Hello Again, Sydney

Goodbye again, Sydney

2010-10-27T18:23:00.007+11:00

I guess I knew it was never going to work, not in the long run. Yet I still ask myself why...

You are beautiful, there's no denying that. I'll never forget those afternoons at the beach, with nothing except the sea, the sun, some uncomplicated food - sausage sandwiches maybe. Normally so pressed for time, we would practically laugh at the clock, watching the clouds turning pink and orange, the waves glittering silver before darkening into that deep, inscrutable blue. The salt would be dry on our skin as we reluctantly put our clothes back on. And there, stripped of all the distractions, I couldn't think of anywhere I'd rather be.

If only it had stopped there, we could have been so happy. Couldn't we?

But no. Practically before we'd caught our breath it was time to get dressed up and go out again. And as soon as we were on the street you'd be shrilling at me about the jeans I should be wearing, the car I should be driving, God, the house I should be living in. It was like you wanted me to feel bad about myself. I told myself that you would change eventually, that you'd see we didn't need all that stuff to be happy, that one day it wouldn't be a constant battle.

But you can't stay in a relationship believing that you can make the other person change. And I don't want to be with anyone who makes me feel the way you do.

The first time I left you I was mad, I'll admit it. I wanted to prove that, in fact, you were the one holding me back. This time it's different. I've accepted that we'll never love each other. We might spend time together again, perhaps we'll even become good friends. I hope so. But right now I have to go.

Maybe I'll fall in love with another city. Maybe I'll just sleep around a bit. The next time we speak it will be different. The barriers will be up, there will be that distance. And honestly, that's a healthy thing.

So goodbye again , Sydney. Until we meet again.

Our new Prime Minister

2010-06-30T10:41:00.007+10:00

News from down under is that Julia Gillard has become the country's first female Prime Minister. Woohoo! Wooooohoooooooooo! Woooooooooooooooooooohoooooooooooooooo! At last we can cast off the reputation of being a conservative, chauvanistic society, and give ourselves a big pat on the back for electing a woman to-

Oh hello. Sorry I didn't see you there. What was that you said?

Yeah, okay, we didn't technically elect her - she was chosen by her party to replace the former PM, Kevin Rudd, but really, what does that matter? We would vote for her if we had a chance. I mean, look at her approval rating, shooting straight past that creepy-looking Tony Abbott. Woman's Day even brought out a special midweek edition to celebrate her appointment, that's how excited they were, and-

Yes, I know they were probably ordered by management to work overtime to put it out and that they did it to-

Well, "squeeze a couple of extra dollars out of readers" isn't the wording I would use. I'm sure they were excited about it - profit and pleasure are not mutually exclusive you know. Anyway, back on topic, this is just the tonic that-

If you'll let me finish, I was going to say "that Australian politics needs as we move into a new decade", not "that the Labor Party needs going into the next election". What are you insinuating anyway? That this is just some cheap PR stunt to produce an Obama-like feelgood effect among voters? Because that would be just the kind of thing I'd expect a man to say. You can't take the achievement away from Julia. You don't get to the top of the ALP tree without some serious drive and talent. Even if she was chosen because she would be popular, what's wrong with that? This is politics we're talking about. And now that it's a done deal, she's got the power, and she'll be the one making the decisions on policies and-

The mining tax? Well, that was Kevin Rudd's downfall wasn't it? You can't expect to take a chunk out of the big boys' profits and not cop a bit of retaliation, can you? Julie Gillard wouldn't be so stupid as to try that one on. She knows her place. I mean, she knows the place of politicians is to make sure the economy runs smoothly. For the good of every-

What was that? You've heard enough and have to go? No worries. You take it easy now...

Thank God he's gone. Honestly, the cheek of some people, trying to ruin a celebration like this. Bloody un-Australian! I'm off to read the latest Woman's Day cover story about our first couple: Tim Mathieson tells how he won Julia's heart.

Suburban scavenger

2010-06-17T12:21:00.007+10:00

My idea for a Sydney food blog: meals prepared using ingredients found for free in the suburbs. I am more or less ripping this idea off from Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall; I'm also aware that what the world needs now is probably not another food blog. And to cap it all off, I'm not actually very committed to the idea. But if I did go for it, this would be my first entry...

Walking down to Coogee beach with my son and a couple of his friends, we stopped to investigate some fruit lying under a tree. My first reaction, of course, was "Don't put those in your mouths!". But when my wife and I looked closer, we realised with surprise - and joy - that the fruits were edible, and something we hadn't seen since leaving Colombia: feijoa.

The feijoa is about the size of a kiwifruit, but more elongated, smooth-skinned and firmer. Inside, the flesh is light green, sweet, and (I think) smells faintly of sherbert. In Colombia we used them for juice - just chuck a bunch of them in the blender with water, strain into a jug, then add sugar/water to taste. It's customary to have a glass of juice with your meal there, and it's something we really miss. In Bogota I'd go shopping at the markets at Palo Quemado, and buy a variety of fruit for juice throughout the week: maracuya, mora, guanabano, guayaba, coruba, lulo... and feijoa. The whole Boost thing - umpteen different fruits blended with frozen yoghurt and infusions of herbal benificence - leaves me unsatisfied. What's wrong with doing just one flavour, and doing it well?

As the feijoa we found under the tree were going to waste, we collected a few and took them home. Sadly, all but the very green ones were infested with grubs, but we still managed to get a decent juice out of those that were intact. I wonder if the person who owns the tree knows the fruits are edible. I also wonder why Australia doesn't grow them commercially. They're quite big in New Zealand, so the conditions here are obviously suitable. Wouldn't it be great, I thought, if you could get feijoa from the markets.

Be careful what you wish for. About a month later they were selling feijoa at our local fruit and veg shop. But at $2.50 each (!) you'd be paying around $10 for a glass of juice. I'll stick to getting them off the ground thankyouverymuch.

Karma wears a baggy green

2010-04-10T23:18:00.006+10:00

For those who don't know, this is a baggy green - the cap a player gets when he makes the Australian test cricket team (which is kind of a big deal here). Not many of these hats get handed out and, as you can imagine, you don't find too many floating around on eBay.

I scored this one back in high school, courtesy of a friend's dad who used to pick up sporting memorabilia at charity auctions. Not sure why he gave it to me, but who was I to say no? I always imagined I'd hang it up in my games room one day, between the '80s pinball machine and tabletop Pacman game, or maybe next to the original framed and signed Judge Dredd artwork.

But lately I've begun to accept that I will probably never own said games room, or most of the items in it. And as resignation set in, I started glancing at the baggy green with a mixture of sadness and guilt. Sadness, because over the years it has looked more and more forlorn on my bookshelf - the hard material inside the peak has disintegrated, there's a cigarette burn on the top (wasn't me, honest!) and a layer of dust all over it; Guilt, because surely there's someone out there for whom it holds more significance - it almost feels like having someone else's war medal or something.

Each hat has a year on it, and is labelled with the player's name. This one is from 1964 and belonged to Neil Hawke. According to cricket historian Gideon Haigh, Neil bowled medium-fast with an "ungainly, asymmetrical action" and had a wicked slower ball. In 27 tests he took 91 wickets at an average of 29.41. And he played top-flight Aussie Rules before he switched to cricket, which is no mean feat. That's him on the left, after a match-turning partnership with Peter Burge at the Headingly test in 1964. Shame he wasn't wearing his baggy green in the photo!

Back when I got the hat, google wasn't a verb yet, so I'd never actually done any online research on Neil. When I finally did type his name into the magic box I found out that he died in 2000 and that before he passed away he suffered a shocking run of bad health. According to wikipedia, it was during this time that he had to sell most of his cricket memorabilia to pay doctors' bills. Sadly, the guy he'd entrusted with the gear did a runner. Result: no memorabilia and no money.

By now I'm thinking there's only thing to do with the hat, so I called Cricket Australia to see if they had a contact number for Neil's family. They passed me on to the players' association who transferred me to someone else. Everyone I spoke to was helpful, but special mention should go to Ken Horsnell, who exemplifies why cricket was once known as the gentleman's game. Turns out he and Neil once played on the same team, and he tracked down the number of Neil's family for me.

I felt pretty awkward at this point. Not that I had any doubts about what I was doing, but Neil's wife has remarried now, and I guess it was bound to stir up some strong memories. She was very grateful, however, and confirmed that yes, they had lost all Neil's cricketing gear when they'd tried to sell it. I posted the hat the next day, and she sent back a lovely letter saying that she'd passed it on to their grandson. During the online research I discovered that Neil wrote an autobiography, so I've ordered a copy and will use the letter as a bookmark (sure beats putting it in our "files"). I should add that there was talk about sending up some other memorabilia as a kind of thankyou, and after a couple of seconds thinking about where I could put it in the games room, I told her it really wasn't necessary.

I will, however, admit to walking around for a day or so wondering if karma might give me a little pat on the back, and I nearly bought a lottery ticket just in case. But that trick never works, does it? Mostly I feel like in a world where I often miss the chance to get things right, I've been able to hit a boundary for the good guys. Go team.

¡Prohibido!

2009-10-04T16:32:00.009+11:00

This pic was taken at one of my favourite Sydney stomping/sploshing grounds, the beautiful Coogee beach. The beaches are possibly the best thing about this city. How lucky are we to be able to consume and pollute to our hearts' content, and then still stroll down the street to stretches of golden sand and crisp clear water? This is where we go to connect with the essential Australia - to get seriously laid-back and enjoy our home "girt by sea". Welcome to Sydney!

But, just before you kick off your thongs and rush out there, I will ask you to take a moment to read the rules and regulations:

Still feel like swimming? Perhaps, like me, you feel more like leaping into the waves and drowning yourself. As long as you do it between the flags, I don't think they've got a sign up for that one yet. And I'm not sure what gets to me more: the sheer negative weight of so many items with red lines through them, or being described as a "user of this facility". Dude, I thought we were just going to the beach. I recently read Death Sentence - Don Watson's lament on the state of public language in Australia - and this is precisely the kind of thing that would get him riled up.

I also wonder what chain of events led to the council putting up a little picture to prohibit the use of kites. Did someone get hit in the eye? Tangled in the string? Or was it just a case of locals who have nothing better to do than ring up and complain?

It makes me reminisce with fondness about the relative chaos we lived with in Colombia. In Cartagena, the way the buses veered towards the curb and the conductor gestured madly out the open door, trying to coax people onboard. A couple of times I was almost shocked into getting onto a bus going who knows where. It was comical, but here we have the other extreme - drivers won't let you on if you're not standing at the bus stop. One morning I saw a man sprinting towards the stop as the driver closed the doors and rolled the almost empty bus about five metres forward to a red light. The passenger mimed his pleas through the safety glass of the door, while the driver looked at something very interesting on the other side of the street. It's almost like they don't want you to get on. And why? I'm guessing, but I'd say it's because if they let you on somewhere other than the bus stop and you have an accident, State Transit becomes liable.

I still remember the little thrill and the frescura of jumping into the back seat of a taxi in Colombia and not putting on a seatbelt. Meanwhile, in Australia, my mother-in-law who is visiting at the moment is slowly learning to buckle up every time we go out in the car. "Nos pueden poner una multa", we explain to her ($253 dollars and 3 demerit points), more to poke fun at the way things are done here than to convince her. And obviously it's not about money, but safety. Still, it does raise the question of where basic common sense and self-preservation leaves off and legislation begins. At what point do you say that people are allowed to take acceptable risks, and are we starting to go overboard?

I could go on to talk about new laws on car child restraints and caesarean sections, but hey, it is a beautiful day out, and despite all those warning signs, the water is calling. And for the first time in quite a while, I'm actually starting to feel like there might be a viable middle way.

Flamin' galah!

2009-08-02T13:35:00.000+10:00

Lately I've been thinking about how our wildlife informs our national character. A book I've just finished reading pointed out that one of humans' intrinsic tendencies is to imitate, whether it be parents, spouses, work colleagues, or even the natural environment. And I reckon the author is onto something.

There's a desert-like rawness about the Australian character. At times this manifests itself as a beautiful honesty and unaffected, easygoing charm. At other times it's a complete lack of grace. It is attractive, but not in the way that beauty is packaged by the world's largest and most dominant outlets (Hollywood for example). Aussies make good larrikins, good sportspeople and this is reinforced by what we call our tall-poppy syndrome - which at its worst is basically a preference for the mediocre tryer (read underdog) over the arrogant, beautiful genius.

So what does this have to do with wildlife? Not much, except that the animals here seem to have a similar kind of presence. Take the kookaburra: solid, pleasing to the eye, certainly not flashy. And that call - pure Australian.

Then there's the galah itself. Never seen one on fire, but flamin' may well refer to its plumage. It's a really attractive colour combo, too, but look into its eyes and honestly tell me if it's beautiful. It's not, is it? And that strut... not one for the fashion runway.

The cockatoo is next. The cries from these guys shred the air, and the way they swoop around in the sky and perch themselves brazenly on public monuments... could there be anything more like cheeky Aussie teens, or toey blokes with a few beers in them?

My favourite around our suburb is the black cockatoo. It has an unmistakable cry, harsh and plaintive at the same time - it's hard to know what it will break first: your heart or your eardrums. Here's one I caught on camera out the back of our house.

Even the coat of arms... the kangaroo and the emu. Neither winning Miss Animal Kingdom, both kind of cute, hardy, reliable. What is that if not the Australian character?

The hardest decision for a parent to make...

2009-05-29T14:17:00.007+10:00

So, the little guy turned five a few weeks ago and we got the green light from Mum to watch... STAR WARS! Great news, but it left me with a difficult call: which order should we watch the films in: release order, or story order, or something else again?

I was about five when I saw the original Star Wars, and it took up a permanent place in my imagination. The Empire Strikes Back had just as big an impact, and Return Of The Jedi tied it all up nicely. Star Wars figures were the toys of choice back then and priced reasonably enough that you could amass a decent collection. My friends and I spent whole days making up scenarios with the figures in the backyard. On hot days we'd create whirlpools in the above-ground swimming pool, creating a whirlpool then chucking in the figures that floated to see who'd be the first to go around five times. One classic scenario took place at the incinerator. This was the large brick fireplace in most backyards where people could burn off their rubbish (outlawed in the early '80s I think). One day, when my friends' dad had just finished burning off, the snowspeeder "crashed" on the edge of this pit of smoldering ash and we had to quickly assemble a rescue squad to get them out. Thanks to some brave Star Wars figures, the snowspeeder and its crew were saved. But many characters suffered severe burns, and poor Greedo never made it out of the ashes. Lucky we had two of him.

My son will never know the joys of playing that close to an incinerator, and with the figures now going for about $30 a pop, he won't be collecting those any time soon. But his imagination may still yet be populated with Banthas and Jawas, X-Wings and AT-ATs, Gamorrean Guards and Mon Calamari.

I want my son to share the joy, but as you can see, it's also an opportunity to indulge in a second childhoood - why else do we have kids?. So, since I've never watched the films in storyline order, I decided we ought to do it now. The pause button got a major work-out, as I stopped mid-scene to answer all the questions and show off my useless knowledge of Star Wars characters ("That one is Nien Nunb") while my wife looked across at me as if to say "who is this person I married?".

After six weeks, we wrapped it up with Return Of The Jedi last night and I'd totally recommend doing the films in this order - for Star Wars newbies and old fans. It helps you forgive the naffness of the first film, and recognise the constraints George Lucas had, trying to construct a storyline with such a massive arc. Put together, the six films work as a surprisingly believable story of Annakin Skywalker/Darth Vader's turn to the dark side, and his return to the light.

The little guy's precis: It's a movie about real people who have sticks that is light, and there's a worm and bounty hunters. May have to work on the blurb-writing skills...

Where the streets have no name

2009-02-23T13:54:00.010+11:00

Ever had one of those "of course!" moments with song lyrics? You know when you've sung along with something countless times, could even write the words down if pressed, yet you've never really understood wtf it means? It happened to me with the U2 classic the other day. I'd always assumed it had something to do with religion - Bono was all preacherman swagger and righteous vocals back then. Probably some biblical city I figured, you know, with no street names.

Then I thought back to the video clip, where they're playing a surprise gig on top of that building, and I'm like, hang on... they don't have street names in a lot of American cities, do they? Is the whole thing just about four Irish dudes going to the USA?

Subsequent research has taught me the wrongness of that theory, but the reason I got onto the subject is that the streets do have names in Sydney - unlike Bogota. Not sure how much of a difference it makes most of the time. "I got stuck on Parramatta Road," is more or less equivalent to walking into a meeting late in Bogota and blaming it on la septima (Seventh Avenue). Everyone knows what you mean, rolls their eyes in sympathy the same way.

The numerical approach does make it easier to get your bearings. Where is 34th street? One block past 33rd, you moron! Tough market for satnavs.

On the downside, you don't get to celebrate famous plants/explorers/places as gratuitously. Some new suburbs in Sydney even go with a theme. Raby out near Campbelltown, for example, is all aircraft related - Lockheed Street, Spitfire Drive, Kittyhawk Crescent, Cessna Place. No Focker Road, which must have disappointed the schoolkids in the area.

And it's not just the streets that have names in Sydney. One thing that struck me after a short trip to Melbourne was how many words there are on buildings, shopfronts, facades...

OK, so that's a shite example (it was the best I could find between the bus stop and the office!), but it does your head in after a while - the world as an advertising placard. How about one day of the year when we cover up all words on public display? Few people would thank you for it in the current economic climate, but wouldn't the city be a nicer place without all that racket going on?

What we did on our summer holiday

2009-01-31T08:59:00.009+11:00

If I told you that one of the highlights of our end-of-year holiday was building a compost heap, you might assume that the trip was a bit of a fizzer. But bear with me - watching grass decompose is a lot more exciting than watching it grow.

We spent Christmas and New Year on what is becoming a yearly pilgrimage to Tasmania. My brother and sister-in-law live on a property about an hour outside of Hobart, and for us city folk, it's a huge gulp of fresh air. At the risk of sounding like a try-hard hippie, you do feel more in touch with the land and the turn of seasons there. This year we noticed the grass was a little bit dryer than last year, and it hadn't been cut or bailed yet. The berry crop was huge (no complaints there) and the cherry farms in the area hadn't started picking yet (major disappointment, obviously).

The house isn't connected to town water so they're really dependent on regular rain. A good shower can mean that they don't have to go out and water the veggie patch and orchard (saving them a couple of hours' work), so dark clouds are welcomed over the horizon. As we sat around chatting at night, I'd find myself getting unnaturally excited by the sound of drops on the roof. "It's raining!" I'd say, probably grinning like a madman.

While we're there we try to help with odd jobs, and this time we joined in building a compost heap. We followed a special "recipe", based on something called bio-dynamics - a theory of farming developed by Rudolf Steiner. You might have heard of Steiner schools - his ideas on education form the basis for those. He's also well known as a philosopher and he even dabbled in economics. "He had his fingers in a few pies, didn't he?" I commented to my brother. "Mate, you haven't got enough pies for all his fingers," was his reply.

As we worked it was a bit like making a lasagne, except with wet grass, hay, dirt, chook poo... ok, ok, it's not sounding much like lasagne, is it? But I'll persevere with the metaphor - we tossed on salt (crushed eggshell), pepper (basalt dust), special herbs (nettle, comfrey) and, finally, a special preparation which my brother keeps in a jar buried at the bottom of the veggie patch. Very secret farmer's business. Here we are congratulating ourselves on our work.

When we finished the heap stood pretty tall, but over the next week it settled down. The day before we left my brother took me over there, stuck a wire into the compost for a minute, then pulled it out and told me to touch it. It was hot! That's the material breaking down. My brother's smile was like the one I had when I was listening to the rain.

On other matters, it's already the second month of 2009, and as you can tell, my New Year's Resolutions didn't include updating this blog more regularly. It does feel that as Sydney becomes the norm for us, and Bogota recedes into memory, I've got less and less to say about the differences between the two places. Never mind. The plan is still to go back eventually, and when I do, this blog should come in handy.

Pod people

2008-10-27T06:18:00.009+11:00

No socks or jocks for me this Father's Day - check out what I scored:

Pretty cool eh? When I registered online, they said I was the 17th last person to get one in Sydney. "There are that many people in Sydney without iPods?" I asked in disbelief. Seriously, around the CBD nearly everyone has the earplugs in. And having done it for a few weeks now, I can definitely see why.

It's like having your own personal climate control. Chilly wind blowing your way? A bit of salsa - MarkTunes recommends El Preso - will temper that. Sweltering spring day? Stick on Eisbär by Grauzone and feel the temperature drop. And if you're just walking along the street and could do with a boost, there's nothing like Kurtis Blow's Gimme The Breaks to put a spring in your step. Just be careful listening to drum and bass in enclosed spaces - it's hard standing still with that shit going on.

I've become one of those people who walks along the footpath, oblivious to the sounds around me, and so busy texting that I often bang into people and traffic signs. I don't pay as much attention to the outside now that I've got music in my shell.

In Bogota, you didn't get many people walking around with iPods. That was partly because you try to avoid showing off your cool and stealable gadgets, but also because you got enough songs on the street, in the shops, even in the buses. That wouldn't wash with Sydney-siders. There was actually an advertising campaign recently targeting people who have their iPods up too loud in the train - commuters were getting annoyed by the sound leaking out of the headphones. I often wonder if there's an etiquette for lifts. How far should I turn it down? Sometimes I take my headphones out, just to check that it's not irritating the people around me. Of course, I kinda wish they could hear. In fact, what I'd like to do more than anything is to plug into the PA and pump that mother up to 11 so everyone can hear how cool my songs are. Come on everybody put your hands in the air! I know. They wouldn't appreciate it. There's a reason I'm not a DJ.

Still, in the future I'd like to see an option on mp3 players which would let you "catch" tunes from other devices. If I'm walking along the street and see someone who looks like they're really dancing on the inside, I could point my player at them and pick up whatever tune they're listening to. Technologically possible? Definitely. Invasion of privacy? Probably. Copyright issues? Hmmm. Another one for the "great ideas" file.

May the best mascot win

2008-09-08T23:35:00.012+10:00

It's footy finals time again here, for both the AFL and NRL. That would be the Aussie Rules and the Rugby League for those who don't care for acronyms. (Those who don't care for sport, you can probably stop here.) The clear favourites are the Geelong Cats and the Melbourne Storm respectively, and those two teams sum up what I've been pondering lately: mascots.

Geelong have been around for about 150 years now, and for most of that time they've been the cats. It's actually pretty interesting how they got the name, but I'm sure you don't need directions to wikipedia. The point I want to make is that they're not lions, tigers, cheetahs, pumas, leopards, panthers, cougars or even lynxs - they're ordinary house cats. This was their emblem when I was young:

Intimidating eh? We're gonna come out and moult all over you, man. We're gonna kick you to the curb, then scavenge some food scraps while we're at it. Nowadays they're looking a bit more serious.

Could the revamped emblem be behind their recent upturn in form? I mean, there is an argument that names and mascots are self-fulfilling prophecies. Would Usain Bolt be the god of speed that he is today if he'd been christened Ronny Toddlebottom? U Bolt. You couldn't make it up, could you?

Onto the NRL where the favourites are... the Melbourne Storm. Yes, to NSW's shame, the best team in Australia hails from the city which doesn't really give a rat's arse about Rugby League, and they can still get more people to a game than we can in Sydney. What about that name - awe-inspiring, isn't it? You can imagine the thunderous tackles, the lightning runs, splitting the opposition defense apart. There would have been some hefty pats on the back for the person who came up with that name. It also subverts the jibe Sydneysiders always trot out about Melbourne: it rains all the time. No man, it storms. Plus it's great for headlines. We're going to rain on your parade. Hail storm. Storm warning. Etc etc. It's a copywriter's (wet) dream.

My team is the eels and this is the logo I grew up with and still prefer. Slipperyness is a useful quality in football, but we lack backbone and grit. In the late '80s they changed the mascot to make it an electric eel, but that was a bit naff, and I feel it marked a period where we lost touch with our roots.

Most people's second team (and the usual choice of celebrity visitors) is Souths, aka the Rabbitohs. How can you not like a bunny? Though I do wonder what colourblind people make of the jersey. "Bit plain, isn't it?"

My second team is probably St George, as that's where I grew up. However the team has a serious identity issue to resolve before they can expect to win the premiership: are they St George, or the dragon? Given that the Saint slew the dragon, I don't believe you can be both; or to put it another way, you can't have your lance and eat it too.

City of God?

2008-07-23T20:32:00.008+10:00

"Pilgrims on the streets at Central, pilgrims on the streets in Darlinghurst, and the music that they constantly play..." OK, OK, no more crap reworking of Smiths lyrics - you get the idea. Last week Sydney had the dual honour of hosting World Youth Day and welcoming the Pope. The city was flooded with worshippers from all over the world; in fact, according to my mum, there were over half a million visitors - more than we had for the Olympics. To me, that sounds unlikely. Religion pulling a bigger crowd than a sporting event? Not in Australia, mate!

Still, here they all were, waving flags and chanting in the street. It was quite odd to sit in the office and hear songs of praise and joy drifting in from outside. Not very Sydney. (One co-worker's rather unchristian comment: "Go and find a football match!")

I actually enjoyed the injection of spiritual energy in what must be the world's least mystical city. Too often our laidback, down-to-earth nature can make it feel like we're shackled to the ground, to the ordinary. At one stage I even had my heart set on writing a ghost story in Sydney, just for the incongruousness of it.

I didn't see the Pope, but I did see the Popemobile, empty and on its way to the airport with police escort. Can't imagine you'd get far in a stolen popemobile without getting noticed, but then you wouldn't have to stop when the police threatened to shoot. Just picture the scene on the evening news: the holy vehicle pursued by police cars across the harbour bridge...

The pilgrims all seemed to enjoy themselves, though I wasn't sure what they got up to between masses. Bible study? No, really. For all my potshots at an easy target, their euphoria is probably not that disimilar to what I get from going to an event like Glastonbury. Their ecstasy, however, may be different. (Sorry. Couldn't resist!)

It's got to be an important event for the Catholic church in terms of recruitment, too. Surely they've got some great minds, and kick-ass ad men, helping bring future generations into the flock. I'm actually en route to London as I write this (for a bit of secular euphoria at a friends' wedding and The Big Chill festival) and on the first leg I sat next to a priest who had been at World Youth Day and was on his way back to his mission in Calcutta. Although the actual religion bit leaves me cold, I can only admire the guy's conviction to his calling - and envy some of the conditions he works under. A vow of poverty may sound grim, but imagine never having to spend another second of your life thinking about tax returns, phone bills or salary reviews. Or fashion! As he said to me, when he gets dressed up for congregation, it's either the grey shirt or the grey shirt. Probably not the angle to use on the fashion-conscious youth of today, but it sold me.

Our daily bread

2008-06-27T15:59:00.006+10:00

What is your desert island starch? I mean, if you could only choose potatoes, pasta, rice, bread, couscous etc to eat for the rest of your days, what would you go for? My wife (like most Colombians) would plump for rice. Whenever we're stuck for something to eat, the first thing she does is fire up the stove to make some rice. As long as we have a packet of the stuff in the house, she feels secure in the knowledge that we will not go hungry. The first thing I look for when I've got the munchies is bread.

First let me say that pretty much anything fresh baked beats the supermarket brands. I'll never forget the baguettes we used to buy in Colombia, from the panaderia in the Torres del Parque. They'd still be warm enough to melt butter on when we got them home. And I can't resist the knot rolls sprinkled with poppy seeds at the average suburban bakery here. But for all the taste advantages you get from the fresh stuff, there's still the need for supermarket loaves. Blame it on modern life, but they're just so much easier to use for sandwiches or toast. Like all cliches, there's a measure of truth in the saying "the best thing since sliced bread". Yeah, I know a lot of bakeries will slice their loaves for you, but it's not the same.

In Colombia, the varieties on offer in the supermarkets were disappointing. Pan Bimbo - the most popular brand - is small and extremely sweet for my tastes. A lot of it is too light - maybe something to do with the altitude of Bogota? In Australia you get a massive variety. However, as you probably know, variety doesn't necessarily equate to happiness. Here are some of the not-so-memorable bread moments that we've had lately.

This first one is called "Up", and to be honest, we should have known better. The real problem here is when you go to the local corner store at about 8pm, you take what you can get. And if you're not into raisin toast or crumpets then this is about it. It's insipid, and devoid of all texture, and has the colour of recycled toilet paper. You could say that eating it was like eating cardboard, but that would be harsh on the cardboard. Still, it's packed with vitamins and minerals. Mmm.

After that nightmare, you'll probably reach for something completely different, such as Burgen. I think there may be an umlout over the u, but frankly, the bread doesn't merit an extended character set. I blame this one on the marketing department, brainstorming around a plate of sandwiches:
"More grains, we need more grains. Especially on the outside, where people can see them."
"Get R&D on it!"
"How about a German-sounding name?"
"Genius!"
"And a smaller loaf, to make it look handmade and precious."
"All while cleverly cutting costs. Very sneaky."
This one is bland and really all the more disappointing for the promising packaging. Try the rye - you will laugh.
Lawson's (can't be arsed to find a pic) took a leaf out of the Burgen book, except they decided to produce something that looked like it was baked in a colonial wood stove, probably while someone was reciting the poetry of Henry Lawson - or maybe while the man himself was extemporising over an open fire. They've gone for a shape that is even more unorthodox, and you have to cut each slice in half if you want to fit it in your toaster. Pity all the poor lunchbox owners trying to take a sandwich to school/work. They've also eschewed the traditional plastic bag/bread clip and gone for a paper bag with a sticker to keep it sealed, which is good for about three openings. As for the taste, it's not dissimilar to Burgen. In fact, it could all be an elaborate marketing joke. I'm not buying it.

This one - Tip Top 9 Grain - is actually not bad, except that it's impossible to get it home without mashing it out of shape. Can a bread be guilty of being too soft? Maybe they should sell it in a box. The only other issue I have is with them bragging about nine grains. Brings to mind KFC touting their 11 secret herbs and spices. I'd actually struggle to come up with nine grains, and my tastebuds would certainly struggle to recognise them.

And finally, the one which we've actually found to be pretty damn good, our current favourite... Helga's pumpkin and 5 seed. See, now they've opted out of the whole "I've got more seeds than you" one-upmanship, and I think they've reaped the rewards. Plenty of grains - and they're believable grains, not ones that feel like they've been artificially inserted to give the impression of texture - and plenty of taste. Bring out the butter and Vegemite!

Soaps

2008-06-11T06:20:00.013+10:00

Not sure if you'd call it a perk of my current job, but I spend a lot of time reading about soap operas. The two big local ones are Neighbours, set in Erinsborough, a fictional suburb of Melbourne:

and Home And Away, set in Summer Bay, a fictional beachside town:

Apart from the unusually high number of natural disasters, long-lost sibling discoveries and "problem" pregnancies that occur, the thing that strikes me as interesting about these places is the image they present of Australia.

Most of the US soaps (from golden oldies like The Bold And The Beautiful through to 90210, The OC, and more recently, Gossip Girl) are set in the upper echelons of society. In the UK, EastEnders and Coronation Street focus on the working classes. But in Australia, the characters are staunchly middle class. Not sure if that says something about who the audience is, who they wish they were, or simply who they feel comfortable watching.

Take it as given that all the residents of Erinsborough and Summer Bay are more photogenic than the the average Joe at your corner store. But check out the last names too. In Neighbours we've got Parker, Robinson, Kennedy, Barnes, Scully, Taylor... There are also some some Kinskis and Cammenitis, to be fair. In Summer Bay you get Stewart, Campbell, Hunter, Holden, Harris, Smart, Franklin, Phillips, Baker, Roberts. I was going to pull up a list of popular last names and show how divergant real Australia is from what we see in these shows, but damn Wikipedia, apart from Nguyen and Lee, it's actually not far off. Still, my point is that you'd have a hell of a time finding a suburban street in Sydney or Melbourne without an Asian or Mediterranean or Middle-Eastern family. You'd be excused for thinking the White Australia policy was alive and well in these shows.

Not that I'm advocating any kind of affirmative action. For a start, these kinds of changes often come off looking ham-fisted. Neighbours tragics still recall the Lim family who moved in to Ramsay Street in the early '90s. They lasted about two weeks - long enough to be accused of eating someone's dog when it went missing. And besides, I know soap operas aren't striving for verisimilitude. (Though there are people out there demanding more realism from their daily dose of escapism. "How come we never see the characters getting a haircut?" or "Why don't they ever go to the toilet?" are two of the most common gripes.) I understand that we're trying to get away from the real world when we watch these shows, but it's interesting to see what is deemed to be an appealing alternative.

And as Australia becomes more culturally diverse, I wonder if these shows will eventually stop attracting the desired market/demographic. What will the cast of these shows look like in 10 years?

Stick that in your CPI and smoke it

2008-05-14T05:48:00.005+10:00

England was once described as a nation of shopkeepers; Australia, surely, could be called a nation of economists.

Last night I sat down - as did a huge number of Australians - and watched the Federal Government present their budget. This is where they announce tax cuts/hikes and allocate money to spending programs. It's a chance for them to fulfil their election promises, and to give people an idea of their real intentions - to put our money where their mouths are. Traditionally this has meant that Labor splashes out on social spending, while the Coalition practises responsible economic management, delivering strong surpluses. Are you asleep yet?

Not if you're an Aussie. You'll be sitting in your lounge room debating the best way to counteract inflationary pressures and keep down interest rates; you'll be calculating the impact on your own income; and if you're at all partisan (aren't we all?) you'll be cursing that leftie Labor mob for spending too much, or reviling the Libs for giving more money to the rich. No matter which way you slice it, that's what it comes down to.

Still, it's pretty amazing that so many people in this country are au fait with concepts like the CPI, GDP and monetary/fiscal policy - and that so many people tune in to a watch a bunch of politicians sitting in a room painted such a nauseous shade of green. Does this happen in other parts of the world? And is it something we should be proud of?

As for the big talking points... Pre-mixed alcoholic drinks will be more expensive, as will luxury cars. (OK OK, it is boring.) The budget surplus will be put into funds for "nation building", which sounds aspirational and threatening at the the same time. And in our particular case, it'll mean about $20 a week more in the pocket. Better than a poke in the eye with a burnt stick, as they say.

Striking it lucky

2008-04-15T21:57:00.003+10:00

One of the big opiates of the masses here in Oz comes in the form of little coloured balls with numbers on the side. Millions of people watch as these balls swirl around in a transparent container and with the help of a special machine and an attractive hostess, eight are picked out. One by one they roll down a ramp into the ball holder and the camera zooms in for the final announcement: "And the supplementary number is... 36!" Yes, it's the lottery.

Someone once told me that 7 out of 10 Australians count on winning Lotto as part of their long-term financial strategy. That's quite a lot of people, considering the odds of getting the first prize are 8,145,060 to one. The other thing that makes me scratch my head when I'm lining up to put my entry in, is how many of the people who play are pensioners. Not that the elderly don't have things to spend money on, but you know, they must be thinking of spending a lot of cash in a relatively short time. My mum is retired and plays lotto religiously and she says she hopes to win to help her kids out. (Should I be grateful, or concerned that I still need helping out?) She determines her entry using a combination of birthdays and ages of relatives and friends, though sadly, we've never been able to help her out by providing the winning numbers. I'm actually a bit ambivalent about the idea of having loads of money; it would probably just make life more complicated, though it's a challenge I'd be prepared to take on.

In Colombia they had lotteries too, but something about gambling in foreign currencies just doesn't do it for me. Especially with the Colombian peso (where $1 = 1800 pesos), the top prize will send you cross-eyed just reading it, never mind winning it.

They do have a smaller-scale version of the lotto too, called chance. In chance, you only have to choose three numbers so it's better odds but smaller prizes. My mother-in-law is partial to a bet, and one day as we were walking down the street. she stopped to check out a dead butterfly on the ground. "Look at the number on the wing," she told me. I looked as hard as I could but couldn't see anything, though I nodded when she said "9 1 3". So the next day, she put a bet on the chance, and what do you know, the numbers came up! Next time I'll look on both wings - maybe I'll win the big one.

City comparison: bus/train reading

2008-03-12T05:32:00.008+11:00

I suppose a lot of cities now have free publications available on public transport. Here are the couple I know about.

London has Metro, a little tabloid newspaper. I haven't seen it for years, but I remember it as being functional and inoffensive. I do believe that it now has a competitor (The London Paper?).

Sydney has something called mX, which is... Well, if you took Metro and got everyone in the train/bus to wipe their arse with it, you'd end up with mX. They are at least refreshingly honest about its trashiness - no pretense of edifying the reader here. The section on significant international goings-on is called "Boring But Important" and the bit with human fatalities is called "Doom & Gloom" (repeat after me: medium soy latte, no doom and gloom) and the front page is often dedicated to the latest celebrity scandal. They also do a nice job with clever headlines (Kebabs cop a serve - well, okay, maybe they were having an off day). With a circulation of over 670,000 that's a lot of downward pressure on the lowest common denominator - and many bus and train-loads of advertising revenue.

In Bogota, on the Transmilenio bus system, there's a scheme called Libro al Viento at designated stations where you can pick up a free book. Then when you've finished it, you drop it back for someone else to read. Cortázar, Sophocles, Poe, Chekhov, Kipling, Perrault, Wilde, Andersen, Grimm... Boring but important?

Tea time

2008-02-29T06:36:00.003+11:00

How on earth did tea not get a mention in My Favourite Things? Part of the great coffee conspiracy no doubt. But they couldn't hold it down. Tea doesn't need advertising, or viral marketing campaigns. It doesn't need fake smilers to hand out samples at Town Hall station (except maybe those dodgy chemically flavoured varieties). It's not even illegal, and yet people still drink it.

My relationship with tea started when I was a kid and my parents took me on a road trip around country NSW: Adaminaby, Coonabarabran, Narrabri, Deniliquin... In one of them we went to a shop where they had Twinings tea chests and I asked them to buy me one. Not the most reasonable request for a 12-year-old, but it was a long drive between towns and the scenery wasn't what you'd call thrill a minute (less interesting than a box of teabags in fact). So my parents caved in.

In every hotel room for the rest of the trip, I brewed something different, trying to pick the difference between Irish and English breakfast or decide which was better, Darjeeling or Earl Grey. I loved the way the packets were all different colours. Most clearly I remember the Lapsang Souchong. I think the label described it as having a gunpowder flavour. I liked that idea (and the exotic name) so much that I forgave the taste.

My tea phase lasted about as long as that holiday (much to the relief of my parents I bet). But it all came flooding back last week when I went to the Tea Centre in the Glasshouse mall to look for a birthday present for a friend. Behind the counter the staff are surrounded by tea, floor to ceiling, all lined up along shelves in metal tins the size of hatboxes (yeah you know, hatboxes). It's like standing inside a tea chest.

And this is without even getting to the teapots which are pretty amazing. I had half a mind to go home and smash ours, just so I could buy a new one. But of course, that's not the approach. I reckon a teapot is one of those household items that only accumulates its specialness after years of mundane service. The stains, chips and scratches are like shorthand for an entire domestic narrative written out over a thousand cups of tea. At least that's how I hope it works out for the teapot I bought my friend.

Wakey wakey

2008-02-22T06:46:00.002+11:00

As we all know, there are only two types of people. No, not cat people and dog people. I mean morning people and night people. I’m a morning person and my wife is a night person. That’s all well and good – couples should complement each other – but the equation gets a little more complex when a child comes along. Who will they take after?

In the first year or two it was hard to tell, but as our son settled down into a routine, it became clear he'd inherited my wife’s genes for sleep patterns. On the weekends it’s great as we can sleep in. And we have enough friends with morning children (read waking up before 6am on Sundays) to count our blessings. But during the week when we have to get Santi to child care and then get to work, it’s a different story.

Since I'm the morning person, it’s left to me to get the family motor running. My wife is very good about it, and we now have an arrangement where I wake her up at least ten minutes before she actually has to get out of bed. And even if she's still half asleep, she always manages a rendition of her morning song for Santi:

Estas son las mañanitas, que cantaba el rey David
con sus hijos tan bonitos que pasaban por aquí

It's a little ditty with some birds that tweet, kings that parade and a sun that rises. Except our “son” doesn't rise. Not yet. This is just a primer for the challenge of actually getting him vertical. Some days he’s bright-eyed and happy to go along with the morning routine. Others, he really needs an incentive.

This usually comes in the form of something “very exciting” going on outside. This morning a racket started up outside our building at 7am – the people in the apartment next to us are ripping out their kitchen and the workmen were tossing the debris into a skip. I could hear other people in the upstairs apartments yelling out for the workmen to shut up, but I couldn’t have been happier with the disturbance. “What’s going on?” I said to Santi, watching his eyes flash open – no sleepy blinking today. “Do you think they might have come to cut the tree down?” I asked, alluding to one of his favourite books. “What do you think the birds are going to do?” I asked him. “They’re going to throw nuts and seeds on them?” he said, hopefully, expectantly. “Why don’t you go onto the balcony and have a look?” And voila, we have lift-off.

At other times it’s been one of his weekly postcards from his uncle and aunt in Tassie that arrived the day before and that we saved for the morning. Occasionally we have a new toy or book to lure him out of bed with. And one morning I was particularly fortunate to find that a green grocer cicada had flown through an open window during the night and was sitting on the kitchen benchtop. That was pretty special, and he still remembers it, a year or so later. I thought it might have even been enough to turn him into a morning person.

But no, it wasn’t. And unfortunately, you can’t always rely on cicadas. As we go through more and more mornings I’m finding my bag of tricks is starting to run perilously low. More to the point, it won’t be long until he wises up to my little “excitement” game and it gets even harder to coax him out of bed. Any suggestions, I'm all ears.

One word

2008-02-14T13:19:00.005+11:00

"To the stolen generations, I say the following: as Prime Minister of Australia, I am sorry. On behalf of the government of Australia, I am sorry. On behalf of the parliament of Australia, I am sorry. I offer you this apology without qualification."

Yesterday our Prime Minister stood in parliament and said sorry to the Stolen Generations. It was an important moment for Australia, and for the first time in a long time I felt like as a country we were taking a step in the right direction.

Obviously, I'm not getting carried away yet - the actual work still has to be done. But at least we've got a starting point. And now that it has been said it seems so simple. You wonder why our "leaders" refused to say it for so long. You also realise how completely you'd given up on politicians to do anything positive. And maybe, just maybe, you dare to dream that Australia might have turned a corner.

Then you go and have a look at the comments on the websites, under the story in various places, and you see there are many people who feel the exact opposite. Or they feel that it's right to say sorry, but... On the ABC website I see it took about three minutes for someone to raise the topic of monetary compensation, then some lawyer types waded in with their warnings of the flood of law suits to come, and then people started bleating about how we'll have to pay more taxes. More of our money! It baffles me that some people just can't see the world in any other terms than dollars. (Is that what it is? I really don't get it.) And you realise that we haven't turned the corner, not by a long shot.

But for the moment, I think it's time to be positive and look at how we can move forwards with the promise. And I guess, as well as offering an apology specifically to the Stolen Generations, we can hope to one day build a more open relationship between all Australians, and finally glean some knowledge and wisdom about this country from the people who've lived here for tens of thousands of years. You reckon they just might know a thing or two worth learning, and I don't mean about bush tucker. Then we might truly be a country to rave about, and not just another "strong competitor in a global market".

If you've got the time, you could do a lot worse than read the full transcript of Kevin Rudd's speech. Hear hear.

Anatomy of summer

2008-01-31T21:41:00.000+11:00

It's the 31st of January, and I'm not sure I want this month to end yet.

Partly it's the holiday vibe - fewer cars on the road and less bustle on the sidewalk. It's also the weather and the beach/pool time. Without going into a numerical breakdown, we've done a lot more swimming so far this year, and Santi is improving all the time. Last weekend he even managed to tread water in the sea pool without his floaties. Fear of drowning is a strong motivator I suppose. (Joke, joke, that's a joke. He was smiling the whole time, honestly.) Finally, there's the sense of potential - the unblotted copybook of a whole year still ahead.

But sitting here with about two hours of the month left, I can feel by the humidity that it's already gone. January is about sunburn and ants on the picnic rug, February is sweatstains and cockroaches under the sink. January is afternoon siestas in a hammock and the heat of the day brewing into an evening storm. February is long slimy nights, when you search in vain under your pillow for a cold spot. At least the water's still warm.

Heath Ledger

2008-01-23T13:22:00.000+11:00

It started on the street. Some guy I passed was talking on his hands-free about something that had "just happened". Then in the lift up to level 12 another couple of people were chatting in those hushed serious-newsreader voices. "He had a role as the Joker, so he wasn't hard up for work," one of them said. Then another person in the lift got a call on their mobile. "No way," they said, then "hang on a second I'm in a lift." And the office, when I walked in, was like an ants' nest that had been poked with a stick.

"Is there some big news," I asked.

"Heath Ledger is dead." they said.

Truth is, I'm not one for these "news items". Sorry to sound like a cold fish, but to me, the death of Heath Ledger is just as tragic as the death of some guy down the street who didn't get a mention in the paper. I liked his acting alright - that moment in Two Hands when he locks gazes with Rose Byrne's character was pure magic.

But I hadn't counted on the ramifications this event had on our magazine. Some of our copy had to disappear, new articles about Heath had to be written. Other famous people had to be contacted to get quotes about how tragic it was and headlines had to be thought up. And all the while I'm conscious that this is far from the thin end of the wedge - there are people in the media who must have even more vulture-like jobs, calling family members, for example. I'm not sure why people provide quotes for these stories, why we write them down, or why people read them. It all feels a bit wrong.

Usually we write about soap-opera characters who have died or whatever and in a way people in the spotlight are just soap-opera characters to us - how can we know them any more deeply? It's hard to draw any human conclusion from an event (and indeed a life) so refracted and distorted by the media, but if I can it's that here's a guy who from the outside had it all. Be thankful for the things you love and that love you I say.

Cracking Sydney

2008-01-09T13:26:00.001+11:00

I don't know if it's the holiday vibe still hanging on, or the new year, but I suddenly feel like the only thing stopping me from grabbing Sydney by the balls is me. In a few years time, this blog will serve as a diary of when we came here, and I'm pretty sure when I read it I'll think what a miserable bastard I was! In some ways, Sydney is exactly the place to be for me right now. All the bad habits I had before, everything I basically ran away from, that's still here, and still holds sway to some degree. Ultimately, that's what I need to conquer. Have you ever heard that saying that if you can meditate on a busy street in Manhattan then you can meditate anywhere? Well for me, if I can be happy in Sydney, then I can do it anywhere. And I'm getting closer.

Dancing in the streets

2008-01-08T07:51:00.000+11:00

"You know they call this the CBD - the Central Business District - and I think you'd have to agree, there's some pretty serious business going on here tonight." That was the MC on Saturday night, and a very funny chap he was. We were there for the opening night of the Sydney Festival, for which a number of concerts had been scheduled around the city. If you'd told me five years ago that Plump DJs would play in Martin Place, as an opening act for the Sydney Festival, and that it would be free, I would have told you to check your prescription. But there we were, listening to the rather obscene growling bassline of Automatic, looking up at the marble columns of the CBA building. Surreal.

Perhaps even better than that was the atmosphere around the city. People talk about the atmosphere during the Olympic Games, and I'm sorry I missed it. But I do remember how it was when we won the bid. Juan Antonio Samaranch on a big screen at 4am. "The winner is Sideney". Whoooooohooooooooo! That was the most friendly I've ever felt Sydney, and while we weren't hugging complete strangers on Saturday night, it was a big step in the right direction. Three massive cheers for the festival organisers, and three more for the people who made it a great night, and who guaranteed there are no excuses for it not happening again next year.

Come on Aussie

2008-01-04T07:44:00.000+11:00

This week I finally made it back to the SCG and saw the first day of the Australia/India test match. As we never tire of explaining to foreigners, a cricket test match runs over five days and may still end in a draw, so it's not to everyone's tastes (in fact some of my female co-workers described it as their idea of hell). It can be a game of subtle conflicts and deep strategy - which is another way of saying that there's not always a hell of a lot going on - so statistics are vital for keeping things interesting. Like when Hogg and Symonds broke the record for best seventh-wicket partnership... against India... at the SCG. Time for a Mexican wave?

Well before you do, check the conditions of entry part 16(e) on the back of the ticket:

"[do not] interfere with the comfort of other patrons in their enjoyment of any of the matches or other activities at the Venue, including by way of participation, in any manner, in a 'Mexican wave' "

Stay seated then (and dial 1300-Plain English, quick!), because a lot of things are not allowed any more. The day before the match we saw some reruns of games from the 1980s, and every time they hit a boundary there were kids jumping on the ground to grab the ball. You get tackled by a security guard if you try and do that these days. Besides, there are relatively few kids in the crowd - at about $50 a pop, it's simply too expensive. And don't try making a beer snake (when you put all the empty beer cups you've accumulated over the day together and hold it up to the crowd). That will bring the police over, and maybe get you chucked out.

Probably the biggest change is that you can't get full-strength beer any more. Apparently they used to have a limit on how much beer you could bring in to the ground - one case (24 bottles) each! Now you can't bring in anything. And perhaps this is a good thing. You certainly don't see as many fights and crowd-control problems, but it has become a bit sanitised. Sadly, it also smacks of a money-making exercise. The thoughtfully provided "bus service" to the ground cost $5.40 return from Central station ($1.70 if you catch the normal bus from around the corner). No you can't buy a one-way ticket. And no you can't use your travel card. Fuck you very much.

But those are the distractions; what it comes down to is the cricket. You see the players as humans, rather than figures on a slow-motion replay, Ganguly signing an Indian flag for a kid between overs, the Australians' gritty first-day fightback and that moment about halfway through the afternoon when the heat stops being oppressive and becomes perfect. And after watching all of the last day on TV today - Australia pulled off a pretty amazing victory with just 7 balls remaining - I'm especially happy I got to see some of it live.

Generation $

2007-12-19T06:26:00.001+11:00

Here's one of the latest ads from Bankwest, where - as you can see - you can get a 10 per cent return on children's savings. In the TV version, a dad goes looking for his daughter in the backyard, but when she doesn't answer his calls, he ascends to her treehouse, where he finds... a flat screen TV, Bang & Olufsen stereo and reverse-cycle airconditioning. Then the elevator door opens and the daughter enters, carrying a panoply of shopping bags.

This obviously says more about the current generation's preoccupations than the next's, but you do wonder what impact it has on the little ones. There is that theory that your children will grow up in opposition what you try to teach them. Raise your kid to be an atheist and he'll run away and join the seminary, right? If that's the case, I guess we should expect a boom in socialist communes in 15 years or so. Perhaps we should invest now- oops, sorry, there I go again.

Appropriately, the Bankwest ads are plastered all over the bus station at Bondi Junction - a mecca of capitalism if ever I saw one. Right now it's going off too, as everyone gets in there, elbows first, to buy their Christmas presents. Well this year I'm over it. If all goes according to plan, we'll be spending Christmas Eve in the swimming pool.

Books again...

2007-12-05T13:47:00.000+11:00

So yeah, I did have a bit of a moment the bookstore the other day, but I can't stay mad for long. Words are a big part of my life.

Take this typical day. First there's the usual selection of writing to check out on the bus. I love looking over people's shoulders and reading a couple of paragraphs. Is that rude? Who cares. This morning one person is sitting there with a book of humorous quotes. (Could there be anything less humorous?) Then there was a novel about a woman trying to organise an attempt on Everest. Quite readable, at least up to where the person's thumb covered it up. "Excuse me love, could you just move your hand a little bit?"

Next I'm in at the office where they sometimes give away advance reader copies. I'm chuffed when I get my hands on The Children by Charlotte Wood.

It's on the First Tuesday Book Club this month on the ABC, and having read it now, I can tell you it's excellent stuff. Wrenching story and very tight prose. Although, sometimes I do question today's ideal of efficient language. Will people look back in a century or so and wonder at the brevity of our writing in much the same way that we look back on Victorian literature and wonder at its verbosity? Dickens got paid by the word, is what we're always told. For us, the reader's time is money.

And then, at lunch, I sit down for a fish laksa (God bless working in the city) and pull out Flaubert's Parrot by Julian Barnes.

Here's one that I was supposed to study at university but skipped. It's sat on a shelf or in a box since then, and it never appealed to me. Maybe it's the cover. Anwyay, just as the chilli buzz was kicking in, I came upon this passage which I liked a lot:

"I feel sorry for novelists when they have to mention women's eyes: there's so little choice, and whatever colouring is decided upon inevitably carries banal implications. Her eyes are blue: innocence and honesty. Her eyes are black: passion and depth. Her eyes are green: wildness and jealousy. Her eyes are brown: reliability and common sense. Her eyes are violet: the novel is by Raymond Chandler. How can you escape all this without some haversack of a parenthesis about the lady's character? Her eyes are mud-coloured; her eyes changed hue according to the contact lenses she wore; he never looked her in the eye. Well, you take you pick. My wife's eyes were greeny-blue, which makes her story a long one. And so I suspect that in the writer's moments of private candour, he probably admits the pointlessness of describing eyes. He slowly imagines the character, moulds her into shape, and then - probably the last thing of all - pops a pair of glass eyes into those empty sockets. Eyes? Oh yes, she'd better have eyes, he reflects, with a weary courtesy."

The book is so postmodern, with all the self-consciousness and reflexivity that that implies, but it's not stultifying. Barnes really has fun with it, and tells a human story in an original way. Hats off.

Incidentally, I did use my book voucher. I was very happy to buy Water For Elephants by Sara Gruen, which (tread carefully: rickety segue) recently popped up on a list of Hidden Gems, along with Playing With The Moon by Eliza Graham.

Cool or what? A huge congratulations to Eliza and if anyone wants to vote for her book, you can check out the full list here.

Book, book, book, book

2007-12-01T07:16:00.000+11:00

I have book vouchers, burning a hole in my pocket. They're for Kinokuniya, probably the best bookshop in the CBD. This is the kind of situation I intended to savour - mooching through the aisles, mulling over what I could spend my money on; not actually spending it, of course, just flicking the corners of the vouchers, or nonchalantly fanning myself with them.

But when I got there, something strange happened. Instead of feeling like a book devourer prowling for a top title, the piles began to push in on me. Consumption anxiety? So many books. So many attractive covers. So many blurbs that make me reach behind me for the comfy chair to start reading. And yet, and yet...

The other day my writing group met for a barbecue and partners were invited. One of the husbands arrived early, and someone inquired whether he did any writing. "No," he replied. "I read."

I'm pretty sure we all took half a step back to look at him, this endangered specimen. Sometimes it seems like everyone is producing something, demanding one small piece of our attention. To filter it I subscribe to those emails that provide lists of the hottest of the hot. There's one (Very Short List) that even selects only one thing each time. It's still too much. Sometimes I feel that before I try and write any more I should learn to just enjoy reading again.

Off to vote

2007-11-24T07:50:00.000+11:00

Ah yes, the big day of the federal election has arrived and my dreams of embracing the democratic process have amounted to... Well, let's see:

- I've done a little reading on the Tamar Valley pulp mill in Tasmania, which has been approved by the Federal government and the opposition (including Shadow Minister for the environment, that old activist and rock star, Peter Garrett). On one hand it seems to make sense that instead of exporting four boatloads of woodchips to Japan we process them here and then export one boatload of pulp. Hey, they're going to get processed somewhere, right? Saying "Not In Our Backyard" doesn't make it right. *But* We were supposed to be reducing woodchipping, and what you can infer from the Environment Minister's evasions on the topic is that the pulp mill will consume more wood. What I'm not seeing from either major party is a clear strategy on the environment. We will reduce emissions says the Labor party. Really? How will building a pulp mill help?

- I did a quick quiz at www.getup.org.au - the internet lobby group that supports most causes I'm interested in. They have a "how to vote" feature which lets you plug in your postcode and then answer twenty questions. "This quiz takes just 3 minutes!" it says (and yes, there is an exclamation mark). One of the statements is: "Corporate taxes in Australia are too high." Honestly, how would I know? For a start, what is the corporate tax rate? Are corporations feeling it? Is it affecting the amount they pay their workers? I could find out, but it would certainly take more than three minutes.

One of the things that has really depressed me this election campaign is that I'm starting to see the shoddy seams of political dressing up on the left side as much as the right side. A question like this caters for people who don't know the details, they just think that big corporations are the devil and they're getting too much money. Then to cap it all off, when you finish the quiz, it compares your responses with the responses of the candidates in your electorate so you can see who to vote for. Except only (surprise, surprise) the Greens and Labor party candidates have completed the quiz so you're always told to vote for those two. Sure, you could say it's the other parties' fault for not doing basic internet campaigning, but I don't blame them for not filling out this "quiz" which even a leftie like me will admit is a load of old bollocks.

- I watched a Four Corners special which followed the lives of a few swinging voters in key seats during the election. I was already saddened by the whole "campaign", but this finished me off. Here you could see that even the swinging voters heard what they wanted to hear and retreated back to the beliefs they grew up with.

If the Labor party do get in I don't expect them to be vastly superior to the Libs. But I do know a couple of things: I don't want to live in a country where people think the most important issue is interest rates; and I don't want to be ruled by racists and xenophobes. I hope John Howard loses today, but if I can find a place that's taking bets, I'd consider putting a cheeky $20 on him to pull through. Let's see what you stand for Australia.

PS For any US readers, Liberal = Republican; Howard = Bush.

Happy feet

2007-11-05T21:24:00.000+11:00

Apparently, we only actively use 10 per cent of our brains. The other 90 per cent is occupied thinking about shoes.

At least that's how it's felt to me in the last couple of weeks. I started at Hype in the city where they sell "short-run limited-edition shoes" on a corner of the Pitt Street mall (which should give you an idea of the prices). I picked a couple of models out - what do you think?

These were cool too. And call me a fashion victim but I like the business suit with converse boot thing that's going around at the moment.

So why didn't I get them? Well, if someone concealed a miniature camera inside these shoes and snapped the looks on people's faces when they read the price tag, it would make an entertaining gallery. Most guys would be doing a passable impression of getting kicked in the balls.

Next stop was Platypus, another trendy trainer place in Bondi Junction that always seems to be closing down. On the liquidation table, I found some of the shoes I'd been looking at in Hype.

I like the little men on the side, but there's a split below the cross strap that stretches open when you put them on, revealing whatever daggy sock you might be wearing. I'm not into that. Getting dressed before work is challenging enough without having to worry about coordinating shoes and socks.

You know how it is with shopping. After a couple of disappointments you swear yourself off it. Then I was wandering at lunch and found these.

I'd already decided I liked them when I saw the price - $30. Imagine again the camera in the shoe; the strange thing is, this shot wouldn't look much different to the photo taken in the ultra-pricey place. Why? I guess a fashion item can also be too cheap. So on top of it looking cool and fitting well, it also has to sit in the "right price" pocket. No wonder I'm having trouble.

But I got them. Then yesterday I was at a loose end on my lunch break (becoming a theme) and gravitated towards another shoe store where these bad boys were on special.

So hopefully all this shoe business is over for a while. Still waiting for the surge of brainpower.

On a separate note, one activity you don't need shoes for - swimming! We were back in the water on the weekend. First dip in the sea for this summer. Brrrrrracing.

Business casual

2007-10-30T22:36:00.000+11:00

It's been a week of challenges, as you'd expect with any new job. The biggest of these has been the 'business casual' wardrobe. Somehow I've avoided getting into this fashion grey area until now. To me it seems you end up buying casual clothes that you don't really want to wear, or you wear legitimate casual clothes to the office and contaminate them with workplace associations. Lose lose dude!

It does give me the perfect excuse to go shopping though. The last couple of years have been the most frugal of my life, but the urge to buy things was always lurking. Not so much a lack of materialism as a lack of money, or to say it another way, you can take the boy out of Sydney, but you can't take Sydney out of the boy. And now I can shop with impunity - it's for work!

My first stop was Myer, where I had a bit of a low moment. For a start, I'm not a big fan of the way the clothes are laid out by label. Can't we just have the great wall of jeans, with every brand known to man in one place? Perhaps a store attendant or two? Instead I ended up in the change room with a pair of slim leg jeans. WTF? This style is so temporary, you can practically hear the denim ticking. Plus it's totally impractical heading into summer. But it wasn't just the jeans that did me in. All through the store I felt like I was looking at the wardrobe department for Australian Idol. Okay, so I may be getting old, and I may have become a bit of a tight arse over the last couple of years, but the idea of paying $50 for a t-shirt that is just 'okay' doesn't seem quite right to me. I got out of there with a pair of jeans that aren't too 'restrictive' (and they'll stretch, right? Tell me they'll stretch.) and a shirt. Next on the agenda, shoes.

Commuter of the Year

2007-10-18T12:46:00.000+10:00

I have a new job! Starting next week, same type of thing but in the city, which means I'll be saving about 2 hours a day travelling time. I'm trying not to think about that too much until I finish at the old place - I'll probably collapse otherwise. And I'll be getting more money. As we used to say, many moons ago, thank you big mother.

But it will be goodbye too. Goodbye to the long rubbish and crow filled streets of Auburn and Silverwater, to green spaces wedged between factories, fibro cottages and three-lane highways and car repair workshops in backyards where they buy two write-offs and araldite the undamaged halves together. Ta ta to cars, semi-trailers, cars, motorbikes, cars, cars, cars. Chao to anti-dumping ads in four languages, none effective, and the press of schoolkids on the platform in the morning. Will they ever finish the station upgrade? No more cheap prawns, spices and condiments, or smiles from the shopowners. Farewell to the Auburn RSL and Melton hotel, where I never did have a drink. See you later fellow commuters who will go on without me - the man with the now lump-less forehead. Bye bye pedestrian overpasses that feel like exhaust pipes, playing chicken on Parramatta Road, outlet stores, industrial takeaways. Goodbye Western Sydney, it has been ... it has been ... it was.

Moth Ball

2007-10-10T12:35:00.000+10:00

Mothballs - remember them? Do they still sell them? If not, they disappeared before their time, as we could certainly use a few boxes of them to plug up the gaps in our window frames and ward off this year's Bogong infestation.

And yet, some would argue they are more to be pitied than despised (and still others that they should be de-winged and deep-fried, see below). These poor bastards fly all the way from Queensland - that's about 900km - just to get stuck and suffocate in our window frames and flyscreens. I can just imagine them murmuring (surely moths murmur) in their great clumps about how Sydney isn't all it's cracked up to be.

If they were butterflies they'd be greeted with great elation, public holidays and commemorative coins. Instead we get the grizzly cleanup, mothdust smudges on our shirts and the annual observation that the indigenous Australians used to eat these creatures. That's another national pastime - grossing people out by telling them the things we eat: witchety grubs, Vegemite, even the animals on our coat of arms. This article at the Sydney Morning Herald capitalised on this quite nicely, even if it was a French chef espousing the delights of Bogong omelette.

Bon appetit, mate!

Grand final weekend

2007-10-04T12:54:00.000+10:00

It was one of those special weekends in Sydney when the sun seemed to shine especially for us. We had Monday off for Labour Day and that gave everyone the opportunity to enjoy their barbecues in a more relaxed fashion, i.e. get a bit looser than usual. It was also grand final weekend, with the AFL on Saturday and the rugby league on Sunday. The rugby union world cup is on at the moment too, so it was pretty much a football lover's dream.

Here in Sydney, we're fond of confusing visitors with all our different codes of football, and in my wife's case, the effort is quite unnecessary. I keep promising myself that I'll teach her a bit about the games (lucky woman eh?). She has been to one AFL match and we have tickets to see the cricket in the summer. But blame it on the male inability to multitask, I just can't seem to watch football, drink beer and explain what's going on all at the same time.

The other thing we like to point out to visitors and 'new Australians' is the intense body contact. "They don't wear any protection," we boast, as if that makes it more worth watching. It's also another way of Yank-bashing by insinuating that American Football is played by a big bunch of girls' blouses. There was one moment of spectacular brutality in the rugby league grand final, when Manly fullback Brett Stewart was 'tackled' after taking a high ball.

It was not illegal, nor malicious, but it was ugly. It's a grand final, so we need to find a way to smooth things over. Enter the referee who ruled that Stewart was held with the ball. In fact he was knocked senseless with the ball, which made it hard for him to hang onto it. To audible sighs of relief he walked to the sideline, a team mate played the ball and it was game on again. Pass me another beer.

And while we're on the subject of heavy tackles (and, at a stretch, American Football), here's one of ex-AFL player Sav Rocca taking his first punt after moving to the NFL.

Now the boys have a few months to get over their concussions while we enjoy the cricket ...

Hugs and kisses

2007-09-19T19:05:00.000+10:00

Most embarrassing work moments ...

Mine came when I was introduced to a female co-worker who was visiting from interstate. Mark meet Elaine, Elaine this is Mark. So far so good. We shake hands and when we make eye contact she inclines her head very slightly to one side, and I instinctively lean forwards and kiss her on the cheek. Why? I don't know. As I turn the colour of beetroot, silence falls over the assembled colleagues – over the whole building as I remember it. Thank God for open-plan offices, eh?

If I'd done that in Colombia, however, I'd have been a good chance to get away with it. Over there it's cool to kiss (not always in work situations, but sometimes) and quite alright to hug your male friends. This warmth extends to conversations too. Affectionate sentiments in Australia are generally encased in boofy reserve. "I love ... your work." Actually, that's a favourite of mine. But why is it I can tell my Spanish-speaking friends that they're very special, while to do that in English would seem a bit drippy?

And what about compliments? A while ago I mentioned an anti-marijuana ad here that reads: "you've got great eyes, when they're not bloodshot." Putting the health warning to one side, what kind of a line is "you've got great eyes"? Great eyes!? Geez, don't strain yourself Cassanova. A Colombian guy would get his citizenship revoked for uttering a piropo that lame.

And then we come to the goodbyes. I used "chao" a lot after I came back, until it started sounding affected. But I still like it. Solid and sonorous, isn't it? Compare it with the classic goodbyes here. "Take it easy" is good. "Bye-ie" is a weird one, but quite common. The usual though is a flat, limp "Bye" which makes it sound like you no longer know the person you’re talking to. Sydney in a syllable that is.

It's a jungle in here

2007-09-05T00:27:00.000+10:00

The soundtrack of our lives for the last month or so has been The Lion Sleeps Tonight, aka Wimoweh. During this time the immediate family have been going by animal names. I am Gorilla, my wife is Elephant (which she's thrilled about, obviously), my brother and his wife are Giraffe and Zebra respectively and so on. Santi (who is Barbary Sheep) calls us collectively, "my dangerous animals".

Parents will have already guessed that this has something to do with that darned Lion King movie, and you'd be half right. We've given the DVD a fair old hammering over the last month. But a lot inspiration came from our visit to Taronga Zoo a few weeks ago too. Here's the view from the picnic area, looking across the harbour to the Opera House and bridge. It could not be dangerous to be living in a town like this, could it?

There have also been a couple of family singalongs, and with all of this animal hijinx afoot, Meerkat (that's Uncle John) decided to scour the iTunes music store for different recordings of the Lion Sleeps Tonight. We now have a CD with no less than 24. I can recommend the versions by:

- The Tokens (this is the one everyone knows, but avoid the 1991 remix - total cack!)
- Mory Kante
- Karl Denver (Scottish bloke yodelling with surf-style guitars - go figure, but it works)

But the standout is definitely the original. Forget all that "in the jungle" business, and get down with this, Solomon Linda's Mbube.

Just when you thought it was safe to stay at home ...

2007-08-20T21:04:00.000+10:00

... along comes this 'public service announcement' from the NSW Fire Brigade, sure to scare the crap out of hardcore stoners, obsessive-compulsives, children, and - have I forgotten anyone? Oh yes, me. I don't normally get frightened by horror movies, but this image lingered with me in a pretty unpleasant way. And in case that graphic is too small for you to make out, yes that is a charred door, and yes, those are scratches on it, presumably made by the unfortunates who died, trapped in the fire.

I don't actually use a deadlock, so I'm not part of the target audience and should just shuffle on - nothing to see here and all that. Except the ads are on bus stops all over the place and they're hard to miss. Is this really the vibe we are aiming to create in our city? Some would argue that if it saves lives, what's a few nightmares?

What I'd ask in response is, has it really come to this? And is it an indictment of advertising standards, or our ability to receive information? Perhaps this is the only way to reach us these days.

I was going to write a sarky email to the NSW Fire Brigade ("advert would be more effective with burnt corpse in bottom corner and crematorium fumes emitted from vent etc etc") when I noticed the ads had disappeared. Maybe they've been pulled. I had a good scout around too, but they've all been replaced by posters for Die Hard 4.

Harder and harder to die in the movies, easier and easier to die in real life.

Career

2007-08-13T13:22:00.001+10:00

noun: an occupation, profession, etc., followed as one's lifework - a career in law.
verb: to run or move rapidly along - The cars careered down the road.

When we came back to Sydney, I plugged in to the local job networks. I joined up to seek.com and met with a couple of recruitment agents in office buildings with stunning harbour views. Then I snagged a job in an area I hadn't worked in before but wanted to break into. Result, right? Well, kind of. Since I'd switched line of work I had to start from scratch again, and boy have I felt it. Meanwhile, many of my friends – who have been back a few years after their travels, or never left – are enjoying the benefits of their higher station. Career development seems a little like home-ownership here: it's something you should to commit to early, and for the long-haul.

Anyway, I’ve been working for almost a year now, and I'm considering throwing my hat into the ring again. The ads on seek.com don't offer a lot of hope. They suggest that in order to apply for a job you should already be able to do it standing on your head. Some companies seem to be looking for the person who just left the position.

Of course I would complain, given my work history, which is difficult to mesh into a convincing laboural narrative. But I'd like to think if I were an employer I'd look for someone a less 'perfect', and (as Alan Curbishly recently put it) a little bit 'angry and hungry'. Not angry enough to fail the psych test, but you know... Part of me thinks I should avoid the obvious career path and try a more lateral approach. Maybe reaching the next rung is not that important, or even a bit of a trap – like the cat that starts climbing the tree and has to keep going, up and up.

And to stretch the analogy, I am curious to see what I could find with a year's experience under my belt. It would be hard to get another job that was as far away from my house as this one, or paid less, so I guess that's something in my favour. But it would also be hard to find a bunch of colleagues as cool as my current ones.

Suburbs - what's in a name?

2007-07-27T12:59:00.001+10:00

This morning I caught the Emu Plains service to work, and it struck me that this suburb name might appear very exotic to tourists. I imagined them heading out there with expensive cameras, ready to take panoramic shots of large flightless birds, and their disillusionment when they actually arrived. "All we found was McDonald's and KFC."

It got me thinking about suburb names and what they sound like to people who are new in a city. I grew up in Kyle Bay, and it's impossible for me to separate the name from all the associations and memories I have of it. But what connotations does it have for an outsider? 'Bay' is promising I suppose - secluded, maybe even exclusive, with water views. But who is Kyle? He sounds like an American singer from the early '80s who wears a headband. Rose Bay - well that's easy to picture - but Kyle Bay? The jury is out.

One of my favourite suburb names in Sydney is Greystanes. You can just see the real-estate agents having conniptions. "Can't we classify this one as North Woodpark?" Actually, I've never been there. It's probably very nice. And there probably are big flightless birds at Emu Plains, for all I know.

I also remember some of the barrios from Bogota. They had an edge to them that Sydney suburbs lack. We used to live in La Macarena, which reminds most people of that funny dance that was popular for a while. Next to us was La Perseverancia (Perseverance), an extremely poor and dangerous neighbourhood wedged between upper-middle-class areas that seemed to scramble up the mountain. Another favourite of mine was Matatigres (Kill tigers). I went out there once expecting a safari and ... never mind.

But as I tried to think of more suburbs, I noticed something else - they're disappearing from my memory. I can't recall where Palermo is anymore, or the name of that rich barrio up north. How many burners did the stove in our apartment have? What was our phone number? These are the details that go I suppose.

Shortchanged

2007-07-20T13:02:00.000+10:00

In Colombia, you must always be aware of how many coins and small notes you have because there are plenty of situations where a large-denomination note simply will not cut it. My lasting memory is of the short taxi ride, which costs about 4,000 pesos. Attempts to proffer a 20,000 peso note at the end of the journey are guaranteed to result in an impasse, and curiously, the burden of breaking the note rests with the customer. Sure, you can stand your ground and demand that the driver change the note for you (after all, what’s he going to do, kick you out of the cab?) but that’s pretty typical gringo behaviour and won’t endear you to anyone.

The alternative is a dash to the corner shop where you can buy something and break the bill or you can try and get help from a neighbour. One day it happened to me and the driver and I wandered around the streets, in the rain, for about 10 minutes before we sorted it out. One of the ‘car-minding’ guys outside our apartment kindly offered to help me, “But I’ve only got 17,000” he apologised. Yeah, cheers mate. Tiene mucho huevo. In order to avoid these situations, you develop an unconscious competence in keeping small notes and coins handy.

Then you get to Australia, where everything is the other way around and the trick is keeping small change out of your pockets. One of the gags that mates play on each other here is to pay a friend for something (a beer, a sausage roll) with the change in his pocket. These coins are not so affectionately referred to as ‘shrapnel’ and the idea is not to let them accumulate. Part of the problem is their size and weight. The outsized 50 cent piece could be a lethal weapon in the right hands, and represents a very real threat to clothing when you have to carry it around with a bunch of other coins and a set of keys.

Here’s my change today – a fairly typical sample. Heavy dude!

Chucking a sickie

2007-07-13T16:52:00.000+10:00

Faking illness in order to get a day off work - or 'chucking a sickie' - used to be one of the great Aussie institutions. Don't tell me you haven't done it. Once I made the mistake of spending my 'sick day' on a river cruise without a hat and had to go back to work on Tuesday with sunburn. Not a stellar moment.

But I think as a nation we might be growing up and getting serious about attending work. I present as evidence the latest ad for Coldral's Cold & Flu tablets.

It begins with a man waking up in the grey light of the early morning. We can see that his eyes are sunken, and bloodshot, and for a second we wonder if this is another anti-smoking or drugs ad. But no, he gets up and in the kitchen he prods unenthusiastically at his cereal, then he turns to the radio and flicks it into life. On comes that catchy 'Soldier On!' jingo, he drops a couple of the magic pills and suddenly, things start to look up. The colour returns not just to his face, but to the whole world, and now he's marching out the door and down the street. People salute him as he goes. "Look at that man," they say. "Death warmed up just a little while ago, now he's flying like Superman!" And at the office everyone must be taking the tablets too as they're all singing along and welcoming him inside.

I wonder what that man does. Is he a real estate agent, a telesales team leader, or something even more crucial to the turning of the globe? It must be important for him not only to ignore every possible signal his body could give him, but suppress them chemically in order to go to work. Does an ad like this go through a review panel before it can be shown on TV, and if so, do they say anything about it? I guess in Australia today, making it to the office is a pretty big deal.

Maybe he's just used up all his sick days, like me. Been off all this week, with not even a sunburn to show for it.

While my sewing machine gently weeps

2007-07-02T13:24:00.001+10:00

Mum's sewing machine, in fact. Here's a photo of the almost finished doona cover which I gave Santi for his birthday. The motif is a space invader btw.

Some lessons learnt, observations, thankyous:
- Blue and red do not provide much contrast. Blue and orange might have worked better.
- The most time-consuming thing is unpicking (my mother's machine is old and doesn't have a delete button).
- It's really neat when all the pieces come together.
- Mum helped me big time with bobbin tangles and thread snags, so thanks Mum.
- Handmade things make great presents - Santi doesn't uunderstand it yet, but he will one day.

The next project will be some curtains for the kitchen window to help keep the heat in. It's freezing here!

Reasons to be happy #336

2007-06-22T12:33:00.000+10:00

This morning the train pulls into Auburn and I close my book reluctantly. Reluctantly because it’s a great read – Marching Powder, by Rusty Young, the true story of an English cocaine smuggler who gets busted and spends a few years in a Bolivian jail (sorry, but I refuse to use the ridiculous Australian spelling of this word). This is a prison with a difference where the inmates must pay for their cells. But if you’ve got money you can get a very nice one with ensuite bathroom, kitchen and all mod cons. When the protagonist arrives he is in deep trouble as he doesn’t have a Boliviano to his name, he’s starving (you pay for the food too) and has to sleep on the freezing cold floor in the dangerous section of the prison. Another inmate helps him out and eventually he manages to contact friends in England who wire over some $ and he gets into the position where he can “buy” his own cell. At this point the protag and his new friend chat about real estate on the inside, over a couple of joints and a supply and demand graph which they carve into the table.

I’m also reluctant to get off the train because here we go again (wehey!) another day at the office and all that ... the enthusiasm, tbh, isn’t kicking in. I go to the corner shop across from the station where you can get bargain boxes of tissues so that I can replace the empty one on my desk. I think about the little place I’ve made for that tissue box, carefully wedged between the magazines I refer to during the day and my stack of recycled paper. It makes the cubicle feel lived in. Then I wonder for a second what it would be like to have my own office, perhaps with a view, maybe with a picture on the wall.

And I know all of this has been done already in The Matrix, with much better special effects, but this morning the parallels between the two scenarios give me pause. At what point do we get lost in the game, and at what point do we get let out, or escape?

Anyway, where were we? Ah yes, reasons to be happy ... I’ve been back in Sydney for 336 days, I’m tired, and in all honesty a little bit down. I know that there is a way to live here without giving in to the hunt for a better cell (and that it involves swimming) but I'm yet to find it. My friends are at Glastonbury. I'm happy for them and wish I was there.

Maid in Colombia

2007-06-14T13:40:00.000+10:00

The latest not-new book I'm reading is Memoirs of Hadrian and at the front there's a bio on the author, Marguerite Yourcenar. Cop this:

"Her mother died shortly after her birth and she was brought up and educated by her father. She was reading Racine and Aristophanes by the age of eight and her father taught her Latin at 10 and Greek at 12."

I know what you're thinking - how could her father have left it that long to get her started on Racine?

Actually, I was wondering why I, so merely mortal, even bother. Two (2) of us are so busy picking things up that we haven't considered Greek theatre, although Santi has demonstrated a predeliction for pulling Plutarch's Lives off the bookshelf - it makes a good foundation for Lego castles y'know. But did Yourcenar's dad have the same demands on his time? Did he collect toys (or philosophy books) off the floor or do the housework, or did someone do it for him? Perhaps, he had a maid ...

We had one when we lived in Colombia. Her name was Elsa and man do I miss her (la la la la). Over there it's not just for the filthy rich hacienda dwellers either - solidly middle-class types like me get to exploit the working classes too. Of course, it never felt like that at the time, especially when we didn't have to sweep the floors, wash the clothes, scrub the toilet ... okay, you get the idea. For 20,000 pesos a day (about $10 AUD) you got it all, and she'd even prepare dinner and babysit at a pinch. You justify it by saying "it's more than she would have got if we hadn't hired her", or "it's more than the legal minimum wage", but would I able to survive on 100,000 pesos a week? Barely. And get ahead? Never.

Sure, there are plenty of consumer habits to feel guilty about: pigging out on McDonald's, guzzling Coca-Cola or just doing Nike. We get over it. Now, after almost a year back in these-are-the-rules Sydney, I look back on the halcyon days of having a maid and wonder, should I be ashamed, would I do it again, and most importantly, would it help Santi catch up on his Aristophanes? While our lives consist of an endless ritual of picking up toys (why do they all have so many pieces?) and haciendo oficio, we can't help but dream.

Over the Moon

2007-06-05T01:15:00.000+10:00

A giant, loud-enough-to-be-heard-in-England cheer for my writing buddy Eliza Graham, whose novel Playing with the Moon came out on June 1. YAY!

When I was getting into the writing forums a few years ago, I shared some work with the very helpful Karen Dionne at writers net and she put me in touch with Elizabeth. I think we swapped a chapter or something, and I still recall her description of her character doing something very ordinary - opening the dishwasher - and it being just perfect. You know how it is when the words do exactly what they should to convey the image and the moment? Anyway, we decided to become critique partners and so over the years I've been lucky enough to read most of her work.

Her writing's always been top drawer, but sadly, that's not enough to get published, and a lot of factors (including, perhaps, the alignment of the planets) need to be in place. With all the ups and downs leading up to this moment, she may have felt at times like she was living a novel rather than writing one - it was frustrating enough for me when her earlier mss didn't get picked up, so I can only imagine what it was like for her. But now that Playing with the Moon is out, it's even more of a reason to celebrate.

She'll probably be very busy over the next couple of weeks doing readings and promotion, but I hope she gets a chance to enjoy the moment: picking the book up off the shelf in a store and holding it in her hands; seeing someone take a copy away with them. Congrats E, all the best for the coming months, and as always, for the next project.

Dream the Impossible Dream

2007-05-28T13:00:00.000+10:00

No, I’m not talking about West Ham miraculously avoiding relegation this season (but GET IN THERE YOU IRONS! all the same). What I’m talking about is the favourite subject of every good Sydney-sider – real estate.

It’s insidious I tell you. Like most newcomers I was disgusted by it at first. But over time, I softened and acquired a detached, historian’s interest in residential architecture. Gradually I developed an appreciation of Art Deco apartment blocks and dark-brick Californian bungalows. And now, as that "appreciation" blooms into an obsession, the time has come to admit I have a problem.

During my morning train ride I stare wistfully out the window at the little allotments of homeowning bliss. Near Erskineville I peep into the back courtyards of the semis. In one there's a weathered table with three chairs, a medley of potted cacti and an ashtray. I imagine the people playing cards the night before, lingering over a mid-range Shiraz Viognier, smoking rollies. I imagine myself there too.

Near Croyden the bungalows begin, always with a frangipani out the front. Out the back they have gardens, large enough for a swing set or a respectable veggie patch. And as I ogle over the fences I can see myself plucking ripe tomatoes off the vines, or digging carrots out of the cool earth – my cool earth. At the end of the street a similar backyard is overgrown with weeds and I frown at it the way you might at a neighbour who lowers the value of the surrounding houses by neglecting basic maintenance. When was the last time they painted?

And then when the view opens up near Homebush, my breath catches as I peer across the landscape. Between the bushy treetops, solid and ordinary orange-tiled roofs shelter solid, ordinary lives - people on time for work and soccer practice. This is the landscape that I travelled halfway across the world to get away from, that I hated, and now, perhaps, could love.

But is this love? I thought love was wholesome and good, whereas this feels consumptive, depraved. It's like having fantasies about that person you never could … never would … I catch myself peeping into the real estate agent's window, looking at the prices. Next door is the newsagent and I see Lotto has another jackpot this week. The red sign calls to me.

Sydney, Sydney, Sydney. You’re driving me crazy.

Fat Quarters and Feed Dogs

2007-05-17T23:16:00.000+10:00

What would you say if I told you my boss was giving me a fat quarter from her stash? And that I was going to cut it up this weekend?

These are not the ravings of a hardcore stoner, but a newbie crafter. I haven't mentioned it before, but since I've been back in Sydney I've been working at a publisher of craft magazines. There are about a dozen titles covering quilting, patchwork, embroidery, doll making, decorative painting, card making and scrapbooking.

I had to learn a lot, especially the crafting nomenclature. Imagine my confusion when I first read the instruction to put the feed dogs down (poor animals!) or to baste the fabric (doesn't sound very appetising). But I've managed to get my head around most of it now.

Still, I felt that I'd never be taken completely seriously if I didn't do some kind of craft. So to break through the glass ceiling (or in this case the embroidered curtain) and learn something from the quite amazing people I work with, I'm wading into the world of patchwork. My first project is a birthday present for Santi which I'll hopefully be able to photograph and post here in a couple of weeks. I've got Monday off and will be spending the day on Mum's old sewing machine, piecing up a storm.

We have ways of making you healthy

2007-05-11T01:02:00.000+10:00

Hats off to the NSW Cancer Institute for their latest ad campaign, 'Which Disease'. You can see it here, but if you can't be arsed, it's basically poking fun at the way smokers try and avoid the more graphic health warnings on cigarette packets; no-one wants the picture of mouth cancer, but emphysema – a close-up of a lung which could just as well be roofing insulation – is ok. The thrust of the ad is that you can't choose which disease you get from smoking.

It's very true and less heavy-handed than their previous efforts, usually marked by the absence of irony and the terminally grey filter they film everything through. I had expected them to continue taking the hard line and even had a couple of proposals up my sleeve, one to start printing the health warnings on the actual cigarettes. How many people could handle smoking a ciggie with a picture of a gangrenous foot on the filter?

In Australia we have a history of shocking public service announcements. The bar was set 20 years ago by this classic grim reaper AIDS ad which I found on youtube. I hadn't seen it for ages, and remembered it as OTT and naff. At times it it is – check out the baby somersaulting out of the mother's arms for example – but it's also pretty frightening. It gave kids and adults nightmares and got them asking questions. We now point to this, and the government policies of the time, as the reason for having a relatively low incidence of AIDS. Still, I loved the comment one person left: “the scariest thing about this ad is the hairdos”.

Back in Bogotá they dusted off the grim one (aka la muerte) for a public safety campaign about crossing the road. First they spray-painted stars (estrellas) wherever people had been run over (estrellado), then they had transit officers dress up as the grim reaper and if you tried to cross the road illegally, they scythed your head off. Actually, they didn’t, but they did blow a whistle, and my wife says, sometimes they grabbed you and hugged you. Effective? Not at the time of us leaving.

So is fear still the best motivator for public health and safety? I’m undecided. The latest round of ads I’ve seen here are targeted at marijuana users with lines like “You’ve got beautiful eyes … when they’re not bloodshot.” and “I wouldn’t be firing you … if you bothered to turn up on time.” There are a couple more, playing on fear of social rejection and fear of letting down your mates in a team sport scenario. It's not the pot making us yawn at these ads but the fact we've already overdosed on fear. In this climate, humour could be the best medicine - I hope they try it.

Give me a D

2007-05-02T23:36:00.000+10:00

Democracy. It's the kind of word that makes you want to stand up and clap, isn't it? I think of fraternal Zorba-the-Greek-style dances, or conga lines of voters snaking their way through the free world. But democracy is a lot like love – there's more to it than they show you in the movies.

My first inkling of this came when I was working at the ABC. The MD sent out an all-staff email – typical managerial bumf that you scan and consign to the 'Important Memos' folder – and one employee sent back a response, also copying in all staff. It was a long, well-written email, disagreeing with most points the MD made and, I thought at the time, a pretty cool way of getting fired. But it turned out this kind of thing was okay at the ABC and it happened on a few occasions after that. Unfortunately, the emails were really long and I had a lot of work to do and I actually stopped reading the correspondence after a while. That last bit, for me, pretty much sums up democracy.

And as I face up to my democratic responsibilities once again after missing quite a few elections overseas, I know that if I'm going to be (ahem) serious about this, I'll have to read those long polemic emails and come to grips with the issues. One thing raising the interest levels is that the MP for my electorate is Peter Garrett – ex-frontman for Midnight Oil.

It's kind of cool to be able to vote for a guy whose music you like and whose lyrics you respect. Or at least it would be if he his victory speech was a rousing rendition of The Power and the Passion. Instead, he'll probably have to toe the party line. And what is that then?

That's what I aim to find out. Promises are dangerous things, but seeing as this is about politicians, it feels right to get it on the action, to wit: (clears throat and stands on chair) I promise to study the candidates for the Kingsford-Smith electorate and find out what they represent, not just as party members, but as individuals. If I can, I'll ask them questions directly and I'll vote for the best individual candidate, regardless of what party he/she belongs to. This is me, promising myself to be a more informed voter.

Well, I'll believe that when I see it.

A Tale of Two Snack Foods

2007-04-26T23:34:00.000+10:00

Relax, I'm not going to riff off the 'best of times/worst of times' thing. What I am going to do is present two of my favourite snack foods.

Firstly, these bad boys: Smith's Salt and Vinegar Crisps. God I missed them when I lived in Colombia. They can reduce you to tears when you've got a mouth ulcer. And I love the way that the packet is pink - they're so not feminine. You could put silk tassels on the corners, and it still wouldn't matter because they're rock.

Secondly, this is snack-food brutality, the Colombian way: Todo Rico, or, roughly translated, "everything yummy", where everything is plain potato chips (the no-nonsense foundation), salted plantain crisps (with a hint of sweetness) and chicharrones, or pork crackling (crunch, boom - like Batman sound effects for your tastebuds). Sum of it's parts, better, etc - you can fill it in; I'm already thinking how when I finally get back to Bogota, I will not make it out of the airport before I scoff a packet of these guys. Como te extraño!

And sorry, but it's always the best of times and the worst of times when you love chips from different continents. Chip Olympics anyone?

People are strange, when you're a driver

2007-04-19T13:20:00.000+10:00

Away for Easter meant that I borrowed a friend's car and got to see how the other three-quarters live. I came away thinking that in a city where so many people drive, it necessarily shapes their perspective and behaviour.

For starters you really do see things in a new way when you're driving. The view from the Cahill expressway is far superior to the view of it and I don't think I ever totally got the Anzac bridge until I drove over it. Even parts of the M4 are quite attractive in their way. It stands to reason that a lot of the built environment - especially advertising - caters to drivers, but I'd hadn't thought about this until I sat behind the wheel. I had a feeling of suddenly being part of a favoured (or more lucrative?) demographic.

Then this morning, back on the bus, I noticed one of those LED traffic signs flashing the message "PROTEST MARCH 11AM, COLLEGE ST". Well that's pretty dumb, I thought, if they don't even tell you what the march is about, who will bother going? Then I clicked that the sign was aimed at the drivers, who are (we assume) only interested in the march to the extent that it disturbs traffic.

In terms of behaviour, have you noticed the way drivers' conversations home in on a couple of themes?

1. The person who cut me off/didn't let me in/didn't take off from the lights fast enough. This topic is introduced by the phrase "Look at this guy."

2. The price of petrol. When this topic comes up, the driver will start reciting figures like a cracked numerologist. After a bit of head scratching you'll see them staring at the big numbers outside a petrol station. "118!" they say, to which the correct response is, "no way!"

As a passenger I've always marvelled at how people can be reduced to such tedium, but suddenly it was me saying these things, getting tushy with the idiot behind me and cursing when I missed out on a cheap tank of petrol.

On a deeper level (oh dear), I reckon this kind of irritation has to affect the way people behave all round. During a normal drive to/from work there are so many moments of conflict that never get resolved. You'll rarely get a chance to tell that inconsiderate driver how you feel. And then you're also subject to the malevolent vicissitudes of a market you cannot understand. That's gotta have an impact.

I present as evidence my experience crossing Parramatta Road on the way to work.

This is one of the most hardened vehicular arteries of the city and not even a car windscreen can save it from looking ugly. There is this a walkway further along (which gives new meaning to the expression 'rat race') but usually I cross frogger style.

So the other day I cut it a bit fine and one driver actually accelerated and almost hit me. I won't bang on about it - we've all experienced little unkindnesses in our days and know what it's like - but when I got to the curb and looked at the car speeding off I could imagine the driver felt totally justified. If he had a passenger he probably said "look at this guy" before ramming his foot to the floor, and I'm sure many motorists out there would give him a pat on the back for trying to run me down. But isn't it weird that in Bogota - a supposedly more dangerous city, with homicide rates much higher than Sydney's - you don't get these hissy-fits of hostility?

Follow the rules motherfucker, and if you don't I'll run you over. That's the driving credo in Sydney, and I'm not sure you can switch it off with the engine.

Hero of the Day (so far)

2007-04-13T12:37:00.000+10:00

"Ladies and gentlemen," he started. This was the announcer on the train this morning. You could see the people in the carriage sitting up, somewhat shocked by the honorifics and looking around as if to say "what, us?" He then went on to list the upcoming stations in a voice bursting with anticipation and excitement, like you sometimes hear at the big awards ceremonies. "Next stop," you could imagine him saying, "a station that needs no introduction, change here for the Bankstown line and the Royal Easter Show, please join me in welcoming ..."

The way he said it, you almost believed you were pulling in to Las Islas del Rosario rather than grubby old Lidcombe. He had an accent too, for an exotic twist (in fact, I'll bet he was from Colombia). I wasn't the only one smiling when his voice came over the PA, and anyone who can get that to happen on a morning train heading out to Campbelltown really is a hero.

Mr Announcer, thank you.

Secret Men's Business

2007-04-03T22:18:00.000+10:00

I do love the pubs in Sydney, and I wish that I could spend more time in them. In Bogotá it seemed like I couldn't avoid having a drink with friends at least once a week, but in Sydney it's a bit trickier. And the best theory I've heard on why this is so, is that everything is more spread out here. If the character of some parts of Sydney is ever going to improve – urban planners please take note – we need many more pubs to fill in the gaps.

But back to the here and now; checking out promising pubs has always been a favourite pastime of mine, and a couple of weeks ago we managed a long-overdue catch-up with some friends at a place I'd often admired from the train - The White Cockatoo at Petersham. The inner west is particularly blessed with old-school boozers like this one. In a nice twist of history, one of the guys in our group told us that his great-grandmother used to work there. I bet things have changed since her day. For one thing, they probably wouldn't have let a two-year-old in. But pubs are more family friendly now, and so, he got to come along. He's still getting the hang of eating out was more interested in playing that game where you postition the claw then drop it, and watch it flop ineffectually over the prizes. And he wasn't as impressed as he might have been by the food. The White Cockatoo is famous for its outsized schnitzels and steak sandwiches. If you've ever seen those spot the ball competitions, consider this a variation: spot the bread.

The latest, most dangerous drug ...

2007-03-28T13:19:00.000+10:00

If in about 10 years you see a guy on the train reading the Da Vinci Code it'll probably be me. One of my reading habits is to pick up popular books many years after they've dropped off the bestseller lists. Right now I'm reading Emotional Intelligence, and although I was a bit leery at first (mostly because of what seemed to be the marketing angle) it now has me in its grasp.

I particularly like the bit that explains how anger is bad for your health, but also produces a rush or a high, therefore making it addictive. It struck me that the 'innocent victim' feeling, or righteous indignation that Goleman describes is very similar to what we experience when we watch the news. We all gather around the TV to hear about the latest crime/tragedy/cockup, and while we hope that the people responsible for said incident will get their comuppance, we know they probably won't. Grrrr.

On the surface, it doesn't seem like a very satisfactory experience, but if you check the ratings, a lot of people are doing it. Maybe one of the reasons for this is the anxious/angry buzz it gives us. Taking it a step further, I got to thinking that the powers that be often employ this effect in advertising and health warnings too.

Remember, for example, when scientists discovered that Mediterranean races had fewer heart problems than others? They looked at the Australian diet to work out what we could do better. Next thing you know, sunflower oil was disappearing off the supermarket shelves to be replaced by olive oil. But sometimes I wonder how much was the oil and how much the lifestyle -- ie, unless you move to a Mediterranean village and start fishing, no quantity of olive oil will help you. And it would be a sad irony indeed if all the advertising about coronary artery disease and olive oil actually caused more heart attacks as we stressed out about all the chico rolls we ate as children. Or what about the gruesome anti-smoking ads that the cancer institute here puts out? Could they be contributing to the problems rather than fixing them?

Although I don't watch the news, I do like the occasional dose of righteous indignation. Late last year I was out with some friends, one of whom was visiting from Melbourne with his new girlfriend. She was talking about how science could soon increase our life expectancy to 150 years and I pointed out that there might be a few other problems that we should focus on before we worry about extending our lifespans any further. Very simply and calmly she said no, that she thought it was great, and that things in general in the world were improving.

What a conversation stopper! Everyone at the table went silent for a minute. I had been about to launch into a tirade about everything wrong on our planet, but her statement knocked all that on the head. Whether or not I agree with her, what it made me realise was that I was anticipating my fix of doom and gloom with some glee. When I couldn't have it, it was kind of like having a cocktail mixed and served in front of me and not being able to drink it.

So where does that leave me (besides craving a martini and a cigarette)? In fact it leaves me precisely on page 178 of Emotional Intelligence. Stay tuned for next week's entry: an introduction to Harry Potter.

Bigots on the Train

2007-03-22T13:10:00.000+11:00

Yes, we're back with another riveting episode of BIGOTS ON THE TRAIN. This week, a relaxing sojourn in the mountains ends in bloody tragedy – stay tuned.

Ads x 5

Cue theme music, shot of train pulling out from station.

Everything was going smoothly on the Sunday afternoon service from Mt Victoria to Central.

Cut to inside train, a general sense of wellbeing permeates carriage.

Lesly, Santiago, Mark and Richard had just spent a pleasant weekend with Rod and his family in the mountains and were returning to Sydney when–

Actually, let's skip the TV show thing. The two guys got on our train around Mt Druitt. They were your garden variety bigots, both a bit drunk, one more vocal, the other a classic yes-man. As we headed towards Central they treated us to a kind of Very Lonely Planet Guide to Sydney.

At Penrith:

Bigot 1: I hate all these people out here. They're all cheating welfare, f*cking c*cksuckers. This is the last time I ever come out here.
Bigot 2: Yeah.

At Auburn:

Bigot 1: F*cking Vietnamese. They come here and work for nothing and wreck the economy. And Kevin Rudd wants to get rid of the IR laws. [Laughs dismissively]
Bigot 2: [Shakes head] Idiot.

At Redfern:

Bigot 1: They should rename this station f*cking boong town [laughs at own joke]. Or didgeridoo town [laughs harder].
Bigot 2: Yeah, didgeridoo town.

Somewhere in between:

Bigot 1: Can you imagine bloody Julia Gillard as treasurer? She's a f*cking lawyer. Costello's a lawyer too, but at least he's ...[trails off]
Bigot 2: At least he's a bloke.

Sure, it's nothing we haven't all seen before – like, get over it man. Though John Howard (who I know checks in to this blog from time to time) might be a little disturbed by exactly how retarded some of his supporters are. Could have been nice to get a little singalong going of Your Racist Friend, although probably too subtle. Maybe a bit of goosestepping down the aisle and some 'sieg heils' would have been more appropriate? Or, I could have loudly shared my new idea on disrupting Australian politics with Richard.

I call it a popular gerrymander and it's pretty simple. You just arrange for a whole bunch of like-minded people to move in to John Howard's electorate before the next election. They can rent apartments – no need to buy property. A few thousand could be enough to tip the balance, make Howard lose his seat and render him ineligible to be PM again.

Mark: Brilliant or what?

Bigot 1: Oi! I'll 'ave ya!

According to witnesses, the man – who shall remain nameless – flew into a rage and attacked Mark with a bottle-opener key ring.

Cut to outside of train window, blood spatters across it from inside. Screams.

But of course that's not how it happened. I did nothing, which isn't half so good for ratings. Remember that next time you bite your tongue.

Under the weather

2007-03-14T08:12:00.000+11:00

It seems like not long ago I was posting about the weather getting warmer and the joy of seeing jacarandas out in bloom. Well someone obviously hasn't been burning enough fossil fuels because autumn arrived right on schedule this year.

There are the usual signs: days get shorter and colder, guys on the train start wearing their suit jackets again, and the pharmacists and medical centres advertise flu vaccines. I've already succumbed to an early season cold, not bad enough to justify 'chucking a sickie' but it has brought back a lot of memories. Illnesses are quite evocative in their way, and there's something about the symptoms – particularly the way my eyeballs hurt when I look too far to one side, or up or down – that is pure Sydney for me. I can't put my finger on it, but the colds simply weren't the same in Bogotá. Not saying they were better or worse, just different. But then it's only logical that as well as different food and music etc, you should have different viruses. Isn't it?

This morning I bought some cough lollies at the station and it made me smile to see all those old standbys: the Anticols, Butter Menthols, Soothers and Throaties. But you know how it is with cough lollies – half a packet later the only real effect they've had is to leave you feeling sick from all the sugar. So this afternoon I hit the chemist and got some proper cold and flu tablets.

As always, taking this medicine makes me wonder why I don't do it more often. I dropped a couple as soon as I got home and now I feel awake, pleasantly wired and productive – much more so than when I'm in good health. Do we even need to be sick to take them? Perhaps the only thing standing between me and completing all those side projects is a couple of packets of Coldral ...

Support my team, or go to your room

2007-03-06T21:31:00.000+11:00

Is it wrong to hope that your children grow up to support the same team(s) as you? Is it bad to try and influence them? Does it even make a difference? My father certainly never pushed me to follow any particular team, or play any particular sport. Come to think of it, he's never evinced the remotest interest in watching sport, and yet, here I am.

I didn't set out to influence Santi, but it just so happened that we were buying him a knitted snake from a craft show in Bogota and one of them was in the colours of West Ham United. The snake doesn't get much attention these days, but it's always there at the side of the bed.

Then there was the football shirt, which I admit, may seem like a fairly strong push, but it was a present (thanks again, Greg and Zoe) and he only really wears it when we watch a game together.

And since we've arrived in Sydney, we haven't seen any games because of the time difference. Maybe it's better that way -- so far this season we've had dodgy last-minute transfers, takeovers, a change of managers, injuries galore and players who say they're visiting their sick grandma in the Isle of Wight then jet off to South Carolina for a weekend of wild partying. And through all of this, most of the performances have been, as one poster at my favourite WHU website so aptly put it, 'beyond toilet'. On the weekend we saw the highlight of a very bleak season -- after that we went on to lose 3-4. We are going down. Man it sucks when your team is crap.

Anyway, enough blubbing. I do wonder what sports Santi will end up playing, and who he'll end up supporting. What will happen when Australia take on Colombia? Mainly I hope that one day we can sit down together with a beer and cheer on the same side. What's so bad about that?

Taxi!

2007-02-28T13:32:00.000+11:00

News from Bogota this week was that one of our friends, Irma, was taken on the paseo millonario, or millionaire’s joyride. Now, before visions of leer jets and complimentary martinis become too vivid in your mind, allow me to explain that this joyride occurs when you get into a dodgy taxi and get robbed. Usually they switch you into another vehicle at gunpoint, and then take you to an ATM so you can withdraw all your money and give it to them. The 'millionaire' part makes more sense when you consider that a million Colombian pesos is about A$500, so it’s not that hard to make (or lose) that much money.

Our friend lost about 600,000 pesos, (about A$300). Of course, far worse than losing the money is the trauma of the thing. I never got taken on a paseo, but I did get robbed and it’s a horrible feeling – that constant replay going on in your head and the ‘what if?' What if I’d caught a bus? What if I’d been five minutes earlier, or later? What if I’d been a black belt karate expert and beaten several shades of bejesus out of that hijueputa who stole my money (whose face you’ve completely forgotten btw)? One of the things that doesn’t cross your mind is, ‘where were the police?’ In Sydney we still have the idea that crime doesn’t pay, but there it so obviously does, it’s up to you to reduce the risks. Do not carry large amounts of cash around, or your credit/debit cards. If you need a taxi, call one of the taxi companies. Don’t leave yourself exposed, or as the locals say, no des papaya.

And in case any Colombians are reading this, and want to slam me for painting a negative picture of their country, I’m talking specifically about Bogota here, which is a big city and the same kind of stuff happens in massive cities all over the world. But Sydney for the most part is very different; the cab drivers still take all your money, but it’s completely legal. And the dangers are different here. In a broader sense, living in a ‘safer’ city was one of the things I was really looking forward to coming back here. Now I'm not sure how much of an impact it makes. Nothing more to say about it for now, except that I'm thinking about it. A lot.

In the Red with Whitegoods

2007-02-21T08:12:00.001+11:00

Forget about the face paints, thongs and the oath of allegiance (oops, I mean the affirmation of loyalty), the only things you need to be an Australian are a decent car and some debts. I'm convinced that one of the reasons I've been feeling so un-dinkum since I got back is that I had neither. But now, at least part of that has changed.

My search for whitegoods took me to Harvey Norman Auburn, which I heartily recommend if you ever want to disabuse yourself of the notion that you like shopping. Here you are surrounded by sad objects that no one loves, staff that do not care, and shoppers that seem to be fading, wraith-like into a subhuman dimension. Why do people come here?

The answer is finance -- three years interest free. So you can buy stuff and not pay any interest until 2010, or if you want to say it another way (go on, it sounds impressive) until next decade. And the more you spend the better terms they give you -- spend over $1440 and you get the full three-year term. As you can probably imagine, a lot of people come in for a clock radio and a broom and leave with a home cinema system and a bagless vacuum cleaner. All you do is walk around the different parts of the store, choosing the things you want, and then when they tally it all up you go off to one of the back rooms to get your credit rating checked and processed.

Although the rest of the experience is below par, that's the truly dreadful bit, and I fear I will not be able to successfully describe the room where I was 'approved'. I could tell you about the exhausted, grimy grey walls and ceiling tiles, or the surprising lack of contrast these made with the wall calendar of a beach at sunrise. I could describe the piped music -- hip-hop at slightly louder than background level -- or the guy who helped me, with his cocktail-frankfurt fingers and the expression on his face which suggested that the size of his digits was the least of his problems. And although all of this will give you an idea of how drab it was, it won't convey the terrible sordidness of it all. When I walked out, far from feeling empowered, I felt strangely violated.

But now we have a mattress (granted, important), a click-clack lounge, a vacuum cleaner, a kettle and a blender -- and a green GO credit card with a few grand still to spend. Shame Harvey Norman don't do cars, eh?

Whitegoods and Black Moods

2007-02-14T08:39:00.000+11:00

Given that so many politically sensitive words have been expunged from the English language recently, surely it’s only a matter of time till ‘whitegoods’ disappears, particularly since most of them are now finished in stainless steel. I consider myself a bit of an expert on household products at the moment, as I’ve been trawling through the various retailers, looking for the best deal.

My first stop was, surprise surprise, Auburn, where a number of home-maker supercentres have sprung up close to my office. Though out here, where the M4 meets Silverwater Road (and the 14-wheeler and the articulated lorry play etc etc), ‘close’ is a relative term, especially when you’re walking.

That’s right, walking. The blocks look much bigger on the ground than they do in the street directory, and when you finally reach the humungous Bunnings warehouse, sweaty and knackered, you experience a strange epiphany. You know when you stand in front of a snow-capped mountain, or stare up at a clear night sky? You know that feeling of being dwarfed by the cosmos, when you finally comprehend I am nothing, and everything? Well standing in front of Bunnings is not like that at all. In fact, in a karmic sense, it is the exact opposite. If a person breaks down and sobs in the Bunnings carpark and no one is parked close enough to hear, does it make a sound? The answer – and I can vouch for this – is “yes”.

What you find also is that very few of the supercentres have marked pedestrian entrances. In one of them I asked a cleaner if he knew where 2nds World was. “Where is your car?” was his immediate reply. So I said, “Dude, where is my car?” Actually I didn’t. I said "I'm walking," and he looked at me like a piece of refuse that he'd missed with his squidgy broom.

I finally got the whitegoods I needed, but more of that in another entry.

Cream, bone, white, off-white, ivory or beige

2007-02-06T13:30:00.000+11:00

Is there a greater Australian living than Richie Benaud? Last night I saw him on the Alan Border medals – sort of like Aussie cricket’s Oscar night, except with Simone Warne instead of Scarlett Johansson – when he and Charlie Macartney were inducted into the Hall of Fame. As Macartney died in 1958, his biographer accepted the award with a few polite words. Then it was Richie’s turn to take the stage. He gave a ten-minute talk which, I don’t mind saying, affected me.

He represents so many qualities that we would aspire to: he’s erudite and witty under pressure, has a collection of anecdotes that would fill volumes (and they’d be volumes you would like to read), he was a great sportsman and leader. He’s also been the voice of cricket here for decades – almost like a member of the family. There are at least two generations who will not be able to separate him from their memories of waking up on a Sunday with nothing to do, then turning on the TV just in time to see the nine golden balls of the Channel 9 logo swinging into place, and that music. “Good morning viewers, and welcome to the MCG.”

There was a nice letter in the SMH yesterday about how we don’t see statues in the street of our public figures any more because all of them so obviously have clay feet. Not Richie Benaud; you could put a statue up of him, and very few people would have a problem with it. And he’s still head and shoulders above the other commentators. Just compare him to the grotesque, reptilian Ian Chappel, or genial boofheads like Tubby Taylor and Slats. He proves that you can be athletic and articulate. Mark my words, the day Richie Benaud dies, grown men will weep in this country.

Richie Benaud = Class.

Tuning in

2007-02-02T13:14:00.000+11:00

How do you hear new music? Do you listen to the radio in your car? Do you listen to the radio at all? Are you super-realised technologically, hand-picking the podcasts that you want from all over the world? Or are you more of an 'old favourites' type?

A few rows of partitions behind me at work, someone has the radio on constantly, just loud enough for me to get snatches of songs, but not loud enough to actually follow them. You know at trivia nights, how they have those bits where they play five seconds of a track and you have to guess what it is? Well, I'm quite good at that, and this means I get woken out of my desk stupour at regular intervals when I recognise something: there's that one with the electronic hook, the one with the male vocal singing something in a kind of happy, resigned way, there's the na-na-na-nah-nah one (female vocalist) and the one where the guy sings a dramatic descending arpeggio. I don't actually know who the artists are, or the other bits of the songs, so it's kind of a rarefied listening experience.

None of that back in Colombia. The bus drivers put the tunes on loud, and too bad if you didn't like vallenato. Or sometimes on a Friday afternoon, the classroom would be overrun by the music, blasting out from the picos at the student bars nearby. If you looked out the window you could see the kids in there swaying -- with the beat or the drinks you could never be sure. They had beers in their hands and aguardiente on the table and ocassionally you saw one or two of the students who were supposed to be in your class. And no, these were not circumstances conducive to focussing the class's energies on learning.

When I was on holidays at Lesly's parents' place, you could stay abreast of the top 50 without even leaving the house -- music wafted down the street from the nearby tavernas. 'Hey, they're playing this one again.' I miss the desorden, sure, but mainly I miss the music! Wonder what's ringing out these days?

National Identity Crisis Day

2007-01-30T12:43:00.000+11:00

Just a quick one as I sit here, back at work, holding my head in my hands after an extra-long weekend. We were down in Tasmania with David and Sandy for a few days, and I got to catch a fish and eat it. So did Lesly! Santi got to do all kinds of things he'd never done before: pick strawberries, hold a worm, climb a woodpile, dig for potatoes, see a bettong ... Very cool.

And we celebrated Australia Day in fine style. We had an old-school wood barbeque (pictured) and David even made a pot of billy tea. While we chomped on our sausage sandwiches we also chatted about what exactly the day means now. The ads on the buses this year said something about a pledge of loyalty and wearing face paints. Besides being pretty naff it highlighted the fact that we are struggling to define what it means to be Australian.

And of course it is hard to define a culture; while things like food, music, dance, clothes are important, they don't get to the heart of it. The best idea we came up with was fairness, as in 'a fair go', 'fair dinkum' and 'fair suck of the sav'. Maybe it's not as relevant these days, but it certainly beats excessive use of face paints.

IMPORTANT BUSINESS OPPORTUNITY!!!

2007-01-19T13:03:00.000+11:00

NAME :Prince Fayad Bolkiah.

EMAIL: fayad_bolkiah002@noway.com

Dear Sir/Madam,

I am Prince Fayad Bolkiah, father of one and citizen of the small and moderately well-off sultanate of Randwick in the eastern suburbs of Sydney. I am pleased to write to inform you of my good intention to invest or form a joint partnership business with you. I got your reliable contact from my father's diary and further explicit investment information about your country from my attorney in London, who has been of great assistance. I will save your time by not amplifying my extended family history, which has already been disseminated by me on this blog.

As you may know from the international media, the people of inner Sydney are currently suffering a severe crisis in the area of child care. Places are extremely limited and waiting lists of over two years are not uncommon. When families are fortunate enough to find a place, they can easily expect to pay over $300 a week for each child, which could be roughly equivalent to their rent. Over a year, not including 4 weeks of holiday, this equates to approximately $15,000 dollars.

Child-care workers are paid relatively low salaries and do not constitute a major expense, and demand is so high that there is no conceivable ceiling on what concerned and responsible parents will pay to make sure their children get looked after. With such unfettered market forces running rampant, the potential for profit here is mouthwatering. I am sure you will agree, this is indeed the lucky country for investors and entrepreneurs and right now is a propitious moment for speculating in this buoyant market sector. Already one man has made his fortune by opening a chain of child-care centres – certainly we could follow his noble example.

Hence I seek your good assistance to invest funds into profitable enterprise to facilitate future survival and prosperity for our families. If this proposal is accepted by you, kindly forward your honest response to me for more information and of course your opinion shall be welcomed concerning this transaction. Please treat this proposal as urgent and confidential.

Prince Fayad Bolkiah.

Perks of the job

2007-01-10T22:55:00.000+11:00

Some people get free merchandise, a company car or heavily discounted international flights. Me? I get to walk through Auburn, in Sydney's western suburbs, on a daily basis. No really, bear with me ...

Everyone knows how multicultural Sydney is, but it's unlikely you've seen it at this density before. When you step onto the platform at peak hour, the mix of faces and garbs is what you'd expect at a busy international airport, rather than a suburb in Sydney. At the 2001 census 52.5% of Auburn's residents were born overseas and more than 72% spoke a language other than English at home. Immgrants come mainly from China, Turkey and Lebanon, but lately there has also been a massive influx from Africa. Many of the people who settle here are refugees.

What this translates to for a passer-through like me is a walk on the culturally diverse side. Here, for example, is a notice at Auburn station:

I haven't been all around the CityRail network but this is the first time I've seen a sign in anything except English. Walking down the main road to the station on Friday afternoon, I watch kids play driveway cricket – a girl in a burkha bowls a long hop to a boy in the classic school shirt and King Gee shorts, chatting in Croatian to the wicket-keeper. He stops talking long enough to hit a cross-bat swat over the head of the girl in the sari, fielding at mid off, and the ball rolls across the road and into the gutter where a couple of Sudanese girls are more interested in skipping rope than fielding. In the apartments surrounding the game, the parents are cooking dinner and the aromas assail you as you walk past: grilled meat and garlic, curry spices and asian sauces.

This ethnic diversity is reflected the cross-section of small businesses in the area. In one block you can pass a Chinese bakery, a convenience store selling hot nuts, a halal butcher, a restaurant with barbequed ducks hanging in the window, a Turkish delight factory and, to top it all off, an RSL club.

And there's something else you notice here: things are cheap! You can still, incredibly, buy some items for less than a dollar. And I'm not sure if it's the proximity to Flemington markets, but fresh produce is bargain basement. I've actually started doing some of our grocery shopping here it’s so cheap. Cop this:

Item.......................................Mark's local shops...........Auburn
Bunch of bok choy.........................$1.50........................$0.40
1kg nectarines................................$7.00........................$0.98
1kg lamb loin chops.......................$17.00.......................$6.00
1kg sirloin steak.............................$35.00......................$7.00
1kg green banana prawns.............$25.00......................$13.00

So yeah, go Auburn! It’s quite ugly in a lot of ways, and you wouldn’t be out of line saying that it’s a nice place to commute through, but no way in hell would you want to live there; however, it’s raw and vibrant as all get out, and I am glad I get a chance to experience it.

New Year's Revolutions!

2007-01-03T08:11:00.000+11:00

You know how it is -- too busy to work them out beforehand, too monged on the night and too 'irresolute' to manage it on New Year's Day; suddenly you're a fair way in and still without a clue what you're aiming for in the next 365 days. It feels like naming the baby after it's born, except ... well, actually it's not like that at all.

Some of the ideas that have been considered so far include:
1. Read the Bible, Ulysses and Remembrance of Things Past. Imagine the kind of excruciating party conversation I'd come out with after all that. As my son says, 'ouchy wa wa'. FZZT.
2. Buy a mattress. Good in terms of being practical and achievable, but it looks like we can keep the one we've got. FZZT.
3. Eat more fruit. Too hard to quantify. FZZT.
4. Win the lottery. Too hard. And ultimately, I'm not sure this is the answer anyway. FZZT.
5. Focus not on doing more, but on enjoying what I do more. Sounds like one of those desk-calendar aphorisms, but not as catchy. FZZT.
6. Sleep in more. Under consideration: This is more like it. Why I continue to arrive at work 30 minutes early is beyond me. Blog time I guess. (there is no sound for this one)
7. Swim. Here, at last, is a contender. No measures, just a simple command. Swim. I like that. DING.

In other news, the break was at once restful and hedonistic. Santa Claus and el Niño Dios got along just fine and managed to deliver a mini-mountain of presents to our son. Some highlights of the season were the food -- delicious without being over the top -- the parties and the company, including the little guy who stayed up way too late to share the alegria with us. Special mention also goes to my best mate Rich, back from a six-month sojourn in South America with plans to stay here for a while. I think a piece of the Sydney puzzle just slipped into place.

Although it's not saying much, 2007 feels like a year that is open to interpretation.

The Great Race

2006-12-22T08:19:00.000+11:00

If there were a points system for bad karma, one item you might find near the bottom, among the minor misdemeanours is ... running for the train when you don't actually know it's coming.

I don't mean where you hear the whistle and dash across the platform to elegantly slip between the closing doors; I mean when you're merely approaching the station and you respond to that feeling that maybe the train is coming. You begin to walk faster -- shuffle-step, step-shuffle -- and the people around you suspect that maybe you know the timetable better than they do. Involuntarily they start shuffling too. And soon you've got barely restrained commuter panic on your hands with people walking Olympic style, bursting through turnstiles and dashing up stairs. And you're actually puffing and sweating when you get to the platform and see ... the train is not even there yet. Sorry to say this but Sydney is the kind of city that makes you do it.

On my morning commute I've started seeing one middle-aged lady quite frequently. She lives in my street, gets on at my bus stop and catches the same train as me. I notice her because of the way she hurries all the time. In fact she looks like she might be Latin American and if she did come from somewhere like Bogota -- where you don't run for the bus because there is no timetable, and no specific bus stop -- I figure she can't have always been like this. I want to stop her and ask, when did it begin? Or even better, I'd like to get some footage of how she walked whenever she first arrived and put it next to some current footage as a kind of 'before' and 'after'. And I want to vow that if Lesly ever ends up hurrying around like that then we will leave this city immediately.

I haven't seen many of the morning train people lately, but I saw 'the man with the lump on his head' this morning, and he is now 'the man who used to have a lump on his head'. That's right, it's gone, with not so much as a band-aid to mark the spot. How? There's another question I will never have the answer to.

Axioms of Leisure

2006-12-14T08:26:00.001+11:00

In Sydney, the quantity and quality of amenities at your disposal is inversely proportional to the time you have available to enjoy them.

It's been a while since I lived in an area with so much well-kept green space. Indeed, if you blindfolded me outside my apartment building, spun me around a few times then sent me on my way, I would have more chance of tripping over in a nature reserve, falling into a pool or getting hit by a golf ball than I would of getting run over by a car, which is pretty impressive when you think about it. However, when it comes to actually doing these things, I'm a tad short on time.

Despite being surrounded by golf courses, it seems the only way you can get on is during the working week, or as a member (read $$$) on the weekends. It's moments like these when I really miss my three-day-a-week job in Colombia, and the Tuesday morning golf games with Max at the public course out on Calle 80.

The pool in our building has been handy, and is an option for a quick dip after work. We've been through the nature reserve next door a few times too, and I'm planning on doing some volunteer gardening work there next year to get to know the native flora a bit better. The beaches are nearby as well, of course. This weekend we went for a barbecue at Coogee, and I did a bit of body surfing. The sea rules -- even just floating in it is enough to make you feel well again.

But as far as consistent exercise goes, it's a bit tricky. The best I've done so far is jogging in the morning. Running along the beach in front of a rising sun is ... well, words don't really cover it. If only you didn't have to get up at 5:30am to do it! Until I get a job closer to the city I think the main exercise I do will be walking through the backstreets of Auburn on the way to work, which as I will show in a later post, also has its upside.

On a completely different note, Lesly has posted five little-known facts about herself, among them that she once shook Fidel Castro's hand! Six degrees of separation my arse; with the Internet, surely it's < five.

Santa Claus vs Niño Dios

2006-12-07T12:41:00.000+11:00

This is the battle at our place right now, and the beliefs of my son could be at stake.

In case you didn’t know, el Niño Dios is the baby Jesus of the pesebre – the nativity scene – which is still a very popular Christmas decoration in Colombia. Just like Santa, he brings with him hope, joy, world peace and most importantly … lots of presents. I am still a little unclear how a baby is meant to carry all those heavy gifts. Santa Claus, on the other hand, has his sleigh and flying reindeer, and comes down the these-days-non-existent chimney -- obvious.

Actually, I don’t particularly care which my son ends up believing in; neither strikes me as a particularly relevant to what we do these days. I do admire Lesly for her patience invoking “Niño Dios” to our son every time he says “Santa Claus”, although in a Sydney awash with jingle bells and white beards, she doesn’t stand much of a chance. She's not religious btw, just keen on our son getting a Colombian christmas too.

What this means in practical terms is that instead of the knock-down drag-out I falsely promised at the start of this entry, we'll end up with some kind of festive hybrid: look out for a cradle on the back of the sleigh, or Santa crashing through the thatched roof of the pesebre.

Losing it

2006-12-01T08:12:00.000+11:00

It's been almost five months now since we arrived in Sydney and my Spanish shows it. Mainly it's the accent. The muscles in my mouth are now accustomed to drawled-out mono and duosyllables as opposed to the staccato diminutives and trilled rs of un cigarillo y un roncito. When we call Colombia on Skype (hugs, big hugs for this technology) Lesly says I sound like a kid. And I'm definitely having trouble with vocabulary recall -- feel like a drunk groping around for the right verb at times.

We're still speaking Spanish at home but it's not enough to stretch me, and I'm reading as much literature in Spanish as possible, but of course it's not the same. Makes you realise that it's quite hard work to learn and maintain another language and I take my hat off to any polyglots out there. (Polyglots, a horrible-sounding word -- surely invented by someone who only spoke one language. Multilingual?)

Anyway, here's another exercise that might help, and something I've wanted to do for a while -- my stab at translating Cortázar's "Instrucciones para llorar". Julio, please forgive me.

Instructions for crying

Leaving to one side the motives, let us attend to the correct way of crying, understanding by this something that is neither scandalous, nor insults the smile with its parallel and clumsy likeness. An average and ordinary cry consists of a general contraction of the face and a spasmodic sound accompanied by tears and mucus, the latter at the end. In fact, the crying stops in the moment when you blow your nose forcibly.

To begin, direct the imagination towards yourself, or if this proves impossible for having contracted the habit of believing in an exterior world, think of a duck covered in ants, or in those gulfs of the Magallanes straights, in which no one enters, ever.

Once it begins, the face is covered with decorum using both hands with the palms facing inwards. Children will cry with the sleeve of their shirt against the face, and by preference in a corner of the room. Average duration of cry, three minutes.

Jingle Jingle Jingle

2006-11-24T08:05:00.000+11:00

Last night we went out to catch the lighting of the tree in Martin Place. It was lovely to get out on a school night and, as always, fascinating to see lots of people doing something together. Obviously there were loads of kids, most wearing Santa hats and flashing red noses that were sold in showbags with profits going to the RSPCA. Then there was the St Mary's Cathedral choral choir, the Hoolie Doolies, Santa coming to town accompanied by mounted police (with the horses dressed up as reindeer), the lighting of the tree and some fireworks at the end.

And generally, it was a great success. I won't bang on about how it was much too early to start Christmas festivities. Suffice it to say that singing Silent Night on the 23rd of November is enough to bring out the inner Scrooge in anyone. Mostly it was great to see the kids loving it and dancing. The adults could certainly learn a thing or two from them.

With all the prams and parents it was quite crowded in Martin Place, which is always a nice test of Christmas spirit. You know, "God bless ye merry gentlemen, but sit the fuck down - you're blocking my view." When the Hoolie Doolies came on and one guy behind me started yelling out for people to sit down, it took some self-restraint not to turn around and say, "no mate, you stand up." He had his rug laid out and a special little picnic chair and all these deli treats in front of him. If you want to sit down with all your creature comforts and watch it on a screen, buy the DVD and stay at home I think. If you want to get the vibe, come in and be a part of it. Dance, get your toe trodden on, say sorry, say hello etc.

And at the end, as the fireworks went off, I got to thinking how a lot of entertainment here follows a very business-like model: the performer (the supplier) gives a product (the performance) to an audience (the purchaser). But it's a broken circuit; we're missing the feedback loop of energy that makes a performance so special. The real fireworks are still in here (points at head), here (points at chest) and here (points at hips). I hope that's something my son will understand.

When will I be famous?

2006-11-15T13:10:00.000+11:00

How can we forget Luke Goss, asking us the question back in, let's see ... (sound of fingers on keyboard) ... 1987? Putting to one side any metaphysical debate about what fame actually is, one possible answer could be 'when you appear in the Macquarie dictionary'. As my boss says: "love it or loathe it, the Macquarie Dictionary is Australia's standard reference."

And, no Luke, I'm afraid you're not there. Nor, might I add, is Rick Astley, nor Wham. Kylie Minogue is, however, as is Michael Hutchence. I suppose they are/were Australian and on another level of popularity. But I challenge anyone to explain what Duran Duran are doing in there. In fact, the more you delve into it, the more inconsistencies you'll find. And before you tell me to get over it, may I point out that dictionaries should be the last safehouse of the pedant, and yes, I may indeed be turning into one. So if you're not up for the ride, I suggest you leave now, because I'm going to split this hair, all the way down to the epidermus.

What possible use could this have?

Rockford noun a town in the US, in northern Illinois. Pop 135 900 (1988 est.)

Have people in the US even heard of Rockford? And do they care? If it was famous for something then why not mention it? It even breaks their own stated criteria of only mentioning cities if their population exceeds 500,000 (or 1000 in Australia). And so it goes on, with mountains, rivers, athletes, actors, Greek Orthodox archbishops etc. If, like me, you spend a lot of time flicking through the dictionary, you can't help but wonder how much time you'd save and carpal tunnel sydrome you'd alleviate if you simply got rid of all this stuff.

Of course, if I ever actually get my name in there, I'll take it all back. When will you be famous? When you're in the dictionary.

Tagged

2006-11-13T12:51:00.000+11:00

I've been invited by friend and tremendously talented writer, Becky, to participate in a kind of hand-holding and bonding session in the blogosphere. I link to five blogs and divulge five little-known facts about myself. Ahem ...

1. My parents are Czech, which makes me a typical Australian, I guess. I was born in Sydney, and sadly, don't speak Czech at all. The only words I understand are words that parents say in moments of panic or rage: pozor (watch out), poćkej (wait), do prkvanćic (say it out loud, you'll get the gist). When people use the adjective Bohemian, I sometimes think of my mum and dad. It certainly puts a different spin on the word.

2. I was arrested once for... vagrancy. When I was 17 and holidaying on the Gold Coast, three of us decided that it might be a good idea to explore a building site, and when we went to leave we were stopped by police with dogs. The dogs were big, and the cops were from Queensland. They took us to the station, strip-searched us(!), charged us with whatever they could think of I suppose, and took all the money we had with us at the time as bail. Years later it stands out as the highlight of a pretty forgettable schoolies week, though I tend not to mention it at interviews.

3. I have seen Wham, Bros and Rick Astley, all live in concert, all at the Sydney Entertainment Centre. Usually at a gig there is a great moment or song you remember, in these cases I don't. All I recall is lots of wardrobe changes, and one of my friends - Jon Pardi (where are you now, man?) - wearing white shoes without socks.

4. I am a very hairy person, and although I've never been teased at the beach for wearing a sweater ("but I've got my shirt off!") it was a source of great discomfort for many years and I've tried many hair-removal methods including shaving, depilatory cream, using one of those sadistic hand-held automatic plucking gizmos, and waxing. As painful as waxing is, it is definitely the way to go. TBH, I'm a bit over the whole thing now, and these days I only do it for special occasions, such as ...

5. Earlier this year I did a strip show with some male co-workers, for our friend (and boss!) Jill who was getting married. Instead of hiring a male stripper for the hens' night, another of our colleagues, Sole, had the bright idea of organising a Full Monty-style show, with us. We didn't actually go the full monty, which I think was right – we left the room as gracefully as you can in nothing but a thong. Somehow we got all the choreography right, backed by the classic house track French Kiss by Lil' Louis. A nice memory.

And now it's time for more revelations of the personal and hopefully embarrasing sort. Welcome:

Lesly

Greg

Daria

What is this?

2006-11-05T22:21:00.000+11:00

If you answered "ibis", you get five points and a golf clap. If you said "sacred ibis" you get the same thing, but remember, nobody likes a know-it-all. And if you threw caution to the wind and said said "the scourge of Sydney's parks and rubbish bins", you get the whitegoods, the holiday to Dunk Island, the Rav4 and the John Karandonis shoes.

Since I've been away, there has been an ibis population explosion, and some people aren't thrilled about it. In a recent study of Hyde Park's least-liked features, "Ibis removing rubbish from the bins" came in at number eight, tied with rats. Number one, incidentally, was homeless people.

If you just looked at the rather attractive specimen above, you might wonder what the problem was. But most of the ibis around Sydney have dirty grey feathers in place of that white plumage. Combine this with the vulgar beak and their persistence in waiting for food scraps, and it's enough to put you off your chicken sandwich. If anyone is considering remaking The Birds (and reading this blog - har!) they could shoot it in Sydney with an ibis twist. Just imagine it -a flock of ibis in a Westfields shopping centre, sucking the brains out of terrified shoppers.

And before you ask "what brains?" let's move right along to the Egyptians. Why did they revere the ibis? And why the hell are they classified as 'sacred'? If I had even a skerric of investigative instinct I'd look it up on Wikipedia, but really, it's late, and I've got an early start tomorrow. If there are any modern-day Thoth worshippers out there, please do fill me in.

Seasons

2006-10-30T23:54:00.000+11:00

God I missed them! Daylight savings started yesterday (or finished - I can never remember when we're spending and when we're saving), which means that it's still bright when I get home and I can look out the bus window and see the jacaranda trees in bloom everywhere. It's also that feeling that you've got time in the evenings again, even if you have to get up an hour earlier. Best of all though are the memories triggered by the heat: an afternoon of fielding at cricket, a lazy afternoon at the pub, or even just sweating it out on public transport. That first hot breeze of the season is just as evocative as any aroma or snatch of music.

One of the crappiest things about living in Bogota was the absence of seasons, the constant drizzly weather, and every cab driver talking about invierno and verano like there was actually a difference. There wasn't. And although this probably reads like more Sydney vs Bogota talk, I've actually been feeling much more mellow lately about the whole thing. Coming to the conclusion that it doesn't matter where you live as long as you're in a good place energy-wise.

Morning train

2006-10-23T13:14:00.000+10:00

Say hello to the people on my morning train. On second thoughts, don't - that kind of behaviour could freak people out. Instead I'll give you a quick tour.

First there's the blonde woman who always gets off at Ashfield. We get on together at Town Hall, and I notice she could catch a slightly earlier train but doesn't. This is probably because our train is the best I have ever seen in Sydney - there's a little screen in the cabin that tells you the next stop, and the seats are comfy and upholstered with clean fabric. The train before ours has scungy, cold, plastic-covered seats. Still, I would like to ask the woman why she doesn't catch the earlier one.

Next there's an older guy with a big lump on his forehead. He gets off at my stop and today I saw him reading and looking around the cabin and I felt a strange kinship with him. I tried, without much conviction, to sneak a peek at his book. Perhaps we're very similar, except for the lump on his head. What the hell is it, anyway? That's what I'd like to ask him.

Then there's an Indian woman who gets on at Redfern and always sits in the single seat at the front of the cabin. I can sense her disappointment when someone else is sitting in her spot. Sometimes she reads what looks like poetry in a foreign alphabet, printed on individual sheets of paper. Maybe they're letters. That's what I'd like to ask her about.

When one of them isn't there, I wonder if they're sick or on holidays. Do they wonder the same when I'm not there? In a way they are like people in my office who I never talk to.

So there it is: the morning train. Say goodbye.

Sad statto, happy statto

2006-10-17T08:30:00.000+10:00

We received a call last night from a Deakin University poll on the happiness of Australians. On a scale of zero to ten, how happy are you? They've obviously thought about it, since it starts at zero rather than one - much better for statistics (though just once I'd like to see a Spinal-Tap-like poll that goes to eleven).

They ask you how satisfied you are with your quality of life, with your house, with the government etc, and you tell them some numbers. There was some other stuff too, like:

"Has anything happened to make you happy or sad recently?"
"Yes."
"Did it make you happy or sad?"
"Both."
"I'm afraid I can only tick one or the other."

And then, the rather profound,

"Do you feel safe?"
"What do you mean by safe?"
"Just ... safe."

Well, I don't know. There could be a terrorist lurking in the recycling shed downstairs I guess, or worse, this could be a bogus survey to extract vital information from gullible householders. Ha ha! Push the big red paranoia button, baby. It's easy to wonder what you're getting poked and prodded for in a post-post-whatever world.

Indeed, I would never have answered these questions back in Colombia. A simple "Usted tiene el numero equivocado," would have done it. Though when I imagine how an average Colombian would answer, the numbers probably aren't that different. In fact, last time I remember a poll like this coming out, Colombia appeared at number 2 (two) in the world. And Australia? Number 139 (one hundred and thirty fucking nine)!

Rather than question the relevance of such an index, may I humbly suggest that next time they run the survey in Australia, they tell people that it's a competition. Then I'm sure we'd do a lot better.

One man's trash is another man's blog entry

2006-10-09T13:00:00.000+10:00

One thing that has blown me away here is the quantity of furniture people throw away. Every month or so the council does a clean up, and at the bottom of our cul-de-sac, a mountain looms: old mattresses, sofas, refrigerators, cupboards etc. On the way to work I see it too, almost every Monday (snaps below). It’s actually a bit obscene, when you think about all these products people must be buying. Piece of crap indeed. But half the time the things aren’t even broken. We rescued a computer chair from the pile last weekend, in perfect condition (apart from that odd smell).

It’s a big change, coming from a city where people went around collecting cardboard and stole manhole and drain covers to sell for scrap metal. Sydney would be the reciclador’s dream.

Aussie Swastikas

2006-10-04T12:52:00.000+10:00

Great day out at Parklife. Personal highlights were Krafty Kuts, Ian Pooley, James Taylor and Coldcut. In fact, Coldcut was the turning point of the day for me - he was the first DJ I really connected with. I'd just been over to watch Peter Hook, and although he got full marks for energy, his set wasn't working. He spun Anarchy in the UK, and it totally killed the dancefloor. I think the kids of today are too busy maintaining their physiques to care much about maintaining the rage (more about that later).

Anyway, on comes Coldcut, the massive screens above his head showing images of passing galaxies, and the words "YOU ARE HERE". Slowly it zooms in on earth, then Australia, Sydney, Centennial Park, the crowd, cheering. And from there on, the visuals were as much a part of the show as the sounds. They had an MC too. "This is not the old school, or the new school, but the true school," he said. It's such an obvious concept to mix images with sounds, but so few DJ's are doing it. And sure, the political stuff also went over a lot of people's heads, but this is a better way forwards. All available forms of resistance, and all that. My old boss, Nick, would have loved it, I'm certain.

I was feeling positively geriatric in amongst the very young crowd. I'm old enough not to care now, but if I were 18 again, I'd be stressing out big time about my body. These days the guys are as subject to body-image pressures as the girls, if the heavily-muscled torsos on display are any indication. There were also a lot of Southern Cross tattoos around. I thought they might be a tribute to the Aussie cricket team, until a friend explained they had something to do with the racial tensions that have been simmering recently. Since then I've noticed them around in odd places - yesterday on someones backpack going up the escalators (the enthralling visual world of the commuter). Is this the Australian version of the Swastika?

These are the breaks

2006-09-27T12:45:00.000+10:00

Yes, the incredible Krafty Kuts is coming to Sydney for Parklife this weekend, along with the Stanton Warriors, Coldcut and a whole bunch of others. These guys would never have played where I was living before, and if they did, it would have been somewhere dire, like a football stadium. This one is on at Centennial Park and we were going to take the little guy down, at least for a while, but it's turned out to be too difficult. How cool would it have been for him, when he grows up to know that he saw these DJs? Well, actually, probably not that cool by then. I'm sure he'll get deeply embarrassed when I play any of this music, and will practically die if I start dancing to it.

In other news, congratulations to my mates Greg and Zöe who are going to get married. Still a lot of planning to do, but G is talking about organising the wedding to coincide with Glastonbury. Now that's one that would be brilliant to do as a family.

Fuck, normal again

2006-09-21T08:24:00.000+10:00

It happens faster than you expect - the fresh view fades, the old bad habits return. When you arrive, in those first few days, you know you're different, and you carry that knowledge around like a gem in your pocket. But as time passes, there's less and less to distinguish you from an ordinary 'Aussie'.

"Yeah, we just came back from overseas."
"Oh, really?"

... 2 months later ...

"Yeah, we recently came back from overseas."
"Oh, that's nice."

... 6 months later ...

"Yeah, we used to live overseas."
"Oh."

... 1 year later ...

"Yeah, once we lived overseas."
(talking to the air around me)

Of course there's nothing to stop you hanging on to that feeling of being special, is there? Or as one joke email put it: never forget that you are unique, just like everyone else.

Toilets

2006-09-18T13:27:00.000+10:00

So here's the rub: organisation has its pros and cons. On the downside, you can't buy loose cigarettes for a pittance and you can only get on the bus at bus stops. On the upside you've got public toilets.

The general standard of public toilets here in Sydney is very high, and many places have dedicated rooms for changing nappies. In one of these toilets (in IKEA), they even had colourful toys, posters and free nappies. It's a far cry from the unisex broom-closet in my old local, where you had to do the limbo in order to take a pee standing up.

Meanwhile summer's coming, this time for sure - 27 degrees today!

Rubén Blades vs Wolfmother

2006-09-11T23:32:00.000+10:00

I know it’s not a fair fight, and more to the point, music is not a fight, not an either/or. But whatever, Wolfmother are ‘it’ right now on the Aussie scene. Good tunes, from what I’ve heard. But like most Australian music, the really striking thing is how little they have to say.

Then the other morning I put some salsa on and marvelled at how Blades can get away with an opening line like this:

I was leaving the hospital, after visiting my mother, fighting against a cancer they can’t cure.

So straight up, so devoid of irony, and so spot on. The lyrics get me every time, but so does the music, and this applies to most salsa. Even the songs without any real lyrical content (I’m thinking lluvia con nieve) have something that is so unflappable, like the sound of someone dancing in the face of a storm – a force-ten, jaws-of-hell type storm. It’s that storm that we’re missing here in Australia.

Used to be that I’d get annoyed when we out to clubs and they always trotted out the old standards. Why don’t they ever have new stuff? Suddenly I’m in Sydney, washing dishes on Sunday morning, listening to salsa and crying into the sink, and realising that they play the old songs all the time because they’re still fucking great. If it’s not broken.

I’m still very keen on the idea of going back after three years, but three years … man. We’ll probably finally have ourselves sorted out by then and the idea of pulling up stumps all over again does not appeal. Very tricky.

Our heads are expanding

2006-09-07T21:55:00.000+10:00

Well, since I was talking about news... death by stingray, Steve Irwin and all that. It’s absolutely everywhere at the moment. There’s a fair amount of eulogising going on in the news. Others argue that he was a bit of a boofhead.

At work, the news spread across the office quickly. People made phone calls to friends and family, checking the details on the net, though I think this had less to do with the impact of the news, and more to do with it being three in the afternoon on a Monday. There were no tears. I wonder if the mobile phone companies and ISPs have graphs of network activity and can explain the spikes after the fact based on world affairs. Probably already happens, eh? One thing I've learnt from doing this blog is that depressingly, whatever idea you've got, someone has already thought of it, and they're smarter and better-positioned to do something about it.

Here in Sydney, people are a lot more switched on about what's going on in cyberspace - the posibilities and the implications and all that. It really is tremendously exciting, but it's only since I've gotten back that I've taken any notice. Little things become easier - like looking up open houses at realestate.com, that was a massive help in the apartment hunt. Then there's stuff like digg, myspace and flickr, and anyway, I'll stop embarrassing myself with my lack of knowledge in this area (see above point). What I mainly want to say is that there is a real head-expanding vibe about it in Sydney.

News

2006-09-03T23:21:00.000+10:00

My father buys the Sydney Morning Herald every day, so for a while there I was right on top of current affairs. It's funny reading the papers again, in Australia, where as my best mate Rich put it, there are too many journalists and not enough news. Some of the front-page headlines I've seen since getting back include: Paul Hogan's tax evasion scam, Ian Thorpe is fat, interest rate rises, and the Howard/Costello leadership battle. All vitally important stuff. To me, reading the SMH is like slipping on an old glove, and feeling an all too familiar numbing comfort. It's a glove that badly needs an extra middle finger sewn on, if you get my drift.

The sports section is reliably plump, and the real estate section is positively obese. It's a weird combination of going for the lowest common denominator and then advertising commodities that are out of the average person's reach. Or maybe I've just been gone too long and half a million dollars is a reasonable starting point for a first home buyer.

I propose a new feature, called alquilar or whatever rent is in French, or any language that makes it sound sophisticated, with profiles of people's places who are renting. In our case, I'd wibble on about the floral frosted light fittings and how they combine with the stained white brick facade and astroturf on the balcony to invoke a timeless, delapidated chic ambience. The furniture? It has been painstakingly pieced together from all of the bits and pieces our friend had in storage. Then there's the ceiling, with the lunar surface, old school-classroom feel, that makes you want to get out a biro and a rubber band and shoot ink cartridges up into it.

But really, we're very happy here. Today we were down at Clovelly with the little guy, and I can see it's going to be brilliant in summer. He's starting swimming classes in October, and I had a dream last night that he was already freestyling, very well, and very quickly.

Sports Mad

2006-08-31T12:54:00.000+10:00

I think the anecdote I trotted out most when overseas, to describe Australians, was the one about the survey they did here on the republic. Australians' three main concerns were:

- Would we be still be able to compete in the Commonwealth Games?
- Would we still get the Queen's birthday as a public holiday?
- I can't remember the last one.

The key issues then: bludging and sport (and associated memory loss perhaps). I don't think we have such a reputation for bludging anymore, but we are still – if not more – as sports mad as when I left. That hasn't surprised me. What has is the sport that has captured the hearts and minds of Sydney-siders after what seemed an irreversible slump: Rugby League. Then you've got the AFL finals coming up, and the Bledisloe Cup. In short, no respite. Meanwhile the English Premier League has just started again, and I am at last facing the reality of being in the suckiest time zone in the world for watching European sports. Crap!

The consolation will arrive in summer: being able to watch the most highly anticipated Ashes series in about twenty years. Today I got to thinking about Don Bradman and how the very best sportsmen are so willful and stubborn that they must be able to pretty much decide when they cark it. And if they can, did it play on the Don's mind that he just missed out on an average of 100? Did he set himself the challenge of getting to his 100th birthday as a kind of rewrite of history? Stay tuned for the Don Bradman novella.

Gainfully Employed

2006-08-27T22:28:00.000+10:00

That's right, I got a job. Yay! And it's exactly the kind of job I was looking for. Bravo!! But it's out west, which means I'm travelling over three hours a day. Booo!!! It's been a major shock to the system working full time again - I'd forgotten how little space it leaves for domestic duties, let alone writing. I'm still not sure whether I'm living the dream, or waking up from it. Lots of stuff I want to write down, so little time.

Here's a Sunday night-sized one: writing a letter to a previous address. You could let the new residents know about what it was like when you lived there, how that cigarette burn on the carpet got there, which room you had the best sex in, or the bloodstains on the... well, no, perhaps not. And I could see how this concept could turn nasty if it fell into the wrong hands. Still, I'm thinking a chain letter where every person who gets a letter writes to all their previous addresses and so on and etc. Or more likely a short story written along these lines.

Globalised snacking

2006-08-11T11:47:00.000+10:00

The other day I was in the skygarden arcade and found a shop called Treats from Home. They sell foodstuffs from Britain like Marmite, PG Tips, Twiglets, Pickled Onion Monster Munch etc. They had Heinz baked beans too, though at $3.50 a can it's not quite the same, is it?

Anyway, I got to thinking how everyone must go through this when they move countries, and wouldn't it be interesting if someone started a shop where they sold the very best snack food items from countries all over the world - kind of a global corner shop. I'd murder a packet of De Todito right now, for example, but what about someone who's been living in Taiwan, or Norway? What is the snack food that they really miss?

Obviously one of the things I was most looking forward to getting back into on return to Oz was the junk food I grew up with. Like a good athlete, I've been pacing myself, eating myself back into the scene slowly. The salt and vinegar chips have taken a bit of a beating, but that's to be expected. It is a very warm and comforting feeling to have all of the familiar brands at my fingertips again.

In case you ever wondered where the coins went...

2006-08-08T17:43:00.000+10:00

Today we were at the Archibald fountain in Hyde Park, where my son was fascinated by the man standing in the fountain and collecting muck and detritus out with one of those pool cleaners. As he came near our end of the fountain, I noticed quite a few coins bobbing around in the net.

Now I've always thought that taking coins out of a wishing well ranked relatively high on the bad karma scale, though I'm not sure if it counts if

a) it's not a wishing well but a fountain, and

b) you're contractually obliged to do it.

I asked him how much he usually finds and he said between five and ten dollars. Coins from all over Asia and the USA. Enough for a couple of extra beers after work, I expect. Would the tourists still throw coins if they knew this?

Colonial Cat Poo

2006-08-06T10:02:00.000+10:00

Roll up, roll up. Try on these glasses, and see the world through the eyes of a two-year-old. Gasp at the sheer quantity of sticks on offer, simply lying on the ground. They even grow on trees. Delight in the workings of the escalator, the greatest invention ever. Wile away the hours standing on the square manhole cover, then the round one. Or for an extra thrill, turn on your super-powered prohibited-item vision and freak those adults out.

It's true though, that in a mountain of innocuous objects, kids have a sixth sense for putting their hand on the one thing that could do them damage. Our latest attempt at sightseeing took us to the Hyde Park Barracks where my son immediately set about cleaning the gravel off the gravel and dirt pathway. I encouraged him to check out the installation artworks scattered around the grounds, and his response was to begin excavation on one of the remoter corners of the barracks where he soon unearthed what I believe was a cat poo. What a find. I'm sure there can't be too many buried around (when was the last time you saw a cat in the CBD?) and I felt the dilemma of whether to praise or punish.

Well, I certainly wasn't going to shake his hand. We settled for washing them, which he always enjoys. So there you go. The toilets at the Hyde Park Barracks Museum come highly recommended.

9/10.

Pub Life

2006-08-01T18:40:00.000+10:00

I was looking forward to getting back to the pubs in Sydney, and I've done some field work in the last couple of weeks. So what's new?

Firstly, the number of beers on tap has increased markedly. Carlton Draft has taken over a huge slice of the market and I for one am glad of that. The boutique breweries have also found a place on the bar, and I'm still working through all of those. The end result is that you've got anywhere up to a dozen different beers available on tap. If variety is the spice of life, then... I don't know. But I'm sure there's a very clever way to alter the homily, and I'm sure it involves drinking a lot of beer.

Then there's the non-smoking culture. At over $10.00 a packet of fags, not many people are bothering these days and the laws are changing to outlaw public smoking altogether. Which suits me just fine; I wanted to quit anyway. But it's not as extreme as I'd been led to believe. There are still lots of people puffing away, despite the increasingly gruesome advertising campaigns they run here. In the latest one they've got a woman with mouth cancer talking to the camera. Geez. Can you imagine what the brainstorming sessions are like with the anti-smoking advertising folk?

The last thing I've noticed about Sydney pubs is the total sensory overload. Between watching the football and listening to the jukebox or the DJ and keeping an eye on the little buzzer they give you for when your meal is ready and my mobile and etc and so on... it's tough to carry on a coherent conversation. Don't we ever just talk anymore?

"That's a deck"

2006-07-29T17:24:00.000+10:00

This was one of the schoolkids who got on the 397 the other afternoon, as we headed down Anzac Parade towards Maroubra. They'd just watched an afterschool punch up and were buzzing.

One of the boys who'd been in the fight was on the bus. He was one of those early developers, about twice the size of all the other kids with him. It's an unfortunate situation to be in I reckon, since they're usually the ones who get most heavily into the school fight scene. They didn't mention what the fight was about, but it did seem like it was the shrimp friends who really wanted it to happen. They were already trying to organise a rematch at Maroubra Junction. Making the most of new technology, one of them had taken photos of the fight on his phone. It may have even been a video. Look out for it on myspace I guess.

This morning we went with dad to the Sydney Library which is in Customs House. In the foyer there's a model of the CBD under transparent panels which the little guy loved. He started arguing with another kid over whose bridge it was. The decor is very groovy and they got me signed up and armed with my library card in about three minutes. They also had an exhibition on Harry Seidler, but my son wasn't so keen on that. He preferred the little lights on the side of the staircase, and he took care to touch all of them on the way down. Sometimes I feel that this is an essential life lesson that I should try much harder to learn: how to take pleasure in the simplest things.

Sydney Essentials

2006-07-26T19:36:00.000+10:00

Did many people read this supplement with the Herald on Monday? The stated goal of this booklet is to provide information for decision-makers, community groups and citizens so that they can make the city a better place.

I will admit to getting a little over-excited about finding this supplement, as it fit in so nicely with my current mission statement of rediscovering Sydney, so I read it cover to cover. Mostly it's statistics about things like population, social indicators, transport, pollution.

Sydney's biggest problems? Water shortages, public transport between the new suburban hubs and promoting growth around these new centres. Nothing there that you didn't know about, I'm sure. I'm feel a schizophrenic mix of fascination and repulsion towards the hubs: Hornsby, Campbelltown, Blacktown etc. On one hand, this is where the biggest opporunities are. Parramatta City is getting the extreme makeover in the next ten years. But it's going to be such a long process to change the vibe of these places. Someone cites the example of the Tate Modern in London and how it transformed the South Bank. But I think about where I grew up in suburban Sydney, and I don't think even three Tate Moderns would do the job there.

The "No way!" "Way." interesting stat award goes to Foreign Born Population. According to this, 40% of people who live in the Eastern Core of Sydney were born overseas.

The lies, damn lies and statistics award goes to the World Theatre and Musical Performance Index, where Sydney scores a 10, the same as London, and that other epicentre of global culture, Washington DC.

They say they're trying to emulate New York's Long Island Index. So, good start, but I reckon we've still got a bit of a way to go.

It's Monday in Sydney

2006-07-24T17:04:00.000+10:00

and I'm not working, not yet. I've been emailing my CV out but so far no calls and I'm wavering between being stressed out and relieved about it. Stressed out because I would like to get started soon. We arrived two weeks ago, and I'm scared about that arrival date receding into the past. "I've been here for two weeks sounds" a lot better to a potential employer than "I've been here for two months".

But of course I'm relieved to have this time, time to hang out with my kid and wander around Sydney. In fact, this has become something of a project for me: to get around Sydney and rediscover it. It's partly about finding out what has changed since the last time I was here, and partly about trying to get a grip on what Sydney is. When I lived overseas and people asked me about Australia it was always very difficult to explain what Sydney was like and I'm afraid I didn't paint a very positive portrait. Usually I talked about materialistic tendencies, how people weren't very friendly under the surface, and how they didn't dance much. But being back here I'm determined to put my good head on and update my views of my home city. So here goes...

Today we went for a stroll around Hyde Park park where my son is already developing his little rituals. First is to drink from the bubbler. Next is to pick up some twigs which he will later throw into the water. It started raining while we were in front of the Anzac memorial so I decided to go in and check it out. Despite living in Sydney most of my life, I'd never done this before. I mean, it's hardly "Top 20 things to do in Sydney" material, but it is one of those places that you'll walk past a thousand times without ever finding out what's inside. And it's definitely worth a look. On the walls upstairs are the names of places where Australians have served. It's a bizarre list when you look at it and consider all the far flung places that Australian forces have gone. We started checking out the museum but the little guy began shouting a lot at that point so I moved us on.

As it happens, my son and I often work at cross-purposes. While I'm trying to take him somewhere that I think would be really cool for a two-year-old, he's just as happy going up and down a set of escalators, or playing with sticks in the park. So it was a short outing today, stretching only as far as a Boost juice bar. This is one business that has exploded since the last time I was here. Where we lived before, juice was something we'd prepare at home every night. Most families did. But here it's a little trickier it seems and if you are going to do it, it'll usually be orange juice at breakfast, or maybe some fancier stuff if you've got a juicer. So I can definitely see the appeal of juice bars like these. They've really got it worked out inside too, walls papered with suggestions for what to order and a pad at the counter so you can become a member. They're not mucking around, are they?