One month later

Boys and girls, for this post I'm looking a back a bit. Twelve thousand miles away, this time 4 weeks ago, I was getting ready to start my adventures Down Under. I had successfully navigated the treacherous waters of Airline Baggage Allowance and was through Passport Control. I was halfway through my first box of Kleenex, and only a couple of hours into a journey that totalled 27 hours of my life.  I was heading into the unknown, with a quiver of my lip, and a bag stuffed with Percy Pigs.

OMG, to use a TLA (that's Three Letter Abbreviation, to those not in the know).

Yes, this time just a month ago, I had yet to be violated by a masseuse in Singapore Airport. I had yet to experience the living nightmare that is jet-lag on an epic scale. I had yet to find a job, support, friends, or a good place to ogle men. (Please note; that list is not in order of importance...)

Looking back - and believe me, I'm aware I still have a way to go yet, before I'm as settled here as I'd like - I can't believe how fast that time has gone. And I'm so grateful for that.

This month has been without a doubt, the hardest of my life. And I include in that: my parent's divorce, my dad refusing to buy me the first pair of shoes I ever fell in love with (gold kitten-heeled ankle boots, with a blotted-red-paint effect... Dad, looking back you were doing me a kindness. They were HIDEOUS), the various break-ups and lows of my love life (which could be a blog in itself), my childhood pet passing away, and the discovery that chocolate was not a low-fat food (which, in truth, I've never fully gotten over).

No, it's been hard. But it's finally - finally - starting to get so much better.

Sydney is not be my city yet, and may never be - London will always be my home, of that I'm sure - but this strange upside place could be a damned good alternative for a while.

So what has this first month taught me? That wherever I am, my friends and family are always in my heart (I'm sorry, it sounds corny but it's true) - and thankfully, seemingly, I'm always in theirs too. That however much I complained about it, whenever I get homesick, I miss the smell and pollution of London (and yes, even the tube at rush hour). That 12,000 miles doesn't seem like far when there's skype, email, the phone, and people you care about. That care packages from home are - officially - the best thing EVER and are to be encouraged at all times (I would hate for any of my readers to think that that's a hint. Belle de Sydney would never stoop that low... Ok, maybe she would...) That determination and a glass of Pinot Noir are two of the most powerful weapons the newly-emigrated can have, with a special emphasis on the former. And finally, that ogling a hot man in a wetsuit makes every situation feel a whole let better.

There are actual adventures which I need to share with you all (coming soon), but I wanted to use writing this post to do a bit of taking stock. One of the big things I hear when I tell people that I emigrated - a single, 23 year old, used to living with her parents, in her hometown, without a hugely rebellious streak (I mean, I went to Ancient Greek Camp, people. Yes, seriously. I'm a History Major, and liked studying in original translation. A maverick I am not) - is "You're so brave".

At first, whenever I heard this, I shrugged it off. I didn't think of it like that.

6 boxes of Kleenex, twelve thousand miles, 27 hours of travel, and 1 month later - yes, I am brave. I think for the first time in my life, I actually believe that of myself. (I used to run away when we played All-Girls Hockey at school. I cover my eyes when watching scary movies. I don't particularly like the dark. That to me is not brave. However, having just emigrated - I can see that maybe I need to redefine types of bravery...) Because it's tough. You've heard enough of my stories to know that the settling in process thus far has not been hassle-free. But it also - I hope, I think - could be one of the best things I do. (This year, anyway...) Being brave is a big part of doing this. Without that bravery, I'd have been on the first flight home within the first 48 hours of landing (and goodness knows, I've come very close to booking that ticket on several subsequent occasions).

I don't want to sound smug - because I'm not - coming here was the right decision for me. For many people, it wouldn't be. But - variety is the spice of life, we're all different, and my spice happens to include a bit of emigration (I think I've taken that metaphor a bit far now)... Anyway, I thought it was important to give you my thoughts on the process so far. Now that I've shared, rather than continue to expound my remaining emigration philosophy with you, I thought it would be fun for you to see some photos of this past month.

So enjoy!

I present to you: Belle de Sydney in Scenes from the Newly Emigrated...

"Re-packing" at Heathrow. My stepmum did a sterling job of luggage hiding (if, shockingly, you don't understand this reference please click here to read the full, explanatory post)

Feeling very homesick one day, I went for a beach walk with my adopted Aussie dad. As it was cold, and my boxes are still in bloody shipping (don't get me started) I ended up wearing a fluorescent yellow jacket used by his workmen. To keep me company / save my embarasment / help me brazen it out, Aussie Daddy wore the same. Style icons we were not. 

This was at my lowest ebb of homesickness (the smile belies the red, swollen eyes... why do you think i was wearing sunglasses?!)

The first care package arrives! Hurray!

It's real. The Guylian Chocolate cafe, Sydney. Hell yes people.

Seeing this for the first time made me realise that life as I knew it may - just may - turn out ok.

The first commute to work by ferry. (Ok, right now I'm smug).

More adventures coming to an internet connection near you in the very near future.

Until then,

Belle x

Why Dolly Parton was right

Let me start with an apology, gentle reader. I know I have been regrettably and regretfully absent from this blog for a few days, and I want to assure you that it's nothing to do with a lack of commitment or - heaven forefend - a lack of broadband (the latter being a situation so dire, so unimaginable, that I'm not sure I could survive it).

No, the reasons for my absence are twofold : Number 1) Being traumatised by weirdos and admirers (more on that soon), and Number 2) Starting my new job.

Now, moving from London to Sydney was scary on many levels, not least of which was knowing that I was leaving a secure, stable job - for nothing. By which I mean literally nothing: I had no job lined up, no interviews (most companies won't give you a second glance until you've made the commitment and relocated), and no idea what would happen. Ok, yes - the Australian economy is, largely, booming - but still. It was pretty scary. And then what happens? The day after I arrive, I go to an interview. The next week, a second interview. Then followed assessments, psychiatric testing, and a bake-off (just keeping you on your toes there - spot which two are fictional...), and voila! The job was mine. In the (I'd like it to be Chanel) bag.

And so, work has once more begun. And bloody hell - I'd forgotten how tiring it is. How people expect you to do things (yes, ok, they're paying you, but - can they not just be a bit more relaxed? None of this 8 til 6 nonsense, more a kindof 11-3. Or 12-2. With a 2 hour lunch-break. Why not??). Alas, it's been a culture shock, and my brain is once again getting used to early bedtimes, demanding workloads, and a distinct lack of afternoon cake (alas, alas!).

Now, on the flip side - it's really pretty damned good. The people seem nice. The culture involves a fair amount of food and drink, which can never be a bad thing. The commute is done by ferry (ok, and a bus as well, but let's forget that part). Memories of the tube are receding (Londoners : we deserve medals for managing our commute. We are all heroes. And yes, I still count myself as a Londoner). So, I really can't complain. It's a great company, great job and should be great fun. Hurrah!

But, my friends, that is - as I said - only Reason 2 for my delay (the summary of which is: I've been busy, tired and stressed. Sorry). Reason 1 is a different story altogether...

Here in Sydney I have no friends. Or at least, no friends who are not family as well. And I'm a social kind of gal. Being lucky to know some very special people back home, and seeing them regularly, I don't like being so very much dependent on my own company, or that of others who (in the nicest possible way), I'm not that close to. Now, the fam (that's Aussie slang for family - please remember that for future reference) have been very sweet, and I've been venturing out with cousins and their friends, and getting to know a whole new group. This has led to the slightly awkward thing of wanting a Friend Date. As in, "I like you, you seem like a decent human being, let's hang out. And no, I am not romantically interested in you. (Honest)"

With girls, this works a treat as the lack of sexual interest is pretty clear (people, I'm hetero. It's just how it is. I fully respect and believe in people's rights to love how they want, who they want, when they want, and where they want (within reason on the 'where they want' - watching 2 people getting steamy has never really been my thing. Having it thrust - almost literally - in my face just makes me feel "ick")... where was I...?) Oh yes - girls. Girly Dates are great. Some of my favourite London moments are from my Girly Dates, so I'm keen to attempt to replicate that over here (impossible, but if it's even nearly close, then I will, as the old saying goes, be a Happy Bunny).

(Boy) Friend Dates are rather different, however. Saying you have no sexual interest in them doesn't seem to work. Wearing a sign which says "WE ARE NOT HAVING SEX TONIGHT OR EVER" is apparently just a challenge (I speak from experience). Pretending to be interested in same-sex-only relationships is - well, just trust me, it's not the way to go. Do I sound jaded? I guess so. This is because my (boy) Friend Date very recently went sadly awry. Not only did said Boy attempt to seduce me (badly done, it must be sad - discussing how his ex wouldn't cook for him was really not going to get me dropping my knickers anytime soon), but also - and this is possibly even worse than that - using the simply hideous expression, "Far out, man".

Yes. I'm not exaggerating, I'm not lying - I swear. All evening. ALL EVENING. "Far out, man". Personally, I nearly responded with the first letter of "far" and then the replacement of "out" with "uck" followed by "off" then "man", but being a gentle and sweet-natured soul - I naturally, did not. I did, however, make the decision never to see him again. Friendship date fail.

Still, the trauma of this has stayed with me for several days (you try spending an evening with someone who says "Far out, man" and see how you like it) - and until my mental balance was restored, there was no way I could write sensibly. Truth to tell, I'm not sure how sensible this post is - but, if you're entertained and informed, then I'm happy. I hope you can understand the delay in my writing, and I promise you now - more adventures are coming very soon, I promise.

Until then, Boys and Girls, I wish you adieu and goodnight from Sydney.


Love,

Belle de Sydney x

PS And why was Dolly right? Because, to quote that epic song: "Working 9 til 5, what a way to make a living..."

PPS I realise that Reason 1) was weirdos and admirers (plural). Allow me some poetic licence, please.

A Gym Bunny emerges - or not.

Boys and girls, there are many things that Sydney is famous for. The Opera House, obviously. The  Harbour Bridge. Bondi Beach.The climate and general lifestyle. Banana bread (yes, really - Sydneysiders are obsessed with banana bread). Tim-Tams (a pretty special chocolate biscuit which can only be found in Australia, and is - and I don't want to exaggerate here - possibly the best thing in the world).

But more than any of these, Sydney is known for being full of hotties. It is, after-all, a city which is surrounded by beaches,  where men in wetsuits are a regular sight (do I perve on them? Perhaps a bit. I'm not proud), with a huge emphasis on an active lifestyle. Wherever you go there are parks with people jogging, or beaches with people surfing, or wearing wet-suits, or... Mmmm.... Where was I?

Ok, so the basic premise I'm going with here is that the Sydneysiders are attractive. They're toned, tanned, and gallop about the place like Linford Christie (prior to the ban).  Now, I'm a Londoner. I'm beyond pale. I make pale look tanned. So that's strike one. Strike two is that prior to coming to Sydney, I had a pretty manic work schedule, and no time for the gym. So toned I am not, alas.

Now, I'm happy being pale - Anne Hathaway's pale, and she's hot. Miss Piggy was a frankly bizarre shade of pink, and Kermit still loved her. Most WAGs look like they've been dipped in food colouring of varying shades - but that (apparently) just adds to their status. So, where I am on the pale / dark scale isn't a problem for me, and requires no work.

Phew.

The lack of toned-ness (that's a word, right?) however, is a problem. It's 3 months until summer over here, and I need to be beach ready (well, in my mind - wetsuited-man ready; a girl can dream) - so I've joined a gym. Yes, I've done it - signed my life and my bank balance to Fitness Freaks (not the actual name, but it may as well be). I've now completed two workouts, and can say - without exaggerating - that my body hates me. My arms are so weak I can barely dress myself. As I write this, I'm leaning on the desk, half-collapsed, half-dressed, and half-exhausted.

A not unreasonable session was done (20 minutes on the x-trainer, 10 on the bike, and 500m on the rower, as well as a few lengths of the pool, just to show willing) - but, apparently, doing this just once isn't enough. I need to go back? What's with that?! Surely I've shown willing, and that's sufficient?

Gentle reader, as much as I'd like to seek answers, it's time for a lie-down. The gym bunny in me is, perhaps, a gym hedgehog, and needs to hibernate right now. If anyone knows a good masseur / physio / dresser (I may be destined to go out half-dressed until I regain my upper body strength) please do let me know.

More Sydney adventures soon... (when I can walk and move)

With love and tiredness,

Belle x

Bureaucracy - A Lament

I write this post mournfully, aware that today I lost 7 hours of my life - and I'll never get that time back.

The day started with me feeling purposeful - bounding out of bed (yes, I'm one of those annoyingly cheerful 'morning people'), and getting ready for a day of appointments. First, more identity verification (my 2 passports seem to create at least as many problems as they solve), and then - oh joy! - onto the Taxation Office to applice for my TFN (Tax File Number - the Australian equivalent of a National Insurance number).

These first two appointments went well. Very well. Suspiciously well. The kind of well that makes you know that it's all downhill from this point in. Alas. So it was.

My next interview was with Medicare, and clutching my folder of documents, proof of identity, and suicide pills (for if it all got too desperate), I waited. Eventually, served by a woman who'd make Mr Blobby look chatty, articulate and effulgent (Mr Blobby never speaks. That is the irony), I got my application lodged, and could leave - blinking at the daylight, and the un-depressed looking passers-by. I had to remind myself that these lucky people had not, as I had, spent their day in the kind of place that makes mixing sleeping tablets with operating heavy machinery seem like an excellent option. Indeed, if I could put it more strongly - they had not spent their day somewhere that, should Australia ever need an enema, would be the ideal location for it to be inserted. (Let me summarise: the bumhole of Oz).

Still, this all left me with just one trauma / appointment to go. The RTA (Road Traffic Authority), for my New South Wales driving licence, and that sense of freedom you can only get on the open road. Unfortunately for me, however, I was not yet out on the open road, but in a small, grey, smelly room. And as I'd got lost en-route (my own fault really, I decided that I could read a map rather than rely on my iPhone to direct me. What a mistake), I was contributing to the slightly sweaty, un-air conditioned atmosphere. Oh dear. Not my finest moment.

Still, at least I could comfort myself that the average age-group there was 60+, so I was only scaring off further unsuitable Antipodean suitors / weirdos rather than repelling potential hotties. The group there wouldn't even rate as tepidies. (Get it? Hotties... tepidies... temperature-based humour...?)

Ok, moving on.

People, I don't want to dwell on this (although I already have) - but it seems that even 12,000 miles from home, bureaucracy is still a nightmare. The only plus sides I can see are that 1) I am almost a fully-registered Aussie now, and 2) I survived. I'm a shaking, quivering, trembling mess, but I survived. I may be about to have a minor breakdown - especially every time I look at my driving licence photo - which makes me look like an angry transsexual. And much as I have nothing against transsexuals, angry or not, that is not the look I cultivate - but I survived.

Hopefully this means that I have staying power. That I'm over the metaphorical 'hump' (where did that expression originate?). So, bring it on, Sydney. I'm ready. But I don't think you're ready. No, I don't think you're ready for this jelly...

Hmm. It seems that the mental breakdown's gone further than I'd thought.Time for some post-traumatic stress recovery before I start quoting more Destiny's Child (oh dear, again).

More adventures to come soon.

Love,

Belle x

Ornithophobia, My family, and other animals.

"Let the games begin" I so confidently wrote a few days ago. Yes, my Australian family veers between crazy and wonderful (and is often a curious mix of the two) - but surely it can only get easier from seeing my Great Aunt. I mean, how much vitriol can there possibly be in one family?

As it turns out, a lot...

The day after I went to see my Great Aunt, I decided I really hadn't had enough punishment - and went to see my ('rubbish taking' / boyfriend stealing) Grandmother. Now, being her first-born granddaughter, I feel like I should be special to her. In fact, being her granddaughter at all, I think I deserve to be treated nicely. Like another human being at least.

Well, that was my first mistake. As I go into the house, my grandmother (wearing a maroon shell-suit, oh dear) looks at me and says (with her eyebrows raised so high, they look like they're about to take off) :

"Vot haff you done vith your hair?" 'My hair? Nothing grandma'. "Vell zat is ze problem. It makes you look like a chonta". 'A what?' "A chonta, you know". 'No'. "Like you sell". 'Sell what?' "Yourself".

Personally, I've never been known to take fashion advice from people in shell-suits, and I don't intend to start now. But where the personal attacks had started, a lesson on morality now followed. Purely to see her reaction (I'll admit it), I may have mentioned that I saw her mortal enemy, and my Great Aunt, the day before.

"She is an evil voman". 'Ok, grandma'. "Evil. She deserves nussing". 'Ok grandma'. "Next time you see her, steal." 'Steal?' "Yes, steal her jewellevy. That vill teach her." 'Oh' "She voss hell. HELL." (At this point, whilst smiling and nodding, I started shoving cake at her in the hope that that would be a good distraction. Thankfully it worked.)

Now, this was very dispiriting, I won't lie. There's only so many dysfunctional family members you want to have. I think my quota is more than filled with my Great Aunt alone, but apparently this is a burden I have to bear. And we haven't even mentioned my UK family yet. But anyway.

In a bid to distract myself from the trauma of the day (please, if anyone else has been told that their hair makes them look like a prostitute, or that they should steal from other relatives, do let me know. It would be nice to think that I'm not alone in this) - I went off for dinner with other, younger, seemingly more normal family.

That was my second mistake.

Hoping that the younger generation would be somewhat more human / normal / functional / un-shell suited than the oldies, I turned up with hope, expectation, and a newly-bought handbag sized can of hairspray - just in case.

It all was going so well, until the family bird was let out (in case my grandmother's comments have distracted you, this was an actual bird. There are many things in my family, but chonta's there are not). Now, I'm not good with birds. Or, to re-phrase - I am terrified of them. I don't like anything that flies. (Edward Cullen is an exception, and he doesn't really fly - so that's ok.) I run away when I'm scared, because I am at heart a coward. But hey, I'm with my cousins. I'm with friends. They're nice. They should understand.

To be honest, looking back on the night, I'm disappointed with my own naivety. One look at my white, trembling face (which, along with the rest of me, was hidden underneath the dining table) and the bird was left out for longer. Yes, longer. My ornithophobia was a great source of entertainment.

Boys and girls, here is what I ask for in my life (aside from warmth, good food, good company, accomodation,  Edward Cullen etc.): to be protected from the things that scare me (such as birds). And to receive human kindness and a basic understanding of morality from my relatives. That's really not much.

However, as it seems that the greater part of my family is not even capable of this, I think it's time to branch out. Time to make some friends (or stalk people into submission) and get my groove / social life on.

To take a look on the bright side, here are what I think are my achievements in the emigration process so far:
1. Getting into the Australia timezone (that took a while)
2. Finding somewhere with family friends to stay for the indefinite future
3. Getting a job (more on that soon)
4. Realising that family is family, genetic imprinting only goes so far, and thank goodness you can choose your friends.

Being without my London Massive (as they are not actually known. Just in case you were concerned, I really am not "gangsta" in any way)... Where was I? Yes, being so far away, I miss and appreciate my friends even more than I thought I would, and whilst re-connecting with family is "special", it just highlights how much the people I'm closest to are the family I've chosen - my friends. Trying to create a new life in a new continent is taking some work. Making friends / stalking into submission is the next big frontier.

Wish me luck,

Belle de Sydney x

Meet the Family

Growing up in London, I was aware of some basic facts.

Number 1: That bus drivers have a schadenfreude-driven delight at splashing you in the rain. And in London, it always rains. Therefore you are always splashed. The conclusion we can draw from this is that bus-drivers are evil. Fact.

Number 2: That the one time you don't check your seat on the tube before sitting down, you will regret it. On or off it, inside or out, public transport sucks. We can't avoid it, but it sucks.

Number 3: Listening to the music of Avenue Q, whatever the situation, will always make you feel better. Nothing beats a hearty rendition of "I'm not wearing underwear today".

and Number 4: That it was a very great shame that I was growing up 12,000 miles from my family in Sydney.

You see, gentle reader, despite growing up in the UK my family has always, almost entirely, been based in Sydney (excluding my parents). As a child, this was a source of great disappointment to me. I'd watch my friends go off with their apple-cheeked, cheerful grannies, who'd cuddle them, spoil them, feed them and pamper them (we've already covered that I'm a bit of a princess - in an ideal world I would be surrounded by adoring grannies) - whilst I went home to the au pair. Alas. Life was tough. (That the au pair also looked after me, cuddled, coddled and fed me is by the by. I'm having a pity party - indulge me.)

Skip forward twenty-something years, and suddenly I find myself where I'd always wanted to be: in Sydney, surrounded by family. And suddenly I realise that 'fact' Number 4 is fiction. Or faction. Or a docu-drama waiting to happen, with plenty of blood, sweat, tears and angst.

Let me just fill you in - I have a lot of family in Sydney. So much, indeed, that in April when I spent a month holidaying here, meeting at least one new cousin each day - I still had many more to meet on my return trip. And oh dear. The penny dropped. Whilst some family can be enjoyed "up close and personal" with pleasure, for some the distance of several continents can only be counted as a very great positive.

Cue this afternoon, for example, when I went to visit my Great Aunt. Having had broigus (angst and in-fighting) with my grandmother for the last 75 years, she now seems intent to cause the same between my cousin (her grand-daughter) and I, just for kicks...

Now, the back story here, is that my Great Aunt originally went out with my Grandfather, only for her to dump him, at which point my Grandmother snapped him up (possibly literally, she has an amazingly extendable jaw). According to family folklore, Great Aunt turned to my Grandmother and said with standard contempt, and a fabulous Polish accent, "So, I see you haff taken ze rubbish zat I srew out". They've hated each other ever since.

So, in her bid to cause mayhem amongst the younger generation, Great Aunt looked at me, smiled (amazing, it's long been rumoured that she is physically incapable of smiling), and said "Darlink, you look so byoootiful". Wow, I thought. She's in a good mood. Maybe this will be an un-traumatic family episode. Maybe, just maybe, this is a sign of good things to come. Of family feuds ending, new beginnings, and - Oh, but wait. She then looked piercingly at her granddaughter, my cousin and good (up until this point) friend, and said "You, darlink, are not".

Let the games begin.

First impressions? Family, like a Monet painting, is often best enjoyed from a distance.

Love,

Belle x

Emulating Julie Andrews...

Do you remember that moment in "The Sound of Music" when Julie Andrews in her unflappable, capable way, (I admit it: I've always had a mum-crush on her. As in, I want her to be my mum) sings the Von Trapp children out of their fear?

With a hop skip and a jump, some props, and a rendition of:

When the dog bites
When the bee stings

When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad

The kiddies are smiling angelically, fear assuaged, doubts quashed, ready to get up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the next day to climb every mountain, ford every stream, follow every rainbow...

Well, that's really what I've needed in my life these last few days; a Julie Andrews-esque emigration nanny, to hold my hand, sing me to sleep, be terrified by my frogs (have you seen the film?) and make  every job a game (wrong film, but same protagonist).

In the absence of further weirdos (oh, but there's always time!) my energy has recently been concentrated solely on adjusting to life Down Under. Now, however much you think ahead, attempt to empathise with your future-self and work out just how strange it will be being 12,000 miles from home - you can't do it. You just can't. Imagining emigrating whilst surrounded by a loving, caring network of friends & family is very different to having emigrated, being in a new country, and feeling absolutely bewildered by where you are, what time zone it is, and why on earth the person standing next to you still believes bow ties to be "ïn".

With the realisation that it was down to me to always look on the bright side of life (this post is unintentionally revealing my hidden love of musicals & "popular culture"), and that to  make a success of things East Side (or in the Eastern Suburbs of Sydney at least) a good attitude was required, I resolved to become more positive ASAFP (the 'f'stands for feasibly). Yes, I thought. I'll join a class and make some friends. That will get me feeling better. Buddhism for the Nihilistic, perhaps. Yoga and yoghurt - the ancient art of culture development, physically and biologically (get it?). Yes, the only way is up, and a spoon full of sugar will help the medicine go down.  

This moment of zen-ish, however, was interrupted by an ice-cream shop. Now, despite being about as dessert-orientated as you can get, I'm not a big fan of ice-cream. Cake, yes - all day, every day. Chocolate absolutely. But ice-cream? Not so much. That has all now changed. And why? Because of the Australian ice-cream brand of choice: "Golden Gaytime".

This is the advert, as seen in that shop-front off Dover Heights:

Boys and girls, with all the mayonnaise in the world you can't make chicken salad out of chicken sh*t. But with a positive attitude, an internet connection (for skyping people back home - I dont know what you're thinking), a sense of humour, and some truly shockingly named products - anything is possible. Including creating your new life away from home. 

As I'm increasingly learning, emigrating or moving, however far away you are, will always be difficult. Taking things one day at a time, remembering the support and  friendship you've got back home (even if it seems far, far away), and knowing that love never dies, true friends are always there, and a good ice-cream is a Golden Gaytime - that's what's important.

We could all do with a Julie Andrews in our life. As she's fairly in-demand, however, the next best option is to be our own Julie Andrews. Channel that indomitable spirit, that determination to keep going, and the PMA (positive mental attitude). And if you can also manage to sing like her - good luck to you (I certainly fail on that score...)

One last time, altogether now:

Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes
Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eye lashes
Silver white winters that melt into springs
These are a few of my favorite things!

When the dog bites, when the bee stings
When I'm feeling sad,
I simply remember
my favorite things
and then I don't feeel so bad!

Love,

Belle de Sydney

x

PS And just in case you thought Golden Gaytime was bad, the Sydneysiders also enjoy the "services" of The Lube Man. Apparently, this is a standard handyman service. Hmmmmm....

An onslaught of weirdos...

Ok, maybe "onslaught" is too strong a word to use. But for me, my first Antipodean weirdo is as much a Hallmark moment as a birthday, anniversary, or non-religion-associated public holiday.

And it had all started so well. I'd gone to the bank, had my identity verified (again, due to personal issues - my face - I was regarded as a "high security risk", and multiple documents & proofs of identity were required), after which I emerged blinking into the Sydney sunshine, to wander down to Circular Quay...

With such a beautiful day, and my new credit card burning a hole in my pocket, I decided to have a tourist's lunch on the quay. Now, I'm a London Girl at heart. I'm used to avoiding eye contact with fellow passers-by, making sure that personal space is maintained (or, when travelling on the tube, if not maintained then telepathically-hoped for), and being at best brusque and at worst contemptuous with anyone 'Unknown'. Essentially, this means that 99% of Londoners are ignoring everyone around them at any given moment. And that's ok. We don't mind that. It's how we roll.

Sydney, however, is a different kettle of fish. People here smile. They chat. They seem pleased to meet you. They are, in short, a culture shock (for me anyway). As I go to sit down at my cafe table, the guy leaving it starts to chat. Although my accent (very British "received pronunciation") would obviously set me apart as a foreigner, I'm keen to integrate, and decided now was the time. I carpe diemed, and chatted back. It was all going so well, when suddenly - he invites himself to join me at lunch (despite the fact that he'd already eaten. Hmmmm.) Now, I don't want to sound anti-social, but I didn't want to have lunch with him or anyone else. I wanted to sit on my own, enjoy the beautiful views, and continue to recover from spending 23 hours in a plastic tube several thousand feet above the world. I wanted some me-time. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently it is. After several minutes of uncomfortable chat (he was, just FYI an intellectual dwarf. I sound harsh, but it's the reality), I smiled (through gritted teeth), said it was nice to meet him (I lied), but I needed time on my own (true) to get some paperwork down (lie). In response, he continued to sit there, and started cross-questioning me. Knowing that there are some things that should be avoided like chlamydia (the modern version of avoiding the plague), I saw the "So... do you have a boyfriend?" question coming, and during a nano-second's pause in his monologue said, more firmly, "Really, it's been nice to meet you, but I don't want company." Cue a shocked look from the weirdo (who was, just by the way, not hot. Had he been a Brad, R Patz, or Orlando lookalike I may have been more forgiving. But no. He was also prematurely balding. Totes not my type). He then stomped off, leaving me to the uncomfortable realisation that much as in London, where the weirdos gravitate towards me, seemingly I have the same affect in the other hemisphere.

What happens next I don't know. All I can tell you is that I'm not taking this sh*t in the southern hemisphere. I'm taking a stand. (Which at lunch today was, technically, a 'sit' - but the concept is the same).

More adventures soon.

Love,

Belle de Sydney x

Straddled in Singapore

The big day arrived. I’d packed my (enormous) bags, taken them to the airport, and just about avoided excess charges (my 7 Stage Technique worked beautifully...  Well, that and having a wonderful stepmum, who may have artfully “re-arranged” my hand luggage so that during the check-in and weighing process, all of the heavy stuff from my cabin bag was sitting innocently in her handbag, only to be transferred back into my luggage when we were out of sight of the CIB. Oh yes, I’m crafty.)

But I digress - yes, it was ‘E’ Day (Emigration Day), and checked in, smirking slightly at my suitcase victory, whilst desperately trying to nonchalantly drag the damn thing that was meant to be 7kg, but at a conservative estimate in fact weighed 15kg (yes people, I pack too much, let’s move on from this) - I turned to say goodbye to my parents. This was - very honestly - the worst. I actually think I may still be medically dehydrated from how much I cried. My mascara ended up somewhere around my belly-button. And did I have a tissue? Oh no. In my (only) bid to be economical with packing, I hadn’t packed any. Unbelievable, I know. 

With tears glistening in the eyes of my parents (whether from how much they’ll miss me, or how pleased they are to get their house back is to be discovered), I made it through security (always a worry, I just seem to have that kind of face which makes them suspicious), and into the joy of duty free. Only for me it wasn’t very joyous. No, still emotional and almost hyper-ventilating  by this point, I was now roughly the colour of a tomato. Not my best look, and certainly not what I’d wanted in my attempt to be “long-haul chic” (although that dream died in the car en-route to Heathrow, when I managed to drop chocolate over the crotch of my jeans. A brown stain in that area is never a good thing).

With the acceptance that I’ve had worse looks (including a particularly bad summer in 1999, when I pretty much lived in a multi-coloured check dress which even Joseph (of the Multi-Coloured Coat) would have rejected as being “too clashy”), I calmed down, got on the flight, and collapsed.  13 hours later, I found myself in Singapore Airport, with 2 hours until my connecting flight to Sydney. Well, being a good little planner (other than on the tissue front...), I’d done my research and booked to have use of a lounge with showers. On checking-in (no cabin-luggage duplicity required here), I was offered a massage for a mere £15. Now, after 13 hours sitting in one pretty uncomfortable position, that was exactly what I needed. 

Led into the darkened room, with the instructions “top off, bra off, lie down” I began to feel that this stopover could be an ‘experience’. (Please let me clarify before anybody gets too excited - I was lying facedown.) Moments later my masseur appeared, a diminutive, middle-aged lady sporting a gravity-defying beehive (think - a slightly younger, Singapore-version of Barbara Windsor, and you’re pretty much there), who proceeded to swing herself on top of me with incredible vigour, and start the massage with an upper-body strength which amazed me. Before the shock could fully register, she had worked her way from my upper back down to my very lower back, and appeared to be checking that my bowels were in full working order. Whether it was a violation, or a standard part of the service, I wasn’t sure. 15 minutes later (neither of us spoke - whether it was because she couldn’t speak much English, or because she wouldn’t want to be vocally identified at a future point, when police were involved, I couldn’t tell...) she slapped my bum and my back, gave my colon one more good squeeze, and said “thank you, goodbye”. 

I was the plaything of a masseur. And she didn’t even offer to take me for dinner afterwards.

The journey continues. More when I reach Sydney.

Until then,

Belle x