David Lynch is directing my dreams

Ok armchair dream decoders, try this one on for size. Maybe I can blame it on the (possibly) hallucinogenic combination of white wine and snus, but whatever it was, David Lynch should try it instead of transcendental meditation to come up with his next storyline.

My dream last night was set, very late at night, on Kingsland Road in East London.  This is a pertinent detail, so if you don't know Kingsland Road: imagine a street in Hackney where the flow of gentrification money hasn't quite cleansed away the grit and the stains of 'Murder Mile' as it was known in the 80s.  The most common sound is police sirens, pretty much any person on it after 7pm is drunk, there are a lot of council estates and angry young lads the Daily Mail would refer to as "hoodies".  Although I have to add there are also delightful all-night parties spilling out of the Caribbean hair salons, a string of truly excellent Vietnamese restaurants, a chaotic fruit market and the best independent cinema in East London.  It is a familiar place for me, the site of many a dreamy walk home.  In this actual dream however, it was decidedly sinister.

I am walking home very late at night.  I sense three old men in trenchcoats following me.  One of them grabs my wrist.  The other two melt back into the shadows, but with their backs to us like a Magritte painting, standing under a silhouetted, wintry tree.  It's very dark, but the one who has grabbed my wrist has an almost supernaturally white face. He is hunched over, mouth open wide, eyes showing their whites like a lunatic, that cavernous mouth approaching my finger which I am pointing at him accusingly. Just before he bites my finger off, he pauses with his mouth open, laughs and runs off with his cronies.  I try to scream for help but no sound comes out.  I try to run in the direction of home. And then I sense three old men following me in the shadows... this sequence repeats until I wake up in terror...

Freudian interpretations aside (he'd have a field day), I wonder what this means.  Maybe I feel I'm walking the same roads again and again, ultimately alone, or "trapped in the void between two worlds", as my Swedish friend poetically expressed it.

Or maybe I should just make sure I never miss the last bus home. And it definitely means I should never, ever combine white wine and snus again.  Well, maybe just until Lynch releases another film.

p.s. My best friend finds this dream infinitely hilarious. (I suspect it's because of her Finnish genes.) I guess that's why I love her.

The Sum of All Fears

'You can't solve all your problems by shooting someone or setting a stranger on fire' - Liz Lemon (although I think she possibly meant 'can')

Despite feeling fairly miserable the last few days, I have noticed a strange phenomonen to my bouts of depression. While I revel in horror movies or at least dark and beautiful things (A Clockwork Orange being the latest brain orgasm to temporarily comfort me) and am propelled towards bad food, depressing sagas, blacker than black comedies and even the news - because, after all, there is nothing more depressing than BBC World-  I suddenly get cravings for manufactured, super slick, disposable pop.  Lady Gaga, La Roux, even - dare I admit it - Kylie Minogue suddenly push Fischerspooner, Sia Furler and Depeche Mode off the playlist.  I think I have listened to Telephone, which even has Beyoncé (I mean really, Beyoncé! Beyoncé! What's next, Kanye Bloody West? Justin Goddamn Trousersnake?) in it, about 100 times in the last two days.

The only way to explain why I am feeling depressed, other than supreme displacement and the whole unrequited thing (as I said to Irina over several very late glasses of wine last night, I'm so sick of being the girl sitting there thinking, pick me! It's demeaning) is that it's like there is some kind of disturbance in the natural order of things, and I seem to be at the centre, like that building in Ghostbusters. Several other unfortunate events have added up to what my friend calls, 'The Sum of All Fears' (if indeed, he is my friend. I'm not sure. Ironically, that's one of the unfortunate things).  To make it even worse, I am so sick of thinking about it. And writing about it. And yet here I am writing about it.

I have lost perspective to the point that I was very (very) seriously considering throwing it all in and flying to New York this morning, since that is my usual escape route.  (I think this stems from when I was a child and dreamed of being Sigourney Weaveresque and living in an apartment in New York, with groceries in a brown paper bag and one of those very 80s eyeshadow palettes.  Perhaps I should have pursued such an achievable dream).   But here I am, alone in Stockholm of all places, for the Easter holidays.  Me and what, Christina Aguilera or something. Oh my God, I hope this passes soon so I can listen to some decent music again.

Fairytale/Fear/Fate

Ghosts. Apart from a scary incident in a school elevator when I was 16; a forced excursion with my ballet class to the eponymous Patrick Swayze movie; and my residency in a former monastery in Amsterdam which I fervently hoped was haunted (it wasn't), I have only vaguely wondered about the existence of ghosts.  But the last few weeks in Stockholm have taught me about an entirely different sort of ghost, the sort where you can't help feeling a dreaded, omnipresent sense of deja vu in everything you do. (I know I have been sounding increasingly esoteric in these last posts, but bear with me.  I am not denying I may be well on the way to Crazy Cat Lady.)

Yesterday I received an email from none other than The Norwegian.  Longtime readers of this blog will know him also as The Little Dutchman -- my long lost unrequited love from an ill-fated Lost In Translation Experience in Tokyo.  We are friends now, if you can call bi-annual emails being friends, but I couldn't help but think perhaps the universe was trying to warn me about history repeating.  He might as well have accused me of tearing a hole in the space time continuum. 

This has been going around in my head ever since: here I am again, trying to start a new life in Stockholm (again),  blighted by unrequited love (again), contemplating a future as a crazy cat lady with Irina (again), in temporary housing provided by the absolute kindness of friends (again) and wondering if I should have moved to New York or London (again).  Ironically, it all feels almost comfortingly unstable. Quite possibly I have actually discovered the secret of time travel, and if so, I think like any other form of travel it probably requires quite a lot of red wine and Xanax to survive.

Upon boarding the plane to Stockholm from a recent trip back to London (me and of course one of the people who I think the universe is warning me about, a nomadic kindred spirit which means trouble, at least in my head) we were confronted with a set of three HSBC ads featuring wedding cake couples with FATE, FEAR and FAIRYTALE printed on them.  'Which one are we?' he joked.  I immediately said FEAR,  I wanted to say FATE.  But there wasn't one that said OH FUCK, and I don't think FAIRYTALE is in my cards.  Although, I guess that's up to cruel FATE...  

Wash day afternoon

After getting over an acute attack of culture shock at Stockholm airport (where was the grit? the edge? the seething mass of Hackney humanity? The scantily-clad, orange-tinted women, the streets paved with chicken bones, the malfunctioning public infrastucture, the all-pervading stench of alcohol at 7am on the 149 bus? The dilapidated library staffed by my lovely enthusiastic council worker, our smiling Caribbean security guards, the tube workers commenting loudly but cheerfully on my lipstick of a morning,the little Turkish store on Curtain Road - an all-hours supplier of chocolate and beer... What had I given up?) I have managed to begin to adjust to well-ordered Swedish life.

In this spirit, today I obediently managed to book the Tvättstuga (washing room). This one takes it to a whole new level: it has an electronic lock that banishes you from the laundry should you dare to be late, leaving you with a week of fashion crises.

I plotted my laundry strategy all through my friend Hanna's gratisloppis, where you go over for coffee and cinnamon buns and leave (hopefully for her) with a bunch of free stuff she is keen to dispose of before moving house. Irina and I left with 8 extra-extra-large wineglasses, an Apple keyboard, two Swedish cookery books and a muffin tray. I told Hanna that now I could cook any potential Swedish boyfriends some proper Swedish food and get the poor unsuspecting boy drunk on a single, bottle-sized glass of wine. (Hanna informed me that any potential Swedish boyfriend should be doing the cooking himself, while I drank the wine.)

The laundry went relatively smoothly, due to meeting my friend Jack's laundry buddy Matti who also books the Sunday night graveyard shift. Seems this Tvättstuga is far more social than my old one. Matti and I chatted as we transferred our laundry onto drying racks. As I talked I suddenly realised that due to having worn every item of underwear I own in the washing hiatus I was chatting away while elegantly displaying the laciest, most delicate of smalls. Matti was kind enough to avert his eyes, but embarrassed I hurried back to the flat to the safety of my favouite Swedish detective series ...and an extra large wine glass.

Diskbänksdrama in Sweden

The ominpresent signs of IKEA in my flat, where I am staying due to Jack's endless kindness

Well they said I'd never do it, but I'm back in Sweden (take that, psychic who said I'd be married and popping out Australian kids by now. Ha.). Hence, normal service will return to this blog (now with added photography!) Stand by.

The Psychic Dutchman

Yesterday, Veronica, Suzan and I embarked on a quest to unlock the mysteries of the universe, with a psychic reading. Obviously this required a pre- and post-psychic pint where we could compare notes.

My opinion on psychics is hopelessly contradictory. On the one hand I realise a lot of amateur psychology is involved. I mean, what woman in her early 30s isn't probably struggling with career and/or romance if they have chosen to talk to a psychic? You're hardly going to go in there and say "actually everything's fine, I just felt like paying 35 quid for you to tell me all my concerns are completely unfounded" are you?

On the other hand, I have always been somehow convinced that there is more to life than what we can see, even if it's quantum physics or biology.

So, when Veronica and I met up this week to share our woes over a vodka cranberry, we decided now was the time.

When I went in to see my psychic, the first thing I thought was the rather unspiritual, "haha, I think he's Dutch". Considering my experiences in Holland were less than brilliant and much of last weekend was spent with my ex-boyfriend constructing a "GERMAN BORDER POLICE DUTCH IDENTIFICATION PROGRAM", this was funny in itself, and seemed oddly like some sort of sign.

But I've come out of there even more confused than when I went in. The kindly Dutchman tried, but I suspect he sugar-coated what looked like a pretty painful set of tarot-cards. It looks to me like I am destined for a bunch of pain and heartache, not as bad as I had before though, but will meet my soulmate within the next two years (who is most likely someone new, or could be at least a new situation with someone I already know - but in any case it will definitely be a new start.) Even then though there will be struggle, and I will have to stand up for myself and fight for it. He said in the next two years I'll transform my life. He also said there could be something there with an ex but asked if I wanted to pursue it.

Now if we apply a bit of BBC-standard journalistic analysis to this, it seems to me that that is pretty much standard advice that could apply to absolutely any situation, anyone and their ex, and anyone and their future. In fact Veronica, Suzan and I all got pretty similar advice really, when you get down to it (although only Veronica's going to be raking in the cash. And at least I wasn't told that my ex-boyfriend is evil, unlike someone who shall remain nameless!)

So in short, I'm not sure what the hell to do next. This kind of thing is also dangerously addictive - "just one more reading then I'll believe that one..." It's taken a lot of willpower to not whip out the (banned) credit card and send off for an online reading from a random woman in Australia.

I think rather than trust in psychics, I'm going to apply the advice of Dr Emmett Brown in Back To The Future III, when Marty says, "But what does it MEAN, Doc?" And good old Dr Brown replies: "Your future hasn't been written yet, no-one's has - your future is whatever you make it!" Sorry Psychic Dutchman, I'm sure there was a lot of truth in what you said, but there is also a lot of truth in the words of a fictional scientist with an awesome DeLorean.

Budget.

I have come to the conclusion that there is no-one in the world worse at budgeting than me. Puzzlingly, budgeting is part of my job. When I'm at work, it all seems to go fine (probably because it's someone else's money, so I can remove myself from the emotional turmoil and don't get heart palpitations when I go to open spreadsheets).

But at home, it's another story.

No matter how many well-meaning spreadsheets I create, iPhone apps I download, meal-planner supermarket shops I painstakingly devise or credit cards I hide from myself, I have come to accept that I am terminally, utterly hopeless. I know people who earn a lot less than me who seem to flit endlessly around the planet without a care in the world: which means it's all my fault.

It's very depressing. I think I need a husband to manage my salary and only give me an allowance every month.

The current potential solutions are:

1 - Become a millionaire
This would be, on the face of it, the ideal solution. I'd rather not rely on someone else, so having my own million in the bank would work. Obviously, the question is how to bring about this state of affairs, unless the million is referring to rupees or monopoly money.

2 - Marry a millionaire
While not as satisfying as being a millionaire in my own right, still an acceptable solution. Probably more likely to actually maintain the millionaire status as well.

3 - Marry an accountant
This would possibly help me to remain solvent, if not quite a millionaire. However, no offence to accountants, but I suspect it wouldn't exactly be an exciting marriage defined by unbridled passion and a common love for adventure. So it probably wouldn't last very long, and would leave me back at square 1.

4 - Turn our dog into a cashcow
This has been an idea kicking around for a while. Our dog, Chad, manages to incite people to pull faces in the street, and consider starting their own charities or robbing their grandmothers to secure the cash to buy an identical dog. We have even been asked to breed or clone him, something along the lines of a "dog factory" (sadly, since the canine in question can't reproduce, this isn't an option). So far however, Chad has failed to provide for us, other than procuring some free chicken bones from the security guard downstairs.

5 - Reject the actual concept of money-based value
Since all previous options have failed, perhaps a life as a hippy on the streets of Delhi or as a monk in Tibet may hold the answer. But since a nomadic hippy lifestyle probably doesn't include a new Macbook Pro, satisfying career prospects or regular visits to my beloved friends in Stockholm, I'm not sure it's a realistic answer. Plus a girl needs new shoes every now and then.

I think constantly failing at this aspect of life also causes me to fail at others - for instance marrying anyone, let alone a millionaire. So perhaps defining myself by anything to do with money is a fatal mistake. Money can't buy everything after all.

Three Days of David Lynch

I am not sure what effect three days inhabiting the Lynchian universe can do to one's brain, but I'm about to find out. As soon as the opening credits of Blue Velvet popped and crackled, slightly out of focus, onto the tiny screen at the Tate Modern, it all came rushing back: for you see, David Lynch changed my life.

When I was about 16, I discovered Mr Lynch. I worked my way from Eraserhead (taped on worn VHS cassettes from late night showings on Australia's excellent public broadcasters) through Elephant Man and eventually to Twin Peaks, via a lot of academic textbooks on Lynchian symbolism and a hearty crush on Kyle MacLachlan circa 1986 (a crush which, after this evening's viewing, I wholeheartedly endorse). Unfortunately for me, I discovered Twin Peaks just as I was about to graduate from high school. Not only did this seriously threaten the likelihood that I would actually graduate, it meant that while most of our contemporaries spent their post-graduation vacation recovering from horrendous hangovers -- (Schoolies Week, it's euphemistically called in Australia, basically a two week cycle of binge drinking and sunbathing) -- my friends and I spent ours recovering from horrendous hangovers, while watching cassette tape after cassette tape of Twin Peaks. This was of course washed down with coffee - black as midnight on a moonless night, no less; doughnuts and cherry pie (my friend Amy even managed to learn how to tie a cherry stem into a knot with her tongue, a la Audrey Horne, earning the respect of many a drunken university student who attempted to gatecrash our parties).

I am not sure what this did to our impressionable young minds, plied as they were with whatever horrendous cocktails we had managed to invent from stockpiled cheap sparkling wine and Malibu, but for me it sparked a lifelong devotion to film and photography and appreciating when accidents spark something interesting and looking for the mystery in everything. (It also set me up pretty well for getting through the next four years of university). One friend even used to declare his religion as "Lynchian" and bought me a Dennis Hopper tshirt for my 18th birthday. It said something like "Don't you fuckin' look at me" on it. Mum wasn't impressed.

Sadly, I am going to this three day Lynchfest at the Tate Modern alone. My cherry-pie eating friends are far flung, and I miss them more than ever today. Tomorrow I will spend an entire day surrounded by academics discussing the symbolism of ears and eyes and undulating velvet curtains. Maybe a dubious enterprise. But my friend Kat in New York assures me, "If anyone is qualified to deal with the possibly disastrous fallout from such a venture it's you".

In Defence of the Library

Lately I've been struggling with my health. After a holiday in Sweden in which I was mysteriously fine, I have been struck down yet again with some kind of flu. The attack occurred just minutes after I had my first contact with the Piccadilly line in several months. Coincidence, or allergy to London? You decide.

Anyway, this bout of flu has got me so exhausted that I have been couch-bound. Unfortunately this caused me to have to report to a guy I've been dating today that I have been "making garlic soup and joining the library", quite possibly the most unattractive sentence that I could have concocted and which made me cringe as it came out of my mouth. He probably thinks I'm making it up in a passive-agressive rejection tactic. (To his credit, he didn't immediately hang up and block my number.) Him being the sporty type, I didn't dare go into further details - not that he asked - but secretly, joining the library has actually cheered me up immensely. Let me explain.

Today I ran out of books and DVDs and, prompted by my flatmate, reluctantly joined the local library. The building is not the most architecturally fascinating in the world - a dark, standard council block which despite bright banners looks condemned for demolition (which it may very well be). I imagined it would be a dusty, dismal place for those sheltering from the demands of normal society... which ok it sort of was, but I also had to apply the sickeningly appropriate maxim "don't judge a book by it's cover".

Someone who runs the Hackney libraries actually has pretty good taste. In the DVD selection I was surprised to see they even have the director's cut of Evil Dead, The Office Christmas Specials and some obscure Japanese mafia movies, although the guy in the queue behind me was disappointed to discover they were copy protected. ("Bastards at the BFI," he whispered conspiratorially). The library *is* a refuge for some strange people who hide away worryingly in the crime section or shuffle about talking to themselves behind the large print aisle, but they are relatively harmless (and probably being filmed by at least 10 CCTV cameras at any given time.)

Delighted at finding this local gem, I enthusiastically stocked up on bleak Swedish mystery novels and strange Japanese fantasies before heading to Sainsburys to procure enough garlic and broccoli to neutralise this flu... and hopefully not the potential date.

Old before my time

Right. The bladder control ads are the final straw. Since when has 30 been considered so damn old?

This morning as I watched a decidedly young person's tv show while cooking a fry up to counteract a decidedly young person's hangover, an ad came on with the following voiceover "Now that I'm in my 30s, I need a little extra help. But with TENA control pads, I don't need to worry about bladder control" or something like that - all over the top of 50 year old women sitting in a sunny field and (presumably) reminiscing nostalgically for the good old days. This has confirmed two suspicions of mine: 1. That in Britain, 30 is seen as nigh on over the hill, and 2. That advertisers are disturbingly out of touch with how 30-somethings live these days.

On point 1, I have noticed a trend in magazines to dismiss 30 somethings as "old", going so far as to describe various Botox and liposuction procedures available for the 'older woman', and helpfully suggest a migration towards more conservative apparel. Even, in a magazine I recently decided NOT to buy, that women in their 30s should without exception prioritise love over career. I guess if you haven't hit the big time by the ripe old age of 30 you'd better pop out a few kids while you still have the chance right? All that career stuff was just to fill the gap while we waited for Prince Charming, after all. Might as well admit it now we're over the hill. Bear in mind that said magazines consist mostly of double page ads for Dolce & Gabbana, Chanel and Aquascutum - hardly what a post credit crunch graduate who is "young" enough to feel validated by the magazine is going to be spending their cash on.

On point 2, I don't know why advertisers are increasingly trying to sell things like bladder control pads and speak to 30 somethings like they are ready to retire. Most 30 somethings I know (in my highly unscientific sample) are single, or at least not married, work in high-tech time consuming jobs, live in rented apartments, don't have kids if they are married, wear skinny jeans and heels and not pastel suits with sensible rubber soled shoes (unless they are Converse) - many of us live pretty similiarly to how we did in our twenties, thank you very much. (Maybe it's because I'm now in East London.) This may or not be a good thing, but it is a fact. Maybe it's the internet, maybe it's being the first generation to grow up with Nintendo and MTV as a given, but I don't think we are ready to feel sidelined the way the media here seems to suppose. Or maybe it's just England, with it's desperate need to be able to categorise you properly on the right form with the right tickbox. But the day they invent a youth marketing division for walking frames, I'm outta here.

Simon Le Bon, harbinger of destiny

So it's time for our kitten, Simon Le Bon, to be neutered. Clare can't remember which vet he's at and rings up our local one. The conversation went something like this...
"Hello, I need to book in our cat but not sure this is the right vet. The name's Le Bon, Simon Le Bon".
"Oh yes, that's right - but we're not supposed to tell people he goes here".
"What?"
"What's the cat's name?"
"Simon Le Bon."
"No, the cat's name."
"Simon. Le. Bon."
This exchange, according to Clare, proceeded for quite a while.
"OH - the CAT is called Simon Le Bon?"
And suddenly, Clare realised the glorious truth. Our little Simon Le Bon goes to the very same vet that the real Mr Le Bon (or presumably his feline companion) goes to. The odds of this, by my unscientific calculations, are about 2 million to 1. This news caused considerable excitement in our house. "I'm sure this means something!" said Veronica, "I'm just not sure what.... "

We concluded that Simon Le Bon is some kind of omen for us, but can't quite yet decipher the complex puzzle fate is weaving for us and a small cat. But considering that Spandau Ballet has recently reformed, who knows what the future holds??

The Comfort of Horror

Ok, so maybe this is coming from a somewhat depressed place, as I've felt homesick for Sweden all day and can't understand why I don't live back in my comfy Stockholm life. So, as I was about to drown my sorrows in my usual manner - watching something tense and unsettling on tv - I realised a fundamental truth.

While I would love nothing better than settling in for an entire Sunday evening of CSI (Crime Scene Investigation - but strictly Las Vegas or New York, no Miami please), my flatmate would much rather waste a good two hours of her life watching Gwyneth Paltrow or worse, "Made of Honour", or in fact any 'romantic' comedy - absolutely guaranteed to leave her disappointed with real life when she emerges half a box of tissues later. I just don't understand why people are under the illusion that romantic comedies or light-hearted drama make you feel better about anything. What you actually need is a good dose of horror- preferably from the 60s or 70s, or else involving teenagers far too beautiful to survive.

In these gloomy economic times, I'm perplexed at what Hollywood has to offer - glancing at the film listings for London right now, you could be forgiven for thinking that everything is hunky dory. "He's Just Not That Into You", "Marley & Me", "Confessions of a Shopaholic" - saccharine, lighthearted crap which, let's face it, is not going to make us feel better about our own mundane lives - particularly Shopaholic, which in my case, may even serve as a horror movie in its own right, and not in a good way.

Where's the all-night Stephen King marathon, the depressing (both on and off-screen) Roman Polanski sagas, Poltergeist, Amityville...I'd even go so far as Alien or Jaws... basically, I need to forget my own petty life problems and concern myself with the pressing perils of witchcraft, merciless beasts or ancient evil for a good couple of hours. Or something like Halloween, where I can substitute my own faceless horror for the masked face of Michael Myers, and feel jubilant as he is slayed - at least until the sequel. I am convinced there are far more relevant life lessons to be learned at the hands of a knife-wielding maniac than anything Renee Zellweger or Hugh Grant have ever uttered.

There's just something undeniably comforting about watching other people face unspeakable horror, something that makes your credit card bill and shattered dreams seem practically pleasant by comparison.

Give me Satan's child over yet another grinding commute on the District Line any day.

Lessons from a kitten

Today we let little Simon Le Bon outside for the first time (Simon the kitten, that is. Not the guy from Duran Duran, as obviously we haven't tied him up in our apartment or anything...honest).

Anyway, little Simon was overwhelmed by the new world he found himself in. He stepped tentatively across the grass as if it was snow, reluctantly chewed some flowers, and followed a mysterious cat through the undergrowth as if he'd just discovered that he wasn't the only one of his species on earth. Which I guess he had.

His reaction gave rise to a weird and scary thought ... what if we also live in our own little apartment worlds, and unbeknownst to us, there's a whole different dimension outside. I mean, it's not beyond the realms of scientific possibility that there are things we don't understand. We don't even really understand quantum physics. Some people still don't believe in evolution for chrissakes. I think the current state of the environment goes to show that, as a species, our understanding of the natural world is pretty pathetic.

So, while I have no idea what this other world might be, it just made me think, that maybe we shouldn't take everything for granted. Scary, but kind of comforting. And that's what I learnt from a small cat.

The Case of the Disappearing Man

I am starting to suspect I have a latent super power. It is one I believe I share with Kylie Minogue, I don't care what she says about this new Spanish model boyfriend. I have the ability to make people - well, male people - completely disappear from my life. I am afraid that my full power has yet to be unleashed, as no-one has died yet, and so far, I have managed to sustain a surprising number of male friends. The monster is only awoken when I try to *date* the man in question (or, in one case, actually fall in love with them).

I am considering offering myself to the Japanese mafia. If there was some thug bothering them, all I'd have to do is start dating him and he would instantly vanish without the need for any dirty money to change hands, or anything requiring pesky forensic investigation. The Yakuza could then hand their hitherto dodgy casino profits to me, in exchange for me painlessly dispatching their enemies to a mysterious place where - according to experience - they cannot possibly email, phone or text message. Win-win. Except.... that I would be in Tokyo, in close proximity to a former disapearee. Which means the universe could implode or something if we happened to cross paths. But I suppose we could cross that bridge when we came to it, no?

I have considered the possibility that there is some subconscious thing, some Kryptonite I am not aware of, which initiates the Disappearing Effect. I have also considered the possibility that it is something inherent in the type of guys I choose to date (I apologise for the Americanism but in matters of romantic vocabulary, I think they have the market cornered). I fail to see how this can be the case - in the recentish past, I have disposed of a terminally single British bank employee who admittedly it would never, ever have worked out with and I have no idea what I was thinking, a recently divorced Swedish paramedic who my close (male) friend said was worth moving back to Sweden for, and a British designer - also vouched for by a male friend, making the advice of said friends slightly suspect .

None of these made it past the third date, although the Swedish encounter did include an invite for me to stay at his Stockholm apartment for an entire weekend, which I politely declined - but not before I noted we shared the same taste in films (someone else DOES love Rosemary's Baby!), politics, travel destinations and local bars.

So what gives? All of these men had baggage, I guess - but who in their late 20s/early 30s doesn't? So back to the kyrptonite theory. There must be something about me, something I do or say or unconsciously reveal, that produces this result. But within three dates how do they know this? Are we that quick to judge each other? Oh for the days of long and uncomfortable British courtships, those Victorians were onto something.

I am starting to wonder if they get an inkling of the fate that awaits them, the fate of a twilight world where there is no email or means of contact, and where they must stay until they suddenly decide to get married to someone and, three years later, email from some faraway land to tell me this (true story!). Until further scientific discoveries prove otherwise, I will tell myself it is my power to banish them to this place that scares them away. Either that or my Japanese mafia connections, of course.

Dowdy down time

It was a Saturday night. I left Somerfield (contender for the cheapest, most unflatteringly lit and depressing supermarket in the area) clad in my ancient down jacket, jeans, and my flatmate's uggboots - which are two sizes too big, messy hair shoved under a beanie and an incongruous slick of red lipstick - the last an obvious last-ditch attempt to keep my self esteem out of the gutter. I looked like Kate Moss after about 3 nights out in a row, except that my hair is now an ugly shade of brown after my hairdresser ruined her previously impeccable performance record. In my defence, I was only wearing uggs in the way they are meant to be worn, as any Australian will tell you - on a dash to the supermarket to buy alcohol, and preferably a supermarket as fluroscent and budget conscious as Somerfield.

So obviously, my only purchase from Somerfield was a bottle of Australian wine. Admittedly it is quite nice wine, but of course had been reduced by £3 which takes any dignity out of that. I had at least managed to resist buying Cosmopolitan and a microwave dinner for one.

It was cold, raining and I had turned down two birthday party invitations as I was utterly exhausted, and didn't have the energy to be the only single person in the room showing up and making an effort to find something in common with people seven years younger than me, or alternatively wander around alone a particularly dodgy bit of London teetering in my impractical Miu Miu 5-inch high heels wearing a flapper's dress, wig and plastic cigarette holder.

Feeling quite miserable, but glad of at least little Simon Le Bon's company (although right now he's much more interested in rummaging through the recycling looking for chicken scraps) I headed for home. To think that three years ago I was in Japan, two years ago in Sweden, and now... here. In the rain. Suddenly, in front of me on the bus stop, was a glowing ad for a high-end fashion brand I've been working with. It featured Nicole Kidman (not that I have a soft spot for her by any means).

Yeah, I thought. I'm working with amazing fashion brands and meeting creative, wonderful people. I'm an Australian on the other side of the planet like Nicole, just doing my best. I bet even she has made the depressed ugg boot run in her time (later discovered that to be true - see pic). Immediately I felt much better.

Pyjama-o-rama: The Impossible Quest

And back to the minutiae of life in London. There are some things in London that defy all logic. Supermarkets closing at 5 on Sundays for instance. Or the way the electric sign at East Putney station always says it's a city-bound train when in fact it's going to Edgware Road. Or the fact that pet shops don't actually sell pets (...with the exception of Harrods, which charges a minimum of 1000 pounds).

But today I stumbled upon one of the strangest anomalies yet - pyjamas. If there was one thing I thought England - nay, the whole of Britain - would excel in, it was man-style pyjamas, with button-down nightshirts and generous trousers in checks or stripes, the type an old Scottish guy would wear while smoking a pipe and slugging a single-malt, possibly with matching slippers and hopefully while seated in a worn leather arm chair. But with a bit of a modern twist: the kind of manly pyjamas with a feminine cut that, say, twenty-something women could wear while quaffing mulled wine and not freeze to death with the substandard heating in their ex-Council flat. Where were Australian-style pyjamas endorsed by ex-tennis players and media-mogul's model wives that were so stylish you could probably nip down to the shops in them (something I believe my sister has done on several occasions, although in the area of Sydney where she lives I doubt anyone would actually notice).

However, good pyjamas are hard to find. Unless you are looking for pyjamas in baby blue (or possibly soft pink) with penguins, teddy bears, baby giraffes or various other infantile animals, and then you're in luck. Even the high-street stores renowed for selling slinky lingerie (not particularly expensive, admittedly) sell sets of fluffy pink and baby blue pyjamas embossed with what I believe were baby cows.

I don't really understand this preoccupation with baby animals on sleepwear for grown women. I mean I have nothing against baby animals per se, but a perfectly respectable set of tartan pyjama pants instantly regresses to something an eight year old should wear when teamed with an oversized red jumper with a beaming teddy bear on the front. Except that said red jumper is size 14-16.

Admittedly, ten quid will get you a super cheap set of glittery zebra printed pants which are not short enough to be 3/4 length but not long enough to reach your ankles (probably because they were made by small children in Bangladesh). The only other options seem to be crisp, French-style embossed cotton numbers costing a fortune or slinky silk sets which aren't really the thing for watching X-Factor, or little camisole and shorts-sets which would be fine if the only man in the house wasn't feline.

I tried Gap, but never managed to get back there (I have banned myself from Oxford Street unless it's a culinary emergency). In the end, I have had to settle for a pair of very nice pants from good old Marks & Spencer, but compromised with a tank top instead of a big manly shirt. Neither have any baby animals on them. I find life in London an ongoing struggle, but at least I have conquered the pyjama battle.

My life with Simon Le Bon

It's been ages. So, before I get back to the regular entries, to sum up where we're at, I will quote my friend Demis's latest Facebook message:

"
F*ck yeah! gay paree.... you're living every girls Sex And The City dream life, complete with the problematic yet ultimately quite lusty European boyfriend situation... :)"

Basically - I have a new job, at a company I have dreamed of working at for ages (ten years, to be precise). The job is turning out well, and as you may have gathered, we work with pretty amazing people. The aforementioned 'European boyfriend' is not so much a boyfriend as someone lovely I have met who unfortunately lives two hours flight away, which is highly impractical. So before I get enquiries as to the wedding date, let's just leave that one right there.

It's kind of job vs Sweden right now, yet again - the eternal struggle. So there's that, and there's my new kitten Simon Le Bon. Simon (that's him in the picture, and he's also attempting to help me type this right now) , despite his glam rock name and impending glittery gold collar, is hilarious and...mute. Making a mockery of his name really.

Mr Le Bon (the feline version) was named after his Duran Duran namesake when the latter was spotted smoking outside my office. We did intend to name the cat Jake Gyllenhaal so we could tell our colleagues we had to get home to 'feed Jake Gyllenhaal', but since Mr G failed to materialise outside my office, Mr Le Bon beat him to it.

I am going to update this on a regular basis again, London has been imparting some kind of chronic fatigue and it has been a whole 5 months since I posted. But for now, off to feed Simon (from Duran Duran). Just kidding. The cat.
x

A bit of a soapbox

After spending the last few weeks concerned more about cheese than anything else (thanks to my current job, not any new obsession with fondue nights) Justice has been on my mind a lot this week. Firstly I read the disturbing news that a friend of mine has been arrested in Japan in blatantly undemocratic circumtances. Reading the story I felt the sense of injustice swell up that I remember my high school drama teacher mentioning on my report card (probably as a result of my organising protests on the front stairs and thereby getting disqualified from giving any kind of speech at graduation...but that's another story).

To read the full story and support Junichi Sato, a brave and dedicated campaigner for environmental issues and public democratic process in Japan, go here and sign the petition.

Here in London I'm a member of a journalism club called The Frontline Club, and as usual whenever I go there I come away with some kind of insight (or an amusing run-in with a BBC journalist). This afternoon I went to a film screening there, This Is Our Country Too, about the plight of Aboriginal people in Australia. As much as it is a horrific situation, I found it very hard as a white Australian to come to terms with it, and I think Erin did too. I am all for Aboriginal rights, I think the interventionist policies of the Howard government are despicable and don't address the problems in any meaningful way. On the other hand, I don't see any easy answers, and I think that's probably what most white Australians feel - a sense of frustration, and a fear borne of ignorance that most Aboriginal people just want us to leave, when those of us who were born and bred in Oz feel it is 'our country too' as well - as unjustified as that may be after only 200 years compared to over 40,000.

I recommend the film highly, it made me think. But it was a guy in the audience who gave me the most hope, and said that there are positive changes being made under the new government. I hope so. He recommended the work of the Yothu Yindi foundation in promoting reconciliaiton and opportunities for Aboriginal youth so if anyone is feeling particularly rich right now I think it's a worthy cause to donate to.

The only other news is a horrific dental bill approaching 700 pounds - it amazes me how something so painful and unpleasant can cost so much. Now if that's not injustice I don't know what is!

Harassment on the 328

Yesterday I decided to be one of the 'ladies who brunch' and set off to meet my friend Sally and a friend of hers for pancakes (I still haven't quite kicked my New York habits - although weirdly, a solid diet of pancakes, burritos and pizza seems to have caused me to lose weight - take that Dr Atkins).

I guess in one way I deserved what happened next. Not at all because I was wearing a rather skimpy summer dress (perfectly demure though, I do wear it to work as well). But because as I boarded the bus I observed a sign saying 'Alcohol banned on public transport from June 1st'. Fat lot of good that'll do, I thought to myself. Surely banning teenagers from stabbing innocent travellers would be a more effective, I scoffed to myself. Stupid new mayor. I had tempted the gods of irony, and they were about to wreak their revenge.

I got on the bus and sat next to the window, with my self protection weapon (new ipod to replace one stolen in a rather unfortunate pub incident) firmly wedged in my ears.

As I stared out the window, a large man reeking of beer pressed up against me. At first I thought he was a bit overweight and shifted into the glass - any closer to the glass and I would have had to merge into it, Terminator-style. As I turned up my appropriately feminist Swedish rock, it slowly dawned on me that the guy was leaning into me on purpose. As his podgy flesh threatened to spill onto my lap, I also noticed he was saying something that even my beloved Swedes couldn't completely drown out. 'Hey sexy lady,' he said. To my horror I felt a hand on my knee - from yet another drunken man across from me. 'Hey baby, what's your problem?' he said. The ipod's magic circle of protection had obviously weakened with the onslaught. I turned and looked the guy in the eye as fiercely as I could, and considered telling him that my problem was I didn't find exceedingly drunk, overweight, 40 year old men particularly attractive at 11.30am on a Sunday morning. Or in fact any morning. Make that ever.

Heart beating fast, I turned back to the window. 'Let's just take her,' I heard one say to the other. That was it. With oblivious Londoners staring unhelpfully at me, probably in fear of being stabbed, I pushed my way through the two men and down into the middle section of the bus, praying they wouldn't follow me. Happily they didn't. They were so drunk they'd probably forgotten the thread of their conversation two minutes later. But I realised my hands were shaking, and I had to fight back tears and I realised that Londoners really don't care about anyone else. 'I bet that wouldn't have happened in New York,' I thought bitterly. And then I added to myself 'And that new alcohol ban will be brilliiant!' To be honest though, these guys rolled out of the pub into the bus. Ok irony gods, lesson learnt.

Today in sympathy my friend in Oz emailed me his own harassment story - much more endurable I think. He says: 'I got yelled at on the train this morning because i was reading a Richard Dawkins book (curiousity.. never read any of his stuff). an old lady objected to my disgusting ways and didn't like seeing atheism flaunted "in front of innocent school children" in such a vile manner...hahahah'

The day they ban Richard Dawkins on public transport, is truly the day I give up hope for this country. But I think I'd rather take on little old ladies any day.

Advice from Ferris Bueller

Yesterday, apart from viewing the amazing MoMA (pushing in between annoying French tourists snapping photos of themselves in front of Andy Warhols... I will never understand) I bumped into Matthew 'Ferris Bueller' Broderick coming out of the subway. I did a comical double-take and stared at him for a second thinking he was a friend (weirdly, he seemed to do the same) and then was mortally embarrassed when I realised who he was and kept walking. But it was like some kind of sign - he made me think of that line in Ferris Bueller: 'Life goes by pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.' And you know, after all my soul searching and panicking lately (what am I saying, lately. Always!), I thought - hell Ferris, you're right. So I decided to stop panicking and start living (while endeavouring to keep my bank balance a little healthier than it's current impoverished state).

In this vein, I managed to go and hear Morgan Spurlock speak (for free, at the Apple store, how incredibly enlightened!) about his new film. It was pretty inspiring - especially since he got rejected from film school six times. Although I have to say that as a documentary maker who is supposed to question things, I'm not sure his new film really does, but will refrain from polemic until I've seen it. I reflected with Kat over a beer in a delightfully dodgy little Soho bar that maybe I'm a frustrated filmmaker. 'You've known that since uni!' she said. Hmm.

Then Kat and I had some pasta at a place with possibly the scariest waiter in Little Italy last night (I was too scared to tell him how horrible the wine was, in case I vanished Soprano-style later). Sorry New Yorkers, I have to say the best Italian so far has been right here in Hoboken, a few streets over from Frank Sinatra's house. In fact, Frank Sinatra even graces the laundromat here, as I discovered on Sunday. I washed my stinky jeans with 'Come Fly With Me' written encouragingly over my head. Classy.

Today I met up with a colleague's friend over lunch, which was great. He seems to think it's entirely possible for a frustrated filmmaker Australian to move to New York eventually. Then I trekked over to Brooklyn to check out Williamsburg and do some celebrity spotting (if I can't marry Jake Gyllenhaal, I was hoping to at least see Maggie), but the lack of public toilets drove me back to a Starbucks (tip for New York tourists: Starbucks is your public toilet - and not much else, although Mark swears by their coffee. But remember, Mark thinks Blanche from the Golden Girls is sexy, so you can draw your own conclusions). I comforted myself by swinging by the Ghostbusters firestation. Sadly, the Ghostbusters sign is no longer there, but there is a very artistic interpretation of the FDNY logo on the pavement outside (see pic).

Now I'm waiting for Kat and thanks to the kindness of the lovely JonJon, will be going to see old friend Neil Finn and co tonight. Will refrain from talking about the weather this time. Tomorrow, I'm sacrificing meeting my idol David Lynch (for the bargain price of $100) to go to Texas to see my lovely cousins complete with ranch and cowboys, so hopefully more adventures from there...