Go west young Jane

Ooohhhh I meant to blog last Sunday I really did but its been a bit of a busy week this one.
It started last Thursday, despite the insistence of every western calendar. Last week in and of itself started somewhat anxiously with me waiting to hear back from the Sky people to find out if I got that job, which I did. Then continued with me going to see various flat shares which made me more disconsolate with each subsequent viewing. Travellers tip, it is very difficult to live within walking distance of Chelsea unless you are an heiress of some kind. With my birthday fast approaching I decided to give it all away for a little bit to have a break and relax. After seeing an endless procession of flats that were only fit to hang yourself in I felt the need to proceed to the sea.
I grew up with the sea at the end of my street so in times of tiredness or stress, I cant tell you why, but I just need to go to the sea. A river wont do it, nor will a swimming pool. It must be the sea, salty and wavy, with or without sand. I don't even have to get in it. I just need to smell it, and look at it and I feel better. So off I went to Newcastle, gave me a chance to see my Aunty before work sucked up all my time. Caught the train this time as well after getting some very cheap tickets on the net. Had a small argument with the underground. It was our first fight which always makes it seem more significant than it really is. It started when I got on the northern line from London Bridge. The DLR had been cancelled so murders of stockbrokers (I have decided that is their collective noun) were crowding themselves into the northern line which I incidentally needed to catch so that I could get to Kings Cross. Melbourne, you do not know what you are complaining about. I have to put my hand up to this too. I complained about the trams and trains in Melbourne, and they are sucky, but I was literally swept on to this train. Had I of not wanted to get on this train I would have had no choice in the matter, the mob made my decision for me. If my phone was ringing I could not have answered it because I could not move my arms. Packed. The English are notoriously polite, you could run over one in a land cruiser and their response would be “I'm awfully sorry to bother you but you seem to have broken my legs”. But get the little fuckers underground when there are trains around and its a blood sport. I got elbowed by a pensioner. A Pensioner! Next time I see him I'm gonna break his hip. So it was crowded and I had bags with me and there was a pleasant female voice telling me to mind the gap and that there was a good service on the Northern and Jubilee lines. LIES I screamed, in my head of course, they tend not to take well to eccentricity on the tube now days. I had been lulled into a false sense of security by the Christmas and new year break. The tube and I had started a holiday romance, everything seemed fantastic and then when things returned to normal its true colours revealed themselves. I was angry, we almost broke up in fact. I was considering living in places that I'd only have to catch buses from. I did get to Kings Cross eventually though. Now I know where it is and how to get around it, it'll come in handy for the eventual trip to Paris. Here's a bonus, on National Express services they have free wifi. I surfed the net all the way up to Newcastle. Vline, take note.
Did some more revisiting of haunts from my younger days, a trip into North Shields which has only changed slightly and then Saturday it was down to Tynemouth. Tynemouth is, rather self evidently, the mouth of the Tyne river where it flows into the North Sea. The metro station is this slightly faded Victorian sea side holiday style, which reminds me somewhat of what I imagine Mrs Haversham's wedding cake to look like. When I arrived there they had a little market on. All the usual market fare except for these beautiful vintage clothes and when I say vintage I'm talking little boys sailor suits from somewhere around 1910 and flapper dresses. I so wanted to buy some but could at this point neither justify the price nor the suitcase space. I wandered down to the sea front after having a little walk around the village and soaked in the sight of the sea from the cliffs. Apart from the sea, my reason for going to Tynemouth was to see the ruins of the priory that's been there for about 800 years. I'm a bit of a sucker for some ruins and these were some gooduns. I walked in and paid my 3 pounds then walked through the door into the ruins themselves and was immediately struck by how silent it was in there. So close to Tynemouth Front Street but those walls really knocked back some sound. It was one of those beautiful cold but sunny days that happen here on occasion, which made the green grass seem so much greener and created odd shaped shadows through the crumbled walls and arches of the priory.
As I made my way through the ruins I came to a big oak door that was decorated with wrought iron embellishment. There were a couple of other people around who wandered up to the door had a bit of a look at it and then walked away. Me, I see a door and I want to know what's behind it. So I waited for the other visitors to wander away and then I slowly tried the handle expecting it to be locked. I heard a click and the door gave a little. I gave a anxious look around again like I was breaking into a safe and then snuck in to the most beautiful room I may have ever seen.
I had the strangest feeling when I walked in there though, it felt like I was coming into class late, like walking into a room full of people who were either in the middle of something very serious or were talking about you and then all of a sudden all eyes are on you. It used to be a Chantry and during the Napoleonic Wars, was used as an ammunition store. I should have taken much more photos than I did but I couldn't shake this feeling that I was interrupting something so I stood up the back taking pictures almost apologetically to an empty room.
I found a mark on the entrance way as well that I think might have been left by the master mason but I'm not entirely sure. I found some masonic graves out the back as well, well graves with the compass and square on them so I'm guessing they were masons. Another slightly odd thing I found while walking through the grave yard, right next to this big marble slab was a hole, about as wide and as deep as a human arm, and right next to this hole was a little bone. When I returned home and told my aunty about this she said “Why didn't you pick it up?” Um maybe, because its a bone and I was in a grave yard and I don't want to end up being haunted by zombie geordies.

So, that was my nice little birthday break, came back from the north on the Sunday, went to see a slightly weird flatshare in Wandsworth, well the flat was alright but the chick I would have been sharing with was weird. Then Monday, my actual birthday, I was out to Osterley to sign my contract with Sky, its nice to have a job in this time of recession but I cant shake the feeling that I've sold my freedom. Boo. But having a job will come in handy, there is the whole cash thing, and having a routine will give me a bit of structure and help me get to know London in a different way and I'll make friends as well so all that will be the upside. Oohh and my second bit of good news! Its been a lot of work finding somewhere nice to live, trying to decide what area to live in and how I'll get to work and what kind of place to live in. Places in London go notoriously quickly, I once received an email about a place and when I clicked on the links in the email to look at the ad, literally seconds after receiving it, it was gone. I don't know how that works. On Thursday, after much visiting of many crappy flatshares, I headed out west to Acton. I hadn't considered living out west before, in part because I was hoping to be within walking distance of work but considering its in Chelsea that was not really going to be a viable option at this point unless I was willing to live in a hovel. The other reason I hadn't considered it was because there are so many damn Australians out there and I felt like a cliché. But this place came up and it sounded fantastic, the pictures were beautiful and the house has an Aga which I've always dreamed of cooking on and a cat which I would never think of cooking either on or in. I got there about an hour early and had a walk around the high street which is ok, it has everything you need but its not flash or anything. First thing that struck me when I got off the train though was the sound of birds. You wouldn't think you were so close to London.
Made my way out to the house, which is a converted Coach House, and met with Jill who is the owner. We chatted for a couple of hours and she showed me around and the upshot of it all is that I'm moving in on Saturday. Hoorayyyyy! I've been so looking forward to unpacking my suitcase, I don't remember what's in there anymore. I haven't really gotten to unpack it since I moved out of Preston at the beginning of November. And its just in time for me to start the job on Monday so I can be all sorted and establish a new routine. I'll take some pictures for you once I get in there and you can see what its like. Now that I'll be based somewhere and working normal hours I can hopefully make sure that I get to blog every Sunday like I planned. Sorry I took so long.
Next time I can tell you about the fort I climbed the other day as well as the new house and job.
Lots of love.

The call of the wales

Its been a fairly bureaucratic week for this weary traveller, but it does give me the chance to share with you a couple of what I've learned to be, some helpful rules for travelling.
Before I left, much was made of the process of getting a National Insurance Number, tales of horror were told to me of arduous waits and Tolkien like journeys required to get one of these mythic creatures, so by the time I got here I was dreading it really. National Insurance numbers by the way are much like Australian tax file numbers or American social security numbers, they mean that I don't get charged emergency tax which is about 40% of your salary and mean that I can get access to the National Health Service and Benefits. Wanna know how long it took me to get a national insurance number?
Day one, I called them, feeling of ominous dread having built in the pit of my stomach after endless tales of revenue and customs, fuelled by the industry that has sprung up of companies who will go to the trouble of organising an appointment for you for an easy $75 AUD/ Their sales pitch is along the lines of, its so bad you should leave it to the professionals. They attach themselves to recruitment companies, a few of which I was in contact with before I left. Oh it'll take ages they said, months. Yeah I'll take my chances I said filled which what I thought at the time might be regrettable bravado. Ages, ages, ages rung in my ear in echoing flashback as I sat on the phone to the National Insurance Number people their hold music was basically just info being read out in English and Welsh. Welsh: its a beautiful language occasionally interrupted by the sound of the speaker coughing up a furball. I was in for the long haul on this phone call or so I thought, I'd even started a game of Mahjong on Bruce in expectation when all of a sudden, Hello? I was interrupted by someone answering my call by Jove. “Um, I'd like to make an appointment to get a National Insurance Number please”. “Sure, what's your name?” I told the lovely operator along with a few other bits of information and then she said something quite shocking. She said “No problem, your appointment is tomorrow at 10:30am at the Jobcenter in Tooting” Tomorrow? Really? Not five years from tomorrow if I line up now? Ok then, I say and take down my reference number, pleasantly surprised. Maybe the horror doesn't start until the interview I thought, I mean everyone had gone on about it so much there had to be some kind of horror. I envisioned waiting in the job centre for hours on end, the perfect time to continue my reading of Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere (fantastic book by the way) I'd bring water just in case, one needs to be hydrated.
I got myself up the next day, made my way on that clear, crisp morning through what remained of the snow and caught the train into London Bridge before catching the tube to Tooting Bec. I'm liking catching the tube, where everything is, is still mostly a mystery to me but I like the vague feeling of satisfaction I get when I manage to successfully change from one tube line to the other, sad I know but I take what I can get. Had a bit of a wander around Tooting because I was both incredibly early and considering living around that way for a bit, but by about 10am it was just too cold to be outside anymore. So I retreated into the Jobcenter to be greeted helpfully by a lady who asked me for my reference number, “I'm really early” I apologised. “No problems” she said and took my details. I sat down and unwrapped myself of coat, scarf and these brilliant angora gauntlets I got that are surprisingly warmer than gloves, and settled in with Neil. I made it through about half a page before someone called my name. Gathered up my stuff and made my way over to the desk of the lovely Johanna, she's moving to Glasgow, will be there now in fact, her husband got a new job up there and she's a little worried about how she'll cope with the weather. You know how I know this? Coz after the 5 mins it took to fill in my application we had to make small talk for another 5 while her supervisor looked it over then bang, approved. “It'll take about 3 to 4 weeks for the number to come in the post then another couple of days after that for your card to arrive” Ah I thought, that's the waiting bit but I was still out of there before my official appointment time. Spent the rest of the day wandering around south bank and London Bridge. Three to four weeks, that's ok, I thought it would be much worse. The next day was spent cooking a stew, roasting some chestnuts, waiting for snow and helping Katie organise her Ikea furniture which had just been delivered. Day after that consisted of more job applications and waiting for the microwave that Katie ordered to be delivered and then on the third day, a letter arrived. Guess what it was. That's right, from calling to getting the number in my hot little hand, 5 days. And to think I was almost willing to part with $75. Rule one of travelling: Always go with both an open mind and an open ear, never only one of those things. Sometimes things work out better than expected.

A few weeks back I was out at Heathrow and needing to make my way back into the city. There are a few ways of doing this, either catching the tube and changing a few times, catching a bus or catching the Heathrow express or connect services which will charge you anywhere between 8 and 16 pounds. I catch the bus, it gets me to Victoria Station which is where I needed to be so I could head off to see a flat share that I was considering in Battersea. Off I go to the automated ticket machine and buy a ticket on the next coach, which according to the machine isn't for another hour and a bit. Great I thought, but I had heaps of time, was even planning on killing some time by taking a look at the Saatchi gallery before my appointment, so I sat down to read. About 20 mins later an announcement came over the tannoy, the 1pm service to Victoria is now departing from bay 6. There's a stampede to bay 6 which I join, cool, more gallery time I thought. Normally there is a bus driver at the door who will check your ticket but I couldn't see them and the bus was filling up ,so I thought bugger it I'm getting on. Settle myself in and the driver gets on and doesn't really make a proper announcement which is odd, normally they say where you're going. All she says is “Sorry its a bit cold at the moment. but it should warm up a bit when we get on the motorway” Motorway? We don't usually take the motorway to get into London from here I think, but hey I don't know everything, maybe there is road works or something and they're going a different way. One of the things I love about the road signs here is when you are out on the motorway they don't just give you place names and distances, in bold letters they give you direction. TO THE WEST they exclaim as if flinging their little road signy arms wide with joy. West? I think, but London isn't west of here. I start to get a sinking feeling. About 30 mins into the journey it was clear to me that we were not heading into London, in fact we were heading away from it with increasing speed. I remained calm, giggled at myself a bit and then seriously considered staying on the bus. Oooohhhh mystery bus tour a voice inside me said. No, you have to go see that place in battersea, its right by the river and the rent is cheap said another less fun voice. Awww whined the first voice, but mystery bus tour! No, were getting off at the next stop. Less fun voice sucks. So I ended up in Reading and Macgyver like whipped out Bruce my trusty laptop used his dongle (oh er) to connect to the internet while balanced on a rubbish bin and booked myself a ticket back to London from the middle of nowhere in Reading about 3 mins before the bus back to London arrived. All the while with my fun voice whining “You shoulda stayed on the bus, it was going to Pembroke”. Made it back to Victoria in plenty of time to head out to Battersea and saw the potential flatshare. It sucked. Actually it both sucked and blowed, its the kind of place you envision dying alone, in fact that maybe all that flat could possibly the used for. “Yeah I'll get back to you” I said to the russian girl who showed me round the flat. Shoulda stayed on the bus. Rule number 2, sometimes you should ride out the unexpected, there can be such a thing as good mistakes.
Now all I have is the slightly embarrassing tale of how I almost ended up in Wales.

The God of small things

This is the relatively less glamorous side of travelling to the other side of the world, I'm not travelling to any exotic destinations for the moment or preparing myself to travel to aforementioned exotic destinations. This is the business end of the trip, the how I set myself up so I can live here for a bit side. I'm doing lots of running around to find myself somewhere to live and a job and having to organise all of the bureaucratic things like National Insurance numbers.
And I don't find that fun lets be honest, lining up for things, having to convince people I wont just move into their office, steal their stationary and distract the more productive workers. Convince yet more people that I'm not a crazy serial killing nudist who has gangs of friends over to sleep on the couch and pawn their TV. It makes me frustrated. Essentially I'm impatient, when I want something I want it now. Since I moved out of my place at the beginning of November I haven't really been able to unpack my suitcase and I'm starting to crave it. I don't really remember all of what is in there, my outfits comprise of whatever has floated to the top of the pile because I just cant be bothered taking it all out only to have to put it back in again. I think as well I'm impatient for a base that I can use to orient myself around London, to have the where will I work where will I live questions answered so that I can get to know this town better. Fuck I love London. I realise the swearing is inappropriate but sometimes only an expletive will do. I love its energy. I love wandering around it and stumbling across something that I've only ever seen pictures of before. I love cruising through the tube and managing to get myself from one side of the city to the other without needing to ask for directions. I love the pasties they sell at Victoria and London Bridge Stations made by the West Cornwall Pasty company, they have a picture of a pirate on the bag and are exactly what you want in cold weather.
I love that books are so cheap here and that you can buy bunches of gloves and scarves at Primark for a couple of pound. Before I left, a bunch of people I talked to about my coming over here would leave me haunted by tales of miserable faces on the tube, the grey and unrelenting weather, the cost of everything, a million different tales of the misery that is London. All that might well be true, eventually, it's still all new to me though. I might well get to the point where I hate the weather and the people and the crowds, but I am so not there yet.
People seem to be going crazy about the weather at the moment, today The Sun ran the headline “Arctic London”, snow has hung around a few days and was pretty thick in some places so now everyone is in a tis. On Sunday as I headed back from the city after seeing a couple of share places I stood on Orpington Station waiting for my train back to Katie's, the cold had turned my cheeks to marble in stark contrast to the rest of me which was toasty warm. I paced up and down the platform feeling happy for no good reason listening to Sarah Blasko's version of Don't Dream its Over, as the song reached this harmonic choral break between verses I thought how beautiful this moment would be if it was snowing and then I felt a snowflake kiss me on the cheek and I looked up and saw the snow whirling in lamplight. It reminded me, in the midst of all this running around going to job interviews and NIN interviews and seeing flats I have to remember to find something fun otherwise what's the point of this. That's not just good when I'm in London that's good for all the time. So I've tried to chill myself out a bit, to not be so impatient. To enjoy little things like how the ground glitters when its frosty which I think my neice Livvy would love and the sound of the snow crunching under your feet. Slightly cliched possibly but fuck it, I have fun. Today after my National Insurance Interview, where I had to go in and prove I'm me so they'll give me a number so they can also know I'm me, I went wandering down around London Bridge again but this time up the other end away from the Tate I had a look into Southwark Cathedral where they have a monument to William Shakespeare, the Globe Theatre is around there so they feel as though they have a corner on Bill. As I walked into the cathedral one of the guides came up, very helpful and studious lady, let me know all about the cathedral and that I would have to buy a permit to take pictures inside, I decided no, churches have entirely enough money without my contributing to them. I didn't miss much, you can see it all on the net and I can just remember how things looked in my head ok it was only 2 pounds but that's like $5000 in Australian money. Odd little moment though as she offered me a pamphlet outlining some of the highlights and the history of the cathedral, she said “English, ok” as if she wasn't entirely sure I'd be able to read it, Had we not just been speaking in English? Had I not demonstrated a proficiency in the language, part of me thought I should get all ocker and say “Got any of em in Australian luv?” and maybe winked and then smacked her on the arse but we were in a church and I have entirely divested myself of the catholic guilt and sense of propriety.
So in answer to the questions in my last post, where will I work, hopefully I shall know that by the end of this week. Where will I live, also something to be discovered this week. The call of the wales, I'm going to keep you waiting a little for that one and is there an upside to all this cold weather, why yes there is, and its snow damnit, cute when it falls gently from the heavens and leaves tiny, cold, pin prick kisses on my cheeks. Not so fun when it turns to ice on the foot path but touch wood I still haven't fallen over on it yet. Happy New year xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Travelling North

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am well over planes. I feel slightly blasphemous saying that considering my brother has dedicated his life to them but still, considering how many of them I've been on lately the thought of getting on another one made me want to scream.
It was for that reason, when faced with a the decision as to how to get to Newcastle Upon Tyne to see the family for Christmas, I chose instead to take to the road.

There are two ways of travelling it seems, fast and slightly agonising or slow and languid. I like to take the slower road, if I can get somewhere by boat, bus or train then generally I will pick one of those three. Maybe its the vast expanses of time one can spend starring out at passing scenery, (preferably moors of some description or a steely grey sea) through a rain spotted window while contemplating life, the universe, everything.
In an airplane the journey feels a bit more detached, vast expanses of land, continents, oceans are covered without the gift of being able to notice the shift in scenery. I like also, with the slower road, of knowing that I will get there when I get there, that nothing is rushed, all time is mine and I can read a book or do some writing or find the perfect song on my MP3 player to match the passing view.
We got back from Sweden on the Thursday night and not having to go to a second interview for one of the jobs I'm trying for until after Christmas I decided that I might as well take off and see the family on the Friday. This was a trip I hadn't made in about 10 years when I was a youngster of 20 and life seemed much more complicated than I've subsequently realised that it is. I'd spent a bit of time in Geordie Land then, going on little jaunts from my Aunty's place in Percy Main down to the Royal Quays to see the boats in or wander around the discount outlets that used to be frequented by boat loads of Norwegians shipped in from Bergen doing their Christmas shopping and escaping the high cost of living over there. I caught that boat once, back to Bergen from Newcastle with the freshly shopped Norwegians, they taught me to macarena and we got caught in a force 9 gale in the north sea, though the two were entirely unrelated. They've stopped that route now, to much hue and cry. You can only get the ferry to Amsterdam which I shall do later in the year with my trusty Aunt as my chaperone, I shall be Henry Pulling and she shall be.........my Aunt. I had resigned myself to tracing the route on the Metro from Percy Main to Monument via Google Earth but now I was preparing myself for free time and Christmas where I could reacquaint myself with the haunts of my almost youth.
As I sat on the coach speeding through the rain spiked night listening to The Presets I saw the Angel of the North come into view and it felt a little bit like coming home. Aww. Now to the slight drawbacks of coach travel. It is an unfortunate reality that toilets on long haul bus trips should only be entered only in the event of a dire emergency, and even then you should probably have a good long think about it. On my way up to Newcastle I made it a point to avoid the coach toilet, thinking instead of the welcoming marble facilities available to me once I got to Newcastle Central Station, facilities that were big enough to swing several cats in and would not drench me in the event of sudden breaking. I held on. And it was cold, which makes a pressing urge somewhat more pressing. But, there were certain factors that I had not included in my formulation of this plan. I was arriving in Newcastle on a Friday night, everybody would be out getting pished to greet the weekend, it was the last weekend before Christmas and most people would not have to work next week which would multiply the revellers exponentially and finally the third factor was one that I could not have hoped to calculate, the good people at Newcastle Rail Station in their infinite wisdom being fully cognisant of factor one and factor two decided to close off ALL the toilets instead leaving only one night toilet open, One. At the risk of repeating myself, one. Let me introduce to you the worst toilet in Britain.
Imagine say, a thousand drunk people, falling down, inappropriately affectionate, bad hand eye coordination, drunk people. Imagine putting them in a tiny, poorly lit space and expecting them to hit a target, imagine them missing, imagine then that some unforseen hand picks up that tiny, poorly lit urine soaked toilet and then shakes it like a snow dome. Then imagine really needing to use that toilet and lining up behind 10 drunk people at midnight in 0 C and having to listen to each and every one of them comment on how horrible the toilet was before adding to the horror and taking forever to get out again. But given the length of the queue waiting for cabs out the front of the station it was clear that this was not a matter that could wait. I would have taken a photo for you but I would rather spare you it. I did however make it safe and sound and, after some rather dexterous toilet gymnastics, entirely stranger wee free, to Aunty Mary's in Percy Main. Was a nice quiet Christmas really, much time spent watching Aunty fall asleep watching sky (which was sweet), heading up to Newcastle on the metro and wandering down by the river Tyne. Had Christmas Day at my cousin Stephen's where he put on a fabulous feast of sweet potato soup, turkey with all the trimmings and your choice of desserts, amazing soup, I memorised the recipe, when you have me in human form ask me to make it for you . I'm very lucky to have family over here, particularly at Christmas. I also indulged a little in the post Christmas sales and picked up some very cheap high quality runners that will ensure I stay upright in these icy conditions as well as some marvellous Marks and Spencer bras. I say old chap, absolutely spiffing brassieres what.
In our next instalment, where will I work? Where will I live? The call of the wales and is there an upside to all this cold weather? Merry Christmas and Happy New year to you all.