For the second time in as many weeks, I’ve easten Prinsesstårta, an almost sickly sweet Swedish cake made from sponge, cream and marzipan (the Chernobyl-like green stuff).
Last time it was Swedish class. This time it was an at-work birthday celebration for a colleague who has both Swedish and Australian parents.
Prinsesstårta - this image has been released into the public domain by its author, Bengt Olof Åradsson.
And best of all? I got the chance to sing her the Swedish equivalent to Happy Birthday…
Ja, må hon leva
ja, må hon leva
ja, må hon leva uti hundrade år.
Javisst, ska hon leva
javisst, ska hon leva
javisst, ska hon leva uti hundrade år.
Translated, it means…
Yes, may she live
Yes, may she live
Yes, may she live until 100 years old
Of course, shall she live
Of course, shall she live
Of course, shall she live until 100 years old
I was a little tired after work, and so came home soon afterwards and hit the couch.
This is a live photo post from victoria park. Its such a beautiful day in sydney. And since i have a few hours off work this afternoon ive come to the park for a few hours of relaxation in the sunshine.
I had a slightly embarrassing moment at work today. It was around lunchtime, and I was walking into our communal kitchen with the aim of filling up my water bottle. Unconsciously I was also singing out loud one of my all-time favourite songs. “If loving you is wrong, I don’t wanna be right” is a great song by 1970s singer, Millie Jackson. But it’s possibly not the most appropriate thing to be saying out loud when you’re walking into a communal kitchen, only to discover your colleague is already in there heating up something in the microwave.
“I’m an office singer”, I told him. “Don’t worry” he told me, “I’m an office talker. I’m constantly talking to myself, and as people walk by, they think I’m talking to them”. By “office singer”, I mean I will often sing out loud. Music has always been a really important part of my life, and there’s nothing more I love than to sing along to a favourite tune. I’m GUESSING it could be really annoying to others, but all of the feedback I’ve received has been really positive. People have told me it’s a really good sign that I’m happy, and that it brings a really positive vibe to the workplace. Of course it could get really annoying, but so far it hasn’t been too bad, even if I do need to be careful about my selection of songs. I mean, I probably shouldn’t sing this one by Lily Allen, should I?
I won’t go on and talk about my own experience of talking to myself, shall I?
My prosthetist told me I should probably change my right sock, during my regular check-up the other day. He had noticed the sock on my prosthetic foot was developing holes.
Friends often laugh and say amputees like me only need one sock or one shoe. But the reality is, I still need two of each.
However, the extra daily effort of getting footwear on my prosthetic is so significant that convenience becomes king. It’s why I do what many other amputees do: I wear the exact same pair of shoes every single day. They’re a comfortable pair of Skechers, and it’s only seldomly that I change the right sock,
Holes in the sock on my prosthetic foot!
On my left foot, which can feel and appreciate it, I wear a good quality Merino wool sock for maximum comfort. It’s also because I need to take special care of the left one, in case it develops problems that might make it also succeptible to amputation.
But on my right foot, the prosthetic, that’s not a factor. So, it gets a basic, cheaper black sock. They’re both black so no one really can see the difference, but they are fundamentally different.
The shoes I wear everyday, which are very comfortable. Also, because they’re black, it means I can get away with wearing them with something more formal.Something more formal, but still the same shoes!
So yes, I changed the old sock as he suggested. It means I’m currently wearing mismatched socks, and as I pack for a holiday this week, I’ll be packing more mismatched pairs.
Even though it looks okay now, I had the haircut from hell last night. On my way to the Capitol Theatre to see Barry Humphries (which I’ll write about later) I decided to pop into a nearby hair dresser for quick haircut. As someone with not all that much hair, it usually only takes a couple of minutes and doesn’t normally cost all that much.
I guess I should have known something was wrong when the salon manager pointed towards me – as the only one sitting on the couch – and I noticed my alloted hairdresser ask “which one?”. Further, I noticed a look of confusion on her face when I gave her my usual fairly simple description, “a number two clipper cut, thanks”. I didn’t worry too much when she brought out the scissors and comb and started trimming my hair, as I thought she might have been preparing it for the trimmer. But after 5 or so minutes of watching her do this, I repeated the instruction, “I’d like a clipper cut, please, a number two clipper cut” with more an insistent tone than the first time. “Oh”, she said, “You want clippers?”.
I had now realised her English language skills were a lot worse than I had immediately imagined. Generally speaking, that doesn’t worry me all that much, as I live and work in a culturally diverse city where you just learn to speak a little more slowly and deliberately at times.
Back of my head
However, even though she now understood the instruction, she seemed to attack the job as if she had never used clippers before. And attack is probably a good word, as my head soon began to resemble a patchwork rug with some areas clippered and others not. After a further 15 minutes or so, she declared my haircut complete, even though clippers had so far not even touched the top of my head. When I asked for a mirror to see what the back of my head looked like, she held the mirror in such a manner that I couldn’t actually see it. I was beginning to wonder if I was on a “candid camera” style program.
I then asked her very politely if she was going to clipper the top as well. “Oh you want that done too?”, she asked. “Yes”, I said, and then almost immediately afterwards I said, “No, forget about it”. “Are you angry with me?”, she asked, and I replied, “No, not with you”. At that point I looked at myself in the mirror and wondered if the bright red of my face was the result of anger, embarrassment or if I was about to burst into tears. At that point I walked over to the manager. Pretty quickly, you could see the look of recognition on his face that something had gone horribly wrong. Although I looked him straight in the eye, he avoided mine, concentrating instead on my temples. “I’ll fix it”, he told me, as I got the impression this wasn’t the first time this had occured. As I sat down for a “repair job”, I felt a huge amount of sympathy for the woman who was by now obviously totally humiliated. And I also felt sympathy for the bloke who was now seated in the chair in front of her.
For at least ten minutes today I watched a young woman attempt to take a selfie. She tried portrait. She tried landscape. She did a complete 360 twirl to find the right background. She fluffed her hair, applied lipstick and makeup, and tried all manner of facial expression. Eventually she got the shot she wanted, or at least I hope she did. But honestly, it took forever.
Chorizo at Chiquita Corner Bar in Madrid
For my part, I was sitting just metres away having a late lunch at the Chiquita Corner Bar. One of those late lunches were you eat, drink, and watch the world go by. It was the epitome of holiday relaxation.
Due to its proximity to Plaza Mayor, I thought Chiquita was going to be one of those overpriced tourist traps. You know, a great place to watch people, but with poor service, and average over-priced food. How wrong I was. The food was excellent (the best chorizo I’ve had in my life). The service was friendly, but also understated. There was no one staring over at me with that look of “can you please just eat up and move along”. No, it was nothing like that. It was excellent, and I’d highly recommend it.
The only disappointing thing about the experience was the group of four next to me, all of whom smoked. Or should I say, all of whom had cigarettes. That’s the thing I’ve never understood. People light up cigarettes, have an occasional puff, but for the most part let it burn, and then ash it on the floor, as they annoy people like me with their smoke. A small misery, I guess, for such an excellent location.
For me, it was a day of gentle exploration and relaxation, and looking for interesting sights to photograph. I managed to clock up well over 20,000 steps.
There were lots and lots of people around. Many of them were carrying, or were draped in Spanish flags, and there were lots and lots of flags draped from windows. Though I read there was to be a protest in the city AGAINST Catalonian independence, I didn’t see much evidence of anything “organised”. I guess it was probably just a case of wrong time, wrong place. It will be fascinating to head to Barcelona on Wednesday, the day AFTER the planned declaration of independence.
Late night in Madrid
Mid-evening, I came back to my AirBnB, where I’ve spent a few hours reading and relaxing. I’d probably best describe my new neighbourhood as “Madrid’s answer to Darlinghurst”. There are lots of small, older buildings, in an area which seems to have begun the process of gentrification, though it probably has a way to go. There are lots of small hole-in-the-wall bars which I’ll undoubtedly visit over the next few days, and there’s a good nearby corner-shop, where I picked up some food for the next few days. Until Tuesday at least, this is home.
PS: There are no “public toilets” in Madrid. Also, I haven’t seen many garbage bins.
It’s hard to believe, but it’s been over 40 years since my very first overseas adventure began. As I start planning my next trip, my mind keeps drifting back to that inaugural holiday: a life-changing journey to Germany in 1983.
I had been studying German through high school, and a small group of us—just three students and our dedicated teacher—spent years relentlessly saving up. We did everything imaginable to raise the necessary funds: intense fundraising, countless lamington drives, and punishing walk-a-thons. Finally, in our Year 12, we were able to travel. 1983 was an absolutely electrifying and pivotal time to be there.
Standing in front of the Berlin Wall in 1983
The stark reality of the Cold War was everywhere. The Berlin Wall still stood, and the chasm between West and East Germany was incredibly vivid. I can still recall, quite vividly, the palpable sense of fear when our train crossed the internal German border. The border guards coming on, the tension in the air—it’s an experience that remains etched in my mind, particularly because we did venture into parts of East Germany, Berlin in particular, as part of the itinerary.
What also stands out from that time, perhaps surprisingly, is the music. The early 1980s saw the incredible rise of the Neue Deutsche Welle (New German Wave), and some of its biggest songs were taking the world, and even the Australian charts, by storm. I remember being in Year 12 at school and there were songs IN GERMAN on the Australian charts.
I remember how famous Nena‘s iconic hit 99 Luftballons became, and it remains the ultimate anthem of that era. But there were so many other influential songs from Germany and Austria:
This is the quintessential German-language hit in Australia. The original German version of the song (not the later English version 99 Red Balloons) was a massive success, reaching Number 1 on the Australian singles chart. It’s easily the most famous example of a non-English pop song dominating the charts at the time.
I remember the English language version was released in Australia, but it had nowhere near the impact of the German version. The English version was a hit in America, but not in Australia.
Even though this was a huge hit in Australia, about the Russian city of Moscow, it was actually by a German group, and was released in both English and German in Australia.
Trio – Da Da Da I Don’t Love You You Don’t Love Me Aha Aha Aha (1982): While exact peak chart data for the German-language version in Australia is less commonly cited than Nena’s, this minimalist track was a major international crossover hit and was certainly a prominent song on Australian radio and music television during the same era.
The song reached a peak position of No. 7 on the Australian Kent Music Report in 1983. This places it right up there with Nena’s 99 Luftballons as one of the most successful German-language songs to chart in Australia.
And then there were some more fringe performers, such as Nina Hagen, Kraftwek and Peter Schilling who I also loved!
And of course, there were others before-hand, though bands like Boney M, Silver Convention and Penny McLean sang in English.
Tonight, I’ve truly enjoyed reminiscing about those great German pop songs of the time, and the way they connected us back in Australia to what was happening overseas. While there are undoubtedly many amazing contemporary German pop hits today, it’s been a lovely trip down memory lane to those unique, unforgettable tracks of 1983 auf Deutsch.
