The wonders of work

What a week. After two years in the wilderness, my reign as an unemployed entity came to an end. I am working once again. I need to start with Monday because it was excellent. And I'm conscious that my recent (and infrequent) posts have been rather disparaging about life in general. Which is not how I aim to be, but is an accurate reflection of my attitude in recent weeks. I've been feeling pretty over it. All of it.

But enough of that. Because on Monday all of that melted away. It was like all my Christmases had come at once. For a start, Sydney put on a glorious sunny show so compared to my waterlogged initiation the week before, getting myself and Miss I on the bus and into the city was a breeze. Easy peasy. The drop off at nursery wasn't quite so dry but we both survived.

I got myself to the office, picked up a coffee and made my way to my desk. Frankly I've always thought that the biggest drawcard of any office job is being able to start the day with a warm and delicious coffee in hand. But even from there my day improved. Not only did I have no contact with any bureaucratic body, no boxes to unpack and no forms to fill in, I sat uninterrupted at my desk for hours at a time.

I got myself reacquainted with the magazine. I had civilised conversations with colleagues, both new and old. I was assigned interesting articles to research and start writing. I called some old contacts. I did some computer training. The simple fact this training felt almost joyful gives you some indication of my enthusiasm for being back in the working world*.

I was half expecting someone to tap me on the shoulder and say there's been a big mistake. That I was required somewhere else to answer phones and make tea, or look after my toddler while simultaneously conducting interviews and writing copy. But the tap never came. I smiled inside and out as it dawned on me that it was all real. That at work I just get to be me. I don't have to juggle hats to get things done. I just have to do my work.

It felt easy. And fun. And overwhelmingly familiar. I had forgotten how many people I would recognise. A floor of faces that I know, not because I work with them directly but because we shared an office floor for a couple of years. So I'm used to seeing them in the kitchen, at their printer, in the lifts, in the coffee queue. In some respects, since I left, a lot has changed. But, at work, everything's pretty much the same. From my vantage point, nothing could be better.

*My enthusiasm for the new software program waned very quickly when I discovered on Wednesday that I have very little ability to navigate it. Further training is scheduled.

Administrative anguish

You know how occasionally all the little things fall into place? You get the green light, the bus turns up, you get a great park, you don't get lost, your phone is charged when you need it, you're on time. Sometimes it lasts just for a day. Other times it can make a week, or even a few weeks, blessedly straightforward. I'm not in one those phases.

In the larger scheme of life all is well. Health, family, shelter, food. All the big ticks are there and for that I'm grateful. But the small things? Not so gratifying. I've had the kind of fortnight which might be comical if it wasn't so trying.

I've already told you about the ordeal of finding somewhere to rent. The good news on that front is my shouty answers landed us a lovely apartment. Actually my shouty answers didn't help but we now have a place to live.

Unfortunately I'm yet to sit on my couch and feel smug about it though. Because in between finding somewhere to live and being able to enjoy it, lies a wide expanse of time and space called administrative anguish. A special kind of torment. There is so much to do before somewhere becomes a functioning home. Little details that you don't even notice when you're happily ensconced in a place, that make daily life implausibly complicated when you're not.

Small things. Like not having any bins, not being able to locate any kitchen utensils, not having a washing machine, having a washing machine but not having the plumbing set up to use the washing machine, not having coathangers, buying more coathangers and still not having enough, having shampoo but no conditioner, unpacking 20 plates when what I really need is one bowl. It's resulted in endless trips to Target and Woolworths, only to arrive home and realise I'm still several objects short of a functioning home.

A lot of this is to be expected. It comes with the territory of moving. However, where the wheels have really come off is my attempts to manage the administration of life outside the not-yet-working home. The RTA, Medicare, Telstra, Centrelink, Family Assistance, Vodaphone, MBF, IKEA, Customs and Quarantine are just some of the places (on top of Woolworths and Target) that have gobbled up my time, sanity and patience this week.

That particular combination of bureaucratic and commercial service providers really should never be seen in the one week. Even the one year sounds too close together. If you get the option take my advice. SPACE. IT. OUT.

No task has been simple. Each interaction has been more complicated than necessary. I'm always one piece of identification or paperwork short of the requirements. Most of this I would have known had I been online. But of course getting online was a case in point. Anything but straightforward. Despite the promises it took two trips, three days and 45 minutes of tech assistance to finally get connected.

Naturally because it's been one of those weeks, I've also locked myself out, forgotten my phone, been stuck in multiple traffic jams, missed buses, hopped on the wrong bus, been caught in torrential rain and discovered some vital documents are stuck in our shipped goods, thus further delaying and complicating my dealings with the aforementioned offices. Happy days.

There's also been the minor matter of inducting Miss I into her nursery*. Which is in the CBD. Which we reach by bus. In the RAIN. The TORRENTIAL, CYCLONIC, UMBRELLA-BREAKING, SOUL-DESTROYING WETTEST-JULY-IN-60-YEARS RAIN. The very same rain which incidentally has made all my chores and fumbles, that much more painful than they were always going to be.

For the record pushing a pram one-handed, while wielding a handbag, a child's backpack, a bent-backwards umbrella in pouring rain whilst negotiating your way onto a bus, madly trying to find a ticket, is every bit as horrid as it looks. Battling the elements doesn't begin to describe it. On the bright side, the week is done.

*It's been a uniquely emotional and confronting exercise which probably warrants its own post. Fortunately it appears to have been more emotional and confronting for me than Miss I.

Losing her toys

Occasionally I wonder how much my daughter takes in. Behind her big gummy grins, waving arms, wide eyes, raucous babble and determined screams, what does she actually know? And think?

Regular readers will know I'm in the midst of hell relocating back to Sydney after two years living in the UK. It's a big move for the three of us and to be honest over the past month or more, I've thought of little else. (With the obvious exception of the increasingly chic wardrobe of my favourite Duchess). It really has taken over our lives. The move that is. Not the Duchess's wardrobe.

While I've devoted many many minutes to reconciling my own feelings of disconnect and unease with all of this change, it dawned on me tonight*, that I've given very little thought to what on earth my daughter is making of all this. Of course her daily needs are still being met. Food, shelter, rest and love. And for the most part, she has had her mother. Her father, however, has been absent, getting on with the business of work.

When I stop and think about it, her world has flipped upside down. Possibly more than mine. Because at least I know what this is all about. I know this is home, I know why this is happening and I know the endgame. But what about her?

A few weeks back we packed up all her toys and either shipped them home or sold them. But as far as she knows they just disappeared. Ditto a lot of our furniture. Then one day her nursery was reconverted back into the study she would never have known, it originally was. Her cosy, colourful little room was suddenly ugly, taken over by a big built-in desk and cork book shelves. Again, as far as she knows, her nook just vanished.

Then we went to an enormous airport, hopped on an enormous plane, and sat** there for an enormous amount of time. We hopped off briefly only to shower in a strange place, eat a bagel in an equally strange place and re-enter the ultimate strange place. Another plane.

When we finally disembarked for good, her sleep was all flipped around and barely anything was familiar. We stayed in new places, new faces popped up, as did new dogs, new babies, new toys. New everything. Basically everything she has known, changed. That was almost two weeks ago and, give or take some hellish wakefulness initially, she seemed to adjust beautifully.

To keep her on her toes I also threw in her first solo endeavour - two nights with her maternal grandparents – which from all accounts was delightful and without drama. I returned to find her content as ever and the following days were fine.

And then, tonight, she lost it. Completely. Not just a one-off moment of frustration but an afternoon and evening of complete misery. Not even a bath – normally beloved – could placate her.

The next day brought little relief. She continued to eat and sleep as normal but was decidedly unhappy and out of sorts for a few days. There was no temperature, no physical sign of illness and no obvious explanation for her uncharacteristic despair. Unless, of course, I consider the fact we sold her toys, took away her nursery, deserted her for a few days and turned her world on its head. Could that be it? Perhaps there is an obvious explanation.

*I wrote this last week but have only just arranged internet (a post in itself).

**By 'sat' I mean I dreamed of sitting still, watching movies, reading magazines and sleeping, all the while roaming the aisles, returning stolen earphones, food items and blankets to our fellow passengers and willing our delightful-but-sleep-resistant toddler to close her eyes.

Judging forms

Have you ever felt judged by a form? Had your buttons pressed by an A4 page? I hadn't until this week. I didn't realise it was even possible for something inanimate to do that but as I filled out a ghastly rental application I immediately felt inadequate. And judged. And cross.

I concede I was being more precious sensitive than usual but seriously the questions were so probing. And inflammatory*. My answers were woeful. In black and white it made my life seem lacking. I know it sounds a tad dramatic. But sometimes that's how I am. There wasn't enough room on the form for my shouty answers so I've replicated them below.

Current Address
Please provide at least three documents with proof of your address.
Well, if I had a current address, do you think I'd be writing this application? That I'd willingly share with you all of my personal data, happily hand over obscene amounts of money to rent a small and cosy shoebox, go up against every other displaced resident in Sydney to fight for the privilege of renting some unbelievably priced spare space? REALLY???

If I had a current address, that would mean I'd have somewhere to live. That would mean I would not be filling in this form. It would mean I would be happily snuggled up on my couch in my living room, or cooking in my kitchen, or cutting my nails in my bathroom. Basically I would be doing ANYTHING except sitting here filling you in. I would NOT be madly trying to woo you. But thanks for checking.

Current Employer
Please provide your last 6 payslips verifying your salary

This is tricky. I am due to start work in two weeks but amazingly the payslips haven't yet arrived. Perhaps they'll only start paying me when I start turning up? Ideally though, before I start turning up, I need somewhere to live. Oh that's right, that's why I'm here answering you. BECAUSE I NEED SOMEWHERE TO LIVE.

Former Employer
Please include contact details for previous supervisor(s)

Ooh a soft spot. A reminder of my glorious career as a temporary receptionist in the UK. Good times. Go ahead. Call the names below.

Just a heads up that when you temp in jobs for a few days at a time, your supervisor is unlikely to remember your name even when you're sitting right in front of them. Let alone when a real estate agent calls a year after the fact. But good luck with that. Tell them I said hi and that I have fully mastered the art of making tea.

Net worth salary per week

Here you have it. My worth (at least what it will be in two weeks' time) reduced to dollars and cents. So, yes, you're right. On paper, I'm not worth a great deal. That's because I don't manage a hedge fund**.

On balance I don't necessarily think the figure reflects my entire worth in the broader sense of humanity but I'm guessing you're not interested in that? Thanks for the opportunity to consider my fiscal value though. Cheers.

Home phone

Seriously? If I had one of these I wouldn't be here now.

Work phone

Haven't we been through this? Are you not listening???

Please attach copies of the following documents to your application: license, passport, marriage certificate, medicare card, employment contracts, bank statements, share portfolios, a list of all relatives, ex-boyfriends, Facebook friends and every and any other piece of paper in your possession detailing your personal information.

Now it's not the documents I object to (much). It's the assumption that I have a computer, photocopier, printer, scanner and fax machine, on hand, at the ready. Don't they know that only people with homes have working study's equipped to print, scan and fax bundles of pages at a moment's notice?

As I mentioned earlier, people with homes do NOT sit around filling in rental applications. They sit around enjoying the fact they have a home. At least they should. That's what I'm going to do next week.

*A more stable and centered person might well conclude the questions were both reasonable and necessary. I am not one of them.

**Incidentally if I did manage a hedge fund I'd probably be renting you and all your friends amazing houses for very reasonable prices. Plus on the forms I'd only ask sensible questions like 'When would you like me to install free broadband, foxtel and a delivery of dry goods to stock the pantry?'

Shapes and style

I like clothes. A lot. I'm not a fashionista but I thoroughly enjoy browsing clothes, planning and picking outfits and admiring the sartorial choices of others – my friends, strangers on the street, celebrities in magazine pages, actors on television. It's  fun. Obviously it's not earth-shatteringly significant, but, to my mind it injects some extra fun into everyday life.

At least it did for a long time. Then I had a baby and my relationship with clothes suffered. It's probably more apt to say it was my relationship with my body that faltered, but as I stood in the mirror trying to make clothes look right, it was the clothes I really started to hate.

Nothing in my own wardrobe fitted and nothing in the shops looked any good. I'd lost the ability to dress myself. Something that had previously been hugely enjoyable, became fraught and yuk. I didn't know what worked. It was the beginning of a new learning curve. Learning to dress curves.

For many years, thanks to an autoimmune disease, I was quite thin. As I set out attempting to master the art of dressing my slightly curvier frame I realised something. When you are thin most clothes will suit you. You might not pack the wow factor into a dress the way Christina Hendricks does but it will still fit and it will look quite ok. As far as dressing goes, thin is the ultimate handicap. Having very little flesh to arrange makes dressing a cinch. If something looks good on the hanger, it will almost certainly look good* on you.

The arrival of some additional flesh made me realise dressing a fuller frame is less straightforward. At this point I should say that I have a perfectly lovely body. I am far from Christina Hendricks's silhouette but it is also true that my body is distributed quite differently than it was for many years. I have consequently come to learn there are necklines to avoid, fabrics to shun, cuts to dismiss and flesh to disguise. It is an art I am far from mastering but I'm certainly getting better.

When it comes to clothes, shapes and style, I have a newfound and vast appreciation for women who dress well, who do not necessarily have the handicap of being thin. The ones without the limbs of Elle Macpherson or Gwyneth Paltrow's toning or Miranda Kerr's absent body fat. Who aren't perfectly proportioned or perfectly toned but look perfectly dressed regardless.

I will go so far as to say I now think the most stylish women in this universe are those that know their threads and know how to dress their body – lumps and all. They're the ones who stand out in a room. Because in my limited experience, dressing a few curves takes a lot more skill than dressing a frame sparse on body fat.

This is not to deride the style or bodies of those women whose tall, willowy, perfectly formed frames could make even paper bags look heavenly. Instead it is to applaud the women who don't have those genes on their side, but look divine anyway. It's an art I admire. I now find myself scanning the streets and magazines and cannot help seeking out the looks I love, on bodies that aren't as angular as others.

My own mum is one of the most consistently well-dressed women I know. I've always loved her style but it's only more recently that I have appreciated just how skilled she is. It's not just that she has a great eye, it's that she knows what works on her. She is a beautiful woman in great shape, but her shape does not happen to be straight up and down. I'm paying attention.

*By 'look good' I do not mean 'looking in peak physical form'. I have many photographs that prove it's possible for clothes to sit well despite the wearer being a few kilograms, and several shades of pallor, short of peak condition, looking decidedly 'ungood'. By 'look good' I mean, largely, most clothes will fit and flatter a thin frame.

It's been a while

In real terms it hasn't been that long. Less than a week. But I feel like I've been away from here ages. And I don't think it's the blog itself I feel so far from. I think it's the life that, until last week, was part and parcel with my blog. It was comfortable, familiar and everything I knew. It was my little routine. It was my home, albeit on the other side of the world, away from home. 


And I suppose that's the funny thing. Despite feeling a million miles from it, I am home. For the most part of this week I've been in the town where I was born. Where my parents and extended tribe of beloved family friends all live. I've seen my sister, my nieces, my Pa, my brother, my brother-in-law, one of my aunts. It's my home but it doesn't quite feel that way. 


It feels like I'm here on a holiday. Just visiting. But a slightly scary visit because although I know where we're headed - Sydney- I don't know exactly where we're going to live. It's the last big piece of the puzzle I'm yet to fill. And, as far as puzzle pieces go, somewhere to live is pretty gigantic.  Without it, the picture is hard to make out. 


So that's where I'm at. Trying to imagine our new home while missing our old home. Feeling more in transit, than in traction. But. There are applications in the pipeline and I'm hopeful we will find our final puzzle piece soon. Until we do please feel free to scout comfortable, two bedroom apartments in the vicinity of Sydney. At this point Newcastle is probably close enough. 

Taking a big haul long haul

Well we made it. We're home safe and sound. Singapore Airlines didn't bat an eyelid as we loaded bag after bag, after cot, after car seat, after pram each item exceeding all weight restrictions, onto the carrier belt at Heathrow. We explained our extraordinary amount of luggage, saying we were coming home for the long haul and they looked at us sympathetically.

I almost escaped the UK without shedding a tear – I found I was quite numb saying so many goodbyes – but an angry security official who denied me entry to the gate because of a computer glitch tipped me over. A flood of tears flew from my eyes as I raced back to the check-in desk to seek reinforcements. Eventually I was allowed through and we were on the plane.

I have to say that a long haul flight has never looked quite as attractive as it did this week from my vantage point. I looked longingly at my fellow passengers as they slept, read books, watched movies, flipped through magazines, sipped wine. At their leisure. Uninterrupted. It looked like heaven.

Of course not all of my fellow passengers looked so relaxed. There were others, like myself and Mr G, and those unfortunate enough to be in our immediate vicinity, encumbered by small, mobile, earphone-yanking, blanket-tugging, magazine-ripping, havoc-wreaking, sleep-resisting toddlers. Travelling with mobile babies is one way to really up the ante.

Mr G and I did shifts but the proximity to one another meant even when we were technically 'off duty' we actually just became more attractive to Miss I purely because our attention was averted. If we were attempting sleep, she would grab at our hair, eyes and noses to ensure sleep did in fact elude us, reading a magazine, she would tear at the pages, or watching a movie, in which case she would bash the screen, grab the controller and miraculously turn the film off. It was a rather long 24 hours.

The good news is we're now off the plane. And we're not getting on another one for quite some time. Perhaps when Miss I turns 18. The bad news is we're dealing with jetlag. But still. All is very good. The familiarity of home is a very strong tug. It's been lovely to see family and friends and I've especially loved meeting three tiny new members of the population.

I've been offline because of these lovely distractions but also because I'm barely able to string coherent sentences together at the moment, let alone type a flowing post. So just a quick hello. Hopefully rational thought (and sleep) will return soon.

My ode to Oxford

I cannot track it down but there's a poem that says it's impossible to capture in words what one's eyes and ears absorb in Oxford. Now presumably the poet was here studying, in which case, given the subject matter some courses cover, I don't blame them for finding it all too hard to translate back into readable English.  While I can't blame my tied tongue on complex course work, I agree with his point. Words probably can't convey what I've seen, learned and lived here.


But. I'm not letting that stop me pen my own less poetic ode to Oxford. Because having overcome denial to set the wheels of our homeward journey spinning, there is now little else to do but reminiscence and reflect. This is not because it's been perfect. If you're in the mood for some schadenfreude you can read about some less-than-perfect times here, here and here.

Like a wake is not the time to rue over a deceased's flaws, this is not the time to contemplate the hard parts. This is the time to indulge in a little nostalgia. Here are a few reasons why I am bidding this English town farewell with a heavy heart and a lump in my throat.


Weighted friendships
Just as it was coming over, my suitcase is packed to capacity. However I am also laden with so much more than the items in my luggage. I will be taking with me friendships worth their weight in gold. Friendships that brought colour and life to what would have been a gorgeous black and white picture.


My comrades
Technically these six women fit above, but having endured the closest thing I'll ever come to armed combat with them, they get their very own category. We shared a classroom for six weeks drinking tea, nibbling biscuits and nervously listening to our veteran antenatal teacher inform us about the event looming on our horizons. Many of us went on to share a labour ward and we all continued to meet weekly, sometimes even twice weekly during those early months, for the first year of our babies' lives. They were and remain my most valued parenting resource. No amount of money or therapy could have restored the sanity these kind, clever and honest girls helped me retain. Mostly.


Beauty
The streets lined with elegant Georgian homes, the glimpses of perfectly manicured quadrangles behind stately college entrances, the dreamy spires that dot the skyline, the grand centuries-old chapels, libraries and dining halls, sandstone walls covered in climbing ivy, the cobbled streets, the wide expanse of University Parks and Christchurch Meadow, the pretty as a picture canals. I've been drinking in its beauty for two years and it's yet to wear off.


Love thy neighbours
I will miss having neighbours who knock on our door at 8.30pm to deliver freshly baked chocolate tart or homemade éclairs just because they've baked. Neighbours who left a warm lasagna made from scratch on our doorstop the night we brought our baby girl home from hospital. Neighbours we immediately think of when we bake, who I love bumping into - in the hallway, in the laundry or in town. Not because we're inseparable friends but because we're neighbours. We're Australians living in Oxford and we're in this together. I remember that every time there's a knock at our door. I will miss them both and I will especially miss making a lasagna for their doorstop in September when they bring their baby home from hospital.


Mr J. Oliver's 
Jamie's Italian in Oxford has carved itself out a very special place in my stomach heart. It has played host to numerous memorable meals – our first day here, the first time we saw Miss I scanned – back when she was just a tiny secret bundle of cells, when our parents came over to meet her, when our parents left, whenever our friends and family visited, our first wedding anniversary, the end of Mr G's exams, our birthdays. It's been there for all of that. And more. No restaurant has ever featured so consistently in the background of my life. The good news is apparently Jamie is opening one in Sydney soon.


Its inimitable guestlist
Last time I tried to capture Oxford's essence I settled on something unique about the people. Another distinctive aspect is its coveted list of visitors. I love waking here to discover Oxford will be playing host to Michelle Obama, or the Queen, or Ban Ki-moon, or Quentin Bryce, or Imran Khan or Richard Schiff (aka Toby Ziegler in the West Wing) or Colin Firth, or David Hasselhoff. (Actually I didn't like waking to hear about Hasselhoff being in town.That was very strange). But there's something to be said for the buzz most visitors create.


An undergraduate recently described Oxford to me as Disneyland for students. A grand, lively, beautiful and buzzing Disneyland. I might not have been a student but I'm most certainly grateful to have lived here. Oxford, I will miss you.   

We need to talk about Twitter

Let's talk about Twitter. I learned of its existence the same day I learned about its purpose and function. Also the same day I started my account. About three years ago I was sent along with my work colleagues to a workshop on social media strategies for journalists. I walked in having never heard of Twitter but I walked out converted and, as instructed, I signed up and tentatively began tweeting.

Had I not sat through that workshop I doubt I would have got it. Unlike Facebook, I don't think Twitter is immediately intuitive. So I was grateful for the lesson (which I dearly wish I could compress into a neat 300-word blog post but alas). Essentially I discovered Twitter is a very efficient way of linking people and information, which was perfect for my job.

For example. I wrote the legal pages and started following legal commentators, consultants and bloggers in Australia, in the UK and the US, as well as various law firms, journalists and PR agencies representing law firms. This meant by scanning my twitter feed I was able to learn of new developments, new studies, movements in firms, changes in regulations, new articles. Anything and everything legal. I didn't need to click on every link but if something caught my eye I would read it and then it might lead to a story. In that sense it's a great way to stay informed and get ideas on whichever topic takes your fancy.

My own tweets ranged from inane (what I'd just seen or done), to more useful (links to interesting articles), to self-serving (asking for commentary for an article I was writing), to self-promoting (links to my articles). I was not a rampant tweeter but I was active and I would have continued in that fashion but for two things. First I got burnt. Badly. Publicly humiliated, want-to-crawl-under-a-doona-and-cry type burnt. Second, we moved to the UK and I no longer had the professional excuse.

So, instead, I swapped active service for pure voyeur. I log in to my twitter feed on my phone several times every day to see the news headlines, what's happening around the world, to listen in to conversations, to find new people to follow, to keep myself entertained. And I love it. Aside from any other utility Twitter is essentially a voyeur's delight. It's a place where I found so many of the people I admire, find interesting, wish I could meet – journalists, authors, bloggers, high-profile royal commentators - congregating together AND I get to listen in to their conversations.

The thing is I feel like I've now been hanging out on the side-line for too long. And I want to join the party again. Since I've been blogging I occasionally post a link to my twitter feed but that's not enough because I think Twitter is a bit like life – you only get out what you put in. So I'm planning a gradual return to active service. If you are interested in joining in – even just to watch - my account is here.