Expats Blog Awards - In the words of Sally Field, 'You like me, you really like me...'

Well I got the bronze award in the Expats Blog Awards -- so thank you to all my followers who gave me the thumbs up! Luckily I'm not particularly competitive so bronze sounds pretty good to me; I know my limitations. In fact when I came last in a running race when I was seven, it mattered not a jot to me for the simple reason that they gave me a consolation prize for being such a crap runner. I'm easily pleased like that.  In my eyes I WAS the winner!

And although I came second last in a cross-country running competition when I was 12 (I was in front of Fat Tanya, which really didn't count), I didn't feel too bad about that either. We were running laps of the sports field, and as everyone was finishing their third lap, I was still on my first, but I don't think anyone really noticed (and besides, poor Tanya was still only half way around the track). After that I made the brilliant discovery that PE in any form could easily be avoided by hiding in the changing rooms, curled up with a book beside the radiator.

I WON! Three T-shirts and a Wedding!

No, I think it's safe to say when it comes to winning things, I'm best at the 'free-T-shirt-for-every-three-shots-or-glasses-of-something-alcoholic' variety of competition, and in fact this is how I met DH. It was a Jameson Whiskey promotion in the Castlecourt in Westport, and by the time I bumped into him -- sometime close to midnight -- I was already the worthy winner of three such T-shirts and feeling ready for some full-on flirting.

The rest, as they say, is history...

On being 40...

Well it's finally happened. Heralded by a a thousand clicking cicadas outside my window, the ticking clock of my mortality has struck forty.

Forty. I'm saying the word but my brain can't keep up; my planets misaligned. Forty. I don't know what I expected, but to me forty speaks of pension plans, weekly trips to the hairdresser, a clean house, not to mention practical clothing.

None of these things apply; the only financial security I can take cold comfort in is an insurance policy which promises to pay off my mortgage if DH pops his clogs unexpectedly. And apart from the monthly attack on advancing grey hairs, my hair hasn't changed since I was a child, and rather than nicely coiffed and hair-sprayed -- as my mother's was -- is permanently in scruffy-ponytail mode. As for the clean house, my idea of washing the floors is to place one of the baby's wet-wipes under each foot and simulate a skating motion around the kitchen until each one is black. Repeat until clean.

My wardrobe contains a couple of dozen party dresses, with very little else, leaving me in a daily dilemma of whether to wear a strapless Jasper Conran (for Debenham's) dress for the school run, or a pair of bleach spattered tracksuit bottoms I once cleaned the bathroom in. I find it very hard to shop for 'normal' clothes when there is always a beautiful and impractical frock sitting on the very next rack, and my wardrobe is testament to this.

What have I learned in forty years? A lot less than I'd hoped to be honest. I've learned that we humans are creatures of habit, tending to play out the same scenario over and over again in life, foolishly expecting a different result each time. Certainly I do, hence the lack of savings and wardrobe of party dresses.

I've learned that travel -- cliched as it sounds -- broadens the mind. I wish I had lived abroad when I was in my twenties, I might have figured out who I was much earlier. I'm playing catch-up now and am so glad I took the plunge in my thirties, or I might never have had the opportunity -- Thanks Fianna Fail! Living in a different culture teaches you so much about people and life, and makes you appreciate where you come from in a way that only the expat could truly understand.

I've also learned that while menstruating, avoid skirts; otherwise remember to check your calves before leaving the house - particularly if you've just had a shower (trust me, this may be of use to you one day). You don't want to spot that knee-to-ankle red  streak dried to the back of your leg while departing a group of mothers who are sitting on the grass outside the school. Yes, conveniently at eye-level to your leg. This is particularly important if you are new to the area, and struggling to make a good impression. When this happened to me earlier this year, I momentarily considered the possibility of passing it off as a shaving cut, but sadly the four-week-old regrowth told a different story.

I've learned that no job, no matter how desperate you might be at the time, is worth taking if it means spending most of your life separate from your partner. Love is hard enough to find -- and some never find it -- to squander it in this manner. Climbing into an empty bed every night while the person you love climbs into theirs -- several hours north -- in the name of an extra dollar, is to fritter away a life together. Life is short, and there are always other jobs, there won't always be other soul-mates. Ask any grieving widow or widower if you don't believe me.

I've learned that having children is a game changer and floods your world with unselfish love. It is to have your heart beat in five other bodies. They turn up the colour-dial on life to 100%. My children have taught me who I want to be. And as often as I bemoan the daily grind of lost shoes, spilled drinks and arguments over who sits in the front seat, a life without them is unthinkable.

I've learned that if you can afford a cleaner, get one -- even if it's only for two hours a week. It puts order on life and cultivates good domestic habits. I haven't had a cleaner since I left Ras al Khaimah, and I grieve for her every day when I look at the chaos around me. And although legend has it that writer Jilly Cooper arrived home early one day to discover her cleaning lady sitting up in her bed with the electric blanket on, listening to the radio, they're not all like that. I never quite knew what to do with myself while my smiling Filipina cheerily ironed all DH's shirts (bliss) and buffed the floors -- Should I help? Should I hide in the bathroom? -- so I usually escaped to Starbucks for a latte, guilty at my laziness.

Another thing I've learned, from years of experience, is to never cut your own fringe - particularly when drunk. There are two reasons for this - firstly, fringes simply don't suit many people - least of all me. Years of self-hacking have proven this, and just because Taylor Swift looks good with one, it doesn't necessarily follow that you will - you most probably WON'T!

The second reason you shouldn't cut your own fringe is if -- like me -- doing things in the mirror confuses you so you're bound to screw it up. And also because YOU ARE NOT A HAIRDRESSER!!

And finally, always remember the Three Drink Rule. If you are planning an early night, or at least waking up without a hangover, DO NOT have that third drink. Once the third beverage has passed your lips, all judgment beats a hasty departure and you are no longer capable of logic, reason or the good sense to say 'no' to the fourth. Or the fifth. Everything will slide downhill after drink number three, and you will find yourself either making inappropriate tweets to your daughter's (attractive) male teacher at two in the morning, (remember that?) or pouring a bag of Doritos into a bowl, and the remains of that bottle of Dubonnet -- left over from a party three years ago -- into a glass (cos all the wine's gone), and sitting down to watch 'Intervention' (the show where families try to persuade their loved ones to go into rehab - oh the irony!).

At the very least, you might find yourself standing in front of the bathroom mirror, scissors poised, preparing to ruin your own life for the next three months. Either way, stick to two glasses and then go to bed, remember you're forty now....

Meet my neighbour Captain Underpants and why we need to live and let live...

You will no doubt be relieved, dear reader, to learn that I -- after a year of living up in these here hills --  have finally come face to face with my neighbour, although I can't honestly say that my fears regarding any axe-wielding murdering tendencies he might harbour -- real or imaginary -- have been allayed all that much. Axe-wielding murderers aren't always easily spotted, particularly when they're wearing just their underpants.

When I say face to face, what I mean is that the decaying wall which hitherto stood between his house and mine has been knocked down to reveal a building with a large glass window running from floor to ceiling, revealing the inner-workings of his entire life. In all its underpanted glory.

He appears to live in just this one room, and there is a sheet-less double bed in the corner where he sleeps. He has made some efforts to conceal his world from our view, by stringing a couple of blankets across the top of the window, but they aren't very effective.

Every night, as it gets dark, he returns from work, switches on all the lights - thus illuminating his every move -- shrugs out of his regulation work wear, and relaxes on his shabby sofa with a beer or two perched amicably atop his large round stomach. 

Oh yes, the lonely evenings of a FIFO-widow just fly by with this new source of entertainment. Lets just hope those underpants remain in that room, and don't make an unannounced visit to my bedroom one dark, lonely night, looming an axe above my head...

Irish Families in Perth - where's the love man?

Some months back I joined the 'Irish families in Perth' Facebook page, a wonderful resource for those Irish families arriving to Perth's shores in their droves each week. It is the go-to page for every newbie question, from 'which suburb to live in', to 'where to buy bananas' (believe it or not, a big topic of conversation here).

There is a sort of hierarchy here among the Irish in Perth, with those that have been here longest perched right on top. Most of these people are wonderfully helpful to the newly arrived, doling out advice like dollops of comforting syrup, providing solace to those who have recently catapulted across the globe as a result of a succession of feckless governments rather than wanderlust. The veterans of Perth are invaluable to these families as they struggle to gain footing in their new lives.

There are however a small minority of Perth veterans, who seem resentful, even scornful of those who are struggling with what in many cases has been an unwanted and unplanned life-long move, and seek to censor anyone voicing concerns over living costs, the shock of living in an alien culture, or who just miss Penneys, with the age old refrain 'if you don't like it, go back to where you came from'.

This is a pity and is at odds with the ethos of the page, which is to help, advise and support fellow Irish people. But I can't help but wonder why. Did these people miss out on the Celtic Tiger, and feel somehow resentful towards those who not only lived through it, but perhaps benefited from it? Is our emotionally incontinent generation at odds with their own stiff-upper lipped one? Did they too struggle when they first arrived here, but never felt able to express it? Do they resent the many technologies available to us now - such as Facebook, Skype, etc. which make the expat experience so much more bearable than when they exited Ireland back in the 80's?

We humans anger at what we fear, of what feels like a threat to our world-view, and in a way I understand their anger. We do have it much easier in many ways; in other ways these technologies can hold us back, preventing us from fully engaging with our new environment, yanking us backward into a nostalgic swamp with the ping of an instant message.

Of course nobody wants to listen to someone banging on week after week about how much they hate Perth, or how expensive it is. Like anywhere, Perth offers good value if you are willing to hunt it down or lower your standards. But from my experience, and from what I have read on the page, nobody is doing this. Some people just want to have a little rant on their off-days, those days where they may have just said goodbye to their mother at the airport, following her month-long visit, nursing a small doubt about whether they'll ever see her again. Or perhaps on the morning of a much-loved brother's wedding, where their only role in the proceedings will be a phone call home before everyone leaves for the church. Sometimes people just wake up wondering if they will ever be able to call this beautiful, enormous, dog-earned continent home; can it ever replace Ireland for them?

Those friendly long-term Perth residents will tell you it can. For many newbies this is a heartening message, for others it is a worry - will they somehow 'lose' something of themselves if they -- as one long-term Perth resident put it -- 'just give in to it and let go of Ireland'.

We're all just trying to figure out how to live together on this planet, to get through uncertain times with hopefully a laugh along the way. Pages like Irish families in Perth can help with this; can help us laugh at ourselves sometimes, and each other too. So people, let's live and let live, and perhaps start a campaign to get Penneys online?

Expats blog awards...

If you like this blog, give it some love by following the link below, and saying something nice about it. It would be so nice to win something - the last thing I won was a 2 euro scratchcard, which in turn won nothing. How rubbish is that?

Expats blog awards

Thank you!
 

Notes on cultural differences...

Christmas is heroically attempting to make its presence felt here in Perth, but I remain unconvinced. There is something fundamentally askew about shopping in Woolworths, wearing thongs (no, I'm not in the habit of wearing several g-strings at once, I'm talking about flip-flops) and a halter-neck dress --  not to mention it being almost 30 degrees outside -- while Bing Crosby croons 'Have yourself a merry little Christmas' over the sound system.

And although I've lived through several Christmases in the Middle East, at least it was actually winter there, meaning it was ever so slightly cooler than usual (and the locals would amusingly go around bundled up in jumpers and tights to fend off the slightly-cooler-than-normal weather). Here in Perth things are hotting up, and frankly the last thing I want to do is shoehorn a celebration which can only work if it gets dark at 4pm, is freezing cold outside, and one can comfortably drink their own weight in mulled wine without over-heating, right into the middle of the summer.

Some ex-residents of the northern hemisphere like to celebrate 'little Christmas' in July, to ensure they get to experience a taste of the real thing while it's a bit cool outside. We tried this too, buying a few cheap little toys for the kids, making a big roast dinner, lighting sparklers out on the deck, and playing Last Christmas on the CD player, but it wasn't terribly convincing, mainly, I suspect, due to the small matter of IT BEING JULY.

It's difficult having your world-view tipped on its head. And viewing July as winter rather than summer, is not something I'm sure I'll ever get used to. In the UAE the weekend starts on Friday -- or rather Thursday night -- meaning everyone was back to work and school on Sunday, and in the three years we were there, I could never shake the feeling I was somehow being cheated when the alarm went off at 6.30 on a Sunday morning, to get the kids up and ready for school.

The upside was that mentally, although Sunday felt wrong, it also meant that the weekend seemed to come around very quickly. Swings and round-a-bouts I suppose.

And sometimes, as one gets bogged down by every day life -- kids, bills, mountains of washing -- we forget to stop and around us; we stop noticing the 'otherness' of the place we currently call home.

For example, the ubiquitous Jacarandas which have all suddenly come into flower -- their bright lilac blossoms frothy and fantastical -- as if created by Dr. Seuss's own hand.

Or the parrots you see everywhere -- or as they're called here, 28s -- which back home are only ever seen in a pet-shop or zoo. Cheeky and confident in their bright green coats and yellow collars.

Of course this 'otherness' also means that at times I'm left shaking my head at the upside-down thinking here in Oz. For example, on several occasions I've driven past a large warehouse displaying a sign out front with the words 'Indoor beach volleyball'. Now surely this is wrong. Surely if the volleyball doesn't actually take place ON the beach, and is in fact indoors, it's just 'Volleyball? Isn't that a bit like calling the game of hockey 'ice-hockey without the ice?'

And then there is the preoccupation with sex; they even have Viagara adverts on the telly. My favourite is the one with the woman dressed up as 'I dream of Jeannie', standing on the tongue of a massive man (not Larry Hagman), mouthing  'llllonger, llllasting, llloving' lasciviously at the camera, before disappearing into his mouth. .

Or the countless sex shops dotted around the train station in Midland - Skindivers, Scandals, Lovers - among others, all situated in a prime part of town which would be far better served by a few tapas bars or pizzarias or even an Argos. Then there are the condom adverts displayed on massive billboards on the side of the road, featuring steamy couples getting down to business, while staring sexily at the camera. Luckily the children haven't asked any questions about them yet. But it's only a matter of time.

And don't get me started on the pubs which unashamedly advertise 'skimpy nights' out front, which basically mean the barmaid gets her tits out twice a week - or for the classier places, every night. Yes, that's right, in 2012 they have topless bars here in Australia. I worry that they've not even heard of Emmeline Pankhurst here, really I do. No wonder Germaine Greer was driven to write 'The Female Eunuch' before moving to England. I would have done exactly the same thing. And when I asked DH if he went to a skimpy bar during his time in Kalgoorlie, his eyes widened in what I thought would be a blustering denial, before saying, 'But ALL the bars are skimpy bars in Kalgoorlie!' Quite.

But of course, all this is part of the fun of discovering a new culture, no matter how similar it may appear from the outside, and it would be a dull world if everywhere was exactly the same -- especially on the opposite side of it. Although to be honest, the oddest place I've ever visited is the Isle of Wight, a mere hour or so from Ireland's shores, where a waitress once chirped 'I dunno', when I asked her what the soup of the day was, making no effort to go and investigate further, and where a wedding I attended came to an abrupt end at 10.30 pm when the barman turned out all the lights with a cheery 'times up people, drink up' -- leaving a bar full of Irish people scrambling for take-outs to bring back to their rooms. To be honest the night only got more interesting after that....

Why Glee is the solution to homophobia...

I remember my first Gay; he was up the hill in the Christian Brothers School, and I had a little crush on him. Of course I now realise why; he was engaging, charismatic and yes, slightly effeminate. He was also able to look a girl in the eye without kicking a stone, muttering 'fuck', and gobbing on the pavement. He wore nice clothes - actual colours and patterns -- in a time where such things were unheard of, and he had nice hair too....

You didn't get many gays back then. Well there was that odd-looking guy who worked in the Chemist and lived with his mother, but his gayness was never confirmed beyond the odd scurrilous whisper.

Gay happened on telly - Stephen in Dynasty was gay. Poor Stephen. But I can't think of another single case as I sit and type. It will come to me no doubt, but maybe not....

So when the boy from the CBS confided to my best friend that he was gay, it was big news. She of course immediately told me, with the impossible caveat that I couldn't tell my boyfriend.

OH COME ON!!!

Gayness was bigger than the news that someone had a bottle of Jameson for the Friday night bushing* session down at Westport house. Yeah, BIGGER than that! (classy days...)

I'm telling you this because I had a conversation with my daughter this morning which made me realise just how far we've come in twenty years, where the word 'gay' is no longer a noun, but an adjective.

Listening to the new Mika album, she asked 'is Mika gay?' to which I replied, ' I have no idea....perhaps he is, he's certainly good looking enough to be, and who can forget the yellow jeans? But I honestly don't know'. 

She brushed it off and went on with her toast.

It made me realise how unimportant these questions are these days. The conversation ranked just below 'what are we having for lunch?'

I will never forget how gutting it was to learn that Neil Tennant from the 'Pet Shop Boy's' was gay. 'Oh Neil', how COULD you - how CAN we marry now?' I wept, rending at my bosom.  'I am but a mere' -- I spat the word -- 'WOMAN!'

Andy Bell: Not exactly the marrying type....

By the time I discovered 'Erasure' were also gay, I was ready to give up on ever marrying a pop star, although with retrospect it shouldn't have come as any great shock, considering that red rubber cod-piece that Andy Bell wore on 'Top of the Pop's', while singing 'Give a little respect' in 1988.

So it really gladdens my heart to see young, straight, pop bands such as 'One Direction' frolicking on the beach in their videos, touseling each others hair affectionately in interviews, and giving each other man-hugs at every given chance. This generation of young men coming up are unafraid to show physical affection to each other, and that can only be a good thing.

A generation ago men only touched to briskly shake hands, and even then could hardly look each other in the eye. It wasn't until my father was terminally ill that my brothers started to hug him on saying hello or goodbye, and even then they'd fall into Gay jokes to pass it off.

Personally I think Glee -- the massively popular American musical comedy -- has done more in four seasons for the public perception of homosexuality, than twenty years of marches and legislation**, helping to shed the 'bloke-in-a-pair-of-pants-and-heels' image (of which there is nothing wrong of course although I think the very straight Eddie Izzard does it best) to a far more prosaic and mundane image. This is a good thing. It makes it more mainstream and less freak-show, as it should be.

So far we've had at least four leading gay roles, (Kurt, Blaine, Santana, Brittanny) and numerous Gay plot-lines, including the one where the bullying beef-cake Karofsky attempts suicide after rumours of his sexuality abound following a pass he makes at Kurt. This is resolved nicely at the end of the show by a rendition of 'What doesn't kill you make's you stronger' by the Troubletones. There is no crisis -- no matter how big or small -- that can't be fixed by a good cover version of a Kelly Clarkeson song. I've always said that.

And out of all the love story plot-lines in the show, it is the Blane/Kurt relationship which really keeps me watching. They are the most adorable couple in the show (and far less annoying than Rachel and Fin), and far more interesting, what with the double dose of boyishness and Kurt's falsetto. But I'm bias, I have a massive crush on Blaine, and yes, I know that's a pervy thing to say about a fake schoolboy -- but that's just where I'm at at the moment. It's a Germaine Greer thing....

But oh Blaine, as long as you wear the blazer, you can serenade me with 'When I get you alone' while I fold jumpers in the Gap any time. Any time at all. And I won't be angry if I get fired...promise...

Anyway, I think Ian McKellen, George Michael and Elton John should pool their cash and send a box set of Glee to every government struggling with the issue of same-sex marriage (and that's practically every one of them on the planet), from Canberra to Riyadh, Washington to Pyongyang. It might take some time, but no leader/ruler/insane dictator -- from Ahmadimejad to Kim Jong-un -- could possibly watch Kurt and Blaine sing 'Baby it's cold outside' for the Christmas Special and not want them to live happily ever after...

By jiminy, I think I've solved it...

* drinking from a bottle of spirits al fresco - away from the prying eyes of adults - because we couldn't afford the pub.
**It's pointed out that this is factually incorrect, but you get my gist...



A trip down south in search of Mr. Darcy...

We recently took a trip down south to Pemberton (four hour drive from Perth, five and a half if you set the sat nav incorrectly). To be honest, my motivation for this trip was largely based around the fact that Pemberton sounds a bit like Pemberley - that great rolling Derbyshire estate owned by Mr Darcy in 'Pride and Prejudice' -- and I had some half arsed notion that I might actually spot Colin Firth's 'Darcy' emerging from a lake, ruffle shirt clinging, dripping with lake-water, brooding and proud. 

Oh lovable, proud, Darcy!

To an extent I almost did get a bit of Jane Austen's England. Pemberton, and the surrounding area, is astonishingly green and were it not for the red sand which bordered the roads and tracks (oh, and the tin houses - lots of tin houses!), one could almost believe they were driving through Derbyshire, with verdant hills and lush forests. 

We visited the beautiful Karri Valley resort, which nestles snugly on the edge of Lake Beedelup, and offers accommodation in wooden cabins on legs, crouching unobtrusively among the trees. That's right, we left our tree-house in the Perth hills -- travelled more than five hours and paid actual money -- to stay in a tree-house on legs among the trees in Pemberton.

Oh but it was worth it! The lake was a dramatic, shimmering promise – diamonds darting across the surface -- bordered by a thick forest of tall Karri trees, and on our first morning it was unanimous that what we simply had to do -- like IMMEDIATELY -- was hire two boats and go out rowing on the lake.

And as DH -- who grew up on an island and learned to row at a very young age -- skated off across the lake with ease, I sat in my tin boat trying to figure what to do with the oars. My upper body strength has never been up to much, and as I struggled with first left, then right, I found myself spinning around in circles, going nowhere, much to the amusement of some fishermen near the jetty.

It's quite hard to row a boat you know; pull too hard with your right arm -- which is hard not to do if you're right handed -- you will spin to the left. This kept happening over and over and if it had been possible to just throw the oars aside and stomp off announcing ‘I’m outa here’ I would have, but by then we had drifted quite far out, and the small matter of being in the middle of a lake meant I had to continue spinning first clock-wise and then anti-clockwise, over and over again, until I found the jetty again.

Flopping onto the grass, I grabbed a book and waited for DH to finish showing off on the lake.

As I lay there, book shielding the dazzling sun from my eyes, he suddenly emerged from the lake, pulling his boat behind him, dripping wet and brooding. And yes, perhaps with a little pride too. It seems I got my Darcy after all....

Happy 40th Birthday DH!

Why it feels as if Father Noel Furlong has moved in at the moment..

School holidays nightmares...

I hate school holidays. They feel like a personal attack on those of us who are reckless enough to have more than two or three kids. I don't quite know who is inflicting this attack -- I haven't thought it through that far -- but probably some kind of 'one-child policy' conspiracists ...or rather, 'two-to-three-child-policy' conspiracists, who disapprove of the four-or-more brigade).

I say this because, when I had just a couple of kids I quite liked the school hols; for one I could snooze late by locking the bedroom door so the children couldn't escape (they all slept in my bed anyhow), putting on a Little Mermaid DVD, and throwing brioches, muffins and milk at them so that I could snatch an extra hour of semi-dreaming, albeit with a Disney soundtrack.

We'd eventually get dressed and venture out to a play centre or park for a couple of hours, followed by baby-bowls from Bewley's (ah for the days when the kids would eat vegetables..), and best of all, I didn't have to worry about having school uniforms ready for the morning.

And on some days we wouldn't even make it out of pyjamas at all; I'd laze the day away reading novels or watching the box-set of Pride and Prejudice (BBC adaptation), while the children made tents under the kitchen table and emptied the cupboards of saucepans. I'd feed them crackers and petit-filous, and not once have to worry about whether there was any bread for the school lunches in the morning. At night I could stay up late watching crap TV like Forensic Detectives, while drinking cheap prosecco from Lidl, without a care for the morning hangover.

Time loses all meaning during school holidays, days blend into each other, you drift through the week with no idea what day it us,and any sudden engagement or appointment suddenly feels like an intrusion.

And I think it's this loss of structure that, while so charming and whimsical with three children, becomes the overwhelming problem when you have more than this - I need a routine or I'm lost I tell you, LOST! 

Nowadays, school holidays -- unless they involve a trip abroad with DH at the helm  -- can best be described by comparing them to that scene from Father Ted, from the aptly entitled episode 'Hell', where Ted and Dougal visit a caravan park for their annual holiday, only to discover that Father Noel Furlong -- possibly the most annoying TV character in recent times -- along with his youth-club members, is also staying in the caravan. Yep, if you know that episode, you get the picture.

I'm goin' mad Ted...

School is a blessed relief from kids, particularly when your partner works away. It gives you time to do the shopping, touch-up your roots, watch the news, or execute 40 sit-ups without at least one child trying to climb onto your stomach, while everyone else points and laughs (annoyingly, DH thinks it's hilarious to whistle the Rocky theme tune every time I try doing sit-ups...nothing is more likely to put you off than that).

Yes school is essentially free child-care, and if they learn how to spell or read a map into the bargain, well bring it on, I'm all for it!


It's that time of year again...
.

When wearing a cowl goes too far...

X-Factor UK is back and as barmy as ever (I can't be doing with the Australian X Factor - I mean I'm delighted that Mel B and Ronan Keating still have careers somewhere in the world, but I'm simply not interested in investing my time in watching them.) This is  the show where uttering the immortal line 'this means the world to me', before breaking down in tears, is a pre-requisite to getting a place in the Live Finals.

Oh how I missed the high-jinx and frankly insane judges decisions, which are clearly only made to incite fury from the Tweeting masses and Facebook campaigners. (Oh, and Gary, I've missed Gary). I mean, seriously, how Louis could have chosen Rylen* over that girl (sorry, she was better than Rylen but still can't remember her name, which probably tells you all you need to know about the voting pattern on the X Factor). Just for a second, try to imagine last years Wagner, or Diva Fever, or our friend Rylen making it to the live finals of the X Factor USA? - no, me neither. X Factor UK -- with all its pantomimic, freak-show lunacy -- you gotta love it!

BTW I think Ella looks like a winner, although I do have a soft spot for the quirky Lucy, who appears to be the love child of Norman Wisdom and Victoria Wood. As for the boy-bands? Meh - who cares!

* Screamingly camp who simply cannot sing but is prone to questionable Grace Jones-esque outfits who did a pretty ghastly rendition of Spandau Ballet's 'Gold' on Saturday night. Oh and check out how he reacted when he was given a place in the live shows - hilarious stuff! 

A serious post about FIFO

A couple of months ago I wrote an article for a Perth magazine about the experience of moving to a foreign country, and the difficulties of coping without family around. In it, I advised building up a network of friends to compensate for lack of family. I also suggested getting out and about, joining groups, and generally keeping busy to avoid the inevitable homesickness which goes along with adapting to a new culture.

Yeah I'm wise like that. Or as my family would argue, annoying.

But then that was before DH went away to work up in the Pilbarra, leaving me to adapt to my new life and surroundings alone. Before he left I spent my days busily darting from class to coffee morning; ferrying kids to music and drama, as well as occasionally driving into the city to meet him for lunch. I had defeated culture shock! I laughed in the face of homesickness! I was FINE! I had adapted with as little fuss as possible! My life was a smug and self-satisfied exclamation mark!

Then he left.

Suddenly everything went grey and my great Australian adventure became ever so slightly tainted. I stopped going out, quit the classes, lost interest in exploring my surroundings, and sank into what can only be described as a depression. Everyone told me 'I would adapt', that it 'gets better', and sure wasn't it great to have that week of quality time together when he was home? With five small children, 'quality time' with DH means very little to me; an uninterrupted shower or someone to use a bit of muscle at the children's bedtime is more appreciated. But everybody does it! My inner Greek Chorus whispered, What's your problem? I briefly wondered if I was over-reacting.

And so, as in most important quandaries in my life,  I took to the Internet to see what others thought. The results quite varied: Many women were quite content with the set up. It's a great lifestyle said some. Others were just plain used to it.

But what was interesting were the private messages I received from some women. Many were in real pain. Some almost brought me to tears. One woman had arrived in Australia six weeks previously. Her husband had been gone for the past four, giving her scarcely enough time to find out where to live never mind settle in. There she was, in an unfamiliar place, dealing with this massive cultural upheaval - not to mention small kids -- alone. Another eloquently pointed out that this great adventure in Oz -- that she and her husband had embarked on -- was being played out separately, with her and her children in one place, and her husband somewhere north. Another woman spoke of her son's distress at his fathers absence, how he'd threatened to quit sports since his father could no longer make it to his matches.

One woman, chillingly, claimed that her children no longer cared that much about their father, and scarcely noticed his absence. Another was having regular panic attacks and needed medication to sleep at night.

My own five year old has taken to telling random strangers in the mall that 'daddy doesn't live with us anymore'.

It is a rather cruel combination when you think about it: Here we have families who've been forced to emigrate (I'm talking about Irish families here), coupled with separation from their partner for two-thirds or three-quarters of the time -- sometimes more! A sort of poisoned chalice, a pact with the devil; a well paid job and year round sunshine (hurrah! can't get either of these things in Ireland), but wait, there's a price!

What struck me most of all, was the shame these women felt in saying this out loud. They were reluctant to air their struggle publicly for fear of being judged as ungrateful, negative, or worse, unhappy. With a country drowning in debt back home, taking many people with it, it is neither popular nor wise to claim unhappiness when you're living in a sunny climate and with a regular, healthy income. In our facebook-obsessed era, life can and must be edited to display only the best bits. 'We're in Australia and it's fantastic - look! - I'm on a beach, life is AWESOME!!' scream our facebook updates (I'm as guilty as the next). To say aloud 'I'm struggling with this, I'm lonely' seems to invite scorn from some quarters, and many of these women feel as if they've somehow failed.

Fly in fly out is a long Australian tradition, and many families have more than one generation working in this way. Many Australian women feel great pride in their role as a FIFO wife, coping with a home and family alone, knowing they are doing their bit to provide a healthy financial future for themselves and their children. Many have never known anything else. And I've spoken plenty of Irish women who have lived here for a number of years, who also find they eventually adapt to the lifestyle, and even enjoy it. Many claim they couldn't hope to earn the kind of money they do -- given their skill-sets and qualifications -- elsewhere. Others feel the quality time they get to share with their spouse when he is home outweighs any negatives.

But these aren't the women I am talking about. I'm talking about women who were forced to leave Ireland in recent times, only to find themselves alone, night after night after night, thinking 'why did I leave my home to come here and be alone?' Unwilling to sit alone in front of the telly, many opt to go to bed at the same time as their children. Many are nervous at night time in their new and unfamiliar surroundings.  Some find a bottle of wine becomes an inanimate but nonetheless genial companion.

One woman told me she didn't want to 'harden' or 'toughen' up to it as she had been told she eventually would; she didn't want to change who she was, to be replaced by a hardened coper; she simply wanted her husband to come home to her and her small children in the evenings, after his day's work. I sympathise with this. Five months away from DH last year taught me I could cope without him. It also taught me that I didn't want to. EVER. And obviously I knew we were heading into a FIFO situation before we left Ireland, but the choices were thin on the ground, and we went with the approach 'if it doesn't work out we'll change it'.

FIFO Families are an organisation who do sterling work in helping families with a member working away, and organise many meet ups around the country, as well as providing a support forum for those that need to vent or look for advice. Most women who attend these meet-ups will insist they are helpful. I've yet to dip my toe, probably for the same reason I could never face joining a 'mother and toddler group'; the idea of meeting people just because we'd all recently given birth just didn't seem like a good enough reason to be friends.

This isn't a rant against FIFO in general (although I do wonder what impact a largely absentee father will have on a generation hence), but rather to highlight an unspoken aspect of the mass emigration to Australia out of Ireland. Emigration is not to be taken lightly; it is a tough and difficult choice, and even the most charmed circumstances can prove difficult when you find yourself on the opposite side of the planet, far from home. Finding that you are a single parent for much of that time makes it harder still.

There should be no shame in admitting this.

House renting nightmares and the postal service...

After five months of humming and hawing, we've finally decided that in order to keep our collective sanity intact, we really do need to move out of our tiny treehouse. It has served it's purpose well; we have settled into our little community (by which I mean I know three people), the children are happy in their school, and the beautiful surroundings have provided a dramatic backdrop for our introduction to life in Australia.

However, the truth is that pretty as it is, the house is really not much more than a glorified apartment, something which really doesn't work for a family of seven (albeit with the largest member absent two thirds of the time). It offers so little privacy that when I shower the children tend to gather in the bathroom to ask me questions through the misty glass (the bathroom door doesn't close) and our living room also serves as a kitchen/dining/dressing/occasional-conjugal-quickie-before-the-children-notice-room (there's no privacy in our bedroom, which is located off their TV area).

It's a bit like when the family in Angela's Ashes move into the upstairs because the downstairs has been flooded by the unyielding Limerick rain. Well, if you exclude the typhoid, bleak poverty, head-lice and feckless alcoholic father. But you get my gist.

And so we are once more obliged to dip a reluctant toe into the murky waters of the Perth rental market, a cold, unfriendly and disheartening place.

In Ireland, finding a house to rent is relatively straightforward.  You phone the local estate agent, identify a house you fancy viewing, then you go and have a look at it. If you like it -- and presuming you don't rock up to the viewing in a large white transit van, with 12 children and a roll of carpet hanging out the back -- then in all probability the landlord will agree to rent it to you, often for less than the asking price. Job done.

Here in Perth the cycle is radically different. After scouring the internet for something you don't hate, you phone the estate agent -- who is totally indifferent towards you, they really don't need your business -- and arrange to attend a 'viewing'. A viewing means the house is open to the public for 15 minutes or so, and is often an unhappy experience spent wandering through dark, dingy and ugly rooms -- which often smell of feet or cabbages -- while fellow 'viewers' furiously open and close kitchen cupboards, as if the particular swing of a door might help make the decision for them. And as the musty air fills with the feverish desperation to secure a home, all aesthetical merits -- or lack thereof -- are put aside.

The application process involves filling out a lengthy form, divulging information such as your bank details, car registration, passport number, employement details, PAST employment details (jeez!), as well as supplying either a urine or blood sample. Sometimes both. (I made that last bit up).

You are also often obliged to pay a weeks rent as a deposit, just to prove that you are serious, which will be forfeited should you change your mind. It is also advisable to offer more than the asking price, often significantly more, in order to push your application up the list.

Now think of it; if you were renting out a property, and had ten couples interested, would you rent it to the couple with five small children?

No, me neither.

So you see our predicament. Yes of course there are landlords who might possibly accept us, but like  Groucho Marx's doubts about wanting to belong to any club which would have him as a member, any house that is willing to allow us to live in it, is unlikely to be a place I actually want to rent. Take a look at this little gem below for example, which is on the market for the bargain basement price of $400 a week. Yes, you didn't misread that - A WEEK (which is cheap, $650 per week is a more realistic average around here), and were it in Ireland would in all likelihood be bulldozed in favour of a nice dormer bungalow...

'Lovely spacious family home with traditional retro features' according to the unintentionally hilarious brochure.

And it continues: 'comes with a Gourmet kitchen'....

'Recently renovated'? Laurence Llewelyn-Bowan would turn in his laquered four-poster baroque bed!

Somebody actually went to the trouble of putting this picture into the brochure

A dream 'garden', I'm sure you'll agree...

The Postman

I mentioned a while back that I was yet to spot the postman, having no idea how my post found its way into the redback-infested post-box at the bottom of the drive each morning, so I'm pleased to report that I have finally laid eyes on him. Actually on reflection, I now realise I spied him months ago, but the moped and little flag threw me a little, and I was convinced that my invisible neighbours were regularly ordering Domino's pizza for breakfast. It's an easy mistake to make.

                                             

We have a different postman for the delivery of parcels, and since I began my little Boden online spree a couple of months back, have had reason to come face to face with the fluorescent-jacketed postie (yes, Australenglish for Postman) many times across the baby gate at the top of our wooden steps. To be honest I'm a little embarrassed at this stage, and feel the sharp sting of his judgement every time he hands over yet another delicious pink and grey spotted package. In fact only he, myself and Boden know the extent of my recent purchasing-frenzy, and at times even I've been surprised at the appearance of a new parcel, having totally forgotten I'd ordered it, on a late and lonely night a week earlier -- unhinged on Chablis and loneliness  -- unwilling and unable to talk myself into heading to the cold, lonely bed of a FIFO-widow...*

Empty bed syndrome? Not quite...

*A bit of artistic license there -- there are actually three small boys in my bed most nights...but you know what I mean...

Why I love Ikea and hate FIFO...

Ever since an illicit copy of the Ikea catalogue landed in my lap sometime in the early 2000s, I’ve had a love affair with the store. Back in those days -- due to Irish planning laws which deemed the store too big -- there was no Ikea in Ireland, and we were obliged to take the ferry to the UK (as we were/still are for so many other things), or head north of the border to fill our cars to the ceiling with those sleek, Swedish and affordable designs. It moved beyond the dull, family-owned furniture shops which dominated towns and cities of the Republic at the time - with their ugly squishy sofas and mahogany nests of tables. It was revolutionary, it was exciting, with its effortless, clean designs and clever flat-packaging.
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When the second boy-child was only six-weeks-old, we went on holiday to Tuscany. Yes I know, I know, six weeks old - what was I thinking? And worse was the discovery that the large haul of 50's inspired dresses from Debenhams and Oasis -- which I had amassed over the pregnancy in preparation for 'the other side' -- were ill-fitting and unattractive on my milky, postnatally-violated body, and as I sauntered down the lungomare in Viareggio, bloated and pale, I felt less like Sophia Loren and more like Zsa Zsa Gabor -- the latter years. (And yes, I know she’s Hungarian, but I can't think of any overweight, dodgy looking Italian women, which is saying something in itself).

Anyway, I digress; one beautiful Tuscan morning, rather than exploring the narrow streets and cafés of Lucca where we were staying, we drove to Florence - not to visit the Duomo or the Ponte Vecchio, but rather the large blue and yellow-signed warehouse on the outskirts of the city, in order to buy one of the coveted Cath Kidston-designed shower curtains, several sets of bug-themed duvet and curtains, a snowflake-inspired mosquito net and two side-tables.

Sad, isn't it?

Remarkably, with some clever packing we manage to squish these extra items into our suitcase. However, showing up to the check-in desk 45 and a half nano-seconds late for our connecting flight at Stanstead, meant we had to wait for -- and pay for -- the next flight, despite much weeping and pointing at the sleeping infant ‘but he’s a newborn!’ 

Unmoved, the stone-faced Ryanair customer-relations manager stood staring at his watch, his heart hardened to our plight (no doubt having come through several weeks of intensive insensitivity training, while mentally repeating the Michael O'Leary-inspired mantra 'the customer is always wrong, the customer is ALWAYS wrong!')

And as we sat in the departures lounge, several hundred euros poorer, it soon became apparent that due to delays, our original flight hadn't even boarded yet and we were surrounded by what should have been our fellow passengers from the original flight. That’s Ryanair for you, service with a smile and a surcharge.

Anyway, here in Perth the love affair with the Swedish giant has continued. Not only does it offer a free drop-in creche, but I can also feed all five children in the canteen for less than $20. LESS THAN $20! I pay more than that in McDonald's and don’t get me started on Miss Maud who recently charged me $40 for 4 sausage rolls, 4 juices and a coffee and muffin; I know which Swede I prefer. So while the kids play for free, I get to wander around, filling my yellow bag with plastic coat hangers, heart-shaped ice-cube trays and bolts of fabric which will no doubt languish in my cupboard until I eventually pack them up into a bag for the homeless....

Fit in or F*ck off, as they say (or FIFO...)

So DH has been and gone, and in truth I can't say I'm diggin' this whole FIFO experience. Yes he gets to be home for a whole week at a time, which -- purely from the perspective of avoiding the morning school-run -- is a big positive for me (and the kids; they get to be on time for five whole consecutive days), but beyond that all we do is laze the day away like students, shuffling around in pyjamas, drinking endless cups of coffee, watching Cbeebies or Selling Houses Australia (you gotta watch it, hilarious stuff!), while reminiscing about how good life was before we had kids. 

Of course in DH's head, a week off means a week-long shag-a-thon, something which is sadly at odds with what I have in mind (which is largely based around sharing housework and having someone to get drunk with) which only adds to the crushing disappointment and sense of anti-climax (no pun intended) when it's all over.

Eventually we'll decide to get dressed and venture out for a coffee or lunch, just as it's time to collect the kids from school. And all my feeble attempts at any sort of routine while he's been away, is blasted to bits; zumba classes abandoned, mid-week sobriety cast aside, coffee mornings with friends unceremoniously ditched, and before you know it, it's all over and I'm driving him  back to the airport again thinking 'was that it?'

The value of having a partner come home each evening -- just at that point where you are seriously considering either necking a whole bottle of vodka or getting into the car and just driving far, far away -- can not be underestimated, and having it rationed to just one week in three is quite frankly, bollocks. And don't get me started on the broken dishwasher, Ikea shelves that need assembling, and the midnight sounds of a crazed murderer outside my bedroom door.... DH, if you're reading this, please come home...

See you in two weeks!

Pets, poo and winter in Oz...

Perhaps I was a little unfair to Aussies in my last post. I must admit I was generalising about Midland which -- it must be said -- doesn't fairly represent, well, anywhere. Midland is what you'd call 'red-neck' country, and what else can you expect what with all those houses hidden in the woods and chainsaws and stuff? Oh, and sensual massage parlours, lets not forget about those (my favourite of which is called 'il signore's Retreat - sensual massage' -- which is located between a petrol station and a tyre shop -- and which presumably comes with a happy ending, so to speak).

Getting to know you!

I reported three months ago that I had yet to lay eyes on my neighbours and as of today this remains the status quo. Although I would quite like to have a word with them, just to let them know that their house appears to be splitting down the middle and on the verge of collapsing and rolling down the hill (I don't think they can see that from their side). But seriously, I would like to meet them, not least to satisfy myself that my life isn't in danger -- what with DH being away on FIFO -- particularly since I have spent many nights laying in bed, frozen to the sound of the possum creeping about on the roof, imagining my neighbour up there, wearing a mask made out of his mother, carrying a lump hammer.

Anyway, from my experience Aussies are nice people, although they do love their pets just a little too much for my liking. I don't think I've met anyone here who doesn't have a dog for example. I guess it's the British in them. The Irish are slightly more dismissive of their pets, although they've got nothing on the Arabs. In the UAE I could probably count on one hand how many times I saw someone with a pet (although I do remember reading a disturbing story about an Emirati man who was found with a 'pet' lion in his car, its claws removed).

Islam supposedly looks kindly on animals (with the exception of pigs of course -- they really hate 'em), and although the Qur'an urges compassion towards them, the truth is that many Muslims see dogs as ritually unclean and avoid them at all costs. I remember giggling guiltily as I watched a Pakistani gardener frantically trying to escape from a neighbour's pet dog, terrified of being rendered unclean by the playful animal. Of course the more the man yelped and dodged, the more the dog redoubled his efforts. And funny as the scene was, I empathised deeply with the man, I too have been a victim of dog-abuse (or should that be human-abuse? Well dog-abuse sounds better...)

Here I am, aged 11, walking into town with my sister, wearing a fetching lemon top with matching lemon jeans (I know, I know, but in my defence it is the 80's). As we stroll along the main street, a large labrador puppy gallops amicably over and proceeds to jump up on me. His paws are covered in poo. Yes poo, and within seconds so too is my lemon ensemble. My sister is almost wetting herself with laughter, but I am failing to see the funny side of the situation, and to make matters worse have to suffer the indignity of walking back home covered in dog-poo, no longer fancying that large 99 ice-cream that I had set out to purchase.

This for me is a painful memory, and I never quite got over it, and to this day I cannot stand dogs coming anywhere near me.


However, I was in a shop the other day which sold -- wait for it -- dog diapers. Yep, nappies for dogs. Of course my first reaction was - Preposterous! Ridiculous! until I reflected back on that miserable afternoon in the 80's and suddenly it all made sense.

But it gets better -- you can also buy DVDs for your pets here too -- in case they get lonely while you're out at work I presume -- or maybe to keep them quiet while you're making the dinner or having a shower. They seem to consist entirely of footage of other pets which I suppose is reasonable, after all we humans generally prefer movies about other humans.

But the good news is that today is the first day of my first Australian winter. Yes, as I sit typing --  barefoot and sleeveless -- looking outside at the sun fading through the eucalypti, mother nature is busily ushering in Old man Winter, readying herself for three months of 'not very hot but let's face it not exactly cold' weather.

Certainly autumn felt mostly like a really nice Irish summer, the sort that has everyone racing to the nearest beach, clambering for a little bit of rash-inducing sun, before complaining that it's too bloody hot, just as the water shortage notices start appearing in the local papers. Of course the shops here are full of winter clothes, which just seems incongruous to anyone who's idea of winter is lashing rain and pitch blackness by 4 pm. But I shan't complain, at least I don't have to fret about filling the oil tank.