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.

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".

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.