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.....

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

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.

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?

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.

Five

 Little boy Rufus is now five!  We had a very spontaneous birthday party for him on his actual birthday.  The boys were supposed to be having a shared party, as it is Henry's seventh birthday on 5th July.  When we have bothered having birthday parties at all in England, they had a shared party.  But even though the boys are only two years apart, they might as well be two worlds apart when it comes to hosting a party which consists of 4/5 year olds and 6/7 year olds.

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.