One of those catch-up posts

I am kind of obsessive about record-keeping, but in a quite eccentric way. I like to write dates on everything. Even little post-it notes I write with story ideas, I’ll put a date on there. I’ve always done it. The problem is that I don’t always keep up with my documenting everything, so while I keep records, I don’t always get to complete them. And that’s what’s happened with this blog recently.

The last time I posted was in April and now it’s September. I have at least half a dozen part-complete posts sitting in my drafts. And although the things I was documenting in those have passed, I absolutely must finish and publish them. So I’m going to do what I did when we first went to Canada. I’m going to publish them in order, dating them when they occurred, and try and catch up to now.

One of the reasons I’ve been hesitant in posting stuff, aside from having no time or reliable internet connection, is that the stuff that’s happened since deciding to come back to Australia has been a bit hush-hush. Not to say it’s a secret as such, more just that we’ve been a bit wild and crazy with our decision-making and we didn’t really want to broadcast stuff to the world. It’s just what we do.

So, stay tuned, if you like, for updates since that time we saw the Mennonites playing volleyball somewhere outside of St Josephs, Ontario, and we’ll go from there. The updates will contain many child-related anecdotes, stories about rush decisions (what’s new?!), and document the pain of adjustment as a result of yet another move when, in actual fact, I’d decided I was completely over moving and wanted a house like six years ago. Funny how some decisions impact immediately on your life and others just seem to fall by the wayside.

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The right path

How do you know when you’re on the ‘right’ path? I feel like I used to know, before I got distracted by life. It’s like, in my teenage years and 20s I used to have huge amounts of time to ponder and think over things. Too much time really. An ex-boyfriend (who, when he was my boyfriend, wouldn’t commit enough to my liking and I desperately wanted him to buy me some jewellery to symbolise our commitment) once bought me a birthday present, I think when I was about 22. It was a silver ID bracelet and he’d had it engraved. On the front it had my name and on the back was “No Thinking Zone”. I think we’d been dating a year or so and he wasn’t really intellectually the right person for me but he easily saw my issue back then. I was thinking too much, going over every little thing, obsessing.

Oh if only I had the time to obsess now! Something happened, I think, around the time that first serious relationship started to break down, and life started to become full. I resisted, of course, and it was only because that boyfriend announced he was leaving for a stint in London that I pig-headedly pushed my way forward and ended up leaving for my own London adventure a few months before him. I resisted it all the way, was convinced I would be there for about six months, and I wasn’t going there to party it up like all the other antipodeans. Oh no, I was just going for, um, the experience, whatever that was… And I’d be back in six months anyway. I didn’t need to let my hair down and be stupid on the other side of the world to find out who I was. I was going to fix my relationship, get married, and settle down in Canberra. Or Melbourne. That was me eight years ago. I would sit and think things over, imagine myself in various scenarios, get a feeling, and know the right path. I don’t think that’s what I did with my decision to go to London, although I know for certain it was the right choice. I became a completely different person, a much better person, after living in London. And I met Mr Chewbacca, which is one of the best things that could have happened to me.

With my decision to step into a new life in London, I forfeited this process of assessing my future plans. I began to be spontaneous, and ended up doing a lot of things I would never have considered previously as a result. Some things I can’t say I’m particularly proud of, and I don’t know how positively they contributed to who I am now, but I’m here to tell the tale (not in a public forum though!) and I don’t regret anything. I do miss that clarity, however, those moments of contemplation which allowed me to see the right path. I haven’t got the time now, to sit and think and plan, and so much has happened, life and circumstances have descended upon me in layer upon layer of possible deviations from the right path so that there is now no going back. I can’t sort back through each layer, meticulously choosing my path at every turn. Too much has happened.

So now I am on the path I’m on. I’m here, in Canada, a country I never even envisaged visiting let alone living in, and I’m doing an MA at one of the top universities in North America. As a family, we’ve taken a huge risk coming here. A risk for what? Because we didn’t know for sure if Australia was the right place for us. We couldn’t handle any more 40 degree endless summers. We wanted snow and beautiful trees and piles of leaves and traditions at the ‘right’ time of year, to be in a place that feels like it’s a little more in touch with the world. The course I’m doing is certainly leading me in the right direction and it’s fantastic to be studying again, especially with a level of maturity that allows me to apply myself fully to the material and achieve good results. But it will be ending all too soon.

Many MA programs are two years but this one is unfortunately just one year. I love this university, I am so privileged to be taught by some exceptional academics. I seriously want to do a PhD. But there’s one problem: this university is in Toronto, in the city. I don’t want to live in the city. In fact although I live 40km out of the city, that’s still too close. I can’t wait to move. But if I wanted to do further study I’d have to stay close enough to commute.

I got some clarity around what we might do next yesterday and I know what our options are in terms of staying on in Canada once I’ve graduated next year in June. Unfortunately, none of those options is clearly the right one. We haven’t been here long enough to decide whether to go back home or stay on permanently, another year testing things out at least seems the right thing, but that’s not an easy thing to do. These decisions are depressing me! I wish it wasn’t so complicated, and so much about money!

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I listen to my Aussie music, stuff I never listened to when I was at home, and I actually miss home, I miss it for the first time since London. I don’t believe in regrets, they are a waste of time, everything happens exactly as it should. But there are so many things that, if I’d just thought at the time with some clarity, taken a few moments to sit and really make the decisions without rushing, I’d have gone a different way and things would be better. At least that’s what I tell myself. I’ll never know, there’s no such thing as Sliding Doors. Right now, we’ve got some serious thinking to do and big decisions loom yet again. Wasn’t it meant to be easier than this? Didn’t I plan to settle down and enjoy simple family life when I left London?

Some writing

I never publish my writing, even on this blog. It’s mainly because I don’t have enough of it that I consider worthy of even being read by another human, let alone being published anywhere. I’m all talk when it comes to writing. Yes, it’s true, I never get a chance to sit and write, but by the same token, I would do it if it were really important. I haven’t got the self-discipline and I can’t focus for long enough. 

As part of some planning for my MA application (yeah, I’m finally doing it, if I can work out how, after ten years out of university), I stumbled across some bits and pieces I’d strung together when preparing an application for a Masters program about seven years ago. I never actually ended up applying, although I had everything pretty much ready. I had planned to study in the UK when I went over all those years ago but for some reason, I can’t think why now, possibly the financial implications, I never ended up applying

But anyway, I came across this piece which, although it is far from polished, and in fact somewhat incoherent really, I thought I’d post here. I quite like it, as the beginning bare bones of something.  It has no title, just a series of subtitles for each little section.

 

WEDDING

Boxing Day in 1924 was a cold but bright day.  Rosa, frail and thin, wore a large heavy wool coat and some second-hand men’s sheepskin gloves.  Lottie looked the picture of spring, shining cheeks, a freshness and openness about her.  Joe wasn’t cold, he was tough.  And he didn’t care much for fashion or looks, he just got on with things.  Thomas remained smart and stiff with carefully parted hair, and perfectly groomed moustache and a three-piece suit with his watch chain draping appropriately across the front pocket.

Lottie glanced over at her counterpart, the other mother-in-law, sitting alongside her husband.  Hands folded in the lap and a hardened look on her pale face, you could see she wasn’t well.  She looked about ten years older than she was.  As the cameraman adjusted his lens, ducking under his black cloth to check the focus, Lottie wondered about Rosa, and whether she had ever wanted anything more than marriage at 16 and 12 children.  There was no real expression on Rosa’s face; you would never know, thought Lottie, that she is the mother of the bride, who sat fidgeting alongside her new husband, glowing with early pregnancy in her usual state of nervous excitement.  Perhaps once you’ve been to ten of your children’s weddings you just don’t think it’s special any more.  The fashion was certainly well and truly still Victorian, and shabby even at that.  Lottie’s hair was a bohemian experiment, piled tight and curly up on top of her head and fenced in with a bright silk scarf.  Rosa had worn the same hat twenty years earlier for her eldest daughter’s wedding, a large-brimmed affair with a dull ribbon squeezing the protruding cap.

“Right-oh everyone, hold still…” announced the cameraman as he ducked under his cloth for the final time.  Lottie could hear Uncle Jim cracking a joke in the row behind her and she reached her hand up to quiet him, but couldn’t help laughing.  Snap went the shutter and that was it.  Joe had smiled at the joke too as he sat next to his wife, enjoying the moment, amused by the amount of effort people went to for something as trivial as a photograph.  The moment was captured perfectly, Lottie and Joe smiling away as they always did, and Rosa and Thomas, stern and stiff.  Two such diverse families one could never meet.

 

OPPOSITES ATTRACT

Gladys had spied him walking home from work and had gotten all worked up and flustered, as usual.  His shyness was attractive to her in a mysterious and intriguing way.  He was used to silly girls mooning over him, and thought nothing of this one; but she was persistent, and that’s what made the difference.  She worked herself up into a frenzy. The more he withdrew and went about his usual routine, the more she became adamant that he was the one.  She liked the chase.  It wasn’t that he didn’t like girls.  He just wasn’t interested in the game of flirtation; in fact he didn’t play games at all.  He found her attractive too, in a sort of ditsy, helpless way.  She wasn’t unintelligent, but she was so highly strung that the slightest thing would cause hysteria.  Perhaps it was because she was the youngest girl in her family, much younger than the other two girls, and spoilt rotten.  She wasn’t close to her mother; it was her father who doted on her and encouraged her little princess routine.

He puffed on his pipe like a man twice his age and considered things. She was the antithesis of his own mother, who was easy-going and level-headed. She’d probably find this small, hysterical girl endearing, at least until she became annoying. When he was near this jumpy rabbit, he felt a pull as he’d never felt. He’d never been compelled to pursue anyone, but this girl, her chasing and flirting was becoming infectious.

 

MEETING

Lottie stood at the shop window watching the reflection of the pipe smoke curling inside an invisible tunnel up into the air.  Somehow, without the smoke deviating from its perfectly vertical course, snippets of the sweet, comforting smell drifted across to her, and she felt warmer with each breath.

“I’d love to smell it again,” said Joe, sucking in the air through his mouth with a practised rhythm.  It was enough to bring her out of her trance and she straightened her posture and peered with purpose into the shop window momentarily.

“Is this your shop, Sir?” she asked, turning towards him as he leaned against the door frame.

“That it is, Miss,” he replied.

“I wonder if you might consider selling some of my garments?” she asked, lifting the cloth that covered a large wicker basket she held.  He moved only his eyes in the direction of the basket for a few moments then chewed the stem of his pipe.  “On commission, of course,” she added hurriedly.  He slowly breathed out a soft cloud of smoke.

“I mean no disrespec’, Miss, but ‘ow can I be certain ye’re of good repute?” he asked.

“Well, I… I must say, Sir, I am quite offended by that.  I know not whether you and your shop are of good repute yet I am willing to sell my items here, at least on a trial basis.”  She tried to stare him down, even though he wasn’t looking at her.  Joe peered into the bowl of his pipe, then tapped it sharply against the wall to free the last few ashes.  He turned and held out a hand for the basket.

“Come inside, Miss, an’ I’ll see what ye’ve got.”  She hesitated, but let him take the basket so knew she had to follow him in.

The shop itself was most interesting; it didn’t fit into any particular category—iron mongers, haberdashers, tailors—there was such variety of goods filling the shelves which reached to the high ceilings.  Lottie couldn’t help staring in amazement before she noticed him watching her with amusement and collected herself, replacing her look of amazement with a look that said she’d seen it all before.

“Is this your own work, Miss?” asked Joe, running a finger over a finely embroidered red rose, intricate green leaves curling around it in a myriad of Celtic style patterns.

“Of course,” she replied haughtily.  Joe smiled at her, noticing for the first time that her own clothes were adorned with the same style of embroidery, tiny coloured flowers on the dark background of her bodice.

“Your work is very fine,” he nodded. She relaxed a little, having been ready to gather it quickly into the basket and march out of the shop, secretly terrified.  “I’ll sell it, at an agreed price, with commission.”  Lottie breathed an audible sigh of relief and was about to speak when…

“On one condition.”

She immediately became suspicious again.

“Is the commission not a condition already?” she asked, grasping the embroidered nightdress, ready to leave.  He noticed how tense she was.

“Yes, ye’re right, that it is.”  He pulled a shirt from the basket and held the colour close to his eye, lifting his glasses to see it clearly in detail.  “I’ll give ye thruppence for each o’ the men’s shirts and a shilling for each ladies nightdress.”  It was more than she’d expected, and she wondered what his game was.  But the money was all important, so she nodded in agreement.

“I’ll warrant there’ll be a demand for your garments, but we’ll wait to see what happens.  Come back in a week,” he said bluntly, gathering the pile of clothes out of the basket and dumping them on the counter behind him.  There was something about him, she thought, that told her he was honest.  Perhaps the pipe smoking.  Her father would puff on his by the fire of an evening and announce to no one in particular, ‘ye can alweez trest a man wi’ a paipe’.

So with that she left the shop, sneaking another quick glance at its crowded walls, full of everything from tea sets to nails.

 

HAPPINESS

Uncle Buddy was the first person in the street to own a camera.  The camera itself had been around for years, but only professional photographers, of which there were not many down the East End in the 1930s, owned them.  There hadn’t been many celebrations or real knees-ups for some time, since the beginning of the war when Arthur was sent off.  Lottie had never been the same, but had helped so many, which in some way helped her own grief.  Life moved fast, and Lottie made it so. As long as things were humming along, as long as she just got on with things, there would be no time to mull over losses, which really was a waste of time and made one old beyond her years, said Lottie, when questioned as to her busy life.  It was worth it, for her, as she brought solace to so many grieving mothers; most of them felt their sadness wane, knowing what Lottie herself had gone through.

The trouble was, the camera didn’t accommodate speed.  It didn’t accommodate any movement.  In order to be captured on camera, one had to remain absolutely still for at least a minute, depending on the light of the day.  So all of Uncle Buddy’s earliest pictures were of buildings or graves, which were guaranteed to remain steadfast and one could really focus, get the timing right, the shadows black and the light white.  A grave was the closest thing to a person that Buddy could photograph.  He could have asked a stranger, paid some quiet child to sit still for him, but he felt as if the subject should be still by its very nature.  Posing, trying to remain still and frozen for the photograph was so unnatural and, to Buddy, went against the very reason for the existence of the medium.  Painting was a medium with which one could capture movement, and moving objects and depict them in any way needed.  It was artistic license, making it up according to a fantasy.  A photograph was real and should never be used for trickery.

The tragedy of war, the removal of life, the future of an entire family, had caused Uncle Buddy to develop a fixed way of thinking about photographs.  And it took the birth of Lottie’s first grandchild, only son of her only son, to bring her back to life.  She remembered dancing, singing, the many celebrations she had been a part of since her marriage until 1917.  Celebrations became a part of daily life—in fact not celebrating became a novelty, and Joe secretly relished those days off, where he could smoke his pipe in peace and quiet and think of nothing.

Uncle Buddy got a new camera.  For him, it was a whole new medium.  It replaced his painting almost entirely.  It captured life, movement.

“Awright, you lot… ‘Eck, pop in there on that side… wear your ‘at, can’t ‘ave a picture without the ‘at… put that baby down for a moment, will you Glad?  No, Ron, thas it, pop yer ‘ead in, thas right…”  Joe bared his missing teeth as he laughed along with Ron, the next door neighbour, and Mrs Axley from across the road, who was laughing so hysterically by this point that she held a hand to her mouth and tears brimmed in her eyes.  Gladys finally relaxed, her thick glasses giving her something convenient to hide behind, as she smiled at her husband, laughing heartily, a rare thing for him.  Uncle Buddy chose the moment and the flash bulb smashed, the moment captured.  Lottie was in the corner.  Whether she laughed, we’ll never know. That corner of the photograph was torn off by mistake.

Truth is the cornerstone of good writing

Reading an article from an Allen & Unwin newsletter I subscribe to, I came upon the title of this blog post. It struck me as particularly relevant to my writing. I struggle with the truth. Not necessarily with telling it, that’s easy; but telling it to someone, anyone, who reads my writing, that’s difficult. Actually, I’ll rephrase that: it’s frightening to think that my truth may not be that of others.

When I was in year 11, age 16 or 17, I started an English class with a new teacher. Let’s call him Mr P, for the sake of anonymity. This guy was awesome. He was the first teacher that gave me hope that my writing may be worth something, that I actually could write, that it was interesting and worth reading. It’s the most depressing thing in the world to be compelled to write but to think your writing is no good! I don’t know why, but I remember writing a short piece, I can’t even call it a story, about my grandparents and their ‘nicotine-stained hallway’. That phrase sticks out to me, as it was one that Mr P highlighted saying he thought it really worked to paint a vivid picture. To me, it was just fact: my grandparents were chain smokers their whole lives, and not only were their walls stained dirty yellow with the smoke of their constantly-fuming cigarettes, all the spines of their books, photo albums, and even pictures hanging on the wall were discoloured. I was just writing what I knew; and it was perfect.

I didn’t show that piece of writing to my grandparents. In fact, I don’t think I showed it to anyone. How would they feel about my description? And that was only the tip of the iceberg. I began to write about the time we went to the leagues club and my dad and granddad let my grandmother have too much to drink and she couldn’t stand up properly and had to be bundled into the car as she sang some old Beatles song. I was furious with her. I can’t remember what I said exactly, something about her being a disgrace (I must have been about 14 at the time) and I can remember her sitting in the back seat next to me giggling and slurring, “oh, am I drunk?”  That seems something of an amusing anecdote to an outsider, but to anyone in the family, it is fairly confronting because we know that she was an alcoholic. I probably shouldn’t even be admitting that on this blog, but oh well, she’s been dead over ten years now and I don’t have a lot to do with the members of that side of my family who’d be offended, so what the hell, right? Sorry to anyone reading this that is offended; but you know it’s the truth. And you know what an extraordinary woman she was, regardless of her emotional problems. So it’s not worth getting upset about.

Anyway, I guess what I’m trying to get at here is, when is truth okay? When is it okay to strip back the layers for the sake of expression? Is it okay to be raw when it’s cathartic? And where should one draw the line when it comes to revealing others’ painful truths? For me, admitting to my grandmother’s illness is something of a release. I feel as if I’m doing good by being honest; because she found that hard, and that’s understandable, she was ashamed. There’s something about writing about this sort of ‘real’ stuff that infuses the writing with more power. It becomes interesting somehow. Mr P noticed that, and it was he who first explained it to me. I was kind of annoyed when he first told me to write about what I know because prior to that I’d always written fantasy type stuff and that was the antithesis of what I knew. I was like, hang on, how can just writing stuff you know be the answer to writing well? How can it be that easy? I had been told by a previous English teacher that my writing was cliched and I took offence to that. But it was true. Good writing is characterised by its meaningfulness to the writer.

Recently, someone close to me read a post on this blog. She knew it existed but I’d never actually sent her a link. I was proud of the post I’d written, having had some lovely feedback from friends, and I thought she might enjoy it or at least give me some feedback in the same vein. Instead, the opposite happened. She mentioned it had some factual inaccuracies firstly, and secondly she thought I was leaving myself exposed. Apparently ‘people’ are always out to get you, and they use any means by which to bring you down. So you shouldn’t reveal too much of your ‘real’ self publicly. I felt deflated and sad. Once I’d moved past these feelings, I realised I simply didn’t agree. And that was okay.

I read a lot of amazing blogs. Soulemama, Edenland, RRSAHM, Wanderlust, Flux Capacitor, Stand and Deliver, The Girl Who, The Byron Life, The Bloggess and a wonderful one of a woman I know that I just discovered yesterday – Kirrilee Heartman. This is just a small list – there are more that I read and enjoy. And you know what they all have in common? They are about the truth! A truth. My dad never agreed with me when I used to argue that everyone has their own truth, that there aren’t many things that are equally true for all; he thought I was fence-sitting I guess. But I still believe this, and I think that’s why blogs and life writing are eternally fascinating. People are interesting. And fiction is fabulous, but someone telling the truth (even if it is ‘their’ truth, and a total lie for others) is the most inspiring thing in the world for me. Keeping it real, that’s where it’s at. So even if I piss a few people off unintentionally and what I say isn’t true for everyone, I’m going to keep on telling it like it is, right here to begin with.

 

Resolutions for 2013

So I was slack and didn’t post when I said I would. Okay, but before you roll your eyes, posting when I say I will is not one of my New Year’s resolutions. So there.

Anyway, I am here to talk about resolutions. I think I’ve made resolutions at New Year since I first learnt to write. It’s my kind of thing, making a list of outlandish promises; it works for me because I get to feel really disappointed when I, yet again, don’t actually achieve anything on my list. In fact I usually can’t remember what was on it.  But most years it looks something like this:

1. Lose weight

2. Stop eating so much shit

3. Do more exercise

4. Read more

5. Write more

6. Do yoga

7. Start my Masters

8. Move to [insert fantasy utopia here]

Some years I’m more specific, making my resolutions even harder to achieve. E.g. ‘Lose 30kg” or “Never eat icecream again” or “Do an hour of yoga every morning at 5am”.  Yeah. Not going to happen.  Now I have a child, those kinds of promises never have even the most remote chance of being kept.

So this year, I’m being a little more realistic. That’s not to say I’ve never been realistic, but if you ask anyone that knows me, they’ll tell you that my idea of realistic is about as real as the Tooth Fairy.  Who IS actually real, I saw her when I was six, believe me!

2013 Resolutions

1. Stop drinking so much caffeine. Now I’ve got my own espresso machine (and it’s a good one, Mr C doesn’t do things by halves, he researched the shit out of that mofo before buying), I just keep indulging. In fact, that’s not even it, the only difference is that I’m not buying coffee any more but I’m still having a few a day. And you know what’s worse? Now I can’t rationalise paying for coffee, I end up convincing myself it’s okay to buy one of those frappachiller frozen creamy caffeine-laced equivalent of eight meals drinks! Enough is enough!

2. Learn meditation and more yoga and actually do some a few times a week.  Yeah, okay, might be a little unrealistic, given the Dude rarely sleeps more than an hour or two most days, if that, but I did manage to do 30 minutes today (Intro to Kundalini, awesome!)

3. Stop letting the Dude watch tv so often. It’s seriously insane, he gets up in the morning and immediately asks for ‘bee bees’, his was of saying CeeBeeBees, which is the BBC’s kids channel. Some of the shows are okay, some are annoying, but regardless, he’s not even two years old, he shouldn’t be watching TV! And I think given I grew up with the TV located in a dedicated room (not the living room), plus with my Steiner upbringing and my previous stance of children’s TV watching, I should know better.  Which brings me to my fourth resolution.

4. Stop being so freaking lazy! Now this one really is unrealistic, because I believe it’s part of my true nature to be lazy, it’s like a genetic condition or something. But seriously, I know change is possible, especially given how much I’ve managed to change since the Dude has arrived, so I’m going to make a conscious effort to be less lazy. That doesn’t mean (for Mr C’s benefit) that I’m going to be keen to clean the entire house at 7am on a Saturday before I’ve had a coffee and breakfast. But it means I’ll be a little more motivated and organised on a domestic front. And I’ll endeavour not to lie around in bed in the morning and let the Dude run riot while I check facebook. And I’m deleting The Sims Freeplay from my phone. I mean seriously, that game is cool given it’s free but anyone with any kind of life should not be playing it.

5. Writing. Write at least a few chapters of my book, for Christ’s sake! I am so sick of having ideas thumping around in my head and then not writing them down. It’s not like I get much time to write these days, but all that time spent procrastinating instead of doing housework could at least be spent writing.

And that’s it. Oh, and move to Melbourne. But that’s not a resolution, that’s just something that is going to happen this year. And then we’ll see what real change is about!

Yeah so I changed my name again

If you’re reading this, and you probably aren’t because you don’t know who it is or what it’s about, I’ve changed my name again. I realised my previous Katharina’s Time title was a bit, well, shit. It made no freaking sense!  Okay so there are some crap blog names out there, and some of those blogs with crap names are not crap, in fact some are very successful. I still had to change it again though, as I just didn’t feel comfortable with it. And I realised I could still change my facebook page name because no one ‘likes’ it yet.

The main reason I changed my name, and it’s for good now, I promise, is because I have finally found the right name: I am perpetually off on a tangent. Inside my head, a voice, chatter, chatter, chatter.

I’m no longer curious

The new name has been chosen and changed. I don’t know if it makes any sense but I’m sticking with it! I’ve changed the name of this blog so many times, it’s ridiculous! So this was the last time.

I felt like Kat is curious was just too boring or something, I don’t know, and I decided it would be better to use my whole first name, as it’s fairly distinctive.

This blog is my time. My time to think, plan, idealise; my time for me. It’s a special way if travelling through time, something I’ve always been fascinated with, as I can go back and read about where I was at in any moment. My time to be who I am. My time to write.

I am trying to be a little more specific or deliberate about my theme or identity through this blog but, as luck would have it, I seem to be experiencing a serious case of writer’s block. I sat and stared at my WordPress dashboard for a whole minute today, then clicked over to Pinterest but even that wasn’t inspiring. I changed a few things, tried and failed to sort out my Facebook page, then just gother frustrated.

So instead I sent a long email to my friend KK. What a chick! A goddess really, that’s how I’d describe KK. And I’m not just saying that because she might read this; I know it to be true. The woman is the perfect combination of class and guts. Thin as a bloody rake without losing femininity, bronzed, angular, sparkly-eyed, KK is like some sort of Audrey Hepburn – Mae West amalgam with a 21st century attitude. She seriously knows how to put an outfit together from high street fashion mixed with vintage and she’s the only person I know who can make a velvet jumpsuit from 1977 look smoking hot. She once ordered a life-size Elvis cardboard cutout online but then had a massive freak out when she realised she’d ordered it to be delivered to our place of work (at the time we worked together for a UK government agency in a secure office building in Westminster). “How the hell are they going to deliver Elvis to me at work?” she lamented. She was even more concerned at the prospect of getting him home on the Tube. Luckily Elvis arrived folded in half, although I’m still not sure how she got him home.

At the moment I’m missing London big time. I miss the weather, the culture, the accents, the buildings, the pubs, even the public transport! I know I’ll never live as I once did there but I can’t help but think I belong in Europe and that one day I will end up living there again. Mr Chewbacca feels the same way. The difference is that I don’t complain about how backward Australia is all the time. Anyway that’s for another post. If you want to read some of his rants, check him out at Whodyanickabollockov. He might be a whinging pom but he’s a funny mofo.