eclaire

Food Glorious Food...

2007-06-07T10:46:00.000+01:00

Heading out onto the streets of Zagreb, armed with a map from the hotel reception on which the receptionist had kindly highlighted our route towards the Old Town, the first thing that struck me was how quiet it was. This was around 10pm on a Saturday night: I am used to most cities buzzing at that time. I should say that I find most European cities buzzing at that time: our commercial and entertainment districts tend to be all higgledy-piggledy on top of one another, unlike North America where I've noticed it's a bit more segregated. I remember being astounded to discover that Michigan Avenue in Chicago shuts up shop (literally) at close of business hours - I would have expected it to be more like Oxford Street or Charing Cross Road, where, when the shops close, the bars, restaurants, clubs and crackdens open ;)

I was aware again during our spookily quiet walk of the fascinatingly varied architecture. I suppose, geographically, Croatia does rather straddle Western and Eastern Europe (...that would be Central Europe then...), and that is evident in the architecture. We guessed that there has been some sort of clean up campaign going on, as some buildings that were evidently old (going by the intricate carvings and craftsmanship) were quite startlingly clean - and right next to them would be a building that appeared to be of around the same age suffocating under centuries of dirt. Many bore sobering scars of the bombs of the mid 90s. It is hard to describe, exactly, but despite it's somewhat creepy quietness, the city felt very safe. There was lavishings of graffiti and a certain run down air (particularly in the side streets we passed) but yet it felt entirely benign.

After passing some gardens - that's another point, it smelled lovely! Possibly due to the proximity of the botanical gardens, and helped by the fact that with a population of less than a million, there just isn't the pollution to create that heady stink that you come to expect in cities, it was a pleasantly un-whiffy city overall - we came across a large square which the receptionist had circled on the map. When I say large, I really mean huge - it was about the size of a football field, and the couple of small fountains in the middle were dwarfed by the vacuous space around them. Here finally there were some signs of life - groups of kids, a few old people sipping coffee in cafes around the edge, trams trundling by... and no restaurants. Might I remind you that neither of us had eaten since I had a packed of peanuts at Heathrow, so with a touch of panic, we went in to one of the bars and asked if they were serving food. Nope. However, a very kind waitress beckoned for us to follow her. Mournfully gnawing on our hands, we obeyed.

She led us to a large black door next door to her bar - quite ornate, but with absolutely no sign outside to give any hint that it was any kind of commercial entrance. In other circumstances we might have been doubtful, but at this point, we were happy to cling on to the merest hope of food, so we followed her into a dimly lit hallway. The tiles were ceramic and there was a lively pattern in earth tones leading through the hallway to the shadowy stone staircase. We were a bit dubious about the old fashioned lift which creaked a bit ominously when our waitress pressed the call button, but luckily for everyone the door was locked, so our waitress directed us to climb to the third floor, and promised that there we would find sustenance. Well we did... ish. We climbed the two flights of stairs, exchanging looks that might have been of amusement, terror, or just hunger - and there we found to our utter amazement - a bustling restaurant! I don't tend to think that I would be quite so subtle when choosing the location of a restaurant, but it clearly wasn't hurting business at all as it was packed. So packed that they had no room for us. *sigh* No less than three waiters commiserated with us, and discussed excitedly amongst themselves where we might find dinner. Well, we assume that is what they were discussing at least, they said neither "do you speak English" nor "thank you" which is the only Croatian I have a hope of understanding, so they could have been discussing the weather or what sort of hats their mothers like to wear.

When we emerged back out onto the street, already beginning to wonder whether we had imagined that restaurant on the third floor, we found our waitress hovering anxiously by the door, "You don't like?" She enquired, and we assured her we liked very much but they were full. "Okay, please come with me." She took off at a pace back across the square and up a steep hill behind it. We were treated to a sudden close up view of the spectacular cathedral (which looks a little bit like Notre Dame) and then the waitress ushered us (with a helpful note of the name of the restaurant from her order pad) round the corner. We thanked her and entered what looked for all the world like a closed restaurant. By walking through the empty tables in an unlit room (bashing into a couple of the aforementioned empty tables) and into a corridor past the kitchen, we found ourselves on a terrace where there were people! Eating! Well two old men anyway! And a third old man playing eighties easy listening on a keyboard! It was just wonderful.

The starter that our lovely waiter (and fluent English speaker) Emil swiftly brought was possibly one of the most exquisite things I have ever tasted in my life (although let's face it, I was hardly fussy at that point.) It was a sort of savoury croissant, with a dip which seems to be traditional Croatian as we were then served it everywhere we ate - a sort of creamy ricotta with chives and garlic - oh I must stop describing the meal because I will start to eat the keyboard! Suffice to say it was wonderful - Emil chose for us and I must confess that I was pleasantly surprised at how yummy everything was. You don't usually think of Croatia as a gastronomic capital of Europe, but take it from me it should be. We were even more pleasantly surprised to discover that three courses, a couple of glasses of wine each and tea came to £36 between us. Clearly, we were going to eat like Kings in Croatia!

Welcome to Zagreb...

2007-06-04T10:45:00.000+01:00

Country number 24 (on the 30 Countries Before 30 challenge with Toby) came in at just under 36 hours in Croatia - unquestionably one of the most fascinating and unusual places I have ever visited.

It all started with some fun and games on Saturday morning: forgetting to pack, losing my passport (and finding it), discovering that the Piccadilly Line wasn't in the mood to take anyone to Heathrow last weekend, finally getting to Heathrow to discover that my mobile phone was happily snuggled under my pillow where it had been shoved after having the audacity to go off at the time I'd set it, having to page Jemma so we could check in together (oddly enough, she'd already guessed that I would forget my phone and was waiting for the page). Once on the plane we pogo-ed across Europe in an alarmingly lively pin-ball-ricocheting-off-clouds manner which meant I had to spend the entire flight with my head between my knees (when faced with any adverse flying conditions, my body usually elects to pretty much check out, in a charmingly Jane Austen heroine kind of way - I really should start carrying smelling salts) prompting the Aussie sitting next to us to enquire whether Jemma was okay because she didn't look great either, and Jemma to indignantly reply that she was perfectly alright thank you, that's just her natural complexion - we finally bounced out of the clouds and onto the tarmac in Zagreb.

I absolutely love exiting planes via a stairway onto the tarmac - it just feels like a proper arrival - and the misty evening and deep pink, hazy sunset lent the visible Croatian countryside a pleasingly other worldly air. Shortly afterwards, thrilled to have received another stamp on my still depressingly new passport, Jemma and I were confronted with the realisation that we had absolutely no idea what the currency was, nor its exchange rate to pounds. Or any idea how to get to our hotel. Or anything of the language (with the exception of the helpful phrases that lovely Mel of the Melbourne girls had emailed me, but I did worry that "eight beers please" and "do you have a girlfriend?" wouldn't do much to covey to a taxi driver our desire to go to our hotel). After a bit of lively wild-guessing at the ATM and vaguely wondering whether or not we'd just cleaned out our bank accounts, we discovered that Croatian taxi drivers speak the universal language of "Sheraton" and we were off.

At speed. Over the course of the stay, we learnt that Zagreb(ian?) taxi drivers are lively to say the least (perhaps that's what the pilot had originally trained as): we came within inches of rear-ending seemingly innocent drivers, had a couple of hair-raising diversions onto the pavement and more than once flew round corners at such startling speed that we were flung across the backseat into positions that platonic friends rarely find themselves in.

The scenery and outskirts that zipped past looked… foreign. Extremely foreign. I think that these days we are so saturated with images of Western Europe, the US, Canada and Australia in various media, that even when we arrive in such places for the first time, everything looks somewhat familiar. At the very least, I tend to have a mental image that may or may not be quite right, but is at least a starting point. Croatia, on the other hand - with the exception of war torn images from the mid nineties, I am ashamed to say that I really didn't have a clue what to expect. The first few buildings that heralded our arrival into the city looked appropriately Eastern European - dark grey concrete blocks of flats, the kind with deeply black windows that look like dead eyes, broken occasionally by a depressing line of washing or faded duvet cover thrown over a balcony. But then there would suddenly be a terracotta structure that conjured images of the Mediterranean, and the text on street signs or advertisements was written in non-European characters, text that to my ignorant eye looked Russian. The other thing I noted was the lack of globalisation - not one MacDonalds, Starbucks, Co-op, Spar. I couldn't guarantee that they don't yet exist in Croatia, but I certainly laid eyes on not one familiar brand name this weekend.

By the time we had chucked our things in our hotel room and freshened up from the flight, it was 10pm and having not been able to catch much in the way of dinner as it gaily flew around the plane, we were both quietly thinking that the other looked surprisingly tasty. So it was off out to hit Zagreb on a Saturday night…

Ich bin geschwindelt worden

2007-03-31T21:07:00.000+01:00

According to freetranslation.com, the title of this blog is German for "I've been had" so it most likely means nothing of the sort.

When we last left me - and I am sure everyone reading on the edge of their seats ;) - I was off to Munich for 10 days to photocopy. Well, that lasted a day before - for only the second time in my life - I quit. To put that in context, if I was to put every single job I've had in my life on my CV, it would cover probably 10 pages. I have handed in my notice in order to move on to another job before - I mean "this is out of order - I quit" type quitting. Twice now.
I was offered the booking late on Wednesday afternoon, told that it was a last minute urgent situation, that the client desperately needed people to fly to Munich first thing Thursday morning and work for 10 days straight for possibly up to 12 hours a day. My first though was "ka-ching!" - that many hours of overtime would be a lov-er-ly addition to the concert/travelling fund for the next few months. Plus, it meant a week of free board so I'd make lots without spending anything. Plus there was the adventure of flying out to Munich at a moment's notice, which is always going to appeal to me. The reason I'd told the agencies I was available was that I was a bit stuck on the main writing project I'm working on at the moment, and often a few days' boring work resets my brain a bit. And I can buy some more shoes.

So I agreed, and at an ungodly hour the following morning was at Stanstead airport ready to jump onto a plane. The night before, the agency had emailed us some more details of the booking, included in which were the bombshells that a) night shifts and b) we would have to share rooms - both factors that would have made me pass on the job had I been aware. So I was annoyed that the agency hadn't mentioned them until so late in the game (after my plane ticket had been bought) but figured that it was at least partially my responsibility to have clarified, so I had no one to blame but myself.

When I and the other suckers... I mean temps... arrived at the hotel in Germany, we were met by our team leader for the week - the man that the agency had promised could clarify all the details that they hadn't been able to. Details such as whether meals would be provided or we would have a per diem to cover such expenses. Well he clarified... that there was neither, we were expected to fend for ourselves for all meals other than breakfast (included at the hotel) plus internet access (which involved getting a cab into the centre of Munich and finding an internet cafe) plus get ourselves to and from the office (a short walk, but through snow and at 11pm in a strange city). I felt that this was unacceptable, and when I discovered that the hours we were working were all for one flat rate, so no overtime - and no one was willing or able to discuss this, negotiate, nor shed any light on why this hadn't been made clear to us prior to departure from London... I quit.

I did a bit of research when I got home, and was astounded to learn that none of those conditions are actually illegal - although I still maintain that they are unethical as only the most vulnerable workers would be willing to work 12 hour days for a flat - not great - rate, plus pay for their own meals and contact home for 10 days. And indeed, that's who I left behind - students, recent arrivals to the UK - people who didn't even realise that it is standard practice for the employer to cover expenses incurred by working away from home. It was further irresponsible of the agency to not only accept these conditions for their workers, but to fail to ensure that we were all fully aware of what we were agreeing to.

There isn't much I can do except rant in this blog - and know not to work for that particular agency again! Live and learn and all that I suppose!

My Technicolor Dream Career of Many Day Jobs

2007-03-26T17:14:00.000+01:00

When I mentioned, a few blogs ago, that I made my mind up to be a writer, I gave the impression that it was one definitive decision, at which point I downed tools at everything else, took up residence in front of my laptop and never looked back. In fact it was nothing of the sort.

I left drama school with vague notions of knowing I wanted to work in theatre, and most probably direct eventually. I lived up to the adage "take everything and anything you can get" and for two years I was box office assistant, stage crew, wardrobe mistress (including spectacularly stabbing Puck in a sensitive area during a backstage repair at an outdoor production of A Midsummer's Night Dream), script reader, stage manager, dramaturge (a script editor for theatre), casting assistant, literary assistant, and finally assistant director on a couple of productions before starting my own theatre company. Reading and editing other people's play scripts had whetted my appetite for writing my own, but I didn't do much about it until I realized that my brand spanking new theatre company couldn't afford the rather essential element of… scripts.

Part of the ethos I'd created for this company was to explore new and unique ways of storytelling, so I had always imagined that there would be an element of improvisation in our work. We set about devising pieces from scratch: I would come up with a concept, and character bios, and we began to improvise. If you can picture an artist's preparatory work: sketches around the subject, experimenting with perspective, angle, placing - it was a little bit like that. There was masses of trial and error, over 90% of our improvised scenes were never performed in public, and I had stunned actors storming out and threatening never to speak to me again galore. Once we (with however much of the cast was left!) started devising scenes that would form the actual play, I began to write. Initially, this consisted of literally transcribing the improvised scene, but gradually I started to re-draft, to shade and tighten, and then we would improvise some more, and finally we had a working script. I am grateful that this was my first experience of drama writing, because its having always been intrinsically wound into the actors' and director's process means that I skipped over the main beginner's weakness that I often see in scripts I read now: an… entirety that renders it flat by not taking into account the production process. Ideally, the script is the foundation for the finished project - whether it's theatre, film or television - it's the springboard from which everyone else starts their creative process.

Millions of miles from my point as usual. For the first few years after making the decision that writing was what I wanted to do - in some ways directing will always be my first love, and I hope to return to it some day, but writing is the priority for now - I would say that I dabbled in it. I thought about it, I scribbled out ideas and the odd few scenes here and there - in addition to returning to a variety of production work, and experimenting with other writing media - but with the exception of the pieces that I wrote for my course at the Vancouver Film School, I didn't properly complete a full length script for a good three years. I wrote a few (produced) shorts, did the odd bit of re-drafting, script editing, dialogue polishes here and there. All of this just about kept my head above water and let me pretend that I was an aspiring screenwriter, but, even in my own head, I never got anywhere with my own work. Then, just over a couple of years ago now, I got serious. I realized that… I hate the expression "shit or get off the pot" but it's applicable. Finally, that decision was properly made: the commitment to writing in every spare hour rather than going out or vegging in front of the tv, the promise to myself to block distracting thoughts of maybe going back to directing, or casting, or PR… I was, finally, a writer.

Except that unfortunately no one knew that yet but me.

So I devised a plan. I knew that it would take me 3-5 years to have enough projects of professional quality to actually start making a full time living at it. So writing time was my main priority, but I also needed to keep my bank manager from turning a funny colour without distracting myself too much. I decided that I would divide my time between sitting in my pyjamas wailing at a blank computer screen, and a succession of day jobs which would a) keep me just afloat enough to avoid lying awake worrying about bills, b) have enough variety to stop my brain from going on holiday and not telling me, and c) not be so consuming that they turned into careers in themselves or left me too exhausted to be creative in my spare time.

In the last two years I have been a club promoter, a fashion PR assistant, a bartender, an HR administrator, a studio assistant (for radio drama and music), a door picker (the bitch who decides who looks cool enough to get in to clubs), an events manager, a web copy writer, a celebrity babysitter (more or less ;) ), a marketing project manager, a legal PA. I've been a PA and had a PA; I've worked in hospitality, insurance, administrated for the British Columbia Liquor Board, dressed windows at Gap, stuffed more envelopes than I care to remember. I worked for the Refugee Commission in south London, taught drama to troubled kids, and worked in an oil refinery in Ohio complete with fire resistant overalls, safety goggles and steel toed boots. I've answered phones for television companies, insurance firms, investment banks, charities and music moguls (at one I was told off by Simon Cowell for being unable to reach the person he wanted to speak to, over heard a Scottish accent in reception, looked up and said "oh, whereabouts are you from?" before noticing it was Annie Lennox).

And that is how, last week, I agreed to go to Munich for 10 days to photocopy…

The Day Two Days Before The Day Before Tomorrow...

2007-03-20T09:49:00.000Z

Are we headed for an apocalypse?

I only ask, because this morning when I headed out for a run through Hyde Park (well I say run, I really mean tear hell for leather, arms and legs flailing in directions anatomy would declare impossible for about 50 metres, collapsing in a trembling, nauseous heap on the grass and remaining there until I realize I am lying in a pile of pigeon shite, repeating until home again) it was raining hailstones and I could see my breath in front of me. I had an appointment for a haircut, so I figured I'd go there and straight home again. But in the time it took for the hairdresser to shape my locks into something lively and spectacular, the sun had come out, so off I headed to frighten the tourists peering at Kensington Palace and wondering if Diana is home. Hot sunshine it turned out, take my jumper off and tie it round my waist hot - and even then, when I collapsed, I was a trembling nauseous sweating heap.

Now I am home, despite the bright blue sky and white clouds, I just saw a handful of snow flutter to the ground, and heard a single thunderclap.
In all fairness, I do live directly underneath the Heathrow flight path, so it could have been a noisy jumbo jet - but it definitely sounded like thunder.

I had another blog planned for today, if we are all still here tomorrow I will write it then…

The Great Unknown

2007-03-20T09:47:00.000Z

After two weeks residing in my pyjamas, when the closest I have been to real life is the Aussie soaps (I've taken to wandering around the house wailing dramatically in my best Madge Bishop voice) I have reached that stage of writing where I am so entrenched in a world of my own invention that my sister coming home in the evening is a traumatic event. She will, perfectly reasonably given that she lives here, wander into the kitchen and I will jump three feet in the air and scream in terror, so bizarre is it to hear a voice that isn't in my own head. It would be fair to say that she finds it somewhat irritating.

This afternoon, I realized that I had run out of an essential ingredient to the elixir of life that keeps me going - milk for my intravenous drip of tea - so rather than doing something intelligent like go to the supermarket and buy milk, I happily wandered up to Café Nero for a cup of tea.

So shocked was I to emerge blinking and trembling a little into the bright lights big city of Earls Court that I'd walked halfway up the road before I noticed that I didn't have my glasses on. I wear contacts most of the time, but when dressing myself in anything other than a sweats over pyjamas (apparently layers are in this year) might as well be black tie, sticking my fingers in my eye to attach spectacles to my eyeball is a surge of activity unlikely to happen.

Eyeing the distance to the coffee shop and the distance back to my flat, I decided that I was slightly more than halfway so - in the interests of returning promptly to work, naturally - I decided that I didn't really need to see in order to procure a cup of tea, so I might as well carry on. Despite tripping over a dog lead, walking into a display of muffins and spilling half the tea down my front (which, to be fair, I often do whether I can see or not) I thought that my mission had been something of a success.

So much of a success in fact, that by the time I had finished, I had forgotten that I wasn't wearing my glasses but had remembered that I wanted to wander to Robert Dyas to look at some blenders - so I decided that there was no time like the present and trotted off down Kensington High Street. Even wondering why I seemed to have trampled more tourists than usual didn't remind me of my sightless state, so it wasn't until I got to Robert Dyas and couldn't find the blenders that I was reminded I was in a pickle. I wandered around for a bit, peering in vain at small white goods and was afraid to ask a staff member where they were in case I was standing right next to them.

All Around...

2007-03-09T22:54:00.000Z

When Toby first told me about the “30 Countries Before 30” challenge and I decided to muscle in on it, I counted up all the countries I’d been to at the time and came up with something like 24. I just now sat down and wrote a list and seem to currently be on 22 so I am either missing some (a pesky little European one probably), or I counted a couple twice in the first place. The rules (according to Toby, who is the authority because he made up the game) state that the countries that make up the United Kingdom count separately, and stopovers count even if you didn’t leave the airport. So, in no particular order:
Scotland
England
Wales
Ireland
France
Italy
Vatican City
Greece
Holland
Switzerland
Belgium
Luxembourg
Spain
Portugal
U.S.A.
Canada
Australia
The Bahamas
Singapore
Thailand
Germany
Monaco
Which I don’t think is too bad in 28 years. It does mean, however, that I have two years (oh all right, a year and a half) to hit 8. Which means I have to start thinking tactically and stop going back to the same countries for a bit.

Having said that, I already have trips planned to Canada and Australia, plus the usual few to my parents’ in Switzerland, this year - so I’ll be mostly thinking tactically then. I do have my new favourite hobby of going to see INXS in foreign countries to help, so you’ll be able to find Jemma and I in Bulgaria on the 1st June, if you are looking for us (I’ve finally persuaded her that JD is edible enough for her to bear someone else singing Mystify) so that’s a start. Fingers crossed they announce some dates in other countries I’ve never been to. France and Holland are no use to me, and annoyingly I’ve just realized that I can’t make the Paris date anyway because it’s smack bang in the middle of the Isle of Wight festival - ooh, the Isle of Wight is definitely England, right? … bugger.

A trip to Iceland or Greenland on the way to Canada may be possible, but I don‘t have masses of time for that trip, it‘s a fly in, see friends, do some work, fall over in shock at how much Giselle and Lily have grown, and fly out again sort of situation.

So I am going to have to make the journey to Australia do a lot of work. Hot on my avoiding flying plans, I am thinking of either taking a boat - incorporating Morocco (we all know I‘ll flounce around growling “here‘s looking at you, kid“, right?), some of South America and New Zealand, or (and this one does rather negate the non flying thingy)taking the Trans-Siberia railway from Moscow to Beijing. That option would involve a few flights, but it would also avoid spending time on a cargo ship (there aren’t passenger ships to cover that whole journey) which, feel free call me a princess, doesn’t terribly appeal. In addition, the Trans-Siberia railway would mean I could a) pretend to be Hercule Poirot on the Orient Express and wander around twiddling my moustache, b) visit Mongolia which is apparently the least visited destination on earth - ever since Nick told me that I’ve had a hankering to go - and c) finally see Jeff and the other half of my brain (hopefully at the vodka restaurant where you go in the fridge to drink it which sounds fabulous - and as I will be starting in Moscow would rather nicely book-end the whole thing) in Hong Kong.

Decisions, decisions. It’s a hard life.

Ahhhh! San Marino! 23! Thank heavens for pointless little European principalities. Seven to go…

In the time it took to write this blog, INXS announced dates in Serbia and Croatia... five to go!

To Offer or Not to Offer?

2007-02-25T17:26:00.000Z

During my daily morning bond with the armpits of a resident of West London, I was stunned to notice a woman standing next to me, also communing intimately with a stranger. This being the Central Line at 8.30am , it was not in itself unusual, except that the woman was pregnant. I don't mean a little bit pregnant: I mean it looked as though there was a full grown person in there, never mind a full grown baby. You could not miss this stomach. Except, apparently, if you were one of the people happily sitting down, ignoring the woman who looked ready to drop in more ways than one. I was appalled.

A couple of days later, however, I'd made the heinous mistake of wearing heels to work. That evening I hobbled onto the tube and fell gratefully onto a seat only to be confronted by that horror of horrors... a protruding tummy . A few throbbing toes won't stand in my way of feeling superior; but as I started to jump (with a tiny scream) to my feet... I halted in panic as it occurred to me - was the offending tummy protruding enough? Was the bulge in question caused by the seat-deserving state of growing a person - or was it just a bit of a tummy with an owner who most likely wouldn't appreciate a hobbling stranger pointing out her distant acquaintance with crunches?

I stared, willing the bulge to somehow confirm whether or not it contained a very small person. It did no such thing. With horror, I realized that its owner had noticed my interest. Was she pregnant and judging me for not giving her my seat? Did she realize I thought she was pregnant but wasn't at all and was now planning to start a diet that night? Or was she just wondering why on earth a stranger was staring at her middle region with such a pained expression? What was I doing to this poor woman?

If you were recently disconcerted by a brunette (wearing great, if evil, shoes) staring at you, then please accept my apologies. But might I ask if in future you'd be willing to wear a small but legible badge proclaiming whether or not you would like a seat? That's not unreasonable… is it?

Leaving on a Jet Plane... or Not...

2007-02-21T08:17:00.000Z

I’ve been feeling a bit awful about the environment. Recently, the news has been saturated with dire predictions of global warming and accusing all of us who fly regularly of killing off Third World crops and murdering polar bears. I’m not too bad, as far as environmental conscience goes: I don’t drive, nor leave my cell phone charger plugged in or TV on standby and I faithfully recycle (I even set an ex up with a friend recently). But the flying thing, I can’t get past. Last year, I went on no less than 16 plane journeys (counting the outbound and return as two), none of them really necessary if we are to be strict about it. Travel is the greatest passion in my life, I sometimes feel overwhelmed by how much of the globe I have yet to see. But if my zipping off with my seatbelt on whenever seated in case of unexpected turbulence is going to destroy parts of the globe I have yet to see, maybe I should just stay at home and sit quietly on my hands? When it comes to long haul travel, it’s not as though there is much choice. The quickest way to get to Australia while remaining in contact with Earth is by cargo ship (which doesn’t sound to me as though it’d have movies or individual chocolates with a cup of tea) and it takes at least 36 days. 36 days! My plans for 2007 do include a trip Down Under, but try as I might, I can’t find a spare couple of months for the journey there and back.

The worst part is, it’s not even as though I enjoy flying - I generally see it as a necessary evil between me and wherever I want to go. I am not a very good air passenger. During my outbound flight to Australia last summer, I got out of my seat in an attempt to alleviate claustrophobia, asked one of the cabin crew for some iced water and promptly fainted in the aisle, spectacularly depositing the iced water over an unfortunate row of people. Which doesn’t even compare to the time I was on my way to Vancouver, happily glugging back litres of water in an attempt to attain peachy perfect skin despite the 9 ½ hours in a pressurised cabin, when we hit some turbulence. Fairly bad turbulence, bad enough to necessitate the seat belt light going on for 40 minutes. Which is a long time by anyone’s standards, but trust me, it’s an eternity when you’ve just gulped no less than 2 litres of water. Finally, having resorted to undoing my jeans to ease the mountainous pressure on my bladder and squirming like never before, the seat belt light flicked off and I dashed out of my seat like, as they say, a bat out of hell. Relief was sweet - but also brief as the seat belt light flicked back on seconds after I’d sat down, and seconds after that, the plane plummeted so sharply that I was catapulted off the toilet and slammed in to the door with such force that I saw stars and my nose started to bleed. Which was bad enough, until I remind you what activity I’d been engaged in before the world fell from under me, and share that blood wasn’t the only bodily fluid lavishly sprayed all over the cubicle and my clothes. When I was about five, I wet myself at school and was sent home with my knickers in a paper bag, but never had I experienced sitting through the remaining four hours of the flight, an inevitable interrogation at Canadian Immigration then a taxi to my apartment in the West End in the same state. As I stared around with an indescribable horror, there was a knock on the door and a member of the cabin crew helpfully informed me that I had to go back to my seat as “we were experiencing some turbulence.” In the end, I got through the flight, the airport, and the taxi home… wearing a pair of pyjamas from First Class. Which is probably the closest I’ll ever get to flying First Class.

So anyway. I’ve decided to give up short-haul flights. The rail system on the continent is fantastic, in fact, I’ve worked out that if you include journey to and from the airport, plus all the checking-in and security rigmarole, it’ll only take me a couple more hours to reach my parents’ in Geneva by Eurostar and TGV from Paris. Whether that will really do enough to reduce my carbon foot print I can’t be sure, but at least I will get to finish the journey wearing my own clothes.

My Nemesis, He-Man

2007-02-08T13:43:00.001Z

A few years ago, I made up my mind that I was going to be a screenwriter. The first thing that occurred to me to do - before anything mad like doing some writing - was to ring up Channel 4 and introduce myself. No, I don't know why either. On my lunch break one day, I rang up from my mobile and a very nice person actually took the time to speak to me. Naturally enough, one of her first questions was what I had written. Naturally enough, I pretended I had just seen a car crash and hung up on her. While it might have been a great moment for my non-existent acting career (I understand that people who can fake witnessing car crashes are much in demand) it probably wasn't a fabulous start to my writing one. In fact, it was the most mortifying moment I'd experienced since He-Man ruined my Highland dancing career in 1985. (At the end of term, each of us had dance a presentation piece to the teachers to show what we'd learnt. Displaying a flair for the dramatic that suggested my future talent as a pretend car-crash witness, I borrowed my little brother's He-Man swords to use in my routine in the hope that the teachers would think I had figured out the Sword Dance on my own. Tragically, during the dance, I skidded, kicked the 'on' switch on the sword and had to finish the routine with red flashing skulls at my feet and a tinny voice proclaiming " MASTERS OF THE UUNNIIVVEEEEEERSEEEE" over the hi-diddly Highland dance music. When it became clear that the teachers had noticed - the tears streaming down their faces was probably the first clue - I skipped straight out of the room and as far as Miss MacDonald's Wee Dancers of Kilmacolm are aware, have never been seen again.)

However. I am no longer six, and I am still a screenwriter. I had a reading of my current screenplay at Script tank the other week. Script tank is a fantastic group, consisting primarily of drama writers from various forms of media, who get together once every two weeks to hear a script read by professional actors and then tear it apart. When I say tear it apart, I generally mean tear it apart - we can be brutal. Constructively brutal, but brutal all the same. You'll forgive me then, I hope, if I confess that I was a bit nervous about the reading. I've had my work read, even performed, plenty times now and while it is always a bit disconcerting to hear a story that once existed safely within the four walls of my brain being uttered aloud by actors to a room full of people, you do get used to it. Generally though, scripts don't have readings until fairly late in their development - so by the time the actors have at it, the script, or at least outlines, will already have been read and critiqued by a few people. This time, for the first time, it was a first draft that was read. It isn't easy to describe the sensation of a project being thrust directly, kicking and screaming, from my immagination right into a roomful of people. It was terrifying.

All things considered though, it didn't go over too badly - the consensus seemed to be that it had potential... just needed a lot of work to reach it. Which is about right for a first draft, really. I have a clear idea of what I have to do with it, and feel as though it will be worth it when I do. The problem is, finding the time. I've learned that there are enough waking hours in the day to achieve any two of:
a) earn money
b) have a life
c) write speculatively
But not all three at the same time. At the moment, my life consists of juggling the three, doing my best to manage two-and-a-bit most days, which is just the way it is for the time being - until I manage to invent a time stretching device. If anyone knows of such a time stretching device, do let me know.

New project...

2007-01-12T19:56:00.001Z

Just dropping off my new project if anyone is interested in checking it out...

I've always been fascinated by the gossips and scandals of early Hollywood. As a good (and very eloquent!) friend commented recently, rock'n'roll may not have yet been invented, but sex and drugs certainly had.

I am just figuring out what I want to do with it yet, so feel free to let me know what you think!
Tinseltown

Web 2.0

2007-01-10T12:14:00.000Z

Well I, for one, am quite chuffed to be named person of the year by Time. Here I thought I was just blethering away personal nonsense for my friends and any randoms who happen by (welcome, by the way), and it turns out that I am part of an information revolution. Through sharing my views, opinions and news regarding the state of me in writing this blog, posting on a couple of messageboards, watching YouTube, commenting on friends' myspaces, I am helping to fundamentally impact the way that information is shared in today's world - and taking my tiny place in history.

No longer do I - or anyone else - have to rely on media moguls' interpretation of world events or embittered critics thoughts on films, books, music; we can all nip online and be immediately connected to a global network of random people like me chatting about our experiences. People who don't need to adhere to any editorial guidelines nor worry about selling papers; people just reporting our world as we see it; pure news unfiltered by the political or commercial agendas that all too often taint information we receive through traditional media.

Or are we?

The ultra democratic-ness (see? It's my blog, I can make up words if I want to) of the information presented on the Internet is a mind-bogglingly (and again) double edged sword. Anyone with internet access - which is a pretty hefty percentage of the world's population - can start up a blog, post on a messageboard, set up their own page. You don't have to be a great (or even good) writer with anything in particular (never mind interesting) to say; you don't have to be in full possession of your marbles; and no one is making you tell the truth.

While most of us have a pretty healthy cynicism with regards to the truth and nothing but the truth in the media, the old adage "don't believe everything you read" is even more applicable to the Internet. Articles bound for newspapers, magazines or television have to adhere to strict editorial standards and are rigorously verified by litigation-minded fact-checkers, but what's to stop me writing an utter load of nonsense here? Would you guess it wasn't true? How do you know that anything I have written here is true? Do you care?

Further, what's to stop me creating a myspace page or blog or messageboard account for somebody entirely fictional? Or, even more dangerously, someone who is perfectly real but isn't me? I realize that most public figures these days keep their (or their staff's) eyes open for such impersonations, but by the time the blog or whatever is pulled - would the damage already be done? I've been amazed before by the speed with which stories which started out fairly true have zipped out of control in a global game of chinese whispers; whats to stop me from starting one entirely of my own invention?

Very little, other than common decency. A few years ago, I produced a project television project which inadvertantly touched on this. We created a fictional tv series (as in, it didn't exist), hired (okay, bribed with beer) actors to play the actors in this series (still with me?) and sent them out on the town in London. The idea was to take a look at how easy it is to create a "celebrity" out of nothing but PR fluff - I would call up top London clubs posing as a PR girl looking after the cast of this non-existent show and arrange for a VIP guest list for them, then call the papparazzi agencies and do the same thing. As part of the project, I created and wrote blogs for a few of the characters (Carma Brandon Crispin) and three years later still receive occasional comments or emails for these non-existent people. Of course this was all perfectly harmless, but it does show how easily it can be done.

As people of the year, it seems that we have great power. If I might quote Spiderman briefly, with that power comes great responsibility; let's not screw it up.

Hanging in the Air

2007-01-07T14:34:00.000Z

I have a deal with myself. It’s not unlike the deal that millions of mums make with their toddlers regarding the ingestion of green, leafy, yucky things. I give everything I fancy a go, even - in fact, especially - if it frightens me, and if I truly don’t like it, I promise myself that I don‘t have to do it again. I fancied moving to Canada by myself, I fancied paragliding, I fancied directing plays for a living. Along the way, I fell in love with Canada, discovered that floating 800 metres over Switzerland with a Frenchman strapped to your back is really quite enjoyable, and that actors terrify the living daylights out of me. At the moment I am struggling with the fact that I truly don’t like working 9 to 5 for a living but that my bank manager probably won’t understand if I point out that I’ve given it a go for a good six months.

I’ve always fancied rock climbing. We used to hike at Squamish from time to time, and I loved watching people clinging to the rock face near Shannon Falls, twisting their bodies in bizarre contortions to reach the next hand or foothold, metres and metres off the ground. Call me crazy, but it always struck me as a fun way to spend a weekend. Which is odd, because if you asked me out of context, I would probably tell you that I don’t really like heights.

Yesterday in a fit of New Year’s activity, I headed off to the Castle Climbing Centre in Stoke Newington for a taster session. It is, literally, a castle - it’s a Victorian building, and, as our instructor explained to us during the session (at the time I was dangling from a rope about to begin a 100 foot abseil, so I might not have been paying full attention) Victorians were required to make buildings over a certain size look interesting or attractive. So this one - I think he said it was a water tower or something - was built in the shape of a castle. It looks pleasingly bizarre and out of place in the midst of East London council estates.

The centre was surprisingly busy, heaving with people of all ages and abilities and it’s an enjoyably odd sight to walk in to a massive room and see loads of people hanging off the walls. We were a group of four, an English bloke, a Canadian-and-Australian couple and yours truly, plus our instructor who claimed his name was Ed but as he looked like my sister‘s friend Joe was Joe in my head all afternoon. My first climb I found unexpectedly disconcerting. I hadn’t given masses of thought to precisely what was involved and it wasn’t until I’d managed to scrabble up to nearly the top that I looked down, wandering what to do next, noticed that the ground was rather far away and thought “mummy…” However, for the next climb, Ed/Joe gave us a route to follow - the hand and foot holds were different colours, and you could climb, say, all the blue ones or all the red ones. I found this actually made it easier, as the thinking involved to look for the next hold on my route and negotiate myself towards it, somewhat distracted from the weirdness of clinging to a wall a good storey off the ground. Having made up my mind on that first climb that rock climbing wasn’t for me and I was going to grit my teeth to get through the rest of the session then spend Saturday afternoons in the pub like a normal person, I soon found myself exhilarated every time I reached the top and addicted to the increasing challenge of figuring out the next route. Myself and my partner Matt both struck out on our final route - blue and green swirly rocks, damn them - both of us managing just a couple of holds off the ground before skidding off and hanging helplessly in the air in fits of giggles before Ed/Joe came to lower us to the ground. The Canadian/Australian couple both managed their most difficult climb and I did feel that motherland pride was somewhat dented. Particularly so hot on the heels of the Ashes.

I’d signed up for the taster plus session, which included this abseil. Now, if I am to be entirely honest with you, I wasn’t 100% sure what an abseil was, but I figured for an extra tenner it was worth finding out. I’d vaguely pictured it as pretty much what we did at the end of a climb, sit back in the harness and walk down the wall while the rope on the harness to is let out. Which is pretty much what an abseil is, but as it’s not always practical to walk down a cliff wall out in the real world, the abseil offered by this centre involves lowering yourself through midair. Through the centre of a 100 foot turret. Excellent.

We climbed to the platform up a (seemingly) rickety wrought iron spiral staircase, very similar to the one that gave me the heebie-jeebies to climb a mediaeval town clock tower in Tuscany last summer. Reaching the platform at the top, Ed/Joe had us all clip ourselves on to ropes attached to the railing - a thrilling thought that it wasn’t safe to stand unrestrained on the platform, but chucking ourselves through the trapdoor in the middle of it was just fine. I sat there waiting my turn rehearsing my thanks but no thanks speech (it was very similar to the thanks but no thanks speech that I rehearsed right before getting my tattoo, funnily enough) but all too soon it was my turn, and too late to back out. The rope was attached through the figure of eight hook on my harness, and I stepped - literally the most terrifying single step I have ever taken in my life - so that I was straddling the trap door hole below which the ground was a stomach churning drop. Had my wobbly legs given out before I’d taken hold of my rope… well Ed/Joe would have caught me on the safety rope attached to him but it would definitely have been scary.

However, once I put all my weight in the harness and - gingerly - lifted my feet off the sides of the platform, I found - if I didn’t look down - that it was a very enjoyable sensation. Not unlike hanging from a parachute over Geneva, there is something bizarrely relaxing, sort of extreme-yoga-like about hanging in the air with your feet touching absolutely nothing. The nice thing about abseiling (as opposed to para-gliding, when your fate is in the hands of a Frenchman) is that I let the rope out myself, so I could go at exactly the pace I wanted to. As I gained confidence, I started to let the rope slide faster through my fingers until I was fair zipping down the shadowy, dank, turret. What it must be like to dangle yourself like that through stunning mountainous scenery…. I can’t wait to find out.

Creative and Witty or Decidedly Weird?

2006-11-28T10:33:00.001Z

So it's official. The Central Line actually has delays written into its raison d'etre. I'd long suspected, but finally received confirmation this morning.

Uncharacteristically, a train showed up within a couple of minutes of my arrival on the platform at Notting Hill. Even madder, it wasn't jam packed - let's not get carried away here, obviously there were no free seats, but my head actually occupied only its own space, as opposed to that of a stranger's armpit, for once. So we happily trundle along - wonder of wonders, the train doesn't even sit in a tunnel for interminable minutes and then… at Lancaster Gate… an announcement comes over the loudspeaker "ladies and gentlemen due to a service requirement, this train will be held here for one minute." And again at Queensway. "Due to a service requirement this train will be held here for one minute." A service requirement? A service requirement to delay the train? That explains so much.

As I've mentioned before, I am a bit useless at the whole 'constantly on the pull' part of being single. I am not very good at noticing things in general (it's not uncommon for me to arrive home soaking wet and when someone asks if it's raining outside reply "not that I noticed" - and mean it) and so keeping my eyes habitually peeled for the man of my dreams simply requires altogether more concentration than I am capable of. My sister despairs of me. Whenever we are out and I am happily focusing all my energies into boogying to the wrong rhythm and singing along off key, she will grab me, whirl me around with slightly too much violence and hiss "there is a fit guy checking you out!" By the time I have emerged from my shell-shocked panic of "Who? Where? When? … Why?!?" Whoever he was has usually married someone else.

A couple of weeks ago, I reached a new crap-at-pulling low. I was drinking with a mate of mine, when a guy he works with joined us. This guy, on paper, is 100% my ideal man.
Tall, dark and handsome? Check (so sue me for being unoriginal)
Creative and witty? Check (at least I didn't say good sense of humour!)
Slightly wild, a bit of a loose cannon? Check (yes, this is one of my requirements… and you wonder why I am single!)
Decidedly weird? Check (don't look at me like that)
Canadian? Check!
We're all in the bar, some other people join the table, so we all get up to move to a bigger table. I had stashed my coat and bag under the chair opposite me, so when everyone got up, I hovered by the table waiting for everyone to go so that I can lean over and grab my stuff. Mr Right is also a gentleman (forgot to mention that - also swoon-worthy!) so he gestures and says "after you". I explained about my stuff, and Mr Right grabbed it, handed it to me and held on just a second too long after I took it, smiling a (I believe, patented) "you're the only woman in the world" smile. So what did I do? I thanked him and walked away. Now don’t get me wrong, I understand from my mate who works with him that this particular bloke is capable of monogamy for approximately three and a half minutes (usually in a jammed stop elevator) so it's not as though I gave up a chance of true lurve and hand holding through the park and babies, but I didn't even think that at the time. Here was, theoretically, my dream man, and it didn't even cross my mind to go into turbo-charged flirt mode (although goodness knows what that would have entailed).

However, just because I am useless at all this, doesn't mean my sister is. She is a woman on a mission, a pimping-her-sister-out mission. Her latest project works with her. It seems that she has pitched me, undesirable qualities (as only a sibling can) and all, and apparently he has expressed willingness to climb a rock. (In an effort to dissuade her, I once announced that I would only consider rock-climbers.) Last night she brought home a gift from the Project for me (a good start, it must be said)… an eighties teen girl book entitled "My Dream Man". Intriguing. Could this be a Creative and Witty check or a even Decidedly Weird check?

Michael Kelland Hutchence January 22 1960 - November 22 1997

2006-11-22T13:01:00.000Z

Where to start?

This time nine years ago, I was working my very first job after finishing school around six months previously. It was a terribly trendy PR firm and I happily pretended to be a character in Absolutely Fabulous while sending new fangled emails to friends and drinking champagne from 10am. That particular morning, I remember having a vague sense of 'something has happened' but for whatever reason had been in a world of my own that morning and hadn't paid much attention to the newspapers that people were reading on the tube. I arrived at work and busied myself with the first order of the day, making a cup of tea, joining the group of PR execs in the kitchen area who were all busy outdoing one another with barbed quips about this scandalous death dominating the headlines. One of the male event organisers caused much hilarity by confidently asserting that this was indeed a well known way to enhance orgasm - prompting everyone else to ask precisely how he knew. I didn't pay masses of attention, until I was headed back to my desk with the cup of tea, when I idly asked someone who they were talking about.

"Michael Hutchence. You know, who's going out with Paula Yates? Singer in that band, err…"

"INXS." I muttered, an indescribable chill sweeping over me.

"Yeah that's it. He's only gone and hung himself. Died yesterday."

I walked slowly back to my desk, telling myself that there was nothing to be upset about. I had thought the hoards crying over Princess Di's death a couple of months before a bit ridiculous - here was a man I had never met, nor was ever likely to, what did his death matter to me? It had nothing to do with me, it wasn't my place to grieve. But seconds later I was sitting at my desk wracked with heaving sobs, feeling acutely the absence of a man so vibrant, so alive, so creative that the world was a palpably duller place without him.

They say that the brightest stars burn out first, and that is the only explanation necessary. In the weeks and months that followed, as tabloid media picked over the gory details and speculated over what caused his death, I could only rage that it didn't matter. A father, son, brother, friend and idol is gone.

Musing for the week

2006-11-22T11:20:00.000Z

On Monday morning the Central Line was suspended from White City to Leytonstone. So despite its name, it neglected to touch central London whatsoever. Just to add to the fun the Circle Line was taking it easy, clearly easing itself back into work mode after a lazy weekend. We all know the feeling. It was off down to Earls Court, therefore, in the optimistic hope that a District Line train might see fit to take me to work. Clearly, everyone else in West London had had the same thought - who needs a sauna when you've got the District Line? As we all stood on the platform, bravely launching ourselves into the seething mass of humanity on the train, a bloke newly arrived on the platform asked generally of the crowd what was up with the trains. An elderly man, formal in a three piece suit, turned wearily around and replied in a cut glass accent "well they're fucked."
Just Monday morning then.

One of the Sunday supplements carried a feature about women's body image and relationship with food. It seems that we are all verging on annorexic, ridden with guilt and self hatred every time so much as a morsel crosses our lips. Err, who are these women exactly? Presumably they are all hidden away sobbing over lettuce leaves, or have dieted themselves to such teensy proportions that they are invisible to the naked eye, but for goodness sake would everyone please stop tarring us all with the same ridiculous brush? Don't get me wrong, if I were desperately overweight, if my health was at risk, I was hindered from doing things I want to do or people looked nervous when I boarded a plane, then I would worry about it and sort it out. But as a perfectly averaged sized person - neither a bag of bones nor as wide as I am tall - I eat when I am hungry, thoroughly enjoy a good meal, occasionally while away a boring morning at work day dreaming about chocolate but other than that do not give food a moment's thought.

It seems that a particular area of concern is what men think of our percieved wobbly bits. For one thing, I tend to find that most blokes, bless them, are fairly easily pleased and as long as there is a pair of boobs in there somewhere then they are happy enough. And further - I know the male species is regarded as a bit dim from time to time (again, bless them) but surely we should give them credit for already having a vague idea of what to expect? If I have dated a guy a couple of times, and presumably he has looked at me during those times, then why on earth would I worry that he will whip my clothes off and promptly fall over in shock not to discover Kate Moss beneath? Why would I want to date a man who thinks I wear magic clothes?

Razorlight

2006-11-02T12:56:00.000Z

After all the pallava of journeying down to the deepest darkest depths of Surrey and paying my 50p to pick up the tickets I am pleased to report that Razorlight were absolutely worth every iota of sleepless deep anxiety.

To be completely honest, I hadn't expected them to be quite so good live. You know those bands that come out with slick, fantastic albums and everyone goes bonkers over them and they win a billion Brits and Q Awards then gradually people realize that they can't cut it live so they rather swiftly swoosh off the face of the planet and no one ever hears of them again until one of them shows up on Celebrity Big Brother? Those bands that, when you hear them live, you are blown away by the talent of of the techs who mixed their album on the studio? Well if I am entirely honest I had a teeny sneaking suspicion that Razorlight might be one of them. The UK is just so saturated with them right now, that cynical me thinks that if someone's promotion team is working that hard, they are trying to squeeze out all the dosh they can from the hype before anyone notices that they can't play for toffee.

However, I stand corrected. Those boys can play - not even in the usual Brit rock/indie girlie boy kind of way - they rock. The show opened with a stunning drum solo - their drummer is phenomenal - then the bass then other guitars kicked in one by one (someone been watching Live Baby Live?!) and we were off to a roller coaster ride of rocking tune after rocking tune. Their instrumentals were spectacular - Johnny's voice one of the strongest I've heard in some time (he held a few notes for a faint-inducing amount of time) they performed overall with an energy and confidence that far outweighs their years.

I am thrilled to finally have a Brit band that I truly love - since James, Blur and Travis (only one of whom are still together and even they've been quiet for some time) I have really struggled to find a home grown band. I think Oasis are the most overrated act since Madonna (who I can't bear) and while I like Franz Ferdinand and Snow Patrol, I am not blown away. Yet, at least - looks like I'll be seeing Snow Patrol in a few weeks so might end up adding them to Claire's hall of fame after all. I am sure that they are thrilled.

Serves Me Right for Cheating on INXS...

2006-11-01T12:01:00.000Z

There are very few things that truly wind me up. As a general rule, I am of the "meh, it'll figure itself out" school of thought. When I got my passport renewed less than 24 hours before I was due to check in for a flight to Vancouver, my mum was in a deep state of sleepless anxiety, but until the plane actually took off without me on it, I refused to get all that stressed about it. Every time I tell the story of running out of petrol in the middle of bugger all in north Queensland and having no choice but to sleep in the car alone, people gasp and exclaim (okay fine, exclaim might be a bit of an exageration) that I must have been terrified - and looking back, realizing that absolutely no one in the world knew where I was (other than "between Townsville and Brisbane") and my cell phone was with my friend Tony (and therefore a couple of hundred kilometers behind me in McKay) it strikes me that it was a bit worrying. But at the time, I just shrugged and cuddled down on the backseat because what choice did I have?

It's not that I am a terribly mature, evolved, mellow person - I think it comes down to sheer laziness actually. If I can see something to be gained from kicking up a fuss, then I will do so; but if it clearly isn't going to achieve anything then I would rather expend the fuss-energy elsewhere. There are a few exceptions:

1) Truck drivers who signal their preference for going faster by driving three feet behind me and flashing their lights. (Australian truck drivers are the worst - especially those on the Bruce Highway when I am going over the speed limit and there is no where to let them pass.)
2) Doormen at West End clubs (just in general. I unequivocably detest every last one of them - and that's not a generalization, I have pretty much had a run in with every last one of them. The king of those detested by me is currently the pretentious halfwit on the door at Café de Paris who thinks he has the right to comment on other people's appearances - not mine, incidentally - when he thinks it appropriate to gel his hair back in 2006.)
3) South West trains (just in general - I do believe that they slowly suck my soul out every time I have to get on one of their interminably slow/delayed/cancelled excuses for a train service.)

And that is pretty much it.

Having said all of that, I am currently in a deep state of sleepless anxiety (although to be fair, given that it's 11.42am my boss wouldn't be thrilled if I was in a state of sleepful anxiety) due to panicy high jinx over getting hold of tickets for this evening's Razorlight concert at Wembley. I bought them off Ebay (a brilliantly selfish Christmas present for my sister as I get to go with her!) on Saturday. I did not - pay attention, because this is important - sign in to PayPal to pay for them, because I couldn't remember the password. Instead I put in my card number and address and waited patiently for the tickets to arrive. I fully accept that I should have paid more attention to the receipt when it was emailed to me, but you don't usually, do you? I glanced over it, it all looked fine and that was that… except that it turns out that Ebay or PayPal obviously recognised my email address or card number or something - because they added the transaction to my PayPal acount - which has as a postal address my parents' down in Surrey. Which is where the tickets are now. I frantically email mum to get our neighbour who has a key to our post box's number, hoping that she can get the tickets and I will send a courier down to pick them up… except that the neighbour isn't home. Most likely to stop me dancing around the office screeching and tearing my hair out, Emma suggested that I take a half day's holiday and go and get them myself. So that is all fine. Until mum emails to remind me that the sorting office in Horsley shuts at 12.30pm… which is less than an hour away and as it's at least an hour and a half's journey (on buggering bollocksing fuckwit South West trains) I am unlikely to make it. I've phoned the sorting office and the man there promised to take the tickets across the road to the post office in Bishopsmead Parade, which is open until 6 and this is going to cost me 50p. I plan to invoice PayPal.

The Soul Mate Train

2006-10-25T20:38:00.000+01:00

So I did actually have a point by bringing up my lively love life. I am not entirely sure right now what it was at the time, but upon further musing - assisted by the fact that I am currently re reading Around the World in 80 Dates by Jennifer Cox - I have been thinking about the idea of soul mates. To me, the concept of dating as a fun activity, and the actual search for Mr Claire are two entirely different things. Dating is a) a reason to get dressed up for a midweek evening, b) an excuse to unleash any untried stories or anecdotes on an unsuspecting member of the male species who in return buys me food to shut me up and c) possibly spending time with a potentially interesting, potential (see how I take nothing for granted?!) new friend. So that's that: it's fun, something I miss in London hence the (as yet un-executed) match.com plan.

I've always had this sense (for absolutely no reason whatsoever) though, that dating and flirting and all that nonsense doesn't in fact have all that much to do with Mr Claire - for the past however many years, I have been working on the assumption that he'll just wander into my life somehow, hopefully we'll get on quite well, and that will be that. I do feel as though if I have to go to all sorts of contortions and effort and panic to find him or get him to notice me - surely I will have to keep all those sorts of contortions and effort and panic up throughout our relationship and surely that will be a bit knackering?

However, given my famously varied taste and attention span of an insect, what he will be like, look like… I have absolutely no clue. I don't even know if I will recognise him, to be honest, I am rather hoping he'll be wearing a badge or something. Of course, what he will be like (or presumably already is like even though I don't know him yet - if he hasn't been born yet I might be in trouble) leads me to my next pondering subject: is there only one of him? I don't think so - if I can quite cheerfully have spent 23 years in love with six (at any given time) members of INXS, I can't imagine that there is only one real life man for me.

So what do I do if more than one shows up at a time (hopefully both wearing their badges)? If we all have a number of potential soulmates, are some of them more soul matey than others? Is it a case of there is one or two head soul mates and possibly a few henchmen who will keep you warm until the head bloke is legal/divorced/out of prison or are there different soul mates for different stages of your life?

Ahh - now that, leads me on to tomorrow's subject (please try not to fall over and hurt yourselves as you bounce in anticipation.)

The United Dates of Claire

2006-10-24T12:19:00.000+01:00

I am fairly sure that it was a quotation from someone like Tallulah Bankhead or Marylin Monroe, probably not the most ideal romantic role model, but one that seemed perfect for the "I'll be fabulous any minute now" me that I was at around age 19. She said something to the effect of, rather than searching for that one suitable man, you should go out of your way to date as many unsuitable men as possible. Seemed like a clever enough plan to me. I couldn't - indeed, still can't - think of anything worse than reaching old age and sitting around wringing my hands wailing "what if?" and "if only!" - so it made sense that in order to avoid settling down and always wondering what else was out there, I would make sure that by the time I settled down, I would not only knew what else was out there, but would have dated them all just to make sure. Nearly 10 years later, I have indeed worked my way through plenty of unsuitable - though fun - blokes, and a few lovely but not quite ones.

There was Nicholas, the engineer whose firm I temped at, who talked about sausages a lot. I don't mean that in some dodgy metaphorical way - he was French, and literally liked to discuss various types of sausages. I invited him to a party at my flat and, giddy with his acceptance, forgot to plan the party until the night before when my then flatmate and I frantically rang round everyone we had ever met begging them to cancel their plans and come to our 'party' instead. It worked, and Nicholas and I had a somewhat lopsided - due to his full leg cast following a rugby injury - encounter on my front doorstep. After a couple of dates I bored of the sausage talk and soon after met Andy who was born on the same day as Jon Farriss - in fact, it hit me a while ago that in addition to Andy, I've also dated a bloke called Jon, an Aussie bloke (okay, a few Aussie blokes) and a drummer - it seems that I am unconciously Dr Frankenstein-like trying to build myself a Mr Farriss the Youngest. In the continuing absence of the real one showing up on my doorstep to declare undying love, I fear that I might next have to go after a bloke with a penchant for wearing sparkly trousers. Then there were the two actors, best mates, who thought it hilarious to constantly badger my flatmate and I for a foursome - we once called their bluff to see how they'd react and after a few bottles of wine spent a few minutes half heartedly snogging before I and one of the blokes got bored of the whole thing so went to my room to have a chat while the other two got on with it in the living room.

This was all before I left London for the first time. In the next few years, I learned that Canadian men are very flattering - sometimes confusingly so. A bloke I was head over heels with patiently sat me down to tell me how amazing I was rather too many times before I realized that this was his Canadian way of dumping me (poor bloke - can you imagine how his heart must have sank each time I gaily replied "well thanks, you're not so bad yourself. I'll call you later then!") Americans are quite brilliantly - although not always romantically - straightforward: "so I am really not in a place for a relationship right now, but you're pretty hot so I'll take you out a few times before I stop calling - how do you feel about that?" (Answer: "err, okay") Italians predictably romantic yet chauvinist (it seems that my eyes are like stars but, like all women, I can't drive) and Australians not only straightforward but somewhat impatient ("I've been talking to you for 5 minutes now - do you want to root or not?" - direct quote, by the way).

Champagne Confusion

2006-10-22T14:22:00.000+01:00

The rest of the weekend passed without masses to report. Saturday afternoon brought a wander round Portobello Market and a few beers with Aussie Mate, as he was headed back Down Under the following day. Of all the wonders of Portobello Road, the one stall that caught his attention was a bizarre collection of ancient cameras - those massive ones with wooden frames and accordion like sides. This was interesting, as, if you’ll cast your mind back to my Oz trip (I assume that you all have every detail memorized, yes?) you might recall that I spent a very diverting couple of hours at the weirdest museum I have ever been to in my life - it was a village of cottages in the middle of nowhere, just off the Bruce Highway, most of which housed random masses of old-ish appliances - radios and refrigerators for example. I am beginning to think that a fascination for old, mechanical, well, crap really, is a particularly Antipodean preoccupation. Intriguing.

On Monday night, Al, newly off the plane from Hong Kong, and I kicked off my birthday a few hours early with a bottle of champagne in the terrace bar of Ruby Blue. Lovely to see her. I’d barely sobered up from that when Laura woke me on my birthday morning with champagne and croissants - I have a great sister - and the day only got better from there as I spent most of it polishing off the chocolate things from Marks & Spencer that I’d brought in, then ended up with dinner at my one of my favourite restaurants (Kettners in Soho). It was there that I broke the news to Laura that I’ve decided I am going to give match.com a go. It’s not that I am looking for Mr Right, more that I enjoy dating, which as an activity is somewhat generally scarce in London. Worst case scenario, I figure, I will be able to freshen up my store of nightmare date stories. Unfortunately she misheard me and thought I said I was going to Hong Kong (an understandable misunderstanding given the context of drinking with Al the previous night) so started to have a go at me for fleeing the country yet again and was quite relieved to hear that I am simply planning on pimping myself on the internet. I think it’ll be a giggle - watch this space, and all that.

The next couple of days were spent under a veil of phlegm from a nasty head cold so not much to report (certainly nothing that anyone would like to read) so thus ends a week in the life of Claire. Actually I have just realized that I started with Tuesday the previous week, so I shared that I had a cold for no good reason, apologies for that.

Yellow Zeds and Elbow Wars

2006-10-22T14:21:00.000+01:00

Most of Thursday night I think I have already spoken about in more than enough detail. After the concert, Laura, Sarah and I decided to go and meet up with Aussie Mate for a few bevies. Walking from the Empire to the tube station, we annoyingly attracted the attention of some irritating bloke who appeared to be of the opinion that following us making lewd faces was the most effective route to our hearts - we ducked into a shop to lose him and made it to the tube, and then the posh hotel, without further drama. The lobby of the posh hotel isn’t easy to describe - it’s every so trendy, all minimalist white and instead of the usual clusters of sofas you find in hotel lobbies, there are weird seat type formations - it is difficult to ascertain whether they are meant to be sat in or admired like art - randomly scattered around. Aussie Mate texted to say that he wasn’t far from the hotel, so we chose a restoration style (although electric blue) chaise type thing that we were fairly confident was meant to be sat in - although we perched gingerly just in case - to wait for him.

I suddenly noticed a stunning, scarily sophisticated woman reclining in a bright yellow Z shaped chair, and watched in interest because surely if anyone could rise from the low yellow Z with dignity it would be her. I was more than slightly disappointed to learn moments later, that it was in fact beyond her. It was like that new Dove commercial in which the perfectly normal looking woman is made up then photographed, then the photos touched up until she looks like a supermodel - while I do appreciate the point the ad is making, that that level of perfection is only an illusion, on the other hand I like thinking that the potential for perfection exists out there. I have no interest in attaining it, but I like to think it’s there.

Well, I say I have no interest in attaining perfection - but I was interested to learn whether or not I would be able to rise from the yellow Z with dignity, so as Ms Sophistication had vacated it in her disappointingly ungainly manner, I skipped across the shiny white floor to launch myself into the challenge. It was only once I was wedged into a Z shape myself that I discovered the crux of the challenge - from the angle we’d been watching, we couldn’t tell that the leg rest of the chair was significantly higher than the seat of it. Naturally just as I realized that I was trapped in a position appropriate for a genealogical examination, the sliding front doors opened and Aussie Mate and his colleagues arrived. Aussie Mate was preoccupied - one of the blokes he’s travelling with is in a pretty bad way with a leg injury so had to be pretty much carried up to his room, poor bloke - so Aussie Mate just waved and shook his head in pity at my predicament before disappearing into the purple and silver lifts. However another one of their colleagues quite purposefully strode across the lobby and promptly lay down in what I can only describe as a human sized guitar case. That particular structure I am fairly sure was intended as decoration, but as this bloke doesn’t seem to be one for following rules and regulations, it apparently didn’t bother him and he passed a what appeared to be a happy few moments lying alone in a huge guitar case before popping up again and heading to the private residents’ bar. I’d like to think that it was a show of lying in weird objects solidarity with me but as my feet were somewhat blocking my line of vision I couldn’t be sure. Aussie Mate returned, I was rescued from my yellow prison, and we all retired to the swanky private bar where we drank lots and blethered nonsense until we were kicked out in the wee hours. This time, I managed not to physically maim any of Aussie Mate’s colleagues, although I did make a face at one (nope, no idea what possessed me either), and both waltzed with and informed that his moustache makes him look French, another. I suspect that Aussie Mate might not invite me to drink with him again.

Friday night, youngest brother Paul came up to London from his university in Wales, so he, Laura and I headed to our local club on Ken Church Street where somehow I managed to persuade the bouncer to let Laura and I in for free. We huddled in a corner and passed the evening drinking cocktails, occasionally doing impressions of various family members dancing and taking stupid pictures of each other on our phones. We had a brief excursion to the dance floor, during which I got into an elbow scuffle with a would be seducer of one of a group of girls dancing near us. Why, oh why, do English men think that hovering near the object of a their desire is all they need to do? I think it must be a bizarre form of fear of rejection - if they never get close enough, you can never be sure that it’s you they are hovering near so can never tell them to go away. The girl wasn’t aware of his presence whatsoever, so all he succeeded in doing was irritating me and therefore getting a few swift jabs to the ribs with my elbow (naturally followed by a wide eyed gasp “oh I am so sorry! I am so clumsy! Now bugger off.”) for his trouble.

A Week in the Life

2006-10-20T08:03:00.000+01:00

A lot of the blogs I have been reading lately seem to be more diary like than the random waffling of thoughts that fills mine, so here goes with a diary blog of the last week or so:

Monday I went to a screenwriters seminar in Soho. Quite a good one - I haven't yet found a regular writing group that lives up to the ABCs in Vancouver, so am dipping in and out of various groups and organizations in the hopes of making up for that. It was a talk on thrillers. Nothing desperately groundbreaking, but enough to flick a light on in my brain with regards to the thriller I have had rattling around in my brain for over a year now. I snuck out early and found a pub quiet enough to scribble out the story before the batteries in my brain went out again.

Tuesday, Nick and I went for drinks at Ruby Cube off Leicester Square. Over tacos, other assorted starters and plenty of alcohol we caught up - we hadn't seen each other since his round-the-world trip and my a-bit-of-Australia trip over the summer. Nick recommends Mongolia as a great unknown holiday destination - he says it's gorgeous, well prepared for tourists and yet no one goes there so it is also empty. It is one of the least travelled to countries on earth, which strikes me as a reason to go in itself. We then wandered over to a nearby posh hotel to meet up with a bloke I got to be mates with during my Australia trip, who was in town with work and turned out to be just headed out for dinner with his collegues. I stood on the foot of one of his collegues who was very gracious, and having inflicted some slight bodily harm, we left them to it and went to the bar that used to be Mezzo and is exactly the same now except it is no longer called Mezzo and doesn't seem to have unisex loos any more.

Couple more beers, then Nick (he's a trainee lawyer) had to call it a night, so I wandered off to meet my sister. Found her leaning up against the Trocadero, drunk as a skunk, eating chips. By this point Aussie Mate was finished dinner so I helped Laura finish the chips and we headed back through Soho to his posh hotel. Somewhere on Wardour Street, she decided that I wasn't spruced up enough to go to the posh hotel (in all fairness, my make up had, as it is wont to do, evaporated by 10.30am - honestly I could trowel the stuff on and it still somehow, err, slides off before I have had my third cup of tea of a morning) so she whipped out her make up bag. I decided that I looked quite gorgeous enough thank you very much (I must be the only person who gets beer goggles for myself) so I ran away and she chased me through Soho brandishing a blusher brush.

We made it to the posh hotel, were quite entertained when two smart blokes were turned away from the bar then Laura and I were welcomed in without comment (obviously the blusher helped then - she caught me.) After a fun chat which involved informing Aussie Mate of the various attributes of men of the Commonwealth, something of a specialist subject for my sister and I (we feel we owe it to Queen and Country) we decided to make a move and were staggered to realize that it was 4.30am. A mere five hours later I was sitting at my desk praying for the Apocolypse. Seventeen cups of tea later, it was 5.30pm and time to drag my comatose yet still slightly drunk carcass home to recover with virtuous salad (one positive point about feeling as though toxins are literally oozing out of every pore is that I crave health food) and crap tv.

As usual I've written a War and Peace, so will pick up tomorrow...

The Crowd 'Aint Pretty During the Show ;)

2006-10-20T08:00:00.000+01:00

I would describe the overall attitude of the British fans, diehard and casual alike, before this show as… pragmatic. Which is an odd word to use for rock fans but somehow apt. Essentially, people seem to have been thinking that while they'd prefer to see Michael, as that isn't an option then INXS is better than no INXS so here they were. Which I can understand - bear in mind that Rockstar wasn't really shown here so most people don't know JD from Adam - and think is fair enough really. To me, anyone who says that a band begin and end with their frontman displays a shallow understanding of rock music and the dynamics of a band. Michael Hutchence was a phenomenal frontman, one of the best that ever lived, but he was also one sixth of a phenomenal band and that band is still around. Having said that though, it is inevitable that a great frontman does… set the tone, for want of a clearer phrase, particularly for a live performance. With that in mind, one of the things I have adored watching develop over the past year is not simply INXS with some bloke ably standing in for Michael, but a fully evolved and newly reinvigorated band that exists proudly within the legacy yet is exciting in and of itself too. One of the London Reviews - the Evening Standard - mentioned JD's "likeable weirdness" which does hit the nail on the head a bit - there is a real playful, slighty (maybe even more than slightly) bonkers, enthusiasm to him that is clearly infectious and creates a brilliantly fun abandon on stage. It isn't better than the shows with Michael, of course it's not, but neither is it worse, it is unique and fantastic and all in all, hats off to the Canadian weirdo. I have most definitely become a JD fan this year, and while of course I would jump at the chance to somehow see them with Michael in concert again, even if that was an option I would still chose to see the JD-ified INXS too. And it seems that as of Thursday night, plenty of British fans agree with me.

Just about every time I see INXS, I figure that I was incredibly lucky to be at a special concert where they are somehow especially on fire, one of those once in a life time phenomenal shows in which the band hit the climax of their genius. Then I see them again, think the same thing, and slowly realize that it's no one off fluke but just the way INXS play, every night. Shepherds Bush was absolutely no exception but for me what really made this gig was the crowd. The atmosphere was out of this world. From the opening, err, twiddle (the technical musical term, I believe) of harmonica on Suicide Blonde the crowd went bonkers and didn't regain sanity until probably some time Friday afternoon. There were a lot of blokes in the crowd, the most I've seen in a while (at an INXS concert that is, I don't mean to suggest that I live in a nunnery or anything) so possibly somewhat fuelled by sheer testosterone there was an absolute wild ferocity to the screaming, stomping and singing along that seemed to take even the band by surprise. The Shepherds Bush Empire started life, I believe, as a music hall, so it has four tiers - the floor in front of the stage, then three balconies stretching upwards. During Mystify, I turned around to see a couple of thousand people, the top level must have been a good two and a half storeys above the stage, each and every one with their hands above their heads clapping along. At times the place just about rattled with the vibrations of the dancing and stomping.

My sister, she of the chronic piss taking, was right at the forefront of the rabble bellowing at Tim during Never Tear Us Apart - although later on the tube she asked why we were bullying him so, surely it is up to him when he plays the fucking riff? When finally, an emotional band dragged themselves onstage and the lights went up, there was an almost palpable air of utter stunnedness, a loud, unspoken "holy fuck. That was INXS, then."

We'd have been better off just keeping walking

2006-10-15T13:12:00.000+01:00

Right. Despite somehow being persuaded to go clubbing last night with my sister and our brother I did manage to crash out enough to get my brain back from the cleaner's so here we go with a proper recap.

Such is my penchant for jumping on planes to see INXS in concert (hey, everyone needs a hobby) that on Thursday it was the first time in many years, I actually had to work on the day of an INXS concert. Well, I say work - I had to be present in an office on the day of an INXS concert. Luckily, a colleague (another crazy lifelong fan) and I, much to the unadulterated joy of all those who sit near us, declared the Thursday INXS day. It was such a success that we are thinking of petitioning the Queen to have it made a bank holiday. So after irritating the hell out of everyone by boogying around and generally squeeing all day, at 5.29 on the dot I shot out of the office like a demented cannonball, all but vaulted the ticket barrier then threw myself on the floor, kicking and screeching "MOOOOOVVVVEEEEEEEE" at the interminably dawdling Circle Line, finally arriving at my flat a sweating, crazed, shadow of my former self. My lovely friend Sarah (many years ago we solemnly decided that we could only continue our friendship because she was in love with Michael and I was in love with Jon, therefore there would be no tearing each other's hair out in undignified fits of competition) arrived, we flagged a taxi and jauntily informed him that we needed to get to the Shepherds Bush Empire and we needed to be there by 10am this morning then the queue started forming, please.

"I can see you're in a hurry love" the driver commented. "You forgot to get dressed."

Tutting at his impertinence but inside quite pleased to receive confirmation that I was suitably attired to breathe the same air as INXS, I turned to Sarah and launched into a story on some minutiae of my life that I am sure had her on the edge of her seat. Gesticulating wildly and acting out all the characters as I am wont to do, I suddenly realized out of the corner of my eye that we were still on Kensington Road. This wasn't quite right at all. Amongst my many and mostly useless talents, I happen to somehow be a human A-Z when it comes to London's streets. I stun and amaze friends and family with my encyclopaedic knowledge of traffic hotspots and dodgy one way systems, and the Live Baby Live commentary drives me bonkers when one of them (Garry I think) mentions that they picked up the police escort on the way to Wembley at Hammersmith because why weren't they on the A40? It was Saturday afternoon, who in their right mind went to Wembley via the A306?? So I wasn't best pleased when our taxi pulled onto Hammersmith roundabout because it's not the right way to Shepherds Bush either. Emma was texting from inside the venue, Laura was standing outside - and Sarah and I were in fucking Hammersmith… pulling up at the Palais.

"You did say the Hammersmith Palais, right love?"

Like a soap opera widow throwing herself into an open grave, I nose dived on the taxi floor and screeched "NNNNOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! Shepherds Bush EEEMMMPPIIIIIIIIIIIIIRRREE!!!"

It was at this point that I desperately texted Emma to beg her to spread eagle in her spot (stage Tim, not far from the front) to save some space for us, and she quite rightly replied that if she was going to spread eagle for anyone at an INXS concert, it wouldn't be me. Sarah clicked her fingers in front of my face to distract me and avert impending cabbie-cide. A while later we pulled up at the Empire, and made it inside to meet a grateful Emma who was desperately holding back the hoards and nearly sinking into the splits. Alcohol was procured, and all was right with the world.

The Commonwealth Rocks the Empire

2006-10-13T15:32:00.000+01:00

Wow. Where to start.

Right now I am aching, bruised, hungover, and have utterly lost my voice. Everything is just as it should be the morning (okay fine, it's 3pm) after INXS blew the fucking roof of the Shepherds Bush Empire.

I posted a few months ago that by the time they got to London they would walk on stage, the whole place would simply combust, and that would be that. And, that is more or less precisely what happened last night. I long ago ran out of new adjectives to describe INXS playing live so apologies for most likely repeating myself: it was superb. My sister, who has never been an INXS fan, and indeed has mercilessly taken the chronic piss out of my obsession for many years now, was dragged along last night, and a few songs in, she turned to me and said "I get it now."

The only word I can use (and indeed did this morning in an ill advised phone call to Hong Kong from my mobile - can't wait until that bill comes in!) to describe the atmosphere in the crowd is feral. It was absolutely wild - the stomping, screaming, singing along and constant moshing (the most cardio I've had in, err, years probably) was phenomenal to be a part of and I was thrilled that London thusly did INXS proud. We just about drowned JD out at points, even during songs not your usual singalong ones - Suicide Blonde stands out, for example - and during Devils Party, Hungry, Never Let You Go and Pretty Vegas off Switch which is not even released in the UK until Monday.

Billions more to say that will have to wait until my brain defragments a bit, but for now - welcome back to Blighty boys, don't be strangers.

Underground Overground

2006-10-09T10:40:00.000+01:00

Underground Overground
This morning, the tube was particularly hellish. It is a curious sensation not having one iota of personal space in a crowd of grumpy strangers; it is indeed a sweaty sensation. It is a sensation that makes me want to beg the person next to me to set my toes on fire because the distraction would be a welcome respite from the hell I am experiencing. This morning, it was fractionally even worse than usual, because for the first time this year I have broken out the boots and sweater winter attire which doesn't do much for the old sweat situation. So I tried to take my sweater off (don't panic, I had another top on underneath) but due to the space situation only managed to hike it up around my armpits before getting stuck. So I remained, wearing my sweater like one of those 80s hoods around my neck and shoulders and tried to look like it was a deliberate fashion statement. It was at this point that I saw JD Fortune on the tube. Luckily in the interests of me not screaming, fainting or accidentally nibbling on him a bit, it wasn't really him, but a picture of him accompanying an interview with him in this morning's Metro. So I contorted, still with my sweater snugly hugging me just above my boobs, sweat still pouring down my face, to read the interview over some bloke's shoulder. Unfortunately, Mr Fortune, as he is wont to do, made some witty comment and I quite inadvertantly snorted with laughter, rather startling the bloke who was unknowingly sharing his paper with me. At this point, one of my Ipod earphones fell out, dangling just in front of the bloke's head and giving him a good blast of INXS. I don't really blame him for the somewhat judgemental look that he gave me.

Re emerging back into the world at St Paul's tube station minutes later, my mobile bleeped. Chuffed that someone clearly loved me enough to ring me at such an ungodly hour, I listened to my voicemail... to hear no less than 16 voicemails from people telling me to get the Metro.

Beauty Drop Out

2006-10-08T08:28:00.000+01:00

It’s not a case of not being a vain at all. Like everyone else, I prefer to look okay than not: I do manage to shower and dress fairly regularly, straighten my hair on occasion and once or twice have even been known to fix up my make up in between work and evening. It is simply that, in a list of everything I plan, or mean, or think about doing in a week - from work and going out, to a grocery shop, some ironing, reading all the Sunday papers, replying to all the emails and phone messages I am perpetually woefully behind with - it is inevitable that some things don’t make the final cut. And generally, beauty things, that general polishing and hair-harvesting stuff that is expected of woman, particularly women of my age and lifestyle, are amongst those told that they are just not right for my life, this week. Don’t worry, I am not going all European on you, even I can manage whip round with a razor in the shower, I mean more the detail stuff. The stuff with scary names, like exfoliating and, err, buffing.

So it was with some trepidation yesterday morning that I set off on a mission. A mission that involved the chopping of split ends and the pouring of hot wax on my face - both of which sound, to me, like punishment for treason. Actually making an appointment for a haircut on a Saturday afternoon is way too much like organization for me, so I hopefully wandered up Kensington Church Street where there are about a gazillion salons, to see if there was someone who could fit me in. Four salons later, I felt terribly sheepish about my presumption and was resigning myself to another week of a haircut that wouldn’t look out of place on a sheepdog, when a young man shoved a flier in my face. Usually, fliers handed out in central London involve either learning to speak English or friendly Russian girls with whips, both of which I am pretty much set for, so I was all set to chuck it in the bin when something caught my eye: “haircut - £10!” Result! I thought. Now, even I am aware that the only people who can get a decent haircut in central London for £10 are seven year old boys, but as all I wanted was a trim rather than anything done to the style, I figured that it was safe enough. Off I trotted to the address on the flier. An illustrious salon, as it turned out, decorated in the style of the Beauty School Dropout sequence from Grease stained with 30 odd years of chain smoking. Lined above the mirrors were those old fashioned space helmet like hair dryers which I believe were once used to set perms and possibly blue rinses. The mirrors were, naturally, ringed with light bulbs which set off the swirly seventies wallpaper and cracked linoleum nicely and the whole place had a sort of yellow tinge, like a Polaroid photograph taken in 1982. Inspiring. Even more inspiring were the three stylists sitting glumly on the customer chairs: one swinging idly in circles putting me in mind of a caged animal, the other two staring at the floor, all three looking for all the world like extras in a East European movie. At a funeral. So naturally I gaily waved my flier and, hoping that it didn’t come out like a cruel joke, asked if they could fit me in. They could. The stylist who’d been swinging in circles stood up, revealing himself to be the lovechild of a Soho rent boy and a bloodhound, stared at me and my hair as though he might cry, then sighed and beckoned me to the shadowy back where there were four stained sinks and mismatching chairs. I made for one of them, he snapped that that one was broken, I had to sit in this one. I obeyed. You might have thought that at this point I’d be some what concerned as to what this man planned to do with my hair. Especially as he hadn’t asked what I wanted, or even properly looked at it (it was in a ponytail when I walked in) but at this stage I was thoroughly enjoying the bizarre experience and figured I could always buy a wig if absolutely necessary. Yes I know, sometimes I agree I should be slightly more vain.

Luckily for all he planned to do very little. He washed it - I don’t mean to sound high maintenance, but the scalp massage promised by the flier was somewhat desultory - then when it was combed out wet, he scowled at it, snipped approximately three times and informed me that I was done.
“Errr, what about drying it?” I asked.
“That’s £5 extra.”
I don’t think so. It wasn’t the extra money that I objected to, £15 for a haircut is still hardly breaking the bank, it was the fact that he’d waited until my hair was sopping wet before springing this on me. It was like a plumber showing up at my house, pulling the cistern to pieces then announcing that it would cost more to put it back together. He got my hair wet, he could bloody well dry it. My argument however, fell on deaf ears. I especially didn’t feel that the plumber analogy was appreciated. Eventually I resorted to pointing at the miserable day outside and, omitting that I leave for work every morning in life with hair wet from the shower, announced that I would most likely come down with pneumonia or pleurisy or something.
“Fine, you can use the hair dryer.” He shrugged.
Err, I can? He took it out of the drawer and slammed it on the counter next to me, then took his own seat and resumed his swinging in circles. As I don’t even own a blow drier, it is safe to assume that I probably didn’t impress the three stylists who watched - two curious, one furious - me dry my hair with a sniffing attempt at dignity. I paid my £10 and when he asked for a tip suggested that he don’t have his customers dry their own hair, then emerged back into 2006 with precisely identical looking hair. If you were to show a before and after picture of this haircut, you could hold a competition to judge which was which.

Despite the entertainment value of the hair cut, I decided to splash out on a proper place, with employees who wouldn’t shout at me, for my eyebrow shape. I have rather a lot more hair, therefore more margin for error, than I have eyebrows. My eyebrows were duly shaped and I headed off down Ken High Street for a bit of shopping. Utterly forgetting just how sensitive my skin is. So sensitive, that whenever I wax anything (I’ll just leave what to your imagination) my skin swells, reddens, and even bruises for hours. And so I moseyed the shops of High Street Kensington looking like the Elephant Man. With a sheepdog’s hair cut.

Lucky I am not that vain, then.

The Home Stretch...

2006-09-22T13:42:00.000+01:00

Okay, so I lied about being completely done with Australia. I was thinking like those personal trainers who enthusiastically squeal: "two more to go! … two… one… okay two more now… two… one… last two!" because if they actually admitted that you had to do six more sit ups you'd punch their lights out and go for a little nap.

When we last left me, I was scuttling out of the posh hotel near the Opera House in Sydney pretending not to be an obsessed stalker-fan but instead an invisible statue - to the odd look of the friendly receptionist blokey. Crap - obviously not all that invisible, then.

There are good sides and bad sides to meeting people via the internet. In common with the way I generally arrive at work and for most social events (unless there is food involved) I was fairly late to this whole online sociability; until about a year ago I used the internet for research and for keeping in touch with people I have actually met. Last summer though, having sworn absolutely not to watch, I was gutted every time I missed Rockstar:INXS. It became something of a spectator sport for people to find me, generally in a bar on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays (bear in mind I was in Canada at the time, no idea when it was shown in other countries), suddenly glance at my watch at approximately 10pm, slap my hand on my forehead and shout "bugger!" But, I managed to keep up to date with what was going on once I stumbled across the fan message boards. Between the brilliant Spoiler Crew who attended tapings and faithfully wrote up all that happened and the fans who discussed every broadcast moment in great detail, I was probably more comprehensively informed than most viewers. I couldn't have picked JD out of a line up, but I knew that he was the man for the job - evil Mark Burnett editing be damned. Over time, I found myself logging on, not just to find out what had happened on the latest episode I missed, but also to see what Junkyard Messiah or LAX Guy or Kylie thought of it, and thusly I was sucked into the weird and wonderful world of the internet.

As I say, there are good sides and bad sides; and I was lucky to experience the good side on my last day in Oz (actually throughout the trip, but I am telling the story of my last day in Oz right now.) One of my favourite things about travelling alone is meeting and spending time with people who, through geography, age, lifestyle and a million other factors, I would likely never otherwise stumble across. And that is just how I spent that last day: with a group of people from all over the place, all of whom I liked very much and none of whom I would have been particularly likely to meet in any other circumstances. We all 'knew' one another from the very message board on which the brilliant Spoiler Crew posted their Spoilers, which has since evolved into something of an INXS fan board. So a Brit, an Australian, a Canadian and an American all walked into a bar… no, it just sounds like a joke, we in fact walked from Bondi Beach to Bronte in the pouring rain and gale-force winds, blethering away like old friends, and watched some dolphins fishing. The one local amongst us then suggested an appropriately named bar - the Dolphin - to thaw out and tame our wind strewn afros, so we duly retired to the upstairs lounge huddled around a welcome fire where I sampled my first… second, third and fourth… Victoria Bitter. It was a very pleasant afternoon.

Earlier that morning, I'd received a text from a bloke I slightly knew from Vancouver who was working at the time in Sydney and who I'd planned to meet for a drink that evening. He had to cancel due to work, so rather than spend my last night Down Under aimlessly wandering the rain-soaked streets of Sydney, I decided to accompany the Canadian and the American (the Australian had other plans) to Luna Park on the off chance that there might be one ticket for that evening's sold out concert for scrounging…

Hey Good Lookin'

2006-09-21T12:07:00.000+01:00

Have you ever had a brief musical obsession that you wouldn't admit to anyone? I do occasionally - I get a particular song or artist, not my usual taste, normally charty pop (Uncle Kracker was one, and Angel by Shaggy another) constantly in my head and I don't always manage to stop myself before squealing 'my soo-oongg!!' and pogo-ing up and down a bit when it comes on the radio. I have that at the moment with Sandi Thom - not the Punk Rocker one, although I admit that I did bop along to it on the radio from time to time, but her new one - the one about the bloke making all the promises to be a perfect bloke and she doesn't quite believe him? I am sorry but I just love it. Specifically, I have one line from it incessantly in my head "you'll be my supersonic lover and you won't steal the covers" - but hold on a second… supersonic? Faster than the speed of sound? Is that a good thing? Sounds a bit, umm… rattling to me. Or would it be too quick to even notice? I don't know if I fancy that. Unless, as I am wont to do, I have misheard the lyric a bit. I do that all the time. I used to cheerfully sing along to the old Take That song "wash your back, wash your back, wash your back for gooood" and Macy Gray "I wear goggles when you're not there" (which, for Macy Gray might not be all that beyond the realms of possibility.) When I was in sixth form, the sixth formers used to take it in turns to pick the tape - yes tape - to play on the bus on the way home from school. When it was my turn, I - hold on to your hats, this might shock you - would pick Elegantly Wasted. Until one day, a stroppy little runt of a first year objected. The bus fell silent. I stared down at her in the manner of the blokey handing out gruel when Oliver Twist asked for some more and tightly requested more information to support her rejection.
"It's got rude words in in" she squeaked. "I don't want to hear them."
"What rude words?" I demanded, to the sound of the bus holding its breath in terror.
"I don't want to say" bravely she replied, although I was satisfied to note a tremor of fear in her voice, and she was speaking from under a seat at this point.
Eventually, I beat, err, got it out of her, that the song she objected to was I'm Just a Man. She thought that the line was "my willy's strong."

Anyway, this is just random musings and absolutely nothing to do with what I want to say today.

It was fairly late at night, after another feast had been consumed, all thirty of us sitting by the light of candles jammed into just-finished wine bottles in the gardens of our castle in Tuscany, that the talk turned to storytelling. I don't know whether it is evidence of ancient Celtic heritage, or simply the result of old friends consuming vast quantities of alcohol, but story telling is a hallmark of any event with the Glasgow crowd, and the Tuscany holiday was no exception. We heard about the time Uncle J (names censored to protect the innocent) was convinced that he could sleep standing up, like a horse, if only he was well supported enough. D duly stuffed him into a wardrobe packed in snugly with blankets and pillows, and he lasted around 10 minutes before begging to be let out. Then another 10 minutes while D stood outside the wardrobe killing himself laughing. We heard about the time they went camping in the pouring rain - the kind of rain that appears as though someone has just tipped a bucket over the world and soaks you right through to your bones. This being the days long before anyone thought of attaching tents to the ground sheets, when they pitched their tent (admittedly in the dark) it was on such bumpy ground that the ground sheet dipped in the middle causing a torrent of muddy slush to shoot through the centre of the tent. They had to stick their sleeping bags on either bank of their self made river and wave forlornly at one another. So cold were they that one of them (neither would admit to it) came up with the idea of heating their cans of beer on the gas stove - just to have some warmth. The stove promptly ran out of gas before they could heat their baked beans - so they ate cold beans and drank warm beer. While sitting on the sopping banks of their self made river.

However. None of the stories caused quite so much hilarity as the one about the time when Uncle J was fired for not being attired in a fit state for the Glasgow public to be faced with. He wore a tie decorated with parachutes. He wore dark blue velvet trousers, so flared as to appear as though he wore two small skirts around his knees. A purple shirt - edged with cream, and a beige cord jacket. And naturally, this was topped off with a pale Scottish person's attempt at an afro (I actually have one of those every morning before wrangling my locks with copious amounts of smoothing serum.) The job was to involve turning up at people's doorsteps to read their gas meters, and Uncle J's boss thought that he would frighten the housewives of Glasgow so he was sent home. Over 30 years later, he is still indignant.
"See, the thing about the seventies" he explained to us rapt history students. "Is that it wasn't about whether you were good looking or not, or skinny or not, it was whether or not you had the gear."

Interesting thought. On one hand, it is probably a good thing that these days it is rare to think that wearing a tie dotted with parachutes is a good idea, but on the other, it seems as though the 'look' of the naughties is less about your gear - with there being so many varied looks out there to chose from - but about your looks. The worrying amounts of people - men and women - undertaking plastic surgery or drastic diets to conform to the 'look' of the naughties might not find it so easy to fall about laughing over their physical fashion faux pas in 30 years. Decades of Botox might well mean that they might be laughing, but no one would know; and decades of near anorexia will likely mean that they won't be here in 30 years to laugh at anything. Suddenly wearing a parachute tie doesn't seem so bad.

Mateless in London

2006-09-20T14:16:00.000+01:00

This morning something startling happened. I was, as usual, squished into the sardine tin cesspool of doom sometimes referred to as the Circle Line, engrossed in my Ipod and pretending I was somewhere - anywhere - else, when I suddenly noticed a bloke had caught my eye and smiled at me. Not in a flirtatious kind of way - he was a good bit older than me - just in a friendly kind of way. A silent "hi". I was astounded. By lifting my head from where it was moulded, altogether too intimately, in a stranger's armpit, I glanced around to see if there was someone familiar to the Friendly Bloke smiling back at him. Nope. I mentally checked whether I was, once again, absent mindedly dancing to my Ipod (which does often motivate strangers to smile at me, in a somewhat pitying and slightly frightened kind of way). Nope. I looked back at the Friendly Bloke, but, having utterly befuddled me, he had gone back to his paper.

I was befuddled partially because that is my natural state at 8.39am, but also because that never, but never, happens on the London Underground. Or even in London, overground. Occasionally, when the tube, yet again, stops for no particular reason in a tunnel, people will catch each other's eyes in a common-irritation-eye-rolling-'typical' sort of way that Londoners do so well, but a random smile of friendliness? Never. I think that I am especially aware of just how isolated and - on the surface at least - glum Londoners appear, because I have just returned from Australia, where people grin away at each other all day. In all fairness, they do so in the sunshine and the knowledge that they could pop to the ocean for a quick swim or surf after work, which would make anyone smile; but, sardine tin tubes, crappy weather and distinct lack of ocean aside, London isn't all that bad - surely it deserves a smile or two?

It isn't just isolation from random strangers that London lacks - it is, in my experience at least, a lot more difficult to be social, full stop. Possibly because many commutes are so marathon-like, working hours so long, there is so much choice available, somehow keeping in touch with people - not to mention meeting anyone new - is a full time job. When I am in Vancouver, I hardly ever think conciously of having a social life - it just happens. Everyone somehow finds each other after work or at the weekend and we figure out something to do; but here, just arranging for a couple of us to get together for a drink involves dragging out diaries, negotiating over locations, and eventually settling on something early in 2007. There is definitely a bit of "I'm busier than you" one upmanship to contend with, which doesn't help, that Canadians just don't bother with. The first time I had a party in Vancouver, I was shocked when everyone I phoned to invite said either "sound's great, I'll be there" or "sorry, I can't make it". Yes or no, completely clear. No "well I'll have to see what I am up to…" or "I'll let you know closer to the time…" or "who else is going to be there?" Then, when everyone who said they would actually showed up at the exact time I invited them for you could have knocked me over with a feather. And not just because I had generously sampled a few pints of the punch I made in case I'd accidentally poisoned it.

I don't really know what my point is here, except to throw myself on the ground and wail like a two year old "I want to go back to Vancouver!!!" I think I am suffering from the post travelling blues a bit this week (they always hit just as the jet lag abates) so am down on London and up on… every where else really.

As a random mention - because no one would recognize that this was my blog otherwise - mention of the band that my grandma calls "inks", I am gutted about the Europe cancellation! It is so unlike them - I cannot think of another gig that INXS have cancelled, never mind three weeks of them - poor Tim must be in a bad way. I did notice him wincing a bit in Sydney, and a couple of friends who were at the Hobart and Melbourne concerts this weekend said that it was almost uncomfortable to watch him so clearly in pain. They did say that the concerts were phenomenal otherwise, so roll on Shepherds Bush!

From Sydney to London (almost)

2006-09-17T10:44:00.000+01:00

And so to Sydney and my final destination on my Australia trip. It was with heavy heart that I parked for the last time outside my hotel - I'd decided to throw the boat out with the nice Holiday Inn in Old Sydney - and dragged the luggage containing the filthy rags that remained of my clothing upstairs to my room.

There is something incredibly exhilarating about driving into a strange city of the stature of Sydney with absolutely no idea of where I am going. Knowing that at any moment I might stumble across something that I would recognise, somehow unfeasibly, from images from the other side of the world, is exciting; and sure enough I shortly spied some signs for the Harbour Bridge. Figuring that as I'd heard of it, it was a good place to head as any, I duly followed the signs and was disconcerted to find them, a short while later, evaporated. What I realized - I might as well admit that it was much, much later - was that, in looking for the Harbour Bridge, I'd driven over it without seeing it. I was now on a road for Manly and, as I'd heard of it I figured that it was a good place to head as any. However moments later, those signs too disappeared and I found myself on a highway, heading out of the city with alarming swiftness, in the direction of Newcastle. Newcastle! I've already been there! In panic, I turned the car resolutely around and steeled myself for another run at Sydney.

After only three more trips back and forth across the Harbour Bridge (each time paying the toll), I finally noticed it and managed to get myself orientated, found the hotel and passed the rest of the afternoon at the Maritime Museum then wandering about Darling Harbour. The Maritime Museum I liked a lot, although I didn't find it quite as clearly set out as I might have hoped. Had I not been reading some history of Australia at the time, I don't know that I would have been able to make the connections from one display to the next. I actually found the more recent history the most arresting: I'd heard of course of the £5 and £10 fares offered to Brits in the 1960s in order to fill up the Commonwealth a bit. In fact, my mum's family had been due to be such "ten pound Poms" in 1968, until my Grandpa took TB and the trip had to be cancelled. Strange thought: had they gone I would be - well I wouldn't be me as it's likely that with my mum in Melbourne and my dad in Kirkintilloch, that they'd never have met. However I hadn't realized just how many of those sent out were children. Some teenagers who asked to be sponsored under Big Brother schemes in order to achieve a life that they knew they never would in the UK; but some were orphans, sent out on a four week voyage by sea from (mostly) London's orphanages with no idea of where they were going - and no idea that they wouldn't be back. There is an entire generation of Australians who haven't seen England since childhood but perhaps understandably still consider it home.

That evening I met up with one of a new generation of Brits populating Down Under: those who head out for the obligatory gap year back packing stint and never get around to leaving. I do believe actually, that they are unknowingly part of a great swopping scheme: that for every person I went to school with who's never made it back, there is another Aussie sharing a two bedroom flat with twelve other Aussies in Earls Court (I have never understood exactly why they squish themselves in en masse like that: are they afraid of us?) After a nice visit with the friend of my sister's (and the 12 other Brits he shelters with) I wandered down to the Quay to have a look at the Opera House and Harbour Bridge (which is rather more recognisable by night, and by foot). On my way back, Sydney's streets, for the third time that day, all jumped up and moved around, so, for the third time that day, I lost my bearings. Luckily I spied a hotel nearby and dashed in to ask at the reception for directions. I hadn't even looked at the name of the hotel (it had started to rain again - that weekend, Sydney endured more rain than it has seen in 120 years) but as I waited at reception for the friendly bloke to unfold a map, I noticed on some hotel stationary that it was the very hotel at which - as plenty of Superfans had confidently asserted - INXS habitually stay at while in Sydney. Immediately paranoidly convinced that Tony would put me on his infamous - if alleged - list of let's say over-enthusiastic fans, I darted furtively around looking for all the world more like a stalker than two minutes previously when I'd been perfectly legitimately asking for directions. Luckily there was no sign of any rockstars or their suspicious security, and the friendly bloke eventually found me hiding behind a pillar and gave me the map on which he had helpfully highlighted the route back to my own hotel.

Driving Up a Mountain

2006-09-17T10:43:00.000+01:00

And so my - at the time - last Oz INXS concert rolled on. For the first time, I was not in the sweaty mass at the front vying desperately for a brief eye-fuck from JD. Which, by the way, I never get. He smiles, flirts and acknowledges plenty of people, but I - possibly through virtue of being brunette - appear to be invisible to the lanky legged one. Maybe because I call him the lanky legged one. Or, possibly because he can sense that, despite living in Vancouver for two years, I think Kraft Dinner foul and the only time I tried to play hockey I nearly brained myself with my own stick. Indeed, despite my standard chat up technique to the boys of Canuckshire being to ask them, with wide eyed innocence, just who exactly Wayne Gretzky is, I usually snoozed off before they were quite finished explaining so still don't fully know. Just on the off chance he ever stumbles across this blog, may I just say JD, may I just state for the record, that I love Keiths? In fact, I spent the best part of the 2001-2002 school year happily ensconced in the Cambie pub forming such a close and intimate relationship with Mr Keith that I now call him Al? Just keep that in mind for Shepherds Bush, please. Eh.

Just for a change, I digress. Being out of said sweaty mass, I had the interesting opportunity of observing the concert experience rather than being in the thick of it. That's not to say that you can't be in the thick of the experience from far away from the stage - I have plenty of back of Wembley and Earls Court experiences to attest to that - but that, as I'd seen the show so many times by this point, I could chose to notice things that I might not have otherwise. For example, instead of just staring dreamily into Jon's baby blues, I could appreciate what a clockwork rhythm unto itself is the relationship between him and his fantastic drum tech. Normally during a show Tod is so unobtrusive that that it is as rare to notice him as to catch a glimpse of a near extinct creature, like a platypus. Not that I would compare Tod to a platypus in any other way. At Newcastle, I had the perspective to watch as he crouched in readiness, handing things to Jon, moving his microphone back and forth and I am sure doing a multitude of other things I am too ignorant to see, but that keeps the driving beat that is the foundation of an INXS show moving smoothly. Equally I could see Lindsay, with the focus of a sniper on a starter block, poised holding either a guitar or saxophone ready to hand it to Kirk at the precise correct moment. I thought I saw him playing the guitar at one point, but he later explained that he'd been tuning it - the concentration required to do that during a show is mind boggling. There was a slight sound distortion at one point, when the bass seemed to be turned up, but 13 and a couple of other blokes I didn't recognize darted about for a couple of seconds and then I no longer thought that Garry was going to blow my face off. In my crew love fest, I even managed momentarily not to hate Jen, the woman whose job it is to help undress JD. Although he evidently takes responsibility for his footwear himself as he decided, inexplicably, to change his shoes halfway through the show. It took him about three songs to do so; with an almost feminine multi-tasking ability, he somehow managed not to miss a note or a beat of performance as he laced up a new pair of boots. Footwear issues aside, there was again that edgy vibe to the performance that was in evidence in Brisbane. One of the things I have always loved about INXS is that, despite their great success, they've never been one of those slick, mass-zeitgeist grabbing, can-do-no-wrong relatively bland (in my opinion) superbands like U2 or Coldplay. You almost feel as though they might spectacularly fall on their faces at any moment, and even though they never do, it's one of the things that make their live shows so exciting. I actually thought that this might literally happen in Newcastle, as JD (in the second pair of shoes) jumped up on a speaker and just for a second wobbled alarmingly backwards. My heat leapt into my mouth and I found myself, quite involuntarily, poised like a starting runner with my arms held out. Because, whenever 6"2 of Canadian lands on me from a great height, I am more than capable of catching them, twirling them merrily above my head and launching them back from whence they came with a cheery wave. Luckily, in the interests of me not being squished like a fly, JD regained his balance and disaster was averted.

The following day, my destination was the Blue Mountains and Katoomba. The western view from Katoomba particularly interested me, as for a good 25 years after the first penal colony was established on what is now Sydney, no one saw it. For an entire generation, as far as they were concerned, the country ended to the west with the mountain range. They had just about built the Harbour Bridge and started shooting Home and Away before a particularly determined group of explorers - Gregory Blaxland, William Charles Wentworth and William Lawson (thanks again to Bill Bryson - in fact, just assume that everything I know, about everything, I learned from him) - finally managed to scale the dense foliage and presumably uttered something along the lines of "well bugger me", when they caught sight of a bloody great huge country lying before them. Sadly however, I was denied the opportunity to recreate that moment after sitting in traffic for three hours to reach Katoomba, because the rain was so thick that I couldn't see a bloody thing.

So much of what I experienced in Australia was the exact opposite of what I expected - although I suppose that its very up-side-down-ness was to be expected. I had expected to shoot, in a mere few hours, from Cairns to Brisbane on a major motorway peppered consistently with motels and beach resorts, and I imagined Katoomba as a sleepy little mountain town. In fact, it has strip malls and is reached, at speed (traffic permitting) by a three lane highway. Despite this, it appear that there is little in the way of indoor activities on offer in Katoomba - grumpily staring out at the battering rain, I admitted the reality that I'd spent hours climbing a mountain in order to watch Neighbours in a motel room.

You know the way that siblings can infuriate you in a way that no one else ever quite achieves? That is precisely my experience with the Three Sisters, the famous rock formation that theoretically one can see from near Katoomba. In the morning, further grumpy from a shower with a large spider, just as I had travelled far enough back down in the direction of Sydney to not feasibly be able to turn back, the rain suddenly stopped and the sun broke through the clouds. Somewhere, on the wind, I could swear that I faintly heard "nyah, nyah, you caa-aan't see us!"

Aye, Aye, Pet

2006-09-17T10:42:00.000+01:00

The Newcastle concert, I'd had no intention of going to. I will fully admit that it had vaguely crossed my mind that I just might find myself scrounging a ticket to one of the sold out shows while I was in Sydney, but I hadn't even heard of Newcastle, New South Wales until I was cheerfully heading down the winding highway heading for Sydney when I heard a local radio announcer announce excitedly that INXS would be playing there that night. At that moment, in need of fuel for both the car and myself, I spied a sign for Newcastle and figured I might as well turn off in search of petrol and tea. The main road leading into the city promptly evaporated and I wound, for over an hour, through sleepy residential streets, mindlessly turning every once in a while and idly wondering how much of the population of Newcastle was formed by tourists like myself who had turned off the highway and never found their way out again. Despite the many inarguably wonderful things about the Land Down Under, clearly labelling streets and intersections is sadly not one of them.

All of this is a pathetic attempt to excuse myself for being drawn, inexorably, towards the Newcastle Entertainment Centre and the INXS concert. Deep, deep down, I think I know that had I really wanted to get out of Newcastle that day, I could have managed it.

I began to regret my impromptu decision when, moments after purchasing my ticket, I ran into the dreaded Superfan Number 1. Superfan Number 1 is a startlingly tall, chain smoking American, in her mid 50s. A formidable female who sounds like Mariella Frostrup doing Scarlett O'Hara, she is retired and evidently well heeled enough to have travelled to 18 INXS concerts on the North American leg, 11 on this Australian leg and plans to hit Europe next month. Which on one hand I think is brilliant: if you have the time and money and little makes you happier than watching INXS in concert, then why not? - but unfortunately Superfan No 1 is one of those strange fans that indulge in a weird competitiveness and determination to have some kind of acknowledgement from the band and other fans that they are the biggest and bestest fan that there is. She claims a number of inside connections (which may well be real for all I know), just happens to manage to stay in the same hotel as the band wherever she is, and has an infamous and enduring obsession with J.D.'s feet. Meeting her for the first time back in Cairns, and knowing nothing of her reputation, I had agreed to give her a lift up to Kuranda as we had room in our car for one more and she was otherwise stuck. I liked her well enough that night, she seemed like a good laugh, but I came to regret my good Samaritan offer the following night on the way to Townsville when she picked a mystifying (no pun intended) fight with one of my travelling companions and - clearly forgetting that she had no way of getting to the venue without us - accused us of hanging around with her to use her for her contacts and 'access' to the band.

So I wasn't thrilled to see her. The feeling appeared to be mutual, as she looked me up and down slowly and growled that she didn't think I was coming to this show. Suddenly feeling inexplicably guilty, I muttered that it was a last minute decision, and Superfan proceeded to regale me with tales of the fun she had been having hanging out with the band at every concert since she'd seen me last. Gritting my teeth to avoid rising to the bait, I commented that I was glad her long trip (from the East Coast of the U.S.) had been worth it and futilely tried to compete with stories of kayaking with dolphins, snorkelling on the Great Barrier Reef and spending time with old friends in Brisbane that I'd busied myself with… but she was off again.

"Yeah, I guess because I travelled the farthest it was kind of like I deserved partying with them." She grinned evilly.

"Umm…" I began - damnit, I'd risen - "I think that the U.K. is farther, actually." In all fairness, what the precise mileage is I have no idea, but having grown up with the notion that Australia is 'the other side of the world' I felt fairly confident in my assertion.

"Yeah, I don't think so." With a flick of ash she dismissed me, leaving me standing in the lobby slowly digesting the fact that I was on the opposite side of the world (or thereabouts) in a town I'd had no intention of visiting, arguing the circumference of the globe with a woman who has publicly announced her intention to steal the shoes of a Canadian man over 20 years her junior.

My night got worse when I realized that the entire venue was seated - which meant I would have to actually watch the whole thing on my own. I'd been planning on meeting up with Mini Superfan, a very sweet and very young girl (I don't mean to suggest that she's 6 or anything - probably early twenties) who'd never been out of her home state before embarking on this trip to catch every Oz date on the tour. She'd been part of our crew in Townsville and Brisbane, is pleasingly slightly bonkers, and I liked her very much. She and Superfan Number 1 had fallen out in Cairns over some confusion over travel arrangements, so it was with some dismay that I noted they had evidently made up since Brisbane, and were joined into one Superfan monster - which meant I wouldn't have a buddy that evening after all. So I took my seat in a side row of four - stuck in the corner next to three people who were clearly together and clearly not interested in making a friend. After sitting quietly and glumly for a few minutes, I spied Tony - he of the drumstick-ESP fame - in the wings and called over to him. I wanted to thank him for looking after my cell phone for a few days the previous week (long story - don't ask) and we chatted briefly. When I returned to my seat, the woman sitting next to me turned to me and abruptly announced that she knew Tony too.

"Oh?" I replied, glad that someone was taking pity on Norma No-Mates me and talking to me. "How so?"

"He used to do my security." Huh. Given that Tony is the go-to man for A list security in Australia, I took a second look at her, but still didn't recognize her. I tried another tack.

"Is this your first INXS concert?" She and her friend exchanged a look, and replied, in a voice heavy with inexplicable meaning, that no, this was not her first INXS concert. Nothing about her demeanour invited further conversation, so I returned to sitting quietly and glumly waiting for the show to start.

With equal abruptness, she suddenly spoke again.

"I suppose you just follow the band all the time?" She demanded.

"Err, no, not exact --" I began, but shooting me a look I can only imagine faced the first flappers to daringly show their ankles and very clearly said something to the effect of "you're no better than you ought to be", she very firmly turned her back on me.

Huh. Suddenly realizing the somewhat astounding conclusion she'd jumped to based on the (admittedly, now I think about it, damning) evidence of my being alone, talking to Tony and wearing a somewhat low cut top (every other one was dirty, honest!) - I was torn. In the same way that you are furious when a builder wolf whistles you and gutted if he doesn't, I was simultaneously insulted that she thought I had so little respect for myself that I would tour the world as the sex-toy of a rockstar 82% likely to be married or as good as, and 18% likely to wear dodgy Canadian-man jeans, and utterly thrilled that she seemed to think I could.

Namesakes and Drop-bears

2006-09-17T10:41:00.000+01:00

It has always astounded me to consider the mind-boggling creativity, imagination and foresight that prompted the first explorers of the New World to say "hmmm, wonder what's at the other end of that Atlantic ocean. Think I'll just go and find out." Or those who - admittedly, not always by choice - went from the gentle, hospitable climate and wildlife that would hardly ever kill or maim you on purpose of Great Britain, and settled in the unwelcoming, barely fertile and almost incredibly dangerous territory of Australia - and yet, when they got there, could not think up a new name for the place. I always picture the Scots who staggered to shore after weeks of battling the raging, towering waves and furious winds of the Atlantic saying "does this not look just like where we came from? We didn't turn around by accident did we? No? Well we'll just call it Scotland then. New Scotland - no, tell you what, we'll make it sound a wee bit posher: Nova Scotia." At least that makes some sense - the lush fertile farmlands and craggy hills and coastline of Nova Scotia (especially around the staggeringly original New Glasgow - which is actually prettier than old Glasgow, even if the nightlife doesn't quite live up) are, aesthetically at least, not unlike Scotland. But who on earth rocked up in the world's largest and most spectacular natural harbour, caught sight of scorched scrublands, golden sands, palm trees, hazy blue mountains and the odd kangaroo and went "does this remind anyone else of South Wales?" Well I know who - it was one of the greatest explorers of all time and popularly although not entirely accurately decorated discover of Australia, Captain Cook - I just can't fathom why.

When it wasn't "New Wherever-they'd-just-left", the pioneers of the Commonwealth were very keen on naming things after themselves: thus I pulled up and rested my head for the night in Port Macquarie. Lochlan Macquarie was governor of Sydney (the third if memory of my visit to the Sydney museum serves) in the mid 19th century, and could be credited for turning the fortunes of the ailing and remote outpost of the British Empire into the flourishing, affluent country we wish it was still a case of nicking a couple of cucumber plants or a book on Tobago (actual crimes of two of the prisoners on the First Fleet, according to Bill Bryson's Down Under) to get to move to today. Macquarie's big accomplishment, in addition to popularising the name "Australia" for the new colony (thanks again, Bill B) was his fair and long sighted treatment of convicts: as soon as their sentences were up, he allowed them land to farm and the right to trade; thus creating productive citizens out of sullen and, I wouldn't imagine, particularly helpful prisoners. Sadly however, Macquarie's generosity did not extend to those Australians who had inhabited the country for the staggering amount of time of approximately 60,000 years. And that is just the length of time we can be relatively sure of: there is no guarantee that it isn't longer - either way, the Australian Aborigine people are by far the oldest continuing human culture. While the Romans, the Greeks, the Celts, the Turks all civilised and ruled the known world, then one by one were defeated and died out, the Aborigines quietly and continuously inhabited their remote and famously inhospitable outpost of the globe. So remote in fact, that for a time in Europe, it was considered mythical, and stories abounded of a wild and fantastical land - Terra Australis Incognita - populated with almost unimaginable creatures of dragon-like ferocity and bizarre means of moving… a bit like, you know, crocodiles and kangaroos. This is, however, no thanks to Lochlan Macquarie (amongst, to be fair, many others - I just noticed him as I was staying in his Port). He bestowed upon his men the right to shoot any group of Aborigines greater than six: no matter that there might just be seven of them hanging about together, going for a walk maybe - greater than six and British soldiers could legitimately and lawfully murder them. It is one of the starkest examples of the treatment of native peoples by the cuckoo-like Europeans who showed up in the land they had inhabited for - in this case - tens of thousands of years and told them to bugger off.

I have so much more to say about Aborigines - from their almost inhuman feat of showing up in Australia in the first place (the continent has been an island during the entire duration of human existence) to the horrors of the Lost Generation which continued, incredibly, into the 1970s - but all of that deserves an entry to itself.

It was fairly late in the evening when I arrived at Port Macquarie. I couldn't see much of it due to the darkness at that hour, which is probably fine as it isn't meant to be especially picturesque. Indeed, it was founded, very deliberately, to be harsh - Governor Macquarie set it up as a penal settlement to house those convicts who he didn't feel deserve the rehabilitation he offered to some, and those he deemed to find Sydney life too easy. And indeed, the locals I encountered in the local pub I ventured to for dinner certainly seemed of a fairly tough sort. I got chatting to the bloke behind the bar - a slightly nervous slip of a kid from Surrey, and in due course, a crowd of guys sitting up at the bar took pleasure in indulging in that great Australian pastime: frightening the Pommie tourists. I was too quick for them though, I already knew all about drop-bears, thank you very much… but when they casually stated that I'd been lucky to avoid the famously hungry crocs at one of the places I mentioned I'd gone for a walk on my own, I hesitated before laughing nervously. Then I realized that we were talking about a city centre park - the Botanical Gardens in Brisbane, to be exact, where a few nights previously, the INXS concert had been held. "And in other news, 10,000 INXS fans were devoured whole by the crocodiles who inhabit the Riverstage park. Members of the band attempted to placate them with the remains of a chocolate cake bearing the imprint of a Canadian arse, and Kirk Pengilly, 48, of New South Wales, heroically bopped a few on the head with an empty champagne bottle…" I rolled my eyes and informed them that not all Poms were that gullible, then walked back to the motel stamping hard all they way to keep away the blood thirsty land-turtles that the area is famous for.

Tall Poppies and Choppy Waves

2006-09-17T10:39:00.000+01:00

You don't know what you've got 'till it's gone. With tragic irony, that evening Anna, Jack and I went out to dinner, and as I told them about my trip to Australia Zoo, we ended up discussing what a shame it was that, despite his great popularity abroad, Australians themselves did not seem to be big fans of Steve Irwin. We wondered if, with his mullet and his 'crikey's he was such an unabashed stereotype that they were a bit embarrassed that he was their unofficial ambassador in the US, or, if it was simply a case of that syndrome that certainly exists in other cultures but seems to be particularly prevalent in Australia, of bashing those who've made good. For whatever reason, we had all found that mentioning Steve Irwin to people generally prompted an eye rolling and an 'oh him - we're not all like that, you know.'

The following morning, just as I crossed the border into New South Wales, I was scanning through radio stations when I heard a newsreader somberly announce that a wildlife expert and conservationalist had been killed. The name was not yet going to be released, as close family had not been informed. Vaguely assuming it was likely to be someone I'd never heard of, I reached out to flick the dial in search of some music, and my hand literally froze when the reader specified that the tragedy had happened off the coast of Port Douglas. I knew exactly who had been filming off the coast of Port Douglas that day, as his colleague had told me as I stroked the back of a 10 day old alligator. I actually heard myself sigh "no!" out loud, and had to pull off at the next layby as a rush of tears momentarily blurred my vision. It is curious, that genuine sorrow that it is possible to feel for someone who had absolutely no idea that they touched your life. You feel as though you have no right to grieve - your feelings are of course nothing compared to those of their family and friends - and indeed I impatiently brushed away the tears and laughed at myself for being such an idiot.

The only other time I have actually cried at the passing of someone I had never met, was for another great Australian, one also sadly under-esteemed by his countrymen during his lifetime. It was 1997. I had finished my A levels the previous summer, and was working as a junior PR assistant in a very trendy PR firm in Soho. By the time I arrived at work, the salacious rumours and jokes about auto-erotic asphyxiation were already circulating - not having read a newspaper that morning, I had no idea who they were talking about, and don't know how to explain the momentary crippling stunnedness I felt when someone finally mentioned his name. Now, at 27, I would like to think that I would put a stop to the conversation, that I would humble everyone by reminding them that a father, brother, friend had been lost; but as a relatively shy 19 year old, I nodded and laughed hollowly along with everyone then refused to explain why, ten minutes later, I was sitting at my desk wracked with heaving sobs.

They say never to speak ill of the dead, and I suppose it is not unnatural to fully learn to appreciate someone once they are gone; but as I listened to the outpourings of tributes and grief for the remainder of my time in Australia, I couldn't help but think it sad that Steve, like Michael, was not around to witness the impact that they had clearly made on their own country. Impact that, for one reason or another, was rarely expressed during their lifetimes.

Back in the Melbourne Girls' hotel in Brisbane, in the wee hours of Saturday morning, someone had invited a few blokes who were hanging out on a nearby balcony to visit us. I don't think that any of us fancied them, it was just entertaining to see if they would actually leave their comfortable balcony and traipse around hotel corridors at four o'clock in the morning looking for us. Duly, they found us. However, when they asked what we'd been up to that evening and we told them we'd been at an INXS concert, one of them grimaced and muttered something to the effect of them being nothing without Michael. And you know what? That is an opinion I certainly don't agree with, but I do believe that people are entitled to it. I don't think that they can call themselves INXS fans - rather, they're Michael Hutchence fans, which is perfectly valid, and it is just a shame for them that they are missing out now. But when one of the Melbourne Girls challenged him: so, how many concerts did you see with Michael? How many albums do you have? You had tickets for that last tour, right? His response was 'uuuhhhh…' So he wasn't a Michael Hutchence fan at all, just some idiot who thought it cool to cannonize someone after his passing, when he had never supported him during his lifetime. How sad and horribly pointless. We chucked them out and left them to traipse hotel corridors at ten past four in the morning looking for their own room.

One last vent, then I am done with bashing Tall Poppy Syndrome and its hypocritical posthumous retraction (well come on, I had to find something I didn't like about Australia): a couple of days later, a Sydney newspaper snidely referred to the "INXS tribute show" happening that evening at Luna Park - so, presumably, AC/DC have been a tribute show for the past 30 odd years? Is every band with a line up that varies from the original - therefore just about every band that there is, the Stones, the Red Hot Chilli Peppers, to name a couple - a tribute act, or only those with a replaced lead singer? Do tell, Sydney Morning Herald.

Right, I am done and off to Byron Bay for my disastrous surfing lesson. Let's just say that despite our common affection for saxophone players who wear funky shoes, Layne Beachley I am not. I will say, that when the surfboard is safe and still on the sand, I am brilliant. I can shoot from lying on my front to crouching to standing in a smooth and fetching manner, then balance almost lazily, wind in my hair and often mentally outrunning a Great White or two. I might, in fact, be the only surfer for whom waves actually ruin the experience. To be fair to myself, which I always like to be, my instructor did say that, due to an impending storm, the sea was particularly choppy and not surfer friendly, which is what I am going to blame for the fact that in two hours, I stood up for a grand total of about 7 seconds, and more than once managed to bash myself on the nose with the board. I was eminently happy when the lesson was cut short by an hour (and my nose was eminently grateful to be spared further punishment) when the heavens opened.

My only regret was that I didn't manage to spend as much time as I'd planned moseying about the shops at Byron, due to the unappetising reality of dashing from one to the other under lashings of rain. Instead I went back to the car, pointed it yet again south, with the intention of hitting Port Macquarie by nightfall.

Creatures in Captivity

2006-09-17T10:38:00.000+01:00

The following morning I struggled awake resisting the urge to screech to the heavens "put me out of my misery! Take me now!" (all that shouting would have hurt my poor head), struggled into some clothes and very large, very dark sunglasses, and headed off to meet the Melbourne girls for breakfast. They had just a couple of hours before they were due to return, appropriately enough given their moniker, to Melbourne.

The previous morning, before I'd met everyone at the Botanical Gardens, I'd had a bit of a wander around Anna's neighbourhood, so I thought I had my bearings and could easily enough walk to the hotel (we'd finished the previous night at their hotel with a bottle of vodka - 'nuff said). Anna lives on the north side of the river that snakes up through Brisbane, turns a U bend under the famous Storey Bridge and then heads back out towards the sea. The hotel, I was fairly sure, was just on the south side of the U bend, right next to the bridge, so - I carefully deduced - I could walk along the sea walk (a floating pathway that rather thrillingly bobs up and down when boats pass) and under the bridge and hey presto I'd be there. Panicked by texts that said "we're hungry" and "our plane takes off in two hours!", when I got to the other side of the bridge and saw no sign of the hotel, I jumped into a taxi and asked him to take me to the hotel.

"But --" he began.

But I insisted and he shrugged. He drove up the road, maybe 10 or 15 metres to a spot where he could pull a U turn, and, as we drove back down, on the exact same spot from which I had just stepped into the taxi, stood the Melbourne girls waiting for me. I know my hangover was bad, but I really hope I hadn't been standing right next to them when I hailed the taxi. Which charged me $5, by the way.

And so to breakfast, where we went over the previous night in detail, confirmed that yes indeed, Jon is a bit lovely; and I believe that I might have promised - bollocks to returning to London - that I would come to the Melbourne concerts. They are happening tonight, as I write, from London. Sigh. The girls very kindly gave me a Tim pic meaning that I now only have to wrestle Garry to the ground and empty his pockets before I have a full set (catching pics during a show is not going to happen for me - as I've said before I couldn't catch a guitar if it was thrown at me.) Then the Melbourne girls were off, and I was left to my own devices in Brisbane. It is odd the things that occur to you to do, alone and hungover in a strange city. Anna and Jack, I should point out, weren't just randomly ignoring me - they were on a walk to commemorate a local aboriginal man (which I will write more about when I have finished the trip itself it's a fascinating story) - they'd invited me to join them on the 30k walk and I had politely and vehemently declined. I wandered into the casino, out of random curiosity, and was startled to find it buzzing at 12pm on a Saturday; indeed it seemed more like 12am on a Saturday. With the complete lack of natural light it might well have been pitch dark outside and the people hunched, captivated, over pokies (which just sounds a bit rude if you ask me, but then I am not Australian) and around card tables had a night time air to them. The only other time in my life I have been in a casino (it's just not something that interests me at all) was the Mandalay Bay Casino in Vegas - for an INXS concert. If I develop a gambling problem one day, I will know who to blame. It is ironic actually, that INXS keep leading me towards ringing, flashing slot machines, because establishments such as the very one I was in, are popularly blamed for killing off the "pub rock" scene of the seventies and early eighties which was their original stomping ground. It's said that pub rock is slowly returning in Australia - and, when I was in Sydney, I did walk down a street in which all three pubs had bands playing (they were covers bands and mostly a bit crap, but I suppose they have to start somewhere) - and I do hope so. There is a creepy soullessness, not to mention an isolation - a slot machine is hardly a group effort, after all - to these places, that strikes me as curiously un-Australian.

I hadn't played any of the machines in Vegas, I kept meaning to as I dashed past as it felt like I should, being in Vegas and all, but had never gotten around to it, so I decided to rectify that now. I chucked in a dollar, pulled the lever and waited, wondering what was going to happen. Pictures flashed up and rattling sound announced the arrival of ten dollar coins. Rather pleased with this gambling lark, I wandered back out into the sunshine and bought a smoothie and a Brisbane fridge magnet with my winnings. The rest of the day brought a lovely wander around the shopping area (surprisingly posh shops - I hadn't expected to be able to shop for Ralph Lauren in Brisbane, but had my bank balance been amenable, I would have!) and a return the Botanical Gardens to see them in daylight, and sunshine. Lovely.

The following day, after watching the Brisbane River of Fire (a spectacular fireworks display) from Anna and Jack's balcony, and a gorgeous dinner (cooked very impressively by the lovely Jack), I set off to visit Australia Zoo. Ever since I spent a summer marooned in Massachusetts after being deported from Canada (the first time) and happily whiled away the evenings watching Crocodile Hunter with my then 11 year old cousin, I have been a huge Steve Irwin fan and have wanted to visit his zoo. I think that reptiles, in particular crocodiles, are brilliant: they are just so mysterious, and ancient and weird and… and… cool. Don't get me wrong, if an iguana was to walk into this room right now I would scream and run away (and also wonder where it had come from) but, from a distance, I like them very much. Steve Irwin, I also like very much: anyone with that evident passion, drive and utterly uncool enthusiastic zest for life is okay in my book. So, great guy, great creatures outweighed the slightly soul destroying realization that, having come this far, I had to drive north back up the Bruce Highway - from where I'd just come. I dealt with it, and duly arrived at Australia Zoo a couple of hours later.

I absolutely loved it. Some people had warned me that it was a bit over commercial and crass, but, while there certainly were plenty of pictures of the man himself and 'crikey' logos around, I didn't find that it bothered me at all. I loved that it had a sense of an animal sanctuary rather than a zoo - the enclosures were well camouflaged and very often the keepers were right in them, caring for and interacting with the creatures, thus avoiding that isolated captivity that is so uncomfortable to witness in other zoos. From my admittedly entirely ignorant observation, the animals seemed to have plenty of room - in stark contrast to that horrible tiger cage barely bigger than the room from which I type that makes me feel ill at London Zoo. I loved as well the continuous drumming of education - every where you turned, there were workshops and talks with little kids clustered around, goggle eyed, as a staff member lectured, explained and demonstrated. You literally could not possibly walk away without learning something: did you know, as a random example, that the only pure bred dingos left exist only in captivity? I headed for the exit, and on the way I passed a staff member holding a baby alligator along his forearm. It was, he informed me, 10 days old. Both his mum and dad were together at Australia Zoo, and this little chap would grow to around 12 or 14 feet long. As I stroked his back (the alligator, not the staff member) a couple of other visitors approached and asked where Steve was. The reply was that he was up at Port Douglas doing some filming. Apparently he's only at Australia Zoo doing the crocodile show on public holidays. Driving away a few moments later, I made a mental note that if I could possibly schedule my next Brisbane trip over a public holiday, I would do so in order to catch the man in action.

He Lived Fast, Died Young and Touched Many

2006-09-17T10:37:00.000+01:00

It is with deep regret that I must interrupt this telling of my Australia tale in order to announce the passing of one Sandford Duffy, esq., 2004-2006. Sandy had a brief, but glorious life: he was forcibly retired from an illustrious racing career at the University of Exeter, Devon and lived out his middle years battling an identity crisis while living in a bird cage in East Horsley, Surrey. In his latter years, Sandford went up in the world in a brand new hamster cage appropriate to his new address of London, W8. Sandford was an explorer: indeed, it may well be the epic journey on the Piccadilly line out to claim Joe's flat in the name of the Duffys (while his guardians were off on holiday) that finished him off. That, or the pressure he felt at the prospect of eating the bag of hamster food the size of a bag of horse feed that was accidentally purchased off the internet. As his erstwhile father and racing trainer wrote on the condolence card he sent from Geneva to Sandy's guardians in London, at least Sandy died doing what he loved. Sitting in a plastic tube.

Anyone with a hamster with an eating problem who would like to take on the Everest of hamster food, please contact claire@claireduffy.co.uk. Donations to the Retired Racing Hamsters benevolent fund in the name of Sandford may be paypal-ed to the same address ;)

Boy On Fire

2006-09-17T10:35:00.000+01:00

The Brisbane concert was in fact the only one that I'd had any intention of going to. A friend of mine from Vancouver (well, she's Welsh, but I know her from Vancouver) was living in Brisbane at the time I originally planned the trip. By the time I booked and paid for the trip she was living in Perth and by the time I actually got to Australia she was back in Canada which made visiting her in Australia a bit challenging, but the important thing was I had a ticket for the INXS concert in Brisbane. And, happily, the entire Cairns-Townsville crowd were going to be there, all very happy and excited to be celebrating the birthday of a man we've never met nor are particularly likely to. And we'd be celebrating this bum-in-cake anniversary at an out door concert in the Botanical Gardens. In the pissing down rain.

It is curiously prophetic that I noted only a few days previously in this very blog that I had risked "life or at least sandals" to make it to the front of the barrier for the Kuranda concert - or maybe I am just tragically aware of my own clutziness - because those very sandals were sadly sacrificed at the mud-bath that was Glaston-bane. Not to make it to the front, but to return to our crew - near enough to the front - with alcoholic sustenance. Had I known that Kirk was going to be pouring out champagne for the crowd a short while later, I might not have bothered and would still be in possession of my funky Sienna Miller-like shoes. In all fairness, I can't blame Kirk entirely (or to be really fair, at all) because it was no one's fault but my own that I chose to run from the bar kiosk at the top of the grassy steepness back down to the stage area where us die-hards had jealously guarded our spots for the previous four hours. I didn't do too badly - I managed to get a good three quarters of the way down, dashing gaily, before I tripped and skidded - mud-skied, really - for around four or five feet… sadly not bringing my sandals along for the trip. They were thong-like, with an ankle strap, and somehow as I skied through the mud, both of the bits that attach the strap to the base of the shoe (through my toes) snapped at the same time so that I shot forward with what was left of my shoes trailing pathetically behind. I didn't, incidentally, spill a drop of the drinks, but I had no time to pat myself on the back (and I most certainly would have spilled the drinks if I had) because I had to figure out how I was going to walk the rest of the way with my entirely useless shoes. The answer, I discovered with entertaining trial and error, was to step by flinging each leg forward with such force that the soles of the shoes swung up to meet the soles of my feet and then stamping down quickly before they swang back again. The effect - if you will forgive my momentary political incorrectness - was of a drunken, enthusiastic Gestapo. I managed to lop-sidedly goose-step, thinking to myself how intimidatingly cool I was and if only JD could see me now he'd probably faint with lust, back to our crew where the girls cheerfully accepted their drinks and erected a feet-fort of bags to create a safe space for me to remain barefoot without risking sacrificing my toes to an enthusiastic mosher.

The show itself, predictably enough, was great; it had an edgier vibe than the slick, tight, on-fire-ness of Kuranda and Townsville - more of a sense of abandon, as if at any moment they might go "fuck it, let's play some Chumbawumba" or set their hair on fire or something. That's an appropriate thought, as it happens. At the beginning of the encore, they very sweetly brought out a birthday cake for JD, and we all sang Happy Birthday. It was actually the third time we'd sang it, but the during the first two he'd had his ear piece thingy in so I don't think he heard. He looked genuinely touched, almost overwhelmed - there is an interesting dichotomy about JD, incidentally: he morphs from sex god into little boy lost - and, thankfully, back again - in seconds, and as he looked lost for words and hugged all of the guys, we turned to one another with "aww, bless him" looks. But I digress - seconds later JD, with clearly more important things on his mind than remembering to blow out candles before sticking his arse on them, jumped on the cake. Luckily, Andrew had a water bottle handy (song writing genius, the only human who can make the harmonica sexy and fire warden!) and, well, I've always said that JD has a smoking arse…

Bless him.

The wild, party atmosphere was most certainly felt in the crowd too - rather than a load of strangers who happened to buy tickets for the same show, it really felt like a garden party of almost 10,000 where drinks were passed around and our mates played some tunes. It was one of those gigs, where, as the crowd streams out afterwards, you randomly turn to the people you are stumbling next too, start chatting about what you thought of it or the last time you saw the band, and end up drinking 'till dawn. Actually, most INXS gigs are like that - whatever else you can say about us X heads (it is difficult to make clear in text, but I say that ironically - honest!) we are certainly sociable - and Brisbane was no exception. After a brief trip to a late night Target to procure some $5 shoes, the Cairns-Townsville crew, plus a multitude of stragglers (basically anyone we gathered from the crowd or passed on the pavement wearing an INXS t shirt) convened in a bar where we bullied the DJ into playing all INXS - and when he finally rebelled and played some other, random, pointless music, gathered in a corner and proceeded to warble a medley covering the entire 30 year back catalogue. It is possibly somewhat astounding that out of the entire crowd, not one of us could hold a tune. It was, most certainly "not roit", but it was fun. I believe that we toasted the birthday boy. I know that we toasted Tim's pornstache and Kirk's taste in shoes - although I don't know why - and I know that as the lights went on and the bouncers tried to persuade us to go home I was sitting on the floor with the other Jonette (the one who'd been given the other drum stick by Tony back in Townsville) deeply discussing the wonderous, splendorous, gorgeousness that is Jon Farriss.

Into Every Friendship a Little Rain Must Fall

2006-09-17T10:33:00.000+01:00

As I sat on the terrace reading, occasionally idly contemplating the stars and listening to some spectacularly named - Lochlan, Tallullah and Ruby - local children play as their parents ate at the table next to me, I turned the page of my book, took a sip of my red wine and, with gruesome predictability, tipped the remains of the wine down my front. This isn't the first time this has happened: when I say I have a drinking problem, it has nothing to do with any issues with alcohol, simply that very often, getting the contents of the cup or glass down my throat with no detours is an insurmountable challenge. Just moments before typing this, I cheerfully knocked a glass of cranberry juice (with a loaf of bread) all down my pyjamas and over most of my kitchen. I don't even bother to swear when I do it any more, just sigh and reach for the nearest dishcloth.

In this instance, I sighed and headed up to my room to change. I was wearing a white sleeveless top (like a wife beater for girls) which I had just changed in to before going down to eat. I have two identical such tops, and briefly considered changing into the other in the hope that no one would notice, but in the end couldn't find it so chucked on another T shirt, went downstairs and ordered another glass of wine. The following morning, at a disgustingly still-dark hour, I rose and sleepily wriggled into my bikini and a pair of shorts. I was headed for the beach and an early kayak tour of the cove. Rummaging around for a t shirt, I came across a white sleeveless one, and chucked it on. It probably won't shock anyone to learn that when I arrived at the beach just as the sun was coming up, I glanced down to see - that yes, I was indeed wearing the red wine stained one.

However, even the pitying looks of my fellow kayakers could not detract from the experience. The first time I ever kayaked, I doubted that anything could top the experience - it was on Lake Tahoe, also early morning, when my then boyfriend and I had almost the entire lake and surrounding snow capped mountains to ourselves. I have kayaked plenty since in English Bay, Deep Cove and Lions Bay in BC; but this -- this was incredible. Surprisingly for the amount of traffic that the Reef and nearby coastline must surely endure, the water is startlingly clear - I could see the sandy sea bed the majority of the time. The highlight however, was the dolphins. A group of them - five, six, maybe - frolicked around us, so close that I almost felt I could reach out and touch them. In the same way that I would describe the kangaroos I saw as giant squirrels, dolphins close up struck me like fish shaped dogs. Their curiosity, the manner of their play, their apparent intelligence and they way they seemed to communicate and check each other out - just dogs that can swim without looking like idiots.

The tour only lasted a couple of hours, so by late morning I was parked on the beach with a book where I remained, turning myself occasionally to ensure even tan and avoid bedsores, until it was too dark to read. I do believe, that had I not woken the following morning to pouring rain and gale force winds, I would never have managed to wrench myself away from the paradise that is 1770. Instead, I pushed on towards Brisbane and swiftly discovered that Queenslanders drive in the rain the way that British Colombians drive in the snow: by pretending that it isn't happening and being surprised and a little confused when their car ends up in a ditch. Despite the driving rain bouncing off the tarmac and reducing visibility to the car in front (the traffic coming into Brisbane was fairly heavy), everyone - including trucks, in fact, especially trucks - happily shot along at around 110k plus. It reminded me of crossing the road in Vancouver: I was genuinely afraid for my life. I pulled off the highway and sat forlornly at an outdoor kiosk under a tarpaulin listening to the battering rain, occasionally getting splashed, as I moped over a cup of tea and read a bit, attempting to give the impression that I always sat out in the pouring rain for a bit of a read.

It shouldn't be surprising then, that I was very happy to reach Brisbane and - after a slightly hair raising diversion in which I utterly lost my bearings and fancied that I began to see signs for Perth - my friend Anna's flat. They say that blood is thicker than water, and I don't doubt that it is; but this summer I am truly learning that whatever substance exists between friends (Cosmopolitans mostly, in my case... yes I am stuck in the 90s, sue me) is thick enough to be pretty indestructible too. Due in part to my travelling so much, I am lucky enough to have a wide and varied circle of friends dotted around the globe. Currently, my best friends live in Vancouver, Perth (Australia, not Scotland!), Los Angeles, Chicago, Glasgow - and Brisbane. Of course there are down sides: it's all very handy when I need somewhere cheap (read: free) to stay in far flung places, but not much use when I am looking for someone to nip down the pub with in London. In addition to getting to stay in and watch a lot of Big Brother when I am in London, there is also the worry of keeping these oh-so-exoticly-residing friends. How easy is it to sustain a friendship without that day-to-day random phone calls, nipping to the pub, blethering over a cup of tea at the kitchen table aspect? The answer, as I discovered that evening in Brisbane, is: when the friend is true, very. Anna, her boyfriend Jack, and I went out to dinner, and poor Jack could only look on bemusedly as Anna blethered away as though we'd only just paused for breath the last time we saw each other - over three years ago. With military efficiency, we swiftly gossiped about everyone we knew, up dated each other on everything that that happened since 2003 and pronounced the chef edible.

And so to bed in Anna's spare room, ready to be bright eyed and bushy tailed for the following day… and the birthday concert.

Rocky Road

2006-09-15T14:00:00.000+01:00

One advantage to hitting the road again at 6.30am the following morning was that I reached my destination for the day - the beach at 1770 - much earlier than anticipated. This was even despite a brief detour along a scenic tourist drive that took me through a little town (you may be sensing a pattern here - they are all little towns) called Yeppon. I liked the sound of the place, it seemed as though it might be fairly lively - and maybe it is after 8am, I wouldn't know. The quietness did mean that I had the parking area by the beach (to call it a 'car park' would imbue it with too much grandeur) to myself, so I was able to wriggle into my bikini while retaining the vast majority of my dignity and head out for my morning shower - in the southern Coral Sea. A couple of early morning joggers and dog walkers passed me as I waded into the lukewarm waves - which was reassuring, as, after the night I'd just had, I had began to wonder whether I was the only person left on earth.

I adore the ocean, always have. I love the vastness, the permanence of it, the way that it makes me feel calm and insignificant at the same time. I love thinking about the fact that the body of water in which I was now lazily bobbing is - technically - the very same in which I had paddled with my three year old cousin, thousands of miles away, in White Rock, British Columbia on Canada Day. I am fascinated with that sense of the globe - that idea of travelling around all that there is. When I left Vancouver for the first time, just over four years ago, to road trip with my then boyfriend across the North American continent, I took a pebble from the beach at English Bay and, nearly three months later, I chucked it in the water from Boston Pier. I then grabbed a shell from a beach in Northern Massachusetts and, months later, threw it in the Thames. It was as these thoughts occurred to me that I realized I am altogether too weird, and that I was spending too much time alone. Without further ado, I dried off and headed for Rockhampton, the Meat Capital of Australia, for an appropriately cholesterol laden breakfast.

Rockhampton, I don't have masses to say about. I could tell you that it is the Capital of the Capricorn Region or that it sits on the Fitzroy river, but the truth would be that I just looked that up from here in London as I stared at my notes and tried in vain to form a clear impression of it. I know I had a nice breakfast - I am usually not a big cooked breakfast fan, I don't eat a lot of red meat at all in general, but the Australians do bacon and scrambled eggs commendably well, and the little coffee shop in Rockhampton where I ate was no exception. I believe that I cashed a few more traveller's cheques and that the bank was perfectly pleasant. Ooh - there was one highlight: I did see a poster advertising the INXS tour, which was due to hit Rockhampton a night or two later. I'd overtaken them back in McKay, so now, technically, INXS was following me.

As I mentioned before, the scenery surrounding the Bruce Highway is eminently pleasant. However, once you have happily passed trees and rolling hills and occasional distant kangaroos for coming up on 1000 kilometres, it begins to get just a tiny bit predictable. So when I passed a sign for a historical village I was excited, possibly disproportionately so. I was - in fact still am - reading a book on the history of Australia, as when I arrived I was shocked to consider how little I really knew about the place. I knew that the English sent out a load of convicts, and I knew that the Farriss brothers and their mates started a band, and presumed that some stuff must have happened in between but I was pretty much clueless as to what. So I was quite pleased by the idea that I might get to put some visual aids to the story I was reading, and happily turned off the highway. Well it was crap. Gloriously, spectacularly, highly entertainingly atrocious. I was thrilled. The village consisted of a gathering of buildings - those wooden, cottage-y kind that you sometimes disconcertingly see sitting on trucks in America - which appeared to have been plonked every which way in a field. I paid my two dollars and peeked into the first porch ringed house. It was full of fridges. Yes, you read right - a great big pile of - admittedly old and no doubt a bit whiffy inside - refrigerators. There was no label or explanation as to what they were doing there or where they had come from - although, in all fairness, how much could you say about a load of fridges? - they just sat there. In the semi darkness, being old. In the next building, it was radios. Big old radios, the wooden kind with lots of knobs and dials - kind of interesting to look at… well, interesting to look at one, but there was about thirty, each much the same, apparently from around the same time period. Just sitting there, gathering dust. Smothering a giggle, I skipped on to the next, wondering if I might find a collection of bicycles or remote controls; but this one, I was startled to note as I approached… had a plaque! The plaque at the front door proudly announced it as a former schoolhouse. Wonderful, I thought, and read on. It was a schoolhouse, in use, up until… 1974. 1974! What on earth is historical about that? Surely history can't be a period in which I have dated people who were alive then! Apparently, in a country as new as Australia, it is. Admittedly, as if memory of Story to Story serves, I believe that the Farriss Brothers were playing by then, so this was my studied period of Australian history. However, the wonders of what schoolchildren got up to in Queensland in the early seventies remain a mystery to me as the proudly labelled school house was empty save for a few scurrying insects and a lot of dust. I do not think that I have spent a more entertaining time at a museum; I certainly have not spent a better two Australian dollars.

And so on to 1770. Surprisingly few people I mentioned this destination to (both before and after I visited) - even locals - had heard of it. In all fairness, I've only heard of it because my sister's boyfriend, a keen surfer, lived there for a few months during his travels in Australia. According to him, it's the in place for surfers in the know to hang out, since Byron became too expensive and touristy. I like the idea of surfers - although if I am honest, I like the idea of them whether they are in the know or not - so 1770 it was. Despite the distinct lack of surfers… or even people (honestly, if I ever read that the population of Queensland - including backpackers - is approximately 63, I will not be the least bit surprised) 1770 was (forgive me for sounding like an Enid Blyton character for a moment) absolutely glorious. If a beach more perfect than this exists on earth then… well, then… I'd… like to see it. Untouched, soft, sunshine coloured sand scattered artistically with cream and pale pink shells stretches as far as they eye can see, bordered by wild foliage on one side and crashing, aqua and almost royal blue waves tinged with pure white froth on the other. The skyline to the east, where the deep, almost navy, blue of the ocean meets the bright sky blue of the, err, sky, is dotted with distant reef islands. And, just as Andy promised, there is very little else there. A tiny town - village, really - consisting of one solitary surf shop, a petrol station and a couple of local shops and eateries, two motels and a backpacker's hostel… if there is any more than that, I didn't find it. Deciding that after my night on the backseat of a Toyota Corolla I deserved some modest luxury, I plumped for the posher of the two motels, thoroughly enjoyed my first proper shower since Townsville, and settled on the terrace with a pizza and a glass of wine. Idly staring into the inky blackness of a Queensland early evening, I was 100% content.

Hundreds of Kilometres of Bugger All

2006-09-14T15:38:00.000+01:00

Pardon my French, but I am not exactly sure how else to describe the stretch of Queensland after Townsville, almost until Brisbane. Pleasant bugger all, it has to be said, the trees are a little greener - although some still carry scorched scars from bush fires gone by - and the rolling hills in the distance, the sense of the sea in the air (the Bruce Highway runs a few kilometres inland, too far to see ocean but close enough to know its there) the occasional glimpse of a kangaroo, I really can't complain about any of it. I have read much of Australia described (by Bill Bryson in Down Under) as an ideal small town America that hasn't existed since the 1950s, and that is definitely evident in the small towns of Central Queensland. There is an innocence, an open friendly simplicity to life that is rarely found elsewhere. The old men passing the time of day by the roadside, who, when I pulled over to ask for directions back to the highway (despite the many inarguably wonderful things about the Land Down Under, clearly labelling streets and intersections 'aint one of them) thought carefully, discussed it amongst themselves for a few minutes then gave me a choice of no less than three options, depending on how quickly I wanted to reach the road and whether I wanted to see some pretty sights along the way; the young kids playing unsupervised in a field; the thoughtful and friendly conversations I overheard when I stopped for a cup of tea in a small coffee shop. Tea - that's another thing. In common with Canada, there are facets to Australian life far more British than Britain ever bothers to be these days: almost every cup of tea I was served came in a small teapot, a delicate china cup and sugar bowl and usually made with real tea leaves, as opposed to the tea bag dunked in a mug I would expect in London.

However, I am making it sound as though the road is highly populated, with charming company all along the way. Those three instances of human contact I just mentioned were the only signs of life I encountered for sometimes hours at a time. To be fair, though, from Townsville as far as another small town by the name of McKay (pronounced by the locals in the correct, Scottish way of McKai) it was rare to go more than maybe 40 minutes or an hour without at least a petrol station or fruit and vegetable stall. So when I pulled into McKay just as the sun was going down (due to its proximity to the equator, it is usual to be pitch dark in Queensland by not long after 6pm), had a pleasant dinner, a brief walk around the downtown area, and decided that there was nothing much to entice me to stay the night, I had little reason not to plan on pushing on for another couple of hours then finding a nice little motel in which to rest my weary head for the night. Equally it didn't - and I fully admit that this was short sighted of me - occur to me that with over half a tank of petrol it might have been prudent to fill up before pushing on. It is probably somewhat predictable then, that three hours later - three hours in which the solitary break in pitch darkness around me was my own headlights - the car was spluttering on the dredges of petrol fumes and a light that read "you've got to be kidding, I am dying here" had lit up on the dash board. And I hadn't passed one sign for petrol in hours - never mind the welcoming motel with fluffy pillows and hearty breakfast of my fantasy. It was me, and hundreds of kilometres of bugger all. Afraid that the engine would cut out altogether, I pulled off the highway and thankfully stumbled across a campsite. Despite it only being around 9pm, the campsite was clearly closed for business - the office was locked, and the many caravans and tents scattered around were dark. I even fancied, as I sat alone in my desperate car, that I could hear families snoring softly, cosy in their sleeping bags. There was nothing else for it: there was no way I would find a petrol station - never mind an open one - at this time, so I clambered over to the backseat, liberally sprinkled the contents of my suitcase over myself and snuggled down to snooze fitfully, dreaming of outback murderers, hungry crocodiles and snakes that can open locked car doors.

A few hours later, I woke, gritty eyed and sore, to be greeted with a hazy, magical dawn. The blindingly pure sun was just peeking over the horizon and shining through the trees; shining so startlingly brightly as it scorched off the morning mist and glinted on the dew that the countryside was draped in a reflective, ethereal quality. Almost as though nature was making up for my crappy night, when I glanced out of the rear view window, I was treated, in a natural spotlight, to the sight of two wild kangaroos, maybe two feet from the boot, nibbling on grass. Okay Australia, you're forgiven.

The Ville Called Town

2006-09-14T15:37:00.000+01:00

The morning after the Townsville concert, I woke up - okay that isn't strictly true, I didn't go to bed, so I should say when the sun rose after the Townsville concert - I realized that this was it, I was on my own. I had spent the first couple of days in Cairns alone, but as I'd been staying in a hostel, in one place, it wasn't quite the solitude as I was facing now. I was just about to point my car in the direction of 'south' with no real idea of what I might find until nearly 1500 kilometres later in Brisbane.

I am getting a bit ahead of myself here: let's rewind briefly to the previous morning. Just as we were about to leave the hotel in Cairns, I noticed a local paper in the lobby, so picked it up to have a scan through for a review of the previous night. There was one, glowing just as it should have been… however I couldn't help but notice that the headline read "First Show Takes Fans to the Limit." Chuckling indulgently to myself, I wondered what on earth those crazy INXS fans were up to now and read on… they'd flown in from London to Kuranda for the gig, it seemed. How craz -- hold on a moment, something about that sounded just a touch familiar. (May I point out at this juncture that, unlike in North America, Australian newspapers don't feel the need to specify that London is in England, as opposed to, say, Kazakhstan.) Reassuring myself that I hadn't flown from London specifically to Kuranda, therefore it was entirely different and not at all bonkers, we set off for Townsville (see? I flew in to go to Townsville too… )

I had high hopes for Townsville, for two reasons (well, two reasons plus INXS were going to be there.) One, I love the name. During my snorkelling trip on the Barrier Reef, the guide (a Brit) had pointed out that if a creature or plant looks like something, you'll generally find that that is its name - the Box Jellyfish or the Stone Fish, for example. Nowhere is this gloriously Australian literalness more evident than in "Townsville" - do they have, I wondered, "Road Street" or "Trees Forest"? The second reason I was keen on Townsville came about on a train from Euston to Milton Keynes a few months ago. Please don't ask me what I was doing on a train from Euston to Milton Keynes, because then I will have to admit that I was on my way to a Take That concert (which was entirely brilliant, by the way.) My sister, her friend, and I were discussing my impending Australia trip, rather loudly it seemed, because all of a sudden a girl popped her head over our row of seats and asked which one of us was going to Australia. Slightly apprehensively, I raised my hand which probably wasn't necessary. Immediately, she grinned and handed me a piece of paper with her email address on it - she came from Townsville, it transpired, and if I had any questions or needed help while I was in the area, I was to email her. So you can understand why I was keen to see a place that raised such a ridiculously, randomly nice person. And had a slightly ridiculous name.

The drive there threw up another surprise about Australia. I had imagined this road trip to be not unlike a North American road trip, in that I would spend most of my time on the vast highways that streak across the country at speed. The kind of highways that are so much an entity unto themselves that you observe the landscape and communities that you pass from a distance - almost as though there is an invisible protective tube around the road, outside of which Technicolor two dimensional images play just for the distraction of the driver. In order to actually experience the area through which you are passing, you have to exit the highway and enter the scenery - a bit like in Mary Poppins when they jump into Bert's drawings. In Australia however, you are right in and amongst the supercalafragilisticness of all the surroundings have to offer the entire time. The Bruce Highway in Northern Queensland isn't what I'd term a highway at all, but a road - two lanes, often bumpy and potholed, riddled with roundabouts and little towns; often you get stuck behind a tractor without a straight enough stretch to overtake for tens of kilometres - and this is the main, indeed the only, road going south through the State. The tropical, rainforest feeling of Cairns melts away pretty quickly and the vegetation around the road is the sort of desperate, only-just green that suggests it is nothing more than a brief drought away from drying up entirely. My Australian friend pointed out to us the scorched remains of banana plantations following a bush fire last summer, and, as we passed through the little town of Ingram, tarpaulins where roofs should be were testament to a recent, devastating, cyclone. Tough place.

The Townsville concert, as I have already said, was incredible. Years as an INXS fan: 23. Flight to Australia: 10600 miles and much, much money. Reading about myself in a Cairns newspaper: slightly mortifying. Finally catching my first drumstick: priceless. Actually, that's a lie - I didn't catch it at all. I probably couldn't catch a drum kit if it was thrown at me, so the stick was given to me by the brilliant Tony, the bloke in charge of protecting INXS from, err, people like me. Oddly enough, he also - equally deliberately - gave a drum stick to one of the Melbourne Girls - probably the only Jon fan in that crowd to rival me. When she and I realized this, hours and many vodkas later that night, we became a little frightened. How exactly, does Tony look out over a sea of 5000 faces and know exactly who to specifically hand the drum sticks to? We think he's magic.

I might have danced around with my drum stick for the rest of the night. I may have used it like a magic wand to futilely command slightly disconcerted people in the casino to dance. It is possible that I threatened the girl who tried to wrench it off me that I'd brain her with it if she didn't let go ("… and in other news this evening, the police have revealed that the murder weapon was inscribed with the name J Farriss…") It is not beyond the realms of possibility that at 8am the following morning, when my friend and I emerged from the lifts in the hotel - admittedly looking somewhat the worse for wear following an ill advised ice fight in the wee hours - I was still clutching my drum stick leading the receptionist to stare with a look that was definitely primarily disapproving, but unquestionably tinged with curiosity.

So, armed with a stonking hangover and a drum stick, I headed south.

The Best Live Band in the World. Ever. Fact.

2006-09-14T15:36:00.001+01:00

The Kuranda Ampitheatre is almost ridiculously stunning; in two words: tropical paradise. The steep winding road that leads to it through lush, exotic rainforest could be described, if I were to be utterly cheesy, which I will be for the minute - as a climb to heaven. Up and up and up until finally you reach the tiny town of Kuranda. Just slightly out of town again, the ampitheatre, nestled amongst palm trees and under an almost fantastical starry sky. The last word in 5 star sophistication it 'aint - I learned much, much later that evening that there was a snake in one of the loos and had I known that at the time it might have been 'bollocks to INXS I am off' but as I was blissfully unaware I remain enamoured of the ruggedness of the venue. We had planned to arrive early and spend a little time exploring Kuranda, but thanks to the surprisingly wind-y drive and complicated parking situation, we arrived at the venue just a few minutes before the doors opened so figured we might as well wait. From where we stood, bouncing excitedly like two year olds (okay, that was mostly me) we could hear the tail end of the sound check - Perfect Strangers if we are going to be detail oriented about it. I won't deny that PS isn't my favourite song on Switch, but, as always with this band, you have to hear it live before you judge and even the snatches that floated out to us bouncing under the palm trees by the gate sounded great. Moments later the gate was opened and we shot with such abandon in the direction of the stage that I tripped and skidded on the grassy steepness and got my feet splattered in mud - honestly, my sophistication at times intimidates even me. However, risking life or at least sandals was worth it, as we made it without further drama to the very front of the barriers, directly in front of Kirk - which, as any experienced INXS concert goer will tell you, is the best place to me. You have a perfect view of Kirk, Andrew and Jon from there, and the other three move around enough that you can see them too. The warm up act, a local band called the Killer Beez, were absolutely fantastic - lively, funky sound, kind of a fusion of acoustic and electric with a driving beat, and a lovely drummer. What can I say, I am a sucker for a band with an edible drummer, and as they didn't appear to be selling any CDs at the concert, will be hunting online as soon as I have left the country with the crazily expensive internet cafes.

I have never managed to get over that Christmas morning, heart thumping, first date, light headed feel at the thought that INXS will momentarily be playing music right in front of me. I've often thought that the powers that be could test cars or houses for ability to withstand hurricanes (or cyclones down here) by putting them in front of INXS playing live. Whether it is from the back of Wembley Arena or the front row of the Kuranda Ampitheatre, the sheer blast of energy that blares from the stage is... well I wouldn't dream of condoning or suggesting experience with any illicit substance, but let's say that at $72AUS it is the best value high I can think of. There was no countdown due to there being no curtain, so the first inkling I had of the show's imminent start was the sight of Jon Farriss - in a sparkly shirt- wandering on stage in the direction of the drumkit. I clutched my friend's arm and squealed like a punctured helium balloon "itsjonitsjonitsjon", she confirmed that yes it was indeed Jon, and suddenly they were all there: Kirk just feet in front of me in embroidered shirt and characteristically funky shoes; Andrew in surprisingly un-startlingly white trainers, the unobtrusive genius lost in the music at the back; Tim sadly still sporting the pornstache and a fitted white shirt, flirting his face off; Garry in the pleasantly fitted although unfortunately coloured brown trousers, and who could forget the young'un. All in black with a pink tie, J.D. shot on stage like a lanky-long-legged cannon ball as the lights exploded and Suicide Blonde threatened to blow the tops off the palm trees. The crowd roared and we were off. JD seemed to be having some trouble with his earpiece, and even had to dash off to the side of the stage (without missing a note) to have someone help him re-attach it - when he danced back on, Garry chuckled and rolled his eyes. Speaking of JD's dancing, holy fuck can that boy move. Every limb, almost every muscle appeared to have a life of its own and those shimmying hips can make a girl come over all unnecessary ;) His voice is out this world - I hadn't fully appreciated just how ill he was in Vegas until I heard him at full blast on Friday, the power and note perfection, creativity and sheer sex puts him unquestionably in the league of some of the greatest rock voices of all time. And the band? The band were on fire. I don't think that anything has taken a beating like those drums since the last time Scotland played an international football match, the funky blast of the saxophone had me weak at the knees and nearly shot half way to Fiji at the same time, the fucking riffs just about started an earthquake and I felt the driving rhythm of the bass and maracas in places I don't care to mention since my parents might read this.

I have speculated before why on earth it should be that these blokes invoke such an emotional attachment, and I have yet to come up with an answer. I knew that JD was the man for the job, ironically enough, when I caught the tail end of We are the Champions. If one of the others had turned in a rubbish performance, I might have thought "that's a shame for them, oh well" but JD? I was gutted for him. Absolutely gutted - I had to switch off the tv and hide behind the sofa. In contrast, the utter joy that the band clearly felt on Friday, not to mention the evident affection between them was heart exploding and most certainly infectious. As usual, the individual songs blurred into a kaleidoscope of INXSyness, but I do - just about - remember that Mystify was especially brilliant, the crowd sang along to every word; Afterglow was stunningly powerful; I once described Hungry as being structured like a female orgasm and let's just say it didn't disappoint; Never Let You Go is absolutely hypnotic... Need You Tonight was phenomenal, actually being able to watch the famous 'dun dun dun...' bit being played just feet from my face, I don't think I took my eyes off Kirk's fingers the entire song - except to briefly watch Tim and JD doing their daft 'slide over here' dance; By My Side just heart wrenching; if I mention Taste It I will have to go and have a little lie down at the sheer thought of it; and the entire encore was like the finale of a fireworks display - an absolute array of brilliant hit after brilliant hit. Never Tear Us Apart... I honestly have no words. The power and emotion of that song, especially in the context of their having been torn apart and now re-complete, plus the sheer fact that it is such a Hutch anthem... I have most certainly over used the word 'stunning' here, but that is the only one that fits. Garry came over to our side at the beginning of the song, and stood mouthing the words to the crowd. He touched his heart, blew us a kiss; it was such a treat to see such a genuine and heartfelt moment close up.

The one thought my scrambled and spent brain could manage as we wound our way back down the mountain was that there was no way that Townsville could compete. That was it; that was the INXS performance and I while I was thrilled at the thought of getting to do it all over again the following night, I wondered if it might take fractionally away from the ultimate-ness of Kuranda to see a second show which just couldn't possibly be on the same level. INXS, I owe you an apology for that fleeting thought - Townsville was all of the above, and more. In a more normal, small arena setting, I realized that a part of the energy of the night before must have actually escaped above to the stars, but in Townsville, it hit the ceiling, bounced back down and exploded in the crowd. I can't honestly remember when I was last in the midst of such a rabid, sweaty, captivated crowd; being bashed about from all directions almost like being battered around by the sea after wiping out following a tragic attempt at surfing; threatening to drown the band out with our roars - not that they weren't up to the challenge of competing with us; and again all being 100% in the palm of one very capable Canadian hand. Had JD chosen to mildly suggest we all stand on our heads and do an upside down frog dance wearing only one shoe, the stampede that would have ensued would have threatened to bring the Townsville Entertainment Centre to a pathetic pile of rubble. Despite partaking in a beverage or two at the casino across the road before the show, we still managed to make it back in time to hit the barrier - so poor Kirk had to put up with my goofy grin right in front of him for a second night running.

Well, that is my vain attempt at describing what cannot be captured in mere words. It was phenomenal; pure and simple. The only worry is, that if they continue like this, by Brisbane - not to mention London in just a few weeks - they will just walk on stage, the crowd will immediately combust, and that will be it.

Down Under the Sea

2006-09-14T15:36:00.000+01:00

Down Under the Sea
One of the - many, sorry mum I am falling in love! - things I am loving about Australia is how so much is exactly how I had imagined it. The immense blue sky, swaying palm trees, low pastel coloured buildings and plethora of disorientated backpackers on every corner is so exactly the Cairns of my mind's eye that it is almost startling to be here, amongst it. I almost want to reach out and touch it to make sure that it is real, but one disgruntled backpacker soon cured me of that particular urge ;)
I love that, unlike us Scots who have never, in my experience, uttered an "och aye the noo" unless taking the piss, people here genuinely employ "g'day" and "no worries" in every day conversation. I have even been called "doll" on a couple of occasions (still no "flaming gallah" sadly.) This afternoon, as I lay in indulgent bliss by the lagoon reading my book, I even got to listen to an old man playing a didgeridoo. And yes, of course he may well have been cynically pandering to the gathered tourists, but the effect was the same for me. What can I say, I am easily pleased.
No mind's eye or immagination, however, could fully have prepared me for the Great Barrier Reef. Because it is exactly as it appears in books and magazines and nature programs - but so much more so it literally is astonishing. Yesterday at the soul-destroying hour of 6.30am I rose and crept out of the hostel dormitory, congratulating myself for maturely resisting temptation to wreak revenge on my very entertaining but bloody noisy roommates, and headed down to the quay. Once on the smallish boat - there were about 20 of us - with the sun just finishing its ascent into the almost gleaming blue sky, and the sea breeze providing pleasant respite to North Queensland's current winter heatwave, I nursed a welcome cup of tea and thought to myself that life doesn't get much better than this.
A thought I had to take back when, an hour or so later, we pulled up at our first destination: a tiny island some 20 miles off the coast which serves as a bird sanctuary for over 20,000 birds - they swarm almost disconcertingly insect-like above the beach - and the site of my first snorkelling experience. The guide chucked some food in the water in order to show for us some of the fish that we were likely to encounter once we joined them in the water. I won't deny that I was slightly apprehensive at the sheer size of them - at least a couple could have swallowed my arm whole, had they chosen to. From above the water they looked pretty, colourful, interesting, and the coral shapes murkily outlined below certainly intriguing. However, the view from above the water did not begin to hint at the other world that awaited us once we jumped off the boat. The sight that greeted us - coral in sandy peach, fiery orange, deep purple, and electric blue, silver, black and yellow striped fish in all shapes and sizes; some darting around, some leisurely picking at the coral, some moseying through the water as if on a Sunday walk, a brave few investigating the silly looking people who were gawking at them - was nothing short of breathtaking. There is something peculiarly isolating about snorkelling - while I could almost always see a swimmer from my group bobbing around as I was, the silence below the surface - save for my own Darth Vader-like breathing - gives the impression of being totally alone, and also not entirely present. Maybe it's the sheer weirdness of the sight, so far removed from the more solid world we're used to on land, that gives the experience a surreal, hypnotically trippy, feel.
After an hour and a half, it was back to the boat for some lunch as we headed out to our second location - the outer reef, 40 miles from the shore. While I'd been entirely comfortable in the water during the first dive, I have to admit to being somewhat... disconcerted to jump into the sea when there was no visible land. And once I was in, to look down and realize that I couldn't see the bottom. This time, the inexperienced snorkellers were led by the guide. She stopped to point out giant clams - ginormous shell like creatures with a deep purple, velvety inside - and invite us to dive down and stick our hands in it to make it defensively close. Which didn't sound like the cleverest idea to me - fond as I am of possessing all ten digits - but I am a sucker for suggestion and am glad to report that even closed, a giant clam boasts plenty of room for a human hand to be withdrawn. We also met slimy sea cucumbers and a giant fish who goes by the name of Wally. Bizarrely enough, I returned from the trip to see an email from my sister, who dived at the Barrier Reef a few years ago, telling me to look out for Wally. Nice to know that he's getting to know the whole family.
We swam past the area which we'd been told was the best place to see reef sharks, and I still couldn't tell you whether I am truly relieved or disappointed that there were none! Our guide did point out the very edge of the reef, around 100 metres away, where the sea bed fell off with cliff-like sharpness into ocean proper, and mentioned that that was where the "big boys hung out." A few minutes later when I cut my leg on some coral, I did pause to wonder just how quickly those "big boys" might traverse the 100 metres if they got a sniff of blood. It seems that they weren't peckish for Scot so I made it back to the boat. It was at that point, as we headed back for the distant shore, again enjoying the breeze and the sun, my mind reeling from all I'd seen - and yes, I was nursing another cup of tea - that I thought to myself that life doesn't get much better than this.
Which I had to take back a few minutes later, when someone at the front of the boat called everyone's attention to a black dot on the horizon. Within moments we'd all clambered out on to the outside of the railings at the front of the boat to watch as three Humpback Whales approached us. Suddenly it was party time off the coast of Cairns, as a handful of Minke Whales and numerous dolphins appeared and the surface of the sea was awash with black dots, some close enough to make out the shape of the mammal, others only discernable by the wooshing spray of water above them. We all watched in silence and - for my part, at least - something approaching awe at these awesome - in the original sense - creatures in their natural habitat. Somehow, because we weren't on an official 'whale watch' it was even more of a treat to happen upon them.

Made It!

2006-09-14T15:35:00.000+01:00

So here I am: about as far away from home as it is possible to be without starting to head back from the opposite direction. And not just any far flung destination either: Australia, somewhere I've imagined ever since I sat, goggle eyed in around 1987 as Scott Robinson confronted an intruder outside the Ramsay's house and she punched his lights out. Not, in all fairness, that my immediate surroundings (a hostel in downtown Cairns) bears much resemblance to either Erinsborough or Summer Bay - I haven't yet been called a "flaming gallah" nor have I stumbled across so much as one hitherto unsuspected sibling. But, you know, I just got here.
I've discovered that Australians must be the friendliest people on earth (sorry Canadians!) When I stumbled, bleary eyed, off the plane after nearly 30 hours travelling, I was astonished to be greeted with a "G'day Claire, how're you going?" - I had absolutely no idea how the man in front of me knew my name... until I realized that I'd just handed him my passport. I had absolutely no idea that those passport people could do anything but grunt suspiciously. Same with the customs people - I received my first "no worries" when I warned the man that my bag was heavy - my taxi driver, the man at the hostel and the lady I've just booked my snorkelling trip with. I love travelling alone, getting to explore and mosey around in my own way and at my own pace, not to mention meet new people; but it can't be underestimated how much difference a friendly face or greeting from a random stranger can make.
Weather is gorgeous - Queensland is in the middle of a "winter heatwave" - what a mad thought! - and so far I have spent most of my time being utterly lazy (recovering from jet lag, so I assure myself) lying around by the pool. Well, for one more day, at least - I've just found out that my snorkelling trip leaves at 7.30am tomorrow morning - eek!

Night Fever 2006

2006-08-14T14:22:00.000+01:00

Well, I think that this picture probably tells a thousand stories... but I'll tell the story anyway!

I mentioned some time ago that this year was Chateau Holiday no. 2, this time in celebration of the mums' birthdays... a significant one that begins with "F" and ends on "y"... but shall remain otherwise unmentioned ;) The "Glasgow Crowd" consists of my parents' best friends, four couples altogether who've known each other since the dawn of, err, colour television, and their kids who have all grown up together. Indeed the only party that my mum and I missed was one legendary gathering that took place late on the evening of 17 October 1978, to celebrate the birth of the first child of the crowd - an already noisy baby girl who apparently resembled a wrinkly monkey at the time, who grew up to be yours truly. Over the years we've celebrated numerous Boxing Days together - one notable one when the 13 kids ranged in age from ten (me) to six months (my youngest brother... the young gentleman in white above) when the parents cracked open the wine fractionally early and we sat down to dinner at 11pm. The first group holiday was now nearly 13 years ago to celebrate the Dads' first F birthday, when I had my first kiss - observed and narrated by a motley crew of the younger ones and followed by the young man (who went by the name of Duncan) and I emerging shyly in post snog romantic hand holding from the woods to be greeted by a chorus of "It's Dunc the hunk, the hunk, the hunk" (sang to the tune of "Lily the Pink") from the inebriated parents.... hmmm, is anyone else sensing a pattern here?

In case you are on the edge of your seat following the adventures of el Crowdo Glasgow, the link to some of the adventures two years ago in Bordeaux is here
http://claireduffy.blogspot.com/2006/03/one-spirit-or-another.html

This year however, the only ghosts joining us were those of mental nights past. A little bit of history: during the early to mid seventies, my Dad and my Uncle Jackie ran disco nights at a Glasgow club called Joanna’s. Mum and Auntie Katie sold the tickets and I am let to believe that Glasgow partiers thusly paid for my parents wedding. We all grew up on (heavily censored!) stories from Joanna’s, so this year the kids decided to club together to throw a surprise Joanna’s night and bring Glasgow in 1974 to Tuscany in 2006.

The event was planned with military precision: many furtive phone calls took place between Glasgow, my sister and my flat in London and our brothers who live with our parents in Switzerland, planning the purchase of Rod Stewart and David Bowie albums, glittery platforms and Moscow Mule ingredients. The Dads were let into the secret just enough to fulfil their role of taking the Mums out to dinner on the appointed night and getting them back to the Villa (a somewhat humble name for the 14th century dwelling that slept 30 of us) in one piece, at the appointed hour.

Well, easier said than done. While us kids (isn’t it lovely that there remains a group in which I am one of the ‘kids’ despite knocking on 30?!) impatiently bounced around hiding glittery streamers and cheese hedgehogs, the mums decided that they wanted a wee aperitif before they headed out. And once they had been chauffeured into the picturesque village by my sister and her boyfriend, they thought that they might just pop into the local bar before arriving at the restaurant. Meanwhile, back at headquarters, we were busy transforming the grand ballroom of the castle into a tacky seventies disco with the help of lots of tin foil and a few balloons. I was transported back nearly 20 years, to the days when the kids would plan extravagant pageants and plays during the Boxing Day festivities, and the little ones would swarm around me asking “what do I do now Claire? Where do I stand? What’s my words again?” Except that this time it was people in their twenties asking if I was entirely sure that an entire bottle of vodka was to be tipped into the increasingly lethal punch.

By midnight, the ballroom was garish in the extreme, the punches and seventies cocktails were fire hazards and the kids were decked out in costumes ABBA would have found over the top. My sister’s boyfriend even gamely shaved his stubble into a fetching handlebar moustache and lamb chops - a look he has chosen to stick with, much to my sister’s dismay. And… there was no sign of the parents.

Finally, the youngest (and most sober) 11 year old Paddy who was on parent watch, announced that the headlights had been sighted turning up the drive. Action stations. The lights were cut and all 22 of us crouched beneath tables and behind sideboards in the dark. 10 minutes went by. Simon had a coughing fit, Sinead a giggling one. My knees had started to crack (so much for being one of the kids!) when finally screams of laughter announced that guests of honour had seen the “bouncer” (see my little brother above.) The “guests” were informed that they seemed a bit drunk to gain entry to the club, so were asked to list all they’d had to drink that night, walk in straight lines, recite their names and addresses… the fact that they all unquestioningly submitted to sobriety tests to gain entry to the villa that they’d paid for (having absolutely no idea what was going on!) probably tells you all you need to know about the atmosphere that night.

And moments later… the party started…

Fun and Games

2006-07-12T11:24:00.000+01:00

Apologies for horribly long absence while I caught up with other projects. It's been a mad couple of months, but at least I can now relax and enjoy my summer of travelling.

Travelling that wouldn't be happening if the UK passport office had had its way, that is. For the best part of the past ten years, I have been looking forward to renewing my passport and getting rid of the gawky photo of a confused 16 year old (vain, me?) Unfortunately, however, I haven't been looking forward quite keenly enough to have noticed that the midnight hour at last arrived this May. It was time to renew my passport with - ideally - a brand new, 'goodness me she must be a supermodel' photograph. Indeed, I didn't notice until the middle of June... just over a week before I was due to travel to Vancouver. Not a problem, no need to panic, as it turns out there is a (heart-stoppingly expensive) one day option available. One day? Nae bother - I had eight of them! So I happily made my appointment for 8.15am one morning at the London branch of the Passport Office, then spent, ooh, 10 minutes... or an hour... in a photo booth posing for a photograph (with plenty of make up and back-lighting) so flattering it didn't look the least bit like me.

8.15am rolls around and I cheerfully sign in, walk through the X ray machine, wait for 15 minutes then trot up to the desk when my number is called, brandishing my oh so bee-yoo-tiful. 'goodness-me-she-must-be-a-supermodel' photo with glee. It's rejected. And not, as you might think, because it's so bee-yoo-tiful that it doesn't look like me, but because I am flashing my pearly whites which, as it happens, is clearly and expressedly forbidden in the list of guidelines. I am given the opportunity to take another photo and wait in line for another appointment the same day, but as I haven't arranged to be late for work I decide to make another appointment for the following day. Nae bother! I still have six whole days to go!

Except that they don't have any appointments available for the following day, the next appointment is on Monday... my flight is on Thursday. That is just fine - one day service is one day service after all... right?

Monday morning goes like this:

7.55am Arrive at Kensington High St Station
8.05am First Circle Line arrives
8.20am Arrive at Passport Office, 5 minutes late. Guard shakes head, very perturbed at lateness. Lets me in. Thank him profusely.
8.45am Still waiting. Man at door says it might be another hour.
9.40am Called for appointment. They don't like my pictures - hair on forehead. But I have a fringe. They don't care. Need other pictures. Fine, I'll be back in a minute. No, I have to make an emergency appointment by waiting in long queue downstairs.
10.01am Given appointment for 10.15.
10.05am Waiting in queue to get new photos.
10.07am Machine breaks. Man tells us all to go to Victoria station for pictures. Will have to make another appointment on return.
10.10am Find machine at Victoria. Kid who speaks no English is guarding for someone else. Growl ferally at him, he gets the message.
10.11am Put £3.50 in machine. It asks for another pound. Don't have heart to argue. After £7.50, it takes a picture of me looking like an axe murderer. Emerge to half a dozen people who don't speak English shouting at me. Show them axe murderer picture and they shut up.
10.15am Get back in queue. Ahead of me, people leisurely think about their appointment times, take out diaries, have a good old chinwag.
10.23am Make it to front of queue. First appointment they have is at 11.45. That is about an hour from now, I am informed helpfully. I can't wait that long. I have to come back at 7am tomorrow morning.
Hours late for work: 1.5
Passports: none.
Status: Might cry.

7am Tuesday morning, I join the end of a (frighteningly long) queue. 8.40am we are informed that the printer is broken and no "casual walk ins" (casual?? Do I look casual to you???) will be getting passports today. Told to come back tomorrow.

6.20am Wednesday morning (26 hours before I have to check in for Vancouver flight) I join the queue, greet old friends from yesterday, settle down to wait. I am 17th in the queue. 7.45am, they open the doors. It's looking positive... but I am afraid to admit that out loud in case I jinx it all. A little while later, I am 15th in the queue... I glance at my watch... 23 hours until I have to check in... 14th in the queue... my heart starts beating a little faster. My buddy from yesterday morning (student, traveller, his passport was lost by the Kazakhstan Embassy) is given an appointment... I hardly dare hope... sweat breaks out on my palms... my scalp... some places I had no idea I had sweat glands... I am 6th... 5th... 4th... 3rd... 2nd... the man giving out emergency appointments goes on his break. I kid you not.

20 hours until I have to check in. I begin to do a little jig of impatience, then stop when I see the security man looking at me oddly - the last thing I need now is to be thrown out for insanity. The man comes back from his break. I am given an appointment.

Two hours later, I have a shiny, brand new passport. Featuring a picture of me looking like an axe murderer (hey, we'd all like to look like Charlize Theron - but in Monster?) Oh well - roll on 2016!

Beauty is in the Scalpel?

2006-06-05T20:32:00.000+01:00

An article in the Evening Standard caught my eye the other night, and has occupied my thoughts on and off ever since (the off times being when I am busy obsessing over Big Brother although I hate everyone in it, even the gay Canadian who I had a crush on to begin with, or sleeping.) It was a profile on an eminent American brain surgeon (so eminent I've forgotten her name – what have I been saying about my memory?) during which she talked a lot about a procedure – naturally I couldn't make head nor tail of it, so maybe I could do with it – which she referred to as a "brain lift." She believes that one day it will be as common place as face lifts. It is a procedure that can potentially improve memory, comprehension, capacity: essentially, it will make patients smarter. And she wasn't talking about patients who are mentally disadvantaged or chronically underdeveloped; she spoke – potentially – of patients of perfectly average intelligence who want to simply want to be a bit brighter. I'd say that they might want to improve their careers, but at the price scales quoted in the article, you'd have to be doing pretty well to afford it in the first place. It's got me in a bit of a quandary.

I mentioned some time ago that I am not much of an advocate of cosmetic surgery. While as far as I am concerned, anyone who is big and ugly (no pun intended) enough to be able to plonk that amount of cash down on a straighter nose or bigger boobs and chooses to do so rather than invest in, say, shoes, or a nice holiday is big and ugly enough to do so without my blessing, it is something that bothers me and if anyone asks my opinion on it I will gladly give it. Which I did recently, when one of my oldest friends mentioned that she was thinking about a nose job, As I say, her cash her choice, but as she'd asked me, my main comment was "why?" This is what gets me about cosmetic surgery – when it comes down to it, what difference does it make? Thinking about my friends who I would consider the happiest, the most successful, the ones whose lives I wouldn’t mind trying out, not one of them is the most classically physically attractive person I know. The diabetes-inducing couples; those shooting up the career ladder to dizzying heights; those who can have a room full of people crying with laughter at their stories - none of them are in any danger of gracing catwalks. Not that I am completely discounting how lovely it is to feel attractive, anyone who doesn’t get a little thrill at someone checking them out or their other half reminding them that they’re gorgeous is a big fat liar, but I don’t believe that it is only those with perfectly straight noses or flat tummies or full lips that get checked or whose other halves think they’re lovely. In fact - and yes, I do know I am getting off the point, but bear with me, it’s still on the horizon - the amount of times I have gone to a club all dolled up, looking (in my humble opinion) a million dollars, and narry a male type person has so much as sneaked a peek, and the following morning I have run to the shops for a pint of milk in my pyjamas with my hair flying, medusa like, in a flurry of creative directions and the kind of spot throbbing on my forehead that could guide a ship into a harbour, and it’s been double-take-horn-honking-’alright-gorgeous’-city. Which doesn’t so much prove my point about attractiveness as suggest that men are a bit odd. But anyway.

My main issue with cosmetic surgery is its fakery. As much as it would be perfectly nice to have been born with jaw droopingly stunning model looks, I feel as though the rest of us have qualities that those people don’t so why not focus on those and leave the stunning model stuff to those who were born that way? I honestly believe that I would rather look like me than Kate Moss, even if I was given the choice, just because… it’s me. I wouldn’t know what to do with Kate Moss’s face.

However… if given the choice to be just a little bit more intelligent, even if it wasn’t naturally me, I think I would be tempted. I feel as though I would have more use for a bit more memory than I would a nicer nose - so somehow I can justify the fakery. Does that make me utterly hypocritical? If I was a bit more intelligent would I know better?

Misty Memories

2006-05-26T21:20:00.000+01:00

My dad’s car has broken indicator lights at the moment (not surprising - the car is a BMW so they are rarely used ;) ) so this morning, on the way to drop me off at the station, he stuck his arm out the window to indicate that he was about to turn right (bearing in mind, dear North Americans that we were on the left hand side of the road so the right window was the driver’s side… I don’t actually know what we’d have done if we turned left, but luckily there was no need to.) All of this is a convoluted introduction to the fact that my dad manually indicating reminded me of a story that made me roar when I was little. (With laughter, not anger.) Once upon a time, driving tests in the UK tested this very sort of manual indicating. The manoeuvre went: mirror, indicate by sticking arm out window, return right hand to steering wheel, change gear, return left hand to steering wheel, indicate a second time and turn. Simple enough, yes? However, one of my dad’s best friends, my uncle Sean, got himself a bit flustered and accidentally skipped the “return right hand to steering wheel step” so found himself with one hand on the gear stick, the other hand out the window, and by process of elimination we can deduce that there were no hands on the steering wheel. He failed the test.
So I commented to dad that he had been rather more successful at indicating than Uncle Sean (to be fair, the car is an automatic and I am less fluster-inducing than your average driving examiner) and dad replied “you never forget anything, do you?” Which is true. I have memories of our trip to Blackpool when I was 18 months (I was scared of the wax figures on the Pier) I can remember going to visit my mum and sister in hospital when Laura was born - I was 2 ½ - (I utterly ignored Laura because I was much more interested in the baby in the cot next to her,) and hiding her Wendy House on her 3rd birthday (I was 5) crying because I thought everyone had forgotten me. I have an almost infallible memory for conversations (particularly gossip, I never forget gossip, and regularly annoy the hell out of anyone who tells me juicy titbits by announcing “umm, the last time you told that story, you said…”) and could recite every line I uttered onstage as Abigail in The Crucible in high school.
Yet none of this helps me remember my cell phone when I leave the house. Or tickets when I am on my way to the theatre. Or passport when I leave for the airport… actually - passport! I must get my passport renewed or else I won’t be going anywhere this summer…
I mentioned this to my dad in the car this morning, then ably proved my point by proceeding to cheerily call “bye then, thanks for the lift, see you tonight!” and hop out the car… at least, I would have hopped out the car had I not forgotten to unclick my seat belt.
My sister reminded me three times on Wednesday that she would be out on Thursday night so there would be no one to pick me up at the station… which didn’t stop me phoning for a lift when I got on the train.
However, if anyone would like a full census of Ramsey Street circa 1987, each character’s backstory and sundry entanglements not to mention the full CV of the actor that played them… then I’m your girl.

The Stations of Bobby

2006-05-25T09:48:00.000+01:00

And now for something really different! The reason I have been a bit neglectful of this blog recently is that I have been scrabbling to keep up to date on some other projects... so I thought why not kill two birds with one stone?! The following short story is a first draft - might be a bit bollocks, who knows yet? Some feedback would really help, so please feel free to comment!
(Oh - and any RBers reading will guess where I nicked the nickname from, so apologies and thanks to you-know-who!)

In a flat that soared so high in the sky that the only view was murky clouds, Tamara McKellon gritted her teeth against the protests of her arthritis ridden fingers as she carefully placed items in her cavernous bag in preparation for the evening’s mission. Crossing to the brass framed mirror that had been her pride and joy when she bought it thirty years ago, she carefully applied her favourite passion-red lipstick. It had been a while since she’d done this, she thought ruefully, staring into the mirror and wondering who the old woman was staring back at her.
This wasn’t the gallus young thing that Bobby had proudly escorted. Glam Tam, they’d called her, Bobby and his Dazzler. See ya Tamara, Bobby would call when he dropped her off after a night at the dancing, and she could hear him cackling as he strode off into the night.
Placing her fingers at her temples and her thumbs below her cheekbones, Tamara lifted until she could feel the strain at her hairline, and for an instant she saw the girl about town that was still buried somewhere deep inside. Then she let go and her face sagged back into its crevices that betrayed the ravages of time. Tamara sighed. Glam Tam was long gone.

Jamie furrowed his brow as he pounded his frustration out on the football that ricocheted off the wall of their block of flats. Mum had told him and Sean to scram while she made dinner and got the baby down. Did it matter that Jamie had been just about to reach level 11 on his Playstation? No. Did it matter that Jamie didn’t want to go outside and be stuck with whiny Sean? No. Jamie couldn’t stand it the way adults just pleased themselves all the time and Jamie had no choice but to put up with it. Eleven, he decided was the shite-est age to be, because you were old enough to know how rubbish being a kid was, but not old enough to do anything about it.
“Give me a shot -- ”
There was Sean, whining away as usual. Well fine –
“Owww – what did you do that for?”
Sean’s forehead smarted bright red from where the ball had smacked it.
“You said that you wanted the ball.” Jamie replied mutinously. Sean was going to tell mum, Jamie knew it.
“Not in the face though!” Sean stamped his foot in indignation, lower lip trembling, Jamie noted in disgust.
“It was an accident,” he muttered.
He went back to pounding the ball, pretending that was mum’s head, Mrs McKellon’s head, Sean’s head. Everyone that deserved it.

The lift doors pinged open and Tamara emerged briskly, determined not to betray the strain her heavy bag put on her aching shoulders. She crossed the lobby and winced as a cold blast of damp, stinging October air hit her full in the face. She could see today far enough, she thought, and briefly considered returning to her cosy flat and forgetting the whole thing. A promise is a promise though, she thought grimly. Unfortunately, she added to herself, cursing the sense of honour that had dogged her pursuit of fun for the best part of 40 years. Tugging her scarf tighter around her ears, she braced herself against the wind and walked out into the shadowy dusk.

Jamie glanced up with little interest as an old lady departed the building and walked quickly around the perimeter of the precinct, then his eyes narrowed as he recognised the stooped figure. Mrs McKellon. The very Mrs McKellon who complained to mum about the noise of his football – as if she could hear it up in her flat – which earned him a wallop and an evening’s ban from Playstation. And that was just her latest attempt to ruin his life; she was at it all the time. Nasty old bitch that she was, he thought darkly. People like her should just hurry up and die and leave us all in peace.
“Jamie, you said you’d give me a shot ages ago!” whined Sean, and Jamie irritably chucked the ball in his direction.
“Shut it a minute” he hissed. “I’m thinking.”
“What about?”
“I said shut it.”
As Jamie watched Mrs McKellon scurry into the quickly darkening dusk, it occurred to him that she looked nervous about something. She kept glancing over her shoulder, and was walking awful fast, even for her. Almost without thinking, he started to cross the concrete wasteland that served as a back garden for the flats, towards her.
“Where are we going?” demanded Sean, scuttling after Jamie.
“We’re going on an adventure,” replied Jamie. “Don’t ask questions or you can’t come.”
“I can come! Mum says you’re to look after me.”
“I don’t do what mum says, Sean, alright? If you’re good and you shut it you can come. We’re going to teach somebody a lesson, it’s gonnae be fun.” With growing confidence, Jamie strode after Mrs McKellon, careful to stay just far enough behind that she wouldn’t see him, but not far enough that he’d lose her. He had to pick his moment just right.
“It doesn’t sound like fun,” worried Sean in a cautiously low voice. “You say a lot of things are going to be fun and they aren’t. You said it would be fun to get into a fight with Tim O’Donnell and it wasn’t. It just hurt.”

The streets were busy; early evening revellers drifted around and irritated those on their way home from a hard day’s graft. Jamie had to duck and weave around secretaries and drunks to keep Mrs McKellon in his sights. He thought that he’d lost her and swore, then started in surprise when suddenly she was standing right in front of him. She opened her mouth to speak when Jamie was grabbed by the scruff of his neck and yanked backwards.
“What d’ye want with Mrs McKellon?” demanded Andrew. Andrew’d been normal, just one of them until a couple of months before when he’d joined the polis. Now he was all Holier Than Though and Jamie couldn’t stand it.
“Well? You’ve been following her ages – I’ve been watching.” Andrew gave Jamie a shake for good measure, which he did his best to pretend didn’t happen. One of these days, it’d be different, he thought.
“Have ye no’ got better things to than follow a couple of wee boys out for a walk in the evening?” Jamie tried to stop his face going red. “I’m just looking after my wee brother and you’re hurting me.”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” Andrew demanded and Jamie thought it best not to answer. “I’ve seen you watching Mrs McKellon and walking right behind her –“
Suddenly, Sean piped up.
“We just wanted to say that we’re awful sorry her husband’s died.” Jamie struggled free of Andrew’s grip. “We read about in the paper and thought it sounded awful so we thought we should pay our respects.”
“Well boys, that is kind of you,” smiled Tamara in her gravely voice. Everyone know that wee Andy was as daft as a brush, but surely these two didn’t think that she came up the Clyde in a spam tin? “Thank you very much.”
“Aye, well, any time,” Sean said solemnly, holding out his hand for Tamara to shake. “It’s a terrible time for you.”
Jamie shook his head in amazement. Look at Sean, the size of nothing, and he did this with every adult. On one hand, he had to admit that it was handy, but on the other, who’d want to be such a goody two shoes nonce?
“Right. You’ve said your piece, be on you way, both of you.” Andrew wasn’t sure how he felt at being so usurped by an eight year old; he just hoped that Mrs McKellon hadn’t noticed. The boys scarpered.

“Would you like me to walk you home now Mrs McKellon?” he asked solicitously .
“You’re alright son,” Tamara smiled ruefully. “I’ve got messages to get before I can get home. Thanks all the same, but don’t you worry about me.”
Andrew watched the tiny wee lady walk briskly into the now almost deserted streets, shaking his head at her tenacity. He hoped he’d be as tough when he got to that age. A moment later, he chuckled to himself as he saw her dart into the bookies’. That was her messages, was it? Well good for her.

Making sure that Andrew was safely on his way, Jamie snuck carefully to the wired window of the bookies’ and peered in. Sure enough, there was Mrs McKellon, a sore thumb amongst greasy men, standing on her own, watching a race. It was a bit funny, he thought, that none of the men were giving her any hassle – you’d have thought they’d at least be teasing a wee old lady by herself, but they kept a respectful distance and Mrs McKellon watched her race in peace. When it was over, she ripped up her ticket, and sprinkled the bits into her huge bag with a satisfied smile, then suddenly made her way to the door. Jamie had to duck behind the windowsill so quickly that he banged his head.

“Are we gonnae mug her? Is that what we’re gonnae do?” asked Sean matter of factly as Mrs McKellon strode off with purpose. Jamie followed her, and Sean followed him, still talking. “I don’t think that’s a good idea and I’ll tell you why –“
“Shh,” Jamie cut him off. “We’re just following her, okay?”
“It’s just that –“
“Shhh—t.”
Jamie had just realized that they’d walked far beyond the roads around home where they were allowed to go, when Mrs McKellon entered a pub. And not just any pub. Jamie was unfamiliar with the surroundings, but he knew the name of that pub, he’d just never seen it in real life before. What was a grumpy old lady going to do in there thieves and murderers and people like that? Against his better wishes, Jamie wondered this out loud to Sean, and Sean – as usual – had a suggestion.
“Maybe it was a different kind of pub in her day and she doesn’t know that it’s changed? She doesn’t seem as though she gets out much.”
That’d be it. Momentarily forgetting his own desire to exact revenge on Mrs McKellon, Jamie worried a bit about her in there. He didn’t know exactly what went on inside the bad pub, but he’d seen enough telly to guess and it didn’t seem like stuff an old lady who spent her days complaining about the noise of footballs should be a part of. Uncertain of what to do, Jamie hovered by the door, Sean by his side, and was startled when it burst open and a man with broken capillaries and rancid breath stumbled out.
“Whit’s a coupla weans dain’ outside here?” The man enquired, leering unsteadily at the boys. “Yous been sent to get yer Da? Well you should leave him tae take a drink in peace, so you should… whit’s wrang wi’ yese? No answering?”
The man lurched towards them and Jamie shrank back in fear, making sure that he was between Sean and the man.

“Leave the weans alone,” came a voice from the shadows, and squinting into the dimness, Jamie saw another man, sitting right on the pavement. He looked happy enough, as if he’d been there a while and had no plans to move on.
“There not dain’ any harm staunin’ there,” he lazily continued. “They’re waitin’ on Tamara McKellon.”
“Is that right?” The leering man had stood up so his face wasn’t right in theirs any more, but they could still smell his breath as he looked them up and down in interest. “That your Gran?”
Jamie thought it best to nod. Suddenly the man’s demeanour changed entirely. “Well gi’er my best. We’re all missin’ Bobby,”
“Aye I will.” Jamie muttered, wishing that he would just go away. Sure enough, he did.
“Nothing to be scared of if yous’re Bobby McKellon’s grandkids,” promised the man on the pavement. “I’m sure your granda’s lookin’ up at the two of you and anybody that causes you trouble’ll be for it, nae bother.” With that he went off into peels of laughter that ended in a hacking cough.
“Jamie, we should go,” whispered Sean urgently.
“I know,” replied Jamie, but somehow he stuck where he was. What was old Mrs McKellon doing in there and how did these men know who she was? Jamie remembered being surprised when dad read out in the paper that her husband had died, he’d never seen an old man about.
The pub door opened again, blasting heat and banter out into the night, and a young couple passed by into the night. Jamie glanced inside. He didn’t see anything other than the normal stuff that happened in pubs, but he did catch sight of Mrs McKellon standing on her own at the bar. As he watched, he barman handed her a short glass with what looked like whiskey in it. She knocked it back and carefully placed the glass in her bag. Jamie’s eyes widened – the barman saw what she did and didn’t say a thing about her nicking the glass!
“Jamie, when she comes out again we’ll definitely go home, won’t we?” hissed Sean. “Mum’ll be going bonkers.”
They shrank back behind the door as it opened a third time ad Mrs McKellon emerged. She glanced from side to side, almost as if she knew they were there, then walked off – in the opposite direction from home.
“ ‘Mon Jamie, you promised.” Sean was hopping about almost as though he needed the toilet, but Jamie found himself, without meaning to, following Mrs McKellon. Sean darted about urgently, but then followed behind too. Mrs McKellon turned a corner and it was just the three of them in a totally deserted, quiet road. Jamie shivered a bit, then remembered that it was only an old lady – nothing to be afraid of. Still, he was grateful for how many bulbs were missing or broken from the street lights – only a couple bravely pierced the darkness and he was sure that Mrs McKellon couldn’t see them.
“Boys” Jamie’s heart jumped out his mouth and he froze, holding Sean’s hand, but Mrs McKellon hadn’t turned around. She was standing right under one of the only working street lights, facing ahead as though she was talking only to the deserted, boarded up tenements; the orange glow that surrounded her making the blackness of her silhouette even blacker. “Boys, you’ve had your fun, now leave an old lady alone, alright?” Mrs McKellon’s gravely voice floated back towards them, seeming almost disembodied, Jamie was frozen in sudden terror, gripping Sean’s hand. Sean stood next to him, seeming to be simply listening in interest.
“If yous go on up this road and carry on straight ahead that’ll be you home again. You’ll only get lost if you keep following me and your ma’ll be having kittens, so on you go.”
Mrs McKellon resumed her walk, carefully looking nowhere but straight ahead.
“C’mon let’s go.” Jamie lunged forward but was held back by Sean.
“No way! What right has she got to tell us what to do?” Sean’s eyes were popping in excitement. “We can walk along the road same as her. It’s a free country.”
“I thought you wanted to go home, now we’re going,” Jamie again tried to head in the direction Mrs McKellon had said was home. A gust of wind threatened to turn the normal drizzle into actual rain, and Jamie knew that if Sean caught another cold it’d be his fault. Not for the first time, he wished he was doing nothing but playing football at home with Sean.
“We don’t know that is the way home,” Sean pointed out. “We only know what she said and she’s an old witch so she could have pointed us in the direction of a load of murderers or anything.” Sean’s voice was too loud, it seemed to bounce and echo off the slick pavement and reverberate to where Jamie was sure Mrs McKellon could hear. “ The only way we know we’ll get home is if we keep on following her because she has to go back there too. Come on before we lose her.
Wishing again that he’d never started the whole thing, or at least that he was wearing a jumper before he strayed so far from home, Jamie resumed stalking.

Not too far down the road, Mrs McKellon entered a grubby corner shop, the kind that smelt funny and mostly only sold stale biscuits and stuff for making roll up cigarettes. Jamie and Sean slunk in behind her. Jamie knew that the shop was too wee for them not to be seem but he didn’t want him and Sean to stand outside on that road. Mrs McKellon gave no sign of having noticed them as they slipped behind the only aisle that there was and stood quietly.
A girl with stringy hair moved aside to let Mrs McKellon go first, but Mrs McKellon told her that she was alright and waited patiently her turn.
“This must be the messages she told Andrew she was going,” muttered Jamie. None of this made any sense to him, and he didn’t think that it was ever going to.
“Aye maybe.” Replied Sean distractedly. “I don’t know about her. Why would she come this far just to get some messages? And why a yuck wee shop like this one?” So intent was Jamie on alternately listening to Sean’s thinking and praying that the shopkeeper wouldn’t hear him, that he didn’t hear Mrs McKellon walk up behind him until it was too late.
“What did I tell ye, ya dirty wee brat?” She demanded in a menacing hiss. Jamie got such a fright that he jumped right backwards and a shelf’s worth of jam and Branston pickles clattered to the floor with an almighty crash.
“Don’t talk to my brother like that!” yelled Sean, and Jamie wasn’t quick enough to catch him from rushing at Mrs McKellon with a head-butt. Andrew was, though. Jamie was relieved and frightened all at once when Andrew materialized from nowhere and grabbed Sean before he collided with Mrs McKellon.
“I knew that the two of you were up to no good,” he announced triumphantly, yanking Sean by the shirt collar as though he was a stray kitten. “Shocking it is, attacking a wee old lady who’s your neighbour no less. No shame at all.”
Sean’s face was going red and Jamie couldn’t tell if it was anger or because he couldn’t breathe because Andrew was holding him so tightly. “I never attacked her she attacked us!” he protested furiously. “We were in here just minding our own business and she came over and shouted and she’d no right!”
It seemed that Sean’s quick talking had overstayed its welcome where Andrew was concerned. “Neither of yous have got any right being around here at this time at all,” he replied grimly. “I am taking you both home.” Andrew strode to wards the door, dragging an apoplectic Sean with him. With sudden bravery, Jamie spoke up.
“I didn’t do anything. You can’t make me go anywhere.”
“I think you’ll find son, that –“ But whatever Andrew thought that Jamie would find would forever remain a mystery as Sean suddenly managed to wriggle free of Andrew’s vice like grip and tear out the door. With a moment’s hesitation and glance at Jamie, Andrew chose to take off after Sean and Jamie could hear their footsteps battering down the cracked road now sleek with drizzle. He didn’t know what do to. Sean and him and both been yelled at before, even by the police, but not chased and never so far from home. It was all out of control and now he was here, alone, with no idea where Sean was or what would happen to him with Mrs McKellon staring at him with ice hot fury and the shopkeeper frowning suspiciously from behind the counter. He decided that brazening it out was his only option.
“I’d be for it if I came home without tea.” The slight tremble in his voice belied the forced nonchalance Jamie affected, casually picking up a packet of dried macaroni and some ketchup. “This’ll do.”
Under Mrs McKellon’s scrutiny, he sauntered up to the counter, and then remembered he’d no money.
“Don’t suppose you’d give me this on tic?” he managed what he hoped was a winning smile while his heart threatened to thump right out his chest and scalding tears of terror threatened. The shopkeeper slowly shook his head.
“Beat it son,” he growled quietly. “Go on efter yer brother.”
“Why should I? I can go where I want.”
“You’re not buying anything,” the shopkeeper pointed out, and Jamie reluctantly realized he had no choice. “So get out my shop.”
“I’m gonnae nick these then!” Jamie had no idea who’d said the words when he noticed that he was waving the macaroni and tomato sauce about, and realized that it was him. Desperately, he made a mad dash for the door, but was halted by the growl of the shopkeeper’s voice.
“Put them down, son.” Jamie whirled around to see the shopkeeper, still behind the counter, pointing a gleaming gun at him. Jamie was dazzled. He’d never seen a real gun in real life before, and to think that it was pointed at him over macaroni and tomato sauce! With a yelp of fear, he dropped his packets, and, trying not to notice that the glass tomato sauce bottle had smashed and its sickly red contents were oozing all over the floor, Jamie scuttled out the door in the direction that he thought Andrew and Sean’s footsteps might have headed.

Manjit the shopkeeper smiled ruefully at Tamara. “Wee eejit,” he mutterered with a chuckle. “Maybe that’ll teach him not to act like such a dipshit until he’s big enough to take it.”
“Aye, maybe,” smiled Tamara, carefully avoiding the spilt ketchup as she approached the counter. “Why’ve you got a gun? It must’ve cost more than the value of this shop. It’s surely not worth it.”
Manjit smiled, revealing surprising gleaming white teeth. “Och it’s no real. It’s a glorified BB, not even loaded. Just helps to keep wee shites the likes of them under control. And, you never know – all they –“ he paused, chosing his words carefully. “—Robberies a while back. I was feart I’d be next.”
“Had you reason to be?”
Tamara smiled, and Manjit relaxed a little. She was an auld lady, no need to watch what he said around her.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“Aye,” agreed Tamara, fumbling in her deep bag. Finding what she was looking for, she emerged triumphantly. “You are.”
Manjit’s heart started to thump as hard as Jamie’s had as he stared in shock at the old, but most definitely real, gun that Tamara pointed at him.
“Shame yours is no loaded.” Tamara grinned, and Manjit caught a brief sight of Glam Tam in her feverishly excited smile.

Jamie stared mournfully out his bedroom window at the murky dawn breaking over the city. He decided that he was happy enough to be grounded for the rest of his life. There was a bit too much to outside for the minute, he thought, watching Sean sleep peacefully.

Tamara didn’t notice the drizzle that dripped down her neck as she worked quickly, aware that the grimy sun would break out of the heavy clouds at any minute. Her knees sunk into the damp dirt as she carefully buried the contents of Manjit’s safe in the soft earth covering a grave. The glass and the remnants of the betting slip joined the cash that was laughably too much to be the takings of a corner shop, and finally, the gun. Tamara had no use for it any more.
“Night Bobby. Sleep well darlin’.” Her words her stolen by the icy wind as she kissed her muddy fingers and touched them to the smooth, freezing stone.

And Now for Something Different...

2006-05-22T22:41:00.000+01:00

Bored and a bit miserable with a flatmate I wasn't getting on with and drowning under a theatre company I was too young and inexperienced to handle, I got into an odd and admittedly drunken argument at a party with a girl I had never met before, over where the actor Jason Priestley comes from. We agreed that he was Canadian, but she claimed Toronto while I knew perfectly well it was Vancouver. On and on we argued in that peculiarly drunken way in which every pointless argument assumes life or death significance, and the following say, somewhat more sober but still determined to be right I sneakily surfed the internet (while simultaneously hiding my hangover from my boss - who says I can't multitask?) to settle the score. I never saw her again, most likely couldn't pick her out of a line up now, so I was denied the satisfaction of crowing over being right, but in the midst of my research I fell in love with Vancouver and found myself on a plane headed for a new life in a country I'd never so much as visited nor knew anything about.

Ever since I spent an entire year at primary school carefully escorting an imaginary lion to class with me everyday and solemnly promising all my friends that I wouldn't let her eat them, I have lived with a constant compulsion to be different, to do things more exciting, to live beyond the norm. Throughout my teenage years, when most of my friends were happily hanging round pubs in Guildford and snogging blokes from the local boys' school I was sneaking up to London in search of glamour and excitement, sometimes I found it, sometimes I didn't, but the need to do something other than hang around pubs in Guildford snogging blokes from the local boys' school was too tempting to resist. Who knows: I might have thoroughly enjoyed hanging around pubs in Guildford, I might have even fallen, in the midst of all that snogging, for one of those blokes from the local boys' school - I'll never know, because I never gave myself the chance to find out.

I don't regret the choices I have made, I love maybe 90% of my life which I think isn't bad going, but I am aware that it inevitably goes in fits and starts. For ever weekend I spent flying off to go to parties or concerts on the other side of the world, that I paraglide or kayak (or at least think very hard about doing so) or spend a Sunday afternoon on the rides at Brighton Pier, there is another I spent cuddled up with a book or indulgently in front of trashy tv, on my own. I suppose it's just the way things go really, action and reaction and all that, but sometimes I wonder if, maybe, normalcy might be worth checking out?

I'll see you down the pub...

Admitting is the First Step

2006-05-21T09:38:00.000+01:00

I have a confession to make. It isn’t something I am proud of, but you are going to find out sooner or later, so I might as well be the one to tell you. I am watching Big Brother. I can’t explain it, I can’t understand it, I have watched both episodes so far from behind the sofa in horror, but I cannot deny that I am watching it.

For seven years - seven years - I have avoided it like the plague. To be fair, I have spent three of those summers out the country, but still, that leaves four years I have dutifully and determinedly avoided Channel Four, every tabloid and Heat magazine for months on end as I strive never to fully understand who Jade Goody is. It isn’t that I have a massive problem with reality tv per say: anyone who worked at Gap in Guildford in autumn 2002 will testify to my brief but exciting obsession with Fame Academy (no, I can‘t explain it either,) and I could hardly deny in this blog that I casually flicked over to Rockstar: INXS once or twice last summer, but the mere thought of Big Brother has, for years, made me shudder. I suspect it has to do with the sheer pointlessness of it: no structure or activity or competition, not even a real prize other than the chance to feature in OK Magazine on a regular basis for a few weeks. I realize of course that many people would argue that that is precisely the fun of it, and as it looks like I’ll be eating my words this summer anyway, I’d better get my defence ready.

It seems to me that all these series live or die on the characters that feature in them. On Thursday night when my sister was watching the launch show of BB and I couldn’t be bothered moving from the sofa so ended up watching it with her, I could feel (with horror) interest pricking as the house filled with potentially interesting characters and the scene was set for clashes. (Damn you Endemol casting people.) If the contestants are an intoxicating mix of likeable or so unlikeable you can’t tear your eyes away from the screen, then, just like any good drama, you have something. While last summer I started out watching only the performance shows of Rockstar (clinging to the notion that I was only interested to see how INXS picked their new singer) within weeks I was glued to the reality episodes (not to mention the spoilers on the internet boards) for any news about these characters whose journeys I’d become fascinated by. I say characters deliberately, because as far as I can see, the Ty and Jordis and J.D. that we saw on screen last summer are every bit creations of Mark Burnett’s production teams as Jack or Kate or Sawyer are creations of J.J. Abrams. Which brings me neatly to my next point: how much of reality tv is actually reality?

I bring this up because last summer I hated Ty Taylor with a passion. The bitchface when he received less than glowing critique, his “message received loud and clear” comment (which he presumably didn’t even know was an INXS lyric because he’d never bothered his arse to listen to more than Kick) … the fact that he’d never bothered his arse to listen to more than Kick… the bursting into tears over being in the bottom three because he was representing black people (when he could have been sky green pink and still not right for INXS) - I had to stop myself from childishly hissing when he came on screen (that I saved for Suzie MacNeill.) However, months after the show ended, I was dashing around a casino in Vegas looking for my friend Susu to give her someone else’s jacket (as you do) when I came upon none other than Ty Taylor. In the flesh (and not a lot of it, he’s a teeny weeny little man) and right in front of me. Despite my opinion of his personality, I couldn’t deny that he has a great voice and stage presence, so felt it rude not to tell him so. To my astonishment, he took both of my hands in his and thanked me, very genuinely and humbly, smiled and walked on, leaving me standing there gaping like a fish. Shouldn’t the Ty Taylor I knew have laughed and replied “well of course?” Shouldn’t he have recoiled in horror at a prole like me attempting to speak to him and run off in the opposite direction?

Now I realize that neither watching him on tv nor holding his hands for approximately 20 seconds gives me any real clue as to who this bloke is, but my impressions were such polar opposites that it did make me think.

However, despite my best attempt, none of this blethering will distract you from the fact that I admitted I am watching Big Brother. Nor that I had a lump in my throat watching Shabaz crying in the loo last night, and have a bit of a non sexual crush on both Imogen and the gay Canadian. I don’t want to talk about it.

The Word According to Me

2006-05-19T13:55:00.000+01:00

I am absolutely thrilled. People finally agree with me.
I have a long history of being the only one to have the opinion that I do: I thought Titanic - highest grossing film since the beginning of time or something - was a load of bollocks, find Coldplay - ridiculously successful in all corners of the globe and particularly within my immediate family - fairly dull and curiously ridiculous, adored Freaks and Geeks - unlike the majority of the American population as it was cancelled after one series, but have never seen the appeal of hugely popular The Sopranos… the list goes on and on. Yet finally, finally, the world (at least the critics so far) agree with me over The DaVinci Code.

Now I am not saying that I didn't enjoy the book. I read it in one sitting during a flight from Vancouver to London (via Dallas - don't ask) and found the central mystery and the ideas put forth absolutely fascinating. But, err, was I the only one to notice that there was no story? Yes, the investigation of the mystery and how it played out could be argued to be the story itself, but in terms of impact on characters (indeed, in terms of characters at all) it was thin on the ground at best. Scenes of talking heads followed scenes of talking heads, with characters suddenly remembering or making connections within information that they possessed before the book started, rather than truly discovering, acting or even reacting within the story itself. All of which is fine really for a novel. As I said, the mystery itself more than made it an absolute page turner - high school English essay level prose nonwithstanding. (Ooh - did that sound as snobbish as I think?!) However, a movie with no story or characters is another matter.

I haven't seen it yet, so am aware that I could be talking out of my hat here, but it has been pretty unanimously slated by the critics. (Most of whom, it has to be said, have admitted that their opinion won't matter a jot as it inevitably hurtles towards outdoing Titanic at the box office.) When I heard about the film, I did wonder how they would deal with the pretty serious problem of the basic staticness of the story. (And no, flying from Paris to London to continue a conversation does not inject any actual movement into a story.) It appears that they have dealt with it… by not dealing with it at all, which suggests to me a pretty excruciating movie. Maybe I am wrong - and I agree with the critics that a minor point like the movie being a bit cr*p is unlikely to make a blind bit of difference - but, for once, it is rather nice that I am not the only person to notice.

More With Honey

2006-05-15T13:16:00.000+01:00

It was an article in Cosmo. Circa... ooh, '95? '94 maybe? Featuring very flirty, so-many-men-so-little-time type girls that, at age 15 or so, I was very keen on becoming (actually, at age 27 or so, I still wouldn't mind, but anyway... ) One in particular caught my eye, a Canadian girl who mentioned that her accent was a conversation starter. Her advice included always wearing your hair loose if it's long, and there was a photo of her dancing down a West End street with gorgeous men whirling round in cartoon-ish double takes. I was ever so impressed and decided then and there that when I grew up, I wanted to be Canadian. And in 12 months or so - if all goes to plan - I will be, well, a permanent resident of Canada at least. I'd feel daft with a different coloured passport and have no desire to grow a goatee so won't be going for citizenship, but, close enough, anyway. I am very pleased about it except for one thing: am I going to have to start being nice?

Probably around the same time as reading the article that left me terribly enamoured of those who have a national pride in alarming enthusiasm for winter sports, I had my heart broken for the first time. Can't remember the bloke's name now, but I can tell you that he drove a green car and had a very gorgeous best friend - the best friend being the one I was after when I ended up with the green car man. It didn't take green car man long to cotton on and unceremoniously dump me. Which wounded my ego no end (I'd worn my hair loose and everything!) so I whiled the best part of an afternoon away sobbing in a heart broken manner on my bed hoping that people would bring me cups of tea. However no one did, and I was just on the point of giving up and going downstairs to watch a bit of telly when my dad popped his head around by bedroom door. "Fan-dabby-dozy," I thought, "here we go with the tea and sympathy." I wasn't entirely thrilled to notice that he'd arrived armed with a screwdriver. He sat down on my bed and solemnly informed me that he was going to teach me to change a plug as "it didn't look as though I was going to have a man to look after me."

When this is how I was raised, can you blame me for being completely useless at the glossy have-a-nice-day-ness of the North American continent? I get so stressed by my attempts to smile constantly at strangers that I often end up snarling which doesn't go down terribly well at all.

However, in the grand scheme of things, being nice to strangers is actually the easy part. Where I come from, giving your nearest and dearest a hard time is a sign of affection. In fact, I am so adept at being rotten to those I like that I am sometimes mistaken for Australian. An Australian friend recently commented about a mutual friend that "If I didn't loike him I'd be noice about him!" (I realize that as this was commented in an email it's even less necessary to type in a terrible approximation of an Australian accent, but I can't help it. I am sorry) a sentiment that I thought quite brilliantly summed up the Aussie attitude. In fact, I even wonder if this means I am moving to the wrong part of the Commonwealth. If I was more of a fan of startlingly large spiders, I might reconsider.

Just My Imagination

2006-05-10T06:28:00.000+01:00

I was halfway through typing a completely different post, when I saw something walk past my window. I am in the study of my parents house, overlooking their fenced in back garden and it is… 5.39am (yes, I am insane) so seeing something rather large wander into the rose garden is a bit disconcerting. I have no idea what it was, literally saw a vague shape move out of the corner of my eye, but just on the off chance of it being something exciting and scary, my heart is thumping and I have the kind of chills that make my scalp itchy. In reality, it is more than likely the Labrador from across the road who wanders around annoying our dogs from time to time or possibly a fox. But where is the fun in that?

I have always had something of an active imagination. Every Monday morning at primary school, we had to write a diary entry about what we’d done over the weekend. Every Monday morning without fail, I’d write lurid tales of the lion who’d followed me home from the zoo, my (fictional) trip to India to visit my (non existent) best friend’s family, or the ongoing search for my (again, non existent) twin sister who’d been tragically kidnapped. It’s not even as though that was all I had to write about – I remember distinctly my teacher exclaiming in exasperation, “you are moving to PARIS in a couple of weeks! Why can’t you write about that?” it was just that my version of things was so much more interesting. It did get me in trouble once or twice: my mum wasn’t thrilled with me when my (non existent) Indian best friend didn’t show up to my birthday party, despite having a piece of cake and a loot bag prepared for her, and when I (out of sheer boredom) decided to announce to my Primary 1 class that my little brother had been born the night before, my teacher was perturbed to say the least when my very pregnant mum showed up to pick me up that afternoon.

A few months ago, I was getting ready for bed in my flat in Vancouver. I lived alone in a studio in an old-ish (by Vancouver standards) building in the West End, one of the main advantages of which was that the walls were fairly thick so I rarely, if ever, heard anything of my neighbours. So it was a little disconcerting to suddenly become aware of the fact that I could hear a man speaking. Figuring that it must be someone outside, or a neighbour’s television particularly loud, I dismissed it, climbed into bed and shut out the light. Lying alone in the dark, I couldn’t help but notice that the man was still speaking. Not shouting, nor was there any canned laughter around him, just speaking naturally. To be fair, he wasn’t saying “wooohhooo” or anything else that might naturally lead me to believe that he was in fact a ghost, but, as I crossed out anything else the voice might be (phone off the hook? Nope. TV? Nope. Voice from outside? Nope.) I seemed to be left with no alternative explanation. And I was rather pleased at the idea that I had some other worldly company in my flat. I figured that a Canadian ghost would be quite friendly and unlikely to do anything mean or scary like steal my soul or suck me into another dimension or anything else rotten that ghosts are generally apt to do (I think.) He sounded quite young, and I was busily construing a tragic scenario leading to this cute (definitely, cute) young man’s untimely ending when I suddenly realized that his voice was coming from my bag. Try as I might, I couldn’t come up with a reason that my bag might be haunted, so I opened it up for a peek and found, to my utter dismay… my Dictaphone playing back the interview I had done that afternoon with a (I was at least right about the cute part!) former Canadian soldier for a project I was researching at the time. Bum.

I am quite sure that there are deep seated psychological reasons for my pathological need to constantly seek out an alternative to the humdrum of reality. In fact, it might be that there is a tapeworm in my brain that snuck in through my ears as a child and has short circuited the normal functions that…

Anyway, there has been no second sighting of the Creature in the Garden. It was a bit big for a fox, but I will go with that as the most likely option. Until I can think of a better one.

The Boys are Back

2006-05-08T13:12:00.000+01:00

Thanks to Jacquie’s comment on my previous post, I can think of nothing else…

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there was an Australian music scene comprised of artists who never had, nor ever would, be in Neighbours. Gruff tough pubs throughout Australia, were jam packed – long before capacity laws ruined everyone’s fun by insisting that every punter needed room to breathe – with people who wouldn’t hesitate to throw things if they didn’t like the music even if they were sober which they weren’t, and this “rock finishing school” produced some seminal late 70s and early 80s bands such as AC/DC, Midnight Oil and Cold Chisel. Much more importantly though, this scene was the birthplace of the greatest funk rock band to come out from Down Under (for proof see the link below to a video of Switched On’s Taste It ;) ) – and in my humble opinion – the greatest live band of all time: INXS.

In addition to their obvious knicker-ruining allure, what has always grabbed me about INXS is the raw edge of their music: the driving funk vibe that is edgier (with the exception of most of Kick) than the slick mass-zeitgeist-appeal of U2 or Coldplay yet still accessible enough to dance to. The energy and at times searing honesty of Don’t Change, Suicide Blonde, By My Side, Not Enough Time or Elegantly Wasted (to name just a few of my favourite songs) proves what a Virgin DJ (sorry had just flicked over and didn’t catch the name of the show!) commented recently after playing New Sensation, that there is “only one INXS.” It was a fitting metaphor that I once heard Garry Beers use in an interview, while talking about the reality show, he mentioned that they were effectively pulling their pants down as a band for the world. Now I realize that it is tempting to allow your mind to stray in a rather different direction at the thought of a trouserless INXS, but stay with me because it also very aptly describes their music and style of live performance. Intoxicating collisions of seductive arrogance and vulnerability, of punk and funk, of hard rock riffs and gently poetic lyrics feature heavily on every album, in every performance, that strike me as a direct result of their baptism by fire (or on some occasions rotten vegetables) roots. Andrew Farriss said in an interview with Guitar Player magazine in January 2006: “The school we came out of was.. pretty rough audiences in Australia’s pubs, and we learned pretty quickly to get on stage, play well, and keep people’s attention. It was entertain or die!”

I realize that plenty of fans were utterly aghast at the news that they were going down the cheesiest route imaginable and using an American reality show to chose a lead singer to replace the irreplaceable Michael Hutchence. I didn’t have an issue with the idea of the band collaborating with a new singer: to me, INXS have always had such a strong instrumental identity that while I wouldn’t dream of under estimating the unquestionable influence of one of the greatest voices, lyricists and charismatic presences in rock, I never felt that their sound boiled down to the vocals. I happily admit, however, to being one of those who reeled in horror at the thought of some Idol-esque travesty and swore never to watch. Naturally within weeks I had to eat my words and by the end of the summer was completely obsessed and screamed and toasted with a cocktail or eight when they made the brilliant decision to name not a replacement, but a worthy successor, in J.D. Fortune.
I could go on forever about the brilliance of this band - and in fact have spent most of the morning editing this post to less than a novel. My most recent concert experience is posted here: http://claireduffy.blogspot.com/2006/03/weekend-inxs.html - but, as they say, the proof is in the pudding. The newly recomplete INXS will play their first UK concert in 4 years at the Shepherds Bush Empire on October 12th (yes I do believe that they deliberately chose my birthday week ;) ) There aren’t many tickets left but I do highly recommend grabbing the last couple – I’ll see you there.

For tickets: http://www.shepherds-bush-empire.co.uk/

For previews: http://p098.ezboard.com/fourbandinxsfrm7.showMessage?topicID=8.topic

All By Myself

2006-05-03T13:18:00.000+01:00

Since Monday, I have been trying to come up with something interesting to write about. My brain, however, seems to be on an early summer holiday. I hope that it is enjoying itself and will share its tan with me when it gets back. Out of all the scary things that have ever happened to me (to be fair, there haven't been that many - seeing an unidentifyable snake slither past my tent in California, getting lost in a skanky part of L.A., losing my way and finding myself snow plowing down a black slope last month are the top contenders that spring to mind) - the most heart-stoppingly terrifying situation has to be a blank computer screen and no thoughts.

The odd thing, is that I have thoughts all the time: they cheerfully zoom around my brain as though they have nothing better to do, distracting me when I should be listening to someone talking to me, or working, or figuring out what train I should get on. But when I need them, when I am sitting in front of the computer with an hour before I absolutely have to get ready for work - all of a sudden they are nowhere to be found. And I literally mean no where: I don't mean that I think up stuff then decide it's a bit crap or not what I want to say, I don't mean that I can't think of anything to write about because I am preoccupied with a conversation I had with a friend or an email I must remember to send. I mean that suddenly there isn't a single thought to be found in my entire brain. The echo practically resounds around my entire study so loudly that I am convinced it will wake everyone in the house. I've heard that we use approximately 2% of our brains, or something - so possibly all my thoughts shoot off to the dark recesses of the 98% that I don't use therefore don't know my way around.

I suspect that it has something to do with the fact that I am entirely alone when this happens - while I prefer to write early in the morning, when (in theory) my brain is fresh and there are few distractions, sitting at a computer at 5am watching London's murky sunrise and listening to the dawn chorus creates a slightly disconcering feeling of being the only person on earth. Incidentally, this rarely happened in Vancouver - even at that ungodly hour my West End neighbourhood was teeming with life, from street residents to late night clubbers to certifiably insane joggers (I don't mean that they were jogging while running from aliens, simply that anyone who would get out of their bed at that hour in pursuit of fitness frightens me.) One of the things that I always loved about working in theatre is that it is so collaborative: if we were stuck on a scene and I couldn't come up with an idea, there was always an actor with a long winded ha'penny's worth that would at least scare my thoughts back from my brain's version of the outer hebrides, or an SM or playwright or someone around. It is amazing how ideas breed ideas. But now, having realized that I work best in a team and immediately decided to pursue writing - the most solitary activity I can think of - as a career... it is just me.

Excuse me while I dive into the dark recesses of my brain to try to find some thoughts. I may never return.

If you're dappy and you know it

2006-04-30T10:36:00.000+01:00

Apologies for being horribly remiss in keeping up this week. I’ve been drowning in deadlines and such… I meant to drop a short note to explain earlier in the week, but I forgot. Actually, I opened up the create post thingy, wrote half of it, remembered something else I had forgotten to do, then shut my computer down without paying attention to what I’d been doing. Then I forgot.

This sort of thing happens quite a bit – I’ve often said that if I was to be hit on the head, or in many years to come lost my marbles, no one will know the difference because I will be just as dappy as I have always been. A few weeks ago, after a night out, I waited for a tube at Liverpool Street Station to get the Circle line to Embankment then Waterloo and on home. I’ve been through Liverpool Street Station a million times, and am perfectly aware that a couple of other tube lines run from the same platform (Metropolitan and Hammersmith and City.) I’ve done this a million times and it has never posed much of a challenge. So I wait on the Westbound platform, happily engrossed in my Ipod, a million miles away. A tube comes along and I get on it. It isn’t until we’ve gone a couple of stops that I notice that I’ve managed to get on a Hammersmith and City line and we’re at Shoreditch. Rolling my eyes at my idiocy, I get off, cross the platform and get the next tube back to Liverpool Street. A couple of stops later, I jump up… only to discover that I didn’t catch the next tube back at all, but got on a District line going further in the opposite direction. I am now at Bromley-by-Bow, right in the East End, and have just missed the second to last train from Waterloo. Bollocks, I think, berating myself for not paying attention. Carefully I get myself to the correct platform to head back to Liverpool street, and sure enough 15 minutes later, I am back on the Westbound platform ready to start anew. A tube comes along and I get on it. And find myself, on the Metropolitan line, at Algate. Back at Liverpool Street yet again, I suddenly remembered that I’d never had this problem before because I usually get on the Central line which is at an entirely different platform. Just an average (hour and a half without gaining so much as a station in the right direction) commute in the life of Claire. In case you’re worried, I did make the last train out of Waterloo by the skin of my teeth, and it was the right train!

They say that absent mindedness is the mark of a creative mind, and I would like to think that’s true. That I spend hours at a time wandering in and out of various rooms in the house wondering why I am there, or answer the phone and go off to tell the person that the call is for then get distracted and leave teenaged girls hanging on the phone for minutes wondering why my brother won’t speak to them – until someone picks up the phone to make a call and is perturbed to find someone on the end of the line, that I miss train after train in the morning looking for my shoes… that are on my feet… because my mind is so filled with brilliant creativity that it has no room for the minutiae. Maybe – my dad is definitely pretty intelligent and yet he showed up at Heathrow airport a few weeks ago for a flight to Dubai… only to find that his flight was leaving from Gatwick and he had my brother’s passport with him.

I suspect that it might be an attention span thing. I am often accused of not speaking in full sentences, never mind thoughts, during a conversation – my mind races so far ahead of my mouth that I forget that the poor person listening to me is only as far as my mouth is and skip ahead so they hear: “Yesterday, no wait… there was an email… and it’s my birthday!... but I don’t know about Oslo…” which must be a bit like listening to half a phone conversation. I was once so intrigued by the girl sitting in front of me on the bus arguing with her boyfriend that for days afterwards it would pop into my head and I would wonder how he justified himself… sorry, what was I saying?

Apologies

2006-04-24T14:05:00.000+01:00

I am going to be horribly neglectful this week as I scrabble to meet a bunch of deadlines - but will be back in force next week!

Culture Confusion

2006-04-19T08:57:00.000+01:00

I wrote a couple of weeks ago about the differences between various versions of the English language. That particularly entry would have been, sadly, completely lost on my 7th grade Social Studies teacher. (Social studies, I should explain, is the U.S. equivalent of history and geography classes.) Early on in the first semester, she asked for me to stand up and introduce my language to the class. As my family had moved to Connecticut from France, I assumed she meant French, so stood up and muttered “je m’appelle Claire” or some such brilliance. But no, she shook her head. She wanted to hear some Scottish. Err, what? A woman who taught geography for a living was impressed with my grasp on the English language, and wanted me to speak some Scottish to the class. Unfortunate then, that there is no such language. A Scottish dialect of Gaelic, maybe – spoken by around 23 people these days, I believe, and very few of them in Glasgow. The closest I have come to Gaelic is the last line of a song warbled at family sing-a-longs, a “braw bricht moon-licht nicht” which might not even be real Gaelic for all I know. There was no arguing with her (perhaps it was a bit of a struggle for me, English not being my first language and all) so I cheerfully reeled off some gibberish and left the poor woman to her delusions.

It still astounds me how little many nationalities – I must be honest here, I have found it particularly prevalent in Americans – know of one another. It is particularly amusing to experience people with what seems like a genuine pride in their – for example – Celtic heritage (I once attended a Highland Games event in Virginia of all places, and watched people sweltering in the Southern heat in kilts, asking about the carb content in meat pies – when they’d be better off enquiring as to the meat content – and drawling about their Sca-aatish roots) yet vaguely imagining the motherland as a tiny, rainy place (okay, they got that bit right) where people habitually take heroin and wear blue paint to kill the English. Thanks very much Hollywood – that is in fact, just Saturday nights. This time last year, I went on a date with a very sweet young man from Toledo, who kept mentioning Stonehenge. I think I might have visited Stonehenge one half term when we first moved to England, but, to be honest, it hasn’t featured much in my consciousness since, so I was a little bit confused. Eventually it transpired that he’d wanted to find out about where I was from so that he could talk to me about it (I was incredibly touched, I don’t think that any one had ever studied for a date with me before) and when he googled ‘London’ he came up with Stonehenge. This rather makes me wonder about the websites giving hapless Americans the impression that there are rural, mystical rock formations just off Piccadilly Circus, but equally, how could an intelligent man of nearly thirty have so little an idea of what London might look like?

To be fair, we’re not much better. My uncle – from South Boston – got asked whether he was a cowboy when he and my aunt briefly lived in Glasgow in the 70s so many times that he eventually used it as his occupation when he signed on (“Occupation?” “Cowboy.” “There’s nae coos in Glasgow, son.” “That’s why I’m unemployed.”) I spent my high school years in the States, and have worked there plenty, yet still fail to fully grasp exactly what fraternities and sororities are, and why they are so important. I know plenty of people who have visited New York, Florida and possibly Vegas, and assume that that is all there is to the U.S. Well, them and flinty-eyed, tornado-strewn, sibling-loving Southerners who are regularly visited by aliens and vote for George Bush – they never bother to consider the existence of the friendly and unbelievably hospitable Mid-Westerners, the gruff and entertaining New Englanders or the laid-back, family orientated and adventurous people of the Pacific Northwest. (Not to mention of course, that there is plenty to commend NYC, Florida and Vegas!)

It seems strange to me, that in this day and age of mass communication and accessible international travel, many people simply seem to be too lazy to bother getting to know those outside their own shores. While misconceptions between Americans and the British are funny and inconsequential, it cannot be ignored that this is a time where appreciation, understanding and respect for cultures beyond our immediate ken is essential.

Hard to be Hard to Get

2006-04-17T13:41:00.000+01:00

The headline on the women’s magazine caught my eye: How to Make Him Fall in Love With You. It struck me as a rather handy talent to have. It might be nice to be able to make men fall in love with me in three easy steps: it’d probably get me out of a few parking tickets for one thing.

However, after buying the magazine and perusing said article, I realized that it wasn’t random fun tricks to generally appeal to people with penises (the sort of thing that I imagine French women are born knowing) but was actually about making a particular ‘him’ fall in love with you. The very ‘him’ in fact. I was astonished. I can vaguely remember such dating advice articles in teenage magazines. Teenage dating, as I recall it, is less about compatibility and connection and more about which bloke has a car (or at least the keys to his parents’) and will impress your friends; so I can understand the necessity of having a few handy seduction tricks up your sleeve. But surely to goodness as adults we’re a bit beyond that?

I’ve never held much truck with anything designed to manipulate things that are best left to fate. My one experience on an internet dating site was when a friend and I surfed around one for a laugh and came across profiles for both her long-term boyfriend and the bloke who’d just dumped me saying that he wanted to spend time on his own. It simply doesn’t make sense to me that in order to meet my thpecial thomeone I need to do things that are out of character for me or behave in an unnatural way. Surely it makes more sense that I will meet someone who will suit me – and me him – doing the sort of things that I do anyway? What's more, the advice in the article frankly disturbed me. One suggestion was – this was for blokes you meet at work – to match your mood to his. So (this was the example specified) if he is pissed off with the boss, I must be too. What on earth would I want with a bloke who was so thick he didn’t get that I just happened to fall out with the boss every time he did? What if I had just been given a raise, and an hour later the object of my affection stormed around the office yelling about what a jerk the boss is, I am supposed to jump up and agree and add – for good measure – that I think we should all go on strike? What if someone said ‘but Claire, you just got a raise’… ?

Perhaps I would have more time for following these sorts of rules and regulations if I was any good at them. I once read an article about ways to come across as more flirtations and sexy in everyday life. Again thinking of getting out of parking tickets, I thought ‘great, I’ll give this a go.’ One tip was to try to look up at guys through your eyelashes. Easy enough, one would think - except that I am not especially short. Maybe I am just used to ginormous Canadians, but I have noticed recently that – especially in heels – I am as tall if not taller than a good proportion of the men in London. So, to look up at them through my eyelashes I have to lean my head down which gives me a double chin which surely cancels out the seductive qualities of the looking up, not to mention I can’t see a bloody thing through the clumps in my mascara. Another tip was to think about sex a lot, which will apparently immediately make my body language unconsciously sex-kitten-like. This would have been fine, if it wasn’t for the fact that – surely I can’t be alone in this – unless I am actively participating, the thought of sex is frankly hilarious. Unfortunately, I had to learn the hard way that suddenly snorting with laughter at the thought of a quivering willy headed for me doesn’t do much to increase the chances of it happening.

Some time ago, I was having a conversation with a friend about the latest state of play with an on/off situation I was in last year. Her exact words were “if you like this guy so much, why do you keep being so bloody honest with him?” And, to be fair, my directness about my feelings for him clearly was making the poor guy pretty nervous, but do I really have to put in an Oscar winning performance of not being interested in order to get the guy? Just to be clear, I can be unavailable. I am, in fact, unavailable to every bloke I don’t fancy – it’s with the ones I do that the problems start. Even if I was willing and wasn’t such a crap actress so might actually pull off a cool, perfect girlfriend act – at what point would I be able to give it up and go back to being me? After we were officially boyfriend/girlfriend? There would still be a chance for him to run a mile in fright, so perhaps I should wait until the wedding night? Perhaps the naughties equivalent of a blushing bride shyly revealing her virginal nudity would be me sitting the poor guy down to reveal on no uncertain terms that I would rather stick pins in my eyes than watch another football game and that I actually really like our boss?

Having said all this, I realize that as I am currently single I am perhaps in no position to dismiss tips or advice that might get me all loved up the way I am apparently supposed to be. But – and perhaps this makes me a hopeless romantic despite my cynicism – I still believe that the bloke who is right for me is a) out there somewhere, and b) whenever I do stumble across him he will fancy me clumpy mascara, disagreeing with him and utterly un-unavailable and all.

Same Old Scandals

2006-04-15T07:10:00.000+01:00

It is rare to open a newspaper or magazine without being confronted by the latest Hollywood scandal. From marriages lasting days and drink driving to indecency, from the latest Lindsay Lohan tantrum or Russell Crowe fight to Bennifer and Brangelina, we devour the details while expressing shock at how celebrities seem to think that fame is a license to behave above the law or decency. Often we point to the glittering icons of seeming perfection that decorated Hollywood in the first half of the last century, claiming that the early stars knew how to behave.

Yet the popular notion of Hollywood as a den of iniquity isn’t new; it is as old as Hollywood itself. Hollywood was a community founded by filmmakers running from New York in order to escape paying patent rights on filmmaking equipment – so it was, perhaps quite rightly, immediately awarded an image of a haven for the wanton and wicked. By the mid 1920s, Hollywood had been rocked by scandal after scandal. Imagine for a moment that George Clooney had impregnated, married and shortly thereafter divorced a succession of teenage girls, Jim Carey had been arrested and tried, three times, for the vicious rape and murder of an aspiring actress, Julia Roberts was the last person to see Steven Soderbergh alive and the ensuing investigation exposed her cocaine addiction, Brad Pitt had died from the ravages of heroin addiction, and Harvey Weinstein was mysteriously shot aboard a yacht belonging to Rupert Murdoch.

Speculation was rife as to the reasons that such goings on were so prevalent in the so-called ‘movie colony:’
Unfortunate though it be, the assembling in more or less forced intimacy of considerable numbers of persons of both sexes whose code of personal behavior is not the rigid sort that pervades the general walk of life, is likely to produce results that shock the world by their nature.
Suggested the Omaha Bee on February 4, 1922. However on February 6, the INDIANAPOLIS NEWS maintained that:
The trouble seems to come from a combination of a low order of mentality and big salaries... Few things are more dangerous than money in the hands of those who have no idea of its value, and not the slightest sense of the responsibility which its possession imposes.
And on February 7, 1922, the New York Evening Mail pointed out that:
Those who are in the public eye owe public morality a greater debt than those who are not, because their example can do so much harm.
It is interesting to note that these very same opinions could be, indeed have been, applied to celebrity scandals ever since… perhaps ninety-odd years don’t make as much difference as one would think.

Entertainment that appeals to the basest inclinations of human nature hardly began with Hollywood. Whenever I read social commentators bemoaning the extreme violence of Se7en or Saw, I wonder if they know anything of Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus. Or to those who complain of the toilet humour of the latest Farrelly Brothers’ offering I would suggest they read Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales (especially The Miller’s Tale – I had to endure the burning indignity at 14 years old of being the one to have to read aloud the immortal line: “let flee a farte” to my high school English class and am not sure I have ever recovered.)

Sex, violence, and lives of charmed and shallow excess have existed since the dawn of the human race; and have been discussed and represented in art forms for almost as long. Was the greedy consumption and flamboyant wealth of the court of Henry VIII any ‘worse’ than the ostentatious bling lifestyle exposed in The Fabulous Life of…? Indeed, was he any more deserving or worthy of such riches than Paris Hilton or Jordan? The difference seems to be that today, we are aware. Thanks to the high visibility and accessibility of entertainment and the personal lives of those that make it, we all know what they are up to. We question and dissect and judge, and thanks to a combination of the social revolutions of the 19th century and the launch of talking pictures which humanized the stars of the silver screen, we are more aware that there is little fundamental difference between “us” and “them.” They say that we are hardest on that which we recognize within ourselves: could the horror-stricken scrutiny with which we greet the latest Hollywood scandal be nothing but reaction to the self knowledge that we would behave just as badly given half a chance?

Loser is the New Black

2006-04-13T06:33:00.000+01:00

I would have thought that cool people ski. You see celebs on the slopes all the time, with their chic outfits and sleek goggles, shwooping through powdery snow then undoubtedly heading off for an evening of exclusive après ski. That may well be the case for them, but the thing is: I ski. I ski in fourteen layers of jumpers and waterproof trousers, whatever sunglasses I can find in the hall cupboard, a hat that looks like a tea cozy, and far from shwooping cleanly, I struggle off the chair lift, adopt the crash position, point myself in the direction of ‘down’ and scream most of the way. And at the end of the day, when the über cool après ski is getting going, I am in the car, looking as though I have had a chemical peel except for my startlingly white, pasty even, eye sockets singing along to French radio.

It wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, I was all about being cool. I spent my teens and early twenties scouring Portobello Road for outfits worthy of Carrie Bradshaw (which wouldn’t look as though they cost a fiver,) begging, borrowing and flirting with every doorman in the West End to gain entry to the Atlantic, the Met Bar, Chinawhite, or whatever club was top of the list that week – I even worked at a few trendy venues just so that they would have to let me in, and carefully vetting the people I considered hanging out with to ensure the perfect mix of impoverished but funky creatives and slick imminent executives.

I am not entirely sure when it all changed. I suspect that Canada had something to do with it, a country where ‘cool’ generally refers to the weather or beer; all of a sudden my carefully created London image seemed… a bit daft. Don’t get me wrong – I will always love fashion and the lure of the VIP room that I have no business getting in to will always be the occasional Saturday night challenge, but I am happy to have discovered how much more fun it is to be utterly uncool. What’s more, I’m in pretty good company. Chris Martin recently mused that while every other band was getting their knickers in a twist over being the coolest, Coldplay decided that they’d concentrate on being the least cool – and I’d say it’s working out for them. J.D. Fortune refers to himself as a lanky geek – and that doesn’t seem to be holding him back much at the moment. In fact, it seems to me, that not being cool is the new being cool.

If I was still hung up on being in with the in crowd, I wouldn’t have had so much fun at a boyband concert with my sister, screaming along with the thirteen year olds (once upon a time my ever so credible – whether I actually liked it or not – taste in music was the cornerstone of my coolness) nor would I happily spend plenty weekends slobbing around in sweats playing Scrabble with my Grandma. On a spare afternoon in L.A. a few weeks ago, when I could have headed for Sunset or Rodeo and posed with the best of them, I went – wait for it – to the library. Yes, the L.A. Central Library where I whiled the afternoon away devouring newspapers from the 1920s (early Hollywood being an obsession of mine.) Indeed, if I held any last hopes of being cool, would I giggle to myself over the tragic title of this blog - eclaire, for goodness' sake?

The more I think about it, the more I suspect that no one is born cool. Well, maybe Kate Moss, but that’s it. Mere mortals like the rest of us have to work bloody hard at it, and there comes a point when the rewards – an evening spent teetering in an outfit that doesn’t fit chatting with people who are neither interested nor interesting for the most part – just aren’t worth the hassle. If I’m right and geek chic really is the trend of the naughties, then I look forward to observing the few true cool trying to fit in with those of us in the know. Posh launching herself at a glass door in the vain hopes of braining herself and having to walk through the shop pretending not to be dazed? Kate trying and failing to mis match her socks and concentrating to become so engrossed in the newspaper that she utterly misses her mouth and pours half a Starbucks steamed milk (I’m not even cool enough to like coffee) down her front? Brad and Angelina leading the Birdie Dance and being mortified when they do it so damn well that they look cool anyway?

Now that I have confessed all, I will also tell the truth: it wasn’t French radio I was singing along to on the way back down from the mountain. It was ABBA.

At least Two Nations

2006-04-02T12:46:00.000+01:00

We had only lived in the U.S. for a couple of weeks when, during a family visit to a furniture shop, I found myself in need of a dustbin. Having been entrusted with the care of my two youngest siblings I yanked the two of them by the hand over to the counter where I proceeded to ask the lady where I might find such a receptacle. Well I would have done, if when I caught her attention and she turned to look at me expectantly I hadn’t suddenly found that I couldn’t for the life of me think of the American word for dustbin. (It’s garbage can if you’re curious.) We had moved to Connecticut from Paris, so I was used to finding myself in public places without the required vocabulary handy, but somehow searching for a word that was English but wasn’t, utterly stumped me. In panic I ended up blurting “trash! ... litter! … rubbish! … dirt?” and eventually “things people don’t want any more!” before, flustered and burning with the shame and self loathing that can only be felt by a mortified pre pubescent, I turned on my heel and ran, dragging two toddler brothers behind me. The poor woman must have thought that I suffered from some bizarre and G rated British form of Touretts'.

I was reminded of this a couple of weeks ago, when there was a lively discussion on Rockband regarding some “sparkly pants” that Jon Farriss had worn during a recent INXS concert. “Flipping heck, how did they all get to see his pants?” I thought, cursing the fact that he’d worn trousers throughout the show I’d seen. Of course, given that he was sat behind a drum kit for the whole thing I realized that I couldn’t, in all fairness, swear to the presence of trousers but I was fairly sure that I'd have noticed visible pants. Given that it’s taken me this long to recover from the infamous Y fronts from the Taste It video, I was a bit apprehensive of finally stumbling across these mythical trousers-less shots. And slightly concerned – isn’t that the sort of thing one gets arrested for in America? And sparkly pants – wouldn’t they, err, chafe? I was in such a panic that I very nearly shouted “things people don’t want any more” and ran away, before I realized that these were Americans discussing his pants – he wore sparkly trousers. Not even my ensuing concern for his fashion sense detracted from the relief.

My confusion was not unlike that experienced by a good friend of mine when she signed up for a temp agency upon moving to Vancouver and was told to wear “smart pants” to her booking – she wondered what sort of job she was being sent to where the state of her knickers was relevant. Or the reaction of another friend to bars in Australia who seemed to positively encourage VPL by mounting signs on their doors saying “no thongs.” (Thongs being the Australian word for flip flops.)

There can be quite serious consequences to not speaking the appropriate version of the English language. On my very first trip to the States, at four years old, I developed an irrational terror of my uncle. He’s over 6 foot with red hair, a long red beard and unintelligible Boston accent, and I was entirely convinced that he would feed me to their equally ginormous and red haired dog given half a chance. So it was to my utter horror that I awoke late one morning to find my mum and my aunt had popped to the shops and I was alone in the house with the Scary Uncle and suspiciously hungry looking dog. When I slunk into the kitchen trying to be invisible, he asked if I was hungry. Too afraid to do anything but nod mutely, I was astonished when he then offered me a jelly sandwich. Jelly? As in jelly and ice cream? (or Jell-o to Americans) I was being offered jelly before I’d even had lunch? And what sort of sandwich could there be that had jelly in it? In joy I leapt to the table, thinking that maybe this country and my Scary Uncle weren’t so bad after all, only for my horror to return with a vengeance when he placed a jam sandwich in front of me. I hated jam. Loathed it. No idea why, but I felt it very strongly.
“What’s the matter? You said you like jelly, don’t you?” Demanded my scary uncle.
I whimpered mutely to myself: “then why did you give me jaa-aamm?” but could only nod again. As soon as his back was turned, I realized that I could both keep him happy, and the dog from eyeing me up, by feeding the detested jam sandwiches to the dog. Who gobbled them up then proceeded to throw up everywhere. Apparently he felt the same way I did about jam, but the following day when my cousin took me into school for show-and-tell she introduced me by saying “this is my cousin Claire. She’s from Scotland and she made my dog puke.” And 20 Bostonian kindergarteners radiated waves of hate in my direction as only dog loving kindergarteners can.

So I think that George Bernard Shaw had something when he observed that we are “one nation divided by a common language” although I must say that it is with some pride that I inform people that ‘A’ level French isn’t my only foreign language. In addition to being able to say “I love you” in Italian, Russian and German, I am also a fairly fluent speaker of American, Canadian, Australian and one of my 2006 resolutions is to master Irish.

Mars and Venus or just the Atlantic ocean?

2006-03-30T08:27:00.000+01:00

We’ve all had holiday flings: the swarthy Italian who informed you that your eyes had stars in them, the enthusiastic Australian who took to throwing you over his shoulder and chucking you in the sea for no apparent reason, the Frenchman with the hypnotically sexy voice and somewhat distant relationship with personal hygiene. Who hasn’t been up for two weeks of fun, what-the-hell-he’s-sexy-who-cares-if-he-doesn’t-speak-English-or-use-deodorant? But what about an honest to goodness grown up relationship with a foreign man? Settled down, arguing about who picked the rubbish DVD and why there are smelly socks on the kitchen floor, going to Home Depot and trying for a baby - ideally not at the same time, but still, you get the drift.

Living in Canada for the past couple of years and having dated one or too many men while I was there, I became interested in just how unaware it is possible to be of the dating conventions we all blindly follow until we meet someone who – quite literally in some cases – speaks another language. For example, I find that in Britain when you’re seeing someone, even if it isn’t especially serious yet, avoiding shagging other people is just manners – whereas in North America the “is this exclusive?” conversation has some fairly serious commitment connotations, and “of course it bloody is, are you taking the piss?” isn’t quite the desired answer.

In London, pulling someone (or hooking up with someone, I realize that this blog needs to be bilingual) generally consists of: you meet, you have a bit of a snog, you exchange phone numbers and meet up – usually with other people, your friends will meet his friends at a bar, or one of you will invite the other along to a party – a few times and you may or may not end up alone (with each other) and naked at the end of the night. After this has gone on for a couple of weeks, you finally arrange a date which you get all nervous about and put on pantyhose and lipstick, and that heralds the beginning of you as some kind of a couple. That’s it, roughly, anyway.
So when I was first asked out in Vancouver, and the young man in question seemed to want to do the pantyhose-and-lipstick date thing right away I thought that he was moving terribly fast and was clearly deeply in love with me. Which was fair enough. Until he casually mentioned that he was also seeing someone else. But – wha--aa – huh?

Interviewing a few male Canadian friends, all in the interests of research naturally, I was surprised, and not especially displeased, to learn that we British women have something of a world wide reputation for being good in bed, because we tend to be less self conscious about our bodies – who knew?! - and are seen as confident and straightforward... again, who knew?! And also, a bit scary. This, I believe is down to us thinking that they are head over heels with us because they want to take us out to dinner when we have only just met, and ending up perturbed to learn that they are not so desperately in love with us that they are skipping steps – they just do things differently in Canada.

And even if these cultural barriers affecting the, let’s face it, already tenuous levels of male/female communication, don’t put a kibosh on the whole thing right away, there are practicalities to consider. As much as I love travelling and living abroad right now, the thought of settling down and raising children several time zones from my family saddens me. It might be what I end up doing, who knows? but committing to someone whose work ties them to their country, therefore potentially committing to my kids only seeing their grandparents a couple of times a year, would be a big step. Would I be able to demand that we go back to Britain every Christmas? And if not, what would Christmas be without Slade on the radio every 5 minutes, the Queen’s speech (not that I have watched it in years, I just like to know that I could) and a Christmas pudding my dad sets fire to with way too much brandy? A few years ago, when I was with my American boyfriend, we chatted on the phone on Christmas afternoon and I mentioned I had to go because my dad was about to light the pudding… there was a bit of a silence after which he enquired as to whether all Brits set their Christmas dinner on fire, or if it was just us.

Transamerica Claire Style Part II

2006-03-29T09:17:00.000+01:00

After storming through the departure gate at Midway and childishly refusing to hug the now very definitely ex, I nearly came to blows with a woman at the coffee shop over the pronunciation of the word “raspberry” (don’t ask) and boarded my flight to Seattle. The flight itself was uneventful enough, other than the fact that it was 20 minutes late. Not a big deal, or so you’d think. It meant that I when I struggled outside (bear in mind, I was carting every last one of my worldly goods in a massive suitcase which was literally bursting at the seams, a large backpack, and, just for good measure, a small backpack) – I arrived just in time to watch the back of my bus departing in the direction of Vancouver.

Dragging the lopsided suitcase (for one of the wheels had broken off) and vainly attempting to offset the weight of one backpack by strapping it sideways so that it rested on my hip and in theory countered the weight of the other backpack on the other hip – which gave me the look of a hunchback with an inner ear problem – I made off for the taxi rank. Unfortunately, bumming around America for three months doesn’t pay terribly well, so I had to pay for a ride to the Greyhound station with small change I found at the bottom of each piece of luggage. Oddly, given my charm, the taxi driver was not a fan of mine, so he thought it fun to drop me off at the bottom of a hill near the Seattle Greyhound bus station. I discovered that by straightening my right leg so that it was parallel to the suitcase (Seattle’s hills are steep), balancing the bigger backpack against it and sort of lunging forward with my left leg – the momentum of which would yank the suitcase/backpack combo forward – I would find myself, at intervals, slightly startled, approximately half a foot further up the hill than I had been. If not terribly elegantly. On the plus side, I did get to do this with a stunning Pacific sunset for company, although whenever I turned around to have a look at the bay the suitcase would invariably slip out of my grip and merrily trundle back down the hill, which was fun.

Eventually, in pitch darkness, I made it up the hill and into the bus station, where I was greeted by a young man, for whom – I suspect – hospitality was not a first choice of career. He perked up somewhat when he got to deliver the news that the next bus to Vancouver wouldn’t be departing until 12.30am (three hours from then) and would arrive at around 5am. And also, my suitcase was too heavy. Stunned by the news that my suitcase weighed a bit, I asked for a little further clarification. Apparently the big strong men who load luggage for a living were not covered by insurance to lift up the suitcase that I (a not big, not strong, not man) had carted all over the United States. The solution my good friend the Greyhound man cheerfully offered me was to unload around 15 pounds from the case (wish I’d had him around back in Boston.)

“And where do you suggest I put these 15 pounds?”
“Uhh… I have some garbage bags?”

With my worldly goods now packed securely in a suitcase, a large backpack, a small packback and two garbage bags, I headed to the vending machine to see what culinary delights were on offer for that evening’s meal. Deciding to partake of a starter of Ruffles chips, followed by a main of M&Ms cooked to perfection and washed down by a tangy Lilt, I fed the machine my last three dollars, which it happily accepted but – clearly it had the temperament expected of all the best chefs – chose not to serve me my meal. So I kicked the crap out of it and burst into tears.

Cut to 10 minutes later, I was sitting on the best bench the Greyhound Bus Station has to offer, surrounded by sympathetic homeless people as I wailed “but I thought hee looooovvveed meeeeee….” and a woman wizened with years of exposure to the elements patted my arm and clucked “If he didn’t see what he had in you then he’s not good enough for you, honey” and various other residents of Seattle’s streets nodded in agreement. (Incidentally, years later, that very ex mentioned that he was thinking of moving to Seattle – I advised him to stay away from the bus station as he’s not very popular there.)

Finally, the bus arrived and I managed to snooze all the way to the Canadian border, where all passengers were ejected, handed our luggage and pointed in the direction of customs. Concerned that my Quasimodo lunge wouldn’t endear me to Canada Immigration, I invented a new way to walk while carrying nearly 150 pounds of crap: backwards. This worked just wonderfully, right up until I crashed into a display of Maple themed stuff and knocked it all over. Had this happened going in the other direction I am fairly sure that I would have been carted off to State prison with all the potential terrorists and B.C. pot activists on charges of being too much of a bloody idiot to enter the United States, but this being Canada, three immigration officers jumped up to help me carry my stuff to the desk.

My passport was duly stamped, the crap was duly searched through, and a security guy carried my suitcase and backpacks (I took the garbage bags) back to the bus and off we headed up Highway 99. As the sun rose over the North Shore mountains, I struggled into a hotel room and fell asleep next to my sister – I was home.

Lessons to be Learnt?

2006-03-28T12:54:00.000+01:00

A few months ago, two of my friends met for the first time. Moments after they clapped eyes on one another, they each grabbed me aside and announced they wanted an introduction. Shortly after said introduction, they fell cheerfully in love, and a couple of months later fell equally cheerfully back out of love and became the best of friends. Failing the ideal Prince-Charming-or-at-least-J.D.-Fortune happy ever after scenario, it seems to me that that situation was pretty much as good as it gets for us singletons. The only catch was, they are both men. Might there be a lesson to be learned?

Why is it that all the Wills and Sanfords in my life happily breeze through the dating scene thoroughly enjoying themselves and I panic and question and think and panic some more? Why do I get mixed signals and they get honest conversations?

On a long drive from Vancouver to L.A. with a hetero-but-platonic mate a few months ago, we had a conversation on the different ways straight men and women approach relationships. We realized, that it is precisely the opposite to how each sex approaches learning to swim. I can remember cautiously venturing into the sea, enough flotation devices about my person to keep me afloat on steam and yet still clinging to my dad's hand and keeping one toe on the sand lest my face get wet. Meanwhile, my brother had raced - without so much as waiting to get sunscreen or a swimsuit on - headlong into the waves, dived in nose first and ended up with a jellyfish sting and grazing half of his forehead off on the rocky sea bed. Fast forward a decade or so, and I realize that I tend to approach a new relationship like my brother tackled the Adriatic Sea - head first, no protective gear and cheerfully accepting that sometimes you just have to get stung by a jellyfish. Men on the other hand, become like me - barracading themselves behind the flotation device of possibly being in love with the ex they haven't seen in years, clinging on to 'commitment issues' (whatever the heck that means) and keeping one toe firmly anchored in the dating pool.

Unless, it seems, they are gay. Then they are all about rushing headlong into in luurrvve bliss and just as cheerfully rushing straight out, building a sandcastle and sharing an ice cream. Which - and I truly hate to say this - begs the question: would all men be that straightforward if only women let them? Are all those flotation devices simply a reaction against us yelling "come on you big jessie, duck your face under" and a sneaking suspicion that given half a chance we'd have them gasping for air at the bottom of the pool with our feet on their chests? Have I taken this analogy way too far?

Last night I chatted on the phone with my gay husband and couldn't help but note that when he asked me how my love life was going, I huffed and puffed about there being narry a man to be found in London or the Home Counties for love nor money (conveniently forgetting that I'd been on two dates - with two men! - a couple of weeks ago) and when I asked him if he had anyone special he cheerfully replied "nope, but plenty of of unspecial ones!" I think that he's on to something.

Transamerica Claire Style - Part I

2006-03-28T10:12:00.000+01:00

You know when you feel as though you haven’t quite broken up with someone enough? When you have cried and wailed and attached yourself, limpet like, to their leg as they tried to leave you, but still, you sensed that deep down there was a teeny bit more heartbreak left to be wrung out of the situation and damned if you weren’t going to wring it?

My very first sojourn to Canada ended rather abruptly when it turned that the Canadian government wasn’t keen on granting visas for foreigners who wanted to fart about and try to make movies – there are, after all, more than enough Canadians farting about and trying to make movies, so I was out on my ear. This all happened so abruptly, however, that my family had already booked and paid for a trip to visit me, in three months’ time – in the country I wasn’t allowed to live in any more. Also around this time, my boyfriend and I were not getting on terribly well and had discussed breaking up – but, in the end decided that it would be a better idea to travel around the U.S. in a tiny car and tent together for three months at which time I would head back to Canada to meet up with my family. Brilliant? Or not.

That lasted a couple of weeks after which point we decided that the breaking up idea in fact had been the right one, and I took a train to Boston to stay with my aunt until it was time to sneak back into the Great White North. Except that a couple of months later, we decided that, in fact, we’d better just see each other one more time to make sure that the breaking up idea was the one to go for. I jumped on a train in Washington D.C. (after visiting another aunt) for a day and a half’s journey after which time I would have almost 2 days in Chicago to sort things with old what’s his face then jump on a plane to Seattle and get a bus up to Vancouver where my family would be waiting and bob would be my uncle.

Things started to go a bit pear shaped when the train pulled out of the station in D.C. – and promptly began to reverse. It turned out that there had been a crash (no one was hurt so I was allowed to be annoyed) on the track to Chicago, so we had to head down into Virginia to get on to another track. Virginia, it turns out, is ever such a pretty state, but being in a bit of a hurry to get to Illinois probably isn’t the best circumstance in which to appreciate it. Nearly 20 hours later, at an interminable wait outside Cleveland, with my precious time in Chicago ticking away, I’d had enough and burst into tears. A very sweet elderly couple who were due to get off in Cleveland kindly asked me if I was okay (which was somewhat a redundant question given that I was heaving with sobs and struggling to catch my breath while drowning in snot, but undoubtedly well intentioned.) I was of course terribly British about it and said that I was just fine, thank you for asking. When the couple got off the train, the old man handed me a bag of pretzels, which I tried to hand back as I don’t like pretzels, but he told me to keep it anyway. Not wishing to appear rude, I did so – and as the train pulled out of the station I glanced at the bag, and realized that he had put a $10 note in it for me. I was quite stunned by such a random and incredibly kind gesture from a stranger – although I would love to know what he thought I was crying about!

Upon finally reaching Chicago, a couple of hours chatting with the man confirmed that yup, breakup still definitely on. Unfortunately, we came to that conclusion with a good two hours to go before I had to be at the airport for my flight to Seattle, and there was no one else to drive me. So we had lots of fun sitting in stony silence in my cousin’s apartment, with me occasionally choking back sobs because damned if I was going to cry (more) in front of him. The silence was occasionally punctuated by me grandly pronouncing that I didn’t want him to drive me to the airport, in fact I never wanted to see him again, and he would ask if I had the money for a taxi to the airport and I would huff that no, I didn’t, and he would reply that then he would drive me and I would snort ‘fine then’ and we’d go back to silence and choked sobs.

Virtual Insanity

2006-03-27T13:22:00.000+01:00

The other day, in the midst of catching up with two old friends, I happened to mention my friend Al in Hong Kong. The conversation stopped and I cringed, hoping that they wouldn’t ask the inevitable. They did – “who’s Al? You’ve never mentioned an Al before.” And I had to admit that in fact I don’t really know an Al in Hong Kong. Al isn’t her real name, in fact I don’t know for sure that she is female – or even exists, at all. Am I stark raving mad? Probably, but hear me out.

For me, it all started innocently enough. Last summer my favourite band auditioned on tv for a new lead singer (no prizes for guessing for who my favourite band is) and towards the end of the series I missed an episode, so naturally enough (see how I justify myself? Come join me on Planet Dellusion!) I searched the internet for a recap to find out who had been eliminated, stumbled across a message board community… and nothing has been quite the same since. I am fascinated by this very 21st century form of communication, even socializing: the group dynamic that emerges between people who have never laid eyes on one another, the social mores, the varying tones between different boards, the cliquishness, and the disconcerting way a computer screen can suddenly assume atmosphere. From in-jokes spanning several time zones to the way the board rallies round members suffering personal hard times, I can’t help but note the way that people naturally overcome the inherent impersonal-ness of the internet. Despite expert claims that the internet is a threat to social interaction, I have found the opposite to be true. A connection or common ground on the board seems to lead to email, then phone and eventually meeting, and many people have reported that one of their favourite parts of the band’s recent tour was meeting up with other board members. A couple of months ago, I travelled – from England – to Las Vegas for the weekend to see one of the tour dates, and ended up spending the majority of the weekend with ‘old friends’ I could not have picked out of a line up prior to the trip.

The effects of friendships that are a product of common interest rather than dictated by geographical limitations on the 21st century international lifestyle are exciting. I have a possible stopover in Hong Kong in the next couple of months, and rather than venturing out alone or staying in at the hotel, I will be able to use the time to verify the existence of my good friend Al.

One Spirit or Another

2006-03-27T12:22:00.000+01:00

I have always liked the idea of ghosts. If there is a choice between paying attention to scientific research and going with the more fun belief, you can bet I’ll go with the latter. If anyone ever asked me whether I believe in ghosts, I said “sure – why not?” and I have been compiling my list of who I am going to haunt for years.

However, at 3am one July lying rigid with terror in a period style canopied bed in a pitch dark room at the top of a turret towering above a 15th century French Chateau, I was beginning to question just how much fun it was to believe in ghosts. Quite how my siblings and I had drawn the short straw and ended up spending the week in the turret reachable only by a shadowy, musty-smelling spiral staircase which wound past the castle chapel I don’t know, but there we were. My sister and I were cowering together under the covers, praying for the electricity to come back on before the clunky, uneven footsteps that were slowly making their way up the stone steps reached the top. But no such luck. The footsteps paused on the tiny landing, the sudden floorboard creak causing my sister to stuff the duvet in her mouth to stop from screaming...

All week I had insisted to everyone – everyone being my family plus my parents’ best friends and all their kids: 24 Glaswegians in all, staying in the castle nestled in the Bordeaux countryside to celebrate all four dads’ 50th birthdays – that there was something strange about the fact that all 24 of us – at least, those of us who’d gone to bed by that point – awoke independently at 3am, every night. All week, everyone said that I was talking nonsense and told me off for scaring the wee ones, but now it seemed that I had been right all along. Until… the moon drifted out from behind a cloud, filling the room with an eerie blue light, just as the door opened and a white figure stumbled into the room.

Stumbled?

“Boonnjooouurrr” intoned a deep, creepy voice.

“Can you not say anything better?” hissed a most definitely alive, although not without suggestion of being full of some sort of spirit, voice from the landing.
“I don’t know any better in French!” the ghost replied in a hurt tone.
“Did you not do ‘A’ level?”
“Aye, in Spanish!”
“Useless!” proclaimed our cousin Sean, yanking the sheet from our brother Ryan’s head, shortly before the two of them clattered back down the steps amid a shower of abuse and pillows from my sister and I.

However this didn’t explain the waking at precisely 3am, the footsteps that had been heard when Ryan and Sean were safely in the games room (verified by third party witnesses,) the unreachable turret window which opened and closed with no explanation, not to mention the joiner working on the castle renovations shortly before our arrival who had suddenly packed up and left after seeing the figures of a couple walking on the terrace. We thought about holding a séance, but were afraid that if the ghost came through and started blethering away about who it was and why it was haunting the castle, we’d be frantically thumbing through “Let’s Speak French!” begging it to speak slowly and asking for deux bagettes si’il vous plait.

On the last day, I managed to persuade the curator to tell me the story of doomed couple Émile and Jacqueline who had lived – and died tragically – in the castle in the mid-18th Century. Without my mentioning anything of us waking up, he told me that both husband and wife had died within days of one another by jumping from the turret window at – 3am. This story can be verified - Émile was a private in the French army during the 1700s and it was during a sojurn to Spain that Jaqueline allegedly began the affair with a local man that ultimately led to their saddening endings. Whether or not that tragic event proves that the two of them are still kicking about the castle or not is another matter, but, I will certainly think twice in the future about visiting a castle where the ghosts don't speak English. This year, for all the mums' 50ths, we are headed for a castle in Tuscany... Se le cose vanno l'urto nella notte, chi andiamo chiamare? Qualcuno che parla l'italiano!

(www.freetranslation.com)

Too Busy to Worry About My Bum

2006-03-17T11:57:00.000Z

I recently read an article – I would love to be able to quote it to you but I gave the magazine to a friend who was just about to get on a flight to Australia, I remember the gist, though – in which Anita Rodderick attacked media and the fashion industry for making women hate their bodies by giving us such unrealistic images to aim for. A couple of creepy statistics: twenty-five years ago, top models weighed 8% less than the average woman. Today that figure is 23%. The current “ideal weight” – as dictated by fashion and Hollywood – is estimated to be achievable by less than 5% of the population.

All of which sounds very terrible, but hold on a second: why on earth would any more than 5% of the population want to achieve such a ridiculous weight? If my job was being a supermodel (I mentioned this to a couple of my best friends at lunch the other week and they fell about laughing,) if my livelihood depended on me possessing minus 0% body fat or whatever it is that models weigh these days, then I might see reason to eat a handful of seeds and three lettuce leaves a day; but as a normal average person with a busy life I have neither the time nor the inclination to count calories nor give an arse about how many carbs I consume. I don’t really know what size my bum is, I rarely see it after all, much less spend precious moments when I could be thinking about much more interesting things (like J.D. Fortune’s bum, for example ) and the only time I am the least bit bothered about my dress size is in January, because it is so boringly average that it’s always the first to go in the sales. According to what I read, all of this makes me an utter freak of nature.

Why is it, that over the last 30-odd years, we women have run countries and conglomerates, travelled the world and raised families, spoken up for ourselves and generally knocked the socks off all those around us – and yet are not credited with enough intelligence to see the difference between an image on the pages of Vogue (or US Weekly or Heat for that matter) and ourselves? In the same way that I can’t sing (and I don’t just mean that I don’t sing to professional standard – people actually request that I don’t join in on Happy Birthday because it ruins the party) so I won’t be a popstar, I am not especially stunning so I am not going to be a model… and, err, so what? There are plenty of other things that I can do (make my friends laugh, figure my way around strange cities, make pumpkin pie – my sole, but glorious, culinary achievement – beat my Grandma at a variation of Scrabble called Upwords, to name a few) that will see me through a rather more interesting life than being skinny and exceptionally beautiful would.

Perhaps I am being somewhat hypocritical here, because I own make up and hair straighteners and even use them on a fairly regular basis, but I simply refuse to see what I look like as the be all and end all of who I am. On the mornings that I hit the snooze button two or eight times more than I should so run out of time to fix my hair or put my contacts in, do I do my job any worse? Do I lose my friends? Does my family refuse to speak to me? Not that I notice.

Everyone gets their down days where we feel blah and crap and if we happen to feel blah and crap about our bums or the size of our noses and bury ourselves in a tub of ice cream and a Desperate Housewives marathon, well fair enough, I don’t think that anyone would judge. All I ask is that sometime, somewhere, when some annoying person bleats on about the pressure women are under to look perfect and weigh nothing, one of us replies “that’s a load of nonsense, I have much more interesting things to worry about, thank you very much.”

Home Office Campaign an Insult to Women

2006-03-15T08:33:00.000Z

The Home Office in the UK launched a campaign yesterday to, according to a spokesman, "help tackle rape by educating young men about the need to gain consent before having sex." The campaign will consist of radio ads, ads in men's magazines and posters in the gents in urban pubs and clubs.

Far be it from me to oppose any initiative that helps tackle the woefully low rates of rape conviction in England and Wales – a recent poll by Glamour magazine found that out of 11% of readers who had been raped, 80% had not reported it – but, to my mind, this campaign communicates a worrying and even destructive message.

I have always understood the term "consenting adults" to be plural, yet this campaign suggests that sex is one sided, that it is something 'done' to women which we must give our permission to be subjected to. Didn't that go out with corsets and having your beloved's dinner on the table when he gets home from earning a crust? Further, the campaign does not seem to make a clear distinction between sex and rape, when the fact is, one has very little to do with the other. The same poll by British Glamour found that 11% of respondents believed that if a woman was acting flirtatiously, she was encouraging rape. Flirting with a guy, dressing provocatively, going on a date and even inviting him into your home may invite sex; but rape is not sex, it is an attack. The sole signal that turns sex into rape is a simple one: it is the word “no.”

A few months ago, I went on a date with a friend of a friend. I wasn’t attracted to him, but we were in the midst of an enjoyable conversation when the bar closed, so I invited him back to my apartment for a cup of tea so we could finish our chat. Once inside, he kissed me – I reciprocated, thinking that as he was such a lovely bloke maybe if I snogged him for a few minutes I could start to fancy him. No such luck, so I pulled away and put the kettle on. Once on the sofa, he started to kiss me again, again I pulled away but again he – either deliberately or insensitively – didn’t get the message and carried on. I didn’t feel afraid, just irritated that he was being so pig-headed, and as it was clear that subtle body language messages weren’t getting through, I said “no, not happening,” and got up from the sofa. He left. I had been on a date with this man, my outfit wasn’t a nun’s habit, I had invited him into my apartment and initially kissed him back, yet had he grabbed me and subjected me to sex after I had unquestionably told him no then it would have been rape, pure and simple.

I realize that the Home Office’s campaign may be intended to combat situations such as my experience – had a rape occurred, presumably the guy would have argued that I had implied consent… and maybe I did: right up until I said no. Had I been attracted to him, then the date may well have continued on to a naked conclusion – and had I been attracted to him there would have been no need to formally sign a waiver of consent as I would have been too busy informing him that unless he had to scrape me off the ceiling he wasn’t finished.

The idea that I, as a capable, not to mention sexually confident adult, am required to state the words “yes I give you permission to shag me silly” lest a man be unsure as to whether or not he is raping me or not is both insulting and dangerous. A woman has every right to give out all the flirtatious signals in the world; if she says “no” and a man physically overcomes her and subjects her to sex then he is raping her. End of story. And I do not accept that he needs a poster over a urinal to tell him that.

Braining a Walking Carpet

2006-03-11T08:35:00.000Z

I am a truly terrible person. Honestly, I should be locked up. Have you ever thought to yourself 'well I'm not perfect, but at least I am kind to animals.' Now I can't even claim that.

I am working from home this week, and as I am resident at the family home while flat hunting in London, that puts me on doggy duty. I won't lie to you, I am of course fond of our family dogs, but I am not really a doggy dog person, and the younger, Shauna, and I have always had something of a tempestuous relationship. Her penchant for chewing on my slippers, while I am wearing them, for example, doesn't especially endear her to me, nor mine for ignoring her plaintive barks for a third meal of the day does me to her.

She is a big dog though, and without at least a walk a day will be bouncing off the kitchen walls all night, so yesterday - despite the drizzle - off we went. Me in my mum's welly boots - too big for me, they make me walk as though I've spent rather too much time on a horse, sweats - and I am not talking cute, pastel Desperate Housewives sweats, but proper, baggy, saggy-in-the-bum tracky bottoms, the coat I bought when I lived in Canada which makes me look like the Michelin Man, and Shauna sporting, well her usual fur coat and the collar that due to the fact she is a collie therefore has no head is utterly useless.

Once in the woods, the drizzle turned, on cue, to driving rain with a dash of hailstones for good measure: that typically British, horizontal rain that has my hair on one side plastered to my head, and on the other just frizzing in confusion. But on we trundled - at least, on I trundled, the dog sheltered under a tree and looked at me as though I was mad - through the mud and driving rain. I started to grumpily abuse the dog - verbally, don't look at me like that - as she skipped happily around me, and what started as muttering under my breath shortly became yelling over the wind, "this is your bloody walk you great useless walking carpet, why am I the only one walking? Why am I even bothering to exercise you when, if you steal my lunch one more time it'll be the sausage factory for you - don't give me that look ya eedgit, you know fine that I mean it..." and so on... until I suddenly realized that the rain had stopped and the sun had come out, and there was a man working in the field that borders the woods listening to every word I said. As I quickly changed paths, Shauna gave me a look that plainly said 'that'll teach you to talk to me like that.'

In the interests of further ridding her of excess energy, I scouted around for a stick to throw, and found one big enough that she wouldn't swallow in excitement. I waved it around to catch her attention, she helpfully yapped and scuttled in circles, I threw the stick... she jumped up to catch it... and it clunked her right on the head. I heard the dull thud as wood collided with - well more wood really, given that this is the dog who has gotten herself trapped - twice - in the cat flap trying to chase the cats out it, and once in the washing machine trying to hide from thunder. She yelped and pawed at her face, looking at me in a wounded, 'what did you do that for?' sort of way and as I squelched across the mud, slithering in my haste to check she was okay, I caught sight of... the very same man who had just heard me call her 'a great useless walking carpet' staring at me in horror.

Just in case you are worried, I apologised unreservedly (to Shauna) she forgave me and in the few hours since has displayed no less brain activity than she did before (not that that is saying much) but in case this blog is never updated again, you will know that that man called the RSPCA and I am serving 5-10 for accidentally braining a walking carpet.

Dating the Canadian Male - published in ELLE Canada, November 2005

2006-03-10T10:56:00.000Z

GOODFELLAS
One British woman discovers the secret rituals of dating - Canadian style.

In England, when a guy doesn't call after a date or two, well, he just doesn't call, and you can cheerfully go your own way pretending that he accidentally fell off a cliff or something. You see, British men are somewhat reticent with their feelings. After months of living with one, he might go so far as to mumble, "I think you're alright," while staring at the ground and shuffling his feet like he has to pee. If you're lucky. This, at least, means that when your British date acts as though he likes you, he sodding well means it. You know where you stand. In Canada, it appears, there is no such luxury.

After moving to Vancouver last year, I fell - in quick succession - for the guy who did call (to tell me he wasn't going to call again), my gay professor (which isn't really Canada's fault, but is unfortunate all the same) and a guy who patiently explained who Wayne Gretzky was when I admitted ignorance, and then never called again. Maybe he accidentally fell off a cliff?

Undeterred, I scored a date with the most Canadian of Canadians: a six-foot-four ex-military man who'd spent time chopping down trees in northen British Columbia - or maybe planting them; I was too busy staring adoringly into his goatee to really listen. It was then that I had a revelation about Canadian men: they really are very nice. And when Mr. Canadian Army was all "You put a smile on my face," I was flattered. Until he didn't call.

Now, it can't be that he accidentally fell off a cliff because surely in the army they teach you to avoid that sort of thing. So I can only conclude that he just wasn't that in to me. It seems that the poor lads are conflicted between being overly earnest and calling to say they won't call, and being so Canadianly enthusiastic about you that you reasonably expect them to call. Before I fall for another one of these flannel-wearing charmers, I think I'll stick Post-its around my apartment that say "Remember, he's Canadian - just because he acts nice doesn't mean he likes you."

Because, despite mixed signals, insultingly clear signals and numerous goatee burns, I still think Canadian guys are lovely. They possess a remarkable lack of chauvinism, yet every man I have dated over here has picked me up at home for a date. I love that Canadian men smile all the time, are comfortable with PDA and make me laugh when they gush for hours about the latest NHL sign ups.

So I haven't given up. I've resolved to read up on "The Great One." I'll even grow to like orange macaroni. But one thing is for certain: the minute a Canadian guy starts saying nice things to me, I'll stick my fingers in my ears and sing, "O Canada, we stand on guard for thee."

Team Guildford

2006-03-02T12:21:00.000Z

Suffering from a bout of Canada-sickness this week, I decided I would try to make myself feel "at home" by attending a hockey game with a friend who's also lived in Vancouver. BC Place, Guildford Spectrum - same difference, right? We'd hardly know...

The national anthem was the first confusing bit. My friend and I jumped to our feet and enthusiastically broke into O Canada... only to notice a moment later that all around us people were shuffling and looking bored while God Save the Queen played over the tannoy. That's right, nearly forgotten: we were in Guildford.

Once the game started I have to admit that my first thought was: why are they playing in slow motion? Despite the rink being bigger than an NHL rink, there was an unquestionably leisurely air. It soon became clear that the other team were hopelessly outmatched. In fact, when the Guildford Flames scored 7 times in the first 10 minutes I have to admit that the nail biting element was a bit lost, and I even bored a little of cheering (forgive me – I am a Scottish so not used to seeing my team score, I was a bit perturbed and confused.) To be fair, I don’t know an awful lot about hockey, but they didn’t seem terribly keen on passing to one another. Or doing anything other than merrily chasing our team back up towards their goal, come to that. I even saw one of them get the giggles after our team’s 9th goal, which I thought was very sportsmanship like, if not terribly competitive. Perhaps it is the taking part that counts?

There was a disappointing lack of violence on ice: one or two half hearted shoves but it almost seemed as though they didn’t want to hurt one another. I began to wonder whether it was a cultural thing – as Brits, we rid ourselves of any pent up aggression on a regular basis (a good old elbow to the ribs of a commuter on the tube of a morning does wonders for the soul) that perhaps there is nothing left for the ice? Whereas Canadians spend their days being so lovely and nice that that great human emotion, hostility, has to come out somewhere (of course British Columbians do get it out a bit behind the wheel of a car) and so explodes – in both fans and players – as soon as a hockey game starts. In fact the main bit of action came when my friend and I accidentally stood in front of a couple of season ticket holders and Mrs. Season Ticket Holder brayed loudly to anyone who would listen (but not directly to us because that would have been rude) “I’ll ‘ave them moved on, don’t worry everyone, I’m ‘aving them moved on.” Used to Canadians who are straightforward if terribly pleasant about it, it took us a good minute or two to figure out that she was talking about us and actually move. One kid in the stands started up a chant of "Guildford, Guildford" and was shushed by the adults he was sitting with. It was altogether so very British.

So in the end: Fun Night Out:1, Helping Canada-Sickness: 0. I'll be hitting The Maple Leaf in Covent Garden this week... I'll let you know how it goes.

A Weekend INXS

2006-03-02T12:12:00.000Z

When I was about 9 years old, I was deeply in love - along with most girls of my age in Britain and probably quite a few in Australia - with a young Aussie actor called Jason Donovan. He was in a soap called Neighbours with Kylie Minogue, they played a married couple and rumour had it were dating in real life. And if that wasn't quite astoundingly romantic enough they even released a duet called Especially for You which to my young heart was just the last word ever on luurvveee. I desperately wanted his album - Ten Good Reasons, fact fans - for my 10th birthday, and my dad was duly dispatched to the record shop to purchase it and stop me whining. Unfortunately - or indeed fortunately, as it turned out - my dad doesn't have much of a memory for slightly girly looking Australian pop singers, so at the shop he struggled a bit, muttering, "uummmm, Australian.... singer... aha! Kylie's boyfriend! I would like Kylie's boyfriend's album to stop my daughter whining. Please." However it turned out that good old Kylie had moved on to pastures new... the pastures new being none other than Michael Hutchence.

So, on my birthday morning I excitedly ripped open my brand new tape to find... Kick. Kick. "What's this??" I demanded in disgust, "Not one of these people have been in Neighbours!!" I refused to listen to it. I might even have stepped on it and cracked the tape case.
"You'll bloody well listen to any tape I buy you, you ungrateful wee (expletive deleted)" yelled Dad.
"I won't! It's rubbish!" I yelled right back, stamping my just-turned-ten-year-old foot like a just-turned-two-year-old.

Finally, on threat of grounding and not being allowed to watch Neighbours ever again, I sat down and listened to it. Nearly twenty years later, I jumped on a plane to Las Vegas for the weekend...

My write up of the weekend can be found at:

http://www.rockband.com/inxs/news/concert-review-vegas-01-2006.asp

And review (of sorts, no one could accuse me of being much of a critic!) of the Lovehammers concert at the Viper Room:

http://lovehammersfanclub.com/lhfanclub/ViperRoomReview.html

Sacred and Profane Love: The Mystery of William Desmond Taylor

2006-03-02T12:06:00.000Z

As far as the police were concerned, it was routine. On the morning of February 22nd, 1922, they arrived at the home of William Desmond Taylor in a wealthy suburb of Los Angeles to find the prominent film director dead on the floor of his study. With the agreement of Lieutenant Ziegler, a doctor from the crowd of onlookers made a preliminary examination of the body and declared death from natural causes, possibly heart trouble. The case was closed.
However, moments later when the body was turned over to reveal a pool of blood and neat bullet hole in the back of the head, the case was re-opened, and it remains so today. The identity of the doctor was never discovered, nor was he seen again and serious doubt was eventually cast on his very existence: he formed just the first of many mysteries concerning the murder of the man described in the memoirs of Special Investigator Ed C King as “a cultured, dignified gentleman with a charming personality and considerable magnetism.” The unsolved investigation into the untimely death of this “cultured, dignified gentleman” spanned decades; it ruined the careers of two of the most prominent actresses of the day, left countless reputations in tatters and caused the Seattle Star to remark: “every time there is a shooting scrape in the movie colony some screen star finds out where the rest of her clothes are.” Risque stuff for 1922; the murder became one of the first instances of trial by tabloid and reveals a Wild West Hollywood almost forgotten today.

The real mystery to me is how this fascinating case has become so forgotten. Mention Fatty Arbuckle, Charlie Chaplin, Rudolph Valentino to anyone who doesn’t have a particular interest in film history, and the names will ring a bell. They might even have a rough idea of their scandals that made such an impact on the fledgling movie community during the 1920s, but William Desmond Taylor? Almost invariably nada. In fact, a few months ago I visited Los Angeles, and was determined to visit the site of Taylor’s death (typing this, it occurs to me for the first time that it could be construed as somewhat macabre – I prefer to think of it as a keen interest in history!) – his bungalow at Alvadoro and Maryland in Westlake, part of a complex that was home to a host of stars of the day including Douglas and Faith MacLean and Chaplin's leading lady Edna Purviance. I knew that the original complex had been torn down in the 1960s – the demolition is featured in Sidney Kirkpatrick’s A Cast of Killers – but expected something to remain to commemorate Taylor’s place in Hollywood history. My lovely friend D (he does have a full first name, but I’ll go with the initial in case he decides to sue me one day) agreed to drive me to the site, and so – following a 1920s map which I now see was somewhat short sighted – we set off. After a good 40 minutes trawling the streets of downtown Los Angeles getting confused by unexpected freeways not featured on my map, we finally found Alvadoro and excitedly counted down the streets towards Maryland to discover… a parking lot. How horribly indicative of America’s regard for history to find that such a site – which would surely feature at least a plaque in London – had been turned into a place to stick cars.

Despite numerous false leads and unsubstantiated confessions - in 1964, a former silent star who had worked with Taylor for six months in 1914, Margaret Gibson, claimed on her deathbed to have killed Taylor - and an investigation spanning decades, the case has never been conclusively solved. The most popular theory, favoured by Ed C. King and director King Vidor, was that Charlotte Shelby, mother of actress and Taylor admirer Mary Miles Minter, killed Taylor.

For further reading on the case, I highly recommend Bruce Long’s online newsletter, Taylorology at http://www.angelfire.com/az/Taylorology/

SAMPLE PRESS RELEASE - www.orionroad.com

2006-02-28T08:18:00.000Z

ORION ROAD

The most hotly anticipated show of the fall season!
Starring a cast of up and coming superstars, Orion Road introduces us to 24th Century London as we have never seen it before.

“After the shock death of his guardian, Scott Starsplitter returns home to Orion to live with the family that sent him away. Scott and popular bad boy Jason Orion (childhood co conspirator in the fateful elementary school explosion which only Scott took the rap for) have the kind of reunion that makes you wish you were a solar system or two away, as they battle for the affections of Binky, the too hot to be a teacher school councilor … all in a day’s work for a teen soap. Tick every box”
This science fiction teen dramedy is a spin off from the makers of hit 90s Canadian series – Cosmos City.

www.orionroad.com

To capture this history in the making, a documentary team has been given unprecedented access to the cast, crew and executive team.
The documentary promises to be celebrity reality at its best: all the bitch fighting back stabbing glory of tangled love lives, wannabe diva behavior and desperation for credibility expected from any self respecting member of the C list. Britney and Kevin, Nick and Jessica, Osbournes – watch out…

Except

Orion Road does not exist. It never did. But let’s not let a little thing like reality get in the way of reality tv.

Orion Road… Revealed

Orion Road will be launched in a blaze of utterly shameless publicity… all as though it is a real show, with unsuspecting press, public and celebrities knowing nothing more than that the cast of this new show will have a camera crew following them. Our actors will have to deal with whatever comes their way during real time shooting – from being refused entry or sent to the back of the line to being blown off by the celebrity they are determined to be papped with to fielding questions from – or being ignored by – real press and paparazzi. All while in character and embroiled in the storyline for the episode.

A spoof fly on the wall documentary-sitcom that satirizes the smoke and mirrors cult of the vacuous celebrity.
Curb Your Enthusiasm meets Star Magazine… with a delicious Ali G style twist…

SCRIPT REPORT: No Beast More Savage by David White and Jason Young

2006-02-02T16:36:00.000Z

Posted with the kind permission of the writers...

Logline: Cedar Ridge is a close knit mountain community situated in the shadow of a State Correctional Facility. When a mysterious prisoner unleashes werewolves in their midst, the question of whether man, or beast, can control his darkest, most savage impulses becomes a matter of life or death.

Comments: No Beast More Savage is a dark, disturbing and utterly riveting horror film. It exists very definitely in the heart of the genre: tortured, complex characters, genuine frights and a satisfyingly dark ending are all present. There are unquestionably moments of compromised morality that might be a little too dark for your average commercial audience, but I believe that, overall, that is a relatively minor point.

The plot is tight and races along, skillfully cutting between our main characters at exhilarating speed. That Doug confronts Kate about her affair with Alec just as Alec is coming face to face with Clancy the wolf – and being bitten thus condemned to become a wolf – deftly explodes both the emotional and physical storylines in one bracing sequence. The overriding theme, questioning whether the darkest sides of human nature can or should be controlled, is present in contrasting ways in each scene. Alec and Kate claim they had no choice but to fall into an affair; Doug states that he is afraid of the violent impulses that cause him to beat defenseless prisoners; even Hank and Gail seem powerless against their stagnating marriage. However when Alec the wolf is unable to stop himself killing Kate, the resulting immense self loathing and determination to overcome the beast within sets him on a journey that efficiently contrasts Doug’s descent into incontrollable rage.

There are a few plot points that could do with tightening up: the day after the wolves’ first massacre, why aren’t Hank and Gail worried for their son Alec? Do they already know that he is one of them? How was Clancy convicted in the first place for murdering while he was a wolf? Surely the two victims would have clearly been savaged by an animal, how did the police pinpoint Clancy? Did he try to defend himself? Doug knew that shooting Karl didn’t kill him, why does he accept that Alec is dead when he shoots himself? Further, that Doug is able to kill Karl – albeit with some difficulty – creates the assumption that these creatures can be killed, which weakens Alec’s anguish that he is still alive after he shoots himself. It also diminishes the power of the wolves somewhat when we have seen one die so early on in the film – and undermines the invincibility (their wounds healing, Clancy gnawing his own leg off, both Alec and Karl able to escape from the chains that bind them) that is set up elsewhere. Having said that, this may be the moment to establish the idea of pure silver being the only thing to kill the wolves – maybe Doug in desperation uses a knife (previously established to be) a family heirloom and pure silver? I wasn’t sure whether the silver thing was accepted folklore in connection with werewolves, or if it had been invented for this film – either way it needs to be clear that the one and only thing that can kill the wolves is pure silver. This would also open opportunity for there being limited supply of silver in the town, further heightening the dramatic stakes. A little more clarity is needed between how one is killed by a wolf, and turned into one of them. Is there any deliberate action on the wolf’s part?

One of the film’s main strengths is the complexity of the characters. Doug isn’t a bad guy. His motivation – however misguided his actions may be – is only to protect the people and the community he loves. There is an intriguing contrast between Doug being an action man – he has conviction in his decisions and follows through with action without question; and Alec’s more cerebral quest to control the beast he has become. This is highlighted when Hank points out that Alec could have attacked him but chose to overcome the impulse; Doug refuses to accept any gray area and kills Hank. Despite witnessing the murder of his father, Alec is still able to resist wreaking revenge and attacking Doug. Through these characters the film constantly challenges any idea of the moral high ground: while it seems simplistically obvious that Doug and the hunters are wrong in systematically shooting the people attacked by wolves before the people have even exhibited any proof that they are now werewolves – what really is their alternative? When mercy is shown by one of the hunters to the afflicted group, they shortly after savagely kill their own families who came to rescue them. Further, there are fairly few films that could get away with the hero tearing his own girlfriend to pieces, but Alec’s agony is so real that somehow we remain on his side. The one missing character moment I am looking for is Doug’s grief over Kate’s death. While he is not a man to weep on a friend’s shoulder and clearly his priority is to ensure the community’s safety, I would like to see just one moment of him quietly absorbing the impact – not only of losing the wife he loves despite her infidelity, but of facing a future raising two young children alone. I would also like to gain some sense of the attacked groups’ reaction – do they realize what is in store for them? Are they afraid, excited, sickened by what they are now?

All in all, despite a few minor points that can easily be tightened up, No Beast More Savage is a taut, terrifying and thought-provoking film that absolutely deserves development.