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.




  

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!

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).