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May 19th, 2008
09:05 pm - Pictures as promised
Left to right: the new house; the new street; the new room; and the new lounge.
Five housemates. Two bathrooms. Three kitchens. It's like I'm living in an English reality show.
Current Location: The new lounge
Current Music: Enchanted
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May 15th, 2008
02:58 pm - Where I lay my head
Chris: New flatmate. I ran into him yesterday in Soho. I swear London is getting smaller.
Taryn: Friend. We're currently negotiating when to go see Sex and the City, seeing as I screwed up the premiere dates and made us miss it.
Hugo: Friend. He's helping me move all over the show!
John: New friend. I'm off to his work drinks tomorrow night. Should be interesting. I'll be a delight.
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Chris1 came to the door as Taryn and I were leaving: "There's a great jazz cafe/restaurant on the street over if you're looking for somewhere to eat."
I smile inwardly because he's taken note of the fact that I don't plan on cooking at the house. Ever. "Thanks. What's it called?"
"Hugo's," he tells me. A sign.
After delivering the first of three bags to my new place2, Hugo, John and I headed to Hugo's for dinner.
I think I'm in love with everything surrounding my new house. Queen's Park is beautiful in the summer dusk, my High Road is lovely with a bottle, DVD and corner store all in a line as I exit my street. My street is wide and tree-lined, my house is huge, new and beautiful and Hugo's is my new restaurant-local.
As I drifted off to sleep last night, the feeling that I'd done well mixed with the security I feel when I have a bed of my own.
For me, home is where my bed is and I can't wait to get back there tonight.
Photos to follow.
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1: More on this shortly.
2: A £16 cab ride from Hugo's. Really good value, I thought.
Current Location: Work
Current Mood: Lasagne full
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May 14th, 2008
05:06 pm - Sketch(y)
Kylie: Friend through Hamish. She's just back from Egypt with her mum. I'm meeting the lady in question on Saturday.
Hamish: Friend, also called Pie. I had to get up at 5.45am yesterday morning to set up his surprise birthday in the lounge.
Taryn: Friend and Hamish's girlfriend. I've been staying at their house. On arrival I found a note from Taryn: "Hi Muzz, Welcome Home! The sheets are clean except for Kylie's minge touching them. Towel behind door. I'll be home later to put you to bed and tuck you in! Make yourself at home, there's no food. Don't wank in the shower. Love me."
Andre: Friend. We have a special way of saying hello.
Tania: Friend. Hopefully she'll move to my area. It'll make catch ups easier.
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We're a group of people that can claim to have been kicked out of Burger King because one of us1 was wearing their underwear over their normal clothes. An exclusive section of our number has either shat their pants or pissed the bed - the birthday boy2 claiming both prizes at different stages in his life. Taryn takes pride in her ability to match thunder - both in terms of guttural resonance and shear volume - whilst burping.
With this in mind, I'd be forgiven for thinking that we'd be too trash for a place like Sketch Bar.
The bathroom alone made me feel inadequate. Instead of partitions between male and female sections - marked by the bathroom door appearance of a man in a top hat and a woman in a bonnet - this place simply bathed the open-plan white room in blue or red light. There were stand-alone pods that played different sounds while you pissed, in place of cubicles.
The toilet
Our table - situated in the Gallery - snaked around and then down, keeping us in non-symmetrical positions at different heights. Above us, a moving art installation3 played throughout the meal. To top it off, a co-ordinated circus of waiters made sure that the night was perfect. At all times.
But the surest sign that we may have slipped into a world out of our league? The menu started at £42.
When a whisper started spreading through the group in hushed nooks, suggesting that we should sing "Happy Birthday" as if we'd wandered into the Fox & Anchor for a pint of beer and some mushy peas, I was mortified.
Where's the decorum?
That was until Andre - the picture of good breeding - said that he would sing. "If it makes Hamish happy on his birthday, why not?"
Why not, indeed.
So for the rest of the night, I embraced my inner chav. I stole Murray's wine4 and I played cock chicken5 with Tania (and won).
The best part? The staff made us feel at home with ourselves and - at the end of the day - isn't that what good service and a great experience is all about?
Happy 30th Hamish.
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1: Kylie.
2: Hamish.
3: They filmed a scrotum in multi-colours and then projected it repeatedly around the four walls. The scrotum undulated above my meal. It was very disconcerting.
4: I found out later that it was Tania's.
5: I threaten to flash Tania and she threatens to look. She didn't think I'd do it at the table and I thought she'd look away. Turns out we were both wrong.
Current Location: Work
Current Mood: Summery
Current Music: Whitney today
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April 16th, 2008
05:56 pm - Get your own
I hate sharing food. Ask me for the shirt off my back or my first born child and you can have 'em. Come near my lunch and I'll cut a bitch.
I realise it's a completely illogical, blind hatred that makes no sense when looked at objectively but I especially dislike people that must have a "mouthful" of whatever I'm consuming.
"You're being ridiculous," I tell myself silently. Unfortunately, all the pep talks in the world don't stop me from considering homicide. Imagine that ridiculous pet peeve - "he blinks too often" - and times that murderous feeling by a hundred.
By and large, the people I'm talking about are women. I struggle to remember a single man that's wanted a mouthful of my tuna sashimi but, come midday, I usually have one (and sometimes three) of my female colleagues circling me as if I were a group of wounded chub.
I find myself particularly pissed off when eating dinner with Taryn1. She has a habit of not wanting anything to eat until my food arrives. I'm now well practiced at ignoring her salivating tongue across a candlelit dinner table.
"Don't you just want to give me a bite?"
In response, I've taken to pre-licking everything on my plate while she watches. It saves on speaking.
So here's a message for all you men2 and women that seek a taste of what I've got on my plate: "Buy your own."
I know you "couldn't possibly finish a whole one" but I can. That's exactly why I bought it in the first place.
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1: She just arrived back from Israel. I wanted to see her last night but forgot that I'd made plans with Will. Double bookings, hey?
2: You're out there. I've just never had the pleasure of a meeting.
Current Location: Work
Current Mood: Hungry
Current Music: Curtis' anime
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April 15th, 2008
04:23 pm - Friends to be proud of
Mairi1 finished the London marathon on Sunday looking as if she'd just completed a short jog to her local Tescos. She made it look so easy that Tania2 and I thought in unison: "We could do this."
Of course, we couldn't. If I tried to run 26 miles, I'd die. At mile 8, my legs would give up but, because I had an audience of a half-million shrieking strangers, I'd keep running. At mile 11, I imagine that I would slip into a state of euphoric dementia as every ounce of liquid left my body through my pores. At mile 13, I wouldn't know my name and the costumed runners would suddenly become real as exhaustion drove me to madness.
At mile 13.5, I would be dead.
That figure (13.5) is a pretty good target to aim for though. I think that, with training and by October, I could at least do a half-marathon.
So, here we go, me and Tania, (Half) Marathon Runners.
Yeah, I'm surprised too.
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1: The first thing she wanted when she finished running? A cigarette and a pint. It's good to have things in common with your friends.
2: I went and saw a new house last night and had Tania call me during the process so I'd look (more) popular (than I actually am).
Current Location: Work
Current Mood: Gross
Current Music: Old Battlestar
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April 3rd, 2008
01:14 pm - Footnote welcome
I often find that I have too much to say1. That's why I started writing cast lists at the beginning of each entry. With them, I could introduce my characters2 to new readers and also squeeze in a half-dozen other stories without disrupting the flow of the main narrative.
Since reading the Bartimaeus Trilogy3, I've developed a soft spot for footnotes. I'm going to trial them for a while until I get bored.
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(1) It's the mark of a self-obsessed thinker that spends too much time on public transport.
(2) Meaning Friends.
(3) I know it's kid's fiction. Don't judge me. It's better than most "adult" books that have robbed me of precious hours I'll never have back.
Current Music: Crazy by Nelly Furtado
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April 2nd, 2008
04:21 pm - I'm going to shoot you in the face
Who said you can't shoot your work mates in the face and still build a sense of team spirit?
I spent three hours running under the London Bridge train arches last night - paint ball gun in hand - attempting to cause physical harm to my colleagues in the name of fun. It was quite brilliant.
We usually spend the first Tuesday of every month doing sedate things like lectures on NLP or ten-pin bowling. As it turns out, hunting workmates for sport is much more interesting. It's a form of victimisation that we can all get involved in and never be prosecuted for.
The only downside is that you feel no pain in the heat of battle. I got all gung-ho to the extent that the Marshall called me "mad". This was fine until the Tube ride home cooled my body (and mind) down. As the adrenaline left me, I started to notice a number of aches.
During the safety briefing, our instructor told us never to remove our protective masks because if we got a shot to the eye, our eye would explode. That's if we were lucky. If unlucky, we'd die.
Thank God for protection because I imagine that a paint ball that can pop my eyeball would have caused a lot more damage given my no retreat, no surrender approach.
This morning, I woke to three particularly beautiful circular explosions of yellow and purple on my elbow, inner thigh and shoulder blade but I'd do it again in an instant. Preferably with someone I dislike.
Current Location: Still here
Current Mood: Hawt
Current Music: Alero on the phone
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09:33 am - So hawt right now
I'm feeling good looking this morning. Inexplicably, I need a haircut, I'm unshaved and my outfit would only look good if I woke up in New Zealand, circa June 2003.
But here I am.
If I could bottle this we'd all live much happier - albeit delusional - lives.
Current Location: Work
Current Music: Stayin' Alive
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April 1st, 2008
04:17 pm - The former birthday Grinch
Shannon: Friend, recently moved here from New Zealand. We planned on going to Wicked last night but I became decidedly disinterested when I caught sight of the ticket prices. I will only pay £72 if I get a meal as well.
Sarah: Friend. We're seeing each other twice this month.
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I've never been a birthday fan. I use them as an excuse to leverage people's guilt into partying about me but would otherwise ignore the day. My commitment to the cause begins and ends there.
Don't get me wrong, I like getting old. After all, I'm still under 30 and can afford to make that sort of statement. I just don't see the point in celebrating around the most physically draining day of your mother's life.
I know I'm alone in this and, in recent years, I've started to moderate myself in order to fit in. People love birthdays. Importantly, people love their birthdays and it's my job - as a good friend - to go along with the memo.
Due to forced semi-regular birthday celebrations, I've even started to enjoy the process. I've trained myself in this and even encourage other people to have fun on their special day.
Case in point was last Friday night. Deciding on a quiet drink with Shannon after work, things changed significantly when he surprised me with: "It's my birthday tomorrow."
Translated in my head, I heard: "Let's stay awake until midnight ushers in my birthday."
Sarah's is in four days and I'll likely do something similar.
Which leads me to a new conclusion. Perhaps people don't like birthdays after all. Perhaps people just like to use it as an excuse to leverage my guilt into partying around them. If that's the case, I completely understand. It's a win-win situation that will likely continue for many years to come.
(Oh, and Happy Birthday ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) grubbybastard. I'm still trying to decide if you're serious about a 1 April birthday or just pulling everyone's leg.)
Current Location: Work
Current Mood: Hot
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March 20th, 2008
04:21 pm - My take on being gay
In my younger days, I used to abhor gay guys. From the singing 'S' in their affected voices to their flaming hands, I couldn't understand why people would try so hard to be something they're not. Around me, I watched with barely hidden disgust and distanced myself from these kids that did something ghey. Back then, you'd have had a better chance finding a third ball in my sack than you would seeing me in a shirt without sleeves.
My first boyfriend was super butch, just the way he should be. He knew how to fix cars, went tramping and wore runners when not running. When we broke up two years after we met, the first person he slept with was a woman. I felt a rush of vindication because I'd done well for myself.
At no stage during this period of my life did I think it strange to dislike so great a number of my so-called pairs. This wasn't homophobia. It was okay to dislike those gays because those gays didn't represent me, the Next Generation of Homo.
I was str8 acting/non-scene, of course. Anyone that said different was quite certainly wrong.
When I first met Shannon, he kissed me "hello". He kissed me "hello" every time we met after that, and every time we met after that something in my stomach crumpled. A type of uncomfortable panic hit me that I didn't understand. For some reason, Shannon's nice gesture was "bad". There was no other explanation.
I analysed all this when I had some time to myself, as I tend to do. Shannon's intentions were good so the fault lay in my reaction to him. When he "did it" to me on Queen Street, the panic escalated. When he did it to me in SPQR, the panic disappeared. I realised then that the feeling had nothing to do with Shannon and nothing to do with me. The "bad" was generated by other people's reaction to seeing two men showing affection in a gay (read: bad) way.
I hate being told what to do so from that moment on I said "fuck you" to this type of pressure. From that moment on I began kissing everyone I cared about irrespective of their gender. More importantly, I made a decision to challenge anyone watching to tell me I'm wrong for doing it.
Dad had issues with my new take on the world. Having taught me - firmly - to stop kissing him at age 8, he was very uncomfortable with these new outward signs of affection. If I'm being truthful, I enjoyed his anxiety and that encouraged me to push through it. Today, he loves kissing and hugging me. It's the conversation he can't have unless he's had a few beers.
I have friends in my life that are equally uncomfortable with outward signs of affection. They would prefer I greet them with the same warmth as I would my dentist. Not surprisingly, they're all English.
Like my dad, I push through their disquiet. They know not what they do. Like my dad, it's not gay. It's simply an indication that you're doing well in my life.
Years later, I discovered that there's a name for this. It's called heteronormativity. Even before I had trouble spelling it, I knew the idea was stupid. At its core is the idea that we fit - or should fit - into two distinct roles: male and female. Any variation from that - any colour - is wrong and should be corrected, "marginalized, ignored or persecuted".
Immediately, I identified that heteronormativity is a long word for homophobia or, at the very least, a subset of it. It's worse though because we apply it to ourselves and we do it willingly and almost happily in order to fit in. It's worse because it's a brand of non-violent homophobia that we accept. It's worse because everyone I know practices it like a sport, including me. It's worse because we turn it on our friends.
Hugo attempts to put me under heteronormative pressure. I've lost track the number of times he's told me I'm soooo gay (rich coming from a man that has a framed A0 poster of Madonna in a leotard above his bed).
For the month that this entry has taken me to write, I've spent the time wondering what being "soooo gay" means.
It's the worst kind of question because it's one without an answer. If heteronormativity attempts to push us into two roles - a black and white pairing of male and female - then homosexuality does the opposite. It's a world that embraces the rainbow flag as its symbol, so with that in mind I can safely say the only thing we aren't short on is colour.
Ignoring the psychology behind it, there are an alarming number of things that gay guys have in common beside a penchant for cock and bum sex. Right or wrong, stereotypes start with someone and I'm sure one or two have landed on you. Own it.
On balance I think we dress ridiculously well compared to our vagina loving friends, for example. Gay Kylie fans love her with such a passion, they're able to forgive "Locomotion" and all you need to do is attend one of her concerts to realise there are a horde of them. Also the number of gay men I know that will watch sport only if forced to (and then only the sportsmen themselves) is roughly equal to every gay man I know.
But like every socio-grouping, be it Scotsman, salesman or serial killer, there are differences among us. We are groups of colour. Sometimes intense, often beautiful but always uniquely different colour.
There will be a gay man reading this that takes offence at my blatant stereotyping. He's wearing brown slacks to compliment his tan, short-sleeve shirt (bad). This gay guy hates Kylie but embraces death metal and, come Saturday, plays rugby with his mates. He'll not be alone in the world.
And that's fine too.
The biggest issue I have with the gay men of today - be they church goer or show tune lover - is that unlike other socio-groupings we often revile what makes us different and what makes us the same. It's the scattershot approach to homophobia where we wind up hating everyone, including ourselves.
Even our stylish brand of sex - the very thing that defines homosexuality - is brutalised on all sides with one question: top or bottom? For your reference, top is good (male) and bottom is bad (female). Here, yet again, a breed of heteronorming rears its ugly head.
I'm going to take ownership of that for a second. I make fun of bottoms, often to their faces. I love em' in private but eviscerate them in public. I find my own masculinity is reinforced when I attack someone else's, like fighting for the "Most Straight" prize at a televised boxing match on Friday night.
Now, reinforcing my masculinity is a Hurculean task if you've seen my mince. This mince is a spectacle, let me tell you. You can see me from a mile away because it looks like I'm having a party in my butt cheeks and at least half of Soho are invited. But I won't need to tell you because that's my friend's job. Here, in their words, their jibes and their laughs they let me know that I need to change. Let me be clear. So clear, in fact, I'll even give the message it's own line.
This divisive shit needs to stop.
I truly believe that every time we attack a Chris Crocker of this world for being gay (instead of for being irritating) or every time we scowl at Pete Wentz because he wants to wear more eyeliner, we do ourselves a disservice.
Importantly, every time we attack anyone of (Fabulous!) colour because they're not normal we support the type of person that leaves a 7 year old abused because he wore pink nail polish, or a 15 year old shot in the back of the head because he chose the wrong Valentine, or a couple beaten because they're "caught" hugging outside a gay bar. A fucking GAY bar!
We support the type of person that would do this because we're not acting as an agent against them.
Heteronorming has a lot to answer for in my book but do you want to know the ridiculous thing? There's no such thing as normal. Even more ridiculous? When I hear "normal", my mind unconsciously translates it as "drab" and yet here we are scrambling toward it. Hugo's favourite bumper sticker behind "Jesus is coming, look busy" says "You're not normal, you're just common." There's something beautiful in the humour of that.
Gloria Gaynor's hit "I am what I am" is a gay anthem for a reason.
I am what I am
I don't want praise
I don't want pity
I bang my own drum
Some think it's noise
I think it's pretty
And so what if I love each sparkle and each bangle
Why not see things from a different angle
Your life is a shame
Till you can shout out
I am what I am
No one is allowed to heteronorm me anymore. I self-inflict enough of that shit already and I'm better at it. What you need to know is this though... "everyone's a little bit homophobic, some time", and it's not cool.
If you got that reference, more power to you because you are what you are and that needs no excuses.
Current Location: Work
Current Mood: Proud
Current Music: I am what I am
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March 11th, 2008
11:00 am - Get fit, Fatty
Lucie: Australian friend. I want to talk to her more. Our chit-chat on Friday was refreshing.
Hugo: Friend. I assume he's busy at work because I haven't heard from him in days. Well, not between 9 and 5 that is.
Tania: Friend. In Tania's defense, I give as good as I get.
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Lucie eyes me closely: "Your chest has got quite big you know?"
"It's fat," I tell her without skipping a beat, eyebrow cocked.
Consolingly, as if I've obviously got it wrong in my scamper toward modesty, she says: "But you go to the gym."
"I haven't been since January, when I quit," I reply with a nod of finality. "Fat," I say again.
It's a thought that's been weighing on my mind throughout my February trip home to New Zealand. It was a month filled with good food; both quantity and quality. Hugo added fuel to the fire by declaring that he'd take me out "as soon as you've lost that gut."
(I'm sure) It's meant as a joke and I take it as one until last week when I slipped on a suit for the first time in 2008. If the waistband could speak it would be screeching tortured expletives in my general direction.
Tania has been teasing me with no knowledge of this new inner turmoil. I believe I've got "porky" and "fatty" from her in the last two days alone. Yesterday, I suggested that calling me fat doesn't inspire me to help myself. She countered: "I am an inspiration fat fuck!"
The good news is that my self image doesn't include a picture of an above averaged size me, so even if a team of people lines up to call me lard ass, I wouldn't believe them.
The bad news is that even I know my genes won't protect me forever. Last night I ran for four miles and nearly died. It was my first shot at exercise this year. I know the pain will subside in a week because if it didn't I would have embraced a cheese burger years ago.
Current Location: Work
Current Mood: Muscle sore
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March 6th, 2008
09:43 pm - Dead dogs and Tube rides
Helen: Shelley's friend. I barely remember seeing her at my party.
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Helen agreed to house-sit for her friends, which came with the added responsibility of the dog. It's just her luck then that, on arrival, she found the little guy dead. Legs pointing stiff to nowhere.
After quickly deciding not to bury him then and there - it's London, there's not a lot of plot - she bundled him into a suitcase with the intention of taking him to the vet deep freeze.
The next problem that she didn't consider? The Tube has a labyrinthine system of corridors and stairs. After navigating her way through the busy underground, she reached the final set of stairs and the end of her patience.
Spotting her struggling, someone asked if she needed a hand. It was a guy. A good looking guy. Suddenly, she's worried. Should she allow a stranger to handle dog carcass? The answer she came up with was yes, and no.
"What's in here?" he asked perplexed by the (dead) weight.
Thinking fast: "Records."
As they made their way slowly up the stairs, she expanded on her lie, covering the musical style of the records in question and even making up a boyfriend owner.
Once they got to the top of the stairs, an internet legend was born. He stole the suitcase.
So that night, somewhere in London, a thief got the best gift I could ever have hoped for.
Current Location: The lounge
Current Music: Jason Castro
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February 24th, 2008
09:25 am - The Natural History Museum
In a fit of unprecedented day-embracing energy, I found myself at the Natural History Museum yesterday. While I liked a lot of it, most of the displays felt like they hadn't been updated since the early 80s and the mesh of children gave me a stress rash.
Imagine an Oxford Circus crowd of kids all pushing in front of you.
I'm going to try and get to a museum a weekend because, lets face it, in London there are enough to keep me going until mid-2009.
Current Location: Bed
Current Mood: Anxious to do something
Current Music: Rehab
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February 22nd, 2008
01:08 pm - I'm sorry Laurence
Laurence: Taryn's brother, come to stay. The point of last night was to meet Tali for a drink and dinner.
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The risk you run when you're being mean to strangers is that, one day, you may meet them.
Enter Laurence.
To his credit, he handled the whole meeting very nicely and accepted my apology with little fanfare. It helped that he didn't really remember the details of the email string in question.
That's why I printed it out and read it to the dinner party. I love me.
Current Location: Work
Current Mood: Hungry/thirsty
Current Music: How do I live?
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11:47 am - Tube vs. Bus
You must ride the Tube. It's an inescapable rule of London living. I've followed the order since my arrival, spending half my travel time in this country underneath the city pressed bodily against people that largely smell like goats.
This morning, on a whim, I changed all that. Rather than busing to the Tube station, I bused to work instead.
Revolution.
I'm going to try and ride the bus all the time from now on. If anything, it'll mean I'll get to see what London looks like between the stops.
Current Location: Work
Current Mood: Motivated to be busy
Current Music: Top 12 women on Idol
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February 20th, 2008
12:51 pm - More movies!
The perfect job for a 16-year-old boy is working in a DVD (nee video) store. There, you have access to an unlimited supply of games and R18 movie goodness to share with all your friends. It's a recipe for instant popularity.
When I did my video store time (1995-1998), I'd get in five movies on a good day and an average of 15 every week. After 98', I became a member of United Video and took in 11 every week until I finished University and moved to Auckland to repeat the process there. As you can imagine, I saw a fair amount.
Since getting here, I've eased up on the movie watching. Partly because it's expensive ("£15 for a movie? Really? That's worth six movies in New Zealand."), partly because it's too easy to download them and partly because the UK isn't big on DVD stores.
During my time in New Zealand, this all changed. Driven by the 74 hours I spent flying there and back, I downed Ratatouille, The Seeker: The Dark is Rising, The Jane Austen Book Club, Hook, The Nanny Diaries, Martian Child, Elizabeth: The Golden Age, King of California, Bee Movie, Michael Clayton, Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium, The 40-Year-Old Virgin, Snakes on a Plane, The Bourne Ultimatum, Ray, Spider-Man 3, The Kid Stays in the Picture, The World's Fastest Indian, Little Miss Sunshine, No Country For Old Men and United 93.
Movies used to be my life. Now, they're just a happy footnote. The best illustration of this? I tried to do that meme but lost interest seven movies in...
Movie Number 1
Billy Maplewood: [sobbing] ... would you ever fuck me?
Bill: No... I'd jerk off instead.
Movie Number 2
Captain Hadley: If I hear so much as a mouse fart in here the rest of the night I swear by God and sonny Jesus you will all visit the infirmary. Every last motherfucker in here.
Movie Number 3
Stuart: Sex is kinda like pizza. When it's bad, it's still pretty good.
Movie Number 4
Ste: There ain't nowhere else.
Sandra: There is, actually, Ste. There's an island in the Mediterranean called Lesbian, and all its inhabitants are dykes. So you've got your eye wiped there.
Movie Number 5
Ennis Del Mar: If you can't fix it, Jack, you gotta stand it.
Jack Twist: For how long?
Ennis Del Mar: For as long as we can ride it. There ain't no reins on this one.
Movie Number 6
Kee: What the fuck you staring at?
Theodore Faron: Apparently, the pleasure is all mine.
Movie Number 7...
Donnie: I made a new friend today.
Dr. Lilian Thurman: Real or imaginary?
Donnie: Imaginary.
Current Location: Work
Current Mood: Coke filled
Current Music: American Idol
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February 16th, 2008
08:37 pm - Last night in Auckland
Left to right: Sarah (would like to move back to London), Graeme (is moving to London), Yvonne, Kim (is visiting London after recently visiting London), Vicki (is moving to London), Daniel (is visiting London after recently visiting London), Blair (is visiting London in August) and Adrian (I'll work on).
Alanis is singing "Uninvited" and I'm surrounded by some of my favourite people in the world. This defines my perfect final night in Auckland.
Current Location: Te Kauwhata
Current Music: Unchain my heart
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February 8th, 2008
07:03 pm - How do you know you're in New Zealand?
A letter arrived at mum's today.
"Hello Murray. Sorry but I didn't give you your change when you came in to do a replacement license. Cheers - Tracey. Sorry."
Wrapped with tape and A4 paper was $8.90.
Current Location: Mum's
Current Mood: Full
Current Music: Shortland Street
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February 5th, 2008
06:03 pm
I always assumed that my New Zealand homecoming would be a glamourous Ponsonby affair. A day begun over wine at SPQR, or an equally snobby lunch-time venue, followed by an evening of revelry designed to remove the memory of a long flight.
Because London ruined me for most party cities forever, I've discovered how wrong I was.
Three items have been on the agenda since I boarded that first plane two days ago. First, I would see family. Second, I would see the sprinkling of friends that are London-phobic. Third, I would see the sun. Not a stylish bistro in sight.
I've spent the last two days at dad's house and I'll spend the next two at mum's. All of this activity will be conducted under a drought-stricken New Zealand sun that banished my London tan, replacing it with the brown goodness I deserve.
So, with two of my tasks set to be complete by day four of my holiday - with a series of friend visits ahead - I can nearly claim mission accomplished.
Now, point me to a bistro so I can get the job done.
Current Location: Mum's
Current Music: One News
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February 4th, 2008
03:21 pm - Tedious is...
I didn't fully appreciate the word "tedious" until this flight was put upon me. When I booked, several months ago, I signed up to the winter schedule. Winter came and went, finding a replacement in summer. The summer schedule, I found out means too additional stops.
Tedioius is getting up at 5am to catch the Tube and a transfer train to Heathrow. Tedious is a six hour flight to Dubai with a half-hour stopover followed by a seven hour flight to Brunei. Tedious is Dubai's heat and humidity conspiring with faulty air conditioning to create pockets of brilliantly wet and uncomfortable sections of the building. Like a tumour, it's the surprise you find but never want.
Tedious is the 12 hours ahead of me, via Brisbane for an hour where I will run through the airport collecting booze.
(I haven't touched a drop since leaving London because Royal Brunei Airline is Muslim and doesn't serve alcohol. For my part, I'll support your religious freedom until that freedom compromises my right to drink. Who's with me?)
Tedious is my 4am arrival into Auckland.
Not tedious? Being home for two weeks.
Current Location: Dad's in Te Kauwhata
Current Mood: Sunned
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