Cambridge Lite

I'm going to be honest with you. I'd rather be continuing with my Hercule Poirot movie marathon than writing this blog post, but maybe that will make it mercifully brief for the both of us.
I though I'd just note down a quick little description of what I did last week before I forget it all, because it really was quite de-lightful. Perhaps not quite 'Brideshead Revisited', but we tried out best (and, yes, ok, I know Brideshead Revisited was set in Oxford not Cambridge, but, really, people, who are you kidding? They're essentially the same place. *Jenny proceeds to be torn violently to shreds by various Oxbridge acquaintances and luminaries*)
I arrived in Cambridge late on Monday night and friend Michelle picked me up from the train station. She has just been to a 'hop' (a 1950s swing dancing session! For reals!), so was appropriately attired and on her beautiful bike with a beautiful basket. Essentially, she looked like she had time-warped to pick me up. What a lovely start to my stay.
Tuesday I met up with my wonderful cousin, Kathryn again and we wondered all over town, admiring the river, the bridges, the punts, the men on the punts (we actually admired too loudly about one and had to run away. We decided it didn't matter because he was clearly inviting such comments by what he was wearing, at which point we realised that if anyone had dared to say such a thing about a woman, we would have bitten their heads off. We left such disagreeable and confusing thoughts and continued on our way...) and I even managed to have a short Spanish conversation with some very enthusiastic Latin children in the punts below which delighted them no end (it consisted of them yelling, 'Say, 'Hola!' at me, which I did and then I followed with 'No hablo espanol.' To which they replied, 'Un poquito,' and I said, 'Si, si, un poquito'. Earth shattering). At the market, I bought 50p worth of fresh dates (sold in a paper bag), which I had never encountered before and delighted me no end. Kathryn was not as enthusiastic, her face went through several permutations before she declared, 'it takes a long time for me to get used to new things.'
That night, after a heated discussion on Australian politics with Michelle and Kathryn, Michelle and I headed out to her favourite pub, where we made friends with a wildlife photographer who worked for the local Zoology museum and then got invited on an excursion to the Cambridge Botanical Gardens the next day by a man with a ponytail, bow-tie and checked scarf (I'm not even kidding, these people exist!) It was all rather cool.
We headed to the Cambridge Botanical Gardens the next day and were shown all the highlights (meaning the plants that were in season and in bloom), plus many scientific names and facts that I have since forgotten. Michelle took me to the hothouse with the Australian plants, which was like walking into a great big wall of home-smells and made me feel a little bit homesick and very small.
That afternoon, I sat in on a workshop of a paper of one of Michelle and Kathryn's friends, which was very interesting. Essentially, its like a work in progress, just as we'd do with a script in the theatre. The paper is presented, hopefully people have read it all ready, the author poses some questions or talks about the things that worry them and then everyone puts in their two cents. I read the paper beforehand (though didn't venture any comments in the workshop, being a lowly Australian actor with no claim to being a Cambridge scholar) and felt suitably intelligent and studious. This, combined by my attendance at a seminar the next day makes me feel that I am eligible to use the phrase, 'I studied at Cambridge'. As long as people don't probe too deeply, I should be fine.
That evening, Michelle, Kathryn and I went to a formal dinner, which involved getting very dressed up in my new favourite dress (its black, purple and green silk, probably a 1980s riff on a 1950s design, tight bodice, flouncy skirt with tulle underneath to make it stick out. IT IS THE BEST THING EVER) and then drinking lots. I also got to eat treacle tart, which is Harry Potter's favourite dessert, in a hall that could look like it was in a Harry Potter film (see previous comment about Cambridge and Oxford essentially being the same place). So, that was pretty good and all.
The next day we did something that I can't tell you anything about. It was that top secret. No, seriously, I promised I wouldn't tell. And, now that MI5 is probably monitoring this blog because I mentioned Thames House and smiled weirdly at the CCTV cameras (seriously, and the CIA owns Gmail - just WATCH YOURSELVES), I don't want to take any risks. Rest assured it did not involve breaking the law. But, maybe the Russians would want to know. Or the Israelis. Or somebody else... 
On that note, I might end. Before I type something I regret.
Back to that wonderful little Belgian: 

'Ze little grey cells....' Found at: http://thegrimview.wordpress.com/2011/12/24/hercule-poirot/

NB Any passing security agencies, please take the above comments in the spirit in which they were intended. That is, irreverently. I know you guys are really great about that sort of thing. You know, with your sense of humour and stuff.

The Other Side of Panic

This afternoon, I panicked so much about my visa that I actually went through the panic barrier to the other side of panic, which is kind of like an insanely happy place where the grass is purple and the sky is green and I am totally insane.
As a teenager, did anyone else ever have those mammoth phone conversations which would go, like, SO late into the night (like, 11pm or MIDNIGHT) and you would get tired, but you still hadn't solved the problems of the universe (or finished talking about the guys you liked), so you would keep talking, and then, eventually, you would get so tired you actually didn't feel tired anymore, you actually felt perfectly normal except for the fact that absolutely everything was suddenly really, really, REALLY funny for no reason whatsoever? You'd look down and realise that you were no longer sitting in your chair, but lying on the ground with your legs up in the air and giggling at your bare toes. It was a strange, exhilarating feeling.
Well, that's what it got like today. I was finally called up and told there was no way I was getting an extension on my Irish visa (which I expected and was already starting to plan for), when suddenly someone threw in the possibility of getting a performer's visa for the Midsummer Festival, which, at first seemed the perfect solution, until I looked into it further and realised I was supposed to apply from my home country (yet AGAIN) and it took 6 - 8 weeks to process, oh, and, of course, they needed my passport to organise it. All of which was slightly impossible at this late stage of the game. Even though I had, before this, resigned myself to the idea that I would have to leave Ireland on Friday, I suddenly became majorly frantic attempting to fit myself into this performer's visa. I had to physically prevent myself from pulling out my hair. Eventually, we sent off a quick inquiry to see if the visa could be arranged urgently.
In the meantime, I decided that I should get a move on with packing and cleaning, in case Friday actually was the last day I would be in Ireland and that I would either need to take everything with me, or, at least, have it all packed up so that my housemate could send it on to me once I figured out exactly where I was going next.
And it was at that point that I went to the Other Side of Panic. There was something about throwing out all the junk that I have accumulated that suddenly put my in an amazing mood (is this what people feel like when they clean things? Is that what people do it for?) Maybe it was the feeling of moving on. Maybe it was the feeling of something finally being decided (even if it wasn't the outcome that I was hoping for). Maybe it was the feeling of adventure again - who knows what's around the corner (or, indeed, Pocahontas, what's around the river bend?)
Who knows. I started to feel better.
I had a fabulous indie music mix on thanks to 8 tracks (check them out - www.8tracks.com and for my exact, Other Side of Panic mix, check out - www.http://8tracks.com/bellh/adventure-time ) and was dancing around my room trying to decide whether or not I really needed to keep my Ireland Lonely Planet or if I could safely give it to the charity store around the corner (its going to the charity store). Then, attempting to sort through my clothes - to decide which ones were now too big (there were a couple - HOORAY), which ones fit me now, which ones may fit me in a few weeks and which ones I have always hated and will continue to hate for the rest of my/their existence and I can't understand why I bought them in the first place - I ended up trying on all of the clothes and having some sort of demented dancing, fashion parade from my room to where the mirror is located in the bathroom. Down the corridor, down the stairs, ooh, up the stairs, the bathroom mirror is upstairs, that's right, keep on dancing, don't slip or trip up and land yourself in hospital (though there's a potential way of staying in the country.... JOKES, JOKES... I'm not considering it, Irish visa official, I swear). All things considered, I was in a mad mood. I was having a great time.
There may have also been half-dressed dancing in socks.
You needn't picture that. 
The lesson here is that no situation is so stressful and awful that it cannot be distracted from by a little musical interlude a la Risky Business:

  

I even managed to get up and stay away from my computer for whole minutes at a time. I didn't manage this at all on Friday until it was close of business and I was absolutely certain that no email from the British Embassy could possibly be coming for me. I spent the entire hours of 9 - 5 in my pj's, in bed, watching 'Spooks' on Netflix and bawling my eyes out when Adam Carter died. (Was it because he died, or was it because of the visa situation? Who knows). Oddly enough, today the good mood was reversed. I stayed maniacally happy until 4:50pm, when I then closed the computer, went downstairs and made myself dinner, refusing to let myself look at the computer screen again until 6pm and hoping against hope that some kind British embassy official had sent me an email in the last 10 minutes of their day. 

Of course they hadn't. 

And then my mood crashed and all the panic came back.

I now have tomorrow, possibly Wednesday and maybe the morning of Thursday (depending on how brave I'm feeling) to wait for the visa outcome before I have to 'pull the plug', so to speak and get my passport back so I can leave the country on Friday and not get the red mark stamped inside it which says I overstayed my visa and I am therefore a terrible human being who should not be trusted with another visa and may not even be able to travel to places that I don't need a visa for in case I should get the 'overstaying' urge and just go on the run in Canada or something. 

To make things worse, a friend in the UK has sent me the details for the mot amazing job, I may go so far as to say my DREAM UK job and I don't think its a good idea to apply for it without my visa being approved (she has suggested getting the job and then getting a sponsored work visa, but I'm not sure if this would work... I have no proof of that of course, but the way my luck is going... I suspect it would be a case of... MORE BLOODY VISAS).

Its just salt in the bloody wound of the visa application process, basically. One half of me (the stupid, optimistic half) says, 'Oh, the world wouldn't let that job be advertised without you getting the opportunity to apply for it. You'll definitely get the visa.' Tra-la-la-la-la, have a lollipop and the world is just unicorns and roses. The other half (the half that curls up scowling in the corner of my brain, hiding from the light, smelling bad and spitting at things) says, 'Well, of course that would happen. That's what life's like. You'll definitely NOT get the visa now, just to prove how stupid you were for not getting all the visas organised earlier.'

Anyway, I'm trying not to think about it much. Which is clearly not working, as this is only the third post I've written on the subject in a week and a half.

A Weekend with the Unthanks

I'm not really sure where to start with last weekend. I think a lot of my posts begin with me talking about my unrealistically high expectations of some sort of activity, and then dealing with the various (and hilarious) ways that said activity failed to live up to said unrealistic high expectations, but were wonderful nonetheless, and I learnt all sorts of life lessons in the process. That's right, isn't it? Each blog post is essentially a slapstick, Disney-produced, after-school special, with me playing the high-octane, anxiety-fuelled Hilary Duff/Miley Cyrus character? From what I remember of my previous posts, this seems about right.
Well, I don't know how to break it to you, but last weekend's activity actually managed, in all honesty and reality, to live up to said unrealistically high expectations. To the extent that I'm not sure I want to write it all down and tell people about it, in case in the act of writing it down, it may all disappear, or I'll realise that I was actually dreaming the whole thing.
Where to start? The story starts back in April 2011 (you can actually go back and read my original blog post, if you're so inclined, how crazy is that?) when I decided, after a brief search through YouTube videos that I definitely wanted to see 'The Unthanks' at the Cork Music School. That concert remains one of the best live performances I've ever seen, and well and truly moved me from my childhood love of happy-clappy fiddle-dee-dee folk music into the darker, more mournful, verging on the depressive, folk music. At the concert, the band mentioned that they had been organising 'singing weekends', where people could come and spend a weekend with them, do group singing, learn harmonies, eat good food, sing in a pub, and just generally be relaxed and sing. All I had to do was sign up to their newsletter, and they would give us folk on the mailing list priority when it came to bookings. I would have happily knocked people down, walked over their heads, and various other terrible and completely unnecessary things in my haste to get to that mailing list sheet. Bookings opened last June, I picked a seemingly impossibly far away weekend in January 2012 and charged my credit card.
In all the stress of the end of last year, I completely forgot about my singing weekend until a week or so ago. But it turned out to be one of the best things I've done since I left the au pairing. I'm sure if I could have had singing workshops for the past 4 weekends, I would now feel completely rejuvenated. As it is, I'm still feeling pretty blissful.

Anyway, what is there to tell you? The weekend did start badly, with my flight from Cork to Edinburgh delayed by 5 hours, meaning I lost out on an evening in Edinburgh which I had been looking forward to, and also meant I lost a few hours the next morning, as I had to sleep in and catch up from the night before. Nevertheless, I still got to climb Arthur's Seat again (I refer you to the original blog post on Scotland in June 2011 as to the significance of this place), which was freezing, but still made me feel incredible. Especially since I could see snow on the mountains in the distance, so the icy blasts only made it seem like the wind had swept directly over those mountains and then flown tiny pieces of ice across Edinburgh, up the side of Arthur's Seat and right against my face.
I spent 45 minutes or so in a very cute little tea-room, which was, nevertheless, very insistent that I leave as soon as I had finished my tea, something I have never experienced in Ireland or Australia before. It soon became clear from the amount of signs around the place ('Toilets are for Customer Use Only. Non-Customers will be charged 50p'. 'We take no responsibility for coats and bags left on the coat stand.' 'A service fee of 2 pounds will be added to the cost of the Full Breakfast if its to be shared between two.' etc.), that whilst it was a very pretty place, it was by no means a friendly place. Let this be a lesson to you all.
At 2:30, I met up with some of the other workshop participants at Waverley Station, one of whom had offered us a lift to the Northumberland farm the singing workshops were taking place on, through a specially constructed chat board for the weekend. We had a quick drive down the coast, where I saw my very first nuclear power plant, which was very strange, not least because it looked nothing like the cartoon Simpsons version of a nuclear power plant and that is, of course, my only visual reference point for nuclear power plants. Do we have nuclear power plants in Australia? I don't think we do, but I could be completely wrong. Someone enlighten me? Anyway, it was the closest I've ever been to nuclear power, and it was creepy. The building was huge, had no windows and looked impossibly futuristic in a very rural landscape. It was both impressive and terrifying. I kept waiting for it to explode or for me to get superhuman powers or something.
The drive only took a couple of hours, and we were welcomed onto the farm by members of the band, including Adrian McNally, who plays piano (and is married to Rachel Unthank) and Niophe Keegan, who plays violin and sings backing vocals. I had been talking very seriously and calmly to myself all the way down, due to the fact that, anyone who is a regular reader of these blog posts will know, I have a tendency to make a fool of myself in front of people I admire. Strangely, I think its worse for me with musicians than actors, I don't know why. Maybe because on top of the admiration, there is an aura of magic around them, because I feel like they do things I really couldn't do. Like, effortlessly harmonise, remember what flats are played in what key signatures without looking at the music, and sight-sing. So, I had been giving myself a stern talking to, that, when I met these people who form one of my favourite musical groups, I was not to trip over my own feet, I was not to make incomprehensible gushing sounds at them, I was not to laugh unnecessarily loudly at things they said, but I was to act like the rational and sensible adult human being I know I am, deep down, and treat them like the decent, and perfectly normal human beings that they inevitably were and not as if they were some kind of musical wizards or magical, ethereal beings, the likes of which had never before been seen on this earth, and to whom I was not worthy to talk.
But, there I was, being checked into my room by Niophe, and greeted by Adrian in an apron. I played cool (I think, I hope), though my heart was practically doing backflips. Of course, they acted completely normal, were incredibly lovely and friendly, and after a while, it became clear, that they ARE actually just normal people (surprise, surprise), who are just doing a job that they love, and that they happen to be very good at. If nothing else, the weekend was certainly a comment on celebrity, fame and fortune, and the ridiculousness of that form of mega-celebrity of the likes of, say, Oasis, or Lady Gaga or anyone that you care to name. There is no need to go crazy for these people. Nor should they prance around acting as if they are God's latest miracle. They're just people. But, of course, because they create something that gets inside us, and stirs up our emotions, it feels a much bigger deal than it is.
Anyway, after a cup of tea and some cake, we went to our first workshop with Becky and Rachel Unthank, where we learnt a few simple rounds, songs and choruses. They were delighted to hear I was from Newcastle, being Geordie girls, and that I was from Australia, as their cousin from Australia was also coming to the weekend. After a few minutes, it was completely normal singing with them. They were that laid back, friendly and open. We had a lovely dinner, then learnt some more choruses for the pub the next day, and I headed off to bed early, surprisingly tired.
On Saturday, I went for a big round walk of Seahouses, which was the town we were staying in, after breakfast. It was a very pretty little village, with a lovely view over the sand dunes back to Bamburgh Castle, next to the other, very pretty town of Bamburgh. The wind was howling, though the sun was also shining, and the pretty town had a variety of amusingly British sights, the pick of which, for my money, had to be the tiny little laminated sign that stated, 'There's No Such Thing as the Poo Fairy', and was stuck in the ground next to a big pile of dog poo. I liked this sign because one of two things had to have happened for it to be in existence. One, someone on the local council, or in a neighbourhood group somewhere, decided that it would be someone's job to roam the streets of Seahouses looking for stray dog poo, which would then be shamed by having said sign stuck next to it. Not only would that be someone's job, but someone, somewhere had to finance the making and laminating of little signs with which to shame. Alternatively, someone saw the pile of dog poo, and then went home and SPECIALLY MANUFACTURED said sign and then took it back to the pile of dog poo. Both of which seem like a hilarious amount of work, time and money to expend on a pile of dog poo. Did it not occur to anyone that perhaps someone's dog happened to wander away on its own, or, maybe a stray dog did it? Did it not occur to anyone that it might actually be impossible to eradicate dog poo from the world entirely and that the money for the tiny dog poo signs could most likely be spent better on other things, especially in recession-era Britain, where a million young people are unemployed, the cost of living in sky-rocketing and superannuation is being slashed? Anyway, that's my two cents.
Back to the singing. We split in to two groups after breakfast and my group learnt a few songs and harmonies first with Rachel, and then later, more with Becky. We learnt a beautiful appalachian song the girls heard from a performer named Heddy West, called 'Awake, Awake', which was a real joy to sing with all the fabulous harmonies. The girls had said at the beginning of the weekend that they liked group singing, because you could 'get lost' in it, and that was certainly how I felt during this song. As a child and teenager, I didn't like being in choirs very much, though I was in as many as I could be. It always felt like a chore, something I 'had to do', to get more practice at singing, at harmonies and learning more music theory. But, I still hated them for precisely for this reason - that a single person is lost in a choir. I didn't want to be lost, I wanted to be heard! I wanted to be front and centre with the microphone in my hand! I wanted that, because, lets face it, I was more interested in the praise and adoration I might get from the singing, than from the act of singing itself. Of course, I must have had some affection for the actual activity of singing, otherwise I would have chosen something else - soccer, maybe, or... hula-hooping. Maybe it was the set up of the weekend, or because I've kind of given up on the idea that singing might be something that I can make a career out of, but, the feeling of being part of a group, and of that group creating simple, beautiful harmonies together, and hearing those resonances build and fill the room, was really beautiful, really relaxing, and, oddly enough, very comforting and therapeutic. It was akin to the things I've been doing in my art course.
After lunch, we went for a walk on the sand dunes, and attempted to sing a few songs down there, which delighted me, because I'm always singing in public, down the street, in parks, at the shopping centre, and getting strange looks. When there's 40 of you, on a beach, singing in harmonies, and someone walks past you, the strange looks are deflected away by the joy of being in a group doing exactly the same strange thing you are doing. We were defeated, unfortunately, by the gale force wind and sand storms, and despite attempting to complete the stroll by walking backwards up the beach so as to not get sand in our mouths and eyes, we decided to pack it in and head to the pub.
The pub was a beautiful, old traditional pub, with oodles of sea bits and bobs hanging from the ceiling, and hot ginger wine for sale. I've only had ginger wine once before, at a folk festival, and whilst the night in question was not one of the best of my entire life, due to the rather large consumption of ginger wine and whiskey (the best types of folky alcohol), I still really love the stuff. I'd never had it hot before, and let me tell you, ginger, with heat, is pretty impressive. It catches the back of your throat like nothing else. I was coughing and spluttering and toasty warm in no time. We all crushed ourselves inside the tiny front room and sang the choruses we had been taught the day before, various members of the Unthanks family and band leading them, the few bemused locals joining in on those they knew. At some point, workshop participants were invited to sing, and, you guessed it... I volunteered myself. I decided to give my very best 'Tippin' it Up to Nancy', figuring people might be able to stumble along in the chorus, and, at the very least, it was fast and fun and I knew it well. Of course, though, there is something a little terrifying, about singing a favourite song of yours in front of the members of one of your favourite bands. Its thrillingly terrifying in a way that I don't think I experience in front of other actors anymore. Well, maybe that's not true. But, for whatever reason, this felt much more momentous and special. Maybe it was just the atmosphere of the weekend. Whatever. I did it. It was terrifying. I started far too high (nerves), but I got through it reasonably well. People clapped and laughed, and I was personally complemented by members of The Unthanks. Does it seem silly to hold onto those and not want to write down what specifically was said? Probably. But, I'm still not going to do it. It was too wonderfully delightful and slightly embarrassing that I don't want to crow about it.
After the pub, we headed back to the farm, and had dinner. After dinner there was very intimate concert, which was stunningly beautiful, and we heard a few of the songs from the last CD (which I have to go buy now, thanks for reminding me). After dinner there were games, including the face-to-face competition, a singing variation of the YPT drama game favourite, 'Honey, I Love You' (for non-YPT readers, the aim of the game is to get someone to laugh by saying 'Honey, I love you, will you smile for me,' said person has to reply, 'Honey, I love you too, but I just can't smile today'), which I did very well at, probably due to all that 'training' from drama classes all those years ago. I forgot the words halfway through one of my songs, though, and that was the end of me. Ah well.
The evening was spent singing more songs, drinking more wine, until 3:30am. Well, that was the evening for a small group of us, say, 8 people. The rest of the group was in bed, trying to sleep, hating on us 8 for sitting in the common room and singing until 3:30am. It didn't seem such a big deal until we got in trouble from two of the other workshop participants, who came out in their PJ's to rouse on us, so we all slunk into bed. We hung around the breakfast tables rather sheepishly the next morning, I can tell you.
Sunday was a particularly short day, just brunch and then one workshop before sending us on our way. I don't think I've mentioned anywhere else, but apart from the band, Rachel and Becky's parents were helping out on the weekend, their father and mother's partner were leading a lot of the songs as well. So, when they said it was a 'Weekend with the Unthanks', it genuinely was a weekend with the Unthanks - the entire family. We even met Rachel and Adrian's new baby, who was very cute, very well-behaved, loved the music and stared around at all the new people cooing at him very interestedly. Its just another example of the wonderfully warm, open, community feeling that the weekend had. I think it also a reflection of the type of music that The Unthanks play - there is something about folkies that is very down-to-earth, welcoming, and inclusive. Its very family and tradition orientated. My brother would have you believe that we are all crazy hippies, but whilst there is a bit of cross-over, there is definitely a difference between hippies and folkies. And, I think, though I have nothing against hippies, really, that I do prefer the folkies. They're a little more grounded then hippies can be.
Anyway, we headed back to Edinburgh Sunday afternoon, and I can't remember feeling so relaxed and happy in a long while. I was completely re-inspired to get singing again, get out my violin, learn some new songs and find somewhere to perform them. That's what I've been doing this afternoon - teaching myself songs that people told me I should sing over the weekend, or learning ones that other people sang on the weekend and I want to know. I'm working on finding places to sing as well. There's a freedom and joy in wanting to do it just for the sheer pleasure of it too, and not thinking, 'this is my career, I have to make money out of it, I have to do it right.' Lets pray that feeling lasts, and, if I can at all help it, maybe take a bit of that gay abandon and put it into my attitude towards theatre and acting too.

An Oxford Christmas and a Brighton NYE

Yeah, so I didn't write more. I got incredibly lazy, and I also didn't have access to a computer, and don't tut-tut at me, I've already beaten myself up about it heaps. See, at some point in the year, I noticed the 'statistics' part of my blog, and if owning and writing a blog about my travel 'experiences', wasn't self-absorbed enough, I now also check the statistics of my blog, so I can know EXACTLY how many people are actually reading it and whereabouts people are reading it and what sorts of browsers they have (That's right, I'm watching you, too. Though I can't tell you your name, I can confidently tell you you most likely came through Facebook, are from either Australia or the USA and use Internet Explorer, or maybe Firefox. Not really the most useful information, actually. I could have probably guessed that all without checking the statistics page, to be honest. Though, I seem to have a growing interest from Brazil. Go figure). ANYWAY, point is, I found the statistics page, and like any good economist worth his salt, I'm now obsessed with CONSTANT EXPONENTIAL GROWTH in the form of hits on the blog. I don't know why. Its not like I'm selling advertising or anything on the side. Its just a little competition I started with myself and now I can't keep out of my head.
So, yes, as far as the economist in my head goes, 8 posts in one month (December) is just lazy and not at all conducive to an ever increasing number of hits, and to make up for it, this month, I should just post pictures of Megan Fox nude, to make up the shortfall.
But, I won't. Instead, I will tell you about the rest of my Xmas and NYE. There's not much to tell, really. The problem with relaxing, is that I have no paranoid and/or anxiety induced fantasies to report to you. I have a feeling they were the most amusing things I used to write about.
But, I'll try. Chris and I had a lovely Australian ex-pat Christmas in Oxford. We were at Magdalene College (but, don't go pronouncing it 'Magdalene', now, that would just be sensible. The correct, Oxford pronunciation is 'maudlin'. Yes, as in: 'Self-pityingly or tearfully sentimental, often through drunkenness'), which apparently has a lot of Australian law students at it. I found this out, as well as a whole heap of other, useless Oxford 'facts' on the day. I was the only non-Oxford person there, and, also, the only SINGLE person there, and if that isn't the most Bridget Jones-esque set up for a Christmas day, I don't know what is. At least there was no Turkey curry or chardonnay. I did have a lovely day, though, drank a fair amount, smashed the popular culture celebrity game we played (tick for another Bridget Jones talent), but insisted, loudly and embarrassingly, that I knew various rules of naming Lords and Ladies, which I obviously didn't and was put in my place my smarter, snootier, younger, more couple-y Oxford law types (tick to another Bridget Jones moment).
I hope I'm not making it sound like I didn't have fun. Because I did, it was lovely, and I very much enjoyed being around the bright young antipodean things of Oxford. I just felt a little out of place sometimes, was all. It didn't help that it was like a sauna in the college room (FYI to all of England - I suspect that your greenhouse gas emissions would be lessened if you didn't insist that every building should, during winter, resemble a sauna or the Sahara desert. Seriously, its not that hot in summer, you must be used to a bit of cold weather, so why do you want it to be SO warm in winter? Put on a jumper), so I kept walking out onto the balcony to freeze my brain for various length of times. There's just something so very symbolic about being the only person on a dark, cold balcony, with a warm, bright room full of attractive, chatty people behind you, which explains why the image has been overused to the point of stereotype in various movies over the years.
We ended the day, though, with a screening of 'Mean Girls', which I was totally on board with, and made me feel very much in my element.
Boxing Day, I did very little. I lay on the couch and read a magazine, which I think unnerved my brother a little (he kept checking to see if I wanted to 'do something'), but I felt most of Oxford would be closed, and Boxing Day is for relaxing, not for sightseeing. I did get up around 3pm, feeling more than a little headache-y and unwell (again, overheating of the college is mostly to blame) and felt I should go outside and walk around a bit. I went to the great, big, flat area we had seen the ponies galloping over and walked around listening to Van Morrison, which put me in a good mood. Van Morrison puts anyone in a good mood. Chris and I headed out that evening to meet one of his composer friends, who is from Belfast, as well as said-composer's wife and mother, and that was quite nice. We finally found common ground discussing the horrors of the Australian outback, which seems a pretty good default topic for most new people that you meet in the UK.
On the 27th, Chris and I rushed into London for a day of theatre, which was excellent. We went first to the Little Angel theatre in, believe or not, Angel, to see 'A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings', a puppet show based on Gabriel Garcia Marquez's short story. I've got a bit of a soft spot for the story, as we performed it at ACA, so I was a little disappointed with the production. It had been turned into a children's play, adding a really annoying old lady character who essentially explained all the interesting, poetic metaphors and symbolism in the story for the benefit of the children, which kind of took away all of their interesting poetic-ness. The puppets were cool though, and Chris said he enjoyed it. We then headed to see 'Jerusalem' by Jez Butteworth, which was ASTOUNDINGLY good, mainly for the performance of the main actor, Mark Rylance, but the writing was also hysterical, very dark and just... so FULL. So full of SO MUCH. And what I mean by that is that its clear every single line is in the play for a purpose. Everything has meaning and significance. It reminds me of Stoppard at his best (say, 'Arcadia'), where you can read/see the production time and again and never get bored, because every single time you find something new. Its long - 3 hours or so - but, I don't think you could cut anything. I'm planning to see it again sometime this year. It was absolutely brilliant, one of the best things I've ever seen on stage. In fact, I would go so far to say, that if you are in London, an actor, or at all interested in theatre, I would make going to see 'Jerusalem' your number one priority.
Anyway, I headed back to Oxford late, while Chris stayed in London to visit some friends. I didn't do much on the 28th, except traipse all over Oxford, searching every op shop for a NYE costume. More on that later. I did manage to get to the Ashmolean, a beautifully named museum in Oxford full of many old things that the British really shouldn't have, but aren't giving back, thank you very much. I have to say, I'm not such a fan of really old things from Ancient Greece or Rome. No matter how many times I go to museums and stand in front of Ancient Greek statues and say to myself, 'this was made THOUSANDS of years ago, you know, like, THOUSANDS', I can't seem to muster up any enthusiasm. Maybe its because they're too old for me to comprehend, or they're just not to my aesthetic, or because I know very little ancient history, but I just don't find them that interesting. I prefer the sections on Ancient China or Ancient Persia, because the artefacts from there are at least beautiful and colorful.
The next day, I went on a walking tour, which showed me pretty much the same places Chris had showed me on Christmas Eve, but was a little more detailed in terms of facts and information. Plus, it was taken by a very posh old lady called Muriel, so that was an added benefit. She even complained to me about the immigration policy of the previous Labor government, 'letting everyone in' and the fact that the high streets of British towns these days could 'be anywhere'. It felt highly conservative and appropriately traditional and soaked in nostalgia for 'the good ol' days', even if was more than a little offensive and racist. Think I also found a little bag of... umm.... greenery... in one of the colleges, but, being a good girl, I left it where it was. Chris and I went to another crazy museum I can't remember the name of, but it was very cool, and stuffed full of very random stuff, including bark shields from.... Guinea, maybe? They had images of the Phantom painted on them. Weird.
On the 30th, I headed to Brighton to visit an old uni friend, Viv, who has been living there since February. Brighton is a really cool town. Really cool. People like Nick Cave and Noah Taylor live there. Cate Blanchett used to live there. Its cool. You may know about the cool pier they have there, or that Lydia Bennett wanted to go there. Well, they also have an awesome castle that looks like it was transported straight out of 'Aladdin':

Image from: http://maryamibrighton.blog.com/2011/01/27/mi%C3%B0vikudagur/brighton_pavillion/

Also very cool. 
Finally, its full of cool vintage and antique shops, which Viv and I spent most of our time looking through on the 31st. Viv had invited me to a NYE party of some of her friends in Brighton, which was 'Titanic' themed, hence my extreme difficulty finding a costume in Oxford. I had eventually managed to pull something together though, and with a few extra bits and bobs from the vintage stores of Brighton, I was exceedingly pleased with my outfit. I mean, it included sparkly gold gloves and peacock feathers. Excellent. Viv and I got some ciders, not intending to have too big a night, as we wished to go ice-skating outside the pavilion the next day. I feel I'm pretty good these days at monitoring my alcohol intake, so that I'm pleasantly tipsy over a long period of time, rather than drinking far too much, far too quickly, and ending up lying on the floor, singing songs to myself and looking at the pretty patterns my fingers make in the air. Its taken a few bad nights, but I feel I have a reasonably mature attitude towards alcohol nowadays.
Problem was, that at around 10:30, we were mostly though our ciders, and weren't feeling more than a little happy, and the party wasn't exactly rockin'. So, we decided to go out and get more alcohol. Of course, the problem with going out and buying MORE alcohol when you've already had a little bit of alcohol, is that you drastically OVER-estimate your needs. So, Viv and I thought, 'Sure, let's get a bottle of rum! I mean, we're sharing it!' So, back we went to the party, and proceeded to down a fair amount of rum and coke (ok, half the bottle), on the basis that we had been yawning, and we had to stay awake until some of the members of the party returned at 3am from London.
The party seemed to get much funnier and more entertaining after that. Though, we didn't do much towards convincing the Brits we were with that all Australians aren't huge pissheads, a horrible, clearly unfounded and unfair stereotype, which we had been trying to combat earlier in the evening. The next day, needless to say, we didn't get to the ice-rink, but, it was also pouring rain, and it was an outdoors ice-rink, so, hey, we wouldn't have been able to go anyway. We had a very... ummm... lazy day on the sofa bed, watching 30 Rock and various movies. At least 2012 can only improve from there.
The next morning, I headed back to London and caught up with another old uni friend and her husband. It was lovely sunny day, so we walked around for a bit through Hyde Park, and then had a delicious (ENORMOUS) lunch in Kensington, before heading to Covent Garden, which I have somehow missed on all my trips to London so far, thinking it was just a big ol' Opera House and not a place you could go and see buskers and antiques and things.
And, then, it was finally time to go home! Kinsale was in right old form when I got back, with gale force winds and pelting rain, but it was nice to settle down in my own house and my own bed. There's nothing more comforting than being warm and dry inside, when its wild and whipping outside, knowing you don't have to go anywhere or do anything, except maybe put another log on the fire and eat another piece of chocolate.

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.

Sunny London

I'm trying out something new. I can't be bothered writing much today, but I know I should, or I'll get out of the habit. So I'm doing some photo essays.
I was in London over the Easter weekend with the folks (that's right, my parents came to visit!) and it was delightful.
I didn't go to any of the art galleries.
I went to one museum (the Victoria & Albert).
I went to the theatre, but, despite the play's very serious and threatening intentions, it wasn't particularly interesting, or original... it was just ok, and verging on the melodramatic.
What I did, to my everlasting surprise, was sit in the sun. I sat in the sun in Hampstead Heath on my first day.








It was glorious.






I sat in the sun and watched the people and read my book and lay in the grass, and I haven't felt so happy and content in a while. Now I understand why all the Irish and English people come to Australia and spend all their days getting burnt in the sun. They're catching up on years of Vitamin D deprivation.





















The next day was just as hot and glorious. I spent it in Regent's Park and the Queen Mary's gardens and totally spied on loved-up couples making out on the grass.








No, no, its not sad and creepy and pathetic... its the documentation of life and human existence...







In the gardens, you could hire a paddle boat to ride around a little lake in.

It looked like fun, and even though only couples and families and friends were doing it, I decided I wanted to do it too. No, I HAD to do it too. I approached the boat man hesitantly and asked if I was allowed to hire a boat on my own. He gave me a strange look and said of course I was allowed to hire a boat on my own. Of course you are, Jenny. Stupid question. All he wants is your 7.50 pounds, he doesn't care about social etiquette or whether or not you look like a sad, lonely Bridge Jones-type girl who will probably end up with too many cats and not Hugh Grant OR Colin Firth.



I was on the lake for an hour, and it was very peaceful. I saw birds. Single fathers shot me smiles as their (3!) children went crazy on the paddle boats. No, thank you.













That afternoon, after an impromptu splurge on a top made of a silk scarf and lace (Seriously, it was pink and white and frilly. I didn't stand a chance), I met up with the parentals at Hammersmith. We had a traditional British pub meal, cider, chatted and went to bed.


Sunday started with a long breakfast and then we headed into Leicester Square to see what theatre was available. Unfortunately, it being a Sunday, and Easter Sunday, in particular, there was nothing much on. So, we went to the Victoria & Albert Museum instead.But, after 45 minutes of looking at statues, which, to be honest, weren't filling me with much joy or excitement, we went outside to the garden. We sat in the sun for a bit, and then Dad & Elizabeth decided they wanted to go back inside. I considered it. I thought about it long and hard. I thought about all the decorative art from all over the world, from all different time periods. I thought about all the lovely, rare things to be seen inside in the museum and....
I decided I wanted to sit in the sun.
Which I did. For 2 hours. It was delightful. Children were running around in the fountain in their underpants, despite signs telling them to keep their clothes on. One of the most interesting sights I saw was a Muslim father and mother, the woman with a headscarf on, arguing with one of the museum staff who wanted their stark naked daughter, who was running through the water, to put some clothes on. They clearly thought this was a prudish and over zealous request. Interesting.

Well, that's it from me. Despite all the sun, I didn't get burnt. After a tearful farewell to the folks, I'm now home in Bandon and hoping there will be some sun in Ireland as well as England in the next few weeks. Because that would be nice.

Belfast Stand-Up Comedy

Someone once said that if you want to understand a place, you should listen to their comedy. I think it was a famous person. Or it might have been my mate Liam. Or I might have made it up. Anyway, I still think its true.
So, last night, I went to a stand-up comedy joint to get to know the 'real' Belfast. I listened to an amusing 40 something man entertain a room full of 20 something students. I then watched a 20 something woman fall tits over arse (metaphorically speaking) in front of a room full of 20 something students. Here is what I learnt:

1) Belfast is a place where no-one minds advertising a comedy night starting at 8pm and then not starting it until 9:40pm, not considering the possibility of young, female backpackers, on their own, with no-one to talk to before the show starts and who want to get back to their hostel at a 'reasonable' hour so they don't have to walk the possibly IRA infested streets of Belfast alone.

2) Catholics are still funny. Though, to be fair, when the 40 something comic started making fun of Catholics, there was a shift in the air of the room, and some of the kids started to 'boo' good-naturedly. Also, interestingly, the jokes about Catholics weren't about them being stupid, but about them being victimised or how they were young and eager new recruits into Belfast civic society. So, there you go.

3)'The Troubles' are funny too, as is Belfast's reputation for being a dangerous city.

4) Belfast seems to be suffering from a crime-wave of skinny, little white punks that think they are black and live in LA.

5) Belfast has an ice hockey team (??seriously??). Its not very good. Its full of depressed and unfulfilled Canadian players.

6) People who work out a lot are funny.

7) People who are fat are also funny.

8) Belfast is racist. Very racist. But, racists are also funny. At one point, I thought the comic was doing an appalling impersonation of a Chinese person, but it turned out to be an Irish person doing an appalling impersonation of a Chinese person in order to get out of jury duty. Much less racist. And much more funny.

9) Belfast is a city that doesn't like to hear exceedingly crude jokes told by women in the same way that men tell jokes exceedingly crude jokes. They don't like to hear women making jokes playing on a double meaning of 'crack' (Irish: A good time, or a good vibe, Everywhere: well, you know). Belfast doesn't enjoy jokes about the difference between virginity and anal virginity. Belfast doesn't enjoy jokes about women wanting abortions when the child is 4 years old because they are no longer cute.

10) However, Belfast does enjoy women making jokes about how else to get rid of said toddler ('Go to Portugal, go out for the night and don't get a baby-sitter')

So, there you have it. Enlightening, I'm sure. But, seriously, I've found Belfast fascinating. I walked along Falls Rd (traditionally, the Catholic/Nationalist road) and Shankill Rd (traditionally the Protestant/Unionist or Loyalist side). I went to the Irish Republican museum, where they sat me down to watch a DVD on the Troubles seen from the Republican side, and I was joined by 3 young Belfast men, who astounded me with the strength of their opinions and knowledge of the history of the conflict. Their understanding was far beyond anything I would have expected from similar young Australian men concerning recent Australian history. I saw the so-called 'Peace Line', which is remarkably sinister even in light of the ceasefire and the relative calmness of present-day Belfast. I saw Sinn Fein's headquarters and the Republican burial ground at Milltown Cemetry. Belfast feels like a place where the air is thick with the recent past. I walk past people in the street and want to stop them and ask, 'What did you see? Whose side are you on? How was your family affected? Do you think its really all over?' Because, that's the thing, most people over the age of about 25, would've seen or experienced something. Obviously its not anything like it was. But, it still feels like, underneath, there is a crackling of remarkably strong and opposing political beliefs. You could light a match off of it, except I worry that it would set the whole place on fire again.

The 'Romance' of Train Travel.

I've always liked trains.
I've always liked travelling by train, I should say (I was never that in to Thomas the Tank Engine). I like dreamily watching the scenery go by whilst listening to music and jotting notes down in a diary. I like taking luggage on to a train and pretending that I am a lady of leisure from the nineteenth-century and I have hat boxes and a porter. I find them romantic.
Most people who know me well, know that I'm a hopeless romantic. In fact, this post was going to be about going to the Columbia Road Flower Market in London, and how its full of lovely antiques, and a beautiful red-haired lady dressed in white selling delicate crocheted things and how I bought daffodils for Tamara and peacock feathers for Sonia and smelly french cheese from a delightful French man and how you should all visit the following website: http://jandbtheshop.com/page3.htm because I saw this shop at the market, and it was delightful, all handmade books and jewelery and Welsh love spoons (its a thing. Seriously. And if ever anyone wants to truly make me fall in love with them, they will buy me a Welsh love spoon instead of roses) and how this market was now my favourite thing about London.
However, other things happened. So, instead, this post will be about trains.
Or, the lack of trains.
You see, I thought it would be romantic to travel from London to Belfast on the train and then the ferry. There were a few connections to be made, however, they were in delightfully Scottish named places, absolutely impossible to pronounce, like Kilmarnock, so I thought this would only add to the romance and splendour of the adventure.
Unfortunately, Richard Branson (who owns the trains over here, as well as the planes, and the phones and the CD stores... in fact, I think Richard Brandson actually owns England... I'll have to check though) had other plans in store for me.
So, I spent a delightful morning on the train from London to Carlisle, which is right on the border of Scotland. The trip was beautiful - everything I have come to expect of England from BBC costume dramas. Green rolling hills, frost on the grass, sheep and cows grazing, a slight mist, with sun through white fluffy clouds. I kept trying to read, but ended up giving up and sitting with my face glued to the window for the whole 3 hours. I even got to see the famous Lake District, though only a bit of it and through a train window.
When I got to Carlisle, I got off the train to check which platform I should wait at for my connecting train to Kilmarnock. The station manager told me it had been cancelled and I should wait for a bus.
No worries. I also like buses.
I went out the front and looked at the wonderful fort or university or whatever the magnificent building outside the station was and waited for the bus. I told the driver I was heading to Kilmarnock. It never occurred to me to tell him I was actually heading to Belfast and needed to get another train from Kilmarnock to Stranraer... and no one thought to ask me where I was actually headed, even though I clearly couldn't pronounce the name of my destination and wasn't Scottish... reasons to wonder why indeed I was travelling to Kilmarnock...
Just before we left, the train master stood at the front of the bus and made a very quiet announcement (which I missed), that the girl in front of me had said was something about Dumfries. I also couldn't quite understand her because of her delightful Scottish accent, but as she had said it was about Dumfries, and I was going to Kilmarnock, I didn't bother to ask again. I put in my earphones and watched the scenery go by.
Which, again, was very beautiful. Here's a tip - if you ever want scenery to seem really significant, like, if you're doing a movie or something, just pump a whole of mist/fog over the top of it, and then play some moody music, like Laura Marling's 'Hope in the Air'. It makes you think everything you're seeing must have some underlying importance. That's certainly how I felt yesterday afternoon.
At Dumfries, most of the people on the bus left, which worried me, and I went to check with the station master, but the driver was in a rush, and I was on such a high from all the lovely scenery and accents and music that I decided it was probably ok to just stay on the bus.
I started to get anxious around 5:15pm, when we still hadn't reached Kilmarnock, and I knew my ferry was leaving Stranraer at 7:55pm. The Scottish towns we were passing seemed to be getting smaller and more remote, and I worried that the station I was heading to wouldn't have a train going by at all, and what would I do then? I decided to eat all my smelly french cheese and baguette to make me feel better. It made me feel motion sick.
At 6pm, when we still hadn't reached Kilmarnock, I thought I should check with the bus driver. Of course, he told me I should have gotten out at Dumfries. I barely kept it together as he radioed headquarters about me to find out what to do (I'd like to say he spoke to Branson directly, but I don't think he did). He told me they would figure out a way to get me to Stranraer. So, I sat down and tried to stop panicing.
When we got to Kilmarnock, he told me there was a train leaving at 7:05pm going direct to Stranraer. I was asked if I would get my ferry in time. He said he didn't know and to check with the station master. The station master was also grumpy (but I like to think it was at Branson and not at me) and told me no, I wouldn't make my ferry and no, there wasn't another until tomorrow.
And that's when the panic set in.
I asked him, through gathering tears, what I should do now? Would there be accommodation in Stranraer? ('Oh, ay' he said, which would normally have delighted me) When he saw me getting more and more upset, he said, there 'might' be a freight ferry that I could get on, that wasn't advertised, and I might be fortunate.
So, through a torrent of tears and self-pity and absolute terror that I might turn up in an unknown Scottish town at 9pm in the rain, by myself, with no idea where to go or stay, I went and called my Belfast hostel. He was also grumpy, until he realised what had happened and how upset I was. Then he went into overdrive. He could find me a B&B in Stranraer, no, of course 3am wasn't too late for me to get in, if I did manager to get the ferry, yes, of course, there would still be taxis around at that hour to get me to the hostel. Then, the station manager knocked on the telephone booth and said he had rung Stranraer for me, and there was a freight ferry leaving at 11:30pm and I could go on as a foot passenger.
SAVED.
So, it all worked out in the end. There were a few more hairy situations, involving young hooligans in the ferry terminal (they were just teenage girls hanging out and eyeing me off, but by the time I had gone through everything else, I was convinced they were going to attack me and take my luggage... I got out my butter knife and sat on it, just to be safe....), and walking through the dark and the rain past empty cars and semi-trailers with the distinct feeling that this was a scene from a movie somewhere, and not a nice one at all, but I got to Belfast safe, sound and in high spirits, thanks in no small part to the delightful Scottish and Irish men I met along the way, who carried my baggage, made calls for me, teased me and generally acted like hugely decent human beings (and not like the theives and murderers and rapists I conjured up in my sleep-deprived and anxiety-riddled brain).
Belfast has been lovely so far, sunny and warm even (I think it was trying to make up for my ordeal last night) and there is a very nice girl from Armidale in my room, who I have been able to talk to about the highs and lows of traveling by yourself. She and I both agreed that it wasn't all it was cracked up to be. It can be kind of lonely too. Even if you like your own company and are independent, like we two are.
Anyway, this has taken forever to write, and I have to have some dinner before heading out to a stand-up show, so I'm going to post it and leave it. More on Belfast soon.

The Rules of Dorms (according to my current dorm members)

1. It is perfectly reasonable to come in to a dorm at 1am and switch on the light, even if 5 people are already asleep in the dorm. This is because if you are awake at 1am and they are asleep, you are a much cooler person than they are. This rule is doubly true if you are only switching on the light to put on more make-up/change clothing/grab extra jewellry before heading out again. Then you are really, really cool and are further, allowed to make a lot of noise as said clothes, make-up etc. are retrieved from various parts of your bag.

2. If you are reading in the dorm room with the lights on, it is perfectly unreasonable for someone to ask you switch them off so they can go to sleep, even if there are innumerable common spaces within the hostel (with lights) were you could also read and nowhere else they could sleep. This is thanks to the 'I-was-here-first' clause.

3. You should generally be Australian. And you should have loud conversations about how awesome Australians are whilst standing in the dorm room, making any other nationalities in the room feel uncomfortable and left out. If other Australians are in the dorm room and not participating in said conversation, they are too be ignored and/or sneered at.

Things in London Today.

Enjoyed:
1) A woman dressed in a full-body fluffy crocodile suit (presumably it was the warmest clothing she had) riding her bike past posh Kensington houses
2) An old man feeding peanuts and talking to the squirrels
3) Geese the size of small children (who actually look like they might eat small children) in Hyde Park
4) Pink Pelicans
5) Jane Austen's writing desk at the British Library
6) Charlotte Bronte's hand-written copy of 'Jane Eyre' at the British Library
7) Listening to James Joyce reading 'Finnegan's Wake', Alan Bennet read, 'Alice in Wonderland', Juliet Stevenson read, 'Charlotte Bronte', Seamus Heaney read some of his poems and W.B.Yeats read some of his, whilst collapsed in a jet-lagged heap on the floor of the British Library
8) Reading a poster about the evacuation of children from London during WWII at the Imperial War Museum and being approached by an old man...
OM: You're lost in thought
Jen: I'm just reading this poster.
OM: Oh, yes, I was one of those children.
Jen: Really? Where were you evacuated to?
Old Man then tells very interesting and detailed story of living with a blacksmith in Oxfordshire and with a doctor.... somewhere else. Much of which I missed because I was concentrating too hard on his delightful accent. *Sigh*
9) Many varied editions of 'Alice in Wonderland' at the British Library, including a Russian version, a version illustrated by Dali and one created by Guinness, which inserted references to the black stuff into all important moments of the story.
10) Men dressed in metal vests and metal hats with feathery fountains coming out of the top, riding horses in formation at Kensington Gardens and no one thinking this was odd.
11) The following poster/mug/notebook:







(which is very me, but not very 'British')










Not Enjoyed:
1) A women being refused entry to the Imperial War Museum because her jumper said, 'Fuck Reality'.
2) Using a red-phone box that smelt so badly of stale urine, I had to hang out the door whilst making my phone call to prevent myself from throwing up
3) Middle of the night jet-lag induced paranoia about male dorm room members, who I was convinced were going to rob me, rape me, or even worse, keep me up all night with their horrendous snoring. Said paranoia escalating into helpless, middle-of-the-night sobbing and fervent wishes to go home and existential cries of, 'What have I done, what have I done?' All of which, of course, was forgotten as soon as I managed 8 hours sleep and got a nice big bowl of muesli, some toast, and oh-so-lovely English Breakfast tea into me.

So, that is London so far. I'm finding the whole experience very odd, though. The city feels ridiculously familiar and comfortable for somewhere I have never lived and only visited once before. It must be the countless BBC dramas, the piles of 19th century novels, Harry Potter etc. etc. that I have read and watched (and re-read and re-watched) over the years that just makes being here seem so normal. I've devoured the city by osmosis. It seems, also, that traveling alone somehow makes it more difficult to realise you are traveling. I don't know why that would make sense. It seems like, without talking to someone else about the experiences, they just float by - as if they have to be remarked upon to exist. It feels like I'm just watching a particularly good movie at the moment, because I haven't really interacted with many people yet. I'm meeting up with a mate, Sons, tonight, though, for dinner and drinks in Brick Lane, so hopefully things will change after that.

Father Always Said...

A couple of weeks ago, my brother and father had a conversation in which they discussed the differences between female and male styles of conversation. They decided that men used conversation to share information, and once the information is shared, then the conversation is ended. Whereas for women, conversation was a matter of reassuring ourselves that we existed, and that other people existed, and that we were all ok as long as we kept talking (or something like that).
At the time, I didn't disagree though I felt possibly I should (you, know... as a feminist... ). Were we having the same conversation today, I would simply point to the middle-aged British man from Chichester that I met on my Korean Airlines flight and say, 'well, what about him then? Is he a cleverly disguised middle-aged woman?'
I talked very politely (non-stop) to him for an hour to an hour and a half at the start of the flight. The only way to get him to leave me alone was to put my headphones on (preferably whilst he was taking a breath in between sentences) and start up a movie really quickly. Unfortunately, he also had an uncanny ability to know when my headphones were slipping off, and would take the opportunity to say something else to me. If I made the mistake of asking him to move so I could go to the toilet, then I would have to have a 5 minute conversation with him before being allowed passed. It was a toss-up as to whether or not it was better to go regularly, but talk to him more, or wait until the last possible moment to reduce the amount of conversation, and then spend one horrifying 5 minute period wondering if you were going to make it up the aisle or not.
Once we got off the plane, he followed me all over the airport, because he had no idea where to go or what to do, and decided I was his own personal travel guide. Questions he asked included, 'Have we landed in North Korea?' 'Who? King John Ill? Who's that then?' 'So, where have we landed again? Itching?' '(In front of the Quarrantine sign) Is this Immigration?' 'We're going to Gate E? (Jen: 'Gate B') So, Gate E? (Jen: 'Gate B'). Ah, right, got you now. Gate E.' 'Oh, no, I don't have that card, they didn't give me that card, what should I do, where's that card? (Jen: 'Its in your hand.') Oh, there it is then! Oh, look, I've filled it out already! When did I do that? I don't even remember getting that card.'
It was like travelling with a 5 year old. Which I certainly did not sign up for. But, luckily, I heard him order his wake-up call for tomorrow and I'm going get up a whole 2 hours earlier so I don't have to talk to him at breakfast and am then out of the hotel before he's even gotten out of bed.
Apart from that and a few tears at the airport (Customs Official referring to the fact that I listed my occupation as 'actor': 'Are those 'acting tears'? Ha ha ha.' and then, 'What on earth do you want to go to the UK for?' Thanks. Very encouraging) everything is going well so far. There is snow and minus temperatures in Korea (a good sign in my book) as well as an hilarious instruction manual on the hotel toilet ('After bowl movement press 1. button or 2. (female urine) button'), and every building over here is covered in neon flashing lights, which kind of makes it feel like its ALWAYS Christmas in Korea.
And after all that, I'm going to bed. Next post from the UK.