Five rounds rapid

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.

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.

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.

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.

RIP Nick. Thank you for everything. Splendid fellow.

My blog mojo

I 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.

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.

I'll try harder. Honest. But don't hold your breath. I'm a lazy moo, you know.

Moving

So. The move.

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.

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.
"I thought you were soooooo organised," she trilled. "You're wearing rubber gloves! Not ready at all! I love it!!!!!"

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.

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.

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.

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?

In the lock. Outside. Where they had been all night.

It can only get better.

On the move

Me again.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

They say moving house is one of the most stressful things that can happen to you in life. Aint that the truth.

What's next?

Well.

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.

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.

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.

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.

So. That's me. How are the rest of you?

Point of origin

Everything 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.

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.

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.

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.

Thank 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.

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.

Tonight I watched a TV documentary 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.

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.

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.

Never take your freedom for granted.

http://www.afghanaid.org.uk/

http://www.afghanistanwomencouncil.org/