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At the start of this year, there were only two things left on my virtual 'List of things to do in the UK before I leave': the first was see a premiership football match, and the second was to go to the Glastonbury festival. I managed to achieve both in the space of a few months.
My vision of what it would be like to watch a football match consisted of standing in the rain, getting wet and muddy and being surrounded by all manner of society. Ironically, in the end it was Glastonbury that fit this image better than football.
There is a happy positive side and a moany negative side to my Glastonbury experience. I'll cover both here now...
Firstly, its bloody expensive! My shopping list consisted of: wellington boots, tent, tent footprint, dry wash, head torch, hanging torch, travel towel, an esky, ice, tonnes of food and alcohol, locks and padlocks, earplugs, picnic blanket, foot pump, waterproof jackets, cutlery, plastic cups, petrol, etc. Half this stuff I'll never use again either!
Then there was the effort of getting there... we bought a tent (plus one for our friends). Then I found a shop in Victoria that stocked a cheaper tent, so I hiked over then to pick up two. Then Paul decided he liked the original one better so I had to hike back to return it. Then we found that one of the original tents had a broken pole, and the only shop that had a replacement was in High Street Kensington, so I hiked all the way there with a tent, replaced it and hiked all the way back. Then I had to get the tents over to a friends house who was going earlier and could reserve a good spot, but this plan became complicated and I had to send it in a cab to the house. Then my friend Debbie's tent which was also going earlier than us, got left behind, so someone else took it, and then didn't show up at Glastonbury til midnight! It took us longer to get organised in London the day we left than it took to drive there. And when we arrived, we had to hike for an hour in the sun to find our camp site... it was a complete logistical nightmare and I was exhausted before I even arrived.
Positively speaking, once we arrived, I was pleased to find out tent already erected, the view from our campsite expansive and beautiful, and all my friends jovially surrounding me, ready for a fun night. We visited the Lost Vagueness, a take on cabaret Los Vegas, and spent a fun evening dancing in the saloon to old-time music. Very entertaining.
That evening, however, a storm of biblical proportions hit Glastonbury. Paul and I lay in our tent cowering with each violent thunder clap, praying fervently that our tent would hold and stay dry. The storm lasted for hours, requiring some highly ingenious urination tactics in the morning (don't ask!). When it ended, people gingerly poked their heads out of their tents, to witness a very different world.
Lightening had hit some of the performance stages wreaking havoc with electricals. One of the stages collapsed. A man was hit by lightening. But the worst was the flood that hit the bottom of Pennards Hill (note - we were at the top of this hill thanks to those friends who carted our tents to the festival a day earlier and erected them for us). Let these photos speak for themselves...
Hundreds of tents were washed away, their belongings disappeared or destroyed. People were awaken by finding their noses rubbing the top of their tents. Entire areas were submerged, and only the efforts of a very large pump and a crane managed to drain the area after many hours. It was a nightmare, and our mood was slightly dampened by the thought of those people who had lost their belongings and tents. Our mood was soon to be further dampened by the most overriding legacy of the storm: the mud.
I have NEVER in all my life seen mud like this. Expanses of it. Acres of it. Within two hours there wasn't a spot of grass anywhere. It seems a hundred thousand tramping wellies very quickly turns damp grass to a knee-deep quagmire. The way I describe it is by asking you to imagine what a Demon Hell would look like... think an expanse of murky sticky mud that threatened to suck you down, that covered you in muck, that made every step into an ordeal. Think of people slowly dramping through, accompanied by the sound of thick goo slurping and sucking you down. It was awful, and many a time throughout the weekend I burst into maniacal laughter and screamed "What on Earth am I doing here?? I PAID to do THIS???"
And not being known as the most coordinated of people, I was further frightened by the everpresent risk of slipping and diving into the viscuous darkness. There were many squeals and desperate grabs at male hands during the four days of tramping.
The muscle strain of walking for hours and hours and hours (it took at hour to walk anywhere) made my knees and thighs weak and achey, and not being able to sit down all day made my lower back creak and groan.
So, these were the many negative aspects of my Glastonbury experience...
But, believe it or not, there were ample glorious moments. The highlight was watching Coldplay with the girls (thanks Debbie and Kelly!), and meeting a lovely man who volunteered to have each of us sit on his shoulders so we revel in the view of multitudes. His view was: he was too tall to ever experience sitting on someones shoulders, so he may as well give someone else the experience. What was strange was he wasn't at all sleazy or after anything else other than being nice to us, he called it 'the Glastonbury spirit', and us girls were overwhelmed by it. Sitting on his shoulders and seeing more people than I have ever seen in my life screaming and cheering was electrically exciting - thanks Nick for the experience!
Other highlights include dancing in the Lost Vagueness Ballroom to the Scissor Sisters DJ, watching the strange and wonderful novelty acts that accompanied the music; observing the wild and crazy people in opulent outrageous outfits as they pranced through the mud, dancing to their own beat; finally getting sun on the last day whilst seeing Van Morrisson perform 'Brown Eyed Girl'... there were many magic moments.
In summary (this is my longest blog entry ever!) - I am very glad I did it, it was such an adventure, such a feast of sight and sound! But I am unlikely to ever do it again, unless I have a backstage VIP pass and a guarantee from the Weather Bureau that it will not rain.
As for football - that was easy in comparison. Clean, fun, simple... but you know, not as much fun!
On the weekend I passed a gift shop that had some rather fabulous cards. I popped in and was compelled to buy three of them, because they so perfectly captured a side of three of my friends.
The first one is of my boyfriend Paul: to understand why this card is so funny, you would need to know that one weekend a while ago when I was elsewhere, Paul spent the weekend with some of our lesbian friends. Sounds innocent enough, and I thought nothing of it. However, a few weeks later, one of the girls there during the weekend said to me "Leithy, I have to show you something". And she proceeded to show me a photo on her phone of Paul... dressed as Audrey Hepburn, dress, hair, stance and all. I was shocked! So THIS is what Paul gets up to on the weekends!! tee hee... so when I saw this card, with the man/woman standing almost exactly like Paul stood in his photo... I had to buy it!
Then I saw this one... and knew instantly it was of Phil. For those that know him, well, you're probably giggling hysterically at how precisely it captures his eyes, turn of his head, and petulant expression when he is bored!
And finally, the funniest and most accurate of all the pictures, is this one of our Sue. You might be mistaken for thinking I had these deliberately made up and captioned, but no, these were bought as is from the shop. How perfect does it capture her cheeky side, the naughty pursing of the lips, but most of all, her hand! Sue is known for 'her hand', as it seems to be powered by some eternal battery that never stops pumping as she dances and chats. And there it is in the picture...
Here is my recent entry into the 4th Annual microSTORY competition, where you have to write a story in 50 words or less:
With trepidation and the giddy pleasure of adventures yet to come, Elisa quit her job. No more sociopathic bosses, no more subjugation of morals. Instead, the unknown, coloured gossamer hues with hope. Instead, a promise, to work for passion rather than duty. "Here I go!" she whispered to herself.
A little autobiographical, I admit!
One of my favourite life theories is that you know you are on the right path - you know you have made a right decision - when a series of incredible coincidences pepper your way.
After months of gut-wrenching disgust at the corrupt and manipulative environment in which I worked, I finally popped. I had been lured into this job by promises of bonuses, share options, incredible wealth, being treated as part of a 'family', and I had given up all my travel and home-coming dreams to give this venture a go. I worked hard and passionately, and put up with the jibes, sociopathic tendencies, and erratic behaviour of my CEO. However, when he announced he was bankrupt as a result of being sued for misappropriation of funds by the company he was previously CEO for, my suspension of moral beliefs cracked, and a flood of distaste and ethical repulsion flowed. I wish I was capable of hiding these feelings, it would have saved me much angst, but I can't, and so my relationship with the CEO soured in every way. I think he then made it his goal to make my life miserable, as revenge for the loss of my respect for him, and he pretty much succeeded. I was miserable, lacking motivation, a battered wife.
The final straw though, was being told by our Chairman that the bonuses and share equity that we were promised, should never have been promised, and therefore were not going to be paid. My polite entreaties into this were returned with rude harsh intimidating statements that I should just get on with my job, and if I didn't like it I could leave.
So I did. I resigned. And my goodness do I feel good about it!
Of course, there was still a legacy of doubt - if I had waited another few months, I could have convinced them to pay me some bonus... with new management coming in I wouldn't have to work with the sociopath and it could turn into a better job...
So on the night of my resignation, while talking on the phone, the first coincidence hit me: it happened to be my four year anniversary in London that very day! The day I make a life-altering decision was the day I arrived - hopeful and ambitious - on these shores.
Then on my way to dinner with Rachel (our COO) and our partners, the second coincidence hit me. The last time I went to Cicada for dinner was precisely four years ago tonight! When I arrived from the airport, my friend Pete took me out for a 'Welcome to London' dinner down the road from his place, and this destination was were, unknowingly, I had returned on this fateful day.
Needless to say, my back was a highway of shivers.
It was then that I knew I was on the right path. I have no idea what my future holds. I know I will travel extensively on my way back to Sydney, but beyond that is hazy, pleasantly so. I shed the doubts that have for so long ensnared me in safe conventional roles, and cast my fortune into the wind. It feels right, and I am so very excited about what Fate has in store for me next!
Cicada is a wonderful Aussie-run modern Thai establishment, with a delicious and varied menu (and the best edamame beans I have ever had!). That night though, I was in an udon mood. I have occasions where I yearn for udon noodles - their thick fullness satisfying some internal craving. So when I saw a Salmon and mussel laksa on the menu, my heart thumped hard. The noodles were the thin variety, so I almost wept with joy when the waitress assured me they could use udon instead. It was an inspired request, as the meal for me embodied the richness, fullness, piquancy and sweet creaminess with which I view my immediate future!
My response to people who tease me for my occasional nerdish ways is very simple. It is (according to my definition) more fabulous to do a lot of different and unexpected things, than to do the same reliably 'cool' thing all the time. So on a recent long weekend, I froliced on both sides of the entertainment spectrum by both parting hard at an awesome Hed Kandi party, and then going on a 20 km walk through the English countryside! I thoroughly enjoyed both, probably helped by the fact that I was accompanied in both pursuits by Debbie, my fabulous friend, who similarly enjoys such varied adventures like dancing in Ibiza and hiking in Bhutan.To those still in doubt as to the virtues of long country walks, to those who still think my grey hairs surely by now must be showing... well, you just have to try it. I don't do it very often, but when I do, there is something so beautiful, inspiring and settling about not hearing cars buses sirens people air-conditioning dish-washers radios tv.... just rustling leaves, bird calls and our steady plodding, for hours.The final argument to convince you of how this is a viable weekend alternative, is that our directions were given to us by the TimeOut Country Walks book, aimed for Londoners our age who don't have cars, get lost easily, can't read Ordinance Survey Maps, and don't have hiking supplies. Each walk is graded, is superbly instructed (we didn't get lost once in the 6 hours we walked!), with advice on which train to get, what time to go, what landmarks to look out for. But the best bit - they give recommendations on a pub to go to mid-walk! There is nothing like a good gin and tonic in the middle of a country ramble!
After a very drunk and disorderly evening out with my colleagues bemoaning the corruption and idiosyncracies of my employers, they decided it would be a good opportunity to try out Playtime, the club night that my friends have run for the last few years. I don't think Playtime has ever seen anything quite as refreshing and amusing as Lee (the VP Sales attractively posing beside me in the photo) trying to do the Running Man dance step in the middle of the dancefloor filled with drag queens and pretty gay boys. It was just fabulous!
I refuse to be embarrassed by including this recent remake of the classic mum/daughter body swap tale in my all blog. OK, so its not cinematic genius, its not soul-shaking drama, but Freaky Friday reminded me of being a little girl, and I thoroughly enjoyed the ride.
I remember watching films aimed at pre-teens with innocent pleasure. I had not yet acquired the cynicism that age and too many bad movies has taught me, so I revelled in the cheesy scripts, overtly American accents, and rosily romantic storylines. I dreamed of being the pretty girl who the cute boy had a crush on, for whom a series of lightly challenging yet eventually fulfilling adventures assailed them, leading to a joyful and moving conclusion. Even if my life wasn’t anywhere near as apparently exciting as these pre-teen fantasies clearly were, I could live vicariously, and I do attest that I experienced as much joy living in my little fantasy world as I would have if I had actually experienced those scenes in real life.
So watching modern day stars like Jamie Lee Curtis and Lindsay Lohan star in a tale that had been told in books and film when I was young, I caught myself thinking how pretty Lindsay Lohan was, how sweet it would have been to have a cute boy serenade me, how much fun it would have been to swap bodies with my attractive mum and crowd surf during a TV interview. I felt 12 again, and there was something quite sinfully naughty about revelling in memories of my innocence!
I have a thing about musicals. I’m not entirely sure why. Perhaps it is their wild improbability, or their manifestation of my unspoken dream to be able to burst into song to convey a wild emotion… or just their colour and spectacle which appeal to my dramatic side. But I can watch them again and again and never get bored – I’ve seen Grease, The Sound of Music, Annie, and Moulin Rouge more times than you would want to believe, and I still love every second of every one of them.
So on this lazy Saturday at home, when I saw A Chorus Line was to be on television, I instantly decided that was just how I wanted to spend my afternoon. And so I did, and I sang along to every song, I still get a kick from ‘One, singular sensation, every little step she takes, da-da-da daaa da da’ and the crowd-pleaser ‘Tits and Ass’. During the rendition of ‘And then we did it again…’ my friend and colleague Stephen rang. He enquired what that strange warbling in the background was, and I blithely told him, only to be met with a quizzical ‘Eh?’. I, of course, assumed he was joking, I mean, how could anyone not know A Chorus Line?? But once, again, it turns out those 3-4 years of extra age make a huge difference in awareness of cultural references. What a shame… I cannot imagine a youth without singing A Chorus Line songs on buses during school excursions, or wishing I were a ballet or Broadway dancer, or yearning to own the green leotard the pretty blonde girl owned… It was also one of the first movies in my memory to openly discuss homosexuality and coming out to family members, so I would have thought it featured warmly in the memories of my beloved gay friends. My concern now, as with many of the formative films of my youth, is that their relevance and revelatory qualities will be lost when watched by critical seasoned modern-dayers. So just take it from me then, my young friends, it mattered when I was 11 that you could sing ‘Sheeeee’s theeeeeeee One!’ in a chorus, even if you were to never own that green leotard!
Last night my Beloved and I decided to go on a date.
Quite a novelty considering we have been together for over 2 years, and have never really 'dated', opting rather to launch into a full blown (and very exciting!) relationship. Nonetheless, I dressed up nicely, my Beloved came home at a reasonable hour, and after some faffing around on my part (sorry darling!), we eventually made it out the door, and strolled like young couples in love through our neighbourhood. Our destination: Oqo on Islington Green - a place I'd seen advertised on a tube tunnel. Despite this salubrious suggestion, the concept of Chinese tapas sparked my gastronomical imagination, and I couldn't wait to try it out.
As we arrived, the sound of a jazzing sax further excited me - ooh, this could be one of those sexy nights out with luscious food and cruisey music... I ventured in with high hopes.
Now - this is (one of many areas) where my Beloved and I disagree. I thought the saxophone enhanced the ambience, the interior was innovative and engaging, the staff incredibly attentive and charming, and the food... ooh, the food, I think I moaned at one stage. The more-ish sirloin steak marinated in Chinese rose liqueur with a garlic dip melted in my mouth, the baby octopus in Szechuan pepper and salt was thrilling with its piquancy, and the king prawn and chive dumplings soft and explosive. Coupled with the cheeky flavours of my apricot puree, pomegranate and basil leaved cocktail, I was in Chinese tapas heaven! It all worked for me.
My more discerning and critical darling saw it differently however: the sax was too loud and intrusive, making it hard to converse; the decor was dull and lifeless, and the food average. However, we did agree that the staff were incredible - and we shared an amused grin when the manager came with our bill, asked us how we enjoyed ourselves, and then said "The sax man was too loud, wasn't he, I'm going to kill him!".
I'm a big fan of fusion cooking, and although 'Chinese tapas' is just glorified dim sum, there is a lot to be said for conjuring images of hot spanish evenings and late night nibbles in thronging plazas, whilst eating damn good chinese food. It made the 'date' into quite a fine affair.
Not so long ago, my darling friend Phil, who has earned the unfortunate and inescapable nickname of 'Ming', decided we should prance around my bathroom in my hat collection. We thought at the time we were pretty special. I think we are, or at least he definitely is (look at those cheeks!), so I propose, in this inaugural blog entry, that self-belief, internal giggling, and the pursuit and appreciation of new experiences, is what defines fabulousness. What do you think?By the way, Ming, count this as another reminder of 'you know what'. Love ya!
