The jolly season is aproaching fast
Giving us a reason to be happy at last
I just wanna give you
The best that I have got
And it’s yours to keep
Waiting under the tree
You know it’s christmas in a week and a day
and I just can’t figure out what to give away
So I just wrap myself in paper for you baby
And then the christmas is past and long gone away
I’ll be right in your arms with a card that says
That I love you –
Merry christmas to you baby
We’re far from strangers
You’ve got a special glow
When we’re making angels in the beautiful snow
I just wanna give you
the love of my heart
And it’s yours to keep
Waiting under the tree
One of the things Sue is finding a little “confronting” about staying in “ordinary homes” in Europe is the “open curtain policy”. By that, I mean, the tendency for people to leave their curtains open at night, so pretty much everything in their houses is visible to you, and vice versa.
I noticed this first a couple of weeks ago staying in Stockholm. As I sat in my lounge-room at night and watched television, I could look across the street and see everyone else was doing pretty much the same. It was if we were in one big house together, separated by only a few metres. Memorably, one night I watched a bloke cook dinner wearing only his underwear. I tried not to let my eyes linger for too long.
I read somewhere it was common in The Netherlands, as a hang-over from the German occupation during the Second World War. They kept their blinds and curtains open so people could both see what was occuring outside and inside. I can imagine there might have been a similar reason in Denmark, though the rationale makes no sense for Sweden which remained neutral during WW2. Maybe there’s another reason? Maybe it’s just because they have a more “open” society than we do in Australia? Maybe it’s because people have lived together more closely for a longer period of time? Maybe we’re just not that accustomed to the intimacy of apartment living in Australia yet?
Backyard View – Stockholm
We noticed this “open curtain policy” again last night as we checked in to our apartment in Stockholm. This time we’re staying at an apartment in a suburb called Enskededalen, to the south of Stockholm. It’s a reasonably quiet neighbourhood (so far), perhaps due to our proximity to the beautiful woodland cemetery? As we arrived last night, I noticed the birds in the trees were having a wonderful time, keeping us entertained with their beautiful songs. It’s that kind of neighbourhood. Leafy. Green.
The apartment is in a largeish security block of maybe 60 apartments or so. We have a balcony which overlooks the backyards (and loungerooms) of nearby houses. Inside, each apartment has its own little internal balcony, and overlooks a large central area with plants and trees. In some ways, it feels like we’re staying in a large hotel, though much more intimate as it’s actually someone’s apartment.
Apartment Garden
The apartment is about ten minutes from T-Centralen on the Farsta line, and then only about a three or four minute walk from the T-bana. So it should provide a good central basis for the next couple of weeks. Sue is here until just after Easter, and I’m here for a few days longer, before heading off to Reykjavik.
Even though we’ve had a couple of days travelling by train now, the travel hasn’t been overly stressful. Sure, we almost missed our train yesterday, as we didn’t fully understand the signs at Copenhagen Central. But otherwise, Sue’s been reading books and I’ve been listening to podcasts.
I’ve woken early on this Tuesday morning (up at about 0500), and as I look out my window the sun is shining, the sky is blue, and I’m happy to be back in Stockholm.
In contrast to my own fortunate circumstances of having enjoyed a steady stream of face-to-face visitors, online interactions, and outside visits, many of the people here at the hospital/rehabilitation centre lead rather solitary lives.
For example, there’s one man with whom I’ve shared a room, who has only had one visitor during the entire eight weeks he’s been in rehabilitation. At 80 years old, he lives alone in what seems to be a single room. He usually relies on meals from a soup kitchen run by a local church. When asked if he can prepare meals himself, he revealed he has both a microwave and a fridge, but neither of them works at the moment. In addition to this, he’s battling a serious cancer. Fortunately, the hospital staff are aware of his situation and are doing their best to assist him, as he greatly wishes to return to “the way things were”.
Another man of a similar age expressed a similar sentiment. Struggling to move around even within the hospital, he kept talking about his plans to “return to his apartment to watch TV all day, with meals brought to him by my ex-wife”. His ex-wife had been a frequent visitor, occasionally joined by his son. As I’ve chatted to people, it sounds like the the scenario “ex wife still taking care of the ex husband” is not uncommon. He was also fiercely independent, often declining pain relief and assistance to use the bathroom until both became absolutely necessary. When he finally did have a “pooh” after four days, the smell was unbearable.
I’m uncertain whether they voice these sentiments due to awareness that others can hear them, a desire not to appear “weak”, or perhaps a lack of realization regarding the challenges they now confront. Then again, they might understand their own circumstances better than I do. Maybe they’ll find a way back to normalcy. Making assumptions and judgments about others’ lives can be misleading.
For me, it’s been nearly ten weeks since I arrived at the hospital. Accustomed to brief hospital stays or day surgeries, a stay of this length was hard for me to fathom before now. And then last week I learned that one older man who I’d become friendly with was leaving hospital (perhaps prematurely) after five months.
While I’m not exactly counting down the days, I’m eagerly anticipating my return home. They’re planning to cast my leg for the prosthetic limb on Thursday, and if all goes well, I should be home in two or three weeks.
One thing I’m certain of is that life won’t simply revert to the “normal life” that many of my roommates have spoken about.
Gosh, we had a beautiful sunset this afternoon. Not that I had all that much time to sit around enjoy it, as my feet were aching after an exhausting today. I was more interested in having something to eat and drink, and so, after taking a brief happy snap of the sunset from the window near my office, I headed off with a couple of hard-working colleagues for a beer at the nearby Agincourt Hotel.
Beautiful Sunset
As the clock ticks closer to midnight, and the end the indoor smoking in NSW, I noticed smokers at the pub were making the most of their “final indoor puff”. I also noticed this a couple of weeks ago at the Newtown Hotel, when it seemed like every man and his dog had suddenly become a smoker. For just a second I thought maybe I should have a cigarette myself, but then remembered I’d never had a cigarette in my life. Not even one.
It’s funny, though, since I often don’t mind being in smoky locations. For me, the irritation usually only occurs when I’m actually standing right next to a smoker, as opposed to general smokiness.
But tomorrow, they’ll be out on the streets, unless of course, the hotel has undertaken some kind of architectural remedy which will allow people to smoke on premises.
And that’s no more evident than on Oxford Street. In stark contrast to the tinted windows of the 70s, 80s, and 90s, Oxford Street gay bars now have big open windows, and everyone is “on display”. And just when you thought that new open-ness might have reflected improving awareness and acceptance of the homosexual subculture of Sydney, you suddenly realise it’s nothing of the sort: it’s actually just the new anti-smoking laws.
Despite the smoke, it was good to sit around and have a chat with my colleagues at the end of a long day during which we had all worked very hard, the day celebrating ABC’s seventy-fifth birthday. For me, one of the highlights was having to meet and briefly escort through the thick crowd, the esteemed ABC newsreader, James Dibble. He seemed like a very nice man, and as the crowd separated as we walked slowly through, I felt like I was with “ABC Royalty”.
ABC Open Day
Although I never talk about my work on this blog, I’ll say one other thing: with such a strong turnout, it made me feel very proud today to work for an organisation that’s obviously well-loved, and an important part of Australian society. In a work environment, that’s something money can’t buy, I guess.
An organisation clearly in stark contrast to some of the commercial media, if you believe half of what I’ve read in the new Gerald Stone book, “Who Killed Channel Nine?”. I picked it up on Thursday night and I’ve so far devoured about 100 pages. So far, it seems “the bad guy” is John Alexander who Stone contrasts dramatically with Kerry Packer. Packer is the flawed, yet human media magnate who lived and breathed Channel 9 and understood the absolute core of Australian television. Alexander is the bureaucratic businessman, slightly out of his depth, who succeeded in taking away the heart and soul of what was an organisation committed to good quality television. Anyway, I won’t describe it in any further detail until I’ve actually finished the book.
The other book I’m trying to make some progress with at the moment is the new Armistead Maupin book in the Tales Of The City series, Michael Tolliver Lives. But every time I sit down to read it, I fall asleep either on the couch or in bed. I probably need to set aside a weekend, maybe next weekend, to get through it.
Culturally, the other highlight of the week was seeing the latest play at Ensemble Theatre, Stella By Starlight, which, in my kinder moments, I would describe as an “average” play. Were I to be a little more scathing… no, I won’t go there.
It was interesting to observe, though, how theatre audiences differ once you “cross the bridge” (which I did TWICE on Friday, is that a record?). Whereas Eastern suburbs audiences would have sat stony-faced for most of the night, the audience at Milson’s Point lapped it up. I’m not making any judgement, just observing a slight difference.
Looking ahead to the week, I’m off to see Wil Anderson at the Opera House, I have a farewell dinner for a long-serving colleague, and have two parties to attend on Saturday (lunchtime and evening) which means I’m probably not going to have time to get into Armistead Maupin.
And thus ends my first proper post after a week or so of jibberish.
You know how most couples have “our song”? For my ex and I, “our song”, was always rather oddly I guess, “Perfect Day”. No, not the Lou Reed version that featured in the movie “Trainspotting”, that seemed to be all about taking heroin. Rather, ours was the happy, dance version covered by a band called Indigo.
Ten years later, the song still brings back lovely memories every time I hear it. And tonight I’ve heard a version which contains both the sad and joyous elements on the song: Paul Capsis has covered it on his new CD to be launched Tuesday night.
It’s a great song. A wonderful melody, and lyrics which combine both the happy…
Just a perfect day
drink Sangria in the park
And then later
when it gets dark, we go home
Just a perfect day
feed animals in the zoo
Then later
a movie, too, and then home
…and the sad.
Just a perfect day
you made me forget myself
I thought I was
someone else, someone good
I brought the CD home from work this evening and I’ve listened to it through twice already.
There are some songs where I feel he’s really made a wonderful contribution with his re-interpretation of an old classic – like “Feelin’ Good” and “The Man That Got Away” – and other times when I am less convinced.
Anyway, aside from the odd moment here and there, I’ve really really enjoyed listening to the CD, and I’m very much looking forward to going to the CD launch on Tuesday night. He’s a fabulous performer and I wish him all the best with this new release.
And for me, it’s a lovely way to wind down after a rather exhausting week. I’ve achieved a LOT this week. I feel I’ve given the taxpayer good value for money.
In fact, the other night when the phone rang I swear I was half asleep when a friend. I called him the following day to apologise if I sounded a little sleepy. “I thought you had the shits with me”, he replied. “No, I was just tired, half-asleep”, I told him.
“Forty-three is one of those kinds of ‘nothing’ ages”, I told Damien over dinner the other night. 18, 21, 30, 40, 65 etc are all momentous birthdays in many ways. Even thirty-five is also quite a momentous one, as I think it’s probably the real marker between “youth” and “adulthood”.
And then you have odd number birthdays like 37 and 41 which have been celebrated in song. In her song, “The Ballad Of Lucy Jordan”, Marianne Faithfull sings about the woman who… “At the age of thirty-seven, she realised she’d never ride through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in her hair. And in her song, “Delta Dawn”, Helen Reddy sang of the woman who “was forty-one and her daddy still called her ‘baby'”. I can’t find think of a single song where the age of forty-three is celebrated.
Still, I’m pretty happy with life at the moment and I had a really great birthday.
Unlike The Beresford, they haven’t spent millions on the toilets! Still, they’re clean and that’s all that matters.
I spent a fair day listening to music, watching a little bit of television, and surfing the net. I got a lot of really lovely messages from people far and wide through Facebook who wished me well, with one declaring she would listen to some ABBA today in recognition of my birthday. Another suggested a dose of “schlager” (Swedish pop) was just what the doctor would order. I didn’t need much convincing.
And then late this afternoon I met up with a group of friends (with Neil making a brief “guest appearance”) at the recently refurbished “Beresford Hotel”. You may recall, it’s the place with the really weird men’s toilets which certainly sparked a lot of interest among my friends. The hand dryers also sparked a lot of interest. I’m not sure if the developers had realised the most talked about part of their 30-40 million dollar renovation would be the bathroom.
But of course there’s a lot of interest in “The Beresford” as a re-opened “party” venue for Sydney’s inner-city crowd and the place was packed. “Oh my God, I’ve never seen so many poofs in one place before”, commented one friend as she looked at the courtyard area out the back.
Our group stayed inside where, and although it was quite noisy due to all the tiles, it was also air-conditioned. “They really should have spent some of the money on soundproofing” noted one friend, as we looked around at the fully-tiled walls. And while one friend noted it was “kinda like having a beer at ‘Museum Station’, another thought it was like sitting in one of those old-style public toilets.
When the noise got all a little too much we went looking for somewhere else to have a beer. “We’re like a bunch of eighteen-year-olds walking around a country town after closing hours”, I commented to a friend, as we wandered around the streets of Surry Hills and Darlinghurst. Upstairs at “The Cricketers Arms” was our salvation, though the contrast between the toilets there and those at “The Beresford” cannot be underestimated.
What was supposed to be a couple of quick beers late in the afternoon turned into dinner for four at one of my favourite little Thai restaurants “Thai Tha Poh”. And thus ended a really great, happy birthday.
