Oxford

I've skipped over the pond to the UK for Christmas, to spend some time with my brother at Oxford. It didn't start well. I got a hideous head-cold a day before I flew out, and as we started our descent into London, I got shooting pains in my ears, head and nose. It was impossible to 'pop' my ears, as I might usually do, and as the pressure built up, it seemed my hearing was actually going... that my head was surrounded by some sort of bubble... that my EAR DRUMS WERE GOING TO EXPLODE.
Yes, I approached the whole situation in typical Jenny style.
Anyway, I got off at Heathrow, headed to Victoria, making excellent time, even if I do say so myself, jumped on the 2:20pm bus to Oxford and sat back to enjoy the 1 hour 40 minute trip. I headed up to the front seat on the second floor, so that I could 'watch the scenery go past'. Which would have been lovely, if the bus had actually moved. Unfortunately, I hadn't considered that travelling on Friday the 23rd of December, that is to say, travelling on the afternoon of Friday the 23rd of December, was not the most sensible of moves. We got on to a road around Notting Hill Gate, and even though I could see the end of it, it took as an hour to move down it and get on to the roundabout. I eventually got into Oxford around 6pm. I spent most of my time drawing pictures on the condensation that had formed on the bus window. The homeboys next to me started doing the same thing, which was quite amusing. I drew Santa, they drew Santa. Then, they drew Santa with an earring. And a bong. Amusing.
Anyway, after dumping my bags at Chris' college, we headed out again to the Cherwell Boat House, which was a very fancy Oxford restaurant where we had decided to have our very fancy Christmas dinner. It was delightful. And very fancy.
Christmas Eve, Chris took me around to some of the prettiest spots of Oxford, including parts of his own college, Worcester. There were many stories of Oxford old and new - 'That's where Tolkein and Lewis used to drink together and have their book club', 'That's the college Lewis Carroll went, and where Alice lived,' 'That college has a deer park.' There were also many Emma Watson stories, which I won't relate, on the off chance that someone finds this blog and I get in trouble (for more information, see: http://sydney.concreteplayground.com.au/news/41784/blogger-fined-$25-million-for-not-being-a-journali.htm ). But, yes, for those who don't know, my brother is currently at the same college as Emma Watson. That's right, Hermione freakin' Granger.
In the afternoon, Chris' friend took us out on the Isis (actually the Thames, but 'for some reason', when it runs through Oxford, its called the Isis. 'For some reason' seems to be the appropriate reply to anything in Oxford that doesn't make sense. The other is, 'it made sense 900 years ago'). But, instead of the traditional punts, we were going kayaking, as Chris' friend is a kayaker. I have very fond memories of kayaking at school camp, and I also have memories of me being reasonably good at it. Turns out that the last part was not true. Or, an embellishment. I spent most of the afternoon spinning in circles, whilst desperately trying to go forwards. Chris' friend was exceedingly patient, and not only offered much advice and various different ideas to stop the spinning, when it became obvious I wasn't going to be able to go forwards no matter what I tried, he very kindly blamed the boat. Which, I mean, of course, must have been true.

River Isis

Being on the water was quite lovely though, despite the fact that I wasn't wearing shoes, so was close to losing my toes to frostbite, as well as a couple of hairy moments when I came close to capsizing. We were paddling near a great big, wide flat plain, which often floods, and last year froze over, meaning it was possible to ice-skate over it. As its been quite warm in Oxford (6 degrees plus), there was no ice, unfortunately, but there was a group of ponies (I want to call them moor ponies, but I don't know that that would be strictly accurate), galloping around the grass and making a terrific racket, which was rather exciting, as well as Banjo Patterson-esque.
There's lots more to write, but I just can't be bothered right now. Chris and I are about to go into London to see theatre. I'll write more tomorrow.

I Warned You This Would Happen...

Well, I did say I might end up doing this. But, in my defense, I'm sick again, so I don't have much to say, and these pictures are really pretty.

Not much else to report. Have spotted a few inconsistences between Harry Potter 2 and 4. I'm considering writing to JK Rowling.

Except, that would make me into a person I'm not sure I want to be.

So, without further ado, look at the lovely sunset we had yesterday!

Oh, I Do Like to be Beside the Seaside...

View from the kitchen

Here is a little taster of where I am living for the next 3 months. I'm still in Kinsale, but in a little cottage, all on my own. I've been looking forward to this for the past 6 weeks, and have been planning for it. 'I'm going to re-read all the Harry Potters!' 'I'm not going to get out bed until midday!' 'I'm not going to leave the house for 3 days!' But I was still at a bit of a loss last night. 'What do I do? Its so quiet... there's nothing I have to do... I mean, there are things I could do... There are probably things I should do....' Clearly I'm not very good at relaxing.
But, I'm only giving myself a couple of weeks of relaxing. Then, its back to 'work'. I put it in inverted commas, as it is my work, but nobody is paying me for it. Plus, I enjoy it and its relaxing for me, compared to, say, doing administrative work or looking after children. Still, it is work. It would be easier, though less satisfying, to sit on the couch all day long and watch daytime TV. Or spend hours finding amusing memes on the internet. 

The view from my bedroom

 I feel like one of 2 things is going to happen with this blog. Either, I'll have nothing to write about all of a sudden, and you will no longer get updates. Or,  I'll have so little to do, that I'll be constantly updating you on absolutely everything. 'Oh, look at this picture of the leaves outside my window! They look slightly different than how they looked yesterday!' 'Here is a picture of my new slippers.' 'Today, I was walking along the footpath, and I thought, wow, what a strange word - footpath. Footpath. Foot - path. Its exactly what it describes, isn't it? Isn't that just magical? Isn't that just so special and beautiful? What other words exactly describe what they are? Lets list them... Umm... Well, first there's footpath...'

The view from the porch

The Week's Activities

JOY!

The End of the Au-Pair

I told you. I told you I had thought up a great blog post title a couple of days ago which was even cooler than the alliteration in ‘Cycling, Clothes and Cloth in Amsterdam’ (OH WAIT! COMPLETE LOST OPPORTUNITY! It SHOULD have been: ‘Cycling, Clothes and CLOGS in Amsterdam’!!! I can’t believe I missed that!!!!!) Well, now you can see for yourself. Clearly, this is the best blog post title ever. You can admit it. Its alright. I was pretty impressed with it myself when I came up with it a few days ago. ‘I may not know anything else I’ll be writing about,’ I thought, ‘But at least I can be comforted by a snazzy, semi-intellectual title.’ (For those of you who haven’t picked it, it’s a pun on Graham Green’s novel, ‘The End of the Affair’. Its probably less cool now that I’ve explained. Like, when you explain a joke. Oh well. I’ve never claimed to be cool).

Actually, now that I think about it, the title really sounds more like a high-suspense film: The End of the Au-Pair, some sort of B-Grade thriller set in a Southern-European city with a bunch of C-Grade TV Soap actors about the mysterious disappearance of an au-pair. Or, maybe a modern take on ‘The Turn of the Screw’? Something like that? Anyway, whatever. That’s the title and its totally symbolic and cool.

All jokes aside, I’m trying to write this post again. I tried a week and a half ago, but just couldn’t get the words out. Maybe because it wasn't quite time for me to finish up yet. It wasn't quite 'the end of the au-pair'. But, tomorrow morning is my last shift, I am currently in the process of moving my stuff out and hopefully I will be able to sum up things better now.

So, after 10 months, the time has come for me to finish up as an au-pair. Its been a tricky year, for a lot of reasons, but it has also been wonderful for many other reasons. Being an au-pair, I am willing to admit, is much more difficult than I ever, ever, EVER expected. In my initial researching of the experience, I had a very romantic idea of what it would be like (when do I not have an overly-romantic idea of what something will be like?) 'Oh!' I thought, 'It'll be fun games and arts and crafts activities all day long! I'll get to dress dolls and play in the playground and run around and climb trees and bake cookies and just generally re-live my childhood for a year!' There was an element of this, but, when you're the one who is responsible (as opposed to just the one having fun), things obviously change. When you're the one who has to be cleaning everything up at the end of the fun times, thing obviously change. When you realise you can't actually swing on the swings anymore without getting nauseous, nor are you limber or flexible enough to climb the trees anymore, or you pee your pants on the trampoline because you've jumped too high and too hard and its not something you feel you can just ignore, being a grown-up and all, then the whole 're-living your childhood' whilst an adult with an adult's deteriorating body and responsible, anxious mind, isn't quite as carefree as you would think. Apart from the fact that it wasn't sunshine and lollipops all day long, there is also something I find awkward about living in another person's house. I was never even very good at share-housing (I tended to live better with only one other person, or people who didn't expect us to be in each other's pockets all day long), so its not surprising the feeling of taking up someone else's space and impacting their home life felt uncomfortable for me. 

Additionally, I think, from the family’s perspective as well, having an au-pair must be tricky too, unless you just get freakishly lucky (or have very good interview questions), and the person you get turns out to be perfectly matched to your family in every way, shape and form. I’m willing to admit I’m probably not the dream candidate for an au-pair. I was always rushing out, always busy, always so many other projects on the go. I think, in some ways, it’d be more preferable to have some young girl, just out of school, who wants to come learn English, is more used to living in a family, having only just left her own, who is more willing to put time into her host family, isn’t so stuck in her ways, independent etc.

But, anyway. That’s that. Au-pair is not my preferred career choice. Can strike that off the list. I have learnt a lot though. If I ever do have children, I will be a little better prepared for the experience after these past 10 months. So, that’s something. I now know that I won’t ‘break’ little babies, which I was always kind of afraid of. No, I am perfectly capable of looking after them and even making them happy. On some days, I felt like some kind of amazing ‘baby whisperer’, with Baby Brother falling asleep on my shoulder, or suddenly falling silent after hysterical screaming, when I presented him with some new object to look at – a leaf, a roll of Sellotape, a plastic container with plastic shapes inside of it. Of course, there were other days when I was just the normal, everyday nanny, unable to get the baby to sleep, no matter how many ways I bounced him, how many songs I sang, how many bottles I offered, how many blankets I put on him. There were days when I felt like Mary Poppins, or Maria from ‘The Sound of Music’ or Nanny McPhee or Mrs Piggle-Wiggle. And there were days that I felt like Jane Eyre (without Mr. Rochester) and there were days when I felt like… like… Hansel and Gretel’s step-mother. In all honesty though, the fictional character I probably most identified with was the Rosalyn from ‘Calvin and Hobbes’:

So, where to now? Is there life after au-pairing? Let’s hope so. But, first up is a break for 3 months, a break from feeling like I have to earn money (in whatever possible way I can), and just relaxing, reading, writing, cooking good food, going for walks and getting my self back together again. It is my intention to become the ‘best darn person I can be’ all in 3 months. I know the danger in thinking like this. Whenever I start out on some great self-improvement project, I inevitably become less happy with myself, more angry, more depressed, more screwed-up. Which is why this 'self-improvement' project is not really about self-improvement, but about looking after myself. I’m just going to look after myself for 3 months. Seeing how no-one is going to do it for me, I’m going to learn how to do it myself. And, hopefully, at the end of 3 months, I’ll be so good at it, I’ll be able to go back to normal, everyday life, earning money, going to work, doing projects etc. and still continue to look after myself. Because, that would be nice. Then, I think, I’ll have it all. 

Me and Baby Brother. He's more interested in my socks than the camera.

Cute Things Said by Little Man Today

I haven't done one of these for Little Man, and I really should because today is our last day together. Well, at least, today is the last official, full day as au-pair anyway. Still have 3 hours tomorrow night and 3 hours on Monday morning, but they will be easy as he will be asleep and/or at school the majority of the time on those days.
Anyway, he had some great ones today.
This morning, I heard him in the hall crying out that there was a buzzy bee, and I should catch it for him. I told him, in no uncertain terms, that there was no way I was catching a bee. We'd just leave it alone, and he'd leave us alone. Little Man didn't much like that idea, so next I hear is him yelling at the buzzy bee, 'Go Away! Go Away! Get out of my house! You don't live here! Come another day! Go away!' Thinking this was a recipe for disaster, I went out to the hall to try and placate Little Man and, more importantly, the buzzy bee. But, when I went out, I found there was nothing in the hall. Just Little Man, waving his arms about. I laughed and said there was no buzzy bee and went back into the kitchen. But, I could still hear him, calling out in the hall, telling the bee to go. So, I come out again and have a better look in the hallway. Its then that I notice he is waving his arms into the shaft of sunlight coming through the square of glass in the door. Of course, the sunlight catches all the dust particles that are flying around in the hair and I finally twig. He's calling the dust 'buzzy bees'. I laughed again, and explained that they weren't bees, it was just dust. He then decided to try and get the dust out of the house, so opened the door and started calling out, 'Out you go! Out you go! Out of my house! Get out! Out now!' And, because the shaft of sunlight was now a great pouring out of sun, it looked like all the dust had actually left, so he closed the door, very pleased with himself, thinking he'd gotten rid of all the dust. He was more than a little upset when he turned around and saw all the dust again.
Hmm... what else? I'm saving the best til last, so you'd better keep reading. I was leaning over, changing Baby Brother's nappy, and my shirt rode up, showing more of my backside then I would like, and Little Man put his feet onto my back and goes, 'Putty Bum! Roly, poly, putty bum!' If he was any older, I would be hugely insulted, but I couldn't help laughing (and, to be honest, I had to agree with him...)
He turned to me in the middle of 'Postman Pat' and says, 'I love Postman Pat. Do you love Postman Pat?' I agreed that I did. He then says, 'And I love Fireman Sam. Do you love Fireman Sam?' Yes, yes, of course I also love Fireman Sam. 'And I love Postman Pat. Do you love Postman Pat?' etc.
I told him Baby Brother was upstairs having a nap. He replied, 'No he's not! He's in Australia! He walked to Australia!' Then, he was zipping up his jumper and he says, 'This is the car' (referring to the part of the zipper that moves) and then, 'And this is the road. It goes all the way to Australia.' Later, we were looking at his World Map and he was asking me the names of all the countries (by the way, the way he says 'Amster-DAM' and 'Lohn-dohn' are the cutest things in the entire world). He then told me one of his cousins had used to live in China and the other in Russia.
But, my favourite quotes were surrounding the toilet. See, Little Man is toilet trained, but he needs help if he does a poo. So, I was hanging outside the toilet, ready to help him and I hear him calling out, 'Come on, poo! You can do it!' Which was one of the most hysterical things I've ever heard. It was soon topped, however, when I went in to help him and was taking a little longer than he would have liked and he says, 'Is there a lot of poo?' I agreed that there was. He sighed, rolled his eyes and grumbled, 'I can't stay here all day.' Which basically had me laughing hysterically on the bathroom tiles
But, you're right, Little Man, you're right. You can't stay there all day.

Cycling, clothes and cloth in Amsterdam

Like the clever alliteration in the title? Of course you do. That's what you read this blog for.
Apologies for the break in communication, but I haven't been very inspired recently. I tried to be inspired a couple of days ago (with an even cleverer title), but it didn't work. Luckily, though, I went for a weekend jaunt to Amsterdam, which has provided me with much new knowledge and jokes at my expense with which to create a blog post out of.
For those of you regular readers out there, you may remember that I got stuck in Amsterdam back in July, in my attempts to get to Florence. It was not the funnest experience, though I was hugely grateful to be flying KLM and Aer Lingus for the trip and not Ryanair, as I was at least put up in a hotel, given dinner, breakfast and wine and allowed to make the delightful realisation that Dutch people are hot. Very, very hot.
It was mainly for this reason (and maybe a little bit for the cheese with cumin in it, but, honestly, mainly for the hotness) that I decided I needed to have a quick weekend jaunt to Amsterdam before the end of the year. Luckily, I discovered back in September that Aer Lingus was having another sale (there are some upsides to that Irish recession! At least... there are for me... because I don't have a ridiculously over-priced mortgage... and oh, I take it back, that was cruel and heartless... boo to recession-era jokes), and so I immediately booked some tickets.
So, at 4:30am on Saturday morning, I bounded out of bed and into my employer's car (who had kindly said she would drive me to the airport at that ungodly hour). In a kind of sleep-deprived haze (I honestly can't remember much. I think I was surrounded by Norwegians at the check-in desk. I like Norwegians even more than I like Dutch people, but even that wasn't enough for me to sit up and take notice), I managed to board the aeroplane and find my seat. When I got off at Schiopol Airport, I still hadn't quite woken up and promptly lined up in the 'EU Passport' line. I handed over my passport and was greeted with, 'Since when has Australia been a European country?' but in my sleep deprivation, I heard it as, 'Since when have you been in Australia and Europe?' Thinking I was dealing with some crazy Dutch-English translation problem, I patiently and kindly attempted to translate. 'Oh, do you mean, how long have I been in Europe for? When did I leave Australia?' The 20 year old passport man sighed and smiled tiredly over at his friend who was checking the 'All Passports' line.
'No, I mean, since when has Australia been a European country?'
Suddenly cottoning on, and realising that most Dutch people speak better English than I do (so the chances of it being a translation problem were slim to none), I checked above his head and saw the 'EU Passports' sign that I had completely missed just a minute before. I apologised many times and attempted to go to the next line, when he said, 'No, no, its fine. This time, its fine.' (dramatic pause) 'If you pay.'
Which was my first encounter with Dutch humour. Delivered so drily, so sarcastically, that you're not entirely sure if they are poking fun at you, or if they actually hate you and are attempting to explode you with their eyes for choosing the wrong passport line. Amusing, if you decide to believe its the former.
I got my luggage and headed off to find food. I had now been awake for 5 hours, with no breakfast, and my stomach was making it increasingly difficult to move happily the longer the situation went on. 'Oh, you think its more important to get your baggage then get me food, do you? Well, BAM, there's a headache.' 'Have to buy a train ticket, do you? SLAM, overwhelming nausea.' Thanks, stomach. I went as fast as possible into the nearest supermarket and was confronted, again, by the glorious-ness of that Dutch invention, cheese with cumin. Every time I leave the Netherlands, I forget about it. Then, I go back again, and I remember HOW MUCH I ADORE IT and eat my body weight in the stuff. I've never seen it outside of the Netherlands, what's that about? I would totally buy the stuff if people would only make it available to me on a daily basis. Actually, second thought, don't make it available on a daily basis. Continue to make it a good, long, expensive aeroplane trip away. Ta.
Into central Amsterdam on the train, then on to a tram, and after a quick walk (dodge the bicycles) I found myself at my hostel. Already, I was in love with the city. The first time I visited Amsterdam, I was 18, and it was part of the 3 week bus-around the continent organised for all the exchange students in Europe at the time. I wasn't too fussed with the place. There were far too many XXX signs and the ugliest, tackiest souvenirs I had ever, ever had the displeasure of coming across. There were probably a lot of things going on with me on that 3 week trip around Europe, but, I did end up actively disliking a lot of the places we visited (Paris, Amsterdam, Venice....). I'm not saying it was the trip per se... maybe it was the hordes of tourists, maybe it was the fact we only got to spend a day or two in each place, maybe it was that I found the kids on the tour, on the whole, to be a bunch of loud, obnoxious twats, but a lot of that holiday I found disappointing. So, its nice to come back to some of these places again and go, 'Oh, I see now. This is why everyone loves --------'
First of all, the XXX sign I saw everywhere? Not actually to do with XXX porn. Is actually, hilariously, the sign of Amsterdam the city. I want to know if the reasons we started using XXX as a sign for racy things was BECAUSE it was the sign of Amsterdam the city. Someone research that for me, would you? And report back. Thanks.

Canal! Boats! Trees! Houses!

Anyway, I was in love with the city. Because houses are taxed according to the width of their frontage on the street, you have these hilariously thin, tall buildings. 'Oh, its expensive to have wide buildings? Well, we'll just make them wide... IN THE SKY.' Boo-ya. That's the Dutch for you. Add on to this, the fact that many of them are turning into mini Towers of Pisa as their foundations sink into the ground or rot away (there are businesses in Amsterdam specialising in crooked windows for people who don't want to fix the foundations of their house, but would like to fix the cracks forming between the windows and the walls), and that some of them were DELIBERATELY built crooked to make it easier to get furniture into the upstairs windows when building, you get some pretty higgeldy-piggeldy dwellings (I believe you'll find that, in regards to the architecture of Amsterdam, 'hiddeldy-piggeldy' is a technical term). Then there's all the curvy, pretty decorative things on the front of the houses, and the little bridges and the cobblestones, and the wrought iron railings, and the canals and the boats, and, well, it seems like you've somehow stepped out of the real world and into a fairytale land of gingerbread houses.
My first port of call was to meet some old family friends, who happened to be staying in Amsterdam at the same time as me. I went to find their apartment, a convenient 5 minute walk away from my hostel, and we spent a few hours catching up, before heading off to do a walking tour of the city. On the face of it, it seemed the perfect afternoon to do a walking tour. Sun was shining, not a cloud in the sky. But, after 3 and a half hours of being outside in the close to 0 degree temperature, not seeing much sun because of the long shadows of the tall, tall, higgeldy-piggeldy buildings, and I had stopped being able to feel my toes. The poor girl who was doing the tour (a Dutch girl who had grown up in Canada and then returned to Amsterdam to live) was working only for tips, and, whilst she had 30 people on the tour to start, by the end she had half the number. That's got to hurt. The tour itself was very interesting. I saw the red-light district proper, and tried desperately not to stare. In all honesty, I wanted to stare at everyone and everything - not just the ladies in the windows, but the 'gentlemen' coming out or going in. They looked so normal! They were all ages, all types, but all very leery, very seedy in their expression and intent. Not so surprising, really, but I was surprised about how open it all was. I definitely found it bizarre having real women in the windows, very much the product on sale. I don't know that any of those men would look so seedy outside of Amsterdam, or if they would feel comfortable looking that way outside of the red-light district, but, there, in Amsterdam, it was fine, it was expected even. I'm still not sure where I stand on the whole prostitution issue. I know there are women out there who find it all very empowering and its their choice and isn't that what feminism is about and all, but walking through that district made me exceedingly uncomfortable. It did not feel or look empowering to me. But, hey, well, I don't know, I've never done it (No, really...).
Anyway, the tour was great. It was even better once we had gone inside and warmed up and could feel all our extremities again. I went back to the hostel, got gussied up (now there is a term I enjoy using) and we headed out again. Amsterdam at night is even prettier than Amsterdam during the day. Especially at Christmas time. Every street is hung with twinkling lights, and not those tacky, flashy, whirring, neon ones that you see on houses in the mid-West of the USA (no offense, mid-West of the USA), but, understated, magical ones in lovely shapes and swirls. The Dutch are also very enamoured with fried, sugary dumpling things, which they often fill with yellow sweet creams, or fruit, or chocolate, or cover in sugar, or nutella, or other heart-attack inducing fillings, and these are out in force in the nighttime. The sugar smell just adds to the fairytale feel, and even without the magic mushrooms (which are now illegal in Amsterdam anyway), you find yourself attempting to pull out chocolate hunks of the nearest house a la Hansel and Gretel.
I slept in the next morning, which was absolutely delightful, and completely unexpected, considering I was staying in a 16-bed dorm in Amsterdam on a Saturday night, but, there you have it, the Dutch are very good at everything, including creating a room for 16 people to sleep in, without making it smelly, noisy, cramped or ugly. I headed out to meet up with my friends again, but we parted ways soon after a wonderful breakfast - I wanted to head to the van Gogh museum, and they had already been, so we decided to meet up again that afternoon. However, they very kindly lent me one of their bikes to get to the museum quicker.

Do you want a bow-tie? OF COURSE you want a bow-tie. There's a bow-tie here for everybody!

Now, I was a bike rider in Sydney. I loved my bike, I cycled over the Harbour Bridge, over the Pyrmont Bridge, I cycled in the city even though I was convinced I would be killed, I once cycled from Newtown to Chastwood and back again for a work day. So, I loved my bike even when it was hard to cycle; even when I turned up wherever I was going red, sweaty, smelly and dirty; even when my bike was stolen; even when I was being abused by car-drivers; even when I was called pinko lefty scum or a hipster by pedestrians; even when I was swallowing flies and pollution and cramped over my bike handles. So, to then go cycling in Amsterdam... well, it was like a dream. Of course, everything is flat. That's a distinct advantage on Sydney. But, on top of that, there are bike lanes EVERYWHERE. Because EVERYONE cycles. EVERYONE. There's paths for pedestrians, lanes for bikes and roads for cars, everyone existing very happily next to each other. Because its so flat, there is really no need for gears or for those mountain/road bikes that people use in Sydney, so I was on this heavy, big-wheeled, black bike with great big curving handles that looked like it had just come out of a pre-war photograph. Instead of being hunched over my bike handles, I was seated straight up, looking around at all the pretty things that were going whooshing past my head. In short, I was on one of those incredibly pretty, incredibly cool hipster bikes that people buy in Newtown, except that it was actually practical here - I could go anywhere I wanted with this bike (as opposed to the hipsters in Newtown who would find it difficult to go further than, say, Erskineville, on their bikes)! With my black, white and red houndstooth, knee-length jacket on, I looked oh-so-ladylike and proper and 'historical- arthouse-film-like', which is a look I am always hoping to cultivate. Apart from some confusion over which side of the road I should be cycling on, I found the whole experience utterly delightful, and was seriously considering moving to Amsterdam simply to ride a bike (oh, as well as marrying an attractive Dutchman who also rode a bike and having little blonde babies who rode around on bikes too).
The van Gogh museum was good, very interesting and slightly comforting (van Gogh didn't decide to be an artist until he was 26? And didn't start practicing until he was 27? So, you can still get good at something this late in life??), but the more delightful part of my day was getting back on the bicycle and heading to Vondelpark, which I cycled around and around and around until the rain convinced me I should head to shelter. Cycling around the park got me thinking about the one activity you need to do in a city to fall in love with it, and I feel like cycling in Vondelpark is the experience for Amsterdam. I then tried to think of single experiences for other cities I've been recently, but found it more difficult. Drink red wine at outdoor table and chairs in Paris, I think. London... I find it difficult to choose something for London, as I was already in love with the place before I went there.
Anyway, after my cycle, I headed back to the hostel, had a shower, got dressed up and headed out again. We had Mexican food for dinner, which was UH-MAZING and then we had Margharitas. I don't know if I've never had a Margahrita before, or if I've just never had a GOOD Margharita before, but these things were to die for. My conversation at the table disintegrated to, 'Oh my god. Oh my god, this is so good. This is so good! Can you believe how good these are? These are, like, the best things in the world! Are you having another? I'm definitely having another. Oh, I can't wait to have another! OH MY GOD, this is even better than the last one!'
After another early evening and lovely sleep in, I headed out to the markets on Monday morning. Apart from the attractive Dutchmen and the cumin cheese, the other reason I had wanted to go to Amsterdam was to visit the vintage cloth and trimmings market that a friend of mine had told me about. Cloth and trimmings are dangerous for me, because I have all these fabulous dreams of what they could be turned into, and get really excited, but then lack the technical knowledge of how to create the amazing clothing fantasies in my head into practical realities. Spotlight was, like, the worst store to take me to as a teenager, because I would want to buy everything (and sometimes did) and then I would take the materials/lace/ribbons/buttons home and then simply add them to the growing mess on my bedroom floor (see previous posts for further clarification on the extent of bedroom mess). Still, I wanted to see this market. So, see it I did. It was torture. So many kitsch, gorgeous, cute, neon, flirty cottons, lace, buttons, ribbons that would make the cutest, kitsch, flirty skirts and dresses, except for the fact that I HAD NO IDEA HOW TO SEW. In the end, after a quick and rough estimate of how much material, potentially, I would need to circle around my waist, I bought 6 different patterned cloths because I couldn't bear to leave them behind in Amsterdam for someone who clearly wouldn't love them as much and as well as myself, and then convinced myself one of my friends in Ireland would be able to teach me how to make a simple skirt. And then, upside was, I would know how to make a simple skirt. And then, maybe, in a few years, I could graduate to simple dresses, and then all my dreams would have come true.
I could tell by the amount of Dutch being spoken around the markets that there weren't many tourists about, which also delighted me. It is my greatest joy, as a tourist, to go to a place that is not tourist-y and just hang around, pretending to be a local. Reveling in the fact that locals would look at me and assume that, I, too, lived in this place (of course, most of these people are probably not thinking twice about me or whether or not I'm a local, but, this is the little fantasy I have). Sometimes, I'll even speak to people in an accent. It started when I was 12 on a holiday to the USA, and I decided to go up to the counter at Disneyland and speak to the woman in an American accent. I don't know what possessed me. It didn't change the interaction, except that she didn't ask me where I was from. So, I've become a little obsessed with this game now, and its only heightened by the fact that I tend to mimic people's accents accidentally whenever I'm around them for a long time. When I'm in a country that speaks a language other than English, I like to stretch this little performance even further into a game called, 'See How Long it Takes for Them to Figure Out I Don't Speak Their Language'. The aim of the game is to successfully complete an interaction with a local and have them: a) Never speak to you in English and b) Never realise that you don't actually speak their language. The first one is reasonably easy if you are in a country that doesn't have a lot of English speakers (eg, Chile or Argentina). The second is the hardest. I use all sorts of tricks. I think about the interaction beforehand. I gather as much information as I can before I begin, for example, checking the price on something before I go to buy it, so I can have the right money for them and don't have to look at the till or smile at them blankly as they say the amount. Its relatively easy to then guess at what point they are telling you the price and when to hand over the money. If I've worked out a few easy phrases ('please' 'thank you' 'hi') in their language, I'll throw them around as much as possible to make it seem like I actually know how to use the words.
In a country like the Netherlands, though, where everyone speaks English, and where I was only staying for a few days, so had no time or opportunity to learn some of their crazy language (the only word I really know is 'verboden' for 'not allowed', which is similar to the Norwegian, and I just love how ominous it sounds - 'it is FORBIDDEN to walk on the grass.... FORBIDDEN! And if you do, we'll curse you and all your family with the black plague!') its a race with the clock to stop them realising and switching to English. So, I would pick up products at the market stalls, admire them, and when people came over and started yabbering at me in Dutch, I would smile and nod and smile and nod, and then back away as quickly as possible. Don't let them know! Don't let down the charade! One woman at her stall was telling me the gloves I had picked up were the wrong colour for my jacket, and brought out another pair to show me. I know this, because she held them to the jacket and pointed out the colours, as she yabbered away at me. I smiled and nodded and then shook my head as she tried to get me to take them. It wasn't that I didn't possibly want the gloves, it was that, if I stayed to buy them, I would have to prove to her that I didn't speak Dutch, and that would be truly disappointing. It was worth more to me to have this random market stall owner think that I was Dutch then it was to buy lovely gloves. That's how crazy I am sometimes.
There were many lovely things at this market, including second hand clothes. One stall had, I kid you not, an entire table of the tackiest holiday jumpers you have ever seen. They were 5 euro each or 3 for 12.50. Of course, I got three. I'm wearing one now. Its delightful. Its red and knitted, and has Christmas trees and snowflakes and festive green beads all over it. I feel like I should be in a Christmas special for some B-Grade American TV show. Its fabulous. Anyway, at the stall, I picked out my three jumpers and brought them over to the stall owner. I was still kind of giggling over the fact that I was buying 3 tacky Christmas jumpers and he clearly picked up on my slight giddiness and made a joke. In Dutch. I know it was a joke, because of the tone of his voice and because he leaned towards me conspiratorially and then pulled back and laughed. So, I smiled and nodded as he kept talking. At some point, after he had put my lovely jumpers in a plastic bag, I realised he asked me for the money. I handed it over and he gave me my change. I uttered my only word of Dutch: 'dank' for 'thank you', and waltzed away, happy in the belief that I had convinced this man of my Dutch heritage. It was only after a step or two that I realised that the man had been very attractive, with tousled dark blonde hair, a pierced ear, leather jacket, tall with a kind of attractively crumpled face in the manner of George Clooney, and he had, as far as I could tell from his manner, being flirting very mildly with me. I stopped short, horrified. My favourite travel game was actually potentially preventing me from meeting and being chatted up by attractive Dutchmen! Which was, as we have previously discussed, my main reason for coming to Amsterdam! I walked away sadly, knowing it was too late for me to turn around and ask him to repeat his joke in English so that I could understand it and respond appropriately.
Damn.
So, after that experience, I walked back to my friends' place and we had a quick lunch after visiting a beautiful little courtyard that you can only live in if you are a single woman. Its called Begijnhof and used to be a place where religious single women (not nuns though) would come and live and do good deeds. I had read about it in that article about the many women of the current generation who would never get married. It seemed an appropriate place to go and check out after my failed attempts at meeting attractive Dutchmen. I then borrowed the bike again and headed to a confectioner's that had been recommended by my friend who had recommended the markets. It was a delightfully kitsch (getting a pattern here) and over-the-top place, with crazily-decorated marzipan cakes on each table (one was in the shape of a giant Santa rat - really? - and others had barbie dolls or trains or just gorgeous flowers and lovely things), patterned, plastic table covers, pink walls and many other wonderful things. I had hot chocolate and cheescake. And cream. Much whipped cream. Here is the link for you to look at - http://www.detaart.com/en/home.htm - with my limited Dutch, I am fairly confident the name of the cafe translates to, 'The Cake of my Aunt', or something similar - not sure what the m'n stands for.

Cycing in Vondelpark

I took the opportunity to have another quick spin around Vondelpark and take some happy snaps this time, but, time was running out. I returned the bike to my friends, we took some quick photos (to prove we were in Amsterdam at the same time) and then I headed off on the tram back to central station and from there to the airport. I was very sad to go. Not least of all, because I had yet to find my attractive Dutchman who was going to buy me my very own falling down, gingerbread house on the banks of a canal somewhere. My step-brother is actually living in Amsterdam at the moment (lucky bastard) and I didn't get to see him as we were on totally different time schedules, so that seems as good a reason as any to book another trip back there in February. Whose with me, yes? I thought so.

Children's Literature

I've read a lot of children's books over the year. Some of them are very good, and I add them to the mental list of books I keep of titles I would like to read to my own future kids/nieces and nephews/next-door-neighbours/random children down at the library. At the top of this list comes things like 'New Tricks that I Can Do', 'We're Going on a Bear Hunt' (which I've read and recited so many times now I don't actually need the book anymore) and 'The Gruffalo' (whose characters, in my mind now, all have distinct voices, personalities and back stories). However, there are also a lot of books out there which were clearly fished out of the bargain bucket at the local cut-price supermarket as stocking fillers or when you're about to arrive at the house of a 2 year old on their birthday and you've forgotten to get a present. In this last category, I include books where even I can't understand the plot, let alone my 3 year old charge; books which are written in verse, but the author is so bad at poetry you have to re-read every second line three times over because all the emphases are in the wrong places and the grammar is so poor; and books which are meant to be about familiar characters ('Thomas the Tank Engine', 'Winnie the Pooh') but are clearly cheap rip-offs as the drawings are so bad that the little one you're reading to is constantly pointing at the yellow bear character and asking, 'Who's that?' when they specifically asked for a book about Winnie-the-Pooh in the first place.
This evening, I came across another category, which is 'books-with-strange-underlying-messages-that-the-authors-possibly-didnt-intend.' The book in question is called 'If You Give a Mouse a Cookie'. It has a picture of a happy little mouse on the front cover, holding a choc-chip cookie and looking delighted with himself. I saw this picture and thought, 'Ah, yes. Delightful. Cute animals and cookies. Just what I feel like reading.' I imagined that the book was about how, if you gave a mouse a cookie, he would give you a hug (as the mouse on the cover seemed to be wanting to do). And, then, if, perhaps, you gave a horse a sugar cube, he'd do a jig. And, if you gave a polar bear a blanket, he'd, I don't know, catch you a rainbow, or something else ridiculously cute and saccharine. You know, a story in that slightly whimsical, slightly absurdly sweet vein, where all things in the world are good and kind, where polar bears don't tear you to shreds and eat your innards because of over-fishing and the disappearance of their natural habitat, a book which basically hints to kids that, if you're a nice person, and you do things for other people, you will get good things in return and nothing bad will ever happen to you, tra-la-la-la-la.
But, I was mistaken.
If I were slightly more paranoid than I actually am, if I were more serious about life and social equality and the evils of Big Business and all the rest, if, I were, in short, Naomi Klein, I could quite easily claim that this book was clearly written by and for members of the conservative right-wing. Members of the privileged elite, the 1%, the Rupert Murdochs of this world. I'm not even joking.
So, the basic storyline goes, if you give a mouse a cookie, he'll want a glass of milk to go with it. Then he'll want a straw, then he'll want to check a mirror to make sure he doesn't have a milk moustache, then he'll want to trim his hair, then he'll want a variety of other things, including a broom to clean up your house with, a piece of paper to do you a drawing with, and eventually, of course (and here's the joke), he'll wind up asking you for another cookie. 
Essentially, the underlying message of this book is, don't ever give anything to anyone, because if you do, they're just going to ask for more. This book is actually a critique of social democracy and the so-called 'hand-out' of social welfare. I mean, the author doesn't even comment on the fact that, actually, the mouse wanting to sweep your house is an extremely kind thing to do, nor does she mention that the painting the mouse creates is really quite beautiful and remarkable. No, no, its just all a really big pain in the ass for the kid who only wanted to give the mouse a cookie, and then have him go on his way.
But, really, is it the mouse's fault? I mean, the kid makes a seemingly friendly gesture, the mouse takes it at face-value, thinks they're friends, and wants to pay the boy back by cleaning his house, painting him a masterpiece. OF COURSE, the mouse then needs to take some time out for a nap, because he's just painted the mouse equivalent of the Mona Lisa and the spoiled kid, who probably has no real friends and spends all his time indoors eating Doritos, and was actually giving the mouse the cookie only because he didn't like it himself is all like, 'Oh, Jeez, this is taking up all my afternoon, when all I wanted to do was play my Nintendo Playstation, and now I have to go and get the broom out of the closet for this annoying, clean-freak mouse.' 
Actually, now that I'm thinking SERIOUSLY about it, the mouse cleaning the house is essentially like the work for the dole program, and the masterpiece? Is that meant to be some sort of comment on artists who sit around and get hand outs and don't contribute anything to the real economy? I THINK IT MIGHT BE. And the kid is all, 'Well, that's great, Mouse, but I gave you a cookie, could you not have, I don't know, created a business out of that? Maybe you should have analysed the ingredients of that cookie, like they do in Masterchief, and then made your own cookie proto-type, designed a fancy advertising and marketing plan and sold it on to all the other mice, instead of sitting around here in my house all day, decorating the walls with crappy self-portraits, because if you had done that, you'd definitely be a mouse millionaire by now, someone who could easily run their own mouse version of The Apprentice, if they wanted, and then you know, you really would have made it.'
It was the last book I read to Little Man tonight, and I ended up finishing it completely, even though he fell asleep half-way through, because I kept thinking there must be some twist at the end. That, eventually the complaining kid would get his comeuppance, or that eventually they would show the good side of giving a mouse a cookie (he won't make a nest in your chest of drawers? He'll leave your bread box alone? He'll paint you a portrait of himself and his family that you could probably sell for millions of dollars, because, hey, it was a freakin' mouse that painted it??). But, there was none. The mouse just ends up wanting another cookie. Because mice are selfish that way.
Putting on my, 'I have a BA with a minor in English from the University of Sydney' hat (and, lets face it, I don't really find many other uses for that hat in my day-to-day life, so I should make the most of it when I can), I would suggest that the cyclical structure of the story suggests to the reader that the little boy is now trapped, Sisyphus-like, into a cycle of giving, from which he will only be able to escape when he has either given everything he owns to the mouse, or has died of exhaustion.
By the time I had reached the end of the book, I was truly confused and worried, feeling like, at its absolute worst, and if I wanted to push the message to its ultimate ending, the book could almost be a warning to children about the dangers of accepting refugees into one's country, or homeless people into one's neighbourhood. That they were essentially laying the groundwork for 'policies' like Malaysia and Nauru. I decided to laugh it off, tell myself I was just grumpy because I hadn't had dinner yet and it was colouring how I was reading this book, BUT THEN, I turned to the front cover and the description of the story reads, 'If a hungry little traveller shows up at your house, you might want to give him a cookie.'
See? SEE? ITS SO NOT ABOUT MICE AND COOKIES.
Its TOTALLY right-wing paranoid propaganda. 
I mean, it doesn't even MENTION mice!! 
So, then I went and checked the author's Wikipedia page (she's extended the series, showing that you can also be pestered by an overly-demanding moose if you offer him a muffin or a high-maintenance pig if you give him a pancake), trying to find some redeemable features to put up here, and just as I was scanning through, thinking, alright, this is a silly post, I should stop writing it in case I insult a fairly decent human being who I don't know at all, but just as I was coming to the bottom of the page, just as I was about to dismiss all my fears and paranoia, there it was.
The author was invited to an event honouring American writers by none other than LAURA BUSH.
Case closed.
So, I don't know what you did with your evening, but I totally uncovered a deep and systematic right-wing conspiracy in children's literature.

I was going to put up a picture of the cover of the book, but then I was worried that it might make it easier for the authors/publishers to find this post (like, if they are obsessive self-google-rs or something) and then they might sue me. I mean, they are American after all.

One day, everyone is going to thank me.

I Don't Really Know What to do with Cleaning Products

Taking an abrupt U-turn back into my life as an au pair, and leaving greater questions of love, life, happiness and fulfillment behind me in my last posts, as well as doing some spectacular procrastination surrounding a performance that I have signed up for on Wednesday night (why do I do this to myself why why why why why??? it always seems like a good idea until it actually gets to a point when I have to produce the work I said I was going to produce and I'm all like, 'Aw, yeah, well, the thing about that is, I'd rather watch excerpts of old 'Friends' episodes all night instead, kay?'), I offer you this post.
You may have guessed that this post is to do with cleaning (I'm not really into that whole idea of naming your story, 'Captain Cat and his Magical Powers' or something, and then not ever ACTUALLY mentioning a nautical feline with a magician's wand, confusing and disappointing your readers, and when people confront you in interviews with this fact, you sigh and roll your eyes and say, 'Well, most of my educated readers were able to pick up that the naval reference was ironic/metaphorical/allegorical/sarcastic/farcical and that further, by speaking of a cat, I was clearly referencing Ancient Egypt not contemporary America and who's to say what powers are magical anyway, and wank, wank, wank...' No, my titles mean something. They are clear that they mean something. They mean what they mean. Yes). So, anyway, this post is about cleaning. House cleaning, to be precise. And, the fact of the matter is... I'm not very good at it.
I never have been. Its not something that ever really got my engines roaring, so to speak, not something that I would choose to do over, say, an afternoon on the couch watching the latest BBC costume drama, or an evening with friends, or, even, say, completing my tax return, or picking the dirt out from underneath my fingernails. Housework is not something that ever really enters my brain as a possible way of spending my time. The only time that I would consider the need to do housework is when the state of my house actually prevents me from living my life or doing basic human activities. So, for example, when the piles of junk on the bedroom floor actually prevent me from opening the door of my room to allow me to go outside and participate in gainful employment, or when I have worn literally every piece of clothing in my entire wardrobe, sometimes some of the several times over, maybe even inside-out, and if I attempt to wear them again, people will think I am actually a homeless person when I'm sitting outside on a park bench, and may ask me to 'move along' or offer me their spare change. My best friend Erin will tell you that we were mates for a good 5 or 6 years, the majority of high school, before I would even permit her to see my room. Every time she came to visit, I would run screaming to my bedroom, slam the door shut and throw myself in front of it until she promised not to attempt to step inside. Eventually, one day, knowing she was coming over, I spent a day tidying up and putting things in order, specifically so that she could come inside and see what it (never) looked like. She must have thought I had dead bodies in there or something.
I always kind of hoped that when I moved into my own house, things would change, because it was *my* house, and I would feel some sort of pride and care for it. I had at least one good friend who went from being a messy-room occupier to a fussy, tidy house cleaner the minute he rented his first share house. But, for me it was not to be (I still sometimes think wishfully that maybe I'll be cleaner when I own my house as opposed to just rent it, or live in someone else's, but I have my doubts).
There were lots of reasons for the appalling state of my room. I was a busy kid: I spent most afternoons doing various lessons - Japanese classes, art classes, dance classes, violin lessons, and then my entire Saturday was usually taken up with Young People's Theatre. Plus, there was still homework and practicing all the things that I was taking lessons for, and, of course, a great big chunk of time was needed to spend day-dreaming in front of the mirror, or dancing around the living room in ridiculous home-made costumes to 'The Lion King' soundtrack or something (a swimsuit and a bowtie on a little blonde Anglo girl? I mean, really, does that scream Africa to you?) But, apart from that, I kind of got used to my room being messy, and whenever I did clean it up, things became that much harder to find. I couldn't remember where I had tidied them to, and the tidy room generally only lasted for as many days as I could survive living with only the things I had put within easy reach or on display. The minute I had to go scurrying under my bed for something, the whole delicate, tidy balance was disrupted, and I went back to storing my possessions in a deceptively chaotic looking mess on the carpet (I still maintain I knew where everything was in that mess, and I had strategic empty spots to walk my feet through from bed to door, so I never broke anything).
Anyway, the point is, that when your bedroom is that messy, when you can't even see the floor for all the stuff strewn across it, actual 'cleaning' activities' such as vacuuming, sweeping, dusting, polishing etc. instantly become much less of a big deal. Well, actually, when you're just battling against piles of junk, clothes, old school notes, empty bags, boxes, CD's, videos, mixed tapes, food packets, candles, blankets, pillows, photo albums, notebooks, diaries, textbooks, and random ceramic decorative things to get to the bedroom door, any actual 'cleaning' in the form of getting rid of dirt and dust becomes not so much unimportant as unnecessary. Impossible. So, I'm 27, and for a lot of reasons, I don't really know how to do housework.
This has been a bit of a problem as an au pair, as housework is kind of part of the deal. Particularly in my current family, where the house is (to my untrained eyes), immaculate. It looks gorgeous, shiny, clean, at all moments of the day, and this is despite the two little munchkins running around trying to mess everything up to the best of their abilities. Making things much worse is the fact that I, me, the girl with the mess, was expected to keep this shiny, clean looking house in its nice, shiny, cleanness.
Tidying toys and things away is easy, I'm actually quite good at organisation when I want to be (despite the mess on my floor, my wardrobe was always organised according to type of clothing, and my bookshelves according to book height). The basic cleaning is easy enough too, I mean, I know how to use a hoover and a broom, though, I didn't realise, until I started doing it every day, just how dirty floors get. Even if you look at the floor and can't see anything on it, if you sweep it, you will find dust and crud and dirt and all sorts of other things coming up (though, a sudden thought - maybe I need to clean the broom? Perhaps I am making a clean floor dirty by sweeping it with a dirty broom? Hmm.... did not think this was possible. Will need to investigate further). The problem I find with both the broom and the vacuum is that no matter how hard you try, you will always, always miss a spot. If you insist on vacuuming or sweeping in your big, heavy-duty walking boots (as I constantly do - forgetting what happened last time), you will also tramp more dirt and grass and tiny, irritating little rocks over the floors you have just cleaned. I think, maybe another reason I avoid housework is that it brings out my OCD, perfectionist side, where I'm left thinking, 'well, there's no point in doing it unless its going to be perfect,' which then means all these tiny little bits of crud on the floor (are they crumbs? are they dirt? granite? who knows, but they are so powerful they are able to resist the hoover, the broom the brush and the mop, and no, they are not part of the floor, I assure you) are incredibly anxiety inducing, and I spend my days walking around picking up various bits of dirt and, having nowhere else on hand to store them, put them into my jeans pocket. Which I then forget to empty. So, the next time I actually need to put something in my jeans pocket, I'll go to retrieve it and my hand will come out covered in crap.
But the real problem is all the other accoutrements, the sprays and the polishes, the various towels and scrubbers, that all live under the sink. They look so promising, these bottles. There's so many of them, all different shapes and colours, you think, the answer to my cleaning question must be housed in there somewhere! Its like the feeling you get when you open a newspaper (well, the feeling I get when I open a newspaper) - ah, knowledge! Clarity! Information! All the problems and confusions of the world are about to be solved by my reading of this newspaper! But, then, you finish the paper and you're more anxious and confused then you were when you started and you begin to worry if maybe the answers were in a different paper, or if perhaps you just missed all the answers in this one, or, maybe you needed to watch the news on TV instead? Or listen to the radio? Or read a topic-specific blog? Its the same with those cleaning products under the sink. So many possibilities! But, then you start pulling them out and, its like, oh, crap, so many possibilities. You're confronted with surface cleaner and bathroom cleaner and kitchen cleaner and Dettol and they all seem to do the same thing, but they're so specifically labelled, you kind of get the feeling that if you, say, used kitchen cleaner in the bathroom, the whole house might explode. And, where are the surfaces you clean with the surface cleaner if they're not in the kitchen or bathroom? May you only use 'surface cleaner' on non-specific-room surfaces? Say, for instance, the table that sits halfway down the hall and you're not really sure if its part of the living room or the playroom? And, further, if you use non-kitchen-specific surface cleaner on your oven, will it turn a hideous brown-orange colour and smell of rotten eggs? And, if I'm caught using bathroom cleaner on surfaces in the kitchen, by housemates or friends or family, will this be... OK? Or will people laugh at me? Or, even worse, will people yell at me? Or, will I be thrown out of the house, told that such an incompetent house cleaner will no longer be tolerated in our share house/friendship group/family Christmases, and to take my non-specific-room surface cleaner and get out?
I had a disaster situation a month or so ago, where one of the roads up to our house was being newly paved. There was hot bitumen everywhere. There were also no footpaths (there are very few footpaths anywhere in Ireland), so I had no choice but to walk through the hot bitumen. I found this an interesting and not unpleasant experience. Squidgy, steamy and smelly. However, when I got home, I walked through the hose without really thinking about it. After a little while I did think, 'hmmm... these floors seem to be unaccountably sticky.' Then, a minute or two later, 'oh, wait, I think its my shoes that seem to be a bit sticky'. A minute or two later I finally remembered the hot bitumen, looked down, and, sure enough, I had managed to track hot bitumen all through the house. I panicked, and went straight to the cupboard sink, grabbed a Dettol spray and some paper towels and went back to the first of the bitumen shoe patches on the ground. I sprayed it with Dettol, and attempted to wipe it away with the paper towel. It stayed put. Panicking even more, thinking that potentially I had just permanently bitumen-ed my employer's floors, and the only way to get it off would be to chip away at it with a pick and hammer, I went back to the sink cupboard. Pulling out a variety of multi-coloured containers, I proceeded to spray the floor with everything I could find that didn't come with a sign stating something like, 'Warning: Contains burning acid and will horrifically burn and/or melt and/or destroy anything it comes in contact with (dirt as well as prized family possessions).' Nothing worked. The bitumen stayed on the floor. Finally, in a last desperate attempt, I spied a scrubbing brush that looked like its past job may have been as a prop in a production of Cinderella: it was wooden, with heavy-duty, barely movable brush bristles. In fact, apart from cleaning bitumen off floors, I didn't actually know what else such a brush could be used for. Burnishing steel, perhaps? Thankfully, the bitumen came off, with some Dettol and some determined Cinderella-like brushing and I cleaned up the mess quite successfully, all things considered, really. In hindsight, I'm not sure how much the Dettol contributed to the process, but I insisted on spraying it on to the bitumen anyway, just for effect and for the pine-fresh smell.
I am also responsible for cleaning the bathroom, which is a nightmare of shiny, shiny, clean, reflective surfaces. I went to wipe clean (with carefully chosen, specifically labelled, mirror cleaning spray) some specks of toothpaste I had flicked on to the mirror, and managed to transfer a pile of... well, I want to call it, lint? But, I'm not even sure what lint is. Does anyone know? And what's the difference between lint and dust? I know you can buy lint-free cloths... or is it lint-free stockings? Or both? What is this lint and why is everyone so keen to be rid of it? Anyway, whatever it was, dirt, lint, material, string, an alien life form, it wasn't meant to be on my shiny, clean, toothpaste free mirror. So, I wiped it again. With the same cloth. I then proceeded to continue wiping it with this cloth, for several minutes, getting grumpier and grumpier that the lint (?) refused to come off. I eventually wiped it off with the sleeve of my jumper (into the sink, but, hey, then I flushed it all down the drain with water, so what does it matter?)

Which one, which one? When did life get so complicated? Image from http://www.hsa.ie/eng/Your_Industry/Chemicals/Detergents/

I could go on and on, but you get the idea. I think the only answer is to watch more infomercial TV, because then, maybe, I would understand the use of all these multi-coloured bottles and cloths that live underneath the sink.

All the Single Ladies: Or, What has Love Got to Do With It?

You might be sick of the topic of my single-dom and (lack of) love life, but, unfortunately, things seem to keep happening that gets me thinking about it all over again. The other possibility, of course, is that I'm thinking about it so obsessively at the moment, that completely unrelated things somehow seem related to the topic of my singledom, and I then spend hours making blog posts out of these random incidents and ideas.
Today, however, it was not me forcing anything on the world, it was the world that was forcing the topic on to me.
In the supermarket today, wandering about, not sure if I was hungry, not sure if I wanted to buy food and drink and take it home, or go out to a pub and have a meal there, I happened to spy the front cover of 'The Observer'. In the corner, highlighted in yellow, with an intriguing looking women beside it, was printed an article title seemingly very related to my last blog post: 'Why Millions of Women Like Me Will Never Marry' by Katie Bolick. I was wary, as I must confess my virtual ignorance of 'The Observer' as a paper, and wasn't sure if this was a terrifying UK tabloid, and that the article itself would be a highly offensive polemic about how the feminist liberation movement had turned all women into spoiled brats who didn't want to have kids and do the housework, and were therefore refusing to settle for all the hugely decent, hard-working men out there, leading, ultimately, to the destruction of life and society as we know it.
But, with nothing else to do or buy, and intrigued enough to want to know more, I caved and paid my 2.50 Euro to see what this Katie Bolick had to say for herself. I sat myself down with a pot of tea in a local Kinsale restaurant, and opened the paper. Within the first paragraph, I was hooked. It opened with Katie Bolick describing the ending of a long-term relationship in her late twenties and the reasons behind it. The whole situation was scarily familiar to me, for a great many reasons, not least of all the question of whether or not this was the worst mistake of her life. I devoured her words voraciously: here was a woman who had gone through what I had gone through, but who was now 13 years down the track and living out my 'worst fears' (I've put them in inverted commas, because I'm still not sure if they are my worst fears or not). That is, to say, she is 40, has never been married and coming to the conclusion that she may never be.
To read the full article (and I suggest you do read the article, its completely fascinating, thought-provoking and compelling), go to The Atlantic Magazine: http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2011/11/all-the-single-ladies/8654/?single_page=true Its apparently caused a huge stir over in the USA, and there are talks of TV series and movies and all sorts of other ridiculousness, which clearly means its hit a nerve.
For those of you who won't read it (and I'm sure there'll be a few, as its quite long), the basic argument is that marriage as an institution is breaking down, and, further, there are a whole heap of women out there who ain't ever going to get married, for a whole heap of different reasons. However, where Katie differs from the hysterical right-wing, often Christian, conservatives, is that she doesn't see this as a terrible thing that needs to be stopped, but as a function of our ever-changing idea of what marriage is, and what it means to be married. Our idea of marriage as being a reflection and celebration of ever-lasting love has really only being current for 100 years or so at the most. Before that, it was, as I'm sure you've heard, about the consolidation and protection of property. The article talks about how various other issues, such as the increasing rates of female education, the loss of construction and manufacturing jobs in the USA, gender-ratio imbalances and the rise of the 'hook-up' culture are also making it difficult, or undesirable, for women to settle down with the men that are available to them. It looks at ways other cultures and societies have organised the raising of children, have expressed love and dealt with sexuality or sexual desire and suggests that our hugely rigid way of thinking around these topics (and insistence of bundling them up together) is detrimental to the ever-increasing group of long-term singles, as well as people in 'non-traditional relationships', that are currently getting by, and doing fine in the Western world.
The article goes into a lot of other interesting side topics, but I can't really summarise it all here (read it, read it, seriously, read it, its worth the time). What it made me want to think about, basically, was what are we, in our Western society, left with, if we don't have marriage?
I don't mean that to sound pathetically over-romantic and Charlotte-like. Its a genuine question, that perhaps other people in my group of friends, or in this generation, have already come to terms with, made peace with or got an answer for (I'm all ears, by the way). Because, well, look, here's the thing: even if I say I'm 'ok' with the idea of not getting married, even if I am not particularly fussed on the institution of marriage, per se, I am interested, and quite fussed, on the idea of passionate, soul-crushing, world-changing, romantic love. I'm totally caught up in the idea of a soul mate. Its probably the influence of all those 19th-century novels I read as a kid. I blame Austen! I blame the Brontes! But, whom-so-ever's fault it is, I do associate that sort of love with marriage, although, obviously, the two don't go hand in hand: many of my beloved classic novels - 'Anna Karenina', 'Wuthering Heights', 'Madame Bovary' - were about people who found that love outside of their marriage. Now, this may seem like a stretch, and it is actually seeming more ridiculous now that I sit down and try to write it out, but if society as a whole 'gives up' on marriage, which, to me, is still about the hope, the search, for that perfect embodiment of everlasting love (even if it sometimes fails, or people sometimes make mistakes), then, where does that leave the rom-com film industry, the chick-lit industry (all of which only have endings because societal conventions dictate that once you've found the love of your life, the story ends: they may not state outright, 'and they lived happily ever after', but we've all heard enough fairy tales by that point in our lives to know that that is what is meant when the credits roll, the book ends)? But, most importantly, where does that leave the idea of the soul mate? That is to say, if we all acknowledge, that, actually, ever-lasting love is probably *not* something that is likely, possible or desirable for the majority of people, what is the point of all this dating, all these relationships, these hook-ups, this anxiety to get together, stay together, make it work?
The rational side of me, the part that is highly influenced by my father, makes jokes about a marriage partner simply being, 'the most suitable person at the most suitable time'. The rational, cynical side of me likes to come out at a swish, university parties, whilst wearing black and waving a glass of red around. This cynical, rational side is fully down with the idea of ever-lasting, passionate, soul-crushing love being something that we trick ourselves into believing exists so that we can get through those marriage vows, start a family and, get ourselves a companion to (hopefully) last us til our hair turns grey. But, there is also the romantic side of me that still believes, or still desperately wants to believe, that, out there, somewhere, is a person like Aristophanes described, a person who is the other half of my whole, cut apart from me by the Gods, and when that person is found, finally, everything will fall into place. The interesting thing here is that, even the cynical side doesn't actively attack the idea of marriage itself. Sure, it doubts the existence of romantic, ever-lasting love, but it still feels like, well, marriage is something that, usually, most respectable people do, even if there reasons for doing it aren't as clear as they think they are.
In short, there is a very strong idea within me that feels like that everyone's ultimate goal in life is to find their other half, of whatever sex, to then potentially have children. The creation of your own little couple or family unit is the ultimate achievement, whether or not you believe this is based on the finding of your soul mate, a need for ongoing companionship, the need for a stable family unit to raise children etc. Whatever the reason, and whether or not it is eventually made official through marriage, the creation of this little unit of people, which is never meant to be torn asunder is presented to us as the only thing that will ever bring you real happiness in life. The idea is constantly repeated to us, through films, through books, through TV, through interviews with famous people (Tom Cruise on Oprah's couch, anyone?), and through the hounding, questioning, mocking, ignorance and distrust of those people who choose to live their lives differently. And, I for one, have been well and truly brainwashed.
Katie Bolick's article points out that, with people getting married later and later, not getting married at all, or having multiple long-term, short-term and other forms of relationships, the idea of the couple, of the two separate halves of a whole is becoming obsolete. Its not just marriage that is becoming outdated, but its the idea of the couple itself as our dominant, expected and most constant state of being that is becoming problematic. You're probably going to end up spending a lot of your life, if not most of it, as a single: as an uno, rather than as a duo. And through all this chopping and changing, the constant switch from single to couple, to single again, it follows that the most important relationship you're going to have throughout your life will be with yourself.
That's maybe not much of a revelation, nor is it actually a physical change in the way we live our lives. Of course, you always had to live within your own body. But, it is a huge change in perception. Instead of viewing yourself as a half who is searching for the other half to make them complete, you view yourself as complete, happy, finished, whatever, just as you are. I'm aware that these is a whole movement out there that would say, you can't find a partner without feeling complete in yourself anyway, but I find it distinctly ironic that this sort of advice is still given in the context of trying to find that long-term partner.  There's that horrible old cliche that people often parrot at you as a single, 'How do you expect people to love you if you don't love yourself,' once again, making the goals of loving oneself and feeling complete in oneself only desirable in relation to how they will help you to eventually find a partner.
But, as partners come and go more easily these days, as the relationships we find ourselves in are less definable and stable (one-night stand? affair? friend with benefits? summer fling? boyfriend? partner?), liable to change at any point, and based on the different needs, wants and expectations of the people within the relationships, then, it seems that the relationship with yourself as an individual becomes not a temporary state of being, not as a stepping stone towards the coveted state of 'couple', as it once was seen, but as our primary way of existing in the world. Partners become optional extras, like chiropractors or acupuncture on your health cover: nice to have, if you're into that sort of thing, but, by no means necessary to your overall health, wealth and happiness.
So, what's my problem then? What's my problem with letting go of this idea of the soul mate? Of ever-lasting, perfect love? What's my problem with all these new relationship-types? What's my problem with looking at myself and what I do, individually, with my life, as the only place to find contentment, peace, happiness and security in the world? In some ways its very liberating, it allows people to create relationships with other people that are unique and special to the individuals within them, it also potentially saves people from making vows of 'til death do us part' and then cheating, or divorcing and all the pain and existential angst that comes from these abrupt changes in ideals and promises. Over the course of your life, you may have a series of fulfilling long-term relationships, meaning that you get to know intimately, a whole group of people, instead of just the one. I'm not saying its necessarily better, but why do I consider it to be inherently worse?
Well, I think there's an element of the negative brainwashing. I worry that I'll be, above all, lonely. Potentially crazy and eccentric (and not in a good way, but in a crazy cat lady, empty jam jar and coupon collecting way). But, I think the negative stereotypes wouldn't be nearly so persuasive if there were positive examples or role models out there to 'follow', so to speak. To look up to, and to show us the way. Of course, there have always been single people in the world. But most of them (not all), are portrayed, or portray themselves, as being single, not through choice, but through a series of unfortunate events and poor life decisions. That ending your life single is a mistake, something to be avoided at all costs, the greatest regret of their lives. These are people that live on the outside, who were never good at relationships, who were alcoholics, players, slightly too weird, unattractive, and so have ended up alone and sad. Their singledom is something to be pitied. What if it were something to be rejoiced in? Is it possible to find happiness and contentment as a single person? And if so, what would that look like? What sort of relationships (romantic or sexual, but also platonic or familial) would that pave the way for? Because, I'm not saying that we need to give up on intimate or sexual relationships - I still think they are important, necessary, but what form would they take, how would they be shaped, constructed or justified without this idea of the search for 'The One'? Certainly, as a single, as a free agent, you have the opportunity to be more open, more giving with your time, your love, your energy, because its not directed inwards at your personal relationship and family unit. It gives you the opportunity to be more dedicated to your friends, your community, your world.
Once again, I'm not trying to tear apart marriage, or the long-lasting, romantically involved couple. I'm just curious about this idea that has taken over Western society that this is the ultimate in emotional and spiritual fulfillment: the obtaining of a single, everlasting 'soul mate'. I'm curious that it never occurred to me before that this desire was most likely culturally, rather than biologically determined, and I'm curious about what emotional fulfillment you aim for in life if you give up on the idea of that never-changing soul mate, of 'The One'. Happiness and contentment, is surely what you aim for. But what does that happiness and contentment look like? For so long, for me, the short-hand has been the image of a loving couple, married or otherwise. Other goals may have come and gone, but that was a constant desire, expectation and comfort. What happens when I actively give up on that image? What is it replaced with?
At this point, I honestly don't know.
A room of one's own?

Image from http://www.panoramio.com/photo/11985124