Partying with the Fossils

Normally, I would think of myself as the fossil. Despite being a mere 23 years of age (nearly 24), I am a bit of a grandma. I regard anything after 10pm as late. I like pyjamas, and a nice flannel dressing gown. A toasted tea-cake is my idea of heaven. And I've started saying, "just looking at *gestures at under-dressed person* is making me feel cold".

But recently, boys and girls, I was not the fossil at the party. Oh no. In fact, I was several million years younger than the other attendees. I was (to quote one of the best expressions ever) still in my salad days.

Let me explain...

Every year, the Australia Museum of Sydney stays open til late for 3 nights. For those 3 nights, bars are set up amongst the exhibits, special shows put on (quite how special I'll soon reveal), and a silent disco takes place in the atrium where the vast skeletons are hung.

To put it simply - 3 times per year, the Australia museum gets its groove on. And wow - does it make museums cool.

I'll admit to being a bit of a Museum-Geek (the British Museum was always my spiritual UK home), so it seems fitting that I've now adopted the Australia Museum as my own. And what an inaugural visit. Going there with 2 Aussies, 1 fellow-Brit (huzzah!) and a Saffra (read my last post if you don't understand that reference), we took our places in the queue, and awaited the delights in store...

And oh, what delights they were!

The silent disco (which is a far too cool for school concept) was first on our list of must-do's, and we all carefully avoided eye-contact, whilst shaking it like a polaroid picture (to quote Outkast) to Cyndi Lauper / Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.

From there, we were off to collect our wine (oddly, the beautiful, large wine bar was located where the bugs are displayed... Now, don't tell me that couldn't lead to some nasty moments! Who wants to have a glass of Pinot Noir whilst looking at the World's Largest Cockroach? I mean, seriously?!), and continued our tour by heading to the stage...

And suddenly I was so so grateful for that wine.

You see, the "interesting" show we went to watch - Lucy and the Glitterboard (or something like that), should really have been Lucy and the Glitterballs. By which I mean - the show was a burlesque show. A transsexual burlesque show. With nudity. And balls. What balls. His/her balls (both in the lower and upper regions) were flying all over the place. Thank goodness for standing several feet back. I could have had quite a nasty injury (and no-one wants "scrotum in face" as part of their hospital report card)...












From watching someone else's furry animal, to going to see the stuffed ones, the night progressed apace. Armed with wine, the happy thought that Tranny-Burlseque shows are surely a once-in-a-lifetime experience (and thus, mine was over), and the joy of the exhibitions (only the Austrlians would put a skeleton on a fully functional bike, or a kiddy's skeleton on a dinosaur, to re-create (with bones) the Never Ending Story), the evening went quickly, and suddenly it was past my bedtime. By which I mean, it was 9:30pm and I was tired.

And so ended another night of fun and frolics Down Under.

And what did my highly educational evening of fun, trannies and wine teach me? That even the best skeletons arranged in the most fun way possible, don't make up for the absence of friends from home. That wine is always the answer when a Burlesque dancer with "the full equipment" is the question. And that Australian nightlife - closing down before 10pm - gives me just enough time for  a cup of cocoa and a rich tea biscuit before bedtime.

Night night folks.

Granny Belle needs her beauty sleep.

More adventures coming soon.
Until then,

Belle x

Amazeballs, and other quirks of life Down Under

Today I thought I'd share with you some of the more unexpected results of my move Down Under. Read, laugh, weep, enjoy, and most of all - please don't judge me ....

1. That watching a film - any film - which features England in even the most minor way can bring a little tear to my eyes... For example, watching "One Day" very recently, there were scenes set in grotty parts of London, which (not to sound like a snob, but quite honestly) I'd never ever go to. Now, because I'm in Australia, I watched with a deep sense of appreciation and fondness.  I might even have let out a little "Aaawwww". Ahem.

2.  This also works for when I cast my mind back to my old commute of an hour and a quarter, 1 train and 2 tubes into central London. In hindsight, I can get quite nostalgic remembering "the good old days" back home. Except the truth was, I hated that commute. Bizarre.

3. A trip to the supermarket - if it involves a British Section - becomes the source of immense excitement. As one ex-pat who I've met described it, "It's not that I'd ever want to have HP Sauce, it's just comforting to see it there".

4. Also on that note, you find yourself trawling the shops to find out who sells the McVities Jaffa Cakes. This information is then excitedly reported back to all ex-pat acquaintances, and before long, you find yourself getting rather competitive. "Just because Heather found out where the PG Tips was being sold, doesn't mean she has to be so stuck-up, the cow. I found the pickled onions, surely that must count for something?? Where's my recognition?!"

5. Hearing a British accent makes your heart swell a bit. "My people" you think, smiling to yourself. (I'm serious - does no-one else get this?)... This extends to Scottish accents too, although the degree of metaphorical heart-swelling is reduced. I mean, it's not the best accent out of all of the British Isles...

6.  "Amazeballs" becomes a regular part of your vocab. All of the Aussies are at it. I can resist no longer. For example: "OMG that cake looks totally amazeballs".

7. Ditto "super-fun" or "super exciting". I started off saying it ironically. But the persistent level of enthusiasm here is hard to beat. And I now genuinely do find things "super fun". As I said, please don't judge me.

8. Having packages arrive from the UK becomes the highlight of your week. This week I had 2. That was not only amazeballs, but super-exciting. (You see what I mean? The Aussies have come up with some great words there. I mean, terrible words, but great).

9. The development of a slightly new twang. Except, rather than Australian, mine is South African. In fact, I frequently get very confused as to where I am - and it's only the sight of the Opera House, the Harbour Bridge, and the Aussie flag that I actually remember. Australia is full of South Africans and most of my colleagues are "Saffras" (as the South Africans, previously unbeknownst to me, call themselves). This means that for 11 hours per day, I'm being mentally transformed, and am developing a worrying penchant for Saffra phrases and speech patterns. A worrying number of sentances are now being finished with "hey". (As in, "Her dress is really nice, hey". (Note, that is said as a statement, not a question. That's the disconcerting thing.))

10. I have started visiting - and quite liking - Irish pubs. Ok, I should clarify that, before my London Massive collapse with shock - I have visited 1 Irish pub. And I liked it because there were some cute (non-Irish) guys in there. And also because the rugby was on, and it was very funny seeing them all get super-emotional (ahem, vocab), even though I have to admit, that result was pretty stunning. Wallabies - you got told. (And no, I am not a rugby enthusiast. But now that I'm in Australia, I have to pretend...)

Ok, I think I shall stop my public humiliation there. I just thought I'd share.

More news from Down Under coming soon.

Until then,

Yours,
Belle x

Tales of Woe, House-hunting & Goldilocks

Gentle reader, it has been a week since my last update.

Just a week.

And yet, in that time I have been inside 4 boys' bedrooms. I have traversed the wilds of Sydney (such as they are) on several occasions, and only once... maybe twice... gone the wrong way down a one way street when my sat-nav led me astray. And I have come to appreciate, in a whole new way, how Goldilocks must have felt.

But let me go back to the beginning. The very beginning.

Upon first coming to Sydney, I was staying with distant relatives who lived up to their (distant) relationship status, and showed all the warmth, closeness and compassion of the average lizard. If that lizard were having a very off-day. I could only wish that they were physically as distant as they were emotionally and genetically. After a fortnight during which being water-boarded began to sound attractive as an alternative option to their company (I joke... they weren't quite that bad. Although it was an increasingly close call), I decided enough was enough - and it was time to up-sticks and move out.

But where? I'd only just come out to Sydney. I had a job (just) but no pay-cheque due for over a month. Add to the mix a still rather delicate and battle / emigration-scarred psyche (for all my bravado, I'm a delicate flower. Even if I may come across as the kind of delicate flower usually attached to a cactus) and I realised that getting my own place was still a distant dream. Yet I knew that for my own comfort I had to leave. So, in much the same way as Nelly the Elephant did - I packed my trunk, and said goodbye to the circus (they were the circus). And moved to... a family friend's house. Oh, how the thick plottened. Or the plot thickened. Whichever.

One month later, and it's become clear that it's time to leave the FFs behind. The FFs (family friends) have 2 small, yappy dog which are enough to make me - an ardent dog lover (or should I rephrase that as an ardent appreciator of dogs? Hmmm...) - want to create 2 "fun size" fur rugs out of them. Although the FFs have been generous to have me in their home, the point came and went when it was timely for me to leave. And that point was when a 70 year old man (Mr FF), wearing underwear and not much else, expounded his "feelings" about female attractiveness. A therapist is going to make a lot of money from me one day, following that happy episode.

Whilst I wait for the emotional trauma to set in, I have a temporary place to stay organised (with my uncle & auntie, who have never yet been known to sit in their underwear & talk at me, so that's a positive already), am away from the FFs, and can begin the house-hunting in earnest. And let me tell you, of all the many things that house-hunting has taught me so far (for example, that finding somewhere pretty, accessible, and not-too expensive is ridiculously tricky... although I believe that's one of life's accepted facts), one of the biggest lessons I'm taking from it is an understanding of how Goldilocks must have felt, all those fairy-tale years ago.

I'm not joking. Think of her. She's in someone else's environment. She's searching for something just right (ok, in her case it was porridge and she was trespassing, but still) and the poor girl just cannot catch a break. The first bowl is too hot (in real estate terms, I'm not sure what that equates to. But it wouldn't be good). The second bowl too cold (again, not good). But then, finally, she gets it right. I think for me, that translates into the house-hunting equivalent of finding a great apartment around McMahons Point (google it), with good housemates, a good price, and Ryan Gosling (of "The Notebook" fame) dropping by on a regular basis. Alas, for her - as for me - the dream of good porridge is not to be, and she wakes up surrounded by angry, savage animals. Again, she and I have that in common, although sadly for me - that stage of proceedings has happened already. (I joke, the FFs weren't so bad... most of the time...)

So, what can I draw from this?

Well, unlike Goldilocks (who ran away screaming from the bears - which I can, based on my living experiences so far, well understand) - I ain't going nowhere. (Except to a new place all of my own.) I'm intent on getting this process "just right" and sticking it out til the end.

Thus far, I reckon I'm somewhere at the beginning / middle of the process (please, please let me be in the middle! I can't take much more of this!), and have seen:

• A shoebox with a pricetag of $480 per week (this was frankly ridiculous)
• A miniature-palace on the North Shore waterfront. Sadly, this came with 2 very "kooky" housemates, who were so determined to be "chilled out" that I think they must have been amongst the most stressed people I've met. Repeating "I am relaxed, I am relaxed" through gritted teeth and with clenched buttocks must surely defeat the object?! (Perhaps I'm bitter though, they rejected me as a potential housemate, due to my relative youth. This was both a compliment, and a very great irritation)
• A reasonable Kirribilli "unit" complete with one very weird male housemate, who was literally terrifying. I gave him a false name. That's how weirded out I was. He kept wanting me to go back to look at the bedroom. Yikes.
• A Bondi flat with an Israeli Jewish housemate, who looked at me and twitched his nostrils repeatedly. I was terrified that this signified his ability to smell the non-kosher on me. Although perhaps that's a sign of my own paranoia. He may have just had a twitchy nose. I may be being judgemental. Who knows.

So that's how, in the space of just a week, I've been in 4 boys' bedrooms. And that is why my tales are of woe. And humour. And a unique appreciation for Goldilocks.

More adventures coming soon. I'll keep you updated...

Love,

Belle x

Introducing... The Mad Mexican

So, you know how in my last post, I said that life Down Under hadn't been hugely exciting of late? That there wasn't too much to report? Well, the events of the last 3 hours have completely turned that one on its head. And as I'm a dedicated blogger now (and also because I like a bit of a gossip, even if it is done electronically), I've rushed straight home to update you all...

Now before I start the story, it's worth you knowing the background. My family history is fairly complex, especially on my dad's side. The pertinent facts are these: my family is Jewish, although my parents and I have always been non-practicing. The lure of pork outweighs the lure of heavenly rewards (I mean, come on! A bacon sandwich is our heavenly reward, available on a daily basis, here on earth. Am I wrong?!).

But anyhow - my dad has a brother, Larry. And Larry married a non-Jew, who converted in order for his parents (my grandparents) to be happy bunnies. So, my Auntie - the Mad Mexican (this is actually her name... just so long as you don't use it to her face...) - is technically not Jewish, as she wasn't "born in" to the religion, as orthodox Jews believe you need to be, in order to be truly Jewish. To coin another technical term, she's also a raging bitch. (Harsh words, but true)

Before I carry on, I'd like to say that from my perspective, Larry should have married whoever he wanted to, Jewish or not, whether they converted or not. As per one of my earlier posts - I'm a believer in free love, free speech, and free chocolate (although the latter is yet to be really looked at by the UN. I'm hopeful that one day it will happen. But I digress). What matters to me is that someone has a good heart. The rest - colour / orientation / religion etc. is just background.

But Larry married the Mad Mexican (hereon known as MM), who - as the name suggests - is Mexican. And insane. And a bitch. Wow, this is becoming a tirade. Let me explain...

For 'Shabbat lunch' today, I was invited to the Larry & MM household. Now this was always going to be a tricky one. My father is shunned by them, for marrying my (non-Jewish) stepmum.  (My mother is Jewish, which makes me Jewish and therefore acceptable in L & MM's eyes. Indeed, I'm practically "Super-Jew" having both sides who are entirely and completely Jewish). But my dad has broken the rules. And as a result, his existence is denied & denounced by the MM.

Now here's the thing - I don't do shunning. And I don't do people f*cking with people I care about. And my dad's the best. And he's happy with my stepmum. And other than her occasionally beating me with wet towels (she likes to live up to the stepmother stereotype) my stepmum is a great human being. Ok, she obsesses a bit about cleanliness (which is fine when you're a guest, not so much when you're living there...) - but no - in seriousness. She's great. The short story here is that giving me grief about either of them, or indeed, anyone I care about, is not going to go down particularly well. I'm loyal, like a shih tsu (see below):

Cute and fluffy on the outside, but a lioness inside. That's me.

So - I'm at lunch. I'm aware that my parents (i.e. my dad and stepmum) are shunned, which makes me feel fairly uncomfortable. I'm also aware that the Mad Mexican (she emigrated from Mexico when she met Larry) has dragon breath, and an expression to match. Fortunately, she's only 4'8, so should she really irritate me, I am prepared to squash her. Or knee her in the jaw. Whichever. (She really brings out the violence in me - not good). Anyway, I sit down, and Larry, the MM, and my 3 cousins (actually very sweet girls, despite their hideous mother) do the whole Jewish thing. I don't know quite what. I'm aware that prayers were involved. Beyond that - no idea. I just assumed the standard position of looking deep in thought, combined with an expression of serious attention. In all likelihood, I actually ended up looking quite constipated, but anyway.

Lunch gets underway. The MM is also a terrible "cook". Our starter was grated carrot with tinned pineapple. Yes, really. This was followed by thrice boiled gefilte fish. Then crisps. Then poached chicken (no. Just no). Then bread. I tell you, if my original look of constipation wasn't authentic, it would be later. I was, for the most part, concentrating on having tiny quantities of everything, and not mentioning bacon / prawns / how much I love uncircumcised men.

And then the MM raises her ugly head. "Your father" she spits, "is sh*t".

This wasn't war. This was nuclear. And let me tell you now - that does not work for me.

Now, Larry - my dad's brother - was right there. He said nothing. But then how could he? He's been so verbally castrated by the MM for so many years now, I'm amazed he doesn't get confused about which changing room to use. (As in, he's forgotten that he's a man. Their marriage is a mystery to me. But anyway.)

I could have let the comment go. Goodness knows, I'd let enough others go already; "Your cousin, she is so stupid and ugly"  Look who's talking  "Your aunt, she gives sh*t presents. She is cheap and mean. Disgusting" etc.

But no, I'd been calm. I'd been nice. I'd sat politely through her rant about these "bloody foreigners in Australia" (Hello? You're MEXICAN). I'd listened to her talking about how the politicians were exaggerating about Mugabe, and that he's really a pretty fair guy (no comment). I'd heard a Jew-bashing on a grand scale (said of an acquaintance, "Her mother, she is not Jewish by birth. She only converted" So did you, you weirdo etc). I'd eaten the (gross) food. In short, I'd been pretty good. Extremely good.

But this - this was the final straw. Looking straight into her eyes (or what could be seen of them, under the bushy growth of eyebrow... why she doesn't tweeze is beyond me. I mean, I have "issues" on that score, but I groom regularly), I said very calmly, but with ice in my voice (no, I'm not dramatising) "Tara (her official, non MM name), I appreciate you having me in your home. However. I will not sit here and listen to you speak about my father like that".

Silence.

Larry was hiding under the table at this point, terrified that she'd reduce his (surely already seriously diminished) manhood to nothing. The girls, my cousins, were looking on dumbfounded. The sound of silence resounded as, for about a minute, Tara looked at me shocked. I think that the last person to challenge her was back in 1996. So this was unfamiliar territory for her.

I smiled, but didn't move. Didn't say anything. Just waited.

Eventually, (and with a heavy and almost incomprehensible accent, which I should have mentioned before), she says "Ok. So tell me about your degree..."

And that was that. War declared, a dictat issued, and a surrender (or truce, at least) issued shortly thereafter. It's not peace, and I doubt it ever will be - but she knows that I am always and unfailingly prepared to leave her house at any time. And as and when I have to, it will be straight into the arms of a non-Jewish man, eating a bacon sandwich. Yeah baby.

Boys and girls, I'm off now to see if I can't break some more laws on Kashrut (kosher stuff) before Shabbat is out.

I'll write again soon.

With love,

Belle de Sydney (proudly non-Kosher, non-discriminatory, but anti-Mad Mexicans)
x

Food, Fear and Ferries

Well, hello again!

I thought that I'd use this post to share one of the more significant aspects of my move - namely, food. 

There's the food from home that I can't get over here (including Percy Pigs, from the joy that is M&S... oh, how I miss M&S...).

Then there's the food over here that I don't understand (vegemite - I mean, no. Just no).

Ach. But both of these experience can be glossed over when face with the prospect of new food. I mean, 

completely new food. An unchartered gastronomic experience. How exciting is that?!  Although it also brings with it the dread of looking like an idiot as all of the natives / non-foreigners as I call them (yes, I am tremendously un-PC) look at you aghast as you cross-question the waiter / cafe guy about what exactly something is. But anyone who's ever had a traumatic experience with food (which, in my experience, is most people) knows that cross-questioning is the only answer. That, and an epi pen. (I joke - food allergies are serious. But so is being served up herring, when the waiter has only previously mentioned "A very light, delicate fish"... yeah. Right.)

So where was I? Oh yes, new food. Now, one of the things about my new job, is that the hours are off the charts. I'm in at 7:30am, and don't leave before 6pm - which is better than some places, but a whole lot worse than others. Now, the fact that I enjoy it is a good thing. The fact that I get in before I even want to eat brekkie (come on people, let's get down with the Aussie slang) is a bad thing. And then I discovered our foodhall. And the Bircher Muesli which lay within. A breakfast which, ironically, is European - and yet which I have never, ever seen in London / Europe in general before.

Bircher Muesli is exciting on a whole new scale. It's oats, soaked in apple juice, cinammon, nutmeg and yoghurt, left overnight, then eaten next day with dried and fresh fruit, and a dash of honey. Oh yeah. It's good. Although now I start to wax lyrical about it, I realise that I sound like a very sad person. Oh well. I could only keep up the facade for so long.

So, time to move on to something more interesting. There's the barramundi... no, I can't write a post about fish, however good it is. That really is scraping the barrel (literally... get it... I mean, it's not the barrel it's the sea, but... oh forget it).

Ok, perhaps it's time to forget food altogether. 

In truth, my dear readers, there's been little in the way of weirdos, or strange incidents. There's been a random Zionist on my ferry each day, trying to get me to move back to the Fatherland / Motherland (why are siblings excluded? What about Sisterland? Or Brotherland?). Sadly, my enormous propensity to eat pork products and anything (well, everything) forbidden, closed that conversation quick-sharp. Shame. There's been the toenail clipper-er on that very same ferry (who does indeed, disgustingly, clip his toenails whilst we're all in transit together. Ewww).

But no, not much else. Life right now is a mad balancing act of keeping work together, keeping myself fed and watered (a task I can genuinely forget to do), and remembering friends back home (although I could never forget them) whilst trying to make new friends here.

The weird thing is, I've realised in recent days what I'm scared of. I'm scared of not having a good time, not enjoying it, and wanting to go home tomorrow. I'm scared it will all just peter out into nothing, and I'll be 12,000 miles from home and feeling like I've gotten it all wrong.

And then, I'm also scared I will enjoy it. That I won't want to come home. That I'll be so happy here, I won't be able to contemplate a return trip ever.

So, what have I decided to do with my split-personality dilemma? In truth: nothing. Or rather, I'm trying to laugh at myself, because really this is becoming ridiculous now.  It's time to step away from the Kleenex. (I joke, my Kleenex dependence is very reduced right now. Hurray) And just in case of homesickness, I'm trying to give myself more me time, as a way of self-calming (which in truth, I don't really need. I'm trying to not feel the fear, and do it anyway. Isn't that a maverick, but so much better, approach?!). 

All of us need our me-time. Some of us take it in the bath. Some in front of the TV, with HobNobs (alas, I miss McVities!) and Hot Chocolate. Some of us take it sitting on the loo, reading magazines. Personally, I refuse to comment which camp(s) I fit into.

What I will say is this. That a little tub of Bircher Muesli (yes, we're back to that) and a view of a hot man in a wet wetsuit is my little piece of heaven. It's my Muller Corner, Diet Coke moment, and Galaxy (to continue with the food theme) rolled into one. And any country I can enjoy that in, means that whatever my worries are - they're probably / definitely pretty insignificant. 

In seriousness - as much as I can expound and dramatise my life and my move, I'm aware of so much more going on at a global, national and local level. I may be a drama queen. But even I know if the show's really a Broadway production or not.

Boys and girls, so end my thoughts for today. 

For those who wish to learn, please find below my Bircher Muesli recipe. For those who don't wish to learn - I have nothing to say. Go, frolic, have fun, and live in a world without Bircher Muesli. You will never know how much you're missing out on. 

Love,

Belle x

Belle's Bircher Muesli

• 1 cup rolled oats
• 1/2 cup fresh apple juice 
• 1/2 cup yoghurt (Greek style... I may be un-PC at times, but even I know the superior yoghurt masters)
• handful currants or sultanas (sulphur free or you bloat. Trust me)
• handful chopped dried apricots (still sulphur free)
• a sprinkling of ground nutmeg
• a sprinkling of ground cinnamon
• some seasonal berries and chopped nuts (if you can be bothered)
• some honey, to serve (if you want)

Method:
Combine the rolled oats (that's how they roll... oh yeah...), juice, yoghurt, currants or sultanas, chopped aprictos, nutmeg and cinnamon in a large bowl and stir together. Chill overnight. The next day add the berries and nuts to the top. Eat. Enjoy. Stop reading on the toilet. The end.