required there is a whole extra list of requirements – the father had to drive home to pick up a different car as the one he had brought wasn’t baby-suitable)? Are you going to a baby-friendly venue - can you navigate a pram around the space without too much difficulty, do they mind if you breast-feed, will they get snooty if your baby starts to wail? All that can be just for a trip down the road. The couple had recently been for a short holiday on the south coast and couldn’t see out of the back window of their car, so rammed full of all the extra baby necessities was it. They had to make do with a small holdall between them as there wasn’t room for their stuff.
I guess that’s what happens when you have a baby – you have let another person take over your lives in every way. You can’t be selfish anymore, the baby must always take priority. It was a sobering thought. So do I still think that it’s worth it? One look at their faces when they held their baby daughter, when they played with her and gazed at her and talked about her and there is no doubt in my mind. I would happily squeeze all my stuff into a small holdall to have that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
