tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31109180292436173412024-03-14T11:16:21.230+11:00Short and sweet & sourShort. Intolerant. Prefers the company of dogs and small children. Loves chocolate.SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.comBlogger145125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-68211627803910474222011-07-06T21:20:00.006+10:002011-07-12T09:35:20.642+10:00Moving onRegular readers of this blog - that's all five of you - might remember The Great Job Move of 2010, when I changed jobs and defected to the Hospital Next Door. Well, it's been just over a year and it's time to move again.<div><br /></div><div>I'm quite excited but ever so slightly petrified about this one, because it will be the first time in 25 years - yes, you read that correctly - that I will not be working in a hospital. My new role will see me working for an educational institution, a shiny office setting where people wear normal clothes and don't have to let someone know when they're going to the toilet. A place where lunch breaks can last for more than 29 minutes. A strange, new world.</div><div><br /></div><div>I love hospitals. I feel at home in them. I understand the language. I know how things work. I know what hides behind doors, what things are kept under lock and key. I can work the equipment, silence those annoying alarms, make the backrest on the bed come out. I can make a bed in mere minutes. I can cast my eye over a clinical situation, assess it, prioritise the necessary actions, delegate, supervise and evaluate. I can do stuff, me. But I do that stuff in a hospital, my natural environment. It's been my only constant since I was nineteen years of age and now I'm leaving home. </div><div><br /></div><div>And my patients. How can I leave them? It's been my privilege to care for people for so many years. I've been there for people when they're lonely, in pain, frightened, critically ill. I've delivered babies who came before their time. I've held the hand of the dying and sat with them as they took their last breath. I've wiped bums, washed faces, backs, feet, changed nighties and pyjamas, given injections, pushed wheelchairs, sat and listened, made thousands and thousands of cups of tea, looked after scared student nurses, looked after scared staff nurses, scared doctors, gone toe to toe with aggressive relatives, cried, laughed, laughed, cried and then laughed some more.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's been hard and there were times when it nearly broke me. The pay isn't the best. The perks are practically non existent. But it's been my life for almost 25 years. Leaving it is going to break my heart.</div><div><br /></div><div>Still, people have said some very nice things to me since I resigned. My current students are sad to see me go. My new graduate nurse is mildly horrified that I'm leaving. I'm mildy horrified for her.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, that's it. Now it'll be normal clothes and a classroom, telling people what's out there. I'm not sure if I'll last but there's only one way to find out. </div>SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-88503244940859707762011-06-01T18:40:00.003+10:002011-06-01T21:32:44.927+10:00The Book<a href="http://cdn2.fishpond.co.nz/9780141311302-crop-325x325.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 211px; height: 325px;" src="http://cdn2.fishpond.co.nz/9780141311302-crop-325x325.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br />I feel for my poor father. An avid sportsman, he had two children who showed minimal interest in any outdoor sports at all. I can still recall his frustration on warm summers days, when, keen to get out in the garden with a bat and ball he would attempt to evict his sluglike offspring from whichever nook or hiding place we had secreted ourselves. My brother would often join in with a game of cricket or some throw and catch before scuttling back to his Airfix models but I would resolutely refuse. It's hard to read in direct sunlight.<br /><br />I've always been a bookworm. My mother taught me to read before I went to school. I devoured words. I would read the labels on shampoo bottles in the bath. I read every book in the school library before the 4th year. I read the childrens books at the local library and when I'd read all the ones I liked I moved into the grown up section. I have shelves full of books. Boxes full of books. A personalised signed Pratchett. I have a Kindle. I love reading, me.<br /><br />I've read more books than I can count but if you asked me to pick a favourite I could do it in a heartbeat. It's not a highbrow masterpiece. It's not a Booker prize winner. It's a childrens book.<br /><br />Charlie and The Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl sticks in my memory as being the most amazing book of my entire childhood. I doubt it will ever be replaced in my affections by any other. It conjured up vivid images in my imagination of little Charlie Bucket, his impoverished but proud family and most importantly of all, that river of chocolate.<br /><br />I won't bore you all with the details as I'm sure you've all read it. (What? You haven't? Get thee to a bookshop!) Perhaps it was my sweet tooth that made me love it with such a passion but all I know is that Roald Dahl filled my head with pictures. It was more than just pictures, though. It was sounds and smells, imaginary places, magical little people, a glass elevator, and oh yes, a river of chocolate. Beautiful pictures, imaginary scents, grotesque baddies, a hero and his grandfather, a peculiar confectioner and a happy ending to boot.<br /><br />Fast forward to 2011 and I'm having a conversation with my friends six year old son. He's a nice little boy, not too grubby and well behaved. We have funny little conversations which I generally enjoy, well, apart from the one where he told me that the reason I was so short was that I ate too many Sometimes Foods. I still think his mother was behind it. Anyhoo. We were having a nice little chat about books one day and I told him about Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. He wanted to know more and so I downloaded a free sample to my Kindle before my next babysitting venture. Once the parents had gone out and the younger brother was safely tucked into bed, I began to read.<br /><br />It's a lovely thing, reading to children. They go into a trancelike state. They sit still and pay attention. They are transported to another place. Their eyes might be staring at the words on the page but you know they're not reading them. And so it was with little Ted. By the end of the first chapter he was snuggled in so close that I could feel his breathing against my arm. I knew that the words I was reading out loud were filtering into his ears and sloshing around inside his mind. I knew he could see Grandpa Joe and Grandma Josephine, Grandpa George and Grandma Georgina squashed into the bed. I knew that in his minds eye he could see Prince Pondicherry in his chocolate palace. Charlie Bucket was alive inside someone elses head.<br /><br />Little Ted was disappointed when the free sample ended and wanted to know what happened to Charlie Bucket. I went home the next day and visited www.bookdepository.co.uk. Within 10 minutes a copy of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory had been purchased and sent to a little boy.<a href="http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/"></a><div><br /></div><div>About a week later I received a 'phone call. "Thank you for my book. It came today."</div><div>"You're welcome," I replied. "Did I tell you that it's my most favourite book in the whole wide world?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yep," said Ted. "I'm going to get Mummy to read it to me tonight. Thank you so much. I love it."</div><div><br /></div><div>People might think it's just a book. It cost less than ten dollars. But it's so much more than just a book. It's an introduction to the power of imagination. It's the front door to a world of magic and make believe, of little people, of gruesome children and their gruesome parents. It's about edible blades of grass and a river of chocolate.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's the best gift I've ever given. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, what's your book?</div>SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-7317682418955991682011-04-20T21:28:00.007+10:002011-04-20T22:58:38.938+10:00Goodbye, Sarah Jane Smith<a href="http://www.rdwf.org.uk/images/sarahjane_files/Andy_Pandy_files/sjs2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 420px; height: 504px;" src="http://www.rdwf.org.uk/images/sarahjane_files/Andy_Pandy_files/sjs2.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>I wanted my next blog post to be a cheerful one, really, I did. I'd already started one about my afternoon at the Sydney Opera House with Sir Pterry Pratchett. It was going to be all cheerful and uplifting. Honest.<div><br /></div><div>This morning I logged on to my favourite Doctor Who forum (oh come on, we all know I'm a geek) and read the terrible and shocking news that Elisabeth Sladen, the actress who had played Sarah Jane Smith, had passed away at the age of 63. Members of the forum were in shock. I was one of them. I immediately sent a text to my cousin. I updated my Facebook status. I posted on the forum. I cried. Twice. </div><div><br /></div><div>Why is it that we feel this way about people that we've never met? We develop such intense and real attachments to characters - and that's what they are, not people, per se - that we genuinely mourn their passing when we've never met the people themselves. For me, with Elisabeth and Nicholas Courtney, I think it's because they are intrinsically linked with my childhood which was a happy time for me, all things considered. Sarah Jane Smith was an excellent role model for little girls in the 70s. She might have screamed a lot (she certainly screamed and fell over too much in Brain of Morbius) but even though she was afraid she stood her ground and did what needed to be done. She took on aliens. She faced off with Davros. She did battle alongside Jon Pertwee, Tom Baker, David Tennant and Matt Smith. A veteran visitor to the TARDIS, she also appeared in The Five Doctors where she met the first, second and fifth Doctor. Three decades of teaching little girls that they could do anything.</div><div><br /></div><div>A few years ago I 'met' Sarah Jane again when she appeared alongside David Tennant in an episode called 'School Reunion.' I cried during that episode when K9, the brave tin robot dog, sacrificed himself to save the others. I'd never had a dog as a child and watching that episode as an adult, I wept as 'my' dog died.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm so terribly sad about Elisabeth's passing. Even though I never met her and only really knew her as Sarah Jane I'm pretty sure she was a warm, funny, delightful human being. Elisabeth Sladen leaves a husband, daughter, and millions of fans all over the world.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="640" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/-gi_NVHDUVs" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-81389859720412544332011-02-24T17:29:00.004+11:002011-02-24T21:16:52.214+11:00Five rounds rapid<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://27.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_l0baz0JHix1qa7yfto1_400.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 288px; height: 352px;" src="http://27.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_l0baz0JHix1qa7yfto1_400.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>It's hard to pinpoint when your childhood ends and adulthood begins. One minute you're throwing your dolls out of trees on makeshift parachutes and the next you're wearing cherry flavoured lip gloss and mooning over a boy who doesn't know your name. One second later and you've got a mortgage, a credit card and a large collection of handbags, plus a few grey hairs thrown in for good measure.<div><div><br /></div><div>But every now and then something takes you out of your grown up life and back to your younger days with a sudden jolt. A memory or a moment catches you unawares and reminds you that there was a time when monsters existed and the safest place was behind the settee. </div><div><br /></div><div>I had one of those moments yesterday. Nicholas Courtney passed away yesterday at the age of 81 and he took another little piece of my childhood with him. Quite a big bit, actually. For the children of the Seventies Brigadier Alastair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart was as synonymous with Doctor Who as the TARDIS or even the Doctor himself. The Brig, as he was affectionately known, led UNIT (United Nations Intelligence Taskforce) and thanks to the Doctor each time the UK hosted strange alien life forms the Brig was there to greet them with a mixture of bemusement and exasperation. Often he tried to shoot them. It wasn't always the most successful approach to defending the planet but he remained steadfast and unflappable as the stood alongside the Doctor - well, lots of them, actually - and faced danger head on, armed with his army issue pistol and his marvellously rich voice. With his calm demeanour, no nonsense approach, smart uniform and magnificent moustache, the Brig was the very epitome of a hero. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yesterday, I found out that my childhood hero was no longer with us and I'm still a bit tearful today. I hadn't realised how much I loved The Brig. Jon Pertwee was my doctor but perhaps if I'm honest I loved The Brig more than any Doctor. He made it safe to come out from behind the settee on a Saturday night. </div><div><br /></div><div>RIP Nick. Thank you for everything. Splendid fellow. </div></div>SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-77247357425729830752010-11-09T19:43:00.002+11:002010-11-09T19:52:12.718+11:00My blog mojoI seem to have lost the ability to write lately. I know I've neglected my dear little blog and you, my handful of loyal followers. I haven't forgotten you, honestly. I haven't even been busy for the most part. Sure, there have been periods of frantic academic activity as I struggled to finish the last two assignments for my graduate certificate. There have been times where I have forced myself off the sofa and fought with piles of long neglected paperwork. There have been several shopping trips on the internet for things I didn't need. There was even the time when I attempted - unsuccessfully - to sort out the wires for my set top box and DVD recorder. All of these times, dear readers, are times when I could have sat down and told you what was going on. Alas, I am a lazy moo, both on the surface and deep down. I'm sorry. I am a first class procrastinator.<div><br /></div><div>I've had many thoughts and ideas for blog entries. I even tried to write an entry last week but I lost interest, stumbled across a bar of Green & Blacks chocolate and the rest is history. I had an idea when I was standing at the bus stop night. It had evaporated by the time I got home. I don't know what's wrong with me.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll try harder. Honest. But don't hold your breath. I'm a lazy moo, you know.</div>SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-57064481153415214902010-09-09T16:54:00.002+10:002010-09-09T17:16:04.603+10:00MovingSo. The move.<br /><br />It was torturous. My notoriously unreliable friend had promised to help me but I was feeling less than certain that she would appear. An enquiring text elicited a favourable response and I felt slightly easier. At 09.05am a the removal team arrived. Two men with limited English arrived to remove my copious belongings from the flat and secure them in a van. They had left the van outside of the driveway, which made it harder for them as it was a fair distance to travel back and forth but the apparent senior of the two managed to communicate that he didn't mind.<br /><br />The notoriously unreliable friend rang at 09.10am to say she was in a suburb on the other side of The Bridge (the Anzac Bridge, not the one you see on the TV) to collect a tumble drier that someone had kindly donated to me. I screamed internally. She was bound to get stuck in traffic. Fortunately she didn't and burst into the flat in full Technicolour, roaring with delight at the scene of carnage.<br />"I thought you were soooooo organised," she trilled. "You're wearing rubber gloves! Not ready at all! I love it!!!!!"<br /><br />I immediately sent her to get coffee from a local cafe. The man carried on packing. The place was an absolute bombsite. We did a carload of fragile stuff as well as things I couldn't be bothered to pack properly. We came back to find the men had finished. Off we went.<br /><br />I felt sorry for the removalists when they realised that not only had they dragged all my possessions down a flight of stairs and up a driveway but that now they needed to get them across a road and down a narrow flight of stairs. The now reliable friend left me to collect her daughter and catch up on a few jobs. The men finished, I paid them and collapsed on my recently relocated settee.<br /><br />The friend returned to take me back to the old place. That was when I did it. Locked the keys to the new place inside it, that is. We had to drive to the letting office, run in, collect the spares and go back. The friend left me with a cheery wave and a promise to return on Friday.<br /><br />I went back to the old place to do some cleaning. I managed an hour and a half before the headache that I'd been brewing all day finally caught up with me, which wasn't surprising seeing as my days dietary intake was limited to one cup of tea, one coffee and a banana. I got a taxi 'home' and collapsed on the settee. I didn't have the energy to make a cup of tea, instead just getting up every now and then to take more Paracetamols. I finally dragged myself up this morning - still with a headache - to go to work. All set. But where were the keys?<br /><br />In the lock. Outside. Where they had been all night.<br /><br />It can only get better.SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-29500350204692978792010-09-06T18:44:00.002+10:002010-09-06T19:00:41.894+10:00On the moveMe again.<div><br /></div><div>I'll spare you the excuses. Your correspondent is currently sitting in an apartment which resembles an explosion in a department store and wishing for some petrol and a box of matches.</div><div><br /></div><div>You may remember - that's if I mentioned it - that I returned from my UK trip to the news that the apartment I rent is being sold. I finally managed to find a new flat to rent less than five minutes drive away. Not that I can drive, of course, but if I could....well, you get the picture. I've had the keys for over a week and still haven't moved in, mainly because I'm lazy but also because I had to pay rent on the current place for two weeks anyway. So, being stubborn - and lazy - I left it till the last minute.</div><div><br /></div><div>I take no pleasure in moving. I don't know anyone who does, really, but I can't stand it. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I'd lived in three different houses before I was eight. I'm a creature of habit. I like to stay put. Strange, you might think, coming from someone who lives 12,000 miles away from the country of her birth, but there you go.</div><div><br /></div><div>I bought a lovely flat in London and lived in it for some years until I moved to Australia. I think about it sometimes. I miss its large living room. I miss its massive kitchen/diner. I miss its quiet back garden. Most of all I miss putting the key in the front door and knowing that no one can tell me to move out of it. </div><div><br /></div><div>I've moved a lot more since coming to Australia. Not counting the house in Canberra I've lived in seven different flats in the last 12 years. Sydney is a hard place to live. Renters can't afford to buy and so we live in other peoples flats, paying their mortgages and looking wishfully at the For Sale section of the newspapers. </div><div><br /></div><div>The New Flat will be number 8. I'm looking for something to buy and am hoping that Number 9 will see my last foray into packing boxes and purging of book collections. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, here I sit, surrounded by detritus and half packed boxes, waiting for a kind friend to come round and take some odds and sods round before the removal people come on Wednesday morning to shove my goods and chattels into the back of their van before depositing them in The New Flat. I've liked living here, not loved it, but liked it a lot. It's a small flat and The New Flat is much bigger. It's not as close to the beach but still walking distance. It's on a different and less frequent bus route. I just want to get in there and turn it into home.</div><div><br /></div><div>They say moving house is one of the most stressful things that can happen to you in life. Aint that the truth. </div>SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-55885138244847052962010-08-01T15:19:00.003+10:002010-08-01T15:48:23.755+10:00What's next?Well.<div><br /></div><div>Lots has happened since I was here last. I had my Big Holiday, which was nice. I spent lots of money, saw family (some nice, some not so nice) and friends (all nice), singlehandedly revived the economy -albeit temporarily - with my many trips to the shops, topped up my Oyster card repeatedly, got on trains, got off trains, got on buses, got off buses, slept in different beds, looked in bathroom cabinets - oh yes, if I've been in your house I've looked in your bathroom cabinet - watched mostly good television, consumed litres of Pimms, eaten too many Marks and Spencers Yum Yums, shopped again, marvelled at the English countryside whilst quietly congratulating myself on visiting the country of my birth during what turned out to be a glorious English summer. I defy anyone to say there is no more beautiful place to be than in an English garden when the sun is shining and you're eating raspberries and cream from Waitrose served in a Marks & Spencers meringue nest. Oh yes.</div><div><br /></div><div>A lot happened in that holiday. My dear old dad was taken into hospital during the last week. I watched the nurses like a hawk. I ran a finger along the surfaces to check for dust. I straightened the sheets. I checked his observation chart. He's fine now, and was discharged before I flew back. I took him home in a taxi the day before I flew out. I made him a cup of tea and loaded the washing machine like a good daughter. I'm glad it happened when I was at home and not the week afterwards. It's a confronting thing when your parents get older. But that's a story for another day. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway. I had a spectacularly good holiday. I spent lots of money. Lots. I had an uneventful flight back. The food was okay, the films were dull. I got back to Sydney, turned on my mobile phone and listened to my messages. One was from a friend welcoming me back. The other was from the letting agent. The flat I live in is being sold and I have to be out on the 9th of September. Arse.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, I'm moving again. I'm looking for somewhere to buy but with the money I earn my choices are limited. I've loved living by the sea in my little shoebox but all good things come to an end. I can't afford to buy this place as it's been valued at $20,000 over my maximum budget. There's not much on the market but I'm hopeful something will turn up. In the meantime I have to look for somewhere to rent until I find something to buy. </div><div><br /></div><div>So. That's me. How are the rest of you?</div><div><br /></div>SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-10080608946397350312010-07-01T19:01:00.003+10:002010-07-01T19:44:19.228+10:00Point of originEverything has been a bit of a whirlwind lately. There was the fuss of leaving the old job, starting the new job, inadequate packing for the UK trip (no shoes!) and the hour and a half I spent on the floor of a Virgin Atlantic aeroplane looking after a man who was having a suspected heart attack at 35,000 feet in US airspace. But that's another story for another day.<br /><br />I firmly believe there is no finer place to be than England in the summertime. The sun is shining, the flowers are in bloom, people are happy and strawberries are half price at both Marks & Spencers and Waitrose. I've been busy going backwards and forwards during my UK holiday meeting old friends and family, sitting in various sunny gardens drinking Pimms and looking at flowers I haven't seen since I was a child. I spent a couple of days in the Lake District breathing in fresh air and marvelling at the scenery. I've seen more of the Essex countryside than I ever thought possible and anyone who makes jokes about Essex people should shut their mouths and open their eyes to how truly beautiful my home county is.<br /><br />There was a point to this post but I have no idea what it was now. I suppose I just wanted to say that I'm home. It's good to be back and it's going to be hard to leave.<br /><br />By the way, I'm sticking comment moderation on for a while as I seem to be getting a lot of spam. Please don't let it put you off commenting. Cheers.SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-62537666918780669222010-05-17T21:12:00.006+10:002010-05-17T22:55:21.263+10:00Thank your lucky stars, Sisters.SSS is a feminist. Surprised, aren't you? I know. I blame my parents. And my grandparents, come to think of it. I grew up in an environment where I saw men do 'womens work' without a murmur of complaint or without looking for a pat on the back. In some respect this has spoiled me for the real world. But never mind.<div><br /></div><div>I'm constantly bemused when I meet women who don't seem to understand how lucky they are. They don't seem to care about the sacrifices the Suffragettes made for the women to come after them. They think feminism is a dirty word. They have no concept of history. They've grown up with access to education and healthcare. They can wear what they want in public without a member of the police hitting them with a fucking big stick. </div><div><br /></div><div>Tonight I watched a <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/magazine/8582645.stm">TV documentary </a>which made me once again thank my lucky stars that I was born in a country where I could basically do what the hell I liked despite having a uterus. </div><div><br /></div><div>Nel Hedayet is an Afghan born, British raised 21 year old girl who wanted to know more about the country of her birth. She travelled to Afghanistan to find out about her heritage and learn what life was really like for her sisters. What she found shocked her and reduced her to tears on several occasions. She found an Afghanistan where the Taliban may have been overthrown but where outside of the capital Kabul women are still forced to cover themselves from head to toe in the dreaded blue burkas. She met a 15 year old girl whose father had given her to a 60 year old man to take as his wife. She met another 15 year old whose father had married her off at the age of 12 and consigned her to a life of physical abuse from her inlaws, abuse so overwhelming that the child set fire to herself in order to escape. 15 years of age, languishing in a ward full of other married children who had resorted to self immolation to free themselves from their miserable existences. She met Afghan schoolgirls who risked their lives to go to school. Nel reflected on how angry she thought the girls would be to find out that their British counterparts squandered their own education opportunities and skipped school for no good reason. She met a girl with an enlightened and loving father. She met a 14 year old boy who would not 'allow' his older sister to appear on a local television show as it would be 'disrespectful' to him. She met many inspirational girls and women who are attempting to rail against the status quo of a country where the cards are stacked against them.</div><div><br /></div><div>At the end of her trip she threw herself into the arms of her mother and told her that she finally understood why her parents had left their homeland. I wonder that it took her so long. I'm just glad she got there. And I'm glad she got out.</div><div><br /></div><div>Never take your freedom for granted. </div><div><br /></div><div>http://www.afghanaid.org.uk/</div><div><br /></div><div>http://www.afghanistanwomencouncil.org/</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-81051500320170760562010-05-11T18:05:00.007+10:002010-05-11T20:43:18.809+10:00The Hospital Next DoorLast Friday was my final official shift at what I now call the 'old' place. It was an awful day, very busy and punctuated by annoying events. By 11.50 I was ready to walk out and tell them to shove their cake up their arse. Some kind souls had organised a farewell lunch for me but no one thought to tell the relief nurse who hadn't bothered to see me to arrange my lunch break some 20 minutes after starting her shift. This is the first thing the relief nurse is supposed to do when she starts work. Silly me for thinking that on my last day the relief nurse would come and see me to arrange my lunch break. I finally got into the tearoom for the lunch but felt sick and could only manage a cup of tea. I watched the British election results coming in on the TV and felt lost. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so low. <div><br /></div><div>The farewell tea party came and went, I was dragged in to a round of applause. The tearoom wasn't as tidy as I would have had it - in fact the first thing I saw on arrival was the cake box and a work surface strewn with the detritus of lunch - and I had to turn the television off myself before the boss made her somewhat dull and emotionless speech. I remained dry eyed throughout. I said some stuff, said thanks, said I'd had some difficult times and some good times and that I would miss some people very much. I said something funny and that was it. I cut into the cake and asked someone else to cut it into slices. I then had to ask for a piece as they'd started to pass it round without offering me the first slice. <div><br /></div><div>I might be coming across all Miss Jean Brodie here but I think after 7 years the least I could expect is the offer of a lunch break, a tidy tearoom, no TV and first offer of the orange and poppyseed cake. I suppose what it made me realise is that either a) I care too much about little stuff or b) no one pays attention to detail like I do. In fairness, most people were wonderful. I was given lots of little presents. There were tears and they weren't all mine. Some people said some lovely things in private. I felt appreciated by the staff if not by management. </div><div><br /></div><div> In all honesty I'm glad it was a crappy day because it made it a lot easier to walk out of there. I cleaned out my locker, handed back the key, put my shoes in a plastic bag and walked out of the door.</div><div><br /></div><div>Today I started at The Hospital Next Door. I had a good nights sleep last night and woke up at 06.30 instead of the usual 05.45. I only started to get nervous as I approached my usual coffee shop. The owner wished me good luck as he handed over my caffeine fix and I walked in the usual hospital front door. Instead of turning right I turned left.</div><div><br /></div><div>All in all it was a good day. I got there nice and early, had a guided tour, met far too many people, received lots of information, did some reading, had more coffee, sent some 'I miss you but I'm fine' emails to some ex colleagues and shuffled some papers. I also saw about eight of my old doctors, which was absolutely lovely. I'm sharing an office with two of the managers. No one was doing much talking - I was too busy reading - but then someone came to talk to me and I laughed quite loudly. I don't have a pretty laugh and I think I startled them. Anyway, it broke the ice. They told me the last girl didn't talk much. They'll be sorry. My favourite moment was when I asked them if they minded me bringing in my collection of fluffy toys and picture of cats in amusing poses. They'll be sorry.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course the irony is that The Hospital Next Door is no longer really The Hospital Next Door as the Old Place holds that title now. I've been surprised at how easy it's been to let go.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's a big job and I've got a lot of work ahead of me.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think it's going to be okay.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Now, bonus points to anyone who can tell which episode of a popular TV programme this post has made me want to watch?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-54243589713236628312010-04-30T19:53:00.003+10:002010-04-30T20:19:18.411+10:00Counting downJust one week to go before I leave my current job and move to The Hospital Next Door. This morning I walked into the changing room to find a sign announcing my farewell and the associated celebrations - dinner next week, pub session the week after - and was touched to find it had been thoughtfully decorated with a lovely picture of David Tennant as The Doctor standing outside the TARDIS with a cheeky smile on his face. I was completely taken by surprise and it made me both happy and sad.<div><br /></div><div>I've been in my current position for just over seven years. It's the longest I've ever stayed with one employer and it's going to be a wrench to go. Don't get me wrong, I'm ready to leave. I've had a lot of issues with management - and some staff - during my time there, I know I've got no chance of progressing in my career and I've had it up to my eyeballs with a lot of the lazier, younger nurses. But I'm also going to miss a lot. I've met some amazing people. I've cared for some wonderful patients and their families. I've cried, I've shouted, I've slammed doors. I've told people to shove things where the sun doesn't shine. But I've laughed till I've cried. I've done good things. I've led by example. I've maintained high standards of professionalism. I've had some deep and meaningful conversations with the most unlikely people. I've held secrets, I've helped people - and been helped in return. I've spent too much time in the pub. I've met kindred spirits and I've made friends for life.<div><br /></div><div>So, next Friday I'll have to submit to the ritual 'afternoon tea' that waits for all staff members who leave. At some point in the afternoon a nurse will take a sheet and place it over a table in the tearoom as a token tablecloth. A cake will be placed on the table, along with a farewell card, a bunch of flowers and a present of some description. Another nurse will be despatched to gather staff and they'll all sit in the tearoom and wait for me, chatting and giggling. Someone will want to sign the card at the last minute. The senior nurse will then come and find me, asking me to come for a walk. The walk will lead to the tearoom and I'll arrive to a round of applause and cheers. There will be a speech, thanking me for all my hard work and wishing me well. I'll probably cry. I'll thank everyone, cut into the cake and have a cup of tea. </div><div><br /></div><div>At the end of the day I'll hand in my locker key and leave the changing room for the last time. I'm ready to go. I'm looking forward to the challenge ahead. But it's going to hurt all the same. </div></div>SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-46096447773622126212010-04-19T14:46:00.003+10:002010-04-19T16:37:04.644+10:00Jumping the gunI had an interview last Thursday at The Hospital Next Door for a job I really wanted. It went okay. Not brilliant, but okay. When Friday came and went without any news I managed to convince myself that I hadn't got the job. This isn't as paranoid as it sounds, honest. A previous interview at The Hospital Next Door recently was less than successful. I was heard to later remark that it couldn't have gone any worse if I'd stood on the table and done a big wee. Or something like that. Anyway, I didn't get it and the way I found out was by letter 10 days later. I mean, the penny had dropped well and truly before then but you get the picture.<div><br /></div><div>At 7am this morning I was standing at the traffic lights, cup of coffee in hand, contemplating the day when a person appeared next to me. It was the boss from The Hospital Next Door. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Sorry I haven't been in touch," says she. "I couldn't get hold of anyone I needed to speak to on Friday."</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, readers.</div><div><br /></div><div>I got the job.</div><div><br /></div><div>That'll teach me. </div>SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-14058178627623888622010-04-16T18:06:00.000+10:002010-04-16T18:07:19.785+10:00FailSo. I didn't get it.<div><br /></div><div>Bugger.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh well. </div>SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-30345931512922744972010-04-05T16:35:00.003+10:002010-04-05T16:53:47.920+10:00On fence sitting and risk takingYes. I chickened out of applying for the hospice job.<div><br /></div><div>I wanted to, I really did. I was all fired up but my enthusiasm waned on a daily basis. I got cold feet. I thought about it long and hard but when the closing date passed I didn't feel a pang of regret. There's another potential escape route in sight, however, in the form of a nine month maternity relief position with a view to extend in The Hospital Next Door. It's a public hospital which scares me slightly as I've worked in the private sector for over 12 years now but maybe it's time to get out of my comfort zone. Yes, I know. We've all heard that one before and look what happened. Nothing. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm slightly torn about this one although I'm feeling more enthusiastic this time round. Without saying too much (you never know who's reading) it'd be a promotion. I emailed my CV and a covering letter last week and received an email the following day from the manager telling me my covering letter was missing some information and could I send it again, please? I didn't get the email till a couple of days later as I was in sunny South Australia in a house with two other adults, four children and a Red Setter. I came back to Sydney last night to two messages on my answerphone from the manager asking me to resend my letter. The closing date was originally the 31st of March and they've extended it by a week. So, she either really wants me to get it or no one else has applied for it. I'm somewhat worried about being unemployed in nine months time so I do have to really think about this but I'm going to apply and see what happens. </div><div><br /></div><div>In other news - Adelaide was nice if not very noisy. The dog was the best behaved member of the entire family as well as having a shiny coat and an amazing tail. Dogs are much nicer than people, don't you think? I ate a lot of chocolate, too many hot cross buns and drank a moderate amount of South Australian rose.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, and my computer died a couple of weeks ago. This blog is brought to you courtesy of my beautiful new MacBook Pro. It's hard to save money when you keep spending it but my, it's a wonderful thing. I am officially obsessed with widgets. And Red Setters. And chocolate.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-74564902264767876512010-03-04T21:37:00.003+11:002010-03-04T22:01:14.805+11:00The passing of a giantSSS was deeply saddened to learn that Michael Foot, Labour party legend, passed away yesterday at the ripe old age of 96. It is, as they say, a good innings. His death is hardly unexpected. His beloved wife Jill Craigie died some years ago and the couple had no children. So, who mourns him? I do.<br /><br />I'm not going to give you a potted history of Mr Foot's life, most of the papers have excellent obituaries and the Beeb have some nice coverage. I don't even have a terribly interesting Michael Foot story. But I'm going to tell it anyway.<br /><br />You will not be surprised to know that I was something of a militant student nurse. It was difficult not to be, training as a nurse in Thatchers NHS. I was a union steward and was reasonably active in rallying the troupes in the volatile days of the late 80s. There were public meetings, petitions, and marches. Lots of marches.<br /><br />One such march was organised by the TUC. Thousands of the great unwashed massed at The Embankment to march for the NHS. The union advised us to march in full uniform and we did so, hats, dresses, capes and banners. We were angry. We were loud. We were on fire.<br /><br />Whilst waiting to start walking I glanced around and spotted an older gentleman with a walking stick. He looked familiar. Suddenly, it dawned on me. "Come on," I shouted at my equally militant and similarly clad friend. "Michael Foot!"<br /><br />We rushed towards him like excited spaniel puppies. Before the great man knew what had hit him we each grabbed an arm and planted a kiss on his cheek. The look on his face was priceless. We told him we loved him and thanked him for coming. He started laughing, as did everyone standing nearby. I don't think my feet touched the ground for most of the march.<br /><br />I wonder if he ever remembered the day he was grabbed by two young nurses. I like to think he did. I know I'll never forget it.<br /><br />Flash forward two decades and I found myself reading about his passing on the internet. Today I stood on the other side of the world and watched a British news item reporting his death with tears streaming down my cheeks. Even in death he was teaching me something. He reminded me that there was a time I cared passionately about something. <br /><br />RIP, Mr Foot. Thank you for your service to the Labour party and to the country. Thank you for being that rarest of creatures, a decent politician. Thank you for being an inspiration.SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-12249594474906097532010-02-16T18:41:00.002+11:002010-02-16T19:32:25.463+11:00An epiphanyAs most of you know, I am a nurse. Much as it pains me to admit it I have been a nurse for a very long time. 24 years of my life have been spent in a variety of different uniforms in a variety of different postcodes looking after a variety of different patients. I don't think it's a vocation, at least it isn't for me. I sort of fell into it after answering an ad in the local newspaper. I'd already had a few crappy little office jobs when I thought I should really do something proper and perhaps shag a good looking doctor/meet some interesting people at the same time. I went along to the interview and a short time later found myself in a classroom with 30 other would be nurses. Excellent. A real job.<br /><br />St Florence's Hospital for the Perpetually Bewildered was a local busy district hospital. It was home to Britain's second busiest casualty department. It had Britain's second longest hospital corridor. It remains to date the busiest hospital I have ever worked in and the most fun I have ever had during my nursing career.<br /><br />I had absolutely no idea what I was letting myself in for on that first day. I wrote my resignation letter at least three times in three years. I cried. A lot. I drank cheap cider, got food parcels from my grandparents and an aunt, cried some more, laughed more than I ever thought possible and developed a love for Marmite. I worked like a dog for a pittance. I worked with some amazing people. I cared for some amazing people. I would say I studied hard but that would be a blatant lie, instead winging exam success with a slightly better than average brain and pure chance. Three years and three months later, I got my nurse registration, a silver buckle for my new blue belt and a job on my favourite ward.<br /><br />Twenty one years later and I've hit a brick wall. I'm bored. I'm not doing what I want to do. I'm not getting job satisfaction and I haven't done so for at least ten years. Lately I've been thinking more and more about moving into the field of palliative care. I thought about it when I was a student nurse and was all set to do an allocation in the hospitals own palliative care centre when a change in hospital policy put paid to my plans. A fellow classmate had what might be deemed as a mental breakdown during her own allocation there leading her to attempt suicide after a fight with her mum and sister. She's fine. At least she was then. I haven't seen her for a while. Truth be told she was always a little bit mad by her own admission. Anyway, to cut a long story short - and believe me, it is a long story - it was decided that she'd gone off the rails due to the death of her grandfather 4 months before. The school of nursing instigated a policy preventing student nurses from going to the palliative care centre if they had experienced a bereavement within the previous 12 months. Sadly, my own wonderful grandfather had died the month before hers had and I was transferred to another unit.<br /><br />I qualified, got a job on a ward I loved and didn't look back. Every now and then I wondered about what would have happened if things had panned out differently. I always enjoyed looking after terminally ill patients on the ward, which I know sounds strange to non nurses, but I always saw it as a privilege to do so.<br /><br />Fast forward to today and I've been thinking a lot about a move to the field of palliative care. Last week I was channel surfing when I came across a programme about a hospice, a hospice which just happens to be opposite my hospital. Today I was at a meeting where the palliative care clinical nurse consulant talked about her work. For the next half an hour I could think of nothing else but the hospice and how I wanted to work there. It was as though someone was standing in front of me saying, "Run. Run now. You hate what you're doing and you'd be really good at this. You'll love it. Run."<br /><br />So, I'm thinking of taking up running. Matters are slightly complicated by the fact that I have an interview on Friday for a part time job in the Hospital Next Door as project nurse for 13 weeks which I'd quite like to get. If I get that, I'll stay put for a while. But if I don't, I'm going to pull on my trainers and run.SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-86572151691905458262010-01-25T19:00:00.003+11:002010-01-25T19:14:47.146+11:00DistanceI'm sorry to tell you that I'm feeling a little bit maudlin today. For some strange reason I want to call my grandmother tonight. I want to call and find out how long she had to wait for the bus to East Ham. I want to call and hear her tell me how terrible the television is. I want to call her and hear how much her feet hurt. I can't, of course. She died some years ago. I wanted to pick up the telephone and listen to her voice. It's come out of the blue and I don't know why. I just miss her tonight. I really do.<br /><br />That's the thing about being apart from people. It causes you pain. It doesn't make it any easier when you've deliberately moved yourself away from people, regardless of what they might think. I'm planning a trip home this year and will be in sunny England - and possibly further afield - in June and July. I get to eat Marks and Spencers food, lard myself up with proper chips from the chippy, annoy friends and family by asking, "Who's that, then?" during soap operas and of course, see my dear old dad.<br /><br />I was reduced to tears at work on Friday when one of the doctors asked me if I was going home this year. I said I was and that I was looking forward to seeing my dad. <br />"Do you know what it feels like for a father?" he asked. "Don't you know that when they're so far away it hurts? It really hurts. It gets you right here," and he pressed a hand against his chest.<br /><br />I know. I do know. It hurts me too. Sometimes I sit here and I think about my dad sitting on his own on the other side of the world. I wonder if he ate properly today. I wonder if he spoke to anyone today. I wonder if he understands that it hurts me too. Not all the time, of course. But sometimes. Like today.<br /><br />Still, I get to see him in about 16 weeks. I can pick up the telephone right now and hear his voice. I can't do that with my nan.<br /><br />Ring someone you love today, if for no other reason than to hear their voice. You'll be glad you did.SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-85155785894091897302010-01-20T20:58:00.006+11:002010-01-20T22:16:52.246+11:00Monday nights entertainment<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6Z7nao6Lf5o/S1bl7x0OlFI/AAAAAAAAAFI/ZMOY_jg53vk/s1600-h/Bridge.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6Z7nao6Lf5o/S1bl7x0OlFI/AAAAAAAAAFI/ZMOY_jg53vk/s320/Bridge.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428779215989150802" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />See this? Good, isn't it?<br /><br />I love Sydney. I think I was born to live in a hot country and this one fits the bill. Good climate? Check. English speaking? Check. Doctor Who shown on terrestial TV? Check. Okay, so it's 12,000 miles from the country of my birth and there are times when I wish I didn't live so far away but for the most part it's great.<br /><br />The picture above is a further indication of why Sydney is a great place to live. <a href="http://www.sydneyfestival.org.au/2010/">The Sydney Festival </a> hits town in January. There's something to see and do most nights of the week. Some of the events are even free, which is a bonus considering how little free cash most of us have at this time of year.<br /><br />One of my favourite things to do, however, is visit the <a href="http://www.stgeorgeopenair.com.au/">Open Air Cinema</a> at <a href="http://www.discoversydney.com.au/parks/mmc.html">Lady Macquarie's Chair. </a> Tickets are like hens teeth. I've been unsuccessful two years in a row but this year I managed to score two tickets for last Monday's performance of <a href="http://www.intheloopmovie.co.uk/">In The Loop</a>. I know, it's been out for ages in the UK but we've only just got it and I thought it was the funniest thing I've seen in ages.<br /><br />I'm not going to talk about the film. I just wanted to tell you all that I had a fabulous time. Yes, the seats were a bit hard and I was sitting right up the back directly under the fig trees, thus increasing the risk of ending up with batshit on my head. I didn't care.<br /><br />Just look at that view.SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-40748559321310257092010-01-11T21:03:00.003+11:002010-01-11T21:07:25.918+11:00Remember me?Hello, my name is SSS and I used to have a blog. I didn't have much of interest to say for a while, real life got in the way and I became morose and dull. I sought solace on the braindead pages of the Daily Mail, watched too many episodes of The West Wing, ate chocolate, drank tea. I procrastinated on a level never seen before. <br /><br />Anyway, I thought I'd come back to my little blog. And here it is. Sad, neglected and a rather unattractive shade of blue. A bit like my old PE knickers, actually.<br /><br />But enough of my knickers. I hope to have something witty, informative, hypertension inducing or hilarious for you soon. I just need to have one more cup of tea.........SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-32037869892428184412009-10-25T18:38:00.008+11:002009-10-25T19:12:38.922+11:00Breakfast on the Bridge<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6Z7nao6Lf5o/SuQIBUaasBI/AAAAAAAAAE4/BRW1GwkgoIA/s1600-h/Bridge+029.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396447072249098258" style="WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6Z7nao6Lf5o/SuQIBUaasBI/AAAAAAAAAE4/BRW1GwkgoIA/s200/Bridge+029.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6Z7nao6Lf5o/SuQHqNHr0jI/AAAAAAAAAEw/NQ_vQws0FK4/s1600-h/Bridge+013.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396446675154489906" style="WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6Z7nao6Lf5o/SuQHqNHr0jI/AAAAAAAAAEw/NQ_vQws0FK4/s200/Bridge+013.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_6Z7nao6Lf5o/SuQGkt7irfI/AAAAAAAAAEo/p7BWKZi2AgQ/s1600-h/Bridge+064.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396445481371086322" style="WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_6Z7nao6Lf5o/SuQGkt7irfI/AAAAAAAAAEo/p7BWKZi2AgQ/s200/Bridge+064.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6Z7nao6Lf5o/SuQGNwfbP3I/AAAAAAAAAEg/a9Squ__WX58/s1600-h/Bridge+062.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396445086921473906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6Z7nao6Lf5o/SuQGNwfbP3I/AAAAAAAAAEg/a9Squ__WX58/s200/Bridge+062.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>I know, I know. It's been ages. But I'm here now.</div><br /><div>Today is Sunday. Most normal people get up at a reasonable hour on Sunday. They open their eyes, smile at the sight of the alarm clock and promptly roll back over. They get up when they feel like it.</div><br /><div>Today my alarm clock went off at 5am. I was out of the house at 05.28 and standing at the bus stop with a friend. It was time for <a href="http://www.breakfastonthebridge.com/">http://www.breakfastonthebridge.com/</a> . </div><br /><div>This was a first for Sydney and I'm sure it won't be the last. 6000 people got up at a ridiculous hour and carted picnics to Milsons Point train station. After queuing for a suprisingly short time in an unutterably long queue we rounded the corner and set foot on the Sydney Harbour Bridge.<br /></div><br /><div>You've all seen it on the telly. Some of you have driven across it, walked over it and maybe even climbed it. But I bet none of you have taken off your shoes, put down a picnic rug and laid on your back on it like I did today.</div><br /><div>It's a big bridge. It carries eight lanes of road traffic. It has two train lines, a footpath and a cycle lane. Today the road section was closed and turf was laid over a large section to allow NSW residents to have breakfast in style. The most entertaining thing for me was the milking cows which were eating hay and seemed oblivious to their surroundings.<br /></div><div>The picnic was short but sweet. We settled down and unpacked our picnic at approximately 7am. I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to get my picture taken by the masses of photographers but to no avail. About half way through volunteers handed out baseball caps in yellow and green. I haven't seen an arial shot yet but I'm sure it'll be amazing.</div><br /><div>We were asked to start packing up at 08.20. It felt like long enough, to be honest. I came away with a heavier bag than I arrived with due to obtaining a free loaf of bread, a small pot of yoghurt and a free canvas bag. </div><br /><div>Getting off the bridge was incredibly easy. We walked onto it from the north end and walked off it to the south. This suited the group very well as we'd all crossed the bridge (a big thing in Sydney, let me tell you) to get to the picnic so getting home was a breeze.</div><br /><div>I was home by 09.30 and asleep on the settee by 10.00. I awoke at midday to pouring rain, thunder and lightning. Perfect timing.</div><br /><div>Would I do it again? Absolutely. And if you're in town next year you should do it too.</div><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div>SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-16552354666047178512009-09-05T18:51:00.007+10:002009-09-06T18:30:00.122+10:00Star Trek and the Sydney Symphony OrchestraLife has been a bit ordinary lately. One of my best friends has moved to New Zealand, the workplace is full of adult women who have regressed to the age of 14, I broke a dish which belonged to my late grandmother and I'm another year older. So it was with much excitement that I headed to the Sydney Opera House for a performance by the Sydney Symphony Orchestra on Friday night.<br /><br />I was trawling the internet on Thursday night when I remembered reading somewhere that the SSO were doing a performance of highlights from the Star Trek motion picture soundtracks. Google led me to the Opera House website where I discovered that the performance was the following evening. Surely it would be sold out? No. Just four tickets left. I hastily ordered myself a ticket - row A in the circle, almost smack bang in the middle. With booking fee the total cost was just over $106.00. I calculated it as just over 5 taxi rides home from work. Sold.<br /><br />I was slightly apprehensive about going out on my own to such a fine venue on a Friday night, all Billy No Mates, until a friend pointed out that I would hardly be the only single attendee for a Star Trek event. Hrumph.<br /><br />Anyway. I went. And it was Bloody Brilliant. Absolutely Bloody Brilliant.<br /><br />The SSO were accompanied on stage by conductor Guy Noble. He kept us all entertained with his witty asides and by reading from his 'Captains Log'. I wasn't expecting him to be so communicative but I think he enjoyed the experience as much as the audience did.<br /><br />A large screen was set up behind the orchestra and scenes from the various movies were shown with each piece of music.<br /><br />The first half was non Trek stuff but still had a space theme. We started off with Sprach Zarathustra, the theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey along with The Blue Danube from the same film. Next up was Holst's Mars from The Planets. I've always had a soft spot for Holst thanks to my old headmaster,Mr Windridge. He used to play classical music as we filed into assembly at primary school and make us think about what we were listening to. It was an awe inspiring experience listening to the same music over 30 years later on the other side of the planet. The main difference of course was the lack of record player and presence of a symphony orchestra.<br /><br />Things really ramped up after the interval. Guy Noble reappeared in a classic Trek captains shirt, much to the delight of the audience. Clips from all eleven films appeared on the screen as the music filled the concert hall. There was a slight glitch when the wrong clip was shown for the wrong piece of music - just what it with the one with the whales anyway? - but it didn't detract from the sheer brilliance of the evening. The final piece came from the most recent Star Trek movie and the accompanying footage made me want to rush straight out and buy the DVD. I couldn't do that, of course. The shops were shut and it's not even out on DVD yet. But that's just detail.<br /><br />I didn't fully appreciate the genius of Jerry Goldsmith until last night. Hearing the theme tune from the original movie - subsequently used as the theme for TNG - played by a full orchestra was a moment I will savour for a long time.<br /><br />The seat next to me remained empty the entire night despite having been sold. Whoever had that ticket missed out on a truly magical night. As I walked out of the Opera House I looked up at the night sky and saw the full moon in all its glory. A perfect end to a wonderful night.SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-64845044819762107222009-08-24T19:51:00.003+10:002009-08-25T18:37:51.791+10:00To my nieceMy dear niece,<br /><br />Tomorrow is your 21st birthday. You arrived three days before my own 21st birthday all those years ago. I'd selfishly wished for you to stay where you were for a few more days so that we could have been linked forever by our special day. I remember the day you were born, not quite as though it was yesterday but it certainly doesn't feel as though this many years have passed. Your mother had been in labour for over 24 hours before you finally arrived and the grapes I'd bought for her on the way to the hospital never made it to the delivery suite. You were small and quiet when I met you, so light I hardly felt I had anything in my arms. I cried when I held you because I loved you so completely. At the same time I missed my mother so much I thought my heart might explode with pain. You were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my entire life and to this day I have yet to experience that same feeling of pure joy.<br /><br />You were the first baby in the family for many years. Everyone trooped up to the hospital to see you, hold you, marvel at your tiny fingers and toes. You were given your late grandmothers name for your middle name. Her father, your great grandfather, was quietly delighted. He died some six months after you were born and you were brought to the house after the funeral. I remember holding you and feeling sorry that you would never know him.<br /><br />I left the country for the first time when you were two years old. I returned when you were three. You were still tiny, curly haired and serious looking. I fell in love with you all over again. I suppose if I'm honest you were a like a practice daughter for me, practice for a child it seems I'll never have. Family members commented on the resemblence and indeed photos of you at the age of three look similar to photos of me. Small, curly haired girls staring at the lens, a generation apart.<br /><br />You were joined by a younger brother three years later and I would take you both out on day trips to all the usual places. You behaved on the Tube, did a small amount of pestering in shops and always seemed reluctant to go home.<br /><br />I left again when you were almost ten. Your father drove me to the airport, I was surprised to see the whole family in the car. It was a difficult journey from Leytonstone to Heathrow. You were quiet in the car, I put it down to the fact that it was very early in the morning but when you cried at the airport I wanted to change my mind and stay with you. I didn't. I made the choice to change my life and move 12,000 miles away from all my friends and family.<br /><br />Sometimes I regret that decision. Sometimes, but not often. Sometimes I wonder how things might have turned out if I'd taken that other job offer and stayed in sunny E11. But two years in Australia turned into a decade and in the time that I've been living here you and your brother have grown up and grown into people that I don't know. Is that my fault? I suppose so. You know I've tried to stay in touch, find out what you're doing, what you like, what you don't like, what you want to do with your life, what you had for dinner, what you bought at the shops last week. We made a few attempts but sadly we're left with what we have, which isn't a lot.<br /><br />In the last couple of years our relationship has deteriorated to an all time low. I still don't understand why you felt the need to fall out with me over my changing my surname some two years before you were born. I explained that it was done to incorporate the surname of your late grandmother and your late great grandfather but you still interpreted it as being a slight on my father. Personally, I don't give a monkeys what you think about that subject. I'm still rankled at the way you addressed me thoughout the whole matter. I look back at the breathtakingly rude way you wrote to me - at me, it felt like - and the way that you rebuffed my attempts at acknowledging your feelings and extending the olive branch. Six months later and you deleted me as a Facebook friend. Whilst that seems such a small thing to some I saw it as a deliberate way of cutting me out of your life. I was saddened but not entirely surprised and had absolutely no desire to contact you to discuss it.<br /><br />So, here we are. I'm just your fathers sister who lives in Australia. It's not the relationship I envisioned when you were put into my arms 21 years ago. We don't exchange emails or texts. I'm irrelevant to your life. That makes me sad but that's just the way things are. It's also made me examine the relationship I have with my own aunts and realise that I probably haven't been the niece they wanted either.<br /><br />I wonder if you'll look back one day and wish things had been different. I wonder if you'll ever make an effort to get to know me for yourself instead of listening to various family members giving you their rather colourful opinions. I wonder if I'll still be there if you decide to do that.<br /><br />Your birth remains one of the most amazing events of my life. I miss you. I wish you a long and happy life with many wonderful experiences.<br /><br />Happy birthday, pet.SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-48576759637888297432009-07-04T18:40:00.003+10:002009-07-04T18:55:28.924+10:00Father Time - the bastard.I'm not as young as I used to be. I'm no longer blonde, I left school decades ago and I can't drink more than three and a half units of alcohol before calling it a night. It's not that bad in lots of ways but in other ways it's unbearable.<br /><br />I'm not coping very well with the ageing process, it has to be said. I have more grey hair at my current age than my dear grandmother had at the age of 83. Hair dye keeps the Cruella De Ville-esque streak at the top of my head at bay but the lines around my eyes are growing deeper and it's safe to say that my thighs are not what they used to be.<br /><br />I can cope with all that, though. What really bothers me is the relentless onslaught of AALE syndrome. Some of you may also be sufferers without knowing it. It creeps up gradually then attacks with terrifying speed. It saddens me to say it but I will have to submit soon. It's just a matter of time.<br /><br />What do you mean, you've never heard of it? Surely you're familiar with <em>Arms Aren't Long Enough</em> Syndrome? You know, someone gives you something to read and you have to pull it out of their hands and away from your face. You wiggle it about a bit until you can focus properly. It worsens in restaurants and in poor light. It makes you look old. Really old. You consider getting glasses but the thing that puts you off is a different kind of vanity. Nothing to do with men never making passes at women in glasses (which apparently isn't true) but rather that you don't want to be the person who has to fish in her handbag to locate her spectacles before she can look at the wine list.<br /><br />It's alright for short sighted people. They wear their glasses for most of the time. For them, it's not an age thing, it's a seeing thing. Some of you reading this right now are probably short sighted and wondering the hell I'm going on about. I don't blame you. You're not the ones who are struggling with the fact that your current personal space is expanding by the day just to allow you to focus on the person talking to you.<br /><br />I'm fighting a losing battle, dear readers. It's just a matter of time before I have to drag myself to the opticians and get myself a pair of specs. I just hope I don't have to pick up a tartan shopping trolley on the way home.SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3110918029243617341.post-84392684421391059052009-06-22T22:13:00.003+10:002009-06-22T22:25:01.043+10:00Smelly carpets and South AustraliaThree weeks. I really thought I would have had something of note to say by now.<br /><br />I meant to post, I really did. I meant to but somehow I just didn't. I got in from work night after night, flopped in front of the TV, spent meaningless hours in front of the TV or wasting time on the internet and just didn't get round to it.<br /><br />Anyway, I'm here now. Nothing of note to say, mind you. The most interesting thing to happen to me was last Wednesday when I got home from work to find the bedroom had been flooded due to some interesting drain activity in the bathroom. This event was further complicated by me being due to get on a 'plane less than 24 hours later to fly to Adelaide. The short version - I still got on the 'plane, a man came to clean the carpet on Friday then a plumber came afterwards and flooded the bathroom again. I arrived back on Sunday to an incredibly stinky carpet and a filthy bathroom floor. I'll be sleeping on the settee until the letting agent either arranges to clean the carpet again or rips it up and replaces it.<br /><br />Adelaide was lovely. The mornings and evenings were freezing but inbetween times the sun was warm and the air was clear. I stayed with an old friend who has a house on the edge of the hills. We drank wine, ate chocolate, laughed a lot and talked about times when we were younger, sillier, braver and relatively responsibility free. Three and a half days later and I'm back to rainy Sydney with a rotten head cold, I'm living in a stinky flat and I'm in a job I can't stand.<br /><br />Ho hum. Still, there's always tomorrow.SSShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16208995711559110532noreply@blogger.com4