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.

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.

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.

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.

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.