I'm sporty, therefore I am

Well, I wish it were true. I've been accused, albeit quite rightly, that I have no interest in sport because, well, I'm pissed off I'm not good at it. Waiting inside my non-sporty abnormally slow half Asian legs is a competitive firecracker waiting to throw, kick or sprint somewhere in 0 to 10 seconds. Yes, Usain Bolt is inside me.

A year ago I decided extreme frisbee could be my newfound sporting talent. However when I came up with this, I didn't actually know what it was. Upon conducting some research I found out it involved running and tackling. Extreme frisbee was quickly ditched. Prior to my first skiing holiday in December, I had secret fantasies of being 'discovered' as an Olympic skier on the slopes. Upon actually skiing and never getting past snow plough after a week of lessons, this idea was also ditched. I also like the idea of touch football. I fear I only like the idea of it and the implementation of me playing it will result in being benched the whole time. But, I am yet to try.

So yes, in a nutshell, I wish I was really good at sport. It helps you in life. Just like not having a massive growth on your face helps, being abnormally witty or one of those weird, kind of creepy nice, thoughtful personalities. I possess none of these afore mentioned growths or traits, and having delayed hand eye coordination, zero interest in watching sport except WWF wrestling and ballet (yes, both are sports fuckers), it leaves me in no man sports land when hanging with the masses.

As I write this I am sitting with my housemate who is yelling at the tv. I'm stopping typing every so often to 'woo' and put my hands in the air when someone scores, just to get into the spirit, but, let's face it, it's a. forced and b. I don't think he actually gives a shit whether I'm wooing or not. Yes, it's football time here in the UK (soccer for the Aussies) and there is some big game on tonight. Not being into football in this country leaves you with the following problems:

1. When working with 97% males you don't get invited to the pub after work to bond, man hug, watch the game and talk about the game the day after

2. Leaves you with little small talk options with the male bosses in the lift

3. Can't get krispy kremes if you're not part of the Fantasy League - don't exactly know what this is but it involves trading players. Personally, it's all about the donuts.

Don't get me wrong. I've had years of trying my hand in sport. I participated, and I use this word loosely in the mortifying softball throw (I came last) in year 7 as well as 4 years of D grade school netball and tennis. I've also done the obligatory girlfriend spectator duties for both basketball and football for long 5 years. Seriously, I've put in the hard yards. But now, I'm done. Although I suppose if Danny Cipriani ditched Kelly Brook, then yes, I'd support my man. But pretend I'm actually interested in the game? I think not.

So lesson learned is that I should procreate with a sporty, handy around the house, mathematician. The latter two failures are stories for next time.

Funds and gingivitus

So I am now a person with a managed fund. Yes. I am MATURE. Not only do I have an accountant but now I can add managed fund, flossing and user of mouthwash to my list of the adult-like tasks I now perform. Might I just add that the last three are new additions as of today and my accountant, well, that happened about 2 years ago after I calculated my tax wrong and got audited - who knew they paid attention?

After my meeting with my financial adviser today I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. So much so I decided to discuss 'the market' when I got home with my housemate KK.

The conversation went something like this:

Me: I got myself a managed fund today.

KK: What kind?

Me: Umm, what do you mean? It's a managed fund (said slowly for the Cambridge graduate).

KK (being quite patient and un-sarcastic): Bonds or stocks?

Me: Uhhhhhh. Uhhhhhh. I don't know. One with 'newton' in it.

KK: Helpful.

Me: Um, it's middle risk...(insert internal dialogue)

Internal dialogue: Think Vanessa. Rewind brain (internal dialogue makes rewind noises). 1pm today, you were hungry, thinking of burrito while Peter Bloom kept pushing his glasses that he keeps in the tiniest box ever, up, on top of his forehead. You are thinking this is weird and he is bending the arms out of shape. He is talking. You remember you are suppose to be listening. You say mmmmm a couple of times. You repeat the last bit of what he just said. He nods. YES - you got it!

Me: Well, it's low scale volatility (back on the finance talk train).

KK then goes onto do some explaining of the difference between bond and stock funds. I actually listen and get it although a cloud has ruined the shine in my day's maturity.

Despite my lack of understanding of the fiscal world, I do know teeth. So I decide to take charge of my mouth and make pact number 167 to, from now on, floss and use my mouthwash that I bought a year and a half ago.

Postcard update: still not sent, maybe tomorrow.

For everyone

I've just had a really great day and now I am feeling all reflective and sharey. Gather around family, friends and randoms, I wish to tell a story. Ok, so it's not a story as such, more like a recount of my day mixed with not so original reflections, but I'm feeling poetic and homely. Kind of like a middle aged librarian named Jan who has stringy peppered hair and wears tartan knee length skirts and cabled knit jumpers. She probably has a cat too. Ugh. Cats. Shit, let me start story time again without any Jan or cat references.

Ok. So sometimes I feel selfish for coming to live in London. My guilt is then somewhat garnished with some kind of limp parsley when I can't answer when I'm coming back. And you know what, it is selfish. Leaving family and friends who love you is kind of hurtful to those who are left behind even if they understand why. Missing half of your nieces and nephews grow up, babies being born, weddings and coffees with your mum and best friends at times makes my insides feel heavy. But selfishly, the more time I spend over here, the more I find what I was looking for. And the greatest thing is, I wasn't searching for anything in the first place. Now, I realise how badly I needed leave. Not that anything was bad. I was happy, but my life was just a bit beige. And to put it simply, now, it's not. So how do you reconcile your life versus everyone else's?

Well you can't.

But I don't think London is forever, in fact, it's most definitely not. But it's now. So very now and it's real and most of the time, wonderful. It's not some working holiday with minimum wage bar work and visits to the Walkabout. London is breakfast in Shoreditch - spooning elderflower jam onto toasted sourdough. It's five tea rounds a day. It's a place with the most beautiful parks that stunningly showcase the coming of a new season. It's somewhere where you walk past Orson Wells' house while on your way to eating miniature tacos.

It's just freakin' cool.

Shhh

Now, I realise that when I am old I am going to one of those people who hit the young folk with my walking stick, stroke the stray yet abnormally long hairs sprouting from my chin and run over anyone in my way with my electro nanna-mobile, so I know that with my current ‘delicate’ levels of tolerance, I’m going to be the granny from hell.

So with this said, I’m going to launch into another ‘social observation’.

Talkers. I hate them. I can’t stand people who talk through movies, concerts, presentations (ok, maybe I don’t mean this one but I needed a third example). I have a larger than life hatred for useless commentary and those who deliver them. In fact, I’m going to do some recent scenarios.

Scenario one: West End production, Stomp to be exact. Men clanging around, banging sticks on bin lids. We don’t need a lot of imagination on this one except the lead guy is stupidly hot (not necessarily relevant but still an important detail for the complete picture).

Talker 1 let’s call her Pamelaah: Someone’s just come on stage. What’s he got in his hand? Oh, it’s a bin lid. Is it a bin lid? Why is he holding a bin lid? What’s he going to do with the bin lid? Oh, he’s banging on the bin lid with that baton. Is that a baton? Wow, he’s doing it really quickly. Do you think it’s quick?

Sadly, all the glaring and turning around in the world did not shut this woman up.

Scenario two: Jose Gonzalez gig. Lorenzo, 22, Italian (we had 2 hours to get to know him). With group of friends: annoying Australian girls x 2, English girl, as annoying, x1. Jose is playing his acoustic set, crowd is predominately silent. Jose is looking hot, but not as hot as Stomp dude.

Lorenzo: I don’t understand why no one is talking. Why is no one talking? Why is everyone quiet? I don’t understand. Why not talk? I don’t know this song. Play ‘New Shoes’ (not even one of his songs). He continues to yell out ‘New Shoes’ for the rest of the set.

Sadly, Lorenzo will never realise he is a dick.

Why are people so dumb? Part 50.

Or are they just pretending?

I know I've bitched about this before, but I don't think I can keep on pretending that they're pretending. Sure it's denial, but I can’t possibly bear the fact that the ratio of dumb arses to normal, cynical, people is even a bee’s dick higher. I’d think to think the smart people out there are just hiding, perhaps chilling in their la-z-boy recliners debating the horrid example of this bastardisation of the English language but accepting that these chairs are in fact, a gift from the cushioning gods. But maybe it ain't so.

The latest example of dumbness was last night. Vic and I went to see Rainman the play. Like many a mediocre actor before him, Josh Harnett obviously decided that a bit of theatre would help in his quest to be more than just the Hollywood heart throb. Ha. Josh, if you were playing the autistic savant then maybe you’d get props, but you couldn’t even deliver your lines of 'the hot brother' properly. Yes, even us modest thespians (me Drabula’s (yes Drabula not Dracula) wife circa 1991 and Vic numerous roles in the Hills theatrical group circa 1990’s) picked up on this. But I digress. The dumb people were the females in the audience (aged 25 and over) who ‘wooooooooooooooooooed’ when Joshy walked on stage. I thought that would be it, but no, again there were actually giggling fits when he took his top off in another scene. Girls, how will we ever be portrayed as anything but Sex and the City watchers who buy razors and phones with Daisies on them if you people continue to act like this? Please, just stop. STOP.

In other news I still haven’t sent my postcards from New York. I plan to action this by the end of October.

I’m off to the Loire Valley this weekend. I can’t begin to tell you how much cheese I plan to eat.

A better me

I’ve been thinking about it for a while and I’m going to be an all round better person. I’m going to be someone who is financially responsible, who does more baking and someone who sends postcards immediately after holidays*. I’m pretty sure there are other things I should add to the list. Oh, yes, be a better writer. I am going to learn grammar. I will use tenses properly, write with more emotion in my work and know where my apostrophes go. I may also start read my work properly before it is read by ‘important’ people i.e my work group head. I am going to exercise my mind. Be more informed. Be caring. Thoughtful. More aware. Learn politics. World economic policies (maybe). Yes, these are the things I’m going to do.

This is exciting. I’ve already started. I met with a financial adviser today. I even listened to most of it. I took notes too. I just realised I forgot that I decided to action my list immediately, good start Vanessa, but at least I’ve remembered to do it now.

In fact, I’m going to put you all on cyber hold while I perform my first maturely actioned task.

Done. I feel better and more responsible already.

I’ve also decided that I am going to make some more friends. With the forthcoming departure of many of my closest London friends I will soon find myself significantly ‘friendless’. So how does one go about making new friends? My sister suggested I join the choir. Maybe the fact I’m not 50, don’t like quilting and can’t sing is a good enough reason for a big, fat, no freakin’ way. Kudos to her for originality though. As if by sent down from Google God, there was a pop up banner on one of my search sites advertising a meet people club. So I clicked. Then it confirmed what I suspected. They are all losers. I’m sure they love playing darts and putting tunes on the jukebox. There has to be another way. So I thought about taking up a sport. Except, well, let’s just say despite the fact my Dad loves to brag about the golden years of his shot put and javelin talents, none of us picked up the sporty gene. That and the fact I suspect he is lying.

So my friend avenues have been severely dwindled. I want my new friend circle to be like Brangelina’s brood. I want friends from all over the world. I want to talk about my friend Djwali from Africa and Anja from Sweden**. Even Karen from London would do.

*I will actually get around to sending my postcards from New York. Yes, I realised it was in June. No, I will not consider sending postcards from the actual holiday destination – let’s be realistic here.

**Current friends, no offense, I really like you, but I have to do a top up.