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.