Et in Arcadia ego

A few weeks on from the Clan affair and I have found myself relocating once again. Ever indulgent and with a slight regressive tendency, I decided to allow myself one last summer of idyllic seclusion on the Isle of Islay. 

Nothing has changed. The sun is still beating down, the ponies impeccable and the French's company first class! 

I'm trying to use this time productively, beginning my quest of self-betterment that I have been in sore need of since Sydney where I spent far too much time staring at a computer screen and attempting to eat myself into a better state of mind. Dealing with 25 ponies, all with the strength of a medium-sized tractor, takes care of the fitness issue, and I've been facilitating my spare time to get back into drawing, doing lots of writing and attempting to read all the books I've been intending on reading for months. No I'm NOT talking about 50 Shades of Grey. 

As it's my day off, I'm currently lying on a hillside on a bed of daisies and dandelions, being eyed suspiciously by the mammoth bull Prince whose field this is. The sea is silvery, blending seamlessly with the dimmed shades of blue sky. Ireland is out of sight today, only visible on those crystal clear days where all the hues of the sea are powerful topazes and turquoises. I'm in Arcadia!

The only negative note to all this is that it has to end and I have to find my next job for September in London. With this in mind I'm erroneously attempting to shift my mental state from wildly content and whimsical to that of a contestant on 'The Apprentice.' Can I be a real prat and quote a poem by Herman Hesse? Only because it really is relevant... I promise. 

"Often I tried the frightening way of "reality,"

Where things that count are profession, law, fashion, finance,

But disillusioned and freed I fled away alone

To the other side, the place of dreams and blessed folly." 

That about says it all. 

Death or Victory

The fabled week of Macleanarama started off surprisingly low-key. The programme leading up the main day of revelry largely consisted of tours and talks based around small collections of rocks around Mull and drinks parties that us "young things" weren't invited to. My Mum kindly let us lie low in our cabin overlooking Tobermory harbour, only emerging to shout insults down at my Dad's friends who gathered there daily to compare scabbards. I should add that my Dad was the ringleader of this exploit. 

There was a concert evening in the marquee next to Duart Castle (the Clan castle) where Dougie Maclean made a cameo and performed his "world famous" 'Caledonia.' Is it sacrilege that I've never heard it? After him the lovely Gaelic laments continued and we were taught THE MACLEAN SONG! I did not know we had one, and the only bit I now remember goes "and we gather, gather, gather, like  the sons of loyal men." The rest I will happily improvise if I'm ever mocked into reciting it after a few glasses of wine. Later, just at the point where heads were beginning to nod, a band of men in 16th century Highland costume broke into the tent yelling "Get out! The Campbells are coming!!" I.Kid.You.Not. 

At that, we all evacuated and hovered awkwardly at the base of the hill leading to the castle. Clearly not stirred enough, the actors had repeat the cry "Defend Duart from the Campbells!" and we hobbled forward. I write hobbled because the average age of these "Maclean warriors" was genuinely 70, there were even a few wheelchairs amongst us. Nevertheless, on we went to the sound of musket fire being sent into the darkness behind until the dreaded Campbells were "killed off." Mercifully the fireworks then began and we didn't have to do much more than make supportive noises and complain about draughts for the rest of the night. I think this should go out as a warning to anyone planning on mustering an army at short notice not to target those who attend Gaelic singing concerts by choice. 

When equipped with my bullet-proof kilt, I was almost triumphant when the big day dawned in a thick fug of greyness. At the castle, the hordes had gathered to await the grand procession. Chieftans were herded to the front along with their flag bearers and anyone else garbed convincingly enough in tweed to pass as a big shot in the clan. The rest followed after and the slow walk up to the castle proceeded in all the heraldic dignity the Clan Maclean could hope for. At the doors to the castle my Dad stepped forward for his big moment, reciting in Gaelic the words his grandfather had said 100 years earlier, telling the Chief that his clan awaits him. Top that Mel Gibson. 

Robin 'Bravehat' Maclean

After that peak, the rest of the day played out in a melee of pipe music, speeches, white hair and (faux) musket fire. One of my Dad's friends was put in-charge of the tannoy. I'm not sure whether that was in spite of or  because of the fact he always sounds a little sloshed... Anyway, it was entertaining enough to hear his commentary boomed across the acres of land in general, but he really peaked when he lost his wife and repeatedly asked over the sound system whether anyone had seen her. I think someone swiftly took over from that.

After a group photo and a few more songs (I swear this is not a cult) my immediate family of 8 (these points have to be clarified in this context!) sidled off to regather strength before throwing ourselves back into the lions den of family fun - a night of ceilidh dancing. Thankfully my sisters and I had been headhunted during the day by some youngsters who, by a series of covert nods and winks, communicated that the Young Macleans were going to have drinks beforehand in Tobermory. Finding we had more in-common with one another than having hair pigment and identical surnames, the pre-drinks turned out to be great fun.  

The sizeable bunch of new Maclean friends had already whittled down the key features that make a Maclean - laughter lines and a smile gets you away with anything. The latter I can definitely NOT attest to. My smile only owns to my guilt or awkwardness. The laughter lines are impending. 

When in Rome

Regardless, these outgoing types had our haphazard group of youngsters boozed up in readiness for the rest of the nights dancing in a flash of that smile. Tragically the evening did not end with another rendition of the Maclean song, but there were free venison burgers which I judge to be a fair compromise. My sisters and I left Mull the next day in the blazing sunshine, feeling grateful to return to relative normality. After a few days of it though, I'm starting to think that normality has lost its edge. The brainwash has been a success...The three foremost questions on my mind are now - when can I attack a Campbell again? when is the next gathering? and how easy will it be to get Tom Cruise to initiate? 

And I would walk 500 miles...

I now know why people travel, it turns out that returning home from 9 months away is about the funnest experience possible. After almost two days of twiddling my thumbs on the long haul flight back to Britain, willing those propeller engines to whirr just a little faster, I was ecstatic to land in a drizzly and grey Heathrow airport at the beginning of June. Through my rose tinted spectacles everyone I spoke to was full of good humour, every building I looked at was eked in history and the name of every street sounded homely and familiar. This is in London, the place I've probably spent altogether a month in in my whole life. Just imagine how I was going to react North of the border?  

Ignoring my pleas of jet lag and behaving like pushy mother crossed with an army major (let's not forget she joined the OTC in first year), Jessie had me showered, champagned and ready to go to the pub within 2 hours of landing. The pub was filled with almost all the wonderful people I had been pining for all year and I immediately knew I'd done the right thing in coming back. The rest of that week followed in a heady haze of the delights of London and I boarded the flight to Glasgow the following Monday feeling slightly broken. So much for stepping off the plane from Oz brimming with sunshine and cheery stories. My Dad picked me up at the other end and whizzed me up North to the homeland. 

Now, when I was in Australia I always reasoned that people were so baffled by the stories of my upbringing because I was exaggerating ever so slightly - rrrrolling my r's and throwing in more references to tartan than is ever acceptable. However, it turns out that if anything, my family got more extreme in my absence. I probably timed my first week back in Scotland quite badly as it was the run up to the Clan Maclean International Gathering 2012. The Maclean household, being avid supporters of all that is clanaholic, was getting PRETTY heated. No "how was Australia?'s" or "not such a tentative graduate now eh?'s" for me. Instead, I was immediately enslaved to preparations for the gathering; covering any visible possession in tartan, even our dog's collar, and cooking lunches for the various Macleans passing through on their way to the Mecca of Macleandom - the Isle of Mull. Those Macleans didn't care I'd just come back Australia, they'd probably come further..and purely for this event. 

It's really hard to describe to anyone that hasn't been brought up in the midst of a clan the significance of all this. 1,000 distant relatives descending on a wee island to celebrate the one thing they have in common can more easily be alikened to the early stages of a cult than a traditional family gathering. But this is Scotland, and we blaze our own trail for family get-togethers. This one only comes around every 5 years and is the 100th anniversary of our first official one. Having been washing my hair over the last few, I thought this one should not be missed. With a mixture of curiosity and trepidation I am re-packing my bag. My Surry Hills hipster skirts have been replaced with bullet-proof tartan ones and my suncream with woad. Actually that was a lie… I don't own any hipster skirts. I am also rehearsing the all important battle cry of the Macleans as it may become scarily relevant to the week ahead; "Death or Victory!" 

Here goes...

Cometh the theme, cometh the woman

One part of Australia which I have left deplorably bereft of mention in this blog is the country’s love of fancy dress. Time and again I’ve been forced out of my floral comfort zone to don various guises for themed parties as wide ranging as “Where the Wild Things Are” to “3^rd World War Robots in Hawaii.” 

Perhaps the most successful costume to date though was becoming a strawberry for the Australian version of The Secret Garden Party. The Secret Garden party is a newcomer to the Australian festival circuit, largely organised by friends of friends and seemingly attended by just about everyone I’ve met in Australia so far. 

Amy Robinson's fantastic photography
This year it was on the verge of being cancelled thanks to the flashfloods that have characterised this Sydney summer, but instead was reduced to one stage and no live bands.  A write-off you might think? 
No my friend. Not so easily will an Australian be put-off a chance to dress up. I went along in a monster of a vehicle, blasting out 90s songs (all of a sudden worryingly ‘retro’) and piled high with Croatian-Australians happily slipping from one language to the next. True to the title, it was an impossible site to find, a mudbath hidden behind walls of bushes in a field on the outskirts of Sydney, but absolutely heaving with excitement. People had gone to TOWN with their costumes and mercifully there wasn’t a single sexy cat in sight. 

I clambered into the giant foam strawberry lent to me by Heather (now dressed as one half of a Double Rainbow) who had handed it over saying “you will enjoy this” with a knowing glint in her eye. She was right, I have NEVER had so many unsolicited hugs in my life. The comic effect of my frugality only maximised my approachability. Where most people had sensibly bought some “gum” boots to face this knee-high mud, I insisted on wearing flimsy shoes encased in plastic bags. I don’t think Aussies have ever come across this method before, a trick, I told them, that was all down to my Scottish ingenuity. 

What followed next was comparable only to a Bacchic revel (without the sleazy inferences), or some unintended mud-wrestling championship, in front of the remaining stage. Not only were we treated to some epic DJ-ing, but the organisers knew how to make this festival truly stand out by organising a flashmob synchronised dance to Whitney Houston's "I wanna dance with somebody."  Quite potentially one of the best moments of my life. 

Just a small aside, did I mention there was unlimited free booze? 

Talking of Bacchic revels (again, sans the whole orgiastic nonsense), I was lucky enough to be invited to my old housemate Lau’s 21^st themed “Where the Wild Things Are.” Situated down in the Southern Highlands, it bore some uncanny resemblances to my 21^st : fields, fires, hog roast, massive speakers, obscure theme and wonderful people (I’m just buttering you all up now!). I was plagued with nostalgia! 

In order to waylay the oncoming hypothermia from the chilling winds of the south, we spent the night dancing like idiots amongst the smoke and flying hay, or all but clambering into the heaving mass of bonfire. The boys took it upon themselves to keep this bonfire stocked up and so would go off in animal onesie-clad roving parties to triumphantly bring back the biggest log they could haul between them. The last log to be found was so gargantuan that the last of the revellers were able to dance on top of it, surrounded by the sizzling embers. 

We camped amongst the nearby woods, each tent overflowing with bodies, fur coats and beery fumes - a fitting tribute to Where The Wild Things Are!

Homeless and happy

Commencing my last month in Sydney homeless and penniless you would think I would be a little ashamed. On the contrary, I haven’t got a regret in the world!  At the end of March I packed up my belongings and set off for a month long adventure which would take me all over New Zealand and down to Melbourne.   

Risking a lifetime of abuse, Lydia and I had decided to board the big green emblem of all that is Gap Year tragedy, the Kiwi Experience bus, as it seemed like the easiest way to get round the country. It was that, but so much more.

Imagine a bus filled with 50 of your new best friends (I renamed the Kiwi Experience 'Rent-a-mate") going from one epic location to the next for 3 weeks. We laughed, we cried,* we worked out syncopated dance routines to terrify locals, but most importantly ; we saw the best country on this whole damn earth.

When people now ask me what New Zealand was like, words escape me. I can only let out this strained wail that sounds like a cross between a lonesome wolf and a woman in labour (not the Harriet Harman type)- it was just too brilliant. For such a small landmass, there is almost every type of terrain; whilst on one day we might be clambering over the cliffs of a wave battered shoreline, the next we could be kayaking through an untouched rainforest. It wasn’t all goon sacks and arms-wide photo posing (or as I like to call it, the panic pose), we did some fairly strenuous stuff.  

(This rather long extract from my journal sums it up with a bit more aplomb)


" Easter Sunday! And what better way to see it in than by nearly killing myself with exertion? We boarded the bus bound for the Tongarero Crossing (aka the path to Mount Doom) at 5.30am to arrive at 7 feeling more excited and cheery than we’d be for the rest of the day.

The first part involved getting up Devil’s Staircase (aptly named). Once there it was a short walk to the base of Mount Doom where, if you made it before 9.15am, you’d be able to start the long ascent.

I really hadn’t planned on doing it as it is RIDICULOUSLY steep and RIDICULOUSLY high, but I realised I couldn’t wimp out of the opportunity. Julia, Gavin (an excitable and somewhat sweaty Englishman) and I made a pact to give up together if one of us couldn’t make it. After that it was 2 hours of climbing hand over hand up the most sheer slope.When Frodo and Sam are half-sobbing and near death as they scramble up the mountain in “The Return of the King,” they weren’t acting. 

There was such camaraderie amongst all of the tortured climbers as all the way up we’d repeatedly bump into each other, collapsed across one rock or another, and gasp out words of encouragement. The penultimate summit revealed that the real summit split into two. The smaller, on the left, steamed as though on the verge of eruption! The one on the right was the ridge of a giant crater. Its sides were made of scree so crumbly that as soon as you had clawed your way a little higher, you would immediately slide back to exactly where you had been. So ruddy disheartening. I can see why Frodo gave up. We all ate our lunches at the top with much cheering and open-mouthed awe at the views below us. Below the scattering of clouds, we could see Lake Taupo in the far distance and a few hidden Emerald Lakes of the purest green. The terrain ebbed and flowed in the most startling array of blues and greens with barely a mark of human habitation visible.

When descending we had to take the route that falling lava would, which basically meant we surfed rocks down the mountain. This proved both hilarious and awful. Nicky even managed an accidental front flip.

There was also a terrifying moment when someone dislodged a boulder at the top. It started erratically pounding down the mountain at such a pace. The people going up and down started yelling “boulder!” and I’m pretty sure I heard a man scream. Even though in reality I’m sure it was about 20 metres away from me, I did a blockbuster style dive out of the way leaving me pretty shaken.

When we finally got to the bottom we were so ridiculously pleased with ourselves, the box of extreme exertion surely ticked. That was until we caught a glimpse of the sign for the road ahead, a 4 hour trek.

I decided to lone wolf it and so carried on into the crater beyond. It was so startlingly red and barren that I was reminded of images of Mars. The path went straight through the centre of its flat expanse with the huge ridge forming a wall around it. Heart-breakingly there were two more hills to climb beyond. My muscles were crying out and it really didn’t help that I had drunk all of my water. A kind Scouse chappy took pity on me and gave me the last of his water. When I caught up with him later I did my best to communicate that I’d thought he’d saved my life.

The second hills’ summit was the most spectacular of all. It afforded a perfect view down to the Emerald Lakes which contrasted so vividly with the rusty red of the rocks that encased them. It was one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen.

Beyond that point the landscape got greener and milder. The path skirted around the last hill, once again showing the beauty of Lake Taupo, and down to a hut where all the trampers sat around laughing and joking about the day. It seems everyone had seen the boulder incident. I chatted with the Scouses at the end and we found ourselves some of the first people down. Lyds and a gorgeous Danish girl, Ann-Sophie, caught up not long afterwards and we agreed that rather than going back to the hostel and crashing we would head straight to the hot water stream just outside Taupo. This awesome natural phenomenon of a cascading waterfall of hot water meeting the meander of a broad, cool river makes the most perfect bathing spot. Locals take beers and spliffs down there and lie in the shallows until the last of the rays of the day sink out of sight. Some of the boys that had finished even earlier came down to join us and we all took turns dunking ourselves in the freezing stream and lying back down in the warm and fresh bliss of the pool. “

Through a mixture of peer pressure and “when in Rome” attitude I also allowed myself to be thrown out of a plane at 12,000ft. I would have been more relaxed at the crucial moment had I not just witnessed the parachute of the guy before me being cut away mid-air...comforting. It was arguably one of the best things I've ever done though and I couldn't wipe the smile off my face for hours afterwards. 

There were so many other adventures and hilarity that when it came to leaving New Zealand and the entire bus crew, who were resolutely sticking around in Queenstown for another fortnight, I was utterly torn and VERY nearly didn't board my flight to Melbourne. I'm so glad I did though as Melbourne was awesome. I dread to say that I actually preferred it to Sydney. The streets were broad and leafy but hid stunningly contemporary back-alleys filled with street art and hidden curiosities. I spent the week chugging coffee, going to zany art exhibitions and discovering a new love for 90s hip-hop. Yes, Matthew, tonight I am going to be "edgy." 

I have now returned to relative normality, if you can call sleeping on your friend's boyfriend's sofa normality, and am trying to squeeze every last ounce of Sydney out of Sydney before I say goodbye to it and some of its fantastic inhabitants for an extremely long time.

I should also say that my blog 'stats' inform me that my biggest readership (upwards of 1) is in Alaska. Thank you Alaska.

*Factually incorrect

Decisions Decisions

The coin of decisiveness finally dropped a few weeks ago, it's upward face etched with LillyBet's profile, it was surely a sign...I just couldn't miss her Jubilee!


It's wildly presumptuous to think that I've ticked the big box next to Sydney; the home of 4.6 million people, 70 beaches, and an unconquerable number of coffee shops, but I feel the Oz chapter (yes, I'm resorting this tired old analogy) might be near its close. Perhaps I should throw Titanic in there again... I'm cheerfully nearing the economic iceberg that is Britain. I don't want to go down with this socially doomed ship. I've been like Iowan Gruffud looking for companions in the icy seas "Is anybody out there?!!"


So in a wildly roundabout way, I'm happy to report that I'll be coming home on the 5th of June. In the interim period I'm going to travel New Zealand and Melbourne to really get the most out of this part of the world, not only because I'm a great explorer and traveller...but because once I go home I won't really legally be allowed back.

Not remotely Byronic

I just wrote and deleted a whole soul-searching entry because, let's face it, this isn't the X Factor. You don't need to hear my woes, especially since any impact they may have would be lost without the backing of Snow Patrol's "Chasing Cars." Let's cut instead to the good parts, the "best of" clips, as they justify the harder times I've faced in this city. (Soundtrack - Black Sabbath 'Crazy Train') 

Lydia and I decided back in December that we needed to actually start seeing some of Australia and so booked cheapo flights to Byron Bay, hallowed site of many Gap Year Tragedies. The dates of the trip helpfully landed near enough to Valentine’s Day for us to be able to label our adventure a Valentine’s Boycott (ahh bitterness, hello again old friend).

We took Friday off and jetted up at the crack of dawn to land in the paradise that marks the most Easterly point in Australia, and yet is only an inch or so up the map from Sydney (God this country is big). It was everything that Google images had churned out; white sand, turquoise sea, not a suit in sight... but so much more. The atmosphere was the closest I’ve found, barring the Gili islands off Bali, to that utopian 70s idyll. Everyone was in their happy place, as evidenced by Byron's local hero Tommy Franklin. This is him on a dull day - Byron Bay's Dancing Man

Lyds and I settled ourselves in for three glorious days of beaching and exploring the long stretches of coastland. Oh and not forgetting a little bit of nightlife exploration in which dancing on tables and judging topless men contests are just some of the team building exercises implemented at these reputable venues. Unfortunately in a post-club dash to the sea I suddenly found my progress hampered by an unexpected hole in the ground. The hole cruelly decided to take some layers of skin as ransom, leaving my legs in a none too attractive state. I was more than able to laugh it off at the time but it was a different story when I turned up for our "How to be super-slick in PR" (cue finger banging and glittering smiles) training on Monday morning at work looking like I'd been using my legs to sand wood. 

Thinking 'youthful japes' would be a good cover-up I stammered my way through an obscure story involving a bike accident, hoping this would deter further questioning. When one of my colleagues (yeah, I say that word now) pressed me further though, someone helpfully shouted across the office "Leave her alone, she was in Byron, she was drunk" and that was that…  

Like hunks of floating ship in the freezing waters of the Atlantic, friends from home become a bit like life rafts in Sydney. If we were to continue with this Titanic analogy (for some reason I seem to like bringing it into this blog) then I would cast myself not as dainty Rose or brave Jack, but that desperate man who nearly drowns Rose to save himself. 

Will Innes has become one such victim of my over-excited floundering while he continues his own personal quest on his move out to Oz of "Man vs Scottish Skintone." As a result, we've been trundling around beaches together most weekends. We even found ourselves at the Australian Open Surf Championships in Manly at one point, attempting to fit in with the tormented teeny boppers watching a 15 year old girl band perform (truly the purest form of rock) because we couldn't get in to the stadium sized skate bowl further down the beach. As Innes' radioactive sunburn became only light left in the day  the music got a bit more credible, creating a fantastic backing track to the iconic image of some incredible surfers riding the crests of the evening waves. 

The next night the centre of Sydney once more played host to a fantastic night of art, culture, community and most importantly FREE entertainment with Tropfest. Tropfest is an expose of short films from around Australia broadcast from on three screens mounted around a great stand in the same spot as the Sydney Festival opening night performances. Arriving late, I was astounded by the sight of some 40,000 people, propped up on picnic rugs, their laughing faces lit purely by the images on the screen. Not to sound like a complete raving hippy… but it was quite beautiful! Of course the dream had to be shattered with the subsequent thunderstorm that rained down on the happy crowd, a running theme (har har) for what is Sydney's worst summer in 50 years. 50 years. If this were a Neighbours episode at least 3 of the main characters would've been killed off for just being unexpectedly damp.

The woes to which I made brief mention to earlier are that I've been offered sponsorship to stay on here essentially as long as I like. I know, lucky sod eh? But I'm slightly given over to pining for old Blighty. I'm now faced with the hardest decision I've ever had to make between following my heart home to freunden, or following my head and staying here for the job… Think it'll have to be a coin toss..

Living for the weekend

Under strict orders from my blogging superstar friend Soph,* I must tell you about the gloriousness that was a trip to her friend’s beach house a few hours North of Sydney (I told you I’ve become shameless in all social situations) a couple of weekends ago. I was certain that beach houses were the reserve of characters in Rom Coms and The OC, but no, here was I pulling up to a pretty old mining house on a Friday night. The wooden clapboarded house emanated the smells of wonderful cooking and the familiar sounds of an argument over the rules of Ring of Fire, truly the stuff of “summer frolicking” film montages.

....With one big exception, in the films when the girls steal all the boys’ clothes while they skinny dip in the sea, the boys don’t mistake the girls for local terrors and chase after them, naked and drunk, throwing glass beer bottles at their heads. A slight backfire there, but I was glad I was able to add a whole new episode to the “Examples of the Australian man’s charm” folder.  An impressive portfolio.

We spent such a happy few days just lying around (nursing miraculously undented skulls), going for the occasional surf, swim, or booze run. I left with the distinct feeling that Australians have it damn good.

The Sydney immigration camp has been expanding at a fast pace too, with Gael dropping in for a month to work in the Sydney Festival’s Spiegeltent. I overheard an incredulous Aussie saying “can you believe it stays open ‘til two?!”... The perpetrator would be hung, drawn and quartered if a bar in Edinburgh had the audacity to close before 5 during the Festival! To be fair, they do do an insane job of opening the festival here. The first night is a city-wide free festival. The main stage, situated in the botanic gardens, pumps out family-friendly music to thousands while Hyde Park, smack bang in the middle of the city, is transformed into the closest thing to Creamfields I have (and most likely ever will) experienced.

* P.S For an immersion into living the dream in Sydney, I couldn't recommend Soph's blog more

http://www.stovetoprevolution.blogspot.com.au/

Smugsville

10 days. 10 whole beautiful days I was given for my Christmas holiday and was I determined to live them as fully as one who abides by the law, doesn't know how to dance to dub step, and quite likes a good 10 hours sleep a night. Uh-oh, danger train, first stop- my lovely Aunt and Uncle's house, already full to the bursting with visiting Europeans, happily winding up my poor Aunt with "oh but MY family always does it THIS way." 

After lounging by the pool all Christmas Eve (as opposed to fighting over who has to haul in the next bucket of snow to melt for water at home....you think I jest), we packed a summery hamper of Christmas ham and all sorts of fantastic accompaniments and relocated our Legion of Foreigners to Cremorne Point. The site was a perfect spot to see the last rays of the days sun light the harbour bridge, champagne glass firmly wedged in-hand.  

Christmas Day dawned blazingly bright and cheery.

‘Tis the season to be jolly? 

Apparently not in Australia. Over here it’s tis the season to maintain the relentless jogging routine, low fat foods, tanning and other things not associated with fat bearded men. The injustice. This was particularly evidenced when it seemed that everyone was in agreement that a between Christmas lunch and pudding swim was in order. EH? Was I alone in having just attempted to defy science and nature in the portion of food I had consumed? Apparently so. My cousins’ Christmas photos therefore consist of me strategically holding large objects to my midriff a la Calendar Girls (except that I don’t have the excuse of being middle-aged..or naked).

On Boxing Day I set off on a spontaneous camping trip 4 hours north of Sydney with an assortment of Europeans and a token Aussie. You’d think after the rigours of Gordonstoun I would instinctively know the inherent dangers of the words ‘camping trip;’ burnt off eyebrows, forgotten bags of food, meths induced blindness (perhaps an exaggeration, but apparently the girl did need glasses a few years after accidentally drinking some) and general sodden misery, apparently not. And true to form it was as harrowing as camping gets. With no equipment and terrible weather it was all rather reminiscent of the beginning of a horror film. My subconscious must have agreed with this conclusion sooner than I had as at one point in the night I woke up screaming- convinced I was suffocating under my holy sheet of tarpaulin.  

Still, the countryside was stunning. I hadn’t realised how green Australia could be. All the landowners of the area were of Scottish descent and with names like Cameron, Laurie and Fraser, I believed them. Aside from the bouts of FortWilliam-esque weather, the steep green hills and hidden glens were like the Highlands on a huge scale.

Upon my return to Sydney, I resolutely returned to the comfort of a conventional summer in the city; going to the numerous vintage/flea markets and attempting to learn how to look hip, lazing around coffee shops or by the sea, pretending to watch boat races,  and discovering unusual little bars and fun live bands by night.

Whilst the sun was up on New Years Eve I joined my cousin Iona's friends  in a smart little cove on the harbour's North shore to bob around in our flotilla of booze-laden dinghies. As the sun reluctantly went down I headed on to meet our ever-growing gang of Brits-on-Tour to pretend to know the host at the loudest party we could find in Paddington. Music videos and the all-important fireworks display were projected onto the side of the neighbouring house throughout the night, taking all the effort out of tourism. 

We recovered our health and dignity by lying around on a friend’s boat in the harbour the next day- a pretty idyllic way to see in 2012.

EmJ lands

The last two months have taken a dramatically fun turn since the arrival of Sydney’s new social cannonball, Emily Johnston. Being the sponging sod that I am, I have been happily riding on the back of her web of contacts which seems to encompass Sydney’s glitterati. Thanks to her, I’ve had the privilege of frequently going for after work G & Ts on the roof terrace of her friend’s penthouse overlooking the harbour, found myself going to a friends and family only night for one of Sydney’s more popular DJs and crashing the Louis Vuitton opening night after party that Grazia dubbed ‘the party of the year.’

Don’t worry, I’ve in no way adjusted to this glamour and still maintain my foot-in-mouth attitude to social occasions. At the Louis Vuitton party I thought I was doing fairly well with a big bloke with a strapped up shoulder. After making some quips about how he got his injury he explained it was from a rugby match. “Big one was it?” I asked, picturing some lads knock-about.
 “Yes” he replied, “it was the World Cup.”
At that, I slowly backed away from him as though having just discovered a land mine, humbly re-asserting myself as common citizen in the company of a demi-god.

As a small aside, my very kind company has agreed to renew my contract until my visa restriction kicks in. It looks like Sydney will continue to be my home until at least March!

Home...the junkies are too many

You learn a great deal about yourself when you isolate yourself to the otherside of the world. Self-sufficiency is the name of the game and something I’ve been really revelling in since I moved into my new house in Surry Hills. I’m living with two Aussie students who are just fantastic and far too cool to deserve a random Scot cramping their style.  

However, I’ve also discovered a peculiar side to myself in this self-sufficiency drive. I spent the day out last Sunday going to the odd barbeque and making stock lead balloon jokes about shrimps before coming home in the evening to find my laptop was missing. We’d been robbed! Given my entire room fits in a suitcase, it’s needless to say they didn’t find much else worth nicking, but my housemate’s room had been ransacked.

 They’d busted in through our backdoor which has an iffy lock, so I made sure everything was properly secure before returning to waiting for my housemates to get back and being miserable. A while later though, the ruddy robbers came back! They were rattling at the back door despite being able to see I was in.

Most people’s normal reaction would be to shout “I’ve called the police,” actually call the police or just do a runner. For some ridiculous reason though, I went in to stealth mode. Slick as a Bond villain (in a floral dress) I grabbed the biggest kitchen knife I could see and crept around the corner of the kitchen to await my thieves. Luckily they were fairly half-hearted about the whole thing and skulked off as I have no idea how I’d have played out the whole ‘clutching a carving knife’ scenario had push come to shove. Perhaps I’d have launched into a Braveheart battle cry- could this ridiculous instinct be an effect of too many hero films?

My housemates got back not long after and did actually call the police who were pretty much just Aussie lads in uniform. They attempted to placate us by saying “aw, it’ll just be some dirty Abos or stupid junkies. They’ll always find ways to get in”... very comforting.

I am now both stripped of my faith in humanity (the last crime in Ardgour probably dates to the 1800s and involved some strong words over a creaky gate) and my ability to waste time on the net. My evenings have becoming unintentionally wholesome with reading, walking and conversation. Give me youtube clips of cats any day.  

I'm on a boat

With a sensible job, life has settled down and I’m in fear that there isn’t anything terribly original to write anymore. That may be tempting fate slightly though as I’m sure I’ll be cheerfully booted out of the office the moment they discover what a phoney I am. Instead of the business pages of The Australian, my most visited website is ‘Investopedia’ (how Chessie would cringe) and when we have office meetings to discuss the global markets I’m picturing unicorns prancing around castles.

With a 5 day week though, I’ve discovered the joy of weekends. A fairly indistinct phenomenon when you’re a student. I’ve been sampling the more boozy side of things with such events as a Sydney Uni Ski-club Halloween booze cruise around the harbour which was about as epic as the name suggests. My shape making repertoire on the dance-floor was blown wide open with the rocking motion to contend with. The climax of the night came when Lonely Island’s “I’m on a boat” began blaring and the fancy dress T-Pain emerged from the crowd in all his un-PC glory. I also had a night out with Ian and Bea the unlikely (sorry Bea, but we were all thinking it) and intrepid explorers.

What’s more I was privileged to see the whole of Sydney grind to a halt for the Melbourne Cup. Women went to work in cocktail dresses and fascinators and champagne corks were popped at a relentless rate from midday onwards. As the day wore on it was classic to see an entire city suffering from peaking too soon. By 7pm co-workers were either in the throes of a public tryst, waltzing or slumped in bus stops. I was fondly reminded of the royal wedding.

My brother had warned me before I got out here that I might find everyone a bit ‘uncouth.’ I dismissed this instantly thinking ‘Ewen is clearly underestimating how battle worn I am.’ And largely I was right; the girls out here are great. The guys though...urgh, it seems you can’t even instigate a conversation with one out here without first proving your worth by chugging a beer or doing a good impression of Austin Powers’ Fat Bastard...apparently the archetypal Scot. I was hoping he’d been forgotten about, damn you Mike Myers. Give me the politeness (and probably disinterestedness) of a Brit any day. It looks like I won’t be returning with any Bruces on my arm (audible sigh of relief from my father).

I’ll soon be moving into a perfect little house in the artsy/cool suburb of Sydney, Surry Hills. Luckily there is no screening process to see if I meet this criteria. It’s got a pretty little garden and is seconds walk from some of the city’s best cafes. Translated: I will soon be a fat lobster. I feel like my Sydney dream will really begin then.

Tentative Employee?

For someone with a new city at their feet I feel I have done very little with my time! I had one very funny trip to Canberra. It is a city berated by every other city in Australia as being “the arse end of nowhere” but so staunchly defended by its residents that I very nearly left there with the names of its sporting heroes branded on my forehead. I can say nothing on those views…because I value my life.

I had a brief stint as a Gallery Intern for a slightly mad couple whose idea of an interview consisted of them shouting at me, telling me I’m couldn’t leave. I then left. I should also mention that I have seen the lesser spotted CP and his ‘bach pad,’ so far furnished with one mattress and a bottle of Ribena.
 Apart from that my world is rather insular, revolving around elongated breakfasts, dog walking and aimless wandering.

Such is the life of a half-unemployed droog.

I was often reminded of a statement from the ever philosophical and insightful Will Graham who, on reflection of his choice to stick to fingers up to the corporate machine and spend the summer drinking beers, said “I’ll tell you a thing about jobs (expectant pause where I prepare myself for a lesson on existentialism and necessity to avoid 9 to 5s)…get one.”

So this week I did!

I am now a Researcher for a Financial PR company, which is far more of a human job than it sounds! I feel Sydney’s starting to bear fruit for me now! I power-dress, read the Financial Times, and make gags at the water cooler (I really did). It’s all a little unexpected and suspiciously like real-life…