It’s Monday afternoon and it’s a public holiday in Sydney. , although I’ve just spent a few hours at work. I also really enjoyed having a beer at the pub on the way home, since it’s a stinking hot day in Sydney. At the time of writing, I think it’s already in the 30s, meaning that summer is well on the way, as typified by the emergence of the leaves on the Plane Trees in my street. The last week or so has been quite busy and quite social. But to other things first…
Do you know how hard it is to be removed from an email list? Last year in Perth, I joined a couple of organisations which had an email distribution list. 11 months after leaving Perth, I’m still getting their crap.
And so on Thursday night, I wrote to them saying I know it can be hard running an email list… but honestly… I am writing to you once again asking you to remove me from your distribution list.
The first time I wrote was in January, soon after leaving Perth. I have used the unsubscribe function and I have written to this address on three or four occasions now, asking for my address to be removed from your list. And still I receive them…
As a result of your inaction, I have added you to my ISP’s list of Spam Providers. If I receive any more emails, I will write to the Telecommunications Industry Ombudsman detailing the correspondence. How’s that? By the way, I haven’t received an email to acknowledge this, so I’m just wondering if next month I’ll still be receiving their rubbish.
Over the last week, I’ve been out for a meal or two and a drink or two, but probably the biggest highlight was this weekend when my friend Patrick drove up from Canberra. On Saturday night we went to see Elaine Paige at the Sydney Opera House. And of course, she started with an encore! Yes, Elaine Paige came to the stage of the Sydney Opera House with the kind of song she’d normally be asked to come back to perform. In fact, when I think about it, most of the night’s songs were the kind of song you’d perform as an ecore.
I really love the Strawberry Hills Santa. That’s my name for the blow-up item currently atop the Strawberry Hills Hotel. And what I like most about it is the way it makes the blow-up Santa currently outside the “cheapie shop” near Taylor Square look positively traditionally festive. It’s like a giant snow-dome meets a giant beach ball. I snapped this photograph on the way home from work earlier, today.
Because stupidly I decided to work this week. Well actually, it’s not too bad, as it’s largely a supervisory role, and everyone at work is really keen and enthusiastic, and really happy to be there, despite the early start. This morning, it was a four-thirty start for me, which explains why I sounded awfully groggy when a mate called me a short while ago to see what I was doing, as I was having an afternoon nap.
And when I reflect on it, (aside from family) an afternoon nap was the only thing missing from my Christmas Day yesterday, which I spent with a friend and her family. Ordinarily, at home in Lismore, our Christmas Day tradition consists of getting up, opening presents, other family members arriving, lunch, a visit to the cemetery to wish mum and dad a Merry Christmas, and then back home for an afternoon nap. But that nap was absent from my Christmas yesterday.
Nonetheless, I really nice day along with my friend’s family and a few other friends. We had a great afternoon chatting, wining/dining, eating turkey, ham, duck, and a truly wicked chocolate mousse desert.
As I caught the bus to her parent’s place at Northbridge, I wandered through the city, with the only evidence of life being hordes of Irish and English backpackers (hunting in packs!), and Japanese tourists taking photographs of the large Christmas Tree in Martin Place, and looking for directions in a city which almost everyone else has abandoned.
I first noticed how quiet things were on Saturday afternoon, when the normally busy nearby Crown Street was almost deserted. Hardly any of the shops were open, and there were hardly any cars on the road. Even today, coming home from work, it was odd to see someone out and about. And I haven’t bothered to venture to the CBD where the totally odd Boxing Day shoppers have taken over. It seems it’s only “the slightly odd” who have remained in Sydney for the week between Christmas & New Years.
And one of the oddest sights I noticed was also on Saturday. At the back of the ABC there was a man doing a bit of disco dancing all by himself. It was amazing just how well it synced up to Donna Summer’s “Macarthur Park”, which I was listening to on my mp3 player. One of those wonderful moments of syncronicity that you know would make the basis for a great moment in an art house film.
So yeah, Christmas has been really nice this year, albeit a little quiet. And I imagine the quietness will continue for a couple of days yet, with the resident population of Surry Hills returning in time for New Years Eve. I reckon by Thursday, the restaurants, pubs and shops and will re-open. In the meantime, it’s the non-Christian shop owners, with their Indian, Lebanese and Turkish take-aways who are tradinng. And when I was looking for some take-away food for dinner last night, Christmas night, I thought to myself, “Thank goodness for multiculturalism”.
Parkham Street, Surry Hills is a topical little street if ever there was one. I received a tip-off yesterday the City of Sydney were being asked/told by the State Government to remove all of the trees in the street to allow it to be used as a thoroughfare for World Youth Day.
When I turned up for the “photo opportunity” at 2.30 today (along with a photographer from the Sydney Morning Herald and a journalist and a photographer from Central) it quickly became clear it was not as bad as that. According to Marcelle Hoff, the City of Sydney Councillor who attended, most of the trees will remain.
Nonetheless, those residents who attended say they remain concerned about the lack of information so far available. They also say they’re concerned about losing their small park near the Buddhist Centre on the corner of South Dowling Street. The park needs to be cleared (except for one tree), so the pilgrims attending World Youth Day can walk over the nearby footbridge across the Eastern Distributor.
Anyway, enough of the politics. I think it’s a nice little street. It’s got a nice little school, a little Buddhist Centre, and (at the moment), a nice little park at the top of the street.
There is an empty shop opposite the old Railway Station in South Lismore that has caught my attention.
Most weekdays I’ll take a walk down along Union Street to the Duck Pond Espresso to grab a take-away. I quite enjoy the walk, I enjoy the coffee, and I enjoy the chat with Noreen and Alex who run the coffee shop.
Along the way, I might also pop into the chemist, the pie shop, the chemist or the cake shop.
Occasionally, I’ll also peak into the windows of the computer shop, the laundromat, or the second-hand clothing store.
But there’s one shop that has caught my attention, not so much for what it sells, but how it has been decorated.
It looks like the shop has been closed for quite some time now.
Maybe they’ve been closed since the 2017 major flood which would have seen maybe two metres of water enter the premises? Lots of shops in Lismore closed after the flood, and many never reopened.
Either way, I have no idea what type of business previously occupied the premises.
What fascinates me is the decoration on the outside: lots and lots of cassettes.Slowly but surely, the cassettes have been falling off. I can’t be sure if the glue is finally giving way, or they’ve been “helped”, but I noticed this handful of cassettes on the ground the other day.
Before it gets too late, I thought I should document the commercial recordings. Of course, there’s lots of blank tapes which were presumably bootlegs of commercial recordings, or perhaps mixtapes given in the pursuit of romance. It was a “thing” back then to dedicate your love to someone by putting together a tape of the songs that touched you, or which you shared in common. But the best I can do is document some of the commercial recordings, and these are some of my favourites.Who doesn’t remember Leo Sayer from his big hit songs in the 1970s and 1980s? He has been living in Australia for about twenty years now, and I have memories of interviewing him on the radio about his decision to move here.Though I don’t specifically remember the Telmak label, it sounds like it was one of the many “generic” brands of the 1970s where they had session musicians recording popular hits of the day.Another cheapie compilation by the look of things.I’m starting to think the collection of cassettes once belonged to an older person. Even in the 1980s, liking Al Jolson implied someone of a “certain age”.The awesome Dame Vera Lynn. Yep, that kinda proves the age of the owner of the collection.Richard Clayderman. The ultimate soundtrack to an uncomfortable first date in a large, empty overpriced restaurant.At first, I rightly thought this was a recording from the UK, but then I noticed the 1988 Australian Bi-centennial connection. How curious. Did they come here? Frank Bourke & The White Rose Orchestra were huge in regional areas. Growing up and watching local commercial television, hardly an ad-break went by without seeing another recording by them. There were many many more releases after this one.The Judds were/are a mother/daughter American country music duo. This looks like an example of a “cass-single”.The Flying Emus were a great Australian folk/country band who I still like very much.And of course, no collection is complete with head cleaner. The only thing missing is a razor blade, some sticky tape and a pencil. Those reading of this who are of a “certain age” will know what I’m talking about.
The cassette collection fascinates me. Was it just from one person, or were there many collections? Were they picked up as a bulk lot? Why did they decorate the outside of the shop like this? Maybe you can answer some of the great mysteries?
As I walked home tonight past the Goulburn Street Police Centre, I noticed “Mamma Mia” (the movie) was screening in the window of a real estate agent, opposite. “How odd”, I thought to myself, as it was on one of those screens normally reserved for real estate advertisements, where they have replaced the traditional photographs and cards with a multi-media extravaganza.
I have no idea why they were showing “Mamma Mia” on the screen, but it was an interesting distraction as I walked home from Swedish class listening to my current Swedish favourite, Bo Kaspers Okester.
Mamma Mia screening in the window of a real estate agent in Sydney.
It was our final Swedish class for the year tonight, and we celebrated with some food and wine. There were herrings, there was crispbread, there was chocolate and there was champagne. Our teacher, Marianne also made Janssons Frestelse (Jansson’s Temptation), a traditional Swedish favourite made from potato, onion, cream and anchovies. It’s kinda like a salty potato bake and it was very very yummy.
Unfortunately, our next class is not until February 10. I’m gonna really miss the class over the next few months, as it gives me a great routine around which to base my Swedish language studies. Without it, I’d probably just sit and listen to Swedish pop music and think “that’s learning Swedish”. But the routine of the class challenges me to go that little bit further. I need to work out how I can progress on my own over the next few months.
But it won’t be completely isolating. There’s a Swedish Fair at the Lutheran Church (aka Swedish Church in Sydney) this Saturday which I plan to attend. It sounds like fun. The bazaar begins with an Advent Service, and afterwards there are stalls with traditional Swedish decorations, Swedish foods & refreshments and a music programme by “Nordic Voices”. And my “Facebook Friend”, Matt is back from his time in Europe with a truck-load of Swedish pop, with the possibility of a catch-up to dance around listening to our common favourite, Magnus Carlsson.
You will tell me, won’t you, if this Swedish stuff starts to get a bit freaky? Or is it already too late?
In exactly two months from now, I will have landed at Arlanda Airport, I will have caught the train or bus into the centre of Stockholm, I will have booked into my hotel, I will have had a shower, and I probably will have gone out for a drink. That, or I will be so jet-lagged I will have passed out in a park somewhere.
To be honest, though I’m starting to freak out a bit. Have I planned enough? Have I saved enough? Have I learned enough Swedish to get by in the rural areas outside Stockholm? Have I given enough thought to other parts of my trip, such as the two weeks when I will visit my friend David in France? Should I get my “affairs” into order in case there’s a terrorist attack? These are the questions that are bothering me at the moment.
And why am I doing this trip? And why in particular am I visiting Sweden (and learning Swedish)? Whenever someone asks me that question I always reply it’s the “ABBA Connection”. They don’t seem to want to ask too many questions after that, I’ve noticed.
I’ve been an ABBA fan for over thirty years and that’s led to a certain fascination with Swedish culture. But this is not some bizarre trip where I’ll be waiting outside buildings hoping for a brief glimpse or chance meeting with Bjorn, Benny, Agnetha or Frida.
However, when a colleague asked me the question the other night, I told him that in some ways it was a “mid-life crisis trip”? He seemed, at first, a little surprised by the honesty of my answer. “You’re fine”, he said, “what have you got to be worried about?” And in lots of ways, he’s correct. I have a great job, a great circle of friends, a great family, and I’m mostly pretty happy.
There comes a time, however, when you start to wonder if there’s more to life than this. And that’s probably part of the motivation behind this trip: the desire to see what else life might hold. Part of me wonders if I’ll ever come back from this trip. A ridiculous thought in some ways, as I’m only going away for 10 weeks, but it’s possibly because of the symbolism of this trip. I’ve never been one for taking big holidays (mostly 2 weeks at tops, and mostly in Australia).
So even though it’s minor, in some ways, this trip symbolises the next part of my life. And I think friends and colleagues recognise this. In some ways, my life is exactly the same now as it was twenty years ago. And that’s leading to a certain dissatisfaction on my part and a certain grumpiness. More than once I’ve verbalised this, and I’ve had a couple of colleagues ask me recently, straight out, if I intend to return. They’ve both fairly emphatically told me I should, by the way.
But in the midst of this person who has led a fairly regular life for many years, never really rocking the boat, and never really doing anything radical, there’s the dreamer. There’s the bloke who thinks it would be exciting to just go off and do something totally different. So I guess it’s a trip that takes me into the unknown, but which gives me some familiarity. The ultimate answer is out there in två månader.
We eat meat, we drink beer, and we speak f*ckin English
With a few hours to fill before coming back to Sydney, I caught a taxi this morning to the National Portrait Gallery. Within seconds of getting in the taxi, the driver started a conversation about how Australian country music was the best in the world.
“A great Australian” he said, “and with a talented daughter”, he added, as a song by Brian Young about country music legend, Stan Coster came on the radio. “Yes, I saw Tracy Coster” at Gympie this year. You could see in his eyes, there was a sudden realisation there was a little more complexity to the yuppie looking bloke on his way to the gallery.
And so we chatted for a while about country music. He told me that Tamworth was full of Americans, these days, like Kenny Rogers. “Kenny Rogers could come to Bungendore, but he couldn’t perform”, he told me about the local country music festival near Canberra. To be honest, I suspect if Kenny Rogers turned up at Bungendore, the vast majority of those attending would actually love to hear a song from him.
Simon Tedeschi portrait at National Portrait Gallery
Unexpectedly for me, the National Portrait Gallery was a rather inspiring place to visit on Australia Day. The gallery is full of images of Australians who have done interesting and amazing things. I loved walking around looking at the paintings and the sculptures, and was especially moved by a number of works. There’s a beautiful painting of the actor Deborah Mailman dressed in a sack; there’s a great work featuring the diver, Matthew Mitcham; there’s a whimsical painting of Princess Mary in Amalienborg Palace (with the Opera House in the background); and a rather stunning portrait of the classical pianist, Simon Tedeschi. I could go on.
Over the next few hours as I made my way back to Sydney to meet friends later a the pub, I saw lots of other images of Australia Day. There was an Aboriginal rights protest in Canberra, and the big Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander gathering, Yabun in Sydney. I saw a bunch of young people draped in the Australian flag, and I heard three young students on the bus wish each other “Happy Australia Day”, though they all then noted none of them was actually an Australian citizen. For me all of these were a celebration of inclusion. not exclusion.
And then later, as I enjoyed a few drinks with friends at a pub, I noted a bloke wearing a t-shirt which declared “We eat meat, we drink beer, and we speak f*ckin English”. I smiled and wondered to myself if, like me he had Irish and Scottish ancestry, many of whom came to Australia almost two-hundred years ago speaking Gaelic.
James and Vanessa wearing almost matching thongs at The Huntsbury
It was just the type of t-shirt that would have gotten up the noses of a lot of people on Twitter today, many of whom who were decrying some of the more overt elements of Australian nationalism. I thought there was a real snobbishness in many of their comments, declaring anyone who didn’t share their views about Australian identity as bogans. I also thought there was a real over-exaggeration about this type of Australian nationalism: the bloke in the pub, for example, was only one of a few hundred people in the pub. Unfortunately, one of the great dilemmas of Australia Day is the way in which people on the fringe have appropriated the day in the media and in a very public way.
Most of us aren’t on the extremes. We are comfortable in our notion of national identity. I’m pleased that, as a nation, we’ve gone down the path of quiet national pride compared with the more outspoken elements of American nationalism, for example. Most of us simply enjoy the holiday, enjoy catching up with friends and family and do something vaguely nationalistic which generally amounts to little more than wishing someone else “Happy Australia Day”. And that’s how I spent Australia Day: a walk around the portrait gallery, a trip back from Canberra to Sydney on the bus, and a catch-up with friends at a pub on New Canterbury Road.
There was a fairly big group of us at the pub. All of us are vaguely in the 30 to 55 age group. Most of us don’t have kids, though one couple does. About half of us were gay/lesbian, the other half were straight. The group contains people who are strong adovcates of atheism as well as a guy who plays in his local church rock group. The jobs we do include clerical work, PA work, supermarket assistance, council library, unemployed, and yuppies like myself.
In some ways, we’re a group of people who don’t easily fit into the world of t-shirt man, because we’re not all the same. It’s a world where you’re either like me, or you agree with me, and if you don’t, you’re not welcome.
My group of friends, Australia and the world, is a little more complex than that. If we were all the same, my group of friends would be pretty boring. If all Australians were the same, we would be a pretty boring bunch too.
