I cannot remember the last time I was in a dressing room preparing to go on stage and did not know the people around me. Usually everyone in the Biserk dressing room had seen everyone else's bottom a hundred times before and we just got on with it. So last night I had to share a dressing room with complete strangers, male and female, whilst we all stripped in and out of sweaty costumes and underwear, leaning over to fix mascara, looking in the mirror at bar straps, knicker lines and hairstyles. And the girls were pretty fussy too.
Lots of male torsos and bits and bobs. Well readers I didn't know where to look! I did really but of course I'm a lady foremost.
Now "Chookas" is an Australian term meaning good luck. Where in England we would say Break A Leg. I have no idea where the word came from as it reminds me of chooks running around on a farm, which is the last thing I am thinking about in the wings before I go on stage. But whatever floats your boat.
Had a fantastic opening night last night. Which was a relief as we had a completely crap dress rehearsal (which always bodes well somehow) where we tripped on our props and we were dancing a bit like Mick Jagger - but in a bad way. Then it all magically came together for the real thing.
Hayley wanted to know why I was not nervous. I was just so relaxed and happy to be out of the house doing my thing, I had no time to be nervous. Imagine swapping dinner/bath/bedtime ritual (absolute bloody chaos) with dancing for an audience. Also the older you get.....
Thursday 22 November 2012
Sunday 18 November 2012
Shop Names Part II
I drive past this shop all the time and it always makes me smirk. "House of Recliners" on the corner of Toorak and Camberwell Roads. Hilarious! I swear they make these shop names up just for my own amusement.
Imagine the type of person who must visit such a shop. I hate to be judgemental but we know the target customer is going to be male and probably lists watching television amongst his favourite activities. I think Nachos would be on the list as well. A cross between Homer Simpson and Joey from Friends.
The tagline on the shop window reads "Your one-stop motion furniture superstore". Talk about a niche market.
Imagine the type of person who must visit such a shop. I hate to be judgemental but we know the target customer is going to be male and probably lists watching television amongst his favourite activities. I think Nachos would be on the list as well. A cross between Homer Simpson and Joey from Friends.
The tagline on the shop window reads "Your one-stop motion furniture superstore". Talk about a niche market.
Monday 12 November 2012
Lighting Design
Bear with me whilst I explain. The other day I had a laugh out loud moment where I was making dinner in the kitchen and recounting the events of the day in fast forward (I often do this just to remonstrate with myself how little I've achieved in terms of career and creativity - fun isn't it?). I came home from teaching my morning adults beginner's class - WITH ONE PERSON, and was bemoaning the fact of lack of dance and career to The Accountant.
He was happy as he was working from home (i.e.laptop on the terrace, coffee on the side, gazing out at the sun and the trees). We sat there we two, laptops side by side - he earning money whilst tapping now and then, me earning none but desperately searching between loads of washing, feeding Jonty, putting Jonty down for sleep, re-putting Jonty down for sleep and fitting in job-searching for week into 12 minutes. And I wonder why I can't find anything to fit in with my routine.
I happened to mention that there was vacancy at Ausdance - the CEO/Director for Victoria. Well up leapt The Accountant, eyes shining and encouraging me to apply straight away. Seriously? Seriously I am a dance artist/housewife who has spent the last year settling a family into a new life and who - at a stretch - teaches no more than 4 hours a week. Lately I have been in the studio more, choreographing and now performing a duet, but before that - not a lot.
So in the space of ten minutes I am contemplating coming home at 10pm and staying up until 3am to get the fifteen points on the selection criteria addressed. For a job where I am not even certain I would get an interview due to the fact I know NO ONE in dance in Victoria. However I should not have been that put off as when I checked the last two people to get these posts recently in the ACT and NSW were former parliamentarians. Nothing to do with dance at all.
In a complete turn-around, I was nearly the oldest person at a production meeting for choreographers this weekend for Short + Sweet. It was not a short or sweet meeting. For two and a half hours I had to have a workshop in lighting in a small scale theatre and complete an intolerable risk assessment (I may or may not trip over in the dark on the way to the stage). I can understand why they do this. They do not want some undergraduate dancer/choreographer coming in with 30 lighting cues for a ten minute piece - complete with set, props, water, fire, mirror ball and haze machine. The rest of us just want to get on with it.
So instead we all had to fill out our own lighting designs to give to the technicians ahead of our technical rehearsal. I think it was the only time in my life where I finished a piece of written work way ahead of everyone else. And I even knew what I was doing. Now if I could only get my blue pants from riding up my bottom during the piece all will be well....
He was happy as he was working from home (i.e.laptop on the terrace, coffee on the side, gazing out at the sun and the trees). We sat there we two, laptops side by side - he earning money whilst tapping now and then, me earning none but desperately searching between loads of washing, feeding Jonty, putting Jonty down for sleep, re-putting Jonty down for sleep and fitting in job-searching for week into 12 minutes. And I wonder why I can't find anything to fit in with my routine.
I happened to mention that there was vacancy at Ausdance - the CEO/Director for Victoria. Well up leapt The Accountant, eyes shining and encouraging me to apply straight away. Seriously? Seriously I am a dance artist/housewife who has spent the last year settling a family into a new life and who - at a stretch - teaches no more than 4 hours a week. Lately I have been in the studio more, choreographing and now performing a duet, but before that - not a lot.
So in the space of ten minutes I am contemplating coming home at 10pm and staying up until 3am to get the fifteen points on the selection criteria addressed. For a job where I am not even certain I would get an interview due to the fact I know NO ONE in dance in Victoria. However I should not have been that put off as when I checked the last two people to get these posts recently in the ACT and NSW were former parliamentarians. Nothing to do with dance at all.
In a complete turn-around, I was nearly the oldest person at a production meeting for choreographers this weekend for Short + Sweet. It was not a short or sweet meeting. For two and a half hours I had to have a workshop in lighting in a small scale theatre and complete an intolerable risk assessment (I may or may not trip over in the dark on the way to the stage). I can understand why they do this. They do not want some undergraduate dancer/choreographer coming in with 30 lighting cues for a ten minute piece - complete with set, props, water, fire, mirror ball and haze machine. The rest of us just want to get on with it.
So instead we all had to fill out our own lighting designs to give to the technicians ahead of our technical rehearsal. I think it was the only time in my life where I finished a piece of written work way ahead of everyone else. And I even knew what I was doing. Now if I could only get my blue pants from riding up my bottom during the piece all will be well....
Wednesday 31 October 2012
Strictly Commercial
Is it me or has the contemporary dance scene in Australia turned into one big highly commercial dance competition? It really is exactly like the Strictly Ballroom film, except insert Contemporary Dance instead of the Ballroom bit. I mean if you are a ballroom dancer, there is no need to be offended because they celebrate the bitchiness and the costumes.
So I am in this Dance Festival and there are awards and prizes. One of them is a People's Choice Award, where if you filled the auditorium with your friends - you're the winner! Clearly I will not be taking any awards home this year even though my aunties and cousins are doing their best to support me. But five people cheering in the audience will not cut it.
I was re-thinking my cheeky costume (it is SO boring dieting, especially when Mama needs her champagne on a Friday night), but now I am thinking I should be prepared to be a little risky - might get a few more votes! Only problem is the piece might become a cross between European-style dance theatre and a lap dancer. I always knew I was in the wrong business.
PS. I do try to write blogs that do not offend people. But it is really hard.
So I am in this Dance Festival and there are awards and prizes. One of them is a People's Choice Award, where if you filled the auditorium with your friends - you're the winner! Clearly I will not be taking any awards home this year even though my aunties and cousins are doing their best to support me. But five people cheering in the audience will not cut it.
I was re-thinking my cheeky costume (it is SO boring dieting, especially when Mama needs her champagne on a Friday night), but now I am thinking I should be prepared to be a little risky - might get a few more votes! Only problem is the piece might become a cross between European-style dance theatre and a lap dancer. I always knew I was in the wrong business.
PS. I do try to write blogs that do not offend people. But it is really hard.
Sunday 21 October 2012
The Snip
You know the drill. You are walking to school pick-up on a sunny afternoon with another Mum. Your babies are in the pram gurgling away, your kindergarten children are toddling along on their scooters and bikes. And the conversation abruptly turns to circumcision. Sound familiar? No?
Well it was not my usual entry into conversation either until last Friday! Bloody hell. All sorts of thoughts are going through my head - dance choreography, upcoming performances, costumes, props, dinner ingredients and even watering the plants. But circumcision was not on the agenda. Of course I took part in the conversation with my usual enthusiasm and gusto. It was very strange. I could almost write a song about it.
It seems in Australia at least that a lot of baby boys still have The Snip. I thought that was just our parent's generation. Barbaric yes, but then they didn't know any better. Whatever happened to good ol' fashioned washing in the bath? Play with the boats, have a splash - wash your willy.
Is this controversial turf?
I certainly hope so.
Well it was not my usual entry into conversation either until last Friday! Bloody hell. All sorts of thoughts are going through my head - dance choreography, upcoming performances, costumes, props, dinner ingredients and even watering the plants. But circumcision was not on the agenda. Of course I took part in the conversation with my usual enthusiasm and gusto. It was very strange. I could almost write a song about it.
It seems in Australia at least that a lot of baby boys still have The Snip. I thought that was just our parent's generation. Barbaric yes, but then they didn't know any better. Whatever happened to good ol' fashioned washing in the bath? Play with the boats, have a splash - wash your willy.
Is this controversial turf?
I certainly hope so.
Tuesday 16 October 2012
I Don't Believe in Outer Space...
...is the name of the William Forsythe's new piece for his own company which has been showing here as part of the Melbourne Festival. I took nine ladies to see this work on Sunday night. I buttered them up with champagne first, sitting in the sun by the river in the heart of the city. A gorgeous evening after a week of blustery spring weather.
Anyone who knows Forstythe's work will understand why I did not divulge too much information about his work before the show. Especially since most of these ladies were either new to contemporary dance - courtesy of moi danse classes extroidinaire! Or had no idea what they had embarked on but had agreed to come due to a) getting out of house at dinner/bath/bedtime routine b) champagne c) nice chit chat with ladies and d) a good chance to get out of mummy jeans/tracksuit pants and into Contemporary Dance Performance Diva Outfit - whatever that is!
Interlude - whilst I tell you that my outfit of choice for the night was an absolute bargain funky jumpsuit a bought in the UK on my last visit. Too cool for school this one. Strapless, blue with a print, and perfectly gathered at the ankles. Strappy heels, little cardigan, lots of accessories. I looked a treat. The Accountant looked me up and down with a frown. "What the hell is that?". Oh the confidence boost of showing one's husband two minutes before being picked up. I left the house with the words "....clown's costume...." ringing in my ears.
Back to Forsythe: It really was a rather extraordinary piece, with the usual juxtaposition of movement, acting, voice, props and music. In fact it was complete chaos on stage at first, and then the piece settled into an abstraction of ideas and thoughts. The movement was compelling, and no other choreographer asks so much and yet so little of their dancers. Very thoughtful and courageous. And when you are watching you realise that no one else would go to these places without having to use shock tactics such as nudity or swearing. Forsythe does not need to do that. He has us there already.
And I love that the dancers never wear costumes, but just rehearsal clothes or regular street clothes. They could be anyone, but then they do something amazing with their bodies and you realise that they are not just anyone. The ladies loved it. Had never seen anything like it, and did not know what to think when it started, but then came out with all sorts of ideas and comments.
Ahh, the good deeds I do knows no bounds. They are one of us now......
Anyone who knows Forstythe's work will understand why I did not divulge too much information about his work before the show. Especially since most of these ladies were either new to contemporary dance - courtesy of moi danse classes extroidinaire! Or had no idea what they had embarked on but had agreed to come due to a) getting out of house at dinner/bath/bedtime routine b) champagne c) nice chit chat with ladies and d) a good chance to get out of mummy jeans/tracksuit pants and into Contemporary Dance Performance Diva Outfit - whatever that is!
Interlude - whilst I tell you that my outfit of choice for the night was an absolute bargain funky jumpsuit a bought in the UK on my last visit. Too cool for school this one. Strapless, blue with a print, and perfectly gathered at the ankles. Strappy heels, little cardigan, lots of accessories. I looked a treat. The Accountant looked me up and down with a frown. "What the hell is that?". Oh the confidence boost of showing one's husband two minutes before being picked up. I left the house with the words "....clown's costume...." ringing in my ears.
Back to Forsythe: It really was a rather extraordinary piece, with the usual juxtaposition of movement, acting, voice, props and music. In fact it was complete chaos on stage at first, and then the piece settled into an abstraction of ideas and thoughts. The movement was compelling, and no other choreographer asks so much and yet so little of their dancers. Very thoughtful and courageous. And when you are watching you realise that no one else would go to these places without having to use shock tactics such as nudity or swearing. Forsythe does not need to do that. He has us there already.
And I love that the dancers never wear costumes, but just rehearsal clothes or regular street clothes. They could be anyone, but then they do something amazing with their bodies and you realise that they are not just anyone. The ladies loved it. Had never seen anything like it, and did not know what to think when it started, but then came out with all sorts of ideas and comments.
Ahh, the good deeds I do knows no bounds. They are one of us now......
Thursday 11 October 2012
Geoffrey Rush
I thought if I called this post Geoffrey Rush it might get your attention. And it worked. And here you are reading it. A few blogs ago I mentioned how much fun I had when I left the house to be a Real Person for half a day. I attended an audition for Short + Sweet at this very strange dance space called Ministry of Dance. It is a cross between a warehouse and various rooms which look like the set of chat shows or a posh hotel reception. It was huge.
I asked the Clipboard Girl "what the hell is this place?". It is apparently the largest dance studios space in the Southern Hempisphere. Like The Place in London. Only Five times the amount of space.
As I was walking towards my audition studio (along a corridor as wide as our house) I briefly looked at a group of people on their tea break from one of the other studios. Then they all filed back into work behind closed doors. Clipboard Girl very smugly told me Geoffrey Rush was in there rehearsing. So if I had paid more attention to the people - instead of marvelling at the decor and size of the space - I would have bloody seen him!
But all I could think was who on earth could afford to run this kind of commercial dance space.
In Melbourne. Only the big musicals could possibly afford to hire these studios. So if Lion King or West Side Story needed a rehearsal venue it would be perfect. I don't think the budget for Biserk Dance Company would stretch to the hourly rate. I would be able to afford to run up the stairs and plug my iPod into the stereo. But then I would have to pack up and leave.
A very exciting weekend coming up. Many visitors staying. The youngest cousin is having his 21st Birthday Party (they grow up so quickly). So another big family gathering. Rehearsing in earnest (well more like frantic creativity). And to top it all off - going to see The Forsythe Company on Sunday evening. William Forsythe is my absolute favourite choreographer - EVER.
I am taking a group of ten contemporary dance virgins with me. I have explained that it will be very modern and edgy - not at all the Swan Lake they may be used to. But we will have a bit of champagne first - and that's bound to take the edge off. What a pity I didn't get loaded the last time I saw Merce Cunningham in Oxford.....
I asked the Clipboard Girl "what the hell is this place?". It is apparently the largest dance studios space in the Southern Hempisphere. Like The Place in London. Only Five times the amount of space.
As I was walking towards my audition studio (along a corridor as wide as our house) I briefly looked at a group of people on their tea break from one of the other studios. Then they all filed back into work behind closed doors. Clipboard Girl very smugly told me Geoffrey Rush was in there rehearsing. So if I had paid more attention to the people - instead of marvelling at the decor and size of the space - I would have bloody seen him!
But all I could think was who on earth could afford to run this kind of commercial dance space.
In Melbourne. Only the big musicals could possibly afford to hire these studios. So if Lion King or West Side Story needed a rehearsal venue it would be perfect. I don't think the budget for Biserk Dance Company would stretch to the hourly rate. I would be able to afford to run up the stairs and plug my iPod into the stereo. But then I would have to pack up and leave.
A very exciting weekend coming up. Many visitors staying. The youngest cousin is having his 21st Birthday Party (they grow up so quickly). So another big family gathering. Rehearsing in earnest (well more like frantic creativity). And to top it all off - going to see The Forsythe Company on Sunday evening. William Forsythe is my absolute favourite choreographer - EVER.
I am taking a group of ten contemporary dance virgins with me. I have explained that it will be very modern and edgy - not at all the Swan Lake they may be used to. But we will have a bit of champagne first - and that's bound to take the edge off. What a pity I didn't get loaded the last time I saw Merce Cunningham in Oxford.....
Tuesday 2 October 2012
Back in the Game
Got the Short + Sweet gig. Very chuffed. And here are a few photos from our holiday in Canberra. Short blog as I have a new laptop and will take an eternity to work out how to put the bloody photos on the blog. The boys and I saw three beautiful balloons at 6:30am this morning.
A gorgeous sight in the bright blue Canberra skyline.
A gorgeous sight in the bright blue Canberra skyline.
Monday 1 October 2012
Wife Swap
We are in Canberra at the moment, on a school holiday road trip. Lunch yesterday was Bellini's and home made pizza (cooked on the BBQ). It was a lovely sun-dappled lunch, and with Jonty asleep the two big boys had the adults to themselves and embarked on their usual series of inquisitions.
They were trying to piece together who my parents were out of the six they have to choose from. Eventually they settled on Nonna and Russell, but then Henry remembered it was actually Grandpa John (with some triumph) who was my dad. Then one of them said "they did a swap". And apparently some people swap more than once.
Henry ended the conversation with "some people just keep swapping until they die!".
PS. Have heard back from the directors of the Short + Sweet Festival, and they want to see me in Melbourne this week. Great, but the only problem is we are in Canberra until Friday. Do I ditch the family holiday and fly back just for a fifteen minute meeting? Or do I try to wangle a different time at the risk of sounding difficult? What are the new rules for a supposed professional dancer/choreographer who has three small children who has moved countries and who has not embarked on furthering her dance career (in Australia) until now?
It was so much fun going to the audition - like being a proper person again! Walking down hallways (with no children), telling the lady your name (with no children), showing your work (with no children) and talking about your work (with no children). AND catching public transport WITH NO BLOODY CHILDREN! Even had a cheeky lunch at a funky cafe, but was disappointed to find myself looking around and thinking "I could even bring the children here!"
They were trying to piece together who my parents were out of the six they have to choose from. Eventually they settled on Nonna and Russell, but then Henry remembered it was actually Grandpa John (with some triumph) who was my dad. Then one of them said "they did a swap". And apparently some people swap more than once.
Henry ended the conversation with "some people just keep swapping until they die!".
PS. Have heard back from the directors of the Short + Sweet Festival, and they want to see me in Melbourne this week. Great, but the only problem is we are in Canberra until Friday. Do I ditch the family holiday and fly back just for a fifteen minute meeting? Or do I try to wangle a different time at the risk of sounding difficult? What are the new rules for a supposed professional dancer/choreographer who has three small children who has moved countries and who has not embarked on furthering her dance career (in Australia) until now?
It was so much fun going to the audition - like being a proper person again! Walking down hallways (with no children), telling the lady your name (with no children), showing your work (with no children) and talking about your work (with no children). AND catching public transport WITH NO BLOODY CHILDREN! Even had a cheeky lunch at a funky cafe, but was disappointed to find myself looking around and thinking "I could even bring the children here!"
Sunday 16 September 2012
Tan Tights
Contemporary dancers still wearing old, well-loved training clothes in the dance studio will feel my pain here.
As far as I'm concerned there are three fashion faux pas which really get my goat.
1. Massive wide belts of the kind that were in fashion about seven years ago, but which some people still insist on wearing. Even worse when they are bejwelled with sparkling trinkets.
2. Fat people wearing leggings. ANY TIME, ANY PLACE.
3. Stonewash jeans and a matching jacket. Just awful.
In the dance studio however there are a whole new set of rules about what is acceptable and what is clearly just poor judgement. And this week I got into an argument with my teenage dancers about what they could wear for their dance piece. They wanted to wear tan tights. TAN TIGHTS!
I told them to move on - it is not 1986, and we are not entering a Beauty Pagent in some mid-western town in the States. And they are performing an abstract contemporary dance piece, loosely based on some Indigenous Dreamtime themes.
Just like Edna in The Incredibles ("No Capes!"), I said "No Tan Tights!".
As far as I'm concerned there are three fashion faux pas which really get my goat.
1. Massive wide belts of the kind that were in fashion about seven years ago, but which some people still insist on wearing. Even worse when they are bejwelled with sparkling trinkets.
2. Fat people wearing leggings. ANY TIME, ANY PLACE.
3. Stonewash jeans and a matching jacket. Just awful.
In the dance studio however there are a whole new set of rules about what is acceptable and what is clearly just poor judgement. And this week I got into an argument with my teenage dancers about what they could wear for their dance piece. They wanted to wear tan tights. TAN TIGHTS!
I told them to move on - it is not 1986, and we are not entering a Beauty Pagent in some mid-western town in the States. And they are performing an abstract contemporary dance piece, loosely based on some Indigenous Dreamtime themes.
Just like Edna in The Incredibles ("No Capes!"), I said "No Tan Tights!".
Wednesday 12 September 2012
Shop Names
Now I will tell you something I little bit funny. Australian people will not find this the least bit peculiar because they are used to it - so feel free to ignore this blog post.
In Australia, or Melbourne at least, the shop fronts and signs are HUGE. Much bigger than they really need to be. Some of them at least 20 times the size of a normal UK high street retailer. And this from someone with failing eyesight. Apart from the actual lettering on the signs entering into some secret competition with the sign next door, what the signs actually represent is even funnier.
A few examples:
Crazy John's - Discount mobile phone store. I would be a little bit reticent about buying a phone from these guys.
The Badbacks Store - Hilarious! A store for people with bad backs. If I had time I would have hung around just to watch poor old bent over people hobbling in to buy themselves a spoon and fork.
Tony le Pony - Would have been great if this had been an equestrian shop, but turned out to be a boring cafe.
Trippy Taco - All those who watched Monkey in the 70's we salute you. This taco place was packed late one night when The Accountant and I had date night.
Fella Hamilton - Posh ladies dress shop, but the name is very off-putting. Mother and I had a giggle as our old dog from 35 years ago was called Fella, spelling included.
A German friend also took a photo of a sushi shop called Mishi Mishi which apparently, in Germany, is another name for (excuse me) fanny/snatch/fandango. Smirk.
In Australia, or Melbourne at least, the shop fronts and signs are HUGE. Much bigger than they really need to be. Some of them at least 20 times the size of a normal UK high street retailer. And this from someone with failing eyesight. Apart from the actual lettering on the signs entering into some secret competition with the sign next door, what the signs actually represent is even funnier.
A few examples:
Crazy John's - Discount mobile phone store. I would be a little bit reticent about buying a phone from these guys.
The Badbacks Store - Hilarious! A store for people with bad backs. If I had time I would have hung around just to watch poor old bent over people hobbling in to buy themselves a spoon and fork.
Tony le Pony - Would have been great if this had been an equestrian shop, but turned out to be a boring cafe.
Trippy Taco - All those who watched Monkey in the 70's we salute you. This taco place was packed late one night when The Accountant and I had date night.
Fella Hamilton - Posh ladies dress shop, but the name is very off-putting. Mother and I had a giggle as our old dog from 35 years ago was called Fella, spelling included.
A German friend also took a photo of a sushi shop called Mishi Mishi which apparently, in Germany, is another name for (excuse me) fanny/snatch/fandango. Smirk.
Monday 10 September 2012
Between a Rock and a Hard Place
When I first skipped gaily into Melbourne over a year ago, I was just a young (ish) girl with dreams of dancing, choreographing and teaching. I would win everyone over with my humour and general fabulousness before I dance step had even been performed! My dance peers in the UK were all "Big fish in small pond....", "European modern dance scene...", "Experienced choreographer....". And the most uttered "You will be different and new".
New and different are not words which enter the vocabulary of the Melbourne dance scene. No capital letters needed for dance scene as there is no such thing here. No dance community either. It comes to this. Either you are highly commercial and can enter your dance style into various performance platforms. But think old fashioned jazz ballet meets Irish Dancing meets lap dancing. With funny costumes.
Or you squeeze your way into the highly exclusive contemporary dance scene. Membership is highly secretive and you can only get in to this from the ground up. So when you were five years old you did creative dance lessons and moved on from there.
I am obviously in neither of these categories and have been Melbourned into submission to try and join in somehow. So for the moment I am going to put forward a piece for Short + Sweet Festival. The only thing is they want a 2 minute preview by next Saturday. Into the dance studio and out of me tumbled all the creativity I had been saving for one year. Thank god.
I don't know what to expect, but I'll do my thing, my way, in any case. The panel might be full of people who were still in high school when I won my first choreographic award in 1996, so I will try my hardest not to laugh. Or slap them.
Sunday 2 September 2012
Bid
My lovely Auntie Biddy has died at the very young age of 58. A very sad time for all our family. But also a time to remember a remarkably brave and insightful person, who uncomplainingly, battled until the end.
Dear Auntie Bid I will forever have you in my heart, and have so many happy memories of you. In your swimsuit at Lake Buffalo reading the Herald Sun, occasionally remarking on odd happenings (and odd people!) at the lake. All accompanied with a wry smile. May you always be paddling on your red lilo down the Ovens River.
I would have attached a photograph of Biddy at Bright, in her swimmers, with this blog tribute - but I don't know whether she would have entirely approved.
I am very grateful to be in Melbourne at this sad time, recognising what a strong, supportive and loving family we have.
Dear Auntie Bid I will forever have you in my heart, and have so many happy memories of you. In your swimsuit at Lake Buffalo reading the Herald Sun, occasionally remarking on odd happenings (and odd people!) at the lake. All accompanied with a wry smile. May you always be paddling on your red lilo down the Ovens River.
I would have attached a photograph of Biddy at Bright, in her swimmers, with this blog tribute - but I don't know whether she would have entirely approved.
I am very grateful to be in Melbourne at this sad time, recognising what a strong, supportive and loving family we have.
Monday 6 August 2012
Silver Medals Galore
It is no secret in our house that we are cheering on Team GB. Due to two-thirds of us being born there, and the other third being a little bit homesick watching the games in London.
But the Australians are so pissed off about all those silver medals. Imagine the disgrace at being second-best in the world in your chosen sport. Get over it.
Maybe, just maybe, in some weird conspiracy, all the other countries in the world have been training hard for the last four years too?
In other news apparently The Australian Ballet have been taking New York by storm performing their new tour. And with a piece made by British choreographer Wayne McGregor no less.
Note for all my old OCDS dancers: When I walked into the scout hall I use to teach my very first dance class, guess what my first task was? Sweeping the bloody floor! And they say there is no glamour in the arts. Will it ever end.....
But the Australians are so pissed off about all those silver medals. Imagine the disgrace at being second-best in the world in your chosen sport. Get over it.
Maybe, just maybe, in some weird conspiracy, all the other countries in the world have been training hard for the last four years too?
In other news apparently The Australian Ballet have been taking New York by storm performing their new tour. And with a piece made by British choreographer Wayne McGregor no less.
Note for all my old OCDS dancers: When I walked into the scout hall I use to teach my very first dance class, guess what my first task was? Sweeping the bloody floor! And they say there is no glamour in the arts. Will it ever end.....
Avon Calling
I have decided to chuck in the dance and become and Avon Lady. Kidding! No but I did have a pampering party on Sunday afternoon for a few ladies. Most of us were related in some way or other. Would have been a complete success were it not for children coming in and out of my peripheral vision for the last hour.
Extremely hard to pull of the glamorous yummy mummy glow when you are screaming "Rufus! Get off the netting on the trampoline! NOW!". From inside the house. Right beside the special make-up lady educating us in the difference between day and night creams (one for protecting and the other for correcting girls - and my gayfriend boys).
It is funny the things you do when you no longer have culture on your doorstep. The make-up lady even tried to encourage me to take on a business. No for me though. If I have any spare time available which is not on the mothering/wifely to-do list, it is heading straight for the studio or theatre.
By the way I have indeed started up my first adults contemporary dance class. It is targeted at school and kindergarten parents after drop-off in the morning. So of course it is a beginner's class. And I really had forgotten what it is like to teach absolute beginners who have no experience of contemporary dance, either as a participant or audience member. So the first week I had 3 mums come along. The second week 6, then last week 9 people. They love it.
One lady commented jubilantly after class: "Well I didn't know what to expect. But it's like real dancing!"
Extremely hard to pull of the glamorous yummy mummy glow when you are screaming "Rufus! Get off the netting on the trampoline! NOW!". From inside the house. Right beside the special make-up lady educating us in the difference between day and night creams (one for protecting and the other for correcting girls - and my gayfriend boys).
It is funny the things you do when you no longer have culture on your doorstep. The make-up lady even tried to encourage me to take on a business. No for me though. If I have any spare time available which is not on the mothering/wifely to-do list, it is heading straight for the studio or theatre.
By the way I have indeed started up my first adults contemporary dance class. It is targeted at school and kindergarten parents after drop-off in the morning. So of course it is a beginner's class. And I really had forgotten what it is like to teach absolute beginners who have no experience of contemporary dance, either as a participant or audience member. So the first week I had 3 mums come along. The second week 6, then last week 9 people. They love it.
One lady commented jubilantly after class: "Well I didn't know what to expect. But it's like real dancing!"
Monday 30 July 2012
London 2012
The Accountant and I went to bed very excited on Friday night (no, not about that - MY PARENTS READ THIS!) and set the alarm ready to be up for the Opening Ceremony of the Olympics. At the last minute I realised Jonty would be my alarm. Of course the little bugger only picked that morning to sleep in. I jumped out of bed whilst it was still dark, shivering into my socks, cardigan, dressing gown and dragging a blanket behind me. "The Olympics.....Ceremony...Tea!" I shouted. The Accountant merely rolled over and snuggled into the duvet, muttering something that sounded like go away only worse.
So Jonty and I watched the Opening Ceremony by ourselves. I loved the humour, music choices and complete bonkers eccentricity of the performance. Then Henry came out and sleepily enquired when they would start running and swimming. Very disappointed not to see some sporting action at once. The Accountant finally emerged for the boring bit - the athletes walking around the arena.
Mexico had the best costumes. Stella Mc did OK for Team GB - but those shorts would have been better on an African Safari. Preferably one whose fan base stretched to Star Trek. The Australian Team looked a cross between cricketers circa '91 and naughty boarding school boys. The only cool thing was the tan skinny belt.
There are two problems watching the Olympics in Australia. One is the time zone differences. The second is that it is all about Australia. To the extent that they will show any crap sport if there is an Australian represented. Even if they come 27th. Out of 27 competitors!
Last night they showed more hockey than I ever wish to see again in my lifetime. The score was 6 - 0 in Australia's favour - and they still insisted on showing the next seven excruciating minutes.
At least in England they tend to show a diverse range of sports, and they show the best of the best in the world, not just their own countrymen. And they usually spread the coverage over two television channels - with no advertisement breaks. Team GB are not usually known for a huge tally of medals in gymnastics or swimming. But they are good at sports where they sit on their butts. Give them a seat on anything and watch them go: a boat, a bike or a horse - and the medals come rolling in.
Let us see if The Accountant and I get up next week at 4:30am to watch the Men's Final 100m. Place your bets.....
So Jonty and I watched the Opening Ceremony by ourselves. I loved the humour, music choices and complete bonkers eccentricity of the performance. Then Henry came out and sleepily enquired when they would start running and swimming. Very disappointed not to see some sporting action at once. The Accountant finally emerged for the boring bit - the athletes walking around the arena.
Mexico had the best costumes. Stella Mc did OK for Team GB - but those shorts would have been better on an African Safari. Preferably one whose fan base stretched to Star Trek. The Australian Team looked a cross between cricketers circa '91 and naughty boarding school boys. The only cool thing was the tan skinny belt.
There are two problems watching the Olympics in Australia. One is the time zone differences. The second is that it is all about Australia. To the extent that they will show any crap sport if there is an Australian represented. Even if they come 27th. Out of 27 competitors!
Last night they showed more hockey than I ever wish to see again in my lifetime. The score was 6 - 0 in Australia's favour - and they still insisted on showing the next seven excruciating minutes.
At least in England they tend to show a diverse range of sports, and they show the best of the best in the world, not just their own countrymen. And they usually spread the coverage over two television channels - with no advertisement breaks. Team GB are not usually known for a huge tally of medals in gymnastics or swimming. But they are good at sports where they sit on their butts. Give them a seat on anything and watch them go: a boat, a bike or a horse - and the medals come rolling in.
Let us see if The Accountant and I get up next week at 4:30am to watch the Men's Final 100m. Place your bets.....
Wednesday 25 July 2012
Belated Blog
Jonty and I went to the Gold Coast to visit Nonna and Pom-Pom on the weekend. Whilst I was there my mother, an avid reader of this blog, wondered casually why I had not commented on my last two visits to the Gold Coast? Was it not golden enough? Not special enough?
The truth is dear readers, as you well know, unless I'm whinging and ranting and raving - it's just not worth writing about. Or it has got to be bloody funny. And especially for my English readers, it has to be so Australian and cringe-worthy to me, that I would write about it from a cultural-shock perspective. Some highlights of these visits have been the beach, the gorgeous surfers, the market where I nabbed some bargains, getting my toenails done at the nail bar, eating and drinking in the sun, lying in the sun watching the palm leaves in the breeze and not having to wear a coat and scarf.
So here you are mother. An Ode to the Gold Coast:
Jonty and I went to the Gold Coast
We had champagne and vegemite on toast
We went to the sea
We watched TV
Jonty loved the ceiling fans the most
There were surfers galore
And runners on shore
But still lots of fat Australian people
Saturday 14 July 2012
Pear Tree Cottage
I thought I had better follow my last glass half-empty blog with a cup that overfloweth. The boys have had an adventurous winter break. Rufus and Henry were booked into football (that is English football, not the blood-thirsty Aussie Rules) over three half-day sessions. During the second week it was gymnastics. Jonty (or Bongo as The Accountant calls him) has been perfecting his walking, ball holding and further advanced exploration of the toilet and toilet accessories.
My job has been ferrying the boys to and fro from activities, keeping them amused at all other times, making endless snacks and providing hot meals. And of course, the all-important keeping Jonty away from the toilet.
We were lucky enough to be able to book a lovely cottage at very short notice during the second week of the holidays for the four of us. Pear Tree Cottage is situated in South Gippsland, probably the wettest place in Australia. Gorgeous countryside, a luxury cottage and the B&B lady provided us with a hamper of home-made breakfast goodies including jams, muffins, cakes, break (none gluten-free!) and the usual eggs and bacon. This is a much better idea with children than having to get everyone dressed and seated in a formal breakfast room first thing in the morning.
The cottage had an open-fire, spa bath and lovely big garden with views of the surrounding countryside. "Wow. It's just like England!" the boys shouted as they ran outside. And I had one of my favourite things of all time: high-quality linen. Jonty and I slept in the mezzanine bedroom at the apex of the cottage. I had the best night's sleep in ages listening to frogs, cows and birds outside. And nothing else but occasional traffic on the main road. It was bliss.
Thursday 12 July 2012
Feeling Blue (and red and white)
There are usually only two reasons why I abstain from writing on my blog.
1. Too busy.
2. Nothing to write about/feeling blue/bored with Australia/despair at the lack of dance (arts scene in general)/missing my friends/housewifery getting me down.
I have to admit it is the second of these reasons at the moment. (Big sigh)
I cannot seem to get a foot in the dance studio door at the moment. Unlike my other frustrated dance colleague though, it is for want of trying. I just can't be bothered anymore. I came. I saw. I wanted to go home.
It took me the best part of 20 years to establish myself in the UK as a dance artist. But I don't want to go back to Job One again. These bloody antipodeans keep themselves to themselves in the dance industry. And no wonder - there are no jobs worth mentioning. The major dance website for Victoria does not even list "Employment" on the website. Just "Opportunities". Which is a nice way of saying "volunteer jobs which won't really count as anything or give any meaningful employment".
In the Australian press recently there was someone quoted as saying that no artist waits around for an Arts Policy. Art will always be made regardless of Arts Policies and Grants. Fair point. But what are artists supposed to live on? Air? Bread and water? The plumber gets paid. The shop assistant gets paid. The Accountant gets paid. Dancers? Of course it's the joy of dancing! So shut up sister, take your tights off and get a real job.
And did I mention that in an artform with 90% participation by women, the top jobs are all held by men? Every single artistic director and choreographer of note is male. Yet there are no up and coming young male dancers in the ranks. Funny that, isn't it?
1. Too busy.
2. Nothing to write about/feeling blue/bored with Australia/despair at the lack of dance (arts scene in general)/missing my friends/housewifery getting me down.
I have to admit it is the second of these reasons at the moment. (Big sigh)
I cannot seem to get a foot in the dance studio door at the moment. Unlike my other frustrated dance colleague though, it is for want of trying. I just can't be bothered anymore. I came. I saw. I wanted to go home.
It took me the best part of 20 years to establish myself in the UK as a dance artist. But I don't want to go back to Job One again. These bloody antipodeans keep themselves to themselves in the dance industry. And no wonder - there are no jobs worth mentioning. The major dance website for Victoria does not even list "Employment" on the website. Just "Opportunities". Which is a nice way of saying "volunteer jobs which won't really count as anything or give any meaningful employment".
In the Australian press recently there was someone quoted as saying that no artist waits around for an Arts Policy. Art will always be made regardless of Arts Policies and Grants. Fair point. But what are artists supposed to live on? Air? Bread and water? The plumber gets paid. The shop assistant gets paid. The Accountant gets paid. Dancers? Of course it's the joy of dancing! So shut up sister, take your tights off and get a real job.
And did I mention that in an artform with 90% participation by women, the top jobs are all held by men? Every single artistic director and choreographer of note is male. Yet there are no up and coming young male dancers in the ranks. Funny that, isn't it?
Tuesday 3 July 2012
Supermarket Rage
Is it me or do old people think they are the kings and queens of the public domain these days? Is anyone else having problems with the over 75s?
Here's how it went: I was trundling along with my trolley the other day - sans enfant - and in a bit of a hurry as I had 3.25 hours until I had to collect Cost Centre No 3. And as great as food shopping is (?!@?*), I needed to do other stuff.
I was looking hither and thither for groceries, as you do, when I looked up and saw the aisle was barred by boxes on either side. With a tiny gap in the middle for a trolley to wiggle and waggle through. Probably accompanied by lots of swearing since they never go where you want them to. An old lady was standing at the other end there watching me - very grumpy. If she went one step back, then I could get through and then she could continue onwards. If I reversed the whole of my aisle, then she would have to wait an eternity to wiggle her way through. It was like a showdown from the Wild West, but she didn't move. So forwards I went, without her moving an inch, then I moved sideways to let her pass and moved a few things at the same time. Then I gave her a smile.
Instead of the thank you I had been expecting, she shook her head at me ("young people these days.....") and continued on banging into everything. My mouth dropped open, I nearly laughed and did that gesture with my hands where you are thinking "What the...?". I looked up at the oldish man who was coming my way - the only witness to the whole scenario - thinking he would be sympathetic and just as curious about the woman's behaviour. He shook his head at me and remonstrated "You've got to give way". Even a pointy finger!
A few days before I had a screaming Jonty in the trolley, at the end of his tether, and I finally headed for the cash register and freedom. I pulled up, started unpacking, when an old lady pushed in front of me and started unpacking her basket. Clearly thinking her basket of twenty goods was quicker than my trolley. The checkout girl just gave me a sorry smile, but didn't say anything. Old Lady did not make eye contact or say anything at all. And I got the impression I was not to say anything. In principle, I really don't mind letting other people in, with good reason. But this was clearly very rude.
Well Jonty certainly let her know what he thought about it. She had to listen to that for the next five minutes whilst she fiddled and fangled her way through her Margaret Thatcher handbag. She got stroppy with the checkout girl and did not know whether to pay cash or card.
Lord give me strength.
Here's how it went: I was trundling along with my trolley the other day - sans enfant - and in a bit of a hurry as I had 3.25 hours until I had to collect Cost Centre No 3. And as great as food shopping is (?!@?*), I needed to do other stuff.
I was looking hither and thither for groceries, as you do, when I looked up and saw the aisle was barred by boxes on either side. With a tiny gap in the middle for a trolley to wiggle and waggle through. Probably accompanied by lots of swearing since they never go where you want them to. An old lady was standing at the other end there watching me - very grumpy. If she went one step back, then I could get through and then she could continue onwards. If I reversed the whole of my aisle, then she would have to wait an eternity to wiggle her way through. It was like a showdown from the Wild West, but she didn't move. So forwards I went, without her moving an inch, then I moved sideways to let her pass and moved a few things at the same time. Then I gave her a smile.
Instead of the thank you I had been expecting, she shook her head at me ("young people these days.....") and continued on banging into everything. My mouth dropped open, I nearly laughed and did that gesture with my hands where you are thinking "What the...?". I looked up at the oldish man who was coming my way - the only witness to the whole scenario - thinking he would be sympathetic and just as curious about the woman's behaviour. He shook his head at me and remonstrated "You've got to give way". Even a pointy finger!
A few days before I had a screaming Jonty in the trolley, at the end of his tether, and I finally headed for the cash register and freedom. I pulled up, started unpacking, when an old lady pushed in front of me and started unpacking her basket. Clearly thinking her basket of twenty goods was quicker than my trolley. The checkout girl just gave me a sorry smile, but didn't say anything. Old Lady did not make eye contact or say anything at all. And I got the impression I was not to say anything. In principle, I really don't mind letting other people in, with good reason. But this was clearly very rude.
Well Jonty certainly let her know what he thought about it. She had to listen to that for the next five minutes whilst she fiddled and fangled her way through her Margaret Thatcher handbag. She got stroppy with the checkout girl and did not know whether to pay cash or card.
Lord give me strength.
Five
The budget for your average children's birthday party in Australia is something akin to what I spent on my last dance production. Which employed five dancers, lighting technician, music editing and costumes. And most of my performances did not involve the cast having a nervous breakdown and everyone having alcohol for medicinal purposes (no, that was just for fun afterwards). And the organisers of the party having to have "quiet time" for months to follow. Can you imagine paying hundreds or thousands of dollars for some snotty-nosed little shits to run around at your local pool/gymnastics hall/football field/karate studio, feed them all your hard-baked goods only to hear at the end "where's my party bag?". Piss off you spoilt little Lord Fauntleroy.
So back to the story: The day before Rufus' birthday, we were at a seven year old's gymnastics party. I looked at these boisterous, loud, exuberant boys and wondered how they would fit in with Rufus' younger friends. The truth is, his thunder would definitely have been stolen. And if you invite one seven year old from a class, you need to invite fourteen really. I knew that Rufus would be happy with two friends, lots of balloons and cake. So I did a quick ring around at 9am on the Sunday morning of the party (anyone who didn't have children would absolutely kill you). Everyone was free, including the neighbours.
The adults had champagne and strawberries, the children had their party food, and everyone had a lovely spontaneous time. And of course we didn't let on to Rufus that this was quickly organised within a few hours. He thought it was wonderful. And they got to play what our boys like to call "Parcel to Parcel". The only downside was that after everyone had gone I discovered that the 3 year old Hawthorn Supporter down the road had explored and emptied nearly every cupboard in the house. Even the linen press. At least he had a good time.
Tuesday 19 June 2012
Vigorous Complaining
Just had a good friend email me from UK saying how lovely it was to see me (yes - some people really do like me - unbelievable I know) and I will quote: "just as much fire and energy and enthusiasm and optimism, and vigorous complaining, as always!".
I think that really, that quote sums up my blog! Just a load of vigorous complaining.
Just had Father here helping out with the children whilst The Accountant is jet-setting around Asia and helping the digital print world with their graphs and numbers (well I don't know do I?). I think he was thoroughly amused and confused in equal measure by the amount of havoc and chaos three little boys can bring upon a household.
And of course I was vigorously complaining the whole time about Australia, dance, culture (kulture) and the ridiculous price of things. Oh yes, and also about those bloody ungrateful Melbourne drivers who never give you a wave, or even a teeny lifted finger off the steering wheel, whenever you stop and let someone go in traffic. Of all the nerve. That really gets my goat.
That is right up there in my list of bugbears, along with litterbugs and people talking too loudly on their mobile phones. Or people who want to have coffee/lunch/drinks with you, but then spend all their time texting and talking on their bloody phones. Piss off and don't ask me out again.
I feel so much better having had another vigorous complaining session. Thanks for that.
I think that really, that quote sums up my blog! Just a load of vigorous complaining.
Just had Father here helping out with the children whilst The Accountant is jet-setting around Asia and helping the digital print world with their graphs and numbers (well I don't know do I?). I think he was thoroughly amused and confused in equal measure by the amount of havoc and chaos three little boys can bring upon a household.
And of course I was vigorously complaining the whole time about Australia, dance, culture (kulture) and the ridiculous price of things. Oh yes, and also about those bloody ungrateful Melbourne drivers who never give you a wave, or even a teeny lifted finger off the steering wheel, whenever you stop and let someone go in traffic. Of all the nerve. That really gets my goat.
That is right up there in my list of bugbears, along with litterbugs and people talking too loudly on their mobile phones. Or people who want to have coffee/lunch/drinks with you, but then spend all their time texting and talking on their bloody phones. Piss off and don't ask me out again.
I feel so much better having had another vigorous complaining session. Thanks for that.
Monday 18 June 2012
Trivia Night
It was the annual kindergarten Trivia Night on Saturday. The Accountant was in India on business, so I was going solo. The theme for our table was Bollywood. I seem to remember the response in England for fancy dress parties ranging from luke warm to a very heated "F*** Off!". So I was quite reticent about dressing-up myself, as I'm feeling particularly British these days. I do have a lovely traditional Indian sparkly top, which was originally part of a whole costume, but I threw out the sari and long skirt in my clothing cull before I left the UK.
So I was thinking of making a compromise on the night - just the top with some jeans and heels. Maybe a pashmina for good measure. But then I remembered that these Australians do not do anything by halves, and this very night last year raised $60k for the kindergarten (what the hell do they spend it on? Diamond finger painting? Smocks by Dolce and Gabana?), so I thought they would be serious about the fancy dress. Luckily I opted for my orange maxi skirt bought from Agra as I would have been named and shamed upon arrival.
It looked as though these people were auditioning for a Hollywood film with the amount of effort put into the costumes. There were Scientists drinking wine out of beakers, Olympiads, Bogans (chavs), Popstars and a table of the Pink Ladies from Grease. One particular table I thought was particularly clever as I thought even the men had dressed in drag for the part - they had all the camp mannerisms down and everything. I was about the go over and congratulate them until I realised that they were all women! Another Nickely moment.
The trivia was not too serious. The the bidding for the auctioned items were. Luckily people had a lot to drink otherwise they wouldn't have spent $700 on a Pilates Machine. I would have liked to have been a fly on the wall in that house the next morning.
So I will leave you with one Trivia question from the night. Whoever answers correctly gets absolutely nothing but mention on the blog.
Q: Who sang the 80s hit Turning Japanese?
No Google allowed!
So I was thinking of making a compromise on the night - just the top with some jeans and heels. Maybe a pashmina for good measure. But then I remembered that these Australians do not do anything by halves, and this very night last year raised $60k for the kindergarten (what the hell do they spend it on? Diamond finger painting? Smocks by Dolce and Gabana?), so I thought they would be serious about the fancy dress. Luckily I opted for my orange maxi skirt bought from Agra as I would have been named and shamed upon arrival.
It looked as though these people were auditioning for a Hollywood film with the amount of effort put into the costumes. There were Scientists drinking wine out of beakers, Olympiads, Bogans (chavs), Popstars and a table of the Pink Ladies from Grease. One particular table I thought was particularly clever as I thought even the men had dressed in drag for the part - they had all the camp mannerisms down and everything. I was about the go over and congratulate them until I realised that they were all women! Another Nickely moment.
The trivia was not too serious. The the bidding for the auctioned items were. Luckily people had a lot to drink otherwise they wouldn't have spent $700 on a Pilates Machine. I would have liked to have been a fly on the wall in that house the next morning.
So I will leave you with one Trivia question from the night. Whoever answers correctly gets absolutely nothing but mention on the blog.
Q: Who sang the 80s hit Turning Japanese?
No Google allowed!
Thursday 14 June 2012
Daddy Daycare
I was feeling so smug the other night. But first let me rewind to the Queens Birthday Weekend. The Accountant and I decided to have a family trip to the seaside. In the usual way of our unorganised chaos, we left about two hours later than we should have (everyone slept in - including Jonty!, could not find right warm clothes for boys, lunches and snacks to be packed, car in a mess, last minute CD finds, then of course the boys remembered the car DVD from a previous holiday and instantly preferred that to Lana del Ray or John Denver), and eventually hit the road at a ridiculous 11am.
As soon as we were around the corner I remembered that in my rush to get everything right for the boys, I had forgotten my own warm coat. Marital disagreement over whether to go back and get it. But The Accountant assured me he had a spare cosy item of clothing I could borrow. I spent the day wearing a very daggy black and grey jumper, 5 sizes too big for me and feeling very cumbersome. Anyway apropos of the argument, as I was pulling out on to the motorway I made the fatal mistake of saying "Well it's just because I'm so cranky. I'm used to dancing at least 20 hours I week and I don't like being a full time housewife. I need to get out and do my thing."
Well. Can opened. Worms everywhere.
Apart from that small incident we did have a lovely day exploring Anglesey, Ainsley's Inlet (and lighthouse) and Lorne.
Cut to Tuesday and Henry has a day off school. So The Accountant, due to all his international work travels, kindly offers to look after baby and Henry whilst I take Rufus to kindergarten and then head to the dance studio with a colleague. Had an industrious morning, followed by lunch - WITH AN ADULT! Made a few phone calls about funding etc.
At home it looks as though we have been burgled. But no that is just breakfast, snacks and games not being packed away. Beds unmade. Washing still in machine. Basically just your usual crap strewn everywhere. I tidy up. I start dinner. Jonty sleeps, Henry plays, The Accountant sleeps. He awakens, complains of bloody kids, headache, sick of dealing with them. Me, but on a bad day. I remind him that I do this every day and keep the house clean, make dinner and do all the pickings up and droppings off as well. And no lying on the bed in between.
That evening I encourage The Accountant to go to karate - some time away from the house. He comes back to sleeping children and clean house - all smiles and nice chit chat. Then (and this is where I am really so smug) he turns and says "I can see why you need to get out of the house now. I feel so much better". And that my friends is what we call the moral of the story.
PS. I know a few of you are thinking "John Denver?" from the first paragraph. Jonty loves John Denver and claps and bounces whenever Country Roads Take Me Home is played. Such a dag, but we love him anyway.
As soon as we were around the corner I remembered that in my rush to get everything right for the boys, I had forgotten my own warm coat. Marital disagreement over whether to go back and get it. But The Accountant assured me he had a spare cosy item of clothing I could borrow. I spent the day wearing a very daggy black and grey jumper, 5 sizes too big for me and feeling very cumbersome. Anyway apropos of the argument, as I was pulling out on to the motorway I made the fatal mistake of saying "Well it's just because I'm so cranky. I'm used to dancing at least 20 hours I week and I don't like being a full time housewife. I need to get out and do my thing."
Well. Can opened. Worms everywhere.
Cut to Tuesday and Henry has a day off school. So The Accountant, due to all his international work travels, kindly offers to look after baby and Henry whilst I take Rufus to kindergarten and then head to the dance studio with a colleague. Had an industrious morning, followed by lunch - WITH AN ADULT! Made a few phone calls about funding etc.
At home it looks as though we have been burgled. But no that is just breakfast, snacks and games not being packed away. Beds unmade. Washing still in machine. Basically just your usual crap strewn everywhere. I tidy up. I start dinner. Jonty sleeps, Henry plays, The Accountant sleeps. He awakens, complains of bloody kids, headache, sick of dealing with them. Me, but on a bad day. I remind him that I do this every day and keep the house clean, make dinner and do all the pickings up and droppings off as well. And no lying on the bed in between.
That evening I encourage The Accountant to go to karate - some time away from the house. He comes back to sleeping children and clean house - all smiles and nice chit chat. Then (and this is where I am really so smug) he turns and says "I can see why you need to get out of the house now. I feel so much better". And that my friends is what we call the moral of the story.
PS. I know a few of you are thinking "John Denver?" from the first paragraph. Jonty loves John Denver and claps and bounces whenever Country Roads Take Me Home is played. Such a dag, but we love him anyway.
Saturday 2 June 2012
She Works Hard For The Money
(RANT ALERT!)
A dancer friend has finally come to join me in Melbourne from England. Like me, she has lived in the UK for some time and has become accustomed to the life of a Dance Artist in Europe. So much variety, inspiration and a richness in contemporary dance culture. In the UK if you tell someone you are a contemporary or modern dancer, they immediately know what you are talking about. Here they say "Are you in Cats?".
Dancer Friend is very bitter about Australia, and has only been here a few weeks. She is where I was at about January time - cranky and in need of some good quality dancing. However, I had the children to keep me busy and Dancer Friend only has her CV. The CV is impressive. But whatever you hear about Australians abroad, the reality is somewhat different. Unfriendly, unhelpful and big fish in small pond come to mind.
The lady who runs the dance studio I teach classes at is different. Friendly, supportive and very open to new ideas and situations. She is great to work for and commands respect from her teachers because she respects them. But she is probably in the minority.
The other day someone was absolutely desperate for an experienced Hip Hop teacher. I was recommended. During the ensuing phone call I asked for the details of the class and my fee. A one hour class. $40 for one hour. Are they joking? I am supposed to haul my sorry ass out the door, drive for 20 minutes, teach ungrateful teenagers for one hour with enthusiasm and professionalism, drag myself in the car and back home again for $40. Would you do that?
I proceeded to tell the poor girl that in the UK my minimum price for a one hour Hip Hop class was £50. At todays exchange rate that is nearly $100. I said I was happy to work for $40 an hour if she could provide me with a few hours of teaching at a time, but not just a one-off every week. Her reply was that she had only just started this dance school and she did not know how many people she would get. Is that my problem? Babe I ran a dance school for nearly 19 years, you don't have to tell me the logistics of business. But if you want someone to teach for you, you have to pay properly for it. Who would realistically work for this?
Melbourne is one of the most expensive cities in the world apparently, yet if you work in dance I suppose you are meant to live on air. Someone is getting something out of it - at between $15 and $22 for dance and yoga classes, it doesn't take a genius to work out that a good class turnout would equal a good fee for a good teacher. Someone recently said to me "You pay peanuts - You get monkeys".
A dancer friend has finally come to join me in Melbourne from England. Like me, she has lived in the UK for some time and has become accustomed to the life of a Dance Artist in Europe. So much variety, inspiration and a richness in contemporary dance culture. In the UK if you tell someone you are a contemporary or modern dancer, they immediately know what you are talking about. Here they say "Are you in Cats?".
Dancer Friend is very bitter about Australia, and has only been here a few weeks. She is where I was at about January time - cranky and in need of some good quality dancing. However, I had the children to keep me busy and Dancer Friend only has her CV. The CV is impressive. But whatever you hear about Australians abroad, the reality is somewhat different. Unfriendly, unhelpful and big fish in small pond come to mind.
The lady who runs the dance studio I teach classes at is different. Friendly, supportive and very open to new ideas and situations. She is great to work for and commands respect from her teachers because she respects them. But she is probably in the minority.
The other day someone was absolutely desperate for an experienced Hip Hop teacher. I was recommended. During the ensuing phone call I asked for the details of the class and my fee. A one hour class. $40 for one hour. Are they joking? I am supposed to haul my sorry ass out the door, drive for 20 minutes, teach ungrateful teenagers for one hour with enthusiasm and professionalism, drag myself in the car and back home again for $40. Would you do that?
I proceeded to tell the poor girl that in the UK my minimum price for a one hour Hip Hop class was £50. At todays exchange rate that is nearly $100. I said I was happy to work for $40 an hour if she could provide me with a few hours of teaching at a time, but not just a one-off every week. Her reply was that she had only just started this dance school and she did not know how many people she would get. Is that my problem? Babe I ran a dance school for nearly 19 years, you don't have to tell me the logistics of business. But if you want someone to teach for you, you have to pay properly for it. Who would realistically work for this?
Melbourne is one of the most expensive cities in the world apparently, yet if you work in dance I suppose you are meant to live on air. Someone is getting something out of it - at between $15 and $22 for dance and yoga classes, it doesn't take a genius to work out that a good class turnout would equal a good fee for a good teacher. Someone recently said to me "You pay peanuts - You get monkeys".
Saturday 26 May 2012
Brian Part II
It was The Cousin's son's 4th birthday party last weekend. It was the same crowd of family who came to Jonty's first birthday party a few weeks before, but with some other in-laws and friends thrown in for good measure. The Accountant was very much looking forward to the party. I was curious. But then he mentioned ..... The Shed.
Now most men love a good shed. Brian's world revolves around his shed. In fact Brian and his Shed should get a room, but then he has his shed so that is a moot point. For British friends let me explain that this is no ordinary garden shed. This shed is probably about the floor size of your houses. And loved more. The Shed contains the usual male crap, tools, lawnmower etc. Then there is also some builder's crap, fishing crap and a lounge setting which looks as if it is the set from Abigail's Party (1977 stage, screen and TV play written by Mike Leigh).
What is really funny is that apart from a three piece suite, coffee table, television and a well-stocked log fire are pictures of naked women (a bit like a mechanic's workshop) - and they are fishing! Well trying to fish with boobs like that would be very difficult, but you get the general idea.
All of the men at social occasions at The Cousin's house are drawn to The Shed by some magnetic force. Usually beer in the fridge, footy on the tele and NO BLOODY WOMEN.
No, we are in the house changing nappies, dealing with temper tantrums, sorting out food and putting the kettle on. Oh yes I get it - it is Abigail's Party 1977! The Cousin is a saint-like creature wafting around the house with apron on, smile on her face and endless pots of food coming out the oven. Maybe she has some brandy stashed away in the pantry.
Now most men love a good shed. Brian's world revolves around his shed. In fact Brian and his Shed should get a room, but then he has his shed so that is a moot point. For British friends let me explain that this is no ordinary garden shed. This shed is probably about the floor size of your houses. And loved more. The Shed contains the usual male crap, tools, lawnmower etc. Then there is also some builder's crap, fishing crap and a lounge setting which looks as if it is the set from Abigail's Party (1977 stage, screen and TV play written by Mike Leigh).
What is really funny is that apart from a three piece suite, coffee table, television and a well-stocked log fire are pictures of naked women (a bit like a mechanic's workshop) - and they are fishing! Well trying to fish with boobs like that would be very difficult, but you get the general idea.
All of the men at social occasions at The Cousin's house are drawn to The Shed by some magnetic force. Usually beer in the fridge, footy on the tele and NO BLOODY WOMEN.
No, we are in the house changing nappies, dealing with temper tantrums, sorting out food and putting the kettle on. Oh yes I get it - it is Abigail's Party 1977! The Cousin is a saint-like creature wafting around the house with apron on, smile on her face and endless pots of food coming out the oven. Maybe she has some brandy stashed away in the pantry.
Tooth Fairy
Once you have a child there are a series of first things. First words, first steps and now Henry is the proud non-owner of a tooth. It wiggled and jiggled for weeks and finally dislodged in the bath. And so The Accountant and I had to conjure up the story of the Tooth Fairy. It came to bedtime ritual and the tooth was reverently placed in a glass of water by Henry's bed. In all the excitement, Henry fell straight asleep, but Rufus wanted a goodnight cuddle.
This was a ruse to lure me into the story of the Tooth Fairy. I had to think quickly. How big are they? How do they see in the dark? How do they fly into the house? How do they swim in the glass to get to the tooth? Where do they keep their golden coins? Obviously due to inflation Henry was going to get one dollar - not a measly 20 cent piece. In his head he had already spent it - a hundred times over.
But back to Rufus and his obscure nightime questions. I finally subdued him by promising that I would find a picture of a fairy and show him in the morning. "Yes alright" he said looking right at me, then demonstrating with his fingers "..but one actually HOLDING a tooth!". The kid needs evidence.
This was a ruse to lure me into the story of the Tooth Fairy. I had to think quickly. How big are they? How do they see in the dark? How do they fly into the house? How do they swim in the glass to get to the tooth? Where do they keep their golden coins? Obviously due to inflation Henry was going to get one dollar - not a measly 20 cent piece. In his head he had already spent it - a hundred times over.
But back to Rufus and his obscure nightime questions. I finally subdued him by promising that I would find a picture of a fairy and show him in the morning. "Yes alright" he said looking right at me, then demonstrating with his fingers "..but one actually HOLDING a tooth!". The kid needs evidence.
Friday 18 May 2012
Cool Britannia
Cool in more ways than one. Bloody freezing nearly the whole time, but of course the sun came out the day before I left, and as the bus was leaving Oxfordshire I could see the beautiful fields of yellow and green like a patchwork quilt. The overriding feeling though was that although in double-dip recession, Britain remains very cool - arty, musical and that rather dry sense of humour.
What kind of person in their right mind decides to take an advanced contemporary dance class at 9:00am on the day they leave, right after a night of drinks at Kazbar? Nonetheless there I was, sweeping the bloody East Oxford Community Centre hall, whilst murmuring under my breath "....other side of the world, 43 years old, still sweeping the floor...". It is a little bit hard to look like the ultra-hip professional choreograppher I am with a broom in my hand - and a with a slight hangover to boot.
I was very excited to take my first class at the beginning of my two-week stay. All the old Brits would soon come up the stairs and greet me. But the first person to arrive was a guy who had emailed me, who I had never met, very keen to take part in the Hip Hop sessions. He opened his mouth to introduce himself and a broad Australian accent came out. He was from the Yarra Valley, a few miles from Melbourne.
Thanks to all who came to my classes, workshops and that hippy dance thing we did out on the farm. Also to friends old and new who met up with me in Oxford, London and all the counties up and down (although no further north than Leamington Spa as it's grim up North). Thanks Sarah, Katy and Carole for having me stay and sorry for going through all your personal belongings and private papers and messing up your drawers. Kidding! (but I know you will check anyway).
What kind of person in their right mind decides to take an advanced contemporary dance class at 9:00am on the day they leave, right after a night of drinks at Kazbar? Nonetheless there I was, sweeping the bloody East Oxford Community Centre hall, whilst murmuring under my breath "....other side of the world, 43 years old, still sweeping the floor...". It is a little bit hard to look like the ultra-hip professional choreograppher I am with a broom in my hand - and a with a slight hangover to boot.
I was very excited to take my first class at the beginning of my two-week stay. All the old Brits would soon come up the stairs and greet me. But the first person to arrive was a guy who had emailed me, who I had never met, very keen to take part in the Hip Hop sessions. He opened his mouth to introduce himself and a broad Australian accent came out. He was from the Yarra Valley, a few miles from Melbourne.
Wednesday 9 May 2012
Arctic Spring
The journey did not go well. For nearly two weeks I nursed everyone through gastric flu. The baby was the last one to get it, and I was packing my bag whilst tending to Jonty's high fever, an ominous headache descending on my person. Of course in the way of the world, we all know what happened. Four hours into the flight I was using a million of those airsick bags you hope you NEVER have to use. In between bouts of sickness I turned to the unlucky sod next to me and said "I am so sorry about this...." and off I went again. It was terrible. To add to this there was the worst turbulence I have ever encountered. Drinks flew in the air, passengers were screaming and the air hostess had to squat very unglamorously in the aisle lest she fall over. This lasted about an hour. And we were still flying over Australia!
At Singapore I freshened up and got ready for the next onslaught - another 14 miserable hours feeling sick on the plane. Nevertheless I survived and was whisked away to a spa weekend retreat with The Birds. We were The Birds with one missing from the flock unfortunately, but had a fantastic time in a grand manor house in the Cotswolds. The only downside was trotting from our actual hotel across to the spa in temperatures of about 8 degrees. All the funnier when Katy had to wear her flip flops with cold toes hanging out due to a pedicure. Good times with great friends.
Feeling much relaxed, refreshed and not at all hungover - we headed to Witney for a spot of H&M shopping. Ahhh, all a girl's troubles can be solved by buying an entire season of clothes for the price of one coat in Melbourne. I bought: shoes, trousers, coat, 3 shirts, sunglasses, socks (because it was so bloody freezing) and a belt.
Shhhh - don't tell The Accountant.
At Singapore I freshened up and got ready for the next onslaught - another 14 miserable hours feeling sick on the plane. Nevertheless I survived and was whisked away to a spa weekend retreat with The Birds. We were The Birds with one missing from the flock unfortunately, but had a fantastic time in a grand manor house in the Cotswolds. The only downside was trotting from our actual hotel across to the spa in temperatures of about 8 degrees. All the funnier when Katy had to wear her flip flops with cold toes hanging out due to a pedicure. Good times with great friends.
Feeling much relaxed, refreshed and not at all hungover - we headed to Witney for a spot of H&M shopping. Ahhh, all a girl's troubles can be solved by buying an entire season of clothes for the price of one coat in Melbourne. I bought: shoes, trousers, coat, 3 shirts, sunglasses, socks (because it was so bloody freezing) and a belt.
Shhhh - don't tell The Accountant.
One
These next few blogs are going to be like the number 10 tram, or the bus that goes down Kensington High Street (according to my father), and dependent upon which city you are in. They never come, and then three come along at once.
My little boy was one year old on the 27th April. The day I left to come to UK for a two week visit-dance trip-holiday. I was tricked into moving to Australia in that I was about seven months pregnant with Jonty, and had that lovely mumsy serenity as well as a fatal dose of Baby Brain. Once the Baby Brain cleared up in December a thought occurred to me "Hold up! Where are we? What have we done?"
Needless to say we have been so busy moving countries and settling children into different places and new social groups, that my gurgling little boy has emerged a year later, toddling about and growing hair. I am missing them all very much.
Tuesday 24 April 2012
Suitcase
Slowly starting to get my head around the fact that I actually need to pack, make lists and do the passport/purse/phone check (about twenty times). I did have a very bad experience once when we drove to Dover at 4:30am to catch a ferry to France for our annual Easter holiday in Provence. I was so chuffed that I had managed to get my fifty page Arts Council application finished and posted the day before, that I was not thinking straight.
I do remember watering the plants at 4:00am before we left. Then the long drive to Dover. Then the sight of the Euro flag at the entrance to the ferry - Passport Control. I could see in my mind's eye - my passport very clearly lying in the desk drawer back in Oxford. Of course it was a complete disaster, and The Accountant called me many four-letter words, my friends were more patient, although I did end up having to buy everyone a very expensive lunch on the ferry to make up for the inconvenience. But that was six hours later.
There was not much cheeful banter on the way down to France that year. I think The Accountant waited a whole day and a half before he spoke to me. So ever since, I check for my passport and purse like something demented. This time however, I won't have to count the number of nappies needed on the flight. Or dummies, or books, or toys, or Power Rangers.....
I do remember watering the plants at 4:00am before we left. Then the long drive to Dover. Then the sight of the Euro flag at the entrance to the ferry - Passport Control. I could see in my mind's eye - my passport very clearly lying in the desk drawer back in Oxford. Of course it was a complete disaster, and The Accountant called me many four-letter words, my friends were more patient, although I did end up having to buy everyone a very expensive lunch on the ferry to make up for the inconvenience. But that was six hours later.
There was not much cheeful banter on the way down to France that year. I think The Accountant waited a whole day and a half before he spoke to me. So ever since, I check for my passport and purse like something demented. This time however, I won't have to count the number of nappies needed on the flight. Or dummies, or books, or toys, or Power Rangers.....
Saturday 21 April 2012
Birthday Party
I very much blame The Cousin. I was not even going to have a 1st Birthday Party for Jonty. But she put the pressure on me and here I am. Sunday morning, guests due to arrive at 2pm. I was awake at 2am after feeding Jonty making The List in my head. In the end I had to read a terrifying novel to settle myself back to sleep.
Troops were mobilised in Afganistan with less drama than there will be organising this family celebration this afternoon. And the reason I agreed to it in the first place is that I knew The Aunties would step up and offer to bring stuff. The is what The Cousin said they do (these people don't understand that I've been living sans famile for 20 years and I had forgotten how the system worked). So I would not be making all of the party food myself. Ah yes but nobody told The Cousin about The Hostess' Guilt. If is my party, then of course I will want to go to some trouble and show off my mediocre baking skills.
About to go into a cleaning frenzy in the house, followed by balloon buying, alcohol, bread and for some strange reason - hair tongs! I am completely realistic about the fact that people will arrive at 1:59pm, and I will have only one eye with mascara on it, Jonty will be nappy-less, the boys will have embarked on some pirate adventure during which they need absolutely every toy in the house and The Accountant will dash past the door whispering "I'll just duck into the shower quickly......"
My gorgeous little boy does not realise all this commotion that is about to happen is for him. But he will have a jolly good time ripping that paper off the presents and having his first taste of fairy bread.
Troops were mobilised in Afganistan with less drama than there will be organising this family celebration this afternoon. And the reason I agreed to it in the first place is that I knew The Aunties would step up and offer to bring stuff. The is what The Cousin said they do (these people don't understand that I've been living sans famile for 20 years and I had forgotten how the system worked). So I would not be making all of the party food myself. Ah yes but nobody told The Cousin about The Hostess' Guilt. If is my party, then of course I will want to go to some trouble and show off my mediocre baking skills.
About to go into a cleaning frenzy in the house, followed by balloon buying, alcohol, bread and for some strange reason - hair tongs! I am completely realistic about the fact that people will arrive at 1:59pm, and I will have only one eye with mascara on it, Jonty will be nappy-less, the boys will have embarked on some pirate adventure during which they need absolutely every toy in the house and The Accountant will dash past the door whispering "I'll just duck into the shower quickly......"
My gorgeous little boy does not realise all this commotion that is about to happen is for him. But he will have a jolly good time ripping that paper off the presents and having his first taste of fairy bread.
Wednesday 18 April 2012
Bring Your Child To Work Day
I can count the number of times I have had to drag a child to work with me due to illness/cancelled childcare/snow/general school mix-ups, on about five hands.
How many hands is The Accountant holding up?
No hands, just a coffee and The Financial Times Online.
How many hands is The Accountant holding up?
No hands, just a coffee and The Financial Times Online.
Friday 13 April 2012
Hangover
Good food, abundant wine, adult conversation and of course, the tele on as there was an important match between Collingwood and Carlton (cannot even begin to explain UK friends). But it comes at a price people. Oh yes, in bed by 1:30am, baby awake by 6:30am. Lovely.
Above is a photograph of the two big boys on a recent wild camping trip with The Accountant to East Gippsland in Victoria. They had a ball as you can see. Anything to do with fire and rivers and they are on it.
Monday 2 April 2012
A Little Pocket
Unfortunately for me (and due to the joint account - The Accountant as well) I discovered a dear little shop right across from the dance studio where I teach classes. Thursday mornings are delicious. Henry and The Accountant go in one direction to school, I go in the other direction with Jonty to childcare and then Rufus to kindergarten. I then have a miraculous 3.75 hours in which to choreograph in the studio, administration and planning in the office and housework at home.
Do I achieve anything of this? Well I have to prioritise so of course I choreograph first (fantastic), administration second (not so fun) and housework a dreary third (hideous and bothersome). But this week, before I had even donned my dance gear, I headed across the road to A Little Pocket and found an Aladdin's Cave of trinkets and beads. This gorgeous shop has anything and everything a girl could want. I bought lots of birthday presents for both English and Australian friends and family (there are about ten birthdays between March/April), and of course a few things pour moi.
A funky ring, a vase and a gorgeous necklace. I actually found the necklace in an expensive boutique whilst Christmas shopping, but thought it bad karma to buy myself something during the festive season. So it was like the Mother Ship calling me home when I saw the exact same necklace again - and for less! I also bought a little white jug. My big weakness is jugs of any kind. But I did not have a gay/shopping friend to hold me back whilst I repeat my usual mantra "Whatever happens DON'T let me buy another bloody jug....". Katy probably has memories of our jaunts around Bonnieux in Provence, me with my many pottery jugs, and Katy with her bottles of wine. But that's another story....
www.alittlepocket.com.au
Do I achieve anything of this? Well I have to prioritise so of course I choreograph first (fantastic), administration second (not so fun) and housework a dreary third (hideous and bothersome). But this week, before I had even donned my dance gear, I headed across the road to A Little Pocket and found an Aladdin's Cave of trinkets and beads. This gorgeous shop has anything and everything a girl could want. I bought lots of birthday presents for both English and Australian friends and family (there are about ten birthdays between March/April), and of course a few things pour moi.
A funky ring, a vase and a gorgeous necklace. I actually found the necklace in an expensive boutique whilst Christmas shopping, but thought it bad karma to buy myself something during the festive season. So it was like the Mother Ship calling me home when I saw the exact same necklace again - and for less! I also bought a little white jug. My big weakness is jugs of any kind. But I did not have a gay/shopping friend to hold me back whilst I repeat my usual mantra "Whatever happens DON'T let me buy another bloody jug....". Katy probably has memories of our jaunts around Bonnieux in Provence, me with my many pottery jugs, and Katy with her bottles of wine. But that's another story....
www.alittlepocket.com.au
Saturday 24 March 2012
Life Goes On In Suburbia?
Just fixed up with my lady friends to go to a spa weekend, literally as soon as I step off the plane in the UK. Very much looking forward to catching up with the birds and everyone emailing left, right and centre to confirm details. And I noted that they are off in campervans in the countryside, skiing at glamorous locations in Europe and generally enjoying Spring on the other side of the world.
What did we do this weekend? We - those Australians who up and left twenty odd years ago to another culture and completely settled in to British/European life - are doing the suburban thing. I took the two youngest down to Camberwell in the pram and scooter. Went shopping, went to market, went to cafe. Came home. And actually it was pretty much like any day of the week. I suggested to The Accountant that maybe we do something in nature this weekend. But actually, moving back to Australia, has forced us to give up country pursuits. We are literally in the thick of it, and it is a few hours drive (at least) to something resembling the real countryside and not just scrubby bush.
Most people in the UK think that Australians would spend every minute outside enjoying the sunshine. And while I have enjoyed the Melbourne weather lately, I am pining for some real countryside, that can be enjoyed within minutes, not hours, of my door.
So make the most of what you have Oxfordshire friends, as it is very special and does not need to compete with shopping malls, apartment buildings and sprawling suburbia. Although the coffee is very good.......
What did we do this weekend? We - those Australians who up and left twenty odd years ago to another culture and completely settled in to British/European life - are doing the suburban thing. I took the two youngest down to Camberwell in the pram and scooter. Went shopping, went to market, went to cafe. Came home. And actually it was pretty much like any day of the week. I suggested to The Accountant that maybe we do something in nature this weekend. But actually, moving back to Australia, has forced us to give up country pursuits. We are literally in the thick of it, and it is a few hours drive (at least) to something resembling the real countryside and not just scrubby bush.
Most people in the UK think that Australians would spend every minute outside enjoying the sunshine. And while I have enjoyed the Melbourne weather lately, I am pining for some real countryside, that can be enjoyed within minutes, not hours, of my door.
So make the most of what you have Oxfordshire friends, as it is very special and does not need to compete with shopping malls, apartment buildings and sprawling suburbia. Although the coffee is very good.......
Tuesday 20 March 2012
Chunky Hippie
Went to possibly the strangest contemporary dance class I've been to in a long time. And I have had my fair share of strange times in the dance world.
ESPECIALLY when you have to end on a "mmmmmmmm" or "aaaahhhhhh". Because it always turns to cackling laughter. Red-faced, trying-to-hold-it-in mirth. So all I could think about when we started on the voice stuff was "Thank God David isn't here..." And that made me laugh.
Refreshing to experience beautiful strange in Melbourne. Strange versus traditional, give me left-of-centre always.
- Performing the Herve duet amongst stuffed animals at the Aylesbury Museum. The duet was made for a mid-scale size venue and we did it in the space of a cupboard.
- Many performances in fields across the English countryside (often competing with farm animals and tractors - and farmers!).
- Doing a solo on a rock in Norway.
- Shooting a dance video on haystacks.
- Leaning against endless walls in a contemporary-dance fashion - in 1940s costumes - and being told off by tourists.
- Watching from the wings whilst David Hudson squirmed around on the stage, his legs caught in the ridiculous upstage curtains, which were decorating a backdrop which could only be described as a painting of sperm.
- After teaching a group of Year Two children for a week it was question time. "Are you a dwarf?" one little boy asked. The teacher came to my rescue. "Don't be silly Nathan! Nickely's all in proportion. If anything she's a midget!".
ESPECIALLY when you have to end on a "mmmmmmmm" or "aaaahhhhhh". Because it always turns to cackling laughter. Red-faced, trying-to-hold-it-in mirth. So all I could think about when we started on the voice stuff was "Thank God David isn't here..." And that made me laugh.
Refreshing to experience beautiful strange in Melbourne. Strange versus traditional, give me left-of-centre always.
Sunday 18 March 2012
French Fete
A feeling of dread and a weekend in the kitchen was the result of Henry proudly thrusting this package at me with the words "You HAVE to make a cake Mama". Yes I know darling.
This community spirit thing is wearing me down. This is what David Cameron is banging on about when he talks about England becoming part of The Big Society. He needs to spend a week in Melbourne being a mother and see if he is so keen when you are stressed that the icing on your cake is not perfect (or dry), the baby is crawling around the kitchen crying because you can't pick him up because there are specific instructions about not giving in HOT CAKES but it has to be there by 4pm. Or else.
Anyway, it was a lovely Sunday in the end, and probably raised about $60k for the school. A bit different from the camping/Glastonbury-type festival we used to have at Forest Farm School where entry was either £5.00 or baking a cake. Bring your own everything. Sit on blankets listening to local musical talent. And nobody went to bed before midnight. Including the children god forbid! Tres extraordinaire!
PS Photo above from Forest Farm from a few years ago. The boys just tuning their guitars for later on.
Vermin Part II
I have just been in the kitchen screaming "You little bastard! I'm going to kill you! ***k you, you little prick!" No, I was not talking to the children, but cramming a disgustingly large cockroach into the bin, and then outside. Rufus just put his fingers in his mouth and observed all this very calmly, then went back to doing what he was doing.
I know some Brits are a bit apprehensive about coming to Australia due to snakes and spiders. Forget it. It is like living in a third world cesspit in Camberwell, with the rats and cockroaches. It is meant to be one of the most sought-after suburbs in Melbourne - but nobody has told these creatures that high rent equals NO VERMIN.
Our gardener is a knowledgeable sort of guy, so I have enlisted his help in my fight against the rodents. I pondered whether it might be wise to get rid of all of the tomato plants, even though it is a huge waste, I thought it might be attracting them. "That will slow them down a bit" he grinned at me. He can smell the fear, but does not want to admit that whatever I do, I am waging a losing battle.
Dene Road might have been smaller, less grand than where we are now. But at least you could have your morning coffee or an evening glass of sauvingnon blanc in the garden without worrying about scuttling creatures ruining the ambiance.
I know some Brits are a bit apprehensive about coming to Australia due to snakes and spiders. Forget it. It is like living in a third world cesspit in Camberwell, with the rats and cockroaches. It is meant to be one of the most sought-after suburbs in Melbourne - but nobody has told these creatures that high rent equals NO VERMIN.
Our gardener is a knowledgeable sort of guy, so I have enlisted his help in my fight against the rodents. I pondered whether it might be wise to get rid of all of the tomato plants, even though it is a huge waste, I thought it might be attracting them. "That will slow them down a bit" he grinned at me. He can smell the fear, but does not want to admit that whatever I do, I am waging a losing battle.
Dene Road might have been smaller, less grand than where we are now. But at least you could have your morning coffee or an evening glass of sauvingnon blanc in the garden without worrying about scuttling creatures ruining the ambiance.
Thursday 8 March 2012
Hello London
Can't stop smirking as I've finally managed to book my flight to the UK! Yay! The Accountant has obviously totted up the sums and worked out that if I teach dance classes for 18 hours a day whilst I'm there - then I can pay him back. So if anyone out there is interested in starting classes at 6:00am - please let me know.
Until then I'm sure I will be able to get some sort of dance job wearing something skimpy and nothing to do with contemporary dance. I know people who know people. Will be able to earn the flight money in one night and not a swing exercise in sight. Except for the swinging on the pole of course.
How could I leave these guys for two weeks? Watch me! Little gorgeouses.
Until then I'm sure I will be able to get some sort of dance job wearing something skimpy and nothing to do with contemporary dance. I know people who know people. Will be able to earn the flight money in one night and not a swing exercise in sight. Except for the swinging on the pole of course.
Monday 5 March 2012
A Night At The Ballet
Anywho, on to better things with a hilarious and updated version of Swan Lake called There's Definitely A Prince Involved. Ex-Artistic Director of Chunky Move (where I take my weekly class in dance and sanity) delivered a very funny, theatrical piece which showcased some gorgeous duets and tantalising movement, nothing at all connected with ballet, but very smartly done.
However, the complete showstopper of the night was Bangarra Dance Theatre, a company which fuses indigenous and contemporary dance culture. Absolutely mind-blowingly gorgeous piece. I was interested to see how they would be able to make ballet dancers cope with movement which was raw, mainly floor-based and more grounded than any prima donna would like. The movement material was modern, edgy and very collaborative. I take my hat off.
PS. Forgot to update on the dance job front: yes ended up taking on the Thursday night classes. Added another one on to that beforehand, so have decided to juggle babysitter, karate, The Accountant and dance classes for the sake of keeping my hand (foot, elbow, head, back etc) in the game.
Monday 27 February 2012
Being Perfect
I then wandered out to my office and looked at the disaster of materials which had been thrown in there when it had started raining. Must clean out office.
I was also thinking that I should really be looking in my cookbooks for good ideas for family meals, and then go to the two or three shops needed to buy the ingredients (all locally-produced, organically grown, super-expensive of course). I was then berrating myself for not spending enough time reading and writing with Henry. Of course Rufus needs me to do some playing with him as well. There goes poor old Jonty crawling around the house, stuffing coal into his mouth, dribbling and crying when he accidently closes another door on himself.
Need to make up three classes for Thursday night - what music can I use for 13 year olds? Need to send CV to Chunky Moves for possible teaching job there. God - I am going to UK in just under two months - supposedly to offer a fantastically inspiring weekend dance workshop. On a farm. Need to make sure that is in the bag within next couple of weeks.
Must make more of an effort to contact friends in Australia. Have not even seen half of them yet. Need to email UK friends, just in case they have forgotten me. Need to make more of an effort to remember birthdays. The Accountant's was on Sunday. He spent it jet-lagged, hungover, hot and bundled out of the house to attend Rufus' Kindergarten welcome party at the not-so-shady park in 35 degree heat. And I made everyone walk. Must make more of an effort to not be so bloody bossy.
Must make an effort to be more friendly to other school and kindergarten Mums. Even though it is hurting my head trying to remember all of their names, plus their childrens, and husbands. And pets! We are definitely the most ramshackle family living in this area, no doubt about it. I suppose a nice way of putting it would be "bohemian". But more chaotic. Definitely not perfect.
Thursday 16 February 2012
Retail Therapy
Cost Centres 1, 2 and 3 though got lots of new clothes. Would be much simpler shopping for a baby girl than boys. It is very hard to buy nice boy clothes which are cute and are design and style savvy. Mostly it is TRUCKS and DINOSAURS and "Yo, Yo Cool Dude Monster". They may as well write "Little M***** F******" on the poor darlings t-shirts and be done with! These childrens designers do not seem to understand that we do not want a nine month old baby looking like a fifteen year old. Would be nice if they were children for five minutes. But in cool clothes. If I could be at all bothered, I would start up a shop myself.
Dance classes went very well last night. Everyone had a good time and I absolutely loved being in the studio again. Turns out getting back into teaching dance is like riding a bike (as long as you don't fall off, forget your sequences, mess up the counts, strain your hamstring and limp out like a soggy potato....).
PS. Don't bother commenting on how many asteriks are meant to be in the space above, it is just an example of how it might be. I know my curses off by heart. I swear it.
Tuesday 14 February 2012
Vermin!
Anyone who knows me, knows that I have a morbid fear of mice and rats. Well we had one in our garden! It died and had to call our gardener to come and remove it this morning as The Accountant is off Accounting in India. Yuk. Can you imagine anything worse? Maybe stonewash skinny jeans and a matching jacket - but apart from that I can barely eat outside thinking of what might be lurking in the bushes.
Started making up my two classes for tomorrow evening. Used to do that in my old office with a one metre by one metre space, children getting in the way, stirring a pot of something now and then, and probably texting and emailing at the same time. But yesterday I needed breathing space and, God forbid, had to actually concentrate.
So I found all my old writing journals I used to keep my dance notes in, and had a good look at all the stuff I had done. I have created so much movement over the past few years, it was incredible reading it all back. I even remember teaching the actual sequences and exercises and whether it was winter or summer, at college or at good ol' EOCC. Dancers will probably recognise my highly technical jargon - "big monster hand comes over head" or "butterfly arms quiver then turn" or "demented elbow move into caveman on floor". Good times.
I wonder what these poor innocents will make of all this when they meet me tomorrow. I had better watch my language and my playlist. Will not be able to play that certain Lily Allen song (f*** loads of diamonds), or Kayne West (too many niggers and bitches) or even that lovely song be Cee Lo Green. The dirty version. God it is such hard work being nice.
Started making up my two classes for tomorrow evening. Used to do that in my old office with a one metre by one metre space, children getting in the way, stirring a pot of something now and then, and probably texting and emailing at the same time. But yesterday I needed breathing space and, God forbid, had to actually concentrate.
So I found all my old writing journals I used to keep my dance notes in, and had a good look at all the stuff I had done. I have created so much movement over the past few years, it was incredible reading it all back. I even remember teaching the actual sequences and exercises and whether it was winter or summer, at college or at good ol' EOCC. Dancers will probably recognise my highly technical jargon - "big monster hand comes over head" or "butterfly arms quiver then turn" or "demented elbow move into caveman on floor". Good times.
I wonder what these poor innocents will make of all this when they meet me tomorrow. I had better watch my language and my playlist. Will not be able to play that certain Lily Allen song (f*** loads of diamonds), or Kayne West (too many niggers and bitches) or even that lovely song be Cee Lo Green. The dirty version. God it is such hard work being nice.
Sunday 12 February 2012
Dance Job No. 1
Got a job. Probably going to turn it down. Interfers with the weekly line-up of activities for the family as it is on a Thursday night and it will be a case of picking Henry up from Karate at 6:30pm, hauling ass back home, running out the door and coming into the dance studio hair messed-up, puffing like a steam train and generally not looking like calm dancer ready to confidently move into teaching mode. Also they are teenagers so they will have no sympathy whatsoever.
But will do it for the next couple of weeks as have Grandmother No. 1 staying with me and she is a big help and can be at home with Cost Centres No. 2 and 3 whilst I deliver Henry to door. The lady who runs the dance school is lovely though, very supportive and also on to a good thing with her own studios in a little strip shopping centre. Think of me on the Cowley Road with two studios to myself - except make that Didcot (no offence V & D!).
But will do it for the next couple of weeks as have Grandmother No. 1 staying with me and she is a big help and can be at home with Cost Centres No. 2 and 3 whilst I deliver Henry to door. The lady who runs the dance school is lovely though, very supportive and also on to a good thing with her own studios in a little strip shopping centre. Think of me on the Cowley Road with two studios to myself - except make that Didcot (no offence V & D!).
Friday 10 February 2012
Clothes
Cost Centre No. 2 and I went shopping yesterday. We didn't mean to, we just literally fell into the shop. (I mean how hard is it to open a door for a struggling mother, with buggy and four year old, with a door that could be from Hogwart's Castle - four shop assistants under 25 and no offer of help. F*** Off! Bloody Country Road.) Anyway we soon showed them.
Rufus and I both bought inappropriate clothing because the pieces were both from the girl's section! Rufus loved the divine spotty leggings (well they are navy blue so that machos it up a bit) - size 3. And I bought a gypsy top (painting smock really) for a 12 year old girl. Well they breed them big in Australia, must be the hormones in the chicken or something. The top had stars on it. Why don't they ever make fun clothes for women? This could be Stella McCartney in her Kate Moss era circa 2010. It won't be on me of course but I'll accessorise.
The sales girl was practically pouting as she put it through. "For your daughter?".
"No for me and him thanks". You only work in a shop you know, you can drop the attitude.
Rufus and I both bought inappropriate clothing because the pieces were both from the girl's section! Rufus loved the divine spotty leggings (well they are navy blue so that machos it up a bit) - size 3. And I bought a gypsy top (painting smock really) for a 12 year old girl. Well they breed them big in Australia, must be the hormones in the chicken or something. The top had stars on it. Why don't they ever make fun clothes for women? This could be Stella McCartney in her Kate Moss era circa 2010. It won't be on me of course but I'll accessorise.
The sales girl was practically pouting as she put it through. "For your daughter?".
"No for me and him thanks". You only work in a shop you know, you can drop the attitude.
Wednesday 8 February 2012
Chunky Move
It turns out I can still roll all over the floor and lots of other cool stuff as well! Rolling around on a dusty dance floor, making all sorts of postures, which in the real world would be seen as ridiculous, but in the dance world are called Forth Position On The Floor. Come to think of it - it is all bloody ridiculous, but lots of fun as well. I remember they call it Floor Technique.
So finally made it to my first advanced contemporary class at Chunky Move dance studios in the city. Lovely dance studios. You could fit five EOCC upstairs halls into this studio. It has a rather bizarre colour scheme, but nonetheless I soon got over that as I did leg swings, helicopters and shoulder rolls (they are obsessed with the floor in contemporary dance in Australia). The teacher was ALMOST as funny as me. But not quite. Did not quite have my eclectic taste in music (I think it was a U2 remix), but great class, lovely sequences and overall a double-thumbs up.
Has anyone ever had a conversation in a heated indoor pool whilst your children are at swimming lessons? Must be one of the best examples of multi-tasking for the modern mother. Whilst holding baby, throwing pool rings and watching that the other two children do not either drown or wander off, I managed to hold quite a meaningful conversation with another Mum-friend from Rufus' ex-kindergarten. (We are still waiting to see if Rufus gets a place at his old Kindergarten, whilst outwardly flirting with the new one. Would rather the old one as it is closer to home, thus able to walk easily - but the new one is really great AND there is a very good social committee and champagne is their middle name.....)
Anywho to summarise the week so far - managed to get to class, yoga and maintain good mother-management skills at home. Have posted little photo on blog in effort to make more of a go of things. Pathetic I know, but it is a start.
So finally made it to my first advanced contemporary class at Chunky Move dance studios in the city. Lovely dance studios. You could fit five EOCC upstairs halls into this studio. It has a rather bizarre colour scheme, but nonetheless I soon got over that as I did leg swings, helicopters and shoulder rolls (they are obsessed with the floor in contemporary dance in Australia). The teacher was ALMOST as funny as me. But not quite. Did not quite have my eclectic taste in music (I think it was a U2 remix), but great class, lovely sequences and overall a double-thumbs up.
Has anyone ever had a conversation in a heated indoor pool whilst your children are at swimming lessons? Must be one of the best examples of multi-tasking for the modern mother. Whilst holding baby, throwing pool rings and watching that the other two children do not either drown or wander off, I managed to hold quite a meaningful conversation with another Mum-friend from Rufus' ex-kindergarten. (We are still waiting to see if Rufus gets a place at his old Kindergarten, whilst outwardly flirting with the new one. Would rather the old one as it is closer to home, thus able to walk easily - but the new one is really great AND there is a very good social committee and champagne is their middle name.....)
Anywho to summarise the week so far - managed to get to class, yoga and maintain good mother-management skills at home. Have posted little photo on blog in effort to make more of a go of things. Pathetic I know, but it is a start.
Monday 6 February 2012
Five Year Plan
The other day whilst I was wearing my apron, bustling around the kitchen making dinner, changing Jonty's nappy (YES I WASHED MY HANDS) and generally multi-tasking, The Accountant leans against the kitchen counter, beer in hand and casually asks "What is your five-year plan? Where do you see yourself in five years? What do you think you will be doing? What about your dancing?". Jesus! My head was full of curry sauce recipes, devious childcare plans and the fact that we were just about out of laundry liquid.
I thought it might be a trick question, and I was confused anyway. "Marks and Spencer?" I asked hopefully. By the bemused expression on his face I could see it was the wrong answer. "No. Where do you see yourself in five years? What will you be doing? We need to talk about this and plan ahead not just coast along!" The only coasting along I've been doing is running at full pelt with Jonty in pram and boys in front on bikes about to cross at a busy intersection.
I used to be able to write three and five year plans in my sleep for Biserk. Swing into meetings full of determination and ideas. Now, everytime I try to envisage some sort of artistic notion, I have three voices demanding my attention elsewhere. Make that four voices, The Accountant can be a pain in the ass as well.
(Interlude whilst I tell you that during the writing of this blog - Rufus and Jonty were playing blocks nicely together in the family room. Rufus joined me in the office and I asked him where Jonty was: "Watching the washing go round and round..." Just as I thought I had better rescue the nine month old baby from being in the house by himself we heard an almighty crash from the laundry - luckily followed by screams from Jonty. I ran in there to find him pinned to the floor by the ironing board, the iron beside him on the floor. He wasn't hurt, just startled. I however, am up for the Worst Mother of the Year Award already.....).
Will come up with some sort of plan for the next few years. It will definately involve contraception.
I thought it might be a trick question, and I was confused anyway. "Marks and Spencer?" I asked hopefully. By the bemused expression on his face I could see it was the wrong answer. "No. Where do you see yourself in five years? What will you be doing? We need to talk about this and plan ahead not just coast along!" The only coasting along I've been doing is running at full pelt with Jonty in pram and boys in front on bikes about to cross at a busy intersection.
I used to be able to write three and five year plans in my sleep for Biserk. Swing into meetings full of determination and ideas. Now, everytime I try to envisage some sort of artistic notion, I have three voices demanding my attention elsewhere. Make that four voices, The Accountant can be a pain in the ass as well.
(Interlude whilst I tell you that during the writing of this blog - Rufus and Jonty were playing blocks nicely together in the family room. Rufus joined me in the office and I asked him where Jonty was: "Watching the washing go round and round..." Just as I thought I had better rescue the nine month old baby from being in the house by himself we heard an almighty crash from the laundry - luckily followed by screams from Jonty. I ran in there to find him pinned to the floor by the ironing board, the iron beside him on the floor. He wasn't hurt, just startled. I however, am up for the Worst Mother of the Year Award already.....).
Will come up with some sort of plan for the next few years. It will definately involve contraception.
Wednesday 1 February 2012
It's A Dad's World (Apparently)
Just had a shipment of visitors descend on us for the month of January. All of them most welcome of course! (They all read this bloody thing.) The last of the visitors was Grandparents No. 3 (in order of them visiting us - not popularity). They have gone up to Canberra to rest and probably to get a bit of Grandparent Counselling, if such a thing were to exist.
Another visitor this week was The Cousin's five year old girl Sienna. Sienna has lots of opinions and, like Henry, is a first born, and like Henry is also ambitious, bossy but lots of mischievous fun. The children were sitting at the table having a discussion over Second Breakfast (the first not being good enough). "Dads have jobs and the Mums don't" was one part of the conversation. I had to put things right. In came I, wearing rubber gloves and all: "No that's not right. Your Mum works Sienna." I appealed to my oldest son "Henry, what does Mama do?".
Henry looked perplexed. Perhaps he had forgotten how to pronounce Choreographer? Maybe he didn't know the difference between Dance Artist and Dance Teacher or Professional Dancer. Finally he spoke "Clean up?". That just about says it all folks.
Another visitor this week was The Cousin's five year old girl Sienna. Sienna has lots of opinions and, like Henry, is a first born, and like Henry is also ambitious, bossy but lots of mischievous fun. The children were sitting at the table having a discussion over Second Breakfast (the first not being good enough). "Dads have jobs and the Mums don't" was one part of the conversation. I had to put things right. In came I, wearing rubber gloves and all: "No that's not right. Your Mum works Sienna." I appealed to my oldest son "Henry, what does Mama do?".
Henry looked perplexed. Perhaps he had forgotten how to pronounce Choreographer? Maybe he didn't know the difference between Dance Artist and Dance Teacher or Professional Dancer. Finally he spoke "Clean up?". That just about says it all folks.
Saturday 28 January 2012
Curriculum Vitae
I've been sent into the office (garden office, not a Real Person's Office) by The Accountant to do some work. This is because I moaned and groaned, ranted and raved for a full ten minutes about the state, or lack of, my career. "You made me leave a perfectly good dance school and company in Oxford, blah, blah, blah, kitchen sink, rant, rant, bloody children, rave, rave, selfish, selfish.....". So in the end he flipped a coin (in truth it was a Turkish Delight wrapper) to see whether I worked this morning, or had a sleep (overtired and emotional).
The wrapper won. So I am meant to be working on my CV and getting stuck into the dreary job of looking for dance work. Of course I took a moment to write a cheeky blog. That will show him. Bloody stupid time to work anyway as it is Sunday morning. No one will be in their office. No one to answer my questions or emails. So I have written a List. I am in fact the Queen of the List. I really like Lists. I have tried not to make the List too overwhelming or ambitious. It is a very modest List, and I could in fact achieve all the components today if I wanted.
It is a choice between working at home.
Going to beach with The Accountant and Cost Centres Numbers 1 and 2.
Going to a gallery with visiting Father, Jo and Cost Centre Number 3.
If only writing a blog could be a paying job. With a little side serving of dance.............
The wrapper won. So I am meant to be working on my CV and getting stuck into the dreary job of looking for dance work. Of course I took a moment to write a cheeky blog. That will show him. Bloody stupid time to work anyway as it is Sunday morning. No one will be in their office. No one to answer my questions or emails. So I have written a List. I am in fact the Queen of the List. I really like Lists. I have tried not to make the List too overwhelming or ambitious. It is a very modest List, and I could in fact achieve all the components today if I wanted.
It is a choice between working at home.
Going to beach with The Accountant and Cost Centres Numbers 1 and 2.
Going to a gallery with visiting Father, Jo and Cost Centre Number 3.
If only writing a blog could be a paying job. With a little side serving of dance.............
Sunday 22 January 2012
Early Morning
Ever since I got over my jet lag, way back in the day when I was full of hopes and dreams (before the clanking of the chains around me and the kitchen sink), I used to get up very early and go walking. Feeling thoroughly chuffed with myself, energised and ready for the children by 7am. These days it is a different story entirely. Jonty does like to have an early morning feed, about 5:30am, but then he dozes off again. Which means I doze off again. The whole house is dozing this summer due to the warm evenings keeping everyone up until very late.
So today I said to myself - this has got to change. So I did get up early, went walking before the sun was even properly up, the birds were tweeting (squawking by Australian standards) I was all alone in the beautiful dawn of a new day and feeling very chuffed indeed. Then I saw all those smug dog walkers. No offence to anyone (DH especially), but why do dog walkers seem so bloody annoying? Is it the outfit? Is it that they are always slighly overweight ranging to very overweight? Is it the fact that they are usually carrying with them a disgusting stick with a slimy, grimy ball on it or even more disgusting package of doggy poo? All of the above.
Anywho, came back from walk (saw a rainbow-coloured balloon in the sky - maybe the gays are taking over after all) and did some yoga. Hilarious yoga CD titled "Yoga For Busy People", but the guy spends the first ten minutes dictating the intentions of yoga practice and then chanting. Just get on with it hippie - I've got three children waking up any second now. Meant to be going to dance class tonight. We will see.
So today I said to myself - this has got to change. So I did get up early, went walking before the sun was even properly up, the birds were tweeting (squawking by Australian standards) I was all alone in the beautiful dawn of a new day and feeling very chuffed indeed. Then I saw all those smug dog walkers. No offence to anyone (DH especially), but why do dog walkers seem so bloody annoying? Is it the outfit? Is it that they are always slighly overweight ranging to very overweight? Is it the fact that they are usually carrying with them a disgusting stick with a slimy, grimy ball on it or even more disgusting package of doggy poo? All of the above.
Anywho, came back from walk (saw a rainbow-coloured balloon in the sky - maybe the gays are taking over after all) and did some yoga. Hilarious yoga CD titled "Yoga For Busy People", but the guy spends the first ten minutes dictating the intentions of yoga practice and then chanting. Just get on with it hippie - I've got three children waking up any second now. Meant to be going to dance class tonight. We will see.
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