After the storms?

Sydney has seen some epic storms lately - both of the literal kind (see above) and then of the inner turmoil variety. I'm not sure what to say really apart from, well, things have been tough. It's been four months since we left London and it's hard not to wonder if we made a mistake coming home when we did.

Missing..... Martin Creed

I'm going to do my best not to be that whiney person who never gets over the fact they had an incredible overseas adventure only to move somewhere else in search of other adventures. No one likes that person. Not really.

That being said....

Martin Creed, Work No.200. Half the Air in A Given Room, 1998

Wylie's Baths

It's a fairly undisguised fact that I'm really not hugely happy at the moment, between the London homesickness, the loneliness and the lack of employment opportunities currently being afforded to me. It's been the ultimate exercise in mindfulness really; just trying to be in every moment and not go screaming off the rails with anxiety, or worse, regret. 

Which is why I've been getting back in the water, seeking ablutions for my head as well as my body. 

Up at Avalon, it was here, slalom swimming amongst the bobbing grannies, looking out towards the surfers:

Now that we're in Coogee, it's here, at Wylie's Baths...

There's no place like.... Coogee

So we're now officially residents of Coogee. It's the Australia Day long weekend which means, like all self-respecting Australians, we spent it trawling Ikea for random bits of shit we thought we'd packed but clearly ditched because 27 boxes was enough.

Phantom limbs

I can’t really account for the last month. I can’t quite believe it’s been a month. Four weeks sounds less scary. Closer to London, not increasingly, terrifyingly, further away.

On the ferry to Manly

It’s good to be home, where home is a moving feast of emotions attached largely to family members and friends. Sydney is eluding me for the moment. Things familiar and comforting are the people who know me best, who acknowledge the last five years and what they’ve meant/involved/provided and who offer the proverbial gentle hand (and/or kick up the arse) to start getting on with things here.

But I ache for London. Like a crack whore wanting one more dose of the possibilities.

Playing the long game

Normally about this time of year - when you realise after four consecutive days of grey that the sun is now permanently gone until next April, I start to countdown to Christmas. And by Christmas I mean home.

Except this year, well, we're not going to home. A virgin London Christmas is upon us. If I think about what we'll be missing - bellinis by the pool, morning swims at Bilgola Beach, time with family - well I cry a little bit. So I'm playing the long game. And that means A List of Things I'm Excited About...

Christmas Carols at St Martin-in-the-Fields. 
I first did this 13 years ago with my dear friend Kirsten, a bittersweet end to our gap year in Brighton. This year it will be with my husband and Tor and Andy. And mulled wine.

A state of mind that needs New York

David Shrigley offers some motivational words at the Hayward Gallery

I would love to say the radio silence of the last few weeks was the result of glamorous nights out, fantastically exciting work assignments and the inclination to lie in the sunshine and not on the sofa but that would all be total fucking bollocks. I’ve barely left the house, work has been frustrating and there’s been nary a ray of sunshine since late March.

Basically life has been awash in beige and not even a diehard love of pith has been enough to motivate me to write/moan and consequently possibly punish you all with my beigeness. Consider my silence community service if you will.

Spring despite itself... taken moments before I was smacked
in the face by a cyclist. Yes this has been my life lately.

So it started with that chest infection. Which lead, thanks to a weakened-to-non-existent immune system, to the rising of an, it turns out, latent tooth infection. In the same tooth that endured root canal last year. Why have root canal when you can have RE-root canal I ask you? Throw in hormones and an appalling case of homesickness and you kind of get the drift. The misery was so exquisite it could find company with no one.

Anyway, I’ve slowly been pulling myself up by the bootstraps. Work has been better, drugs have helped with the dental dramas and endorphins have somewhat softened the blows of homesickness. But the biggest band-aid of all has been researching and planning our trip to New York.

A trip to Selfridges for medicinal purposes

Two more sleeps and we’ll be on our way and I can barely keep inside my skin for the excitement. It’s been 10 years since I was last there and it’s always had a place in my heart. In fact I cried last time I was there because I didn’t want to leave and swore the next time I came back it would be to stay. For good. Obviously that’s not the case but I’m making an honourable exception because Lovely Boy has never been and it’s top of his “I’m Not Moving Back to Sydney Until I’ve (Insert Adventure Here)” list. And I suppose in the interests of full disclosure, I could do with a dose of my favourite city (sorry Berlin – total Sophie’s Choice moment).

When I was 21 I spent three months in this incredible metropolis ostensibly doing an internship in a small commercial gallery in Chelsea but really, actually, having the most life affirming, life changing, most fucking brilliant time. All those clichés about New York – the energy, the diversity, the confidence – they’re all true and if you’re an impressionable, under-confident, awkward early twenty-something who’s open to the experience, it just seeps into your soul. You can’t help but soak it up. It was a pivotal moment for my erstwhile younger self and I still have acutely real memories of it all. The jazz bars, the architecture, the energy, the nightclubs, the art, the shopping, the hangovers. It’s going to sound hackneyed and a bit smug/ridiculous/over-earnest so read quickly but the truth is, New York was the first place where I really felt liberated enough to let myself just be myself, without judgement or question or apology. And god it felt amazing. I was me without the backstory and the angst and the uncertainty. Me at face value. It was a powerful lesson and one I've arguably failed at times to remember since.

I imagine everything and nothing has changed in the city since I was last there and I can’t wait to appreciate it all, all over again. 

Francesca Woodman

Not that we’ll have much time for idle basking in the forecasted New York sun. I’m already worried we’re not going to have enough time to see and do and eat and experience everything we want to. Nasty street hotdogs and a baseball game are high on Lovely Boy’s list. Mine is considerably longer. Tomas Saraceno on the roof of the Met, Francesca Woodman at the Guggenheim, the Brooklyn Flea, all the other fleas, David Chang’s Milkbar and award-winning Mexican in Brooklyn, rooftop cinemas, the High Line, Sephora, the view from the top of the Rockefeller, dinner in the back of a pawn shop on the Lower East Side… the list goes on.  

The High Line

While my body hums with anticipation, the wait has been made bearable by dental distractions and one recent lovely cultural outing. Several months ago, while relatively inebriated, Lovely Boy, Tori, the Hungry One and I booked tickets to see Tim Minchin’s musical version of Roald Dahl’s Matilda, a Royal Shakespeare Company commission that has finally made its way to London. The relatively inebriated part is important because for a while there we forgot we’d even booked the tickets and when we remembered we couldn’t then remember when we’d booked them for or who had the email with the tickets to print. A series of careful deductions solved the mystery and on Thursday we found ourselves at the Cambridge Theatre in Seven Dials.

Tim Minchin’s genius is well established and the success of Matilda was made abundantly clear recently when it won seven Olivier Awards, including one for Minchin's song book. The set was extraordinary, the precocious talent that was the young Matilda was extraordinary and Minchin’s witty lyrics brought a spiked, intelligent, knowing humour to the dark themes of Dahl’s classic. It took two whole days for the sweetly demonic “My mummy thinks I’m a miracle” refrain of the opening song’s chorus to unclaw itself from my brain. A funny, brilliant man if ever there was one.

I’m not sure if we’ll see anything on Broadway while we’re in New York but if we don’t manage it I suspect we’ll just add it to the list for next time. As long as it’s not another decade. 

Kusama, cocktails and a little bit of crazy

It would be a stretch to say I got to meet Yayoi Kusama two weeks ago.

It is true to say that if I *had* stretched I would have got within an inch of her thanks to an invite to the press view for her retrospective at Tate Modern. One of several art world perks that are increasingly coming my way these days. But I'll get to those.

We're doing a huge project with Tate at the moment around Kusama's show and so it was incredible to get the chance to explore the exhibition without the hoards and to really have the space and time to allow total absorption in her obsessively beautiful, dark, quietly poetic works. People think dots when they think Kusama and you do get dots here - lots of them - but the curation is so thoughtful that they go beyond any glib pop-esque moment to become a really powerful meditation on madness, infinity and beauty. Because they are beautiful....

Yayoi Kusama, Infinity Mirrored Room - Filled with the Brilliance of Life, 2011 

It was a pretty lovely moment, one of many recently actually, that have punctuated what has otherwise been a stressy couple of weeks that in my head got totally out of control. Exhaustion, homesickness, flatness, semi-brokeness, tiredness and a general case of the Over Its when it's come to public transport and three hour daily commutes, living in Hammersmith and wearing three days worth of outfits all at once. The Lovely Moments are the only things that have kept me from spinning totally out of control. That and a waning full moon?....

In amongst the stress was schlepping out to Croydon in the snow and sub-zero temperatures to get my new visa, or Biometric Residence Permit, as they call it these days in yet another step to dehumanise, humiliate and overly manage you. £850 and four hours later and I'm allowed to stay for another two years. A new lease on London life but one I don't think we'll be renewing when the time comes.

Funnily enough the day after my visa adventure was Lovely Boy's and my three year anniversary. Three years since Lovely Boy first cooked me dinner, three years since we drank three bottles of wine to overcompensate for nerves and an anticipation for not quite sure what and three years since we first kissed at the 94 bus stop at Shepherds Bush at 2am drunk and dizzy and elated and freezing.

After finally getting to have our date with Grayson Perry we decided to honour our little anniversary with a re-enactment of all the key details except the 94 bus stop. We (Lovely Boy....) cooked butter chicken curry, we drank too much wine and we smiled a lot. It was a good night and a perfect moment to reflect on everything the last three years have brought us both.

The last week, despite a shitty few days at work, brought other bright moments in amongst the crazy. I got a very small pay rise - more gesture than largesse - but I'm grateful for it nonetheless, going some way as it does towards improving the balance on my budget.

Which is good - because apart from groceries, I have cocktails to save for. And a holiday.

The joys of Night Jar...

On Friday night I met up with a gang of fabulous girls for some demure bar hopping in east London in pursuit of good drinks in new and interesting locations. Starting with a quick dose of art at the Barbican, first stop was Night Jar at Old St, where the cocktails are curated around themes of pre-war, prohibition, post-war and Night Jar originals. The decor was speakeasy and the music was jazz. I can't quite remember the name of my beverage but it had something to do with paradise and beach-combing so you could say it chose me...

From here we went for Vietnamese and from here we went to the back lounge at Callooh Callay on Rivington St. This detail (back lounge versus front lounge) is important only in that to get to the back lounge you have to walk, Narnia-like, through a wardrobe to get there. 

Novelty factor or no, I completely loved it. The decor back here was Dali meets disco and again I can't remember the particulars of my drink but only because I remain distracted by the drink that was on the table across from us:

Look closer....

Yes, they are gnomes.

It was a great way to shake off the week and on Saturday Lovely Boy and I set to being grown ups by opening a joint account and doing the groceries. And making a collective decision to pull ourselves out of the doldrums by booking a holiday. And not just any holiday - but a holiday to New York. HELLS YES! I'm already thinking about what I'm going to pack. We found this amazing loft in Carroll Gardens in Brooklyn to stay in thanks to some savvy internet research and now we're to the planning. I cannot freaking wait. Something to soften the blow of Monday blues.

Three whole years

Yesterday was my three year anniversary with London. It snuck up on me. If I'd known I would have put a little oomph into it. As it was I spent the day - the rainy, windy, not really very warm day - trailing up and down Oxford Street with my Lovely Boy looking for suits and wondering where our joie de vivre had gone. Even a lunch date in the Food Hall at Selfridges couldn't improve the situation. We're both tired, we're both long overdue for a holiday and we have three house guests at the moment, one of whom is an adorable baby with fangs of snot and an impressive lung capacity that's been getting a workout at regular intervals throughout the night. To say it's not terribly romantic would be underselling the situation somewhat.

To be fair, the night before we did go for a date, 'dinner and a movie' style and had an equally lovely lunch with baby and daddy at the Union Market at Fulham Broadway in a rare afternoon of sunshine. But it's all a bit beige down this here struggle strasse lately.

The weekend before last though I took Lovely Boy to the Roundhouse at Chalk Farm to see Ron Arad's Curtain Call, a 360 degree art/video/sound installation made of 18,000 silicon rods that parted like an old school fly screen to let you into its belly where you could then sit on the floor and watch the animations Arad had commissioned from his friends, including David Shrigley and Mat Collishaw.

Lovely Boy dragged his feet getting there - I had to bribe him with Peking duck pancakes on Wardour Street first, but even he had to concede that it was not in fact the affectation he predicted it would be. In fact, he loved it. And so did I.

We could have sat in there for hours and just let the sound and images absorb us but little sister Sophie was in town and so we went for dinner instead. It was a good day. A new winter coat in the morning (did I mention that bit?...) some duck pancakes in the afternoon with a chaser of art and then dinner with a sibling. A Good Day.

This weekend just gone lacked that kind of certainty but hopefully the week will bring something special. I'm not sure what yet but I'm hopeful. The only way I managed Monday was to book our January trip to Thailand and a wash and blow dry for Friday morning before we head to wedding number three.

I can't even begin to contemplate my fourth year in London. I don't know how long I thought I'd be here for but I don't think I thought it would be for this long. It's funny where life sends you sometimes. I'm certainly not unhappy in London but every day is a conscious choice to be here, at least while I have this job and the promise of travel next year with my Lovely Boy, but the minute I stop choosing my choice we're outta here. But give me a holiday, a cocktail and a decent night's sleep and I may yet change my mind.

My Seven Links

Some weeks ago my Lovely Friend (also known as Tori of eat-tori fame) tagged me as part of a blog project called My Seven Links organised by website Tripbase.

It's my kind of project - an opportunity to trawl back through the endless reams of my navel gazing to find seven posts I think fit the following categories....


My most popular post
This was a tie between two posts but for obvious sentimental reasons I've decided to nominate this one. A trip to Turkey and the small matter of a proposal...

Turkish Delights

A post whose success surprises me
I have no idea why this post has been as popular as it has. It's a fairly standard post, I mean scintillating, but just regular scintillating with some art pondering, some east London eating and the usual work wobbles and thoughts of home.

Pinch me moments and friends from home

My most beautiful post
This one is very personal to me. Not written for any other reason than to articulate my grief about the death of my grandmother. I didn't write it to be read so much as write it to make tangible and articulate a knot of overwhelming feelings. I still feel her absence and I miss her and love her always.

84 and a day and 31 tomorrow            

My most controversial post
This frankly is as controversial as it is nasty. Thanks to a rambling introduction that ranged from Chanel lipstick to caffeine-supported exhaustion and the need to kick my own arse this post came up - repeatedly - when someone typed into Google Arabic - repeatedly - "lipstick on girls arses". Coco would be horrified.

Redbull and lipstick

My most helpful post
This one, like my 'most beautiful' post is a testament to the cathartic powers of word vomit. This post is the written equivalent of forcing my fingers down my throat.

The post too big for a title

A post you feel didn't get the attention it deserved
This one is kind of tricky as I've never really thought of my blog as a means for attracting attention but something about this post has always appealed for some reason. I think I think I'm especially witty or something...

Fit and you know it

The post you are most proud of
I'm going to take liberties here and post three links. I'm not sure why these particular posts appeal to me or why I'm most proud of them but I think they are the kinds of posts I imagined my blog to be when I moved to London to travel, immerse myself in art and write and reflect on everything I learned along the way - about myself as much as the world at large.

A trip down memory lane with my 18 year old self... Brighton Rock(s)!

A trip to Berlin, my most favourite European city... I (heart) Berlin

A trip to the British Library and a little bit of art... Some ish and some art

A month of weekends

I know absolutely it's been too long since I've written when one of my eight devoted readers called me to ask if everything was alright (sorry Dad - yep, all OK. Just been a little too busy lately but I'm back now and raring to write).

It's been a month of weekends and tomorrow it's August and after next weekend's scheduled nothing it will be non-stop until October with house guests, more weddings, a weekend or two away and just the general chaos of living in London while working full-time and planning a wedding back in Sydney. Is it wrong to be wishing I was already on a beach in Thailand? Or at the very least on a plane home for Christmas? I'm kinda pooped. But the last four weekends have been brilliant and special for a host of reasons so I'm not sorry in the slightest.

Weekend One, July 9-10: Paris

There was something delicious about going to Paris FOR THE DAY with my purse and my passport. The occasion was my dear friend Nina's hen party and while she and the rest of The Girls were there for the whole weekend, there were only enough pennies in my purse to manage a day trip, albeit a decadent one. Grazia got me from Kings Cross all the way to rural France before a nap got me the rest of the way to Paris. I didn't think about packing a map (probably because it offended my alliteration) and so there was an interesting moment of Parisien Marco Polo via text message before I eventually joined the group near Notre Dame for lunch and then an afternoon of vintage shopping and macaroons. It was A LOT of fun. My new 80s Lanvin dress that's just a little bit fabulous and my 50s skirt that LBB is convinced was made from curtain material. And his point exactly?....

A cocktail in the Marais and then I was back on the train and back to London. It was a long day but a truly great one and I still can't get past the thrill of actually being able to GO to Paris for the day. I mean, it takes an hour and a half to fly to Melbourne - it takes a Grazia and a half hour nap to get to central Paris. I love it. And I can't wait to be back in October with Mum and Max.

Weekend Two, July 16-17: Monkey Island, Nina & Steve's wedding.

As is often the case with a hen party, a wedding typically follows and the next weekend LB and I were off to Maidenhead for Nina and Steve's oh so lovely wedding on Monkey Island in the village of Brae...

You get to Monkey Island via a footbridge. Nina and Steve, being resident of a 18th century Dutch barge houseboat, got there via their home up the Thames. The weather wasn't so fantastic but the rain held off for the ceremony and the setting was so idyllic and so quintessentially rural English that everyone was just charmed - though the love for the bride and groom probably had something to do with that also.

The reception was in this great room with this brilliant chandelier and I honestly had one of the best seats in the house - looking straight out at the happy couple and then out through the glass doors to the river.

The food was delicious, we had the brilliant company of my old flatmate and her partner and for LB in particular it was heartening to realise that weddings don't have to be scary and that even a nervous groom with an A4 sheet of paper can still steal the room with his heartfelt, hilarious speech. The dessert bar undoubtedly also helped. If this wasn't an idea we were already considering we would have absolutely filched it for our own little soiree in January. 

We didn't last late into the night because a week of work hell left LB literally nodding in his chair before the dancing had even started and so we left, after the vodka shots but before the disco but in time to see the beautiful paper lanterns lit and sent off into the sky. So lovely. And the full moon was a treat.

 

The next day was lunch up river (down river?) where we caught a rare moment of sunshine before the rain re-appeared and then it was home to London to collapse. Two weekends down two to go.

Weekend Three, July 22 - 23: Friends from Home


Earlier in the week (in fact the Friday before the weekend before) LB, Tors, her Hungry One and I had dinner and too much to drink with the fabulous Danne, catching up on all things life, love, work and travel and then the following Friday my little Bondi friend Imara came to town. She'd been in Paris visiting her sister and this was her first visit to the UK. She didn't have a phone, she didn't have a map - so I gave what I thought were fantastically precise directions to the Haunch of Venison gallery off New Bond St, where I would meet her once I'd finished my meeting at Louis Vuitton. It turns out my directions were fabulous but til the last street - something I only realised as I myself walked up the street on my way to my meeting. Thankfully she's an exceptionally bright girl and I found her on the front steps of the gallery (a block from where I said it was) and all was well.

Now New Bond St is certainly one way to introduce a person to London and heading to the nearest pub for a glass (OK, bottle) of wine with my boss we walked in to find nearly every man in there dressed in top hats and tails. Obviously they'd been to a wedding but having walked just past Chanel, Dolce & Gabbana et al on her way to meet me, the hilarity of the scene was not lost on me, though I'm still not sure Imara's convinced this isn't a typical Friday in the city.

Moving on to Soho to say farewell to Danne and to collect the Lovely Boy, we then went to dinner in Chinatown, so starving we may have ordered a duck. A whole duck. And we may have eaten it all.

The next day we braved the crowds and went to Portobello Road, via the obligatory stop outside the 'Hugh & Julia' travel bookshop, before then escaping into Hyde Park. After a brief trip through the Michaelangelo Pistoletto exhibition at the Serpentine we took refuge in the summer pavilion, designed this year by Peter Zumthor. It was, as I imagine it was envisaged to be, a sanctuary. Even with the dogs and kids and crowds it was so peaceful and lovely and calm inside, in stark contrast to its rather severe exterior.

Exahusted and foot sore and in need of wine and sofa, we headed home for an evening of food and talk and bad films - all that was missing were the Mint Slices. The next day we headed for Spitalfields for some East London experience before moving on to the Southbank for some sightseeing at the Globe and Tate Modern. Imara is currently working with Bell Shakespeare so there was no way we couldn't pay a visit to the Bard's original stomping ground if she was to go home with her integrity intact. Or without her I Heart Shakespeare keyring, come on, right?

After visiting the engrossing, complicated Taryn Simon exhibition at Tate we then lay on the grass in some rare summer sunshine drinking juice and talking life. I can't articulate how good it was. So good it made me painfully homesick for my life in Sydney where there are lots of friends to lie on the grass drinking juice and talking life with. London has many wonderful things about it - but a gang of brilliant girlfriends....... I miss my gang.

Dinner at Dishoom with OTHER old family friends followed and then LB and I took her to Covent Garden to spy on the Opera House. For my money though the sky was the most breath-taking thing about the moment. The next day I was back to work and Imara had London to herself before heading back to Paris on the train. I loved having her here and I can't wait to be back in Sydney in December in amongst my gals.

Weekend Four, 30-31 July: The weekend just gone.

This weekend has been remarkable for it's lack of remark. I had a haircut. I finished my book. We had dinner at the delicious da polpo in Covent Garden with Tors and the Hungry One to discuss plans for our upcoming weekend jaunt to Edinburgh for the Fringe Festival and then we had ice cream. 

And then this afternoon, in the sunshine that's still loitering about from last weekend,  LB and I went to Whitechapel to see the Thomas Struth exhibition after wandering through the madness of East London and Brick Lane, where we came across this brilliant mural and another underway:

And THEN we came home and I have been sitting on the sofa ever since, writing while Lovely Boy has been cooking, inspired by the new Simon Hopkinson food show on the beeb:

Grilled eggplant and fetta. Yes it was delicious and yes I am eating off the cushion while I continue to sit on the sofa. It's been THAT kind of weekend.