Watching television in October 1998.This time ten years ago, I’m sure I would have been excitedly getting dressed to attend Sleaze Ball. That, after all, was what you did on the October Long Weekend. Not sit at home just watching television.
And in my apartment block, as I recall, there would have been lots of “pre Sleaze” parties with dance music echoing through the coridors.
There would also have been large groups of men and women (often dressed in feather boas) wearing skimpy clothing making their way through the streets of Surry Hills on their way to the showgrounds.
Not any more. Earlier tonight I had the sudden realisation Sleaze Ball was actually on, something I’d completely forgotten until I heard some of the tell-tale loud music from somewhere down the street.
There was a brief murmur of music from somewhere in my apartment block, but obviously the people around me have either gotten older or have lost interest as well.
So for me it’s been a day and an evening of watching television, using the internet, and briefly going to the supermarket tonight.
Aside from listening to an awful lot of show tunes, I don’t have much to report about Sunday.
Most of my show tune quota came from listening to Elaine Paige on BBC Radio 2.
The BBC has a great new iplayer interface for listening to their radio stations via flash, instead of using those stupid bloody Windows and Real Player encoders.
Although it’s a little more bandwidth intensive, the quality is excellent, and you don’t have to worry about having that software on your computer. This is especially important, as both players seem to want to take over your computer. And for me, as a Linux-nerd, it’s especially good. I think I’ve made my point? :)
So it was show tunes, and a Guiness World Record attempt for doing the most laundry on a Sunday night. The house resembles a laundromat at the moment with clothes drying in all parts of my apartment, aside from the kitchen.
The week ahead is reasonably busy. A dance class on Monday. On Tuesday, Damo and I are going to watch a recording of The Chaser. Wednesday night will be at the pub. And beyond that, I’m hoping to catch up with a couple of friends for dinner, including Mark who is back in Sydney for a few days.
Why is it that my weekends are quite boring with almost nothing planned, and yet I seem to have something on every weeknight? Actually, I do have a house-warming next Saturday night. But generally speaking, weekends are spent faffing about doing nothing, and watching tv, and my weeknights are almost always busy. It’s not right, is it?
While reading some of my favourite blogs tonight, I notice I’ve made a guest appearance on the blog of friends, Glen and Greig, who are themselves, celebrities this month, appearing in the Sydney Star Observer, the local gay newspaper.
Despite their youthful appearances, they’re profiled in the SSO as a couple who have actually been together for twenty years. But since they’ve been together twenty years and I’ve known them for about thirteen years, that must mean THEY’RE really getting old! Their big celebration party is on this Saturday night, so best wishes all round.
Summer has well and truly arrived in Stockholm. I don’t exactly know what the temperature was today (maybe late twentes), but today’s paper “warned” there were a further eight warm days ahead. Oh the joy! And I can tell you, it was definitely warm enough for a large number of people to find themselves somewhere in a park near the water, and to take off their clothes.
My friend Yvette warned me about the Swedish custom of colleagues stripping off to their underwear in parks at the vaguest hint of sunshine. We would never do it in Australia of course, but here in Sweden sunshine is a rare enough commodity that you don’t worry too much about your own personal modesty. Oh, and guys do the “undress with a towel around you” thing that’s common on Australian beaches.
In fact, it was so hot today that I actually came back to the hostel around lunchtime for a while, chatting online for a bit with Patrick and Damien.
I also needed to come back to pick up my laundry. And that’s when I had my second rude shock for the day (after the weather). What I thought was 70kr for the wash (about $12) turned out to be 70kr per kilogram. As I had almost 3kg of washing to be done, you can imagine the shocked look on my face when the bloke told me how expensive it was.
I had a typically Swedish lunch today, by the way. My second typically Swedish meal in as many days, with the previous being a salmon dish with dill potatoes. Today it was a dish from the famous Herring Van at Slussen. It was a herring dish with mashed potato, vegetables, and hard bread. Very tasty and very good value.
A dish from the famous Herring Van at Slussen
YYSD. A young Swedish dad, fru och barn.
There are something like 700,000 registered boats in Sweden in a country of about 9 million.
Stockholm in summer.
Stockholm in summer – three blokes on a boat.
Stockholm in summer.
And then after lunch I wandered around Langholmen for a few hours just enjoying the sunshine. The island is absolutely beautiful, and although there were some very busy parts of the island, there were also vast areas where you could walk around without seeing anyone. Oh, and Graeme, yes you were right about Langholmen :)
After an hour or so sitting in the sun, the lure of the water became too great. And while it may have been an extremely hot day, it wasn’t matched by the temperature of the water, let me tell you. I wasn’t alone, though, as few very of the locals were venturing into the water either.
I have no plans for the night, though it would be a shame to stay here at the hostel. My guess is, that with the warm weather, people from Stockholm will be out and about tonight. So I guess I should get me a piece of the action.
I’ve moving to another hostel tomorrow which is a pain in the arse. But it’s not so bad I guess, as a young Australian bloke has just arrived to dominate conversation at the hostel. Wearing an Australian flag t-shirt, he has spent the about ten minutes now telling everyone what’s wrong with everywhere he’s been. “Too expensive and you don’t know where to go” is the theme of his complaint.
Looking down from the window, it’s hard to tell if the snow is masking green fields or the frozen expanse of the Stockholm Archipelago. I flew in during the dark, and my memories of flying here in the summer months are far too distant to lean on now—those long, golden Nordic days feel like a different lifetime.
Normally, I’m a dedicated aisle seat person. As an amputee, it just makes life infinitely easier for getting to the bathroom or having that extra bit of floor space to stretch out my leg. I know that for the people sitting next to me, it sometimes means they have to wait a beat longer to shuffle past while I navigate the space, but it’s a trade-off I usually have to make. However, today the woman at check-in offered me a window seat in the fourth row. I paused for a second, but contemplating the rare opportunity to see the Swedish landscape in proper daylight, I immediately said yes. There is something grounding about seeing the world from 30,000 feet, especially when you’re heading toward a city / area as visually stunning as Stockholm.
Checking in at an airport is a much more formal “process” for me these days. I usually request wheelchair support to help navigate the sheer scale of modern terminals. The reality of the situation is that it’s often a incredibly long walk to get to the plane, and in the case of today’s flight, ours was parked at one of the furthest possible gates. I had a really good chat with the young woman pushing the wheelchair. She told me she had been to Finland many times because her father is Finnish, but she hadn’t actually done much additional travel outside of that. She looked quite young, perhaps just starting out in her career, but she was incredibly professional and kind.
Back home in Sydney, the process of going through airport security is usually quite fast. The attendants there instantly notice I have a prosthetic, and we have a silent understanding of how the screening will go. But being in a much colder climate and wearing long pants, it wasn’t instantly obvious to the staff here that I had a missing leg or that I was wearing a replacement. When they asked me if I could take my shoes off, I had to explain that I couldn’t—at least not easily. She understood why immediately, and the situation was handled with total grace. Interestingly, I had a woman perform the pat-down today. In Australia, that process is almost always strictly divided by gender, so it was a small but notable cultural difference in how security is managed here.
The other big transport difference I noticed today was on the Metro. I got onto an extremely busy carriage where every single seat was taken. Almost instantly, a younger woman identified my need for a seat and offered hers to me. It was a moment of genuine kindness that felt remarkably seamless. It stands in such stark contrast to my experiences in Sydney. Even when I’m wearing shorts and my prosthetic is clearly visible, I often have to be the one to speak up and ask for a seat on a crowded train.
I’ve thought about why that is, and I think the problem in Sydney is that most people are simply so absorbed by their phones that they don’t even bother to look up and see who is standing in front of them. People in Stockholm have mobiles, of course, but they seem far less “consumed” by them than people back home. In Sydney, it’s now quite common to literally have someone run into you while they’re walking on the street or even crossing a busy road because they won’t take their eyes off the screen. I haven’t seen that happen once since I arrived in Stockholm. There seems to be a different level of presence here.
The flight from Stockholm to London was a very pleasant two and a half hours—a perfect duration that doesn’t leave you feeling entirely drained. I’m treating this part of the trip as an important “greatest hits” side quest. The main agenda items are taking in the ABBA Voyage show—which I’ve heard is a technical marvel—and seeing a new modern stage version of Yes, Prime Minister.
It’s been almost 20 years since my last visit to London, and I was pleasantly surprised by how much easier the journey from Heathrow into the city has become. I caught the Piccadilly line and it was remarkably straightforward; I emerged from the Underground and arrived almost immediately next to my hotel, The President at Russell Square. Before I arrived, I’d read various reports about the “mountain” of stairs I might need to navigate at certain London stations. As an amputee, stairs—especially wet or crowded ones—are always a bit of a mental hurdle. I was bracing myself for a struggle, but thankfully the lifts were all in working order, making the transition from the platform to the street completely painless.
Tonight, I had dinner with a dear friend and former colleague from Sydney who now works at BBC Radio London. She was kind enough to give me a guided tour of her workplace, and as a long-time ABC person, I couldn’t help but notice the striking similarities between the two organisations. From the specific types of broadcast equipment to the general “ordered chaos” of the workplace configuration, it felt like home. It turns out there are also a huge number of Australians working in the BBC newsroom; it seems we really do get everywhere.
It was a funny sensation to be in an environment that was simultaneously familiar and entirely different. As I entered the building and waited for my friend, I played a little game in my head, trying to work out what different people’s roles were based on their appearance and how they carried themselves—comparing them to the archetypes I know so well from the ABC. The most significant difference I noticed, however, was the cultural diversity. The BBC felt much more representative of a global city, with many more “brown faces” among the staff than I usually see in our Australian newsrooms.
I also had a bit of a fan moment, taking photographs in various locations around the building that I recognised from the brilliant comedy show W1A. For anyone who hasn’t seen it, it’s a pitch-perfect mockumentary that satirises the BBC’s own corporate culture—the endless meetings about nothing, the management jargon, and the absurdly over-complicated “solutions” to simple problems. Standing in the actual lobby where those scenes were filmed was a highlight.
Over an excellent meal and a great bottle of wine, we spent several hours catching up on the massive changes in our respective lives. It’s been nearly ten years since she made the move to London, and while we stay in touch on social media, I realised it’s probably been five years since we last sat across from each other in person. We were the very last people to leave the restaurant, lost in conversation.
She was also an excellent ally to have when it came time to negotiate the public transport for the trip back. It had started to rain, which made the London streets pretty slippery, and some of the stairs we encountered were quite steep. My prosthetic can be a bit unforgiving on slick surfaces, so having someone there who understands the rhythm of the city was a huge help. Thankfully, all the lifts were working at the stations we needed for the return leg too.
After several days of bracing against the cold and wearing heavy long pants, it felt like a total luxury to finally put on my short pyjamas and hop into bed. Being an amputee means I have to keep a very close eye on the skin health of both my “good” leg and my stump. The combination of the biting outdoor cold and the dry, blasting central heating indoors had caused my skin to become quite itchy and parched. I applied some moisturiser, and the relief was instant. I think for the rest of this trip, I’ll try to wear shorts whenever the indoor environment allows for it, just to give my skin a bit of a break.
A few weeks ago, you may recall, I wrote about the Tree Removal Order posted on a number of older trees in my leafy inner city street. Although the reasons for the removal were clear, I was nonetheless sad to read the order. At the time, I wrote…
I’m lucky enough to live in a street with some beautiful big, and admittedly, old trees. They’re a pain in the arse during autumn and winter when they lose their leaves. But in summer, they come to life, and make the street in which I live a truly beautiful place to be. They also provide shade for the nearby children’s playground. And I guess that’s where the concern comes from – that one day they’ll fall over and cause injury.
On a “personal level”, I’ve “lived” with those trees for almost the entire time I’ve been in Sydney, which is now 17 years. I swear, as a boy from the bush, it’s the trees that have kept me “sane” through all these years. Whenever I’ve felt a little stressed, all I’ve needed to do was walk down the stairs, cross the road, and sit in the park. The trees have kept me “grounded”, you might say.
Anyway, this morning I woke to the sound of chain-saws. The removal had begun.
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Half-jokingly, I declared on Facebook this morning I was…
Feeling tempted to chain myself to one of the three beautiful old trees in my street being removed today.
In response, a friend posted
It would be in keeping with your northern NSW roots if you did James – Terania Creek being the birthplace of modern environmental activism. I’ll keep an eye out for you on ACA tonight!
By the time I arrived home tonight – it was dark, and so I couldn’t see all that well – one of the trees had begun to resemble an Easter Island statue.
“Have you ever done this walk before?”, I asked a family member when she said, “I’d like to come on one of your walks with you”. She replied that she hadn’t, nor did she know there was a Botanic Gardens in Lismore. This is despite the fact she was born and bred, and has lived here all my life.
I’m starting to think I should apply for a job at Lismore City Tourism. Though born and raised here, I’m exploring bits and pieces I haven’t visited in many years, or have never visited before. Or at least, in retirement, I could become a volunteer guide.
This is my latest video, from Robinson’s Lookout to the Golf Course, a lovely walk through some bushland.
