I ate all your bees

Looking back, Black Books was a terrible choice for early-teen inspiration. Bernard Black, protagonist extraordinaire, is arrogant, cruel, crooked -- a real bastard. Not the stuff for impressionable youth to subscribe to. We have Kate Moss for that.

But, Black Books is the greatest show in the history of the earth, and the exterior location is just round the corner from me (I wish). Still, it's close enough for a day trip -- insomuch as it's about twenty minutes away. Did I go? What do you think?

Despite an apparent inability to open my eyes I was thrilled. M and I went and made an afternoon of it, which included actually entering the store (it's a lot smaller than the set) and learning that the majority of Black Books tourists are Czech. It must translate well, like Shakespeare into German. I even took a souvenir: the delightfully meta 1948 Book Handbook.

M and Nifty Gifty.

There were even wine bottles out on the doorstep, just like there should be; although rubbish bags full of them would be preferable.

Black Books, or Collinge & Clark, is at

13 Leigh Street, Bloomsbury, London, WC1H 9EW

 

Holm sweet holm

I'm not going to say a word about how ashamed I am for never blogging.

Going to do a decent post on what's been happenin' lately, but for now I just want to let on about my exciting news: I'm going to Stockholm! (You know, as in Stockholm Syndrome.) I know, I know, I'm doing my supermassive European romp in... well, July, but I couldn't wait that long and got my act together for the first week of June. Stockholm has kind of been my dream utopia since I learnt that Sweden, land of fika, is importing garbage from Eastern Europe as they need more to fuel their (relatively) clean energy source. Badarse. Also, it's hard to follow along with Elsa Billgren and Emma Sundh and not feel inspired.

Omg.

I'm a little beside myself, especially since I fee I've really earnt this. The adjustment to London hasn't been an easy one, nor is it resolving itself easily. But walking home from work through Trafalgar Square in golden hour, when everything was so neat and crisp and Georgian and grand, just feels so right. Even if the work is hard, even if self-motivation is tough. I'm feeling good.

Credit where credit is due.

 

In the city and the country

Hello! So I'm settling in. I moved into a room and it's lovely, even if I don't know where they keep the ironing board. I know it isn't strictly what V.W. was talking about, but to have a room of one's own at long last is a dream. I bought a teapot. I bought throw pillows. I'm just so happy.

The thing I love best about my new place (apart from the 24-hour Tesco at the bottom of the street that has a perennial sale on the bagels I like) is the 210 bus. In London? Go to Brent Cross station and then catch it towards Finchley (and away from Tesco, I'm afraid). It takes you past sprawling mansions, through Highgate (the closest thing you're going to get to a village in these parts) and even on a real, proper hill. The best part, though, is the proximity to Hampstead Heath, otherwise known as a bleeding great wood at the top of the metropolis. I go there nearly every day. (On a vaguely related note: is anyone aware of folks hiring? Hah!) If you've looked out the window or, to my dearly beloved Southern Hemispherians, crawled out from that sunny rock you're basking on, you'll know Spring has been hesitant. I wandered down to get the starkest shots I could, but did notice that leaves are beginning to bud. I always forget how fond I am of Spring, but it really is so refreshing.

I do like Winter's contrast.

There are things I miss about home. People, places, the ocean... I didn't even realise how I felt about the latter until I saw it in an episode of Jonathan Creek (which I really shouldn't have been watching). I miss coming out of the station, walking down past the hospital and the milk bar that sells individual cigarettes to high schoolers, and seeing it, that reliable streak of blue. I didn't appreciate it. I should've. And so, much like affordable San Pelligrino's and Netflix, I'll enjoy the Heath while I've got it.

Spring is trying.

 

For everything else there's MasterCard

via Instagram

My UK visa's been approved! Now there's nothing between me and London (except a month or so and Abu Dhabi).

In celebration, I think it's time to tell you all about my fortnight-long love affair with England, in May last year. Much like The Bridges of Madison County, it was passionate and intense, will last me the rest of my life and resulted in a dress I never wear. Unlike The Bridges of Madison County, it wasn't God-awful drivel. I was in London and Bath and Stratford-upon-Avon and Oxford and had such a lovely time that even thinking about it makes me giddy.

I'll start at the beginning. Throughout my senior years at high school, my teacher (and, later, my friend) M (or Ms S, depending on the year) coaxed me into public speaking competitions; you know, stand up, cue cards, disproportionate amounts of passion. It's an awfully good thing she got me into it, though, because it turned out that I wasn't actually rubbish. In fact, I was doing rather well for a while. My crowning glory was the Plain English Speaking Competition: I won the state final and went on to represent Victoria at Nationals in Sydeny, where I met some excellent people and was interviewed by a hero of mine. Anyway, the impromptu topic was a dream and the judges took a shine to my laissez faire attitude towards presentation, and suddenly I'd won the competition and was going on to represent Australia in London. Needless to say, that was pretty exciting.

May rolled around and off I went. There were a little more than fifty countries represented and we spent our time frolicking about Westminster and the equally noble Queen's Ice and Bowl (turns out Bohemian Rhapsody is known in all corners of the globe). I didn't come anywhere near the title, but that was hardly the point of it all. A week in London enough.

And I could go into how great that week was, but you don't want to read that many paragraphs. Just conjure up all those glorious cliches about eyes opening and friendships forging; you get it.

That's me in the centre, casually throttling the future President of Mexico.

The weather was hilariously good (how often is English weather preferable to Australian?) and my little family took off to go exploring. I mean, goddamn, there were bumblebees; real ones, all fat and fuzzy and slow and wholly unlike those miserable speedy bastards we have here. Our time in Bath was enough to make me want to relocate. Everything matched! It was great! Oxford was equally stunning. We spent a couple of days at a haunted house, too, where we'd stayed for Christmas a very long time ago. (No ghosts, but not for lack of trying. Did see a rabbit though.) The only let-down was the Roman ruins we visited, but I think the lesson -- plan your ruin visits ahead because some are underwhelming -- was enough. And the fields and fields of canola... I understand the hullabaloo everyone makes about the English countryside in spring now.

London struck me as a sort of huge, limey Melbourne. Everyone always said the cities were similiar and now I see it. Lots of bluestone. So, by that logic, London is a bigger Melbourne with better public transport and £30 flights to Stockholm. I once announced to my parents (at the height of my then-infatuation with New York) that they mustn't ever let me move to England; they must absolutely talk me out of it if I tried, too. Clearly, that didn't work out.

Hurr, skurrl.

 

Get your act together, please

Well, it's a month exactly today. And not even a good, long month; February, the Tuesday of the year. Sort of eerie to think that, at almost exactly now in a month, I'll be twitching about, sleepless and anxious, chasing up the thousand loose ends that will doubtless appear the moment before I move to London. Damn, the closer it gets the more I'm sure something unexpected with eventuate and it'll all collapse and never happen. It seems like too big a thing to happen to me.

What's been going on in the interim?, I hear you shout. Well, stunningly little. Hate my job. If I didn't know I was quitting so soon I'd quit. (They don't know I'm leaving, by the way. Terrible me!) Honestly, the sight of anything in the bread bin at home makes me very uncomfortable. A bakery has to be the worst place for a person terrified of burns and disgusted by mornings to work.

With most of my Serious Travel Things (visa, flights, job, home) taken care of, I'm happy to procrastinate through the rest and spend my off-time watching TV. We don't even have Netflix in Australia, you know, so I'm at the mercy of whatever's on. Sometimes this is great (Bargin Hunt, QI, Poirot) and sometimes this is dreadful (My Kitchen Rules). All this QI, incidentally, hasn't been helping my Alan Davies stress dreams. (They're awful. I wake up in a panic because I don't have enough money to buy that wretched farm in Kent he pushed on me, or because I've forgotten to fill in that form he needed. It's bizarre. I must associate him with England or something.)

All this rambling, aside from beng demonstrative of my current state of mind, is my way of announcing that I'm back. I'm back, and I'm getting my act together (maybe).

Ain't that a kick in the head

Have a listen to my "things are going really rather well at the moment for me" song (catchy title, I know!). I only ever remember it when I'm feeling truly happy, and I'm a thousand times thrilled to say that I'm like that at the moment.

Two reasons. The first isn't even assured yet, but I'm feeling confident; that is, I've begun the process towards getting my visa to the UK. I'm going on a Youth Mobility Visa (I highly recommend the Aussie Nomad's post on the subject), which means that because I'm a youth I can be mobile. It's available to anyone under 30 and above 18 in the Commonwealth (regretting that revolution now, United States?) and Japan, oddly enough, and lets you galavant around England and co. for up to 24 months. Best part is that you're allowed to leave, too, and take advantage of that 90 day visa-free period in the EU. To ensure job and home security I've enlisted (read: paid for) the help of CCUSA, who operate out of every country known to man. If you fancy a working holiday they're well worth looking at. I mean, if I weren't so afraid of children I'd be on the Russian summer camp like that.

Look at them! What a great time they must be having in their matching bucket hats.

The second is equally life-changing and pivotal and exciting. My university place came out and (drumroll, please)...



Bachelor of International and Global Studies at the University of Sydney! I'm going to major in European Studies (and something else; Literature, probably) and learn German or French or Spanish or Russian. And I'm going to go on exchange and I'm going to join a heap of obscure societies and I'm going to eat Chinese food out of little boxes like everyone seems to do in films.

Their motto is Sidere mens eadem mutato: Although the constellations change the mind is universal. Isn't that just lovely? Oh my goodness!

So that's me until 2018. If this is just the beginning, my life is going to be beautiful.

 

Another year of not being dead

I turned 18.

Kind of a big deal since everything happens at 18 here. Drinking, driving (not at the same time, you terrible people), voting (!!!), booking aeroplane seats... The whole box and dice. Above, you see me at 12.01 AEST on 5th January with an unrealistically delicious margarita. It was still well above 30 then, so here I am, sweating like some kind of farm animal. (D'you like my sunburnt nose?)




Things improved rather dramatically with the arrival of my birthday present about eight hours later. Naturally, my birthday outfit featured my beautiful birthday earrings (care of G, who took the picture at midnight and who is going to be the world's fiercest criminal law barrister) (not barista, let's get that straight) and the kimono I got in London (of course! Not Japan!).

Anyway, this is the camera you remember from my resolutions post. I think it takes a nice picture; but what do I know? I'm still trying to figure out how to turn my ISOs on.

The day was picnic-perfect! My 'burb has some lovely botanic gardens so we set up under the mallorn Party Tree golden elm, my favourite of all trees (fun fact!) to spend a solid five hours counting Daniels and eating an inordinate amount of rice paper wraps. I don't think I could have asked for a better group (maybe a few much-missed additions!). These girls are so intelligent and thoughtful and hilarious, and I'm so thrilled that they were there to celebrate with me. They deserve -- I don't know -- individual opal mines. Profitable ones. That and more.

We invested some serious time in making faces... (as usual)...

Eventually, though, we headed off. I spent my time inhaling a Pine-Lime Splice (God's gift to the world of frozen dairy products) and lying face-down on my bed, asleep, to recharge for dinner at Dig a Pony. It managed to fulfil my Beatles and Latino quotas. I'm very impressed.

Plus, it's in Yarraville, which is like Williamstown's cool older cousin. Remember the one you had who you considered murdering for her hair crimper? Yarraville. Had Zoolander on VHS? Yarraville. Inflatable clear-blue plastic couch? Yarraville.

I was a bit busy with merry-making and mishearing dishes (those things above are not called "Fish Parts", as it turns out) to take anything much, but rest assured that I had a beautiful evening to cap off a gorgeous day. And I'm not sad it's over, because now I get to do lots of fun things like getting a pentagram tattooed on my forehead. Adult life is looking good.

 

Where in the Wednesday: Who are you and what are you doing?

A few points of interest:

• I have some exciting news! I've had this idea for a weekly post going for a little while now, but I'm finally getting my act together and doing something about it. It won't surprise you to know that this feature is called Where in the Wednesday (or WitW, because I am lazy). Every Wednesday (more shocks!) I'll profile a place that has struck my interest. The rules: no capital/main cities; no landmarks. Sorry, Machu Pichu. **
• I saw the Hobbit! Asdfghjkl, etc. Oh, what can I say? I cried through the opening credits I was so happy.

(Yes, I'm in Instagram! anscenicworld, of course.)

Was it the best film I've ever seen in my life? No, not really. Peter Jackson is not the world's most cunning director. The 3D was iffy and the colours cartoonish and Hugo Weaving as goddamn creepy as ever. But it made me the happiest I've ever been from a film. Martin Freeman (not Morgan, not Morgan) was great as an anxious wreck, as always, and, despite Elijah cropping up like a rash that won't quit, Pete managed to stay on track and not deviate more than was expected. I'll even forgive Radagast the Brown.

Original found here

Best of all, I'm apparently not the only one uncomfortably attracted to Kili. Come on, like you weren't wondering what you were going to do without Viggo Mortensen to spy on. Oh, and this fan service happened.

As you can see, I'm just spilling over with Hobbit-related joy at the moment.

• And Christmas and New Year's and my birthday are all happening in a rush. This is the big one, you know. In nine short days I'll be eligable to vote (!!!) in next year's election! And adopt and marry and drink and get tattooed and book a flight and sign my own forms and get a library card and a boat licence. But most importantly: vote. (It's compulsory here anyway, you know. That doesn't change my excitement!)

**My full and sincere apologies to anyone out there that has, or knows of, a similar structure. If you do know somebody with a weekly Where in the Wednesday, please let me know at anscenicworld@gmail.com so I can get in touch with them on the ASAP. If I've learnt anything about the Internet, it's this: transparency is essential and people love crappy puns. So while the pun is my own, I would be surprised if I was the first to exploit its supreme cheesiness.

 

In this edition of Kinfolk...

Maybe not. Actually, this hilarity is just a segue into tonight's adventure to the Open Air Cinema with the inconquerable J. I figure, since she's the first person I told about my blog, she ought to be the first to get a mention on it.

I begin by reiterating that it's summer where I am.

The Open Air Cinema is a fairly literal business. You bring a picnic rug or rent a deck chair and then spend an hour forty or so shifting about, trying to get the feeling back into your legs.

Hard life.

Ah, but who am I kidding? This was so much fun. I had my first Subway (verdict: satisfactory; doubt those meatballs were the epitome of eatin' fresh, but they did taste good), and then we saw a bongo drum orchestra. There was some kind of hippie night market -- you could buy fisherman's pants and those weird woven hats with the ear flaps -- and a man who, clearly at the end of his pride, was trying to flog the last of his stock as "strawberries for Christmas", "stawberries for your ice-cream" and "strawberries for you, sir".

St. Kilda is such a fun place, in spite of all the murders. It's sort of seedy and a last hippie outpost, but I guess that's the charm. It even has a Coney Island-esque amusement park; C I-esque in that it had its hey-day about seventy years ago and now is only really patroned by tourists, children's birthday parties and second-daters running out of ideas. It's a shame because the place is actually pretty nice, especialy when it's all lit up. It's the kids these days, with their "electronic mail" and "skateboards".

Right. The sun set at last and we headed to the place to see...

...Emilio Estevez! What a film. We laughed; we cried; we fumbled and failed to take a picture of the opening tites and instead snapped a shot of the lead actor.

I admit to you now that this was my first ever viewing of the Breakfast Club. What can I say? I'm impressed, both by the film itself and by Estevez's cold, dead shark eyes. Apart from moments of frustration (ie: "Oh my God, leave Claire alone already, it's not her fault she's a ginger") it was sensational. I'm always in awe of a film that takes such hilariously rigid stereotypes and makes a decent picture. Plus! it had a montage (a dance montage!!) and a makeover and those are just my favourite things in a film.

And a highly unflattering selfie to end a sensational evening.