Thank you little German lady

This is a story of timing. Timing so beautiful, it deserves sonnets, birds and shiny haired Chinese children playing the violin.

Now, we all avoid people. My personal technique is the stare through (ST). First timers, please, please, don't try it out on an important avoid because it can go wrong. The ST is my most used avoidance technique, mostly because it comes quite naturally. There are two ways I perform the ST. The first is when I haven't seen the person because I don't have my glasses on (this is err, why it comes naturally). The second is when I incorporate my double take of the noted person with one long ST. I gradually make my face become more fixated and animated upon a certain object, as if yes, I'm trying to read that street sign across the road. Now the ST only works if there's a mutual avoidance understanding (MAU). However, more often than not, it's only a one sided understanding and you end up having to talk to the avoided, usually about what they did/are going to do on the weekend. This is where it all goes wrong so you must prepare for a solid ST performance.

Sorry, that was way longer than expected.

So back to timing and the Chinese children: cue birds.

This morning, I was walking to work. I was at the crucial point of the journey where MAU's are often had or are broken. Twelve minutes from my destination I saw a lady in her fifties looking at a map. Inexplicably, I was drawn to her which resulted in my very uncharacteristic and unprompted helpfulness, asking her if she needed help getting somewhere. Sure enough, she needed the Millennium Bridge which I very enthusiastically showed her with large arm movements. I left, feeling pleased with my deed. I was so very pleased with myself, that I then decided it was likely I was going to soon be run over by a car before being able to brag about my Jesus like behaviour. So while still congratulating myself yet looking both ways while crossing the road my eyes were drawn to a head, a known head, let's just call this person Carpet Face. Even without my glasses, I knew it was a head I should avoid. If I had not stopped to help the little German lady, I would have bumped smack bang into Carpet Face with whom I do not have a MAU.

I learn lessons and then pass them on. Seriously, I'm like a guru.

Grandad fantasy dirtified

Imagine me, walking to work. The sun is shining and I'm feeling generous with my positivity; like in a I could probably hug puppies and pat toddlers on the head kind of way. I have my headphones on which I did think were cool and if I'm honest, a little street, up until a day ago when L asked me if I had stolen them from the plane.

So I'm powering away when I see four little boys running over the pavement, trying not to step on the cracks. 'Oh how sweet', I think as I am pretty much high after four straight days of English sunshine. Then I spot their 60 year old (give or take), grandad, ambling behind the little monkeys. I decide he looks like a good old sport, and probably even whittles some soldiers out of wood in his spare time while whistling old show tunes.

I begin to think about how kind it is that he's accompanying them to school. I imagine him telling the boys stories from his youth, most probably by some kind of fireplace and him slipping them chocolates before dinner time. I'm totally caught up in this wholesome fantasy until I walk past him and he slurs 'hell-oo sexy' in the most dirty, I need to go home and wash myself kind of way.

Sleazy fucker.

Rap

I’m procrastinating, so I’m going to write some kind of rap instead. I’m not going to delete anything so the following is rap via a stream of consciousness.

Here it goes:

Yo, yo, I’ll tell y’all what I know,
Don’t go chasin’ peeps without a bow
Run little dawg, I’m coming after yo
Be scared, but don’t stoop too low

Low, low, how low can you throw
Skim the fields with one swoop yo
Low, low, how low can you throw
Skim the fields with one swoop yo

I go through bins, I leave scraps on my chin
But I’ll tell y’all somethin’, this is how I win
I won’t pay no tax, I let da man swallow my sin
And now I got more to leave to my kin

Low, low, how low can you throw
Skim the fields with one swoop yo
Low, low, how low can you throw
Skim the fields with one swoop yo

That's enough, I'm going to have lunch now.

Moments of realisation: number 76

I wasn’t meant to act.

I wasn’t meant to lose my inhibitions amongst a bunch of strangers in Finsbury Town Hall.

I wasn’t meant to pick up imaginary flowers and pretend to smell them.

But this is ok, because now I know, right?

Missing out

Numerous exciting things have happened to me in the past week. Actually, two, but still, it's enough to write about.

Firstly, I finally resigned. Let me emphasise on the word finally. After a much anticipated build up of about a year and four months to be exact, it ended up being one of those things that could be filed under 'the biggest let down ever'. It was fine, you know, I could easily describe it as pleasant. I guess I wanted to feel some kind of post resignation satisfaction. I don't know, like a great weight had been lifted off my burnt out shoulders. But there was nothing. Perhaps it's because I'm dead inside. Clearly, being so icy makes it hard to determine these things called feelings.

Hold, there's a pang of excitement. 3 MORE WEEKS. Yep, there it was - excitement. The inquisitive ones may ask, what are you going to do when you find yourself unemployed in three weeks time? Finally fulfill my dream of being a garbo? Perhaps read to sick puppies while they paw gratefully at me, touched by my soothing voice? Spend more time familiarising myself with the bible? No. No. And no. I shall freelance. Lets take a moment to think about the word 'free' for a moment. Stop now, I have more exciting news: we got an electric toothbrush yesterday and I really have to tell you about it.

Firstly, it's amazing.The toothbrush cleans my teeth in a way that I didn't think was possible. It's like a professional clean, everytime. Honestly, it's fantastic. So much so it's in the top five things I own. Shall I list them? Ok, in no particular order:

The electric toothbrush
The bookshelf
My laptop
Dim sum steamers
The free mirror we picked up off the side of the road

So it started to make me wonder what else I'd been missing out on for all these years. What other contraptions, hobbies, people or things have I deprived myself of due to the stubborn nature of not wanting to replace the old with the new? For years I resisted the electric toothbrush and for what? Plaque ridden teeth? Well no more. Give me new things and I'll try them all. For the better I'll add. Go on, throw them at me and I'll try them like a teething baby.

Nothing says end of holiday like a Korean poo cleaning AND drying toilet

So I've decided you haven't lived until you've sat on a toilet and had a cold pistol of water shoot up your ass. Or have had the ability to then dry it with some kind of in built butt hairdryer. If you have yet to experience this, I suggest you calmly shut down your computer and then get yourself on the next plane to Seoul.

In other news I'm back in London. I almost cried on the tube ride back from Heathrow. That's until I remembered it would be totally pathetic and I'd lose all credibility as a girlfriend with no heart. That's right, I eat babies for an afternoon snack. But I digress. Australia was everything I wanted it to be. Although I guess the problem with belonging to two countries is, the longer you spend in one, the more detatched you feel from the other.

As you'd expect, everything moves on without you. It was great to see my family and friends and for the most part, time and distance makes no difference. Laughing at farts is without borders, but it became even more apparent how different my life is now to most of my friends back home. I'm not saying either mine or theirs is necessarily better, rather, they're just different. Luckily, for the most part, it felt like it was only the other week I last saw them.

It's a little strange to see how your life could have panned out. I could be a home owner. A gardener. I could own a BBQ. I could have kids or a dog. Sure, the me in my parallel life would have been happy. But thanks to a strange kind of distance created hindsight or is it foresight(?), I'm pretty happy where I am now with my mortgage free, kid free and sprinkler system free life.

But Australia, it was bloody good to see you.

Waiting

I'm bored.

My legs are jiggling uncontrollably like an impatient Chinese man.

I'm annoying everyone with my happiness.

I even tidied my desk.

I'm contemplating the risk of eating another banana.

And I think I've outdone myself with my packing. Not only is it light and minimalistic but it's organised too. I have morphed into my mother with full force. Hand sanitiser? Yes. Spare plastic bags? Fuck yes - take three. I've even applied three coats of organisation to my nails. The first is an undercoat. Then two layers of grey. Then a final coat to seal it so my nails will be able to endure 3.5 weeks of hardcore fun. Shit, that's 4 coats of organisation. Arghh. Why can't I ever be a proper half Chinese person and add up correctly in my head?

4 hours til I can go to the airport.

7 days

This time, this exact time in a week, I’ll be packing my things up (by packing up, I mean shoving my laptop somewhere) and leaving grey behind for three and a half weeks. Do you hear me people? Three and a half weeks! This calls for more exclamation marks!!!!!

It’s strange, mostly, I don’t think of my other home much. And by that, I don’t mean the people, it’s more the physical nature. I don’t think about the roads, the trees or the shops. And of course, I don’t need to think of these things, because everyday life is in London, but as the days draw closer, they’re appearing again. I’m suddenly having flashes of ‘home’. I’m remembering street names, shops, foods, I’m even thinking about how I’d get from the city to the beach and where I’d park. It’s a strange mix of comfort and excitement.

And for the first time, I’m showing my home to someone else. Being over here has changed how I perceive Australia and Australians. Instead of being proud, at times it has made me cringe, made me embarrassed and made me ashamed. Of course, it’s not all bad. I know it’s not. I guess I want L to see the best part of my other home, because I know how great it is. I want him to see it how I left it, not how Aussies abroad ruined it.

But the most important thing is, I'm coming home. I can feel sun on me. I can hear the crickets at sunset and the smell of eucalyptus. I'm walking slower already and smiling at strangers (actually, not yet, but I might). I'm coming home and I can't wait.

Incompetent voice projection

You know how every so often you have moments of self affirmation? I often have them about aspects of my personality that I have forgotten or perhaps chosen to ignore. For example, sometimes I forget I'm bossy. But, whenever that happens, I'm quickly brought back to reality when I have a tourette's like moments. Such incidents have included other people doing the following (and this is by no means an exhaustive list): continuous pulling apart of Blu-Tac, slow walking, fast walking, cooking in wrong pans, bags on tables and so on.

I have recently started classes at a new type of gym. By 'new type' it's not really a gym, more an establishment that holds a variety of interesting classes. Don't worry, there's a point to this. The point is, I recently had a moment when I remembered I'm not a class participator. So everyone can relate to this, I've prepared a list of non participating examples for various stages of life. Yes, all are from my life except the last. I don't know anyone called Lorraine.

School: never really asked questions. Probably because I wasn't listening and was too busy trying to draw the perfect Superman symbol (see previous posts re. Dean Cain).

Uni: never participated in discussions. Probably because I was in shock (for three years) that after having gone to an all girls high school that the only boys to look at were mature age Trekkies.

Work: only ask questions if I'm in a challenging and perceptive mood. This depends on how much sleep I've had and my corresponding intelligence levels. If other people prolong meetings by asking too many questions, I WILL glare at them.

Retirement: you go to your watercolour class, but you spend limited time asking the teacher how to draw the perfect vase. You roll your eyes at Lorraine who hogs all the teachers time asking banal questions about circles.

So my recent re-realisation is that I have a quiet voice that doesn't project in gym/group like situations. When the instructor asks if everyone's warm, I will answer, but in a voice like the smallest doll in the toy pile, well, that's if dolls could fucking talk. I don't know why, but I can't get loud enough. And this is the one time in my life when I'm quite enthusiastic about something yet I can't muster enough volume to make myself be heard. I remember in another class, our instructor used to make us count down our squats. I was never that person you could hear. He'd even come up to me and I'd do this weak as shit, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 - pathetic. But it's not just in gyms I can't make myself heard. Put me in a loud pub and half an hour into talking, I'll have lost my voice.

After having given it some thought, both medical and philosophical, I think I have half a genetic reason as to why I'm poorly equipped in the vocal department. I remember learning when I was 12 that Asians have small lungs, so knowing me, I got the small lungs as well as the short eyelashes. Oh and slow legs. At least I am good at squatting.

Unnecessary high fiving

Now, let me just start by saying, I like the odd high five. But it should only be done occasionally. Like once every three months and only if something really good has happened. For instance, if you’ve finally mastered juggling or if you’ve been learning how to tie nautical knots and can do a double loop bowline with your eyes closed.

I am exposed to a high fiver. There are many problems with this. The first is she does it too hard. She leaves a stinging sensation on my left hand. She is muscley and doesn’t know her own strength. Secondly, she makes me high five things I don't believe are warranted. I get to work late again on your job? High five. Let's make logo take over the entire page? High five. It gives off the impression we are ‘all on the same page’ but in reality, I'm reading 'What's my poo telling you' and she's half way through 'Eat, Pray, Love'.

Now, I like the girl, so I go along with the slapping, but I really want her to stop it or at least make the slap softer. I guess I could just completely miss her hand one day and then she might feel awkward or sorry for me and NEVER DO IT AGAIN.

Good idea?

People who end their emails with an initial

So, like most things in my life, I started off in awe of this new thing I'd learned. It was in my first job and my kind of boss was called Sara. She used to sign off all her emails saying 'thanks, S'. I thought it was so, so clever. So working girl. What was this innovative and quick way of signing off emails? As someone with seven letters to type, I was blown away with this new world that working had opened my eyes to. However, I never thought I could adopt it as a practice of my own. Sure, I was even called 'V' as a nickname so I was pretty much entitled to it, but I couldn't, for I decided it was as uncomfortable fit as me suddenly calling people 'sweetie'.

In my second job, I learned the sign off 'cheers'. Cheers? I'd never heard of it as an email ending. It was so casual, yet friendly. So new age. Fuck 'regards' I thought, 'cheers' is the new way forward and it was, until I realised it was stupid.

So my new life rules are:

I will accept email endings with an initial if you have a first letter that ends in 'ee' so G, B, D etc. However, if you are an S, H, A etc, and use the afore mentioned letters as an ending to your correspondence with me, I will roll my eyes and internally ridicule you. If you choose to ignore my personal and, of course, ridiculous wrath, simply take a long, hard look at yourself in the mirror and then repeat your prohibited initial fifty times.

A conversation with the 14 year old me

The follow imaginary conversation will feature me now (MN) and me then (MT).

(MN): Yo, V dog (you may think this is a classic old person getting into the young person vibe but it's not. I was heavily into R&B from 14-16 and I would have appreciated the lingo from someone as cool as myself at age 28)

(MT): Hey.

(MN): Listen, I just wanted to let you know a few things; you will get a boyfriend one day. Oh and you'll grow into your nose.

(MT): Really? Thanks, you know how much I hate this honker. Will I ever marry Dean Cain?

(MN): Dean Cain will grow into a fat old man with moobs. You will outgrow your obsession in about three years. In another ten years you will be embarrassed when your work colleagues learn of your teenage fantasy and put a picture of him wobbling out of the water on your desk filed under 'celebrity has beens'.

(MT): No way. I'll always love Dean (draws a superman symbol on her homework)

(MN): Whatever, so I'm going to tell you some more insightful things.

(MT): Yeah, like what? What am I going to do for a job? Am I going to be, like, successful? God, by 28. I'm probably going to be married, have a house. Oh my god, maybe have a baby!!

(MN): Erm. The success thing is somewhat debatable. The rest, well, let's just say no to all the above but you will have gone on some amazing holidays and done some really cool things.

(MT): Oooooooh, like what! Hang out with famous people?!

(MN): Umm, no. I can't think of all of them right off the top of my head, oh wait, like live in London?

(MT): London, no way, I want to live in America. I might meet Dean Cain or Jonathon Taylor Thomas. Someone might discover me in a mall.

(MN): Stop fucking talking about Dean Cain and trust me, you'll lose this America obsession. Oh, here's something. People will still be telling you to smile more in 14 years time. How's that for annoying?

(MT): OHMYGOD. I HATE people telling me that. I'm daydreaming, why don't they realise?

(MN): Because people are dumb. Hey listen, I have to go.

(MT): Why, are you going out clubbing or something?

(MN): Err, something like that. Although a more accurate description would be going to bed.

(MT): God you're old. Man, if I was allowed to, I'd go to the R&B clubs EVERY SINGLE NIGHT.

(MN): That's because you don't know any better. Goodbye and please, stop wearing those baggy jeans, you're going to go to France with mum soon and some American girls are going to laugh at you. You'll then leave them in France in embarrassment when you could have saved you some room in your suitcase. Oh and don't let mum buy you that leather hat in Florence because Stephen will tell you you look like you belong in a gay pride march.

(MT): Um, ok thanks. I just wanted to say:

I'LL LOVE DEAN CAIN FOREVA

Realisation

It hit me this morning. I didn't know an English person until I moved over here.

Is that weird?

Not that this is remotely on the same subject, but today on Oxford St, there was a guy trying to convert people to becoming atheist. As I laughed in agreement, a guy came up and said, seeing as though you find this funny, how about becoming a Muslim? Errr, I didn't know the two came hand in hand, but apparently it's the 2nd most popular religion. As I was walking back to the tube, I saw the atheist and Muslim guy walking together. It was some kind of religious tag team. I felt confused yet applauded their idea in my head.

After that, I zipped up my chin because it was so cold. It hurt and now I have a zip mark.

In the final bit of excitement for today, I saw a girl on the tube who looked like a tiger! A tiger! She had a constellation of dark freckles across her face and the bluest eyes imaginable. Luckily I had my glasses on so I could stare at her in focus.

I think that's it.

Ode to grey

I'd like to dedicate a post to a major colour in my life;

Grey.

Everyday, I am greeted with your presence. In fact, living in this country, there isn't a day goes by when I don't see some shade of you. And here I am, worried about my impending holiday to Australia. Worried, of all things about the weather. I keep forgetting I'm about to come back to a country that doesn't go, at maximum, a week without blue sky. Here, we could go two weeks, perhaps even three, without looking up and seeing an hint of pale blue relief to the otherwise gloominess up above.

And it's starting to kill me slowly.

Kind of like when someone is tapping their pen in a two hour meeting. Sure, you can deal with it for about 15 minutes, busying yourself with eyeing the biscuits (pre credit crunch) or thinking about lunch. But then, it becomes all you can think about, making you want to claw your way across the table, rip it out of their hand and starting tapping them with it in the middle of their forehead. I would just like to point out that in 2009, I would have said 'rip it out of their hand and use it to stab them in the eye' but I am trying to be less violent in my work fantasies in 2010.

So back to the weather. I remember Yoel once said (and excuse me Yoel for paraphrasing) some of the greatest bands, e.g Radiohead, could only come from the UK because of the weather. Yoel, you were so right. I'd like to take a moment to address Radiohead and say, I finally understand and you're forgiven. You (the band) have no other choice for producing such wrist slitting music because it's FUCKING DEPRESSING seeing nothing but grey for an extended period of time.

Argh, grey, get out of my life.

I know, I know. I have winter blues. But it's making me want to crawl out of my skin. I feel impatient. It's turning all that I love about this place into resentment for the constant darkness and gloom. It's probably because I know I have sun coming.

6 weeks.

6 weeks.

It can't come soon enough.

When you want cake, but you can't work out what kind of cake you want

So I'm in a cake shop, let's for arguments sake call it 'Life'. I'm looking around. There are many delights before my eyes. Pain au chocolat. Oui. Scones with clotted cream and homemade strawberry jam. Two please. Pastries. Cheesecake. Banana bread. Raspberry and chocolate muffins. Bigger than your head jam biscuits. It's amazing. And then the worst thing hits. I can't decide what I want. I look around for ages. I annoy the shopkeeper (me) and then leave the store empty handed, hungry and perhaps a little over stimulated by the whole experience.

My mum worked for 27 years in the same job, at the same school. She didn't complain and as far as I know, she was happy and didn't want anything else because she always made the best of what she had. And then there's dad. He's done the same thing for the best part of 40 years, give or take some entrepreneurial moments that none of us can quite work out. But their generation committed. They chose that one thing and made it work. And then came us. We flit from one thing to another, believing, from fuck knows where, that we're entitled. Entitled to everything. And that's why I think so many of us are lost. We've grown up believing that the world is ours. And sure, it is, but when you've got the notion of choice, it's really hard to settle on one thing.

When I started at my first job, I was the office co-ordinator. Which is just a bullshit way to say receptionist. I hated it. I lasted 6 weeks because a. I dislike answering phones and b. I hated being perceived as being at 'the bottom'. So I quit that job and went to another, one I thought was more worthy of a university graduate. I believed after 3 years of a joke of a degree, I was entitled to more than being a lacky. Yes, you have to start somewhere, but exactly where was questionable to the 21 year old me.

So now, again, 7 years later, I, like many of my friends, are thinking we're entitled to more. But it's in a less selfish way than when we started out. We know there's something better out there for us but we don't know what. We don't want to start over, but we want more. We've spent longer than our parents ever got to, running around life, blindfolded, trying to work out who we are and what we want. And in many ways, that's a good thing. However, when you begin to work yourself out, and your oyster of a world begins to get smaller, you really want to make sure you're filling it with the right things. And that's hard.

Snot and social fishing

You know when you get sick and you can't remember what it was like to be well? You wish for the day you can breathe out of your nose. You swear you will never take a clear nose for granted. You wake up with a film of saliva around your teeth and if you're really lucky, your lip stuck to your top tooth. You sweat out of one armpit, you leak out of your left eye and make a mountain of tissues that makes even your loved one feel repulsed. You'd even prefer to go to [insert shithouse job] work than feel like this. And then, as life goes, you get better, the snot lessens, you go back to solid food, can get to sleep without waiting for that pop of air that lets you breathe for the night and you forget your promises.

But lets all take a moment to appreciate our good health.

Done? Ok, let's continue.

I was at a house party last night. I've decided I quite enjoy saying weird things and gauging people's reactions. It's like social fishing with a quicker return. It's not really intentional, as I can't quite manage my filter at the best of times, but it's nice to establish what level you're at with people immediately. So last night, I was talking this dude who smelt a bit like a very mature farmhouse cheddar. He had a mouthful of teeth and a full head of peppered hair. I think his name was Lou but I always forget to listen to people's names. Like most gents with peppered hair, he had very dark eyebrows and eyes. Think Steve Martin. At approximately the three minute mark of the conversation, I told him that I had a dream where I pissed all over my face. To me, saying this is normal. To others, it's weird and unsettling. I get their point, it's not everyone's cup of tea, but if I had a choice between talking about the weather or piss, I'd choose piss any day. In the end, it was a successful dip in the water, he enjoyed it, we all laughed and there was a bit of fun banter to follow.

And then he left the party pretty much straight away...

2009: I saw, I ate, I undid my top button, then ate more

You know, it's impossible to replicate a happy memory, to remember a certain feeling or relive the moment you first experience something. And sometimes, this makes me sad. I'll never again experience Paris for the first time, or eat my first cheesecake. But whenever I think this I take a moment to mentally bitch slap myself because the beauty of life is you can continually build on these moments and memories. So much so, you overflow your mind with happiness, take everything for granted and then have to re bitch slap yourself as a reminder to be thankful for the great life you have.

And what a great one I have.

London, as trying as it is sometimes, will only give as much as you're prepared to take. The city is like one of those friends who is great fun, amazing, bright and clever. But you have to make an effort with London, and as long as that's ok with you, it's everything you could ever want.

It's been another year away from family and friends and another year of making the logo bigger and making my copy sound 'more fun'. But then again, it's been another year of amazing trips away, mind blowing food and fun stuff. So as I sit here, on New Year's Eve, on my rather comfy £40 sofa, slow cooked pork in the oven and listening to the Concerto for violin, oboe and strings in D minor, I'm exactly where I want to be and I couldn't be more content.

Happy New Year.

PS

That was not a dig at LP, more an observation of t-shirt usage based on him and other males.

Thank you.

PPS He did not make me write this.

One time dirtiness

So there's something I don't understand about men.

Why can they wear a pair of jeans numerous times, some may say too many times, within a two week washing period, yet wear a t-shirt once and have to wash it?

Now I understand the issues. There are the pits. Yes, they produce man stench.

However!

You, men, are NOT going out, spearing animals and dragging them home on your backs. Nor are you jogging, in a sauna or in one of those humid plant conservatories while wearing your (insert special own man t-shirt here). You are not and I repeat, not, doing enough to produce a sweat and therefore a pongy enough smell to warrant a one wear t-shirt wash.

Why is it that you'll happily have a sweaty bum, fart and god knows what else in your jeans and not wash them after one wear? The lower region holds far more blows that your pits, yet your clothes are not evenly compensated and I want answers.

I'm waiting...

People who make me work

I don't enjoy working at the best of times. I resist having to do it as I have a naturally lazy and difficult nature, so when it's Christmastime and I'm trying to wind down, I really don't appreciate people coming up to me asking me to do things or starting sentences with 'what are you up to?' or 'can you just...'. How about just getting out of my face?

Our last day of work is tomorrow. Everyone knows that no work will be done either today or tomorrow. It's COMMON KNOWLEDGE you stubborn spreadsheet wielding mules! It's one of those unwritten rules, like being able to lick your ice cream bowl at home but not at a restaurant.

I've spent the best part of the day transferring movies to my hard drive. Oh, and I played the Wii this morning. At the moment I'm doing my last transfer and then I'm out of here. See? This is me getting into the spirit of things.

Leave me alone advertising go getters. I will not let you and your 'heeeeys' or 'what are you doing for Crimbo?' prefaces get me to cave in and do any work. And don't come and sit on my desk, it doesn't make you friendlier.

And finally, anyone who says 'Crimbo' should probably be shot with some kind of sparkly decoration.