Pong

Well, Ping Pong seems to be a recurring theme in my life lately. That kind of feeling of being hit from one perspective to another. This happened rather more literally than desired when I organised my first important meeting at the Large Media Corporation. Trying to foster a post-Greenpeace, relaxed feel, instead of booking a meeting room I opted for a set of couches on the top floor near the deck, to give everybody a view of the real world outside (and provide close proximity to the cafeteria for impromptu cappucinos). Unfortunately I failed to notice that the couches were also rather close to a ping pong table and an X-Box (thankfully disabled, which is more than I can say for the ping pong table). The meeting went okay for the first ten minutes. And then the ping pong players showed up. As the noise got louder and the flying balls closer to my boss's head, I wanted to shrink behind my ill-chosen couches. Charmingly, everyone resolutely and determinedly ignored the increasing racket going on behind us, until we were interrupted by one of the sheepish players asking if he could just retrieve his missing ping pong ball from between my boss's feet. I resolved to book a meeting room next time, preferably with retina-scanning and high security measures to keep rogue ping pong players at a safe distance. That is assuming, of course, that I can navigate the no-doubt mountain of paperwork required to book such a meeting room without giving four weeks notice and promising my first born - which, if my current dating situation has anything to do with, will not be a problem.

(Ben, who the corporation refers to only as Central Coder 01 due to his temporary position, comforted me by pointing out that according to Yes Minister, the British invented bureaucracy and I shouldn't let it get me down. Which is a good thing because this week I face the twin hurdles of getting a National Insurance Number and a UK drivers license.)

The week was downhill from there, and I'm feeling pretty unsure about my housing situation and whether my job is right for me, but I swing in a ping-pong like state from 'I'll stick them both out and they will get better' to 'Initiate emergency flat-hunting sequence and prepare escape pod for Sweden'.

On the plus side, apart from the fact that for the first time in several years I don't feel poor and can afford to have a decadent weekend on the beach with Ben and Erin, I have just spent a lovely weekend getting sunburnt in Brighton, going to a friend's gig and being woken up by a 3-year-old Batman impersonator (no that really is on the plus side, he was adorable). Considering that the weekend also involved a song that we believe is AC/DC doing drum and bass, sponge cake in a spaghetti machine (don't ask...or if you do, ask Andy), and a year's worth of saturated fat intake, life is okay from this side of the ping pong table.

Tips on British culture

Following on from the largely successful (ahem) series of Swedish cultural and culinary observations featured in this blog, I suppose it's only proper to throw in a few British ones (despite the fact that a certain Scottish ex-boyfriend of mine alleges that England has in fact no culture, at all. An assertion which I believe Angus and I have already disproved. Or maybe not). The first observation I must make is obvious and hardly original, but must be noted for posterity: British after-work drinks are the most dangerous in the world.

Telltale signs you are at after-work drinks in the UK:

(a) Your suspected colleagues are ordering bottles of wine - as opposed to glasses
(b) The drinking session has occurred on a random, hitherto innocent weekday
(c) Your dinner consists of a packet of salt and vinegar 'crisps'
(d) You have an inexplicable craving for mushy peas
(e) Your flatmates/loved ones refer to you as 'The Elusive Missy M' and are openly shocked if they find you at home before 9pm quietly watching The Simpsons.

Now, I am no stranger to after-work drinks. I did, after all, work for Greenpeace, an organisation where at least one office which shall remain anonymous has considered installing a fireman's pole for easier access to the bar below - only half in jest.

I have sampled the after-work drinks in Amsterdam, Sydney, Stockholm and Tokyo - all of which have none too shabby drinking habits (not to mention all-you-can-drink karaoke nights). I have even done a bit of guest after-work drinking in Oslo. They try, bless them, but the expense is far more painful than any potential hangover.

However, the UK is by far the worst of the lot. By worst, I mean most likely to induce at best a constant feeling of queasiness and weight gain from fry-up breakfasts, and at worst severe liver damage and a vague memory of going to the Walkabout (an Australian chain of pubs I have vowed to avoid for fear it will induce an irrational desire to dance on a table and remove items of clothing). The scariest thing about the after-work drinks here is that they kind of sneak up on you, no matter how hard you intend to go home and watch the series finale of Life on Mars or do something sensible like go to bed early.

The sudden increase in drinking may explain why I have forgotten both my PIN number and phone-unlock code, but also why I seem to be fitting in ok at my new workplace. I just hope I actually survive it.

Oh my God, shoes.

I don't know why I find this extremely stupid video utterly addictive (maybe I really am a nerd...there is a follow-up called Text Message Breakup), but I think my sister is gonna love it. Considering that I seriously heard a song on Swedish public radio yesterday called 'My boobs are okay', which sank lower than even Britney Spears ever dared, I think this is far more worthy of my time.






Thanks to the lovely Ben for the tip. And remember - those shoes are mine, betch.

Bonus Stephen Merchant update:

For those following the saga (that's you Lols): Mr Merchant has today again failed to be aware, however vaguely, of my existence. Maybe I need to get a more realistic workplace crush. Barry from Eastenders, perhaps?

Silly Milly Doesn't Like My Blog

Despite evidence of my near lapse of professionalism being (lovingly) documented in my work newspaper, Stephen Merchant failed to mention me on the radio yesterday, and is also noticeably reticent in turning up at my office with Nobu reservations and/or noticing my existence.

Onwards and upwards however, and last night, soaking up the first feeble rays of spring, we (me, Ben, Erin and Jonathan) trekked across London for a proper Aussie barbecue, although, as the host remarked, it was more of a "conceptual barbecue than an actual one" since they had to do the cooking inside due to the sub-optimal barbecue facilities (it's technical, this stuff). We did consider using the barbecue as a light-generator and spider-repellant, but there was far too much beer to be drunk and grilled haloumi pasta with sausages, chicken avocado and three-bean salad, and a lot of chocolate to be consumed - yes, this was a barbecue with style. I guess we have to overcompensate for the lack of warmth and mosquitoes, but by the time we got there I would have been happy with bread and tomato sauce. Jonathan insisted that the journey was '20 minutes from Charing Cross', but three tubes, a train and a long walk at 'Race Around the World' speed later he was probably glad that Erin and I were too engrossed in the bars of chocolate we had bought to notice the complete over-optimisim of this statement.

I was pretty much the only person at the party who wasn't a professional musician, so while what Jonathan described as 'cello porn' was going on in the front room, I again had to resort to the chocolate. It has been quite a boozy weekend with a Good Friday lunch going for a good 12 hours (for me, Jonathan to his horror discovered a day later that he was out for more like 14).

The barbecue also introduced me to the delights of a game called Silly Milly - I use the term "delights" loosely since poor Erin was nearly driven to tears of frustration and lost herself in a quagmire of pop culture references and socio-political implications, which probably actually just shows that she is a lot more intelligent than the rest of us. Well actually, the game had been introduced at the Crowded House gig a few weeks back. (Apparently, the band's guitar tech has been touring with them for four years and still doesn't get the rules.) You basically need to work out what "Silly Milly" likes and doesn't, based on smug examples from -- in this case -- Jonathan, and then give a correct example to prove you're in on the joke. Thanks to years of annnoying games that my sister and father played every time we got in the car, it didn't take me too long to work out. But the pain of pondering the whims of Silly Milly seriously went on for hours.

Let's just say that Silly Milly quite likes Neil Finn, but she certainly doesn't like this blog.

Dap dippin' with Shazza

I think jazz music has been a little tainted by those horrible house bands on American talkshows. You know, here's Jay Leno ... but first, here's a generic horn section playing "something our commercial network believes is palatable and even considered funky by those of a certain age and disposition". Makes me shudder. (And when I say jazz, by the way, I'm not talking Kenny G. I don't think he has a genre exactly, other than "filed under B for Bin".)

But last Sunday any such lingering doubts were blown away by Sharon Jones (aka Shazza Jonesy, as Ben and I have christened her so as to be more recognisable to our Australian palates). I first heard Sharon in a shop in London about two years ago, and immediately bought her album. Last weekend at a drunken dinner party, Ben (of Ben & Erin fame, as well as He Of The Tortoiseshell RayBans) remarked to me how he liked Sharon too, which is kind of odd since she's not exactly a household name. And then, in one of those magic London moments, a quick riffle through the TimeOut and we discovered she was playing at Camden Jazz Cafe on Sunday.

Apart from the fact that the Jazz Cafe is one of the worst venues I've been in (I was longing for good old-fashioned cigarette smoke to cover up the toilet-like smell, not to mention a stage that was high enough for someone of my stature to see without Tom- Cruise-platform-shoes), the gig was fantastic. And the best was the bass player - any guy who can look cool in a handlebar moustache, dark sunglasses and a permanent deadpan expression for over two hours has to be pretty special. And Sharon - she's 51 and LOOK at her for goodness sake. If I'm dancing like that at 51 I won't be complaining (actually, I can't even dance like that now).

In any case Shazza and the Dap Kings certainly brightened up a slightly cold grey London weekend and a lot of CSI, LOST and Ett Herrans Liv withdrawal symptoms. My tv viewing addictions have had to be sacrificed to the whims of my five flatmates, and while we can reach a temporary truce on The Simpsons or Futurama, there is way too much football and Top Gear in the weekly schedule for my liking. Luckily, Ludvig and Emma kindly gave me Six Feet Under Series 5 when I left
Sweden, with a note 'Some temporary friends until you get back' on it. So I'm going to go hang out with my digital friends now, since tonight's living room feature is some Jennifer Lopez movie (maybe Bridges Of Madison County will finally get knocked out of the top spot on Missy M's Worst Film Of All Time list).