A Highland Fling…

After travelling for the last couple of weeks for work, on Friday night I was looking forward to a quiet weekend, catching up on a few chores and squeezing in a bit of chilling out. But in actual fact, Saturday became one of those days that kept unraveling and unfolding as the day progressed. 

After a slight over-sleep (meaning no chores pre-departure), a planned catch up with A-down-the-hill prior to a regular appointment at the hairdressers developed into somewhat of a larger day and after an impromptu movie matinee (Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows if you must know, and yes it was great!) I found myself at a Ceilidh.

‘A what?!’ I hear you say.

A Ceilidh.

A Ceilidh, pronounced ‘kay-lee’, is a traditional Scottish knees up, comprised of kilts, whisky and haggis. But mainly, it is about dancing, informal, fast-and-furious, ‘catch your breath between sets’ kind of dancing. So it’s just as well I had come completely unprepared for a night out – flat boots, jeans, long sleeved t-shirt and not a scrap of make-up – because before long, I was sweaty and ‘unkempt’, and absolutely loving it!

We arrived with A-down-the-hill’s Scottish contingent (McHubster is from north of the border you see), snaffled a table and the boys went off to queue for drinks and a spot of haggis. I had grand intentions getting my vegetarian haggis later in the evening but, well, I got rather busy. You see, the music started and the caller invited everyone to take the floor. After a walk through of the dance – usually comprised of a series of steps set to 16 bars which is then just repeated – we were off. And that’s pretty much the way the night went…all night.

The first dance was The Gay Gordons (don’t ask!) and then a little into the second dance, I was delighted to find I had just renewed my acquaintance with The Virginia Reel, a dance I learnt in primary school.

Three and half hours flew by. There was The Dashing White Sergeant, Strip The Willow, The Flying Scotsman, The Canadian Barndance, The Eightsome Reel and a few that we didn’t catch the name of, made stuff up (because we had no idea what we were doing) and had a laugh anyway. The haggis was piped in (and I do mean bagpiped) half way through the evening and Burns’ Address To A Haggis read with due ceremony, much theatre and sense of occasion (for those of you who don’t know, Burns’ Night falls this Wednesday on January 25th).

It was a fantastic night – young and old alike took the floor and it was a refreshing change to see the guys itching to get onto the dance floor to strut their stuff. There was a sense of joyful abandon in the hall – maybe the flow of whisky helped a little – but this was just a great, old-fashioned knees up and the best thing to do was leap off the deep end and give it a whirl.

If you are interested in finding out more you can click here for upcoming ceilidhs in London and here if you feel you really must swot up on a few of the steps.

But there’s really no need…sometimes a little improv. makes the best fun of all!

If Language Be The Food Of Love…

Eureka!

It means I have found it.

The El Dorado, the essence of life, the I Ching, the holy grail…

It’s a funny thing isn’t it, that when you start exploring a particular topic, the floodgates open and suddenly, you are awash. Where previously you could find or you knew very little, in an instant a whole deluge of opportunities to broaden a particular horizon appear.
 
Those of you who have been following along for a little while now will know my fascination for the trials and tribulations of the translation kind here in my adopted homeland. The nonsensical expressions of the natives, the faux pas of my own making, the idiosyncracies of place names and the general labour of love that is communicating with the locals.

Source: pinterest

And let me put this in context. I come from a land Down Under where women glow, men chunder and pretty much the only language spoken is English. As do the locals – speak English I mean…although there are about half a million Australians in the UK…but I digress.

And my I Ching? It is quite simply the definitive Anglo-EU Translation Guide. Shared with me (wry smile for free) with my over-the-partition German work colleague.

Some were familiar from my Boden Bonanza back in May 2011.  But there were others that were new – and enlightening. ‘You must come for dinner soon’ does not constitute an invitation from a Brit (but may from any of the other nationalities in my sphere). ‘I only have a few minor comments’ is not a well done/pat on the back but is rather likely to precede a complete re-working of…well, everything you were working on.

Needless to say I spent much of my first few years in Blighty hungry and over-worked.

There’s been a spike of visits and page views over my last post, where I introduced you to Jack Scott from Perking the Pansies (reciprocal back-scratching at its best, I say). Jack has set up a very useful Expat Glossary on his site to help the immigrant ingenue in fair Anatolia navigate the colourful, lotus-eating-expat populous. Inspired by this charitable act, I have decided to create a glossary of my own, Mind The Gap! to help those fresh-off-the-boat to chart a safe course through the nuances of the indigenous vernacular here in the UK.

As the disclaimer says, Mind The Gap! represents the views and experiences of the author and whoever else she can earbash at the time. All idioms, ideas and idiosyncracies have been pinched without prejudice…and without apology.

In the spirit of community, sharing our experiences to enrich others and supporting our expat brothers-and-sisters-in-arms (aka blah blah blah), if you’re prepared to be earbashed and pinched without prejudice, let me know if you’ve got any personal pearlers to add.

Source: pinterest

You never know. This could mark the beginning of a quiet revolution…

3 Sleeps To Go…A Little Pre-Christmas Cheer

This week I have been in and out of central London to meet with friends for a spot of Christmas cheer. There’s something about Christmas lights that make things all glistening and beautiful and so I wanted to share a little of this week’s Christmas sparkle with those of you who have spent 2011 following the Gidday journey.

If you remember, my meanderings began with 20 sleeps to go and a wide-eyed wander down Oxford Street.

Creating Christmas magic in Oxford Street

And last week I was dashing down Regent Street to meet friends for a pre-Christmas dinner and managed to snap a couple of sneaky pics in the middle of the bustling crowds:

Christmas lights in Regent Street

So this week it was time to slow down and venture further afield to discover a little more magic:

The famous Liberty of London storefront

Liberty are renowned for their Christmas windows

…but I have to say that, while these are impressive, my heart still belongs to Christmas windows of department store Myer in my hometown of Melbourne.

Source: Rachel Gray, weekendnotes.com

Anyway, I continued on to fall across that bastion of all things hip, Carnaby Street:

Hmmm the lights look…interesting
They’re still um interesting close up!

I finally made my way down to the back streets below Piccadilly Circus to meet my friend…

I do love stumbling across London’s amazing churches like this one on the corner of Jermyn and Duke of York Streets

…and after drinks were done, I was off for another festive feed at Westfield London. I was a little early so I managed some sparkly snaps here too.

This was hard to capture but is really spectacular. This is over an ‘outdoor’ arcade featuring lots of restaurants along the left and the shopping centre entrances to your right. I’m standing outside John Lewis after walking from the tube station close by. Gorgeous!
This is the unadorned ceiling inside – kind of attractive in a wavy way right?
…and their Christmas lights?  Oh no….

So there was nothing left to do but join my Aussie friend, feast on fab Mexican street food at Wahaca and enjoy my first foray into the world of churros

Churros – gone! Let’s face it, anything with this much chocolate is always festive

…before heading home to bask in my very own Christmas Lights at Gidday HQ.

Hope this adds a little sparkle to your Christmas!

ps…the post title says it all peeps. Just 3 sleeps to go. Just naggin’ sayin’

Friendships Are Made Of This…

There’s nothing like a special guest to make a new pad feel like home. Apart from the opportunity to welcome someone into your new space, it also makes you get your a*** into gear with that last little bit of unpacking. You know, the pile you have left in a corner and avoid making eye contact with, the half empty box you’ve been walking around while muttering ‘I must get around to doing that…’

Anyway, last night Gidday HQ played host to its very first guest – A-down-the-hill (the down-the-hill bit a reference to the place I lived before). The guest bed was made up, living room cushions plumped, cosy blankets draped over the couch (our friendship has a history of much ‘vino, cosy blankies and a movie’) and the place was all ready for her arrival.


Gorgeous house-warming flowers from A-down-the-hill.
The thistles are fitting – hubby is Scottish!

A-down-the-hill was my first ‘London’ friend. Fresh off ‘the boat’ in 2004 and with only her email address to guide me, our friendship has been a rock for me – ups and downs ‘n’ all – over the last eight years and outside Mum and Lil Chicky, she’s the person I feel closest to on the planet.

By the time this post is published, she will have featured a dozen times on Gidday from the UK, appearing the first time on the 29th June 2009 as ‘A’ in Muscles & a Minor Heatwave and most recently at my latest birthday bash, Pukka Picnic & Polo Ponies.

In between, there have been BBQs, baking, and bicycles. I’ve been a Hot Chick to her Hen, and an Emergency Handbag. We’ve been Ladies Who Lunch and we’ve even Kew-ed the Music together. She was also the one who inspired my Kindle-envy, culminating in my abandoning my bookish faith and embracing the pure, electronic loveliness of Audrey.

And she’s another Happy Little Vegemite and Australian Abroad, an enduring fellowship for those of us who’ve made it beyond the initial couple of years here to ‘settle’, whether by marriage (her) or by sheer bloody-minded declaration (me).

So, A-down-the-hill was my first guest, a fitting tribute to all sorts of new chapters we’ve seen each other through over these last eight, London years. And to welcome her last night to Fabulous Finchley was…

…well…

…fabulous.

ps…today we also hugged each other Merry Christmas as we said goodbye as we will not see each other again before the big day. This provided little ol’ moi with a timely reminder to let you all know that there are only 8 sleeps to go.

That’s right, we are down to single figures peeps. Are you ready?

The Silent Letter…

One of the things any Australian coming to the UK feels assured of is the ability to speak the language. You know, to communicate, be understood, that kind of thing. And after almost eight years here, despite some early faux pas (the use of words like pants and thongs come to mind), I don’t find myself thinking twice about the way I speak.

However, working for a global business, I am surrounded by colleagues whose first language is not English. My team mate is French and a close colleague who sits across the partition from me is Turkish. Within a couple of desks away are three Germans so by the time you add the erstwhile Aussie to the mix, the locals represent less than 50% of the seating arrangements in our area. 
There’s often much hilarity as sayings go a bit awry with regularity. We’ve had the dog barking at the wrong door (vs up the tree), don’t let the bugs bite (the bed just went amiss), cookie (vs brownie) points and my personal favourite, a ‘one pony trick’ which leads the mind in a significantly different direction from the one trick pony!

But on the train home today, I was reminded what a real minefield the ‘English’ language can be, particularly when it comes to place names.

It’s not just the longer prefixes to the shires that trip one up on this green isle – I mean how do you get ‘wooster’ from Worcester – or the fact that words tend to dribble away here as opposed to the emphasis-on-every-syllable pronunciation employed by my lot (eg. Bir-ming-ham rhymes with ‘I eat SPAM’). 

It’s the presence of a letter.  A letter that just sneaks in there, quiet as you like. And upsets the natural order of things.

The letter ‘W’.

It’s a dastardedly affair. The ‘W’ sound is happy to lead off, loud and proud, at the beginning of a word – Walthamstow, Windsor, Worthing are fine examples. 

But the rules seem to differ when that little ‘w’ ensconces itself right in the middle of things. So Southwark is pronounced ‘Suthick’ (vs my fresh-off-the-boat South-walk all those years ago), Harwich is pronounced ‘Harrich’…

…and today, I automatically corrected my collègue français’ Flitwick – without skipping a beat – to ‘Flittick’.

My family keep telling me I sound more and more English every time I speak to them.

I think they may be right.

A Liverpudlian Tipple…

I was in Liverpool for work last week (yes I know, this Gidday Gal’s been getting around a bit of late) and as part of the conference agenda was a Brewery Tour.

What? I hear you say. No Fab Four tour?

No, but ours was a magical mystery tour of a completely different kind.

Cains Brewery was started by young Irish immigrant, Robert Cain who bought his first pub in Limekiln Street, Liverpool at the tender age of 24. In 1858, just eight years later, Cain’s hard work enabled him to buy the site on the corner of Stanhope Street where his brewery still stands today – and is the site of our tour.

Twenty-five years later, Robert Cain was one of the wealthiest and most influential businessman in Liverpool, having built over 200 pubs Mersey-side (and a palatial mansion for himself) as well as a reputation for exceptional quality. Of beer I mean. I can’t speak for any of his other predelictions.

In 1887, the year of Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee, Cain began work on the red brick brewery and ornate tower that still in use today (I can attest to this personally) and remains a Liverpool landmark and upon his death in 1907 (at the age of 81) more than 3,000 mourners attended this ‘adopted local’ lad’s funeral.

But it’s been a checkered past for Cain’s. During the 1900s, the brewery changed hands 5 times. A merger with Walkers of Warrington in 1911 saw the newly formed business become one of Britain’s top 50 companies by 1918. Then in 1923, the Stanhope Brewery was sold to Higson’s. – Cain’s continued to flourish until Higson’s sold out to Boddington’s of Manchester in 1985. The company then faced a further change of ownership 5 years later as Boddington’s divested its breweries to Whitbread who then closed the landmark brewery. In 1990, the site was reopened by The Danish Brewery Group who renamed it Robert Cain & Co Ltd but despite brewing a popular Liverpudlian pint, in 2002 the business found itself on the brink of closure.

The current owners, the Dusanj brothers, were inspired by the ethos and tradition of Robert Cain & Company and believing that success could not only be found for the product in Liverpool but around the world, mounted a rescue operation. Under their stewardship, Cains now brews more than 120 million pints a year and is one of the fastest-growing brewers in the country.

One of the innovations brought to market by the brothers is Cain’s Fine Raisin Beer which has won a few awards including Winner of Tesco’s Autumn Beer Challenge in 2003, “Beer of the Festival” at the 2004 Liverpool CAMRA Festival and “World’s Best Fruit Beer” at the World Beer Awards in 2007.

So I tried it – well it seemed rude not to – and quite liked it. Although it does not taste like raisins. Whether this is good or bad, I will leave you to decide.

In true immigrant-made-good fashion, Robert Cain had become a legendary brewmaster, married the Liverpool Lord Mayor’s daughter (he’s a mover and shaker that one) and was enobled as Lord Brocket (although what he would have made of his great-great grandson’s antics on I’m a Celebrity… in 2004 we’ll never know!).

Photo courtesy of officialpubguide.com

The Brewery is open to the public for tours and apart from the history lesson, you get to see how all that lovely beer is made and then get yourself a little tipple or two on the house at the The Brewery Tap which adjoins the brewery.

Not bad for £7.99 eh? 

Sigh…I love my job!

A Place For All Seasons…

Two sleeps.

 That’s right peeps. Only two sleeps to go.
I have two sleeps left in Kingston.
Nestled under the currently thinning winter canopy of the tree that has, for almost seven years, shaded the highs and the lows of this Australian abroad.
It has been my haven.
An oasis, tucked away at the top of the winding street.
A spiritual home.
Summer Shade
A place of happiness and heartbreak.
Of worry and frustration. Of peace and calm.
Autumn Colour
A place for all seasons.
 Where I succumbed to my love of books, brilliant skies and bracing British winters.

Winter Sunset
Where I wrote my first blog post, discovered the joys of an afternoon spent baking and picked my first blackberries.

A Burst of Spring
And it’s almost time to go.

To leave my cosy front window.
To tap away in pastures new.
That’s right peeps. Gidday HQ is on the move.
 

All Change…

I have not been as regular with my posts of late so firstly let me beg your forgiveness.

The reason for this is life…but in a good way.

You see on the 1st September, the contract role that I have been in since the start of the year became permanent. 

It’s been two and a half years of financial uncertainty – wondering what more I could do to find (and land) a job that would firstly cover my bills, never mind a stimulating and fulfilling role in a company that would inspire me to develop my future there. I am excited, grinning from ear to ear. 

And relieved if the truth be known. There may even have been a few joyful tears. 

No more weekends spent trawling job sites, researching and sorting ‘opportunities’, clicking ‘Apply Now’ and in turns waiting for and chasing responses that either arrive by automated email (no matter how friendly and personable the prose, you still know) or not at all. No more looking into my financial plan and wondering whether I would ever be able to take a holiday or save for something concrete (versus squirrelling everything away ‘in case’) and look ahead with confidence.

And no more commuting four hours a day – well from November anyway. Because being permanent means I can commit – yes commit people – to moving. To the other side of London, a garden flat in the North bit (the other side of ‘The River’) that will halve my commute. Where I can discover new neighbourhoods, create new habits and take the final steps to re-building the life I want (I wrote ‘my life’ originally but it seemed a little melodramatic in light of tomorrow’s 9/11 ten year anniversary).

I always thought of myself as a strong, confident and positive person and the last two and a half years have tested this in me over and over. I hadn’t realised how much until this week when suddenly there was certainty in my future and I felt that unremitting happiness deep, deep down. 

The kind that inspires me and restores a little of my faith that it really does all turn out in the end.

Top Marks For Top Girls…

I do like a bit of theatre. I used to subscribe to the MTC when I lived in Melbourne and when I arrived in London in 2004, I promised that I would immerse myself in all the theatrical delights that this great city had to offer. This happened for a little while (as far as my dwindling Aussie Dollars would stretch anyway) until life got in the way.

Seven years later, I have finally managed to rekindle the embers and, inspired by a cheap ticket to see Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead a few weeks ago (which, by the way, was fabulous), I have been keeping my eyes peeled for more special offers of the ‘treading the boards’ kind. And that was how my trip to see Top Girls last Wednesday came about.

Marlene has left her home town to explore the world and try her luck as a career girl in the 80s. The play opens with her at dinner with friends, celebrating her promotion to Managing Director of recruitment firm Top Girls. But this is not just any dinner – her friends are women from history:

Pope Joan, who disguised as a man, is said to have been pope between 854-856 
Isabella Bird, explorer
Dull Gret, the harrower of Hell
Lady Nijo, the Japanese mistress of an emperor and later a Buddhist nun
Patient Griselda, the patient wife from The Clerk’s Tale in Geoffrey Chaucer‘s Canterbury Tales

Statement hair, shoulder pads and much white wine abound and the dinner disintegrates into a quite ribald affair.

The rest of the play covers the period from about a year prior right up until the days following Marlene’s promotion and flicks back and forth from the life Marlene left behind, epitomised by that of her sister Joyce and her daughter Angie, to her high flying role at work. There’s a great sense of breaking into a man’s world in these latter scenes, particularly poignant when it is suggested that Marlene has stolen something (the promotion) from someone who ‘really needs it’ (a man).

I remember this as an under current when I started my career in the early 90s (although things had probably progressed a little since the days of Thatcher’s Britain and I was in Australia several thousand miles away). I also remember feeling quite p*ssed off at the slightly patronising tone of others in response to my ‘no marriage, no kids thank you ‘ mantra back in the day (and the tone didn’t really change until I got into my 40s).  It was extraordinary to have the opportunity to revisit this time in my life, some 20 years later.  How clear things become with 20-20 vision.

I often go along to plays without having any detailed knowledge of the story – I like the sense of discovery this creates rather than knowing what to expect and then having an opinion about whether it (the play) lived up to my expectation.

With Top Girls, this made the dinner scene a little confusing but as the play unfolded, the pennies dropped.

These women each represented different aspects of living in a ‘man’s world’ – whether it was Lady Nijo, who does not see the forced attentions of the Emperor as rape or Patient Griselda, who having promised to obey her husband, amiably forgives his cruelty in taking her children away from her – and the various conversations around the table served to highlight what was ‘expected of them’ as women in their various societies.

So Top Girls was thought-provoking and pithy (in parts), confronting and heart-warming and a great opportunity to revisit the era of Chardonnay and shoulder pads, when women struck another blow for equality, consequences and all.

I absolutely loved it.

If you are in London, you can see Top Girls at London’s Trafalgar Studios until October 29th. You should go peeps, really you should. You can click here to find out how.

Pukka Picnic and Polo Ponies…

As regular readers of Gidday from the UK will know, I had a birthday.  Not a ‘big’ birthday by society’s reckoning but I like to endow each of my special days with a significance and joyful anticipation befitting someone who has not yet reached double figures.  And faced with how to mark my special day this year, we decided to do the only thing one should do in south west London on a sunny Sunday afternoon – a picnic at the Polo.

Ham Polo Club is located just a 15min bus ride from my place and every Sunday from May to September, you can pop along for a fiver and picnic alongside the rich and…well the rich.  And every Summer for the SIX Summers I’ve lived nearby, me and A-down-the-hill have said ‘Oh we should go!’ and then before we know it, October arrives and we’ve missed the season.  Well not this year!

So on the last day of my year, the SS 41 chugging slowly and gracefully into its mooring, two Aussies, a Scot and four Turks packed their picnic vittels and headed to TW10 to grab a dainty bite of quintessential English-ness.

The sun beamed down upon us, the wine flowed freely and the players and their ponies polo-ed.  There was a smidgen of educating (we learnt about chukkas, treading in and the like), a modicum of movement (chair to field to chair to field to…oh you get the picture) and a whole lotta laugh-out-loud-ness as commentator after commentator filled the slow bits gaps in the action with that droll, dry humour that the Brits do best.

Anyway here’s how the day went…

The game started with something a bit like a passing out. The eight players and their ponies line up in front of the clubhouse (where all the posh people sit) and as the players are introduced, they ride in a little circle around their team mates before stopping back in their original place. Bless! 


‘Passing Out’
Then the action started – these eight grown ups ride around on their horses with big sticks trying to hit a tiny ball up and down a big field and through a couple of posts at either end. No, I don’t play golf either.

An unexpected and rather noisy spectator dropped in for a while…(I hope at least he paid his fiver!)


…before it was back to the action as well as a change of direction (the scoring end for each team changes after each goal)…

 …which is unbelievably confusing for all concerned.

Every so often play stops and they all gather around for a throw in, which look a little like a Rugby Scrum on horseback.

And lest we forget, polo is the sport of the everyman – NOT!  Ponies are usually changed after each chukka making it at least four per game.  Whatever happened to sweating those assets?

Anyhow, after paying for all those posh ponies, there’s not much left in the pot for grounds maintenance so it was our job to chip in and ‘stomp those divots’

Stomping the divots or ‘Treading In’ as it’s called here
Stalking Up close and personal opportunities

 …while our Scot ‘minded the store’.


Four and half hours later, sun-kissed and inebriated it was time to go and in the back seat on the way home, I believe I gurgled happily about what a lovely day I’d had!

So that was my fond farewell to forty-one and another one of the ‘things I must do while I live in Kingston’ ticked off the list.  But to be completely honest, now I’ve been, being local is no longer a mandatory for future attendance.

Chin chin!

ps…I’ve also been submitting some articles and reviews on a site called Weekend Notes – why don’t you wander on over and check out what I wrote about this little adventure and some of the other things I’ve done in London.