Well, almost.
My heart longs for that festive cheer - it is still on Australian time, and is back home in Sydney amongst family and friends, conjuring a smile with every reminder of how special such days are.
My mind, however, knows well that my body is here in England (still amongst friends and almost-family), and that Christmas day is still, officially, a little over an hour away.
Its strange the memories Christmas can beckon in. I remember so many Christmases (and yes, I'm going by the first google search result for 'plural of Christmas').
I remember Christmas long ago, before I knew much about anything, and could completely immerse myself in the simple pleasure of giving and receiving. I can recall later days when Christmas was marked by the grumpiness of a boy who just found the world and did not yet know how to look at it (or where his family [annoying at the time] might fit in); did not know how this new context might effect the dynamics of giving, receiving and knowing all that goes with these simple actions.
I can still feel the comfort of Christmases past when I knew more about who I was, or at least how I might become the person I longed to be. When family was no longer annoying, when I had figured their special place in my life for eternity. Christmases away from the world, Christmases hidden away in a self-contained paradise, complete with the joys of giving and receiving, the love of family and still the grounding reality of life and relationships.
Christmases when I missed friends, or perhaps a special someone who could not be with me.
A Christmas for mourning the passing of a loved grandparent.
Christmases with new people in new places; Christmases with old people (and older people!) in familiar homes.
Every year Christmas is different because I am different. Every year it means something new, and every year I have the pleasure of making a new memory of Christmas.
There is, however, one constant: Christmas breakfast!
Almost every year for almost as long as I can remember we have had a variety 8-pack of all those delicious, sugar-filled breakfast cereals in tiny individual boxes; the type that, as children, we were never allowed on a regular basis. A real treat, even if its now purely for the nostalgia it evokes.
In fact right now, as I sit miles from home, I can picture my family all reaching for their cereals of choice, perhaps fighting, sometimes resigning (the ultimate sign of family love). And that just might be what I miss most about Christmas this year.
Its a process that has evolved as we've all grown. But it is something that we have almost always had to navigate together. There has never been a hard and fast rule - our tastes seem to change yearly - so each year's negotiation has been different, new and approached with all the wisdom (or aggression or love or strength or courage or selflessness) that we have acquired over the year past. Those two minutes of decision making could be the defining moment for my family each and every year. And I miss it terribly.
I wonder which box I would have reached for if I was there right now.
I hope you take a guess and give mine to Sally. With paws instead of hands and an inability to grab quickly enough I'm afraid she's always missed out, poor puppy.
Merry Christmas and my love to all.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Paris: City of lights, shytes and motorbikes
We arrived on a rainy Saturday afternoon. The trip to the apartment was a near mission impossible, involving twisting turns through narrow Parisian backstreets, visits to buildings, rooms, safety deposit boxes, codes, keys and cash, all with luggage in tow. The apartment itself was (finally) a very chique, loft-style space hidden in a side street somewhere in the 3rd arrondisement.
Our first unburdened walk through the rues and down the boulevardes of gay Paris was rather tentative, hesitant. Not entirely sure of our surroundings, we set out to explore the neighbourhood and find the easiest possible ways to satisfy our most base needs: food, food and food.
What we discovered was that a stroll through Paris seems to involve a few necessary scenic inclusions...
Our first option for food was to become a constant throughout the city - brasseries. Every corner of Paris is adorned with a bar/tabac/brasserie. Awnings and street-facing streets behind a neat row of small, circular tables characterise the outside, whilst inside is a mixute of gawdy decor, smoking French and menus which don't fall within the price-range of a budget traveller.
(I feel I need to clarify our budget after earlier mention of a fancy loft apartment... Our apartment was the same price as a hostel and allowed us to eat in much more frequently. Perhaps travelling in a little more style than your average backpackers, we are nevertheless restricted by unfortunately shallow wallets.)
The next is the obligatory streets of lights for which Paris is quite famous. We had barely walked for 10 minutes before we found ourselves under strings of fairylights, crisscrossing a quaint rue of delicatessens, fruit shops, cafes and pastisseries.
More unexpected was the inclusion of vast amounts of dog excrements throughout almost all the streets of Paris that we walked. It may not have dawned on me that first night wandering through the city with lights in my eyes and a swivelling head like a laughing clown, but we did find ourselves having to be quite nimble on our feets lest we end up with a canine cushion smelling out the soles of our shoes.
But perhaps the highlight of that first wonderful evening in this amazing city was the proliferation of two-wheeled travellers up and down every street. Scooters and pushbikes, yes.
But oh the motorcycles!
European, Japanese, big, small, tiny, I don't care how they come, I couldn't get enough. Every red light meant a glorious roar of noise as all the bikes and scooters vied for position prime the second the lights turned to green. And of course there were the lines upon lines of different makes, models, types up and down the streets in the parking areas which are between each intersection. So much to look at, my eyes could barely take it in fast enough to satisfy me!
But like a little boy in a big bike store, my obsession almost led to my demise more than once - it's hard to keep a watch out for dog doo when your eyes are busy chasing beautiful bi-wheeled beasts...
Apologies: Please, excuse my French in the title of this post on my usually squeaky-clean blog. It couldn't be helped...
Our first unburdened walk through the rues and down the boulevardes of gay Paris was rather tentative, hesitant. Not entirely sure of our surroundings, we set out to explore the neighbourhood and find the easiest possible ways to satisfy our most base needs: food, food and food.
What we discovered was that a stroll through Paris seems to involve a few necessary scenic inclusions...
Our first option for food was to become a constant throughout the city - brasseries. Every corner of Paris is adorned with a bar/tabac/brasserie. Awnings and street-facing streets behind a neat row of small, circular tables characterise the outside, whilst inside is a mixute of gawdy decor, smoking French and menus which don't fall within the price-range of a budget traveller.
(I feel I need to clarify our budget after earlier mention of a fancy loft apartment... Our apartment was the same price as a hostel and allowed us to eat in much more frequently. Perhaps travelling in a little more style than your average backpackers, we are nevertheless restricted by unfortunately shallow wallets.)
The next is the obligatory streets of lights for which Paris is quite famous. We had barely walked for 10 minutes before we found ourselves under strings of fairylights, crisscrossing a quaint rue of delicatessens, fruit shops, cafes and pastisseries.
More unexpected was the inclusion of vast amounts of dog excrements throughout almost all the streets of Paris that we walked. It may not have dawned on me that first night wandering through the city with lights in my eyes and a swivelling head like a laughing clown, but we did find ourselves having to be quite nimble on our feets lest we end up with a canine cushion smelling out the soles of our shoes.
But perhaps the highlight of that first wonderful evening in this amazing city was the proliferation of two-wheeled travellers up and down every street. Scooters and pushbikes, yes.
But oh the motorcycles!
European, Japanese, big, small, tiny, I don't care how they come, I couldn't get enough. Every red light meant a glorious roar of noise as all the bikes and scooters vied for position prime the second the lights turned to green. And of course there were the lines upon lines of different makes, models, types up and down the streets in the parking areas which are between each intersection. So much to look at, my eyes could barely take it in fast enough to satisfy me!
But like a little boy in a big bike store, my obsession almost led to my demise more than once - it's hard to keep a watch out for dog doo when your eyes are busy chasing beautiful bi-wheeled beasts...
Apologies: Please, excuse my French in the title of this post on my usually squeaky-clean blog. It couldn't be helped...
Friday, November 21, 2008
Scottish Sun
About a month from the winter solstice here in Scotland, and once you get out of the city and away from the buildings it becomes truly evident how much the sun's path through the sky has changed.
The sun no longer rises in the morning. It more just plays hide and seek, occasionally peeking through a gap between buildings, maybe teasing you by peering out over the rooftops, but never completely clearing them. It stays low in the sky, before lazily returning to bask other parts of the world in all its glory.
Clearly the sun is bored of the northern hemisphere at the moment, and is seeking greener pastures amongst our southern friends.
Or perhaps, as a wise Scot confided in me today, perhaps the Sun is smarter than we give it credit for. Perhaps the Sun has heard somewhere along the grapevine that Scottish winters are notoriously miserable - cold, cloudy, dark - and is merely leading by example. Perhaps it is getting to that time of year when we humans should reconsider rising from our beds each morning. Maybe we should sleep in a little longer, only stay out for a few hours, then hurry back home to some warmth and comfort. If the Sun knows about avoiding Scottish winters, why shouldn't we?
I think the Sun could be on to something here...
The sun no longer rises in the morning. It more just plays hide and seek, occasionally peeking through a gap between buildings, maybe teasing you by peering out over the rooftops, but never completely clearing them. It stays low in the sky, before lazily returning to bask other parts of the world in all its glory.
Clearly the sun is bored of the northern hemisphere at the moment, and is seeking greener pastures amongst our southern friends.
Or perhaps, as a wise Scot confided in me today, perhaps the Sun is smarter than we give it credit for. Perhaps the Sun has heard somewhere along the grapevine that Scottish winters are notoriously miserable - cold, cloudy, dark - and is merely leading by example. Perhaps it is getting to that time of year when we humans should reconsider rising from our beds each morning. Maybe we should sleep in a little longer, only stay out for a few hours, then hurry back home to some warmth and comfort. If the Sun knows about avoiding Scottish winters, why shouldn't we?
I think the Sun could be on to something here...
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Dusty (like Russia)
Finally at liberty to write about one of my more miserable travel experiences, I'm going to take this blog back a month or two.
It began with a room viewing on a rainy Edinburgh day towards the end of July. Walking down a pretty cul-de-sac of blocks of old Victorian flats with quaint, flowery front gardens shaded by rows of large trees on the opposite side of the street. It was in a lively part of town, with shops and bars nearby, but it was set back off the busy main road, at the end of a very quiet crescent.
The rooms were generous in size - we were offered the pick of the bunch. The promises flowed, about urgent repairs to be made, renovations to be done, cleaning to completed. The nicer rooms, however, did come with one condition - a week of relocation to the smaller upstairs areas, so that two holidaying families could be comfortable accommodated on just one level of the flat.
That was fine, we said.
Two, three, four weeks into our stay and none of the promises had been kept. Not one. Workmen, inspectors, all arrived without any notice from our landlord, expecting to be shown into rooms where people were still asleep.
No, we said. We've been given no notice.
Our voluntary, good-will relocation for a week was suddenly turned into a month-long move into smaller rooms.
No, we said. That is not what we agreed to at all.
Visits from the landlord were regular and unannounced. The pretence was the work that was to be done. The result was a flat regularly left disheveled, with dishes and washing left strewn about. No work was done.
At the end of it all, after being forced into resignation over the state of the place, we could have signed longer leases.
No, we said. We'd like our deposits back, as we are going to move elsewhere, thank you.
This was when the real challenge began.
Excuse me, we said. It has been 2 weeks since you promised the return of our deposit. Please, reply to our emails, we said. Please return our calls.
Hey, we said. It has now been 3 weeks and we have not heard a word from you. We have called many times, we said. All we ask for is some communication from you.
Legal advice, we said.
Action, we threatened.
Ok, she said. I'll return your deposits now.
But three more weeks were to pass. Three more weeks with no communication. Our calls went unanswered, our messages ignored, our emails summarily dismissed without any reply whatsoever.
Enough, we said. You will now be reminded every single day. As will your partner. Every day, we said. Every day until we have what is rightfully ours.
We left that place cleaner, and in better condition than we found it. We never had to be chased for rent (in fact, we had to ask to pay it). We were polite, far too obliging, and generally excellent tenants.
In return we were disrespected, our generosity was abused, we were misled and we were completely used. Our first experience in Edinburgh was with a landlord who broke the terms of her own agreement, and who was completely neglectful of the needs of her tenants and her property.
It took longer than our period of tenancy for our deposit to be returned.
Definitely a lesson learned.
It began with a room viewing on a rainy Edinburgh day towards the end of July. Walking down a pretty cul-de-sac of blocks of old Victorian flats with quaint, flowery front gardens shaded by rows of large trees on the opposite side of the street. It was in a lively part of town, with shops and bars nearby, but it was set back off the busy main road, at the end of a very quiet crescent.
The rooms were generous in size - we were offered the pick of the bunch. The promises flowed, about urgent repairs to be made, renovations to be done, cleaning to completed. The nicer rooms, however, did come with one condition - a week of relocation to the smaller upstairs areas, so that two holidaying families could be comfortable accommodated on just one level of the flat.
That was fine, we said.
Two, three, four weeks into our stay and none of the promises had been kept. Not one. Workmen, inspectors, all arrived without any notice from our landlord, expecting to be shown into rooms where people were still asleep.
No, we said. We've been given no notice.
Our voluntary, good-will relocation for a week was suddenly turned into a month-long move into smaller rooms.
No, we said. That is not what we agreed to at all.
Visits from the landlord were regular and unannounced. The pretence was the work that was to be done. The result was a flat regularly left disheveled, with dishes and washing left strewn about. No work was done.
At the end of it all, after being forced into resignation over the state of the place, we could have signed longer leases.
No, we said. We'd like our deposits back, as we are going to move elsewhere, thank you.
This was when the real challenge began.
Excuse me, we said. It has been 2 weeks since you promised the return of our deposit. Please, reply to our emails, we said. Please return our calls.
Hey, we said. It has now been 3 weeks and we have not heard a word from you. We have called many times, we said. All we ask for is some communication from you.
Legal advice, we said.
Action, we threatened.
Ok, she said. I'll return your deposits now.
But three more weeks were to pass. Three more weeks with no communication. Our calls went unanswered, our messages ignored, our emails summarily dismissed without any reply whatsoever.
Enough, we said. You will now be reminded every single day. As will your partner. Every day, we said. Every day until we have what is rightfully ours.
We left that place cleaner, and in better condition than we found it. We never had to be chased for rent (in fact, we had to ask to pay it). We were polite, far too obliging, and generally excellent tenants.
In return we were disrespected, our generosity was abused, we were misled and we were completely used. Our first experience in Edinburgh was with a landlord who broke the terms of her own agreement, and who was completely neglectful of the needs of her tenants and her property.
It took longer than our period of tenancy for our deposit to be returned.
Definitely a lesson learned.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Ironique (thanks Millie)
I'm currently working in a fantastic new job for the University of Edinburgh in the Media Office.
This morning a call came in from a man who I thought was identifying himself as 'Tim' hoping to speak with the Director of our department. Unfortunately the call came at a time when the office was full of people and exploding with noise, so I didn't hear too much else.
My first concern was that it was the Principal of the University (first name Tim, last name unknown at this stage), a much respected figure, who, incidentally, is coming on a very important and very official visit to this office tomorrow. Wanting to sound like I knew who he was, I made sure I kept the call brief, business like, very professional, very important, very official.
'Yes, certainly, I'll get him to call you as soon as possible.'
Once off the phone, I enquired as to the Principal's surname. Upon discovering that it didn't begin with 'd' at all, nor did it sound anything like the name that I thought I had heard on the phone, I decreased the importance of this call, and pushed the message down towards the lower end of my to-do list. After all, the Director is a busy man, very important, and was in meetings for the duration of the day.
In a quieter period later in the day I thought that perhaps I could earn some initiative points beside my name if I called back this 'Tim' myself, and attempted to re-direct his call elsewhere in our department, rather than bothering the Director himself.
My call was answered by a kind, gentle voice, identifying herself as Kathleen, whom I assumed must be 'Tim's' assistant.
"Yes, hi, its Hamish calling from the University of Edinburgh-
Yes, thats right-
Yes, I'm calling on behalf of the director of Communications and Marketing to speak with ah, Tim please-
Yes, he called earlier to speak to the Director, but unfortunately the Director is in meetings today, and I was hoping that perhaps I could re-direct his enquiry to someone else in the department who may be able to help him-
Oh, well, could you please ask him to call me back on this number. And, ah, how is that you spell his name sorry?
Oh, its Tam, haha, sorry, my mistake. Tam-
Yes, D-a-l-y-e-l-l-
Pronounced Di-el? Ok excellent. Thank you."
Wanting to find out if anyone else in the press team might know who he was, or if anyone had any dealings with him, I tentatively asked
"Does anyone know a Tam Dalyell?"
I now know that Tam Dalyell is, in fact, a very, very, very important man. And don't I feel quite the fool!
This morning a call came in from a man who I thought was identifying himself as 'Tim' hoping to speak with the Director of our department. Unfortunately the call came at a time when the office was full of people and exploding with noise, so I didn't hear too much else.
My first concern was that it was the Principal of the University (first name Tim, last name unknown at this stage), a much respected figure, who, incidentally, is coming on a very important and very official visit to this office tomorrow. Wanting to sound like I knew who he was, I made sure I kept the call brief, business like, very professional, very important, very official.
'Yes, certainly, I'll get him to call you as soon as possible.'
Once off the phone, I enquired as to the Principal's surname. Upon discovering that it didn't begin with 'd' at all, nor did it sound anything like the name that I thought I had heard on the phone, I decreased the importance of this call, and pushed the message down towards the lower end of my to-do list. After all, the Director is a busy man, very important, and was in meetings for the duration of the day.
In a quieter period later in the day I thought that perhaps I could earn some initiative points beside my name if I called back this 'Tim' myself, and attempted to re-direct his call elsewhere in our department, rather than bothering the Director himself.
My call was answered by a kind, gentle voice, identifying herself as Kathleen, whom I assumed must be 'Tim's' assistant.
"Yes, hi, its Hamish calling from the University of Edinburgh-
Yes, thats right-
Yes, I'm calling on behalf of the director of Communications and Marketing to speak with ah, Tim please-
Yes, he called earlier to speak to the Director, but unfortunately the Director is in meetings today, and I was hoping that perhaps I could re-direct his enquiry to someone else in the department who may be able to help him-
Oh, well, could you please ask him to call me back on this number. And, ah, how is that you spell his name sorry?
Oh, its Tam, haha, sorry, my mistake. Tam-
Yes, D-a-l-y-e-l-l-
Pronounced Di-el? Ok excellent. Thank you."
Wanting to find out if anyone else in the press team might know who he was, or if anyone had any dealings with him, I tentatively asked
"Does anyone know a Tam Dalyell?"
I now know that Tam Dalyell is, in fact, a very, very, very important man. And don't I feel quite the fool!
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
I bought some gloves
Apparently I served lunch to a Spanish Princess or some member of the Spanish royal family on Sunday. As well as some very rich (and I'm sure famous in their own fields) gentlemen and ladies from all over the world, all attending the Alfred Dunhill Links Championship. Notable attendees included Samuel L. Jackson, Hugh Grant and Michael Vaughn, amongst others.
On Saturday I served an exquisite 4 course meal after a cosy champagne reception at a wedding. The father of the bride was one of Scotland's most reknowned chefs (once again, within the industry), and the wedding was held in Mount Stuart House, an old Victorian mansion which is home to one of Britain's most beautiful indoor swimming pools, and which was the first house in Britain to have a telephone line. The ceilings were over 70 feet high in places.
On Wednesday last week I was a part of team that served over 600 French men and women who were partaking in an all-expenses paid business trip/marketing exercise. Their company paid over £1,000,000 for them to enjoy tours of some of Scotland's most famous highland distilleries before being given kilts to wear to a reception at a gorgeous family castle, which included a 30-man marching bagpipe band and a lighting show that was worth over £25,000 alone. They savoured a slow 4 course meal (dessert was not served until after midnight), seated in a (one use only) marquee worth £150,000, punctuated by performances from both local and French bands, complimented by some of the finest wine and whiskey available.
My job certainly isn't easy - its damn hard work. But it is, in more ways than one, awesome, worthy of awe. Nothing helps you realise this like standing with a bottle of French champagne in your hands whilst admiring an intricate tapestry hundreds of years old, in a house that people usually have to pay just to have the privilege of entering.
On Saturday I served an exquisite 4 course meal after a cosy champagne reception at a wedding. The father of the bride was one of Scotland's most reknowned chefs (once again, within the industry), and the wedding was held in Mount Stuart House, an old Victorian mansion which is home to one of Britain's most beautiful indoor swimming pools, and which was the first house in Britain to have a telephone line. The ceilings were over 70 feet high in places.
On Wednesday last week I was a part of team that served over 600 French men and women who were partaking in an all-expenses paid business trip/marketing exercise. Their company paid over £1,000,000 for them to enjoy tours of some of Scotland's most famous highland distilleries before being given kilts to wear to a reception at a gorgeous family castle, which included a 30-man marching bagpipe band and a lighting show that was worth over £25,000 alone. They savoured a slow 4 course meal (dessert was not served until after midnight), seated in a (one use only) marquee worth £150,000, punctuated by performances from both local and French bands, complimented by some of the finest wine and whiskey available.
My job certainly isn't easy - its damn hard work. But it is, in more ways than one, awesome, worthy of awe. Nothing helps you realise this like standing with a bottle of French champagne in your hands whilst admiring an intricate tapestry hundreds of years old, in a house that people usually have to pay just to have the privilege of entering.
Monday, October 6, 2008
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