So sorry I’m late

Ok I’m here, finally. I got caught up. I've been jaunting across Europe, enjoying summer sunshine and crossing the Atlantic far more regularly than I would ever have imagined. Surely they are all valid excuses for avoiding delaying blogging? So apologies to my regulars. All three of you. But I assure you I'm back.

So much has happened since we last caught up. Where to start? Well, I'm 30. It happened and contrary to the self-induced trauma, it turns out the sky does not cave in and grey strands can be plucked. My 30th itself was, in short, a ridiculous indulgence. I’d dubbed it the Festival of Me and I wasn’t far wrong. Two weeks of dinners, drinks and friends that left my waistline much fatter but unfortunately not my wallet. If you ask me though, it was the hottest ticket in town.

Friends and family had travelled from Australia to celebrate (along with some locals) during what has turned out to be an unseasonably warm Summer (oops, spoke to soon, it’s raining). Following a week of intensive London sightseeing with Mum (which I suspect left her thinking my photo on the mantel is just as good as the real thing) a group of us continued on to Spain for some hardcore villa relaxation.

The villa’s charm was also its downfall. It was remote. Well, inaccessible. In reality, it was probably only a couple of miles out of town, but the winding dirt trail – which was more pothole than road - meant taxi’s flatly refused to go there; a fact we struggled to comprehend at four in the morning after a heavy night. I suspect if there is any cctv footage of that night, it will end up on some manner of reality television program about nightmare tourists. In our defence, the locals did have sympathy with our plight and chimed-in with the abuse of the taxi drivers. Well, one local anyway. But it turned out he fancied one of the girls, so his solidarity probably wasn’t that noble.

But I digress. What the villa lacked in proximity, it more than made up for in stunning beauty. Set atop the hills of the Garruf National Park, there was not another property in sight. Nothing to distract you but the heat of the sun and the opening of another bottle. The villa was set over three levels and had all the mod-cons one expects from an extravagant hideaway: plasma, swimming pool, build in bbq large enough to bake a whole lamb (or so the grounds man proudly informed us). And while I generally only use a kitchen to brush my teeth when others occupy the bathroom, the villa’s gargantuan kitchen with it’s stone basin and oversized rustic table made me want to pull out a whisk and start souffléing something.

The general gist is that the place was magnificent and returning home was far more depressing than turning 30 ever could be.

My 30th also coincided, more or less, with another significant milestone – one year in London. I’d prepared myself for the anniversary to feel like a big deal. It didn’t. In fact, it nearly passed by unnoticed. I suppose so much has been going on that surviving one-year here seemed a little inconsequential. (Note to self: it probably does warrant it’s own blog entry though.)

But such milestones do inevitably shift your focus and it has certainly made me realise that my bank balance is a little starved. I’m (naively) expecting the Pound to return to its former glory and would like to have some money to send home when it does. So I’ve decided I need to calm down a little in Year Two. In direct contradiction, I’ve also decided I need to see more of Europe. Much more. It was one of the main reasons I came over here, however despite my semi-frequent trips across the Channel, I seem to gravitate towards the places I’ve already seen. This must be remedied.

Sadly, I’ve come to the conclusion that this might mean I need to start by getting over New York. As I prepare for my fifth trip back in 14 months, I think I need to break it to her that I’m a little hooked and perhaps we should see a little less of each other. A break, if you will. One where I can see other cities. Just for a little while.

'Tis grand

They say the essence of good storytelling is conflict. Every tale needs a bit of drama. A bad guy. Some build-up of tension.

I’ve been racking my brains trying to come up with something juicy to write. Alas, nothing. The problem is, life is good. So good. And while that is great for me, enthralling blog writing it does not make.

The chances I’ve been taking are paying off. The new job has turned out to be a good move. The work is interesting, the people switched on (which does make me a little nervous) and they sent me to New York in the second week with a promise of more trips to come. Business class. Um, perfect!

My new home is a winner. I’ve living with two Australians and so far we’re getting along well - no conflict there. (Although it is a little strange living in London with Australians, spending most of my day talking with Americans). I’m ridiculously close to some fantastic places, including a café that serves a mean breakfast and dreamy latte (they must be Australian). My daily routine consists of waking up (late), strolling to the café for coffee and continuing the walk to work via some of London’s most glitzy landmarks - and still getting in by nine.

Family and friends are making their way over to my side of the world in preparation for the Festival of Me. And while that dirty thirty milestone has never been closer, the biggest concern about it I have is deciding whether we will have wild boar ‘hunted locally’ or lobster and duck at the private dinner we’ve organised while staying at a Spanish villa. Sickening, I know.

Life did try to knock me off my high horse and make me tread dirt for a little while. I recently went to Paris for the weekend - however Air France had other ideas about where I should be vacationing and sent my luggage to Cardiff instead. (Intriguingly, Air France doesn’t fly to Cardiff). And while that had the potential to send me off the rails, the worst of it was that I was without my laptop for a week and had to deal with some infuriating customer service in the meantime. Oh, and I got to do some free shopping. In Paris. So see, I can’t even really complain about that too much.

In short, life is grand. Which seems a little odd. I’ve been trying to get to this point for a while, and now that I’m here I don’t quite know what to do with myself. I feel I need to be dealing with some sort of crisis. I suppose drama is one addiction I need to kick.

I know, I know. Boring.

You were good! It's just others were better...

Despite aspirations of becoming a renowned actor, my absolute fear of auditions meant I was never really going to have much success on the stage.

Auditions are something I loathe more than decisions – there’s too much of me on show, and generally I do everything I can to keep me well hidden. And if there’s one thing I hate more than auditions, it’s group auditions.

So I’ve found the whole experience of finding a place to live in London a little terrifying. Living arrangements are clearly one of the biggest differences between London and Melbourne. There is, of course, the ludicrous expense of renting in London, where you can easily sacrifice half your salary for a place you would never feel comfortable bringing your mother. But more to the point, London is all about the share house. Here places are often let by the room, meaning you’re not just getting a home; you’re getting a whole suite of strangers to share your personal moments with.

In Australia, it’s generally quite different. It’s common to move out on your own, or with friends and rent a place in its entirety. Which means that the only person you have to impress is the real estate agent – and that’s all done by paper.

In London you have to impress many more people. You start by coming up with a witty introductory email that makes you sound interesting – but not psychopathic (not an easy balance to achieve after several rejections). You then have to make a striking first impression or else you may as well not bother taking a foot over the threshold. And once in, you have to sing and dance and convince a room full of strangers that you are the most interesting, entertaining person in the world, all while a line of competitors send death stares your way.

I don’t do too well in such situations. I get nervous and end up standing in the corner, silent and bearing a ridiculous grin that I hope diverts people from the fact that I am being utterly boring, all while others steal the spotlight. The whole experience gives me blinding flashbacks to my university acting days, where I capably delivered my lines while fellow students ripped off layers of clothing to reveal their lines scrawled on their flesh with permanent marker. Then, as now, it just looked like they wanted it more.

Admittedly in some cases this hasn’t been a bad thing. At my first viewing, I was greeted at the door by a Spaniard who spoke very little English and sported more chest hair than should ever be legal. The room itself was about the size of my mother’s laundry and was bare except for a single bed (it was advertised as a double). Not even curtains. When I saw two policemen at the neighbour’s doorstep, I decided it was probably in my best interests that these people didn’t take to me.

On the flip side, there have been times when the competition has been devastating. One place in particular springs to mind. It was in a perfect location, it was spacious, stylish, and the two girls living there seemed particularly groovy.

But here’s the thing. If you are going to make this whole share house thing work, you have to go into these auditions with an open mind. More than an open mind. You have to go in ready to convince yourself that the place is fantastic and that these people are going to be your new bffs. The difficulty was, in this case, that I did just that. I could see my new bff’s and I going to bars, clubs, launches. We’d throw fabulous parties and they’d select my outfits and tell me how to style my hair. And we’d do anything for each other, because that’s what bff’s do.

Unfortunately, they didn’t have the same visions and the role of bff was given to someone else. I think it was because, aware of my previous lack of charisma in these situations, I overcompensated by cornering one of the girls and nervously barked at her like Vicky Pollard on speed. The poor thing looked terrified.

But, eventually, all things do have a happy ending. I have succeeded in finding a home in Angel, an area I was determined to live the moment I laid eyes on it years ago. It’s clean, opposite several pubs, and best of all I didn’t have to audition. The landlord let it out himself, meaning he was more interested in the ‘paper me’, rather than how well I could deliver one-liners. And I’m the first to move in, which means now I get to choose my flat mates.

Let the auditions begin.

New suit

It’s been a while since my last update, and in keeping with my Catholic shackles I feel totally guilty about it. In my defense though, I’ve been working hard at not getting stuck in routine since returning from New York, which - while fun - tends to fatigue the old writing muscle.

I’ve particularly been trying to take a few more chances – saying yes more often and consciously not talking myself out of things before I’ve really considered them. And not getting stuck.

My work kindly offered to make me a permanent member of their clique. While on the surface the security was an attractive proposition, something about it didn’t feel quite right. It took me a while to put my finger on precisely what that was, but I think I’ve got it now. I didn’t move to London to do exactly what I was doing in Melbourne. Which, despite peripheral differences, is essentially what’s happened. I’m writing the same messages, in the same industry, in the same suits.

I want a new suit.

I want to be able to say I’ve expanded my horizons. I want to be able to go home saying I’ve done things I’d never dreamed - or at least things that would never have been possible had I stayed put.

So I decided it was time to shake things up a little – in particular I wanted to move beyond banking; get some new experience, and maybe get to do a spot of travel in the process (beyond the Isle of Man). I’m a bit of a believer that once you set your mind on something, things have a tendency to fall into place. Low and behold, that philosophy seems to have paid off. I have a new job!

It’s a role in professional services – one of the ‘Big Four’. I know that it’s probably not that different to banking. But the role itself seems challenging and the projects global, which mean I’m likely to get that experience I’d never have back home. Plus, despite the fact I did the worst thing possible in an interview situation (I didn’t show up!) they still gave me the job, which tells me these professional services people are all right.

It’s given me one of those rare moments when you’re able to appreciate what’s actually going right, rather than just see all the things that are getting in the way. This is (potentially) exactly the kind of experience I came over to London to for. And honestly, I’m a little surprised it’s actually falling into place.

And did I mention I get to go to New York? Told you I could make this work.

Love quadrangle

I’m married to Melbourne...but I’m in love with London. And I’m totally having an affair with New York City.

My inaugural visit to the Big Apple had left me captivated. One glimpse and I was hooked on her glamour and verve, so much so that on the first day I was questioning whether it should have been New York I was moving to. I was interested to see whether I’d feel the same this time around.

I do. Desperately.

I don’t think I’ve ever had such an immediate connection with a city. It’s the one holiday destination where I’m content to let the attractions go and just hang out. A determined traveller, I’ve made my way across Europe according to ‘To Do’ lists and pressing schedules. But something about New York makes me a bit blasé about the must-sees and content to concentrate on just living. After two trips, I’m still to lay eyes on the Statue of Liberty (although I did see Katie Holmes with Suri, which I understand is a tourist attraction in itself).

Waking up this morning I had the dreaded realisation that it’s time to leave, again. I struggled to put my finger on exactly what it is about this place I’m addicted to. I put the question to a New Yorker. He answered, easily.

“It’s all about the energy here.”

Exactly! Of course it is. You can see that energy everywhere, manifested in the chaos of Times Square and the rush of people going about their lives. But it’s deeper (and less annoying) than that. In New York, there’s a racing pulse that underlies nearly everything. Its larger-than-life status on the world stage attracts every lifestyle, while its compactness seems to keep everyone and everything connected. I know it’s not for everyone, but I think I’m in serious danger of become a junkie.

I can see from my reflection in the laptop screen (and specifically the bags under my eyes) that the past week has been good. So good. But more significantly, it was invigorating. It’s refocused my attention on my Year of Taking Chances. New York is a city full of people taking chances. For example, I came to New York to see a friend, Eleanor, for the opening night of Limonade Tous Les Jours. The last time I saw Eleanor on stage was when I was a production manager for her theatre company back in Australia. Five years and a scholarship to the New School for Drama later, Eleanor is now a consummate professional, on the verge of great things I’m sure.

Because she took a chance. A huge one. Moving to the other side of the world to pursue a career in acting could be viewed as a little foolhardy. But Eleanor is doing something that she loves and it’s starting to pay off. And frankly, I’m a little jealous.

While there are undoubtedly people like Eleanor and opportunities like New York’s in every city across the world, sometimes you need to take yourself out of your routine to recognise them. Now that I have, I’m determined to return to London and seek out a few more chances myself.

To be clear, I don’t think I’ve made the wrong decision in choosing London. London is serving me well. Very well. My week in New York has simply made me realise I’m torn between loves. Not that this is such a terrible thing - if there comes a time when I do leave London, I have my other woman to fall back on. And in the meantime, at just seven hours a flight (a blink of an eye to an Australian) the two cities work together nicely.

I still love London. And my vows to Melbourne will never be broken. I’m determined that this is one quadrangle I can make work.


While there was too much fun and frivolity to describe here, one experience was particularly Sex and the City.

I was lucky enough to win a session with a NY Personal Stylist (!) - someone who takes you shopping and tells you what works…and what you should never have been caught dead in all those years. While that sounds like a nightmare to many I’m sure, I went into it thinking it would be a hilarious experience if nothing else. One more thing I could tick off.

Deciding what to wear when you know you are ultimately going to be judged is not the easiest thing in the world. This was made that much worse by having a big night the evening before and waking up on a couch in a random hotel room, with said stylist calling to say he wanted to meet in an hour. (In my defense, drinks in New York are served with a ridiculous amount of vodka.) Being dishevelled, and possibly still a little tipsy, was not the New York fabulousness I was going for.

But still, the indulgence was fun. George, the stylist, was very gentle with me and knew his stuff. He worked fast and before I knew it had me handing over a large portion of my salary on clothes I may never have the confidence to wear again.

Maybe I should stay away from New York.

An anticipated return

There’s something calming about scotch before a flight. After the stress of fighting through crowds to the airport, navigating numerous check-in gates and surviving airport security interrogations, a small sip can be just the thing to bring your heart rate back to its comfort zone. I’m a hopeless traveler without one.

I have one now so all is good. And to be honest, apart from a suspended Tube line, the process of getting to the flight lounge has been unusually relaxed. So much so that a couple of security personnel at the screening zone were making out. I repeat, making out. Clearly they knew something about the working status of the security cameras the rest of us did not.

But anyway, I digress. I’m here waiting for my flight to New York (airports are proving a wonderful place for navel gazing and blog writing). It’s an eagerly awaited trip, although once again I don’t feel at all prepared which is becoming somewhat of a trend now that I don’t have to plan travel years in advance. I left New York eight months ago feeling like I‘d just said goodbye to a holiday romance; all late nights and good times with none of the revealing morning breath. This will be the trip that either confirms the city’s magical quality or reveals it to be an animatronic fraud, much like when I first returned to Disneyland as an adult. (To be fair, it was EuroDisney.)

New York City is a place like no other. That most of us can agree. For me it holds a powerful allure. My first encounter with New York was fresh off a 45-hour trek, heavily jetlagged and severely emotionally drained following a series of raw farewells in Australia. I was ready to collapse. I was ready to retreat. I was ready to hate being anywhere but home.

But how can you hate New York? On that first day I remember being recharged by the frantic neon of Times Square. Finding peace in the sanctuary of Central Park. Feeling like it should be home as I walked the streets of Greenwich Village.

In short, I knew in a few hours what took several months to discover about London – it’s for me.

New York is a city of sights and sounds. But the thing that took me completely by surprise was that it can also be still, when it wants to be. Away from the pace of Midtown, the streets can be calm and inviting. The small lanes tangled in the Village were tree-lined and immaculately kept. I was prepared for Manhattan to be anything but ordered. The revelation left me feeling that in New York, you can have your cake and eat it too.

I’ll be interested to see if the memory holds up. I’m quietly confident it will. And this time I won’t be carting my entire life, dispersed across three flimsy suitcases. I won’t be dragging the weight of starting a new life. I won’t be spreading costs across several Australian credit cards. This time I’m going to take New York out on a fancy date.

Yes, New York and I are going to pick up right where we left it. Hot and heavy.

Ticked off

Sitting on this rickety little plane on route to the Isle of Man makes me realise that I’ve been exposed to a whole lot of new since moving to London.

I’m on my way to deliver a workshop on how to write effective messages. It’s bizarre that a year ago I didn’t even know that the Isle of Man existed, let alone think I could be suitably qualified to deliver a lecture there on the do’s and don’ts of corporate writing.

But here I am, jammed into a tiny plane, on my way to said island to impart some wisdom.

Yesterday I gave the same presentation in Jersey, one of the Channel Islands. I can now say I’ve been to two of these Channel Islands and while I have no compelling desire to complete the set, I am enjoying the chance to visit new places. Dull as they may be.

Jersey isn’t the most exciting place in the world. And from all reports Isle of Man is no tourist mecca either.* Following my presentation in Jersey I was able to duck out of the office to see the local highlights. After a lap of the CBD (a street) I decided the time would be better spent getting a long-overdue haircut. (Someone in the office had remarked, “Mr Butterley! You’re hair is doing funky things!” It wasn’t a compliment.)

So I booked myself in for a cut with a girl whose previous appointment had been her Barbie doll - and paid an outrageous amount more than I would have in London for the pleasure. (On a side note, I may not be a qualified hairdresser but I do know it’s best to wash gel out of hair before attempting to cut it. I also know that ear cartilage is NOT designed to be twisted 180 degrees, no matter how finely you want to trim a hairline). No, I wasn’t enamoured with Jersey.

But I’ve been. Tick.

I’ve had quite a few ‘ticks’ since I left Australia. A year ago I was dreaming of finally making it to New York. This time in two weeks I will have been twice in nine months. Considering it took me 28 years to get there the first time, it goes to show that you really have to be unconscious or some manner of agoraphobe not to have some unique experiences when you’re on the same side of the world as practically everything.

I’ve been to great West End shows, attended film premieres, become dwarfed by massive nightclubs and been accused of alcoholism by overzealous health authorities. Just last week I went with a group (including my stepbrother Tim who is on his own European journey) to an underground restaurant - a restaurant which ‘pops up’ in some unconventional space like a lounge room or industrial kitchen. It was awesome. The food was outstanding, the company grand and I survived the night without having any major organs harvested. Definitely worth the risk. (Although given it was a B.Y.O. event I did pay for it the next morning – possibly supporting the NHS’ assessment of my drinking habits. Tim and I were due for a day of sightseeing but decided to call it quits after an hour of modern art at Tate sent us both a little psychedelic.)

I think what I’m slowly getting at – both in this entry and life in general – is that I’m lucky to be here. On the rare occasions that I do forget about Tube congestion or the cold or the credit card bills and take a look at all the cool stuff I’m doing, I wonder if I could ever get sick of being in the heart of such activity.

Although, sitting here on this vibrating model plane with rather jagged-looking cliffs below, I realise there are times when unconsciousness does seem a mightily appealing option.


*Having now returned (safely) I can report that there really is little to see on the Isle of Man (or at least in the capital Douglas). Other than the crescent bay and perhaps the Home of Rest for Old Horses, which I half expected would be some quirky slaughterhouse. It was, in fact, a retirement village for horses.

But the people were lovely and quintessentially eccentric. The ground crew at the airport sported decidedly oversized leprechaun hats to mark St Patrick’s Day. The taxi drivers doubled as tour guides, pointing out such local gems as the Air Force Ejection Seat factory.

And I’m in love with the sweet lady at the airport check-in counter. “Oh my dear, you’ve come to the wrong airline. Make your way over there.” She then stood up, pushed her chair along to the competing airline’s desk and proceeded to check me in. Gold.

I resigned today

From my Australian job that is.

Terrified that I might fall foul of the Global Financial Crisis and be forced to return prematurely to Melbourne broke and dejected, I requested a career break from ANZ. Kindly they came to the party, which has been a fantastic security blanket while re-establishing myself.

Now, four months before I’m due back behind the desk, I’ve hit that point where I need to make a decision. I loathe decisions.

I do know that I’m nowhere near ready to go back: I have more to see. The sun is being all flirtatious. I can’t afford the airfare.

I need more time. A lot more. But unfortunately that doesn’t work for work, which is fair enough. While it’s really no big deal – I have another job and I am on the other side of the world after all – it’s one of those moments that forces you to stop and finally give some airtime to those little voices. Do I want to stay? Do I even like it here? Am I willing to give up a good thing back home?

The answer is undoubtedly ‘yes’ to all. For now. So safe in that knowledge, I feel comfortable in cutting the safety chord and watching it snap all the way back to Australia.

It’s a good feeling, and another reminder that I’ve survived. Which is all I really hoped for this trip. It also means I’ll be home when I’m good and ready.

But I will miss the Z.

I’m totally at peace with it

I’m totally not.

In four months, I’ll be 30. I’ve used so much headspace planning dinners, parties and Spanish villas that I’ve been distracted from the real reason I’ll be ‘celebrating’ in late June. I’m about to enter my fourth decade.

I spent the weekend with a friend from Australia – someone nearly four years my junior, who had tactfully told me on my 28th birthday that I had great skin for someone my age. This weekend he turned 26 and lamented about how quickly old age had arrived. When I heard myself reeling off that whole ‘you’re so not old’ lecture I’ve had so many times before from those approaching 40, I realised 'crap, I’m finally there'. At last the realities of my own impending birthday were sharply in focus.

I am getting old…er. But that doesn’t bother me. So much. I’m not showing too many signs of aging - not visible ones anyway. I’m still confused for mid-20s and apparently for my age I do have great skin. Although I am finding I run into walls a lot more recently.

No, it’s not an age thing that’s got my mind stewing. It’s that old achievement chestnut. I mean, I have done a lot in a (relatively) short time, but I’m nearly 30 and I don’t have the clarity I expected to have at this point. Now that I’m over here in London and I’m slowly starting to figure out what I want to achieve, I’m kicking myself that I didn’t work it all out 10 years earlier.

At younger ages I knew exactly what I wanted in life. At 8, I wanted to be a priest (read into that what you will!). At 12, I fully expected to become the youngest actor to win an Academy Award (how I cursed Anna Pacquin when she stole my thunder*). And at 18, I was studying theatre at university, on my way to the big time.

By 20 I had lost all sense of direction, and ten years later I’m yet to truly get it back. As I entered adulthood and began working all day only to hemorrhage my wage on rent and credit cards, I become somewhat trapped in a corporate routine that I never quite saw myself in. I lost that clear picture of what I wanted, or what I could be.

I still think to myself I’ll be an actor when I grow up. Or I’ll give writing a go in the next few years. But it’s getting to a point where I should really wake up to the fact that I am grown up now and I should stop thinking of myself as that 18 year old, expecting that everything will one day be conveniently delivered in a sealed envelope.

The thing that I think really gets me as I race towards 30, is that I haven’t tried. Not really. I haven’t really taken the risks to be that actor, or write that book. Or even stopped to have a good think if either of those are what I actually want in life. To be fair, taking myself out of my routine and planting myself on the other side of the world has done wonders for renewing my sense of direction. And while I’m still not 100% sure what I want, it’s becoming increasingly clear what I don’t – and that in itself is a long overdue start.

It just sucks that I’m only working this out as I say ‘farewell twenties – but are you sure you can’t hang around for one more drink?’ At least the puzzle is starting to reveal itself. The challenge will be to make my 30’s count. I don’t think my skin can hold on till 40.

And in the meantime, I plan to celebrate hard – lest I remember again I’m just a fraction younger than 30.


* Further research has revealed that an eight-year-old Tatum O'Neal was, in fact, the youngest Academy Award winner, being awarded in 1973 for her performance in Paper Moon. In my defense, as a 12 year old, I had no idea the Seventies even existed.

Winter Coat

There’s something comforting about a good winter coat. They’re warm, protective and personally, I think everyone looks good in one.

When I touched down in London, I was without mine. Three weeks of warm weather and sunshine had rendered me blissfully ignorant to the fact that somewhere in the world – somewhere I would be returning soon – was a place in the midst of one of the coldest winters ever (or so the British keep telling me). My body, which had conveniently forgotten about low single-digit temperatures, quickly lost it and even though a full week has now past, we’re still not really talking to one another.

In turns out London is that cold. Arriving here last summer meant that I barely noticed the seasons turning from lukewarm, to cool, to Icelandic. I think that slow transition may have given me somewhat of an immunity to the true penetration of the cold. It’s kind of like that old corporate analogy – put a frog in a pot of water and turn on the hotplates and it will happily laze around in the Jacuzzi-like conditions, unaware that its insides are slowly turning to soup. However, drop that frog in a pot already boiling and the intensity will make it instantly leap out. Last Saturday, I was that frog. Except the water wasn’t so much boiling as freezing. And I was trying to leap straight back onto the plane, but apparently such rash moves don’t go down well with airport security.

In fairness to London, I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t want to carry a suitcase full of heavy sweaters and coats across the world so I’d packed a light jumper and jacket to wear on my return. What a fool! I convulsed the whole way home, thinking I’d rather be anywhere else than here.

Returning to work only reinforced that train of thought. I spent my first morning questioning why I hadn’t been born into significant wealth, so I could spend my days sailing the Mediterranean and frequenting celebrity hotspots. But I suppose returning to work after a holiday is depressing for everyone. I’ve never met anyone who’s said, ‘thank god that holiday is over. I can’t wait to catch up on emails’. (If you are that person then I don’t think we can be friends anymore.)

My first week back was made more arduous than perhaps necessary due to my required presence at an all-day workshop. One of the presenters started by nonchalantly informing us “I know there’s too much information on this slide, and the text is too small, and you won’t read it, but it’s worth putting up anyway.”

No, it’s not.

There is too much information and the text is too small. And NO! I’m not going to read it. It hurts! It makes me want to scour my eyeballs with the complimentary stationary and move to the mountains where I can raise goats and be far, far away from your masochistic abuse of technology!

My death stares did little to dissuade her from going through each bullet point in detail, proving that there was, in fact, no worth to the slide after all. Perhaps I’m being a little harsh. But I’d just returned from an amazing trip and frankly, this was not the snap to reality I needed.

I’ve been reminding myself that I’ve had the same feelings in the past when I’ve returned to Australia. Over the years I’ve ventured north many times, visiting exciting places and experiencing warmer climates. And every time I returned to Melbourne, I was struck by how cold it was and how Europeans have it so much better. I also harboured significant ill will over the requirement to return to work.

So I think what I have is just a touch of the post-holiday blues rather than anything more sinister. It’s funny, I’ve eagerly anticipated trips to London so many times in the past. But as soon as London becomes home, and I have responsibilities, it all becomes a bit of a drag. I suppose life can’t always be a holiday.

Or can it? I’m in New York in just over a month. I’m going to Spain and Venice as well. I’m turning 30 (I’m totally at peace with it), which of course means parties. And London life is quickly reminding me that there are things to be done here that simply aren’t possible down south.

There’s plenty to distract me from the realities of work, and the cold, until the summer frivolity rolls around. And in the meantime, I’ve got a good winter coat.

Manic Mumbai (a.k.a. longest blog ever)

India has never been a place that held much appeal for me. I thought one day I’d like to see the Taj Mahal, but that’s about it. The rest of India seemed dirty, smelly and dangerous.

So I wasn’t sure how I’d go with a three-day stopover in Mumbai for an Indian wedding. We’d be staying at the Taj Mahal Hotel, but that was some 250 kilometres from the wondrous Palace itself. And I really hadn’t done any research on Mumbai, so I didn’t know anything about the city and the only landmarks that sprung to mind were the shanty towns from Slumdog Millionaire.

When I arrived in Mumbai I was expecting chaos. India’s propensity for colour and bedlam is widely known. So I was not at all surprised to see crates and airport staff sitting scattered along the tarmac at Mumbai airport. In fact, after everything I’d heard it seemed mildly organised. The crates were out of the plane’s path after all.

However, when I entered the terminal it became clear that any organisation was hanging by a thin thread. For example, baggage collection was no straightforward task:

“Passengers on Flight QF 51, you’re baggage can be collected from Carousel Number 1.”
“Passengers on Flights QF 51, you’re baggage can now be collected from Carousel Number 3.”
“Passengers on Flight QF 51, you’re baggage is now on Carousel Number 1.”

As we trudged back to Carousel 1, we overheard a disagreement between two airport staff that tipped us off to the fact that the correct carousel was in fact, Number 3. When we left with our luggage, the correct announcement still hadn’t been made, leaving an airplane full of exhausted passengers getting increasingly irate.

If the taxi ride from the airport hadn’t been so life threatening, it would have made an awesome ride at Disneyland. Crammed into a tiny car, we hurtled through the outskirts of Mumbai. Traffic lights were little more than street art, and I found it quaint that cars with ‘right of way’ would slow at intersections to allow our taxi to fit through the gap in the traffic flow.

Driving through the streets I was confronted with stark scenes of poverty. Scores of people slept on the bare footpath, beggars knocked on the windows when the car was stationary. And the slums were a hotchpotch of hastily thrown together habitats, piled on top of one another (dishearteningly, those I saw were luxurious compared to the larger slums deep in the city). Ramshackle shops bordered the edges of the slums, plastered with Virgin, Vodafone and Pepsi signs. A massive billboard towered above run-down buildings with Ingrid Bergman urging passersby to purchase Mont Blanc products. It all spoke to the duplicity of the city – a metropolis with the extremes of poverty and wealth, but with little more separating the two than police officers brandishing large sticks.

After an hour’s drive, we arrived at the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel. It was breathtaking, but while I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the lavish beauty of the place, it was somewhat disconcerting to know that I’d be enjoying its comforts when so much of the city slept in considerably less fortunate circumstances. After the attacks on the Hotel little more than a year ago, the establishment was well prepared. Armed guards bordered the entrance and guests underwent airport-like security – but without the attitude. And while it appeared slightly uninviting and excessive, I did sleep easy knowing that a repeat of those terrible events was extremely unlikely.

The touristy bits

While the trip was brief, I was able to experience some of Mumbai. The streets were chaotic – but in a way that became totally energising. Life here is so different that it makes the concept of people watching a more worthwhile exercise.

We took a trip to Elephanta Island, which is an hour boat ride from Mumbai – which says more about the quality of the boats than the actual distance (the ‘captain’ got the engine started by pulling a rope, which signalled the people below to fire things up). The caves were amazing, with massive statues of deities carved into the stone walls. We were lucky enough to go on a festival day, which meant not only was entry free, there were hundreds of people making offerings at the rock alters and idols throughout the caves. Again, it was manic. People crowded in front of Shiva’s giants heads, offering flowers, food and even money to their deities.

There were also monkeys on the island, which I found both adorable and feral. They’d also steal your bag if given half the chance, making them the most pressing threat I experienced in Mumbai. They fascinated me, until I realised their remarkable similarity to humans, particularly in the genital regions - at which point I felt kind of creepy.

I have to also mention that we were a point of fascination for many of the local children and teenagers. I’m guessing it’s because many in villages wouldn’t come across too many Caucasians. They would shake our hands and ask to have photos taking with us. Of course, this totally tapped into every celebrity fantasy I’ve ever had, so I would have been quite content to stay there all day lapping up the attention, however my comrades thought it was best we move on. I’m now investigating real estate on the island.

I suppose I should mention food, which is a concern for every inexperienced traveller to India. I’m not really a fan of curries, or vegetables for that matter, so I did struggle with the food. Don’t get me wrong, what I had was tasty and good quality – and I didn’t need to visit the bathroom more than necessary – it’s just that after a lifetime of meat and three veg, it’s just not my thing. Thankfully, the Hotel’s room service had every type of meat available, 24 hours, and I would regularly make my offering of Rupees to my In-Room Dining idol.

The wedding

Nothing I could write can convey the colour, music and joy of an Indian wedding.

Having missed the village ceremonies, I joined proceedings three days into the event. The day began with a loud street procession to the Taj Mahal Hotel, representing the groom’s traditional journey to the bride’s village. The guests, dressed in ornate Saris and Kurtas, danced through the street in absolute celebration, while tourists stood on the side taking photos. Having been one of those tourists many times before, it was nice to feel part of it this time around.

The ceremony consisted of 16 rituals, starting with the procession and ending with the newly weds departure. Every ritual seemed bizarre and elaborate to me – but then, my only comparison is a western wedding, where the ceremony is really just the bit you have to sit through before you can get pissed. It made me think that the Indians really get it. A wedding is a celebration. And every ritual, and every guest, has a role in adding to the spectacle of it all.

In short, it was one of the best things I’ve ever seen.

A fond farewell

On my last day I decided to have a private yoga session, which was part relaxation, part tribute to my grandmother who had made eight pilgrimages to India to study yoga. It loved it, although the instructor – before we started and after taking just one look at me – told me I needed to tone my lower abdomen. I begrudgingly agreed and let me mind wander briefly to Elephanta Island, my new happy place.

Perhaps a little more wisely, he also said that during the session we ask the universe to make the room a womb, and in that womb we become childlike again and grow and learn so that at the end of the hour, we return to the world a better person. I found this a very powerful analogy, and much like my trip to Mumbai. Three days of wonder, excitement and adjustment. I was a child again, discovering something entirely new about the world, and at times vulnerable and dependent on others. And as I leave Mumbai now, I know I am so much better for the experience.

It has all left me with a craving to return to India. There is so much more I want to see and learn. And the real Taj Mahal doesn’t make the top three.

So I will be back. But I might bring a packed lunch.

Transition

So I may have been a little eager to shout out how keen I was to get back to London.

I mean, I am. Of course.

But damn, this whole leaving thing can be really hard.

Over the years I’ve had many friends venture overseas and they’ve always handled the life change with pizzazz. For them it’s just like slipping on a new outfit, designer of course. For me however, it’s starting to feel more like an old pair of comfy track pants I’m reluctant to take off.

Now that I’ve gone through this twice, the whole experience reminds me of those last ten minutes in ‘Six Feet Under’. For those who find ‘Six Feet Under’ too obscure a reference, firstly, what are you doing? See it. Now. Secondly, the last ten minutes (without spoiling anything) is both amazing and devastating. In equal amounts.

That’s how leaving, both times, has felt. Amazing in terms of a new life for the taking. Devastating that indeed, everything does end. When I’m in Melbourne, or London, neither extreme is immediately apparent. It’s only in the transition that what I stand to gain, and lose, bludgeons me over the head.

It’s been good to remember that Melbourne really does rock. Despite my initial hesitations, the weather, the coffee, the people (and the bacon) eventually (cruelly) reminded me that I have left a lot behind by moving overseas.

It reminded me too that I very much have a past. I can pretend that past vanished when I traded my thongs (who calls them ‘flip flops’, really?) for several layers of heavy fleece, but it’s still there. It also reminded me that that is a good thing.

A surprising high point. I went into “work” for a visit – that being my non-UK work (I’m on a career break) and I was treated like a bit of a rock star (which I handled with all the grace of Mariah Carey at an awards ceremony). People warmly encouraged me to come back, soon, (which I suspect could have more to do with their workloads than any compelling desire to see my face every day). Outside of work, friends told me they missed me. Even my sisters were nice to me.

In short, I felt appreciated. Which is all anyone really wants in life, right? So why am I giving it all up? Again.

It’s led me to think about 2010 – my Year of Taking Chances. I’ve decided that this is the year it’s going to happen. I’ve had to make some sacrifices, and now it’s time for the pay off. It’s like the universe is saying, ‘really, we want you to stay. You should stay. But if you can convince us this whole London thing will do you good, then you go and prove it to us.’

Get ready to have your arse kicked 2010.

Return to Oz

I’m totally aware of the irony in writing my next entry about the transition to London from a beach in Australia.

It reminds me just how different Australia is to the UK, despite our convict connections. I’m yet to even see a beach in England. I’ve heard they exist, but then again, some people think there’s a monster in the Loch Ness too.

But anyway, my return Down Under. After a day or two of weird, I’m back in the Melbourne swing of things.

My first day back I did feel like an imposter, no longer part of the tribe. Bronzed waifs danced the streets in front of me, attired in short shorts and sporting bras. The women weren’t wearing much either. I, on the other hand, was a pastey shade of pale and the only thing waif about me was the fact I’d skipped that fourth breakfast offered on the ludicrously long-haul flight.

At first, I was struck by how the familiar had become unfamiliar. I can’t put my finger on exactly what had changed. I think it was more that living in another place had given me a warped perspective of my old town. The buildings that had fit so perfectly together before now appeared slightly mismatched. I found myself thinking “I’m not sure that really works” more often than I care to admit. It also didn’t help that the city was full of tourists and undesirables, buzzing around in a drunken Australian Open frenzy. I was left with a devastating impression that Melbourne had lost its class.

But day-by-day, the great about Melbourne revealed itself and I remembered the mise en scène is inconsequential to Melbourne. It’s about the people. And the food.

It’s been so great catching up with friends. Each conversation is a happy overload – six months of good times and anecdotes to cram into a few minutes of conversation. Nothing is boring. Except perhaps me and my repetitive take on life in London and how really, it’s not that cold.

The sun is behaving too. Admittedly, a few extra degrees wouldn’t go astray, but by and large it’s warm and sunny, as evidenced by the random burn marks on my feet. And I can’t wash my hair without a burning sensation. I really don’t know how the entire Slip, Slop, Slap campaign passed me by.

I’m getting to do some of my favourite things. Most involve putting on kilos and destroying my liver, but damn, if you’re going to do it, Melbourne is the place. I was also able to go to the Quarter Finals of the Australian Open which filled me with an extra sense of national pride, not because any Australians were playing but because I knew I’d have more chance becoming a member of the tennis sporting elite than I would have getting a ground pass to Wimbledon. I think I’ve said it before; Australia is easy.

Which all leads to the million dollar question – is it making me want to stay?

Not bloody likely. I still have a week to go but at the halfway mark, I can say I’m looking forward to going back. Mum will be devastated with the news, but the experience has been a nice reminder that Australia will always be here for me when I need her. Which is not right now.

David asked me, what exactly is it that you are looking forward to going back to in London. My mind went blank at first. But then, slowly, it came to me.

“I’m looking forward to getting back to the journey,” I said. “In London, I don’t have a past.”

I can’t wait to get back there and start creating one.

Return ticket

I’ve made this trip many times before. However, this is my first time leaving London holding a return ticket.

It’s a bizarre feeling. The thought of going home for an overseas holiday is a little hard to compute. It’s home! Australia isn’t overseas!

It’s caught me a bit off guard. Compared with trips in my early 20’s, the anticipation hasn’t been quite as strong. After all, I know what’s coming. There’s no need for guidebooks, I know my way around. And there’s really no need to plan what to pack. I know where to go if I need something.

I know I’m ok in Australia. It’s easy.

That sense of security caught me off guard late last night, when it finally sank in that I was about to take the long haul flight and I wasn’t at all prepared. I was up until the early hours chaotically throwing whatever was on the floor into a suitcase. Normally a meticulous ‘roller’, I could only manage to scrunch clothes into a ball and toss them onto the pile. Before I knew it, I was a few hours away from my flight with no clear strategy on how I’d even get to the airport. Evidently, peak hour plus luggage makes me the most unpopular boy on the Tube.

Now that I’ve had a chance to catch my breath here at the airport, I’m thinking, wow. Wow, I’m going home. But wow, home’s not really home. Wow, it turns out I really don’t know what to expect after all. It’s kind of freaking me out! (The complimentary vodkas may be a contributing factor.)

When I booked my ticket back to Australia all those months ago, I was so excited. London was hard. I was navigating so many things; new job, different culture, no friends, new friends. It was exhausting! And while I was determined to see it through, the idea of a little reprieve was very appealing.

And then London crept up on me. I began to get some rhythm. I learnt how to weave through the hoards during the peak hour crush (I hardly knock anyone over anymore). I taught myself tricks on how to beat the cold (mostly beer and central heating – I still haven’t come to grips with thermals). And I found some great people in this city, with more arriving every day or so it seems.

Now that I’ve found that rhythm, I want to stand still a while and let it flow. Don’t get me wrong, I’m totally looking forward to catching up with the people I’ve missed. The sunshine and I have so much catching up to do. And I do love Melbourne. But part of me feels a couple more months in London before returning wouldn’t have gone astray.

I suppose I’m just a touch afraid that I’ll return to London and be offbeat again. That the lure of old friends, warm weather and yes, decent coffee, might mean having to go through the adjusting one more time.

But then I suppose there are worse positions to be in. Woe is me! I have to return to a sun-soaked country for an awesome time before resuming my trip of a lifetime. How terrible!

And I get to go back with a fabulous tan.

Turning Point

When I left Australia I told myself that if I hadn’t made it in London within six months, I’d turn around and come home with my tail between my legs.

Low and behold, I’ve just looked up and realised six months is up. Half a year ago to the day I stepped off the plane and cruised through passport control, ready to own London. I felt confident, excited and secure knowing that London and I were going to get on like a house on fire. It took me 20 minutes to realise I was waiting at the wrong baggage carousel.

Not a great start. Since then I’ve had regular reminders that in order to survive London, or any unfamiliar place I suppose, you have to learn you’re the master of nothing.

Case in point, one of my first job interviews went ridiculously well. We got to chatting, had a few laughs and the whole affair went 20 minutes longer than scheduled - evidence of the great time we were clearly having. I was so happy with how it went that I rang my recruitment agent immediately to let her know what a star candidate she had on her books. A couple of hours later she rang me back to let me know I had failed to make the second round.

So evidently it’s best not to get cocky about anything.

(Although interestingly in the next interview I had, the dragon lady interrogating me had me contemplating tears. Blubbering mess. Yet somehow, the feedback I received there was ‘He’s good. He’d do well here”.)

I’m sure it’s really just a fact of life, something we all need to be in-tune with rather than a location-specific phenomenon. The point is, when you’re out of your comfort zone, you become acutely aware of each misstep and every little thing that doesn’t go quite right. Even inadvertently heading North instead of South when emerging from the Tube has the potential to send you into a round of ‘what am I doing here? I mean really doing here?’

But I suppose it’s made the six months feel more worthwhile in a way. The feelings of uselessness are nothing compared to the sensation of accomplishment when you overcome a new problem. The sense of personal triumph I had when I finally figured out how to top-up my Oyster Card without patrons behind me swearing furiously was one of the best highs I’ve had.

But enough nazel gazing! To commemorate my six months in London, I made a list. Everybody loves a list!

Things I love about London

1. Europe, just over there
2. Public transport (the Tube really is impressive. Even the signage is impressive. I’ve never been so impressed by signage before)
3. Earning Pounds (so much better than not earning pounds)
4. Pints
5. Snow
6. The West End
7. History, everywhere
8. Parties wherever, whenever
9. Christmas lights
10. Coffee houses run by Australians (reluctantly I admit the New Zealanders also make a decent coffee).

And no list of favourite things would be complete without a list of not-so-favourite things:

Things I don’t love so much about London

1. Ryanair (this should really be Number One on my ‘Things I hate about life’ list)
2. Public transport (overcrowding and ludicrously restricted operating hours for a city of many, many millions)
3. Employment (for a smorgasbord of reasons, which I shan’t share due to the fact I’d like to keep earning pounds)
4. Beer belly
5. The weather
6. Crowds
7. Tourists (how quickly I forget)
8. Whole days lost to recovering
9. Darkness
10. London ‘coffee’.

Yes, the two lists are linked. That actually happened by accident (by and large), and it was a nice realisation to see the things that frustrate me often mean good times ahead. Except for London coffee. No good times there.

Anyway, happy anniversary to me. As it turns out I am going home next week. But just for a holiday. And very much with my tail in the air.

By the way, a few people have been asking me what I ended up doing for the New Year’s weekend (you read my blog, YAY!). I won’t bore you with the details, (my Mum reads this after all) but it involves a whole lot of Number 8. From both lists.

50% chance of rain

So, London weather.

It’s an apt topic because right now I’m sitting before quite possibly the largest snowflakes in the history of time. If not, they’re at least the biggest damned snowflakes I’ve ever seen. But more about snow later.

When I made the decision to move to this part of the world, I was generally greeted with one of two reactions: “That is so fantastic, you’re going to have an amazing time”. Or, perhaps more commonly: “You’re insane. You know it’s cold right?” There was also a third reaction: “Are you sure that’s wise? We are in a global financial crisis.” But that one was mostly thrown at me by my mother and grandfather, who both had a vested interest in scaring the hell out of me. (To this day I still receive articles from my mother regarding the derelict state of the UK.)

Honestly, the job stuff didn’t bother me. Too much. The weather? I was having a harder time warming to the notorious weather.

The week I arrived in London was horrible. The skyline was a constant ominous grey. My flimsy Australian jumpers were clearly going to do diddlysquat. And the skies opened regularly, ridiculing me for daring to challenge them without an umbrella.

It was the middle of summer.

The sting of it was made that much sharper due to the fact I had arrived via New York, where, with the exception of a torrential downpour here and there, the air was hot and the sunshine plentiful. If summer had a Facebook page, I’d be its Number One fan (oh look, it does!) and I was relishing the chance to lap it up in shorts during the month of July (until I suffered a vicious attack by what could only have been a large nation of sandflies). However, after two days in London it was clear that I was faced with the daunting prospect that I may never wear shorts again.

But as I became quickly accustomed to my new life, and I stopped looking for reasons why I would fail at it, the weather stopped bothering me as much. London even eventually laid out her finest for me. August was beautiful. It was warm, and the previously drab buildings positively shone. I spent many an unemployed day lazing in parks, sampling crisps and reading the Twilight series. (It still hurts to think I wasted possibly the most free time I’ll ever have in my life with that drivel, but that’s for another entry.)

After I saw what London could be, I figured I could handle its worst. What’s more, the biting cold that people had taken such enjoyment in warning me about didn’t eventuate through September, or October, or November. And then December hit.

Now for the record, the cold and the darkness are, by and large, manageable. There have been a couple of days where I was in serious danger of losing an appendage, but those times simply served as a reminder that layers are a wise investment. And there is snow. SNOW! The first day I saw snow falling from the office windows, I was straight outside in my suit cavorting merrily, stirring my colleagues to dryly remark, “oh that’s right, you’re Australian.”

What does annoy me about the weather, is not really the weather at all. It’s not the snow, nor the rain, nor the cold. It’s London’s inability to cope with any of these factors. London shuts down. Transport stops. People leave work early with fear in their eyes. There are times when I feel I need to give London a good bitchslap and remind her she’s a major international city. She can’t keep hiding under the covers every time she feels a little frostbite coming on.

A quick example from just two weeks ago. The snow which had fallen was now ice, putting an abrupt end to that love affair, and London succumbed to chaos.

It took me over two hours to get home that day – a journey normally taking no more than 45 minutes. Any form of transport that wasn’t a mile underground simply wasn’t operating and hundreds of people were locked out of major train stations and kept at bay by police officers with dogs. Passengers who were lucky enough to catch a passing bus were soon offloaded and told to walk.

I was lucky, I only had to walk some three kilometres through the sludge and ice. My shoes were soon full of water and it was difficult to keep my footing – making it a very slow, arduous journey. Street lights bled through the mist and the ice rendered everything bleak. It was apocalyptic. Hundreds of weary people shuffled through the streets, hunched over and often ending on their backsides. Cars were banked up, incapable of moving except to slide across the ice. It really was easy to imagine that this could be the end of the world. Or at least, a movie about the end of the world.

Ok, so I suppose it was kind of cool. Although my shoes were ruined. That really did annoy me.