Instead of using the recycling bins, they’ve been leaving discreet piles of old magazines in the laneway. I assume they’re hoping someone might find them interesting and take them away.
Personally, I thought it looked like a rather boring pile. Nothing inspiring there. Nothing like my collection of The Face, for example.
Discarded Magazines
I used to be a great magazine reader, but now, thanks to the interweb, a lot of what I used to enjoy about magazines have been replaced with more instant gratification online. If I want showbiz gossip, music news or whatever, it’s there at the drop of a hat. I don’t need to wait a month anymore. So yeah, these magazines looked drab, IMHO.
I only noticed them because I went for a bit of a mid-evening walk.
It’s bloody warm tonight. 26 degrees at the moment and it’s almost 11 o’clock.
Still, it was a beautiful day. I had a meeting this morning at the Opera House, where the weather was almost balmy. I had a work-related lunch which also involved getting out of the office. And then tonight, I decided it was time for an evening stroll.
Meanwhile, I’m lovin’ this video clip a mate just Twittered about…
It’s funny how we become creatures of habit, isn’t it? There’s a bloke I work with who has a bread roll with vegemite for lunch every single day. There’s another bloke I work with who eats the same canned tuna and cottage cheese sandwich on multi-grain bread every day. It’s disgusting and stinks out the kitchen, by the way.
I have my habits too, of course. A few weeks ago I wrote about my addiction to flat whites from Coffee Trails and to the “unseeded ham sandwiches” from the German Bakery, both at Railway Square in Sydney.
Today I’ve decided to admit to another addiction: pork rolls from “Bread Rolls on Harris”. It’s a small, unassuming shop next to the former Gloria Jeans and only a stone’s throw away from my workplace. And they make the BEST VALUE, TASTIEST pork rolls I’ve ever had.
It was a bit of a secret at my workplace for a while. Lots of people were going there but weren’t letting the secret out of the bag.
In exasperation at my complaints about the cost of sandwiches from another nearby shop – eight or nine dollars for a sandwich is ridiculous – a colleague who was “in the know” relented and let me in on the secret of what I call “the pork roll shop”.
In excellent business practice they only have a few things on the menu, but they do them very, very well: chicken rolls, salad rolls, pork rolls, and ham sandwiches. As for price? They range in price from $3-4 depending on your order. For me, this means I can get a pork roll and and a soft drink (or fruit juice) for only $5 to $5.50.
The shop started a few months ago with just one woman behind the counter. It sometimes felt like an eternity as you stood and watched her make the rolls in the same methodical manner. She’s since been joined by another woman, and so the service has become much faster.
They always have a smile for you, and you even get the impression that with each roll they make, they add a “bit of love” into the equation. Seriously, it’s a lovely experience going there.
I’ve also become quite an evangelist for the shop. The other day as I was leaving work I ran into a colleague and asked her what she was doing for lunch. “Come with me”, I said, “and I’ll show you the pork roll shop”. Later she sent me an email extolling the virtues of the pork roll, though noting “chili sure packed a punch”.
She’s right on that. I discovered this early in the piece, and always make a point of saying “no chili please”.
You can forget Bourke Street Bakery and it’s Soviet-like queues down the street…
I don’t think I’ve ever noticed seasonal change as much as I have in the last month.
A few weeks ago, as I traveled in Sweden, I watched with fascination the transition from winter to spring. Although if you’ve been reading Sandra’s blog lately, you’d have to wonder if maybe there was some kind of reversal going on. Today as I went for an afternoon walk around my neighbourhood, I noticed a more subtle transition than that which I experienced in Sweden. Sure, there are some distinct seasons in Sydney. Easter generally marks the transition towards winter. The week between Christmas and NY is usually hot and humid. But by and large, the changes are quite subtle.
In the same way that Sandra’s been writing about how odd it is to still have snow in Stockholm, people here are complaining about the unseasonably humid weather. We’ve had one “cold” morning, as I recall, and that’s about it. Even tonight, it’s warm, humid, and it’s been raining on and off, though hardly noticeably.
Autumn leaves in Sydney
Autumn leaves in Sydney
Autumn leaves in Sydney
Aside from the afternoon walk, it’s been a bit of a do-nothing day for me. The most energetic thing I did was get a haircut. And an odd one too. I’ve never encountered the bloke who cut my hair before, even though he works in a salon I’ve gone to for a number of years. As we began our conversation he was finishing off a conversation with another. “He’s a gay guy who I flirt with. There’s lots of gay guys around here, eh?”, he said to me. “Yeah quite a few…” I told him. I let him generalize about the gays of Surry Hills for a few more minutes before telling him I was also gay. It was an odd conversation in many ways. “Am I really not that obvious?”, I asked myself as I walked out the door.
It’s been four weeks since I last went to Swedish class, and I was feeling apprehensive. I’ve had a few commitments over the last few weeks which have kept me busy and unable to attend class. I’ve also been neglecting study, and haven’t really listened to or read much Swedish in the intervening period. I was anxious the class would have moved well beyond me, and I would have found myself struggling.
Yes, I struggled a bit, especially with a grammar exercise, but it wasn’t too bad. In fact, it was a lot of fun, especially as we spent most of the class chatting. There were three new classmates who have arrived in the intervening period, and it was great to meet them, and interesting to hear about the reasons why they’re learning Swedish. One had been a student in Sweden years ago, another had a wife, the third had a Swedish mother, and although he spoke well, he was there to learn to read and write better.
And then the subject got around to jeans. We had an exercise where we had to talk about a photograph in a Swedish photo book. The subject of one photograph got one of the classmates talking about Swedish fashion, and in particular jeans. He’s quite fashion-conscious, I think, and has quite a collection of Swedish clothing. He listed off half a dozen different Swedish clothing brands. Not being as fashion conscious myself, the only brand I recognised was ACNE.
Another classmate chipped in, and mentioned the difficulty he had in buying jeans in Sweden, since Swedish men tend (and this is a broad generalisation) to be quite tall and thin. A 34″ waist is a bit of an oddity in Swedish clothing stores, he noted. It’s a problem I shared a few weeks ago in Stockholm, when I asked for a 34-36 inch waist and was immediately taken to the “Grandpa Jeans Department”.
The original guy, who is reasonably short, complained he always has to have his jeans mended because jeans in Australia tend to be far too long. Another classmate chipped in, noting that at least H&M sell more varieties of sizes in terms of waists and leg length in Sweden than we find in Australia. I agreed. Until now, my best fitting pair of jeans was a pair I picked up in Copenhagen which recognised that some people are short and fat, not everyone is tall and thin. We all sighed that H&M hasn’t opened a store in Australia yet.
And then I chipped in with my anecdote about buying a pair of Swedish jeans from a store in Surry Hills, “Somedays” a few weeks ago. I couldn’t find the right size in Stockholm, but I found a perfect pair in Sydney.
Despite my apprehensions, Swedish class was great fun.
Afterwards, I had a drink with my friend The Best Judge about a project I’m planning to undertake. He provided some wonderful, sound advice.
I’d arranged with Tony to meet up at Allsang pa Skansen, the regular summertime television program in Sweden focussed on community singing. Along with some Swedish “favourites” there’s usually a pop star or two with a show or concert to promote. This week it was Benny Andersson’s Orchestra and the cast of Mamma Mia. Benny, of course, is an absolute bloody legend and needs no explanation, while the English-language production of Mamma Mia opens in Stockholm in a couple of weeks time.
The weather today was shitty. Really shitty. So I figured I had two choices. Either find somewhere indoors, maybe back at the hostel, or head off to Skansen to try to find a good seat. I’d been told people arrive as early as 7.00am. I think that’s crazy myself, but some people do it. I figured since I had nothing to lose, I’d do my best to find a good seat.
I was also warned about the “crazy old Swedish ladies” who scream and shout if you get a better seat than them. I didn’t see any of those, though I did see quite a lot of people who I thought looked a little bit “dueling banjos” if you get my meaning.
Wearing my yellow berka, as I began to call it, I grabbed a seat behind a group of four (two men and two women) and a little old lady with no apparent signs of craziness. For a couple of hours I sat there with only my eyes peering through a slit watching the complete lack of action. It wasn’t too long, however, before I realised the people in front of me were actually ABBA fans. And not normal ones, like myself, but crazy ABBA fans.
A bit like some born again Christians, crazy ABBA fans get this weird glazed look in their eyes. From time to time this group kept looking back at me, suspiciously, trying to figure out who I was. “Did I have more autographs than them?” “Did I know Frida personally”? That kinda stuff. One of them said to me at one point, accusingly, “You came late. You weren’t here at nine o’clock this morning”. Weird stuff, eh?
The attraction, of course, was Benny Andersson from ABBA. Tonight’s program was all about Benny and ABBA.
I watched the soundcheck and the rehearsal. Hearing Helen Sjoholm sing “Du Ar Min Man” for the first time live was absolutely amazing. She has a really strong voice and sings with a great sense of drama. The second or third time was still good, but by the fourth I was getting a bit sick of it, to be honest. As she walked around in her raincoat, you could see she was quite cool, and had a bit of a sense of humour as she joked with a few people.
Benny also seemed quite nice during rehearsal. Politely stepping back to let people through. Chatting with everyone. Greeting the cast of Mamma Mia with a hug. He wore his raincoat, did what everyone else did, and there were no signs of any prima donna behaviour.
That said, you could just see how much in awe everyone was of him. Just mention the word Benny and the whole audience errupted into applause.
A young couple sat next to me for a while. At first I thought it was just she who was the ABBA fan, but clearly they both were. They were very grateful, by the way, that I had offered them to share my seat when so many others hadn’t. I suspect the fans in front may not have been so kind. Within minutes of sitting down, the young couple too, were singing along to some of the more obscure recordings of Benny Andersson’s Orchestra.
Rehearsal for Allsang pa Skansen
Helen Sjoholm and Benny Andersson in rehearsal at Allsang pa Skansen.
I was really surprised at how many people were there, and how many young people in particular. There were probably more people there this week in the rain than last week when it was sunny.
During the show itself, I moved away from the formal seating, as I was so incredibly cold and wet. Four hours in the Swedish rain was too much for a boy from Sydney.
So how did I feel about the experience of seeing Benny perform live? I find it a little hard to articulate actually. I enjoyed the performances. I also feel a sense of “completion” in some ways, that I’ve seen him in a live performance. Would I go to a BAO concert? Yes, though I wouldn’t fly to the other side of the world, especially.
And with a couple of ABBA songs sung in Swedish, it was a very interesting place to spend my final full day in Stockholm. It was a very “Swedish” moment being at Allsang tonight.
Reporting lost baggage at Sydney Airport at eight o'clock on Good Friday.
I’m sure the guy at my local kebab shop thought I was stoned.
Having spent most of the day in a coma-like state, I went to the kebab shop seeking some nourishment.
I greeted him with “hej”, the Swedish word for “hello”, and then quickly realising what I’d done, burst into laughter.
As he prepared the kebab, I kept giggling. Partly because of what I’d said, and partly because I’m feeling a little crazy.
At the end of the transaction I explained that I was jet-lagged, and even though I’ve known him for several years and he knows I’m not that kinda guy, I still think he didn’t quite believe me.
But it’s almost ten o’clock and I’m quite awake.
I’m sure a couple of glasses of wine will help me get back to sleep at a reasonable hour. As it’s Good Friday, thankfully I had the good sense to buy something duty free as I came through customs.
Yes, I have wine. But unfortunately I don’t have luggage. My luggage remains somewhere between Stockholm and Sydney.
I’m presuming the problem occurred at Bangkok, as that’s where the couple ahead of me in the queue identified the problem for them in a quick changeover.
Co-incidentally, they have been living in Stockholm for the last six months. “Oh you were there for the worst of it?”, I asked. They half-smiled in response.
They were a lovely couple who were back in Australia for a few weeks, and who were driving to Canberra, ahead of spending a few days with friends in the country.
I felt sorry for them. They only had the clothes they were standing in. At least I could come home.
And while the bloke was fairly philosophical about it all, the girl wasn’t. “We have to change our clothes. We’ve been wearing them since Tuesday”, she said. “And you need to change your underwear”, she added, to which he replied, “I don’t have to wear underwear”. Such a boy. Thankfully, they thought of a nearby friend they could ask for assistance.
I wished them all the best for their trip, and re-assured them they would fall in love with Stockholm during summer. “Yes, that’s what everyone says”, she said.
I have a vague re-collection of some phone calls today, all of which were ended shortly after those on the line recognised my somewhat fragile state. And so if you did call me today and I sounded a bit strange, I want to assure you also, I’m a little jet-lagged. I’m not stoned.
I’ve been a little sentimental, reminiscent of late, and so have been trawling through DVD shops in search of favourites. I picked up a copy of “Shirley Valentine” recently, and just the other night, a very cheap copy of “Suddenly Last Summer”, the classic movie featuring Elizabeth Taylor, Montgomery Clift and Katherine Hepburn. I also picked up a copy of “Tales Of The City, which I’ve watched many times over the last ten years from my old copy recorded off the tv many years ago.
I first read the books many years ago while recovering from my emergency appendectomy, loaned to me by my friend Claire. As I had over a week in hospital, I found they had just the right amount of humour, intrigue and sauciness to get me through my agony. “Oh that’s outrageous”, I thought, reading about the lives of Mary-Ann, Michael, Dee-Dee, Beauchamp etc.
And then it wasn’t until about five years ago that I bought the books and read them in almost a week or so. By this time I’d seen the terrific American television series, starring Thomas Gibson, Laura Linney and others, which had no doubt informed my “reading” of the books.
Perhaps that’s why I feel the series is such an accurate and faithful interpretation of the books? Or perhaps it’s because I have seen the series so many times that I can’t imagine anyone else but Laura Linney as Mary-Ann or Thomas Gibson as Beauchamp. And Olympia Dukakas IS Anna Madrigal.
Michael and Mary-Ann
You genuinely believe the relationship with Edgar and Anna, and the sadness and joy they experience with their “limited time” leading to his death. You also genuinely believe the sadness of Edgar’s wife who drinks far too much and whose only friends are her daughter and her housemaid. You also genuinely believe Mary-Ann’s innocence, tinged with a fast-tracked wisdom.
Although the plotline is sometimes a little unbelievable in the real world – Mary Ann making friends with the raincoat wearing child pornographer living on the roof who plunges to his death, for example – it all makes sense within the program.
However, sometimes the 70s references – the clothing, the smiley sticker on Mary-Ann’s suitcase, the sets – are a little too cheesy for my liking.
But really, it’s the acting that makes this such a wonderful series. It’s so good I’ve just watched it again this weekend, the perfect accompaniment for an overcast day in Sydney.
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Personally I am addicted to computer magazines. It’s like porn for me…I can never get enough. I even love reading reviews about products I have no interest in buying. Guess it’s all just part of my manic-consumer-lustfulness.
I noticed there’s some kind of travel magazine in there. Have you ever noticed travel magazines are either aimed at the uber-rich or backpacker traveller? I wish there was a magazine called ‘AVERAGE TRAVELLER’ which talked about going on trips to Europe and drinking and shopping and wandering around. I never want to go on a 5-star Lion Park Safari! Give me London and a pint of lager at the local pub anyday.
PS: If anyone reading this blog starts ‘AVERAGE TRAVELLER’ magazine, remember to send me a cheque!
Personally I am addicted to computer magazines. It’s like porn for me…I can never get enough. I even love reading reviews about products I have no interest in buying. Guess it’s all just part of my manic-consumer-lustfulness.
I used to be addicted to them also. But stopped buying them when I became a Linux nerd.
I noticed there’s some kind of travel magazine in there. Have you ever noticed travel magazines are either aimed at the uber-rich or backpacker traveller? I wish there was a magazine called ‘AVERAGE TRAVELLER’ which talked about going on trips to Europe and drinking and shopping and wandering around. I never want to go on a 5-star Lion Park Safari! Give me London and a pint of lager at the local pub anyday.
PS: If anyone reading this blog starts ‘AVERAGE TRAVELLER’ magazine, remember to send me a cheque!
Perhaps that’s your role in life to create such a magazine…?