A Matter of Taste. Bite Me.

Okay, I have to apologise, as I have noticed that this blog is slowly moving away from what it is supposed to be about. And that is, er, coming to terms with cultural differences of life in the UK.

So I shall start my piece thus: Chocolate over here sucks. "Crisps" (what a poofy thing to call chips anyway) come in strange flavours and the 'fresh' fruit'n'veg is absolute crap. This is something I've known for a while but it has been so obvious that I have just never written a rant about it. Watch me now.

Everything over here seems to be just that bit smaller, more shrivelled, paler and less flavoursome. Okay, I appreciate that the weather has a lot to do with it. In Australia the sunshine breeds bigger, fresher and more robust (that includes the people). In Australia you can feast on apples and tomatoes as big as your head, steaks and prawns the size of small dogs and salads as fresh and springy as, I don't know, a fresh spring.

Here in the UK the food just looks sad (don't worry, I'll stick up for it in a sec). Walk into any Asda supermarket and you'll see a selection of what can only be described as bonsai produce: Fruit that looks as if it should be twice the size, have twice the colour and be three times as varied. I have to say though, it has vastly improved over the years. I mean, before 2003 I couldn't even find sour cream. I don't want to be accused of slagging off the real national foods here, because there are some absolute gems of traditional Scottish dishes that I have become addicted to. Yes, haggis is one of them. Black pudding I can take or leave, thanks. I have never eaten nicer salmon or strawberries in my life. And although the national diet is pretty poor I can safely say that deep fried mars bars (although available if you look) are more of a joke than anything. Everyone associates Fosters lager with Aussies but we know that no-one in Australia actually drinks it.

Anyway my point is that the stuff I was used to buying at Coles in Prahran cannot be touched (or sometimes even found) over here at Sainsbury's. By the way, the Brits are only encouraged to eat 5 portions of fruit and veg (not 5 of each) a day over here. I'm sure in Australia it's almost double that figure, please correct me someone if I'm wrong.

Next and last on the agenda will be an attack on British sweets. Sorry Britain but your lollies really do suck the big one. Cases in point: "UFO's" - thin, disc-shaped (like UFO's, geddit) wafer cases that contain... sherbet. Wow. Like chewing a piece of dusty cardboard. "Jelly Babies": The Australian versions are firm, fruity, flavoursome jubes that make your mouth water. In the UK they're twice the size, covered in icing sugar (*crosses herself*) and are soft, squishy and flavourless. And what's wrong with the normal chip flavours of Cheese and Onion, Chicken or Salt'n'Vinegar? Who in the hell wants Prawn Cocktail, Branston Pickle, Lamb & Mint or Worcester Sauce flavour? Charles Dickens?

Oh, I could go on endlessly. The Picnics have sultanas in them, the donuts taste like cake, the cheesecakes have a sponge base... I can't tell you enough how much I miss southern hemisphere food. I crave Cheezels, I crave Tiny Teddies and Tee Vee Snacks. I crave Sour Cream.

"Are you on your period or something?"

Ask anyone who knows me and they will tell you that I'm a pretty calm and laid-back person. Ask anyone who works with me and they will tell you that I'm a good-humoured and even-tempered person. So why was it tonight I found myself flying into the kind of rage that only seems to come out about once every two years? You know when you're so angry, frustrated and upset that you literally spit your words out but they don't make any sense? When the sane, rational side of you evaporates for a split second and with a moment's whoosh of adrenaline the lunatic monster pushes its way out of your throat, your eyeballs and it all just gets a bit Exorcist?

I am at the end of a bad week. Okay, my other half reminded me this evening that "every week" is a bad week for me, but this particular week you just couldn't make up. My team mate at work has been away all week so I have been thoroughly biserable. But that's alright because she is going through a very personal and devastating crisis, and due to this I haven't been able sleep properly or think straight all week. I love this girl, she is such a fantastic person and my heart is fucking breaking for her. So I have faced the ultimate test of grieving and welling up in between putting my work face on and soldiering on all week. With a deep hatred of Business As Usual.

In between this are emotional, staccato emails from one of my sisters. Now and again we do this- send silent, long distance pleas for help during our working week. It's like holding hands but not knowing what's going on at the other end.

Then at 3am this morning Social Services came to the door saying that my fiance's mother had set off the personal alarm she wears around her neck. So he rushed into her house thinking the worst, only to find her sleeping peacefully, with the alarm sitting untouched on the bedside table. She had probably set it off accidentally whilst getting ready for bed, no doubt in her usual 1am drunken state. As a result I slept through my alarm this morning and got into work late. My boss came over and asked if I was okay. I said I didn't know. Maybe. The day happened anyway, regardless of whether I was okay or not. But I got through it with the aid of some very sweet emails from the boy, promising me lots of attention when I got home.

I walked into my dark house tonight and remembered how nice it was last September to see my mum waiting for me at the door with a hug. Instead tonight I saw her postcard in the letterbox and felt an awful lump at the back of my throat. I cooked dinner as usual, even though I really didn't feel like it. And just as I was looking forward to all the attention I was promised from the boy, he said he was going to have his mate over. Then I flipped out.

He asked "are you on your period or something, you're acting like a bunny boiler" which made me even worse. Ask ANY WOMAN. So following some extremely heated words (us), deadly looks (me) and about 16 tissues (me again) I was sat down and basically told to stop whinging and get my shit together. Okaaay. Well it wasn't that harsh but it wasn't far from it. Thanks for the love, babe.

But you know what? Fundamentally he is right. The bastard. Sure it's been an upsetting week, but obviously more so for someone other than me. Maybe I have had some deep seated issues stirred up from within my tightly packed, neatly folded and repressed self. Perhaps. Maybe I'm not so calm and laid back after all, I'm just too scared to act out whenever I feel like it, thus saving it all for those 2-yearly Krakatoa type eruptions. Probably. Anyway I promise this will be the last whiney, self indulgent blog I write. Hopefully. Emotions are a little bit high at the moment.

"It's such a perfect day...

I'm glad I spent it with youuuu..."

Well what a nice day I had today. After enjoying a day's holiday on Friday I relaxed into Saturday with a roadtrip down to the seaside, both to visit my heavily pregnant friend and to take my other half's mother to see an old friend she hasn't seen in years. The weather was lovely, I sang songs into mother-in-law-to-be's good ear (she's almost completely deaf) and my boy, otherwise known as 'lead foot', drove at a reasonable speed for the entire journey. We stopped off at my friend's house for a coffee and a sniff around her recent renovations, then she joined us for the trip to the next town for lunch and window-shopping.

We first took my fiance's mum to her old pal's apartment nearby, and wouldn't you know it the old girl's got a lovely one-bedroomed place right on the water with a balcony and harbour view to boot. Upon seeing eachother again, the two ladies shared a meaningful hug that only two friends who have so much history but haven't seen eachother in ages can give one another. It broke my heart. But soon enough the naughty twosome were lost in a fug of cigarette smoke, memories and whiskey, leaving the 'young ones' to go and do their own thing for a few hours. So we mooched around the shops, I touched up some silky, jewel coloured dresses in Monsoon, cuddled the beautiful volume winter coats in River Island and ran my drool-covered mits over the wall-to-wall cushions at Au Naturale. Sigh.

Whilst strolling around Debenhams we could hear a fashion show going on in the far corner, so following the music and the sound of the pa we walked towards the assembled throng, wondering why everyone was staring at us. We soon realised that the path we were walking on was actually, um, the runway, and that there was an exasperated model, dressed head to toe in Topshop, trying to squeeze through the racks past us! It was so hilarious, my friend and I were in hysterics wondering if the suburban fash pack would take our cue and start dressing in head to toe black stretch maternity gear (her outfit for the day), or New Look jeans with a paint stain on the right thigh (me). And I kid you not, by the time we assembled in the 'correct' area for the show I noticed there was a girl in the front row wearing sunglasses, a la Anna Wintour. Oh, it was just surreal.

We shortly after repaired to the restaurant upstairs, for panninis, diet-coke and cake (my friend is heavily pregnant and needs her nutrients- who the hell am I to be left out?). I bitched about work, she talked excitedly about her baby names shortlist, I bitched about work again, she talked excitedly about bringing the little one to my house overnight once he/she's born so that she can partake in her first post-bub beer. I shut the hell up and was suddenly overcome with the significance of what was happening to her, and got misty eyed at the notion that I had no idea when I would be in her shoes. She told me she was a bit scared and I told her she'd be fine, that her motherly instinct would kick in immediately, just the way my dad told me my sister's had as soon as my nephew was born.

We also talked about our hilarious mate the Gay Priest. Gay Priest has almost finished his training, and has invited us to his open day at priest 'college' next month, so he can show off and let us see him in his priest-to-be habitat. Did you know they even have a bar at priest college? I'm going along to witness that, if anything. Apparently he has an absolute ball there- who would have thought? One evening he and the other trainee priests got bored, so they all decided to sing their hymns in the style of The Proclaimers... And on a recent trip to Rome our Gay Priest was late for an audience with the Pope because he and another priest got sh*tfaced in the afternoon and were caught at the Trevi Fountain drunkenly 'blessing' passers by with the water. I have gotten sh*tfaced with him myself and can truly say he's one of the most interesting people I've met since living here.

Anyway, after a few hours of hardcore chit chat and fondling of precious retail things, I bid my friend adieu and made my way back to ye olde's fancy apartment on the water. I stood on the small balcony and watched my boy lovingly act as interpreter for his (almost) 79-year-old deaf mother as she struggled to hear some quip or another that her friend was making about the old days. It was quite touching, and I really did fall for him all over again, seeing him with his mum like that. On the hostess's insistence we stayed for a dinner of fresh fish and chips, then finally said our goodbyes and made our return journey, the return of 'Lead Foot' seeing us back to our place of origin in 55 minutes flat. Yay.

So now here I sit, chilling out, I've had a glass (or 5) of wine, and I can safely say I have had a really nice day. Okay, it wasn't the most exciting, the most fabulous or the most dramatic. But it involved food, drinks, friends, sunshine, a bit of family and a bit of laughter.

Aren't I easily pleased?

Fashionanna

I like to play a game where I have an imaginary £10,000 to spend on clothes and accessories at Harvey Nichols or Selfridges in a single afternoon. I do actually have excellent taste but am without the budget (not to mention the figure) to make this dream a reality. Okay, so I could go all 'Sienna' and put things together myself but I just don't have the time, as creative as I like to think I am.

I have been reading fashion magazines since the year dot, so I certainly know my Hermes from my H&M. Has it inspired me to pursue fashionista status? Not exactly. Has it given me size zero tendencies? Hell no. So I don't know if I'm a fashion follower so much as a 'fashion appreciator.'

Oh god, is that just an excuse for being broke and fat?

But I don't flick through magazines wearing my smock and gladiator sandals thinking "okay, so volume is out, but body-con is in, but maybe my sandals can carry me through autumn, what with the new warrior look and everything." You know, I flick through the magazines and I study the fashion pages (as I always have done) thinking "oh, that's devine..." Then I go to my wardrobe and put together an only slightly updated version of a look I have probably had for the past 10 years. I mean, for god's sake, am I really destined to become one of those women whose 'look' is stuck in a timewarp (ie. when they looked their best- in my case Summer 2001)?

I look forward to 2047 when I'll be wheeling my granny jeep to the grocers wearing wedges, liquid eyeliner, a big, f*ck off necklace and, I don't know, maybe a sheer polka-dot shirt for good measure.

Please don't. No, really...

I am tempted to say I work as a counsellor. Well I don't, but the business of finding work for people can see me wearing many different 'hats', including that of Counsellor, Mum, Best Friend, Jester, Judge and sometimes even Slave (if slaves wore hats). Don't get me wrong, being in a position where I am able to help people is the main reason I do what I do. And if I get the odd box of chocolates into the bargain, all the better. Now and again, though, someone comes along who just ends up taking up more airtime than they really should. Oh, there's always one.

Let's face it, looking for a job basically means putting yourself out there to be accepted or rejected (for whatever reason). Having been closely involved in facilitating this process has taught me just how vulnerable, arrogant, brilliant, conniving or downright stupid people can be in their merry search for work. Nothing makes me happier than telling someone they have just been offerred the job of their dreams, especially if I helped them from the start. Equally, nothing makes me feel worse than having to tell someone they didn't get the job they had their heart set on because they were too nervous/negative/had an inappropriate piercing at interview. But nothing makes me hopping-madder than someone who is pushy, aggressive and won't take no for an answer. I shall call him Mr. Creepy.

Mr. Creepy came in to see me a few months ago, with an out-of-date passport and no working visa on him. His CV was so-so but I thought he would be okay so long as he could show his eligibility to work in the country. Conscientiously he brought his documents in the next day and all was well. Due to circumstances beyond my control there was nothing I was working on to suit him, therefore I wasn't in touch for a while. He called me a couple of times and I told him this. I was then walking through the bus station after work one day and he appeared, as if from nowhere, apparently wanting to chat about his career (or lack of). I apologised for not being able to help him and he looked utterly crestfallen, but kept standing there as if there was something I should be able to do then and there. Not knowing what else to say, I politely said goodbye.

The next night I walked through the bus station and was sure I could see him in my peripheral vision, sitting in a seat outside. Maybe watching me, maybe not. Last week I was walking into the bus station again (does he ever get a bus or what?), I was wearing my sunnies and could just see him, walking the opposite way. He called out to me again but I kept walking this time, slightly annoyed.

Was I wrong not to stop? Is he wrong for wanting to stop me each time he spots me in a crowd, rather than just recognising me and thinking to call me the next day- at the office- for a professional chat? Is it a cultural thing and I'm just being really rude (he's Ghanian by the way)? At any rate I started walking into the bus station via a different door each night.

He called the office at about 5pm today and my colleague answered. She told me it was him and I told her exactly who he was. Susequently I didn't speak to him, which was probably the wrong thing to do. It just irritated me. I did my usual walk to the bus, all the while thinking that if he was calling me 20 minutes before, then surely he would be at home or something. Anyway I was getting my bus about 40 minutes later than usual- he couldn't possibly just be there at any given time?

I had a cigarette, put it out, walked through the sliding doors and... who should be walking out through the other side but Mr. Creepy? I'm not even kidding. I grabbed my mobile and pretended to be on it. He called my name anyway, I kept walking, I got to my bus stop and waited for him to have the sheer front to come and tap me on the shoulder. He didn't. All of a sudden I wanted to run after him and tell him to leave me the fuck alone. I know the guy only wants a break but he is starting to give me the creeps.

PS- Since then I have put him forward for 2 jobs (he is actually a part-qualified accountant) so fingers crossed for him. He has stepped up the calls to the office but there have since been no public haranguings. That I can deal with. Stay tuned.

Corporate Hobo

I hate so much that I'm in my thirties and and still don't have so much as a whisper on the wind to my name. Okay, I own my house, but sometimes I believe my bank just makes up my monthly mortgage payment amounts as they go along, thereby increasing their interest rate each month in direct proportion to how many surplus pennies I may have (and I stress the word 'may'):

"What's that. An extra 100 pounds? Sorry little missy but those hand-rubbers over at the Bank of England told us we just need to take all o' that off your hands, there."

F*cking feckers. And then there's the bank charges. Oh don't even get me started. On rare occasions I think 'sod it', I need to pay for something important, like, say, a weekly bus ticket or even a luxury item, like FOOD. Every now and then I will be a trifle naughty and take from the rich to give to the poor. In other words I will take just a teensy bit of extra cash out, knowing full well a direct debit is about to hit. Now, I know I will deserve a smack on the wrist in the form of a dreaded bank charge, really I do. Hell I'll deal with it next month. But 3 charges?! That's 3 smacks on the wrist... verging on bullying if you ask me. One month I got charged a £28 'unauthorised overdraft fee' , as well as a £30 'admin' fee as well as a £25 pound returned direct debit fee from the payee. Oh, and I got bollocked by my obviously more sensible other half for putting our credit rating in jeopardy. Anyway, that amounted to 83 pounds worth of bank charges. I ask you.

The money obviously paid for the 24 carat gold paper the bank used to write their smarmy, self-righteous letter to me on, gleefully advising me that I am a valuable customer rather than a valued one. And don't even tell me to switch to another bank- under my mattress is looking pretty good at the moment.

"Computer says no..."

Hand Soap

When I was a whippersnapper of about 12 or 13 I would spend my pocket money on useless items that were completely befitting my age: Dolly magazine, blue Constance Carroll nailpolish, Bonne Bell lipgloss, Clearasil facewash. Apparently I used to record this inane information in a notebook too, but that's a whole nother story.

The other day, during one of my rare and dazed lunchtime wanders around the shops with a colleague, I found myself in Body Care (the poor man's Boots, literally). Having mere pennies left in my purse before payday, I chose to spend 88p on, er, hand soap. I mean please, am I showing my age here? To be fair, I did also buy a 99p lipgloss and a 99p nailpolish (some things never change) but what the hell was with spending priority pennies on something so... bland and middle-aged? Back in the day, hand soap was one of those things I just never got, both literally and figuratively speaking. What was wrong with the standard bar of Dove in a dish next to the tap? Was the transition from bar-of-soap to liquid soap a class thing that occurred after my dad remarried 'up' in the eighties, when all of a sudden I lived in a house with liquid soap in every bathroom? Was it the effect of going to the toilet at new posh grandma's place and seeing what wasn't the usual dirty, cracked bar of Sunlight that I saw at Nanna's?

Or was it an age thing, when I realised that each of my thirty-something friends had every conceivable variety of the pump dispensing polite-for-guests stuff in their cloakroom loos? I really am confused about the whole thing, in fact it concerns me that I have thought so much about it. Maybe that's an age thing too.

Choons

Last week I actually heard someone listening to Michael Bolton on the bus. What concerned me was not only that they were listening to Michael Bolton at 7:15am on a Tuesday morning, but the fact that they weren't trying to hide this fact from anyone.

Now, I admit I love the fact that most Scots are pleasant and good-natured and not in the practice of laughing out loud at others, but come the f*ck on. I glanced across the aisle looking for the perpetrator but could only see a selection of folk who could all easily have fit the description of 'Michael Bolton fan' (yeah I know, nice bus I get eh?). So I sat in silent amusement, slightly put out at being the only one not in on the joke.

It was a little like the morning I sat right next to a 'Europe' fan. WTF? Well... that particular morning I was well and truly swept into work on the wave of 'The Final Countdown''s tinny guitar solo, as heard out the wrong side of eighties-style orange foam headphones (the irony) all the way down the motorway.

Wardrobes of the Work Weary

Commuting to work by public transport is one of those things that can be almost a pleasure if you live in a nice, leafy, affluent area. Catching the tram to the city from Balwyn, Richmond or South Yarra could often be a quite relaxing experience for me. And walking to work in summer was green, sunny and healthy. How we laughed.

The Scottish commuter experience, however, can often entail the greyest, longest, most miserable journeys ever. This can vary slightly depending on the season of course, but even when the sun is shining those confounding work 'fashions' still come out. And these 'fashions' excite me to the core. Sorry, I meant to use the word 'amuse' instead.

On a weekday morning the theme largely and strangely seems to be fleecy jumpers for both the girls and boys. I honestly get a start when someone well dressed gets onto my bus. And I'm not talking the usual (god, so usual) outfit of 'smart' bootcut suit pants worn with heeled ankle boots, teamed with a v-necked Marks & Spencer top (yawning yet?) and all nicely finished off with hair that has been GHD'd to within an inch of its natural life. It's 'well-groomed' in a 'day out at Chaddie' or a 'night out at Crown' sort of way. Le Suburban Bogue, Scottish style.

And let's not forget the handbag-plus-sandwich-bag combo, paired carefully so that the handbag covers whatever unfashionable store name the plastic bag may bear. Marks & Spencer, Top Shop or Next is acceptable. Asda, Tesco or Morrison's is not (they're for the male workies who are too macho to even hold the bag by the handles, just grip the bag roughly just above the bit where you can see the outline of a bottle of Irn Bru and a packet of fags). Dunnes or New Look bags are just the right side of okay but Zara or Cruise are plain showy. A small patent Macy's or Bloomingdales number (specially purchased by Aunty Joan in the Big Apple) may look great in the shiny NYC shop but over here just looks try-hard. Besides, every second female commuter in her beige mac and cheap fake-fur scarf has one.

But let's get back to the matter of workwear. There's this woman who gets the same bus as me each and every morning and each and every morning she wears the same thing. Each and every single day, I kid you not. Well, not exactly. When the clocks go back for winter she wears black trousers, a black fur-lined hooded parka and black shoes. So she wears this uniform every day, except with a uniform you rotate 2 or 3 of each garment, not wear the same garment which still has creases in it from the day before, and I know this because I'm a sad bastard and I check. So she wears this outfit until the weekend the clocks go forward again, so that on the very Monday after (oh-ha-ha, like clockwork) she is in her 'summer' outfit of denim jacket, white hooded jumper, black trousers (okay, so this she doesn't change) and white Adidas trainers.

She has done this for the last two years. She will be wearing it at the bus stop on Monday. If I could get away with taking a picture of her with my mobile I would. But then that would be almost as sad as writing a blog about it. Er.

Carbunkles & Cretins

Walking through the carpark at my local town centre is not unlike one of those playstation games where you have to investigate in and around a dilapitated old building: Dimly lit ramps leading up from the pot-holed walkway, light bulbs nearing the end of their lives, flickering and buzzing from within their age-yellowed glass fixtures.

I've been up there enough times now for it not to depress me, intimidate me, or for that matter move me at all.

A bleach haired young harridan pushes her pram and splutters self-importantly about curtains or nappies or football to her clearly under-the-false-nailed-thumb companion. He looks like a shell of a man as he shuffles along just behnd her, grunting appreciatively in all the right places and carrying heavy Tesco bags with rounded shoulders. He can probably no longer hear her banshee-like wail as she yells out to her unruly toddler; she no longer takes his glazed look as a sign of disinterest. More likely submission.

I take in their presence with a quick sideways glance, roll my eyes and sigh loudly (as I do, being a miserable cow) and make my way quickly back out into the daylight.

Can I Help You?

Since living in the UK I have come to believe that there are certain cultural attitudes which, no matter how long you live in a place, never change.

With the best will in the world I have tried to appreciate that the British like to hold on to tradition, and in some cases I completely respect this. However, on the flip side, in relation to some matters of everyday life I just think they're too lazy and/or ignorant to try and change some infuriating and old-fashioned ways.

Over the course of several years it has sucked the life out of me to simply put up and shut up. And put up I often have.

I used to find it quaint the way people queued all the way out of a shop, for instance a bakery, to get served. I giggled each time I passed a sandwich shop and saw the quiet, single-file line of customers jutting out almost onto the road. In typical obedient British style, these people queued without complaint, the only movement being a shuffle towards that hallowed place at the front of the line. I have done the shuffle myself now, many times.

Once you make it to the counter you get the kind of 'service' that could only possibly be given by an 18-year-old bovine who really couldn't give a small toss what you're having for lunch ("I'll have a mayonnaise sandwich on stale white with extra butter please, oh and hold any salad unless it's that limp piece of lettuce sitting at the back there, under that fly").

The counter assistant (or should I say counter productive assistant) could then do something novel, like ask you what you would like before going about the all-important business of doing what he or she's paid for. But no, they would rather finish telling their hilarious/miserable/highly important story to their colleague before they even acknowledge your presence. And when they finally getting around to even looking at you, let alone asking for your order, they don't bother apologising for the wait because, as I say, they really couldn't care less.

Ironically, you're the mutant in their world, you interrupt them several times a day to ask them for stuff and, like, give them you're f*cking money.

Rant finished.

When I was back home on holiday recently the girl at the checkout at Coles asked me how I was and I almost blacked out, put it that way.