Although I’ve visited Stockholm City Hall, Stadhuset many times over the last few years, I came back to Stockholm this time with an unfulfilled goal: to climb the tower. That goal remains unfulfilled. Though I will definitely get to it some time on this trip, today I did took part in a 45-minute tour of the city hall that I thought was very good.
Being in the middle of summer, there were lots and lots of tourists around the city hall. Just how busy is reflected by the fact there hourly tours in English, as well as several tours each day in Chinese, Swedish and German. There were maybe forty or fifty people alone on the tour I took at 2.30pm. Though not as “intimate” as some of the other tours I’ve taken, it was still fine. You just need to always be up the front, able to hear and, when relevant, to ask questions.
And the tour was really interesting. I learned the hall is a wonderful amalgamation of styles, ideas and economic compromises. In the planning stages for a decade, and then under construction for about thirty years, you can see it in the building. Though strictly speaking of one particular style “Swedish National Romanticism”, and made with Swedish materials, there are strong Italian influences in the design of, for example, the large “Blue Room”. As evidence of the evolution of the building, the “Blue Room” which was originally intended to be blue, isn’t actually blue. And as evidence of the economic compromises made along the way, the planned large pipe organ is much smaller (they couldn’t afford the original one until a Swedish benefactor came along); and the magnificent room with gold lead mural wasn’t planned, until a German company came along with a “good deal”.
If you’re planning a visit to Stockholm, it’s definitely worth a look. Cost: 100kr ($16-17 AUD)
The ceiling of the legislature at Stockholm Town Hall, Stadshuset, with the blue depicting sky, and the idea that ideas/decisions would be shared directly with the cityfolk.
The setting for the annual Nobel Prize dinner.
Stockholm Town Hall, Stadshuset
The legislature at Stockholm Town Hall, Stadshuset.
It has been five weeks since I was admitted to the hospital and underwent life-saving surgery. I have no recollection of the first week, as much of it was spent in an induced coma. The following I was frequently heavily sedated, and my memories of that time also remain somewhat cloudy.
However, I do recall a Sunday afternoon during that period when a woman entered my room, her presence accompanied by the gentle strumming of a guitar. Although the specifics of the song escape me, the poignant lyrics moved me to tears. Despite my inability to speak or move, I managed to part my lips enough to silently mouth the words “thank you.”
While it’s possible that she has visited the hospital since that first time, today marked the first time I laid eyes on her again. I now reside in a different room and found myself more awake and alert than before.
“Would you mind if I perform an original song?” she asked today. “Of course, please go ahead,” I replied. And so, she began to sing “Juanita… Juanita… where are you to be found?.” After a short while, I realized that the song told the story of Juanita Nielsen, an environmental advocate from Kings Cross who mysteriously vanished (presumed murdered) in the 1970s.
Her name is Catherine. I am uncertain if she is a hospital employee or volunteers her time. Either way, it’s something to be encouraged, as it really brought some joy into my life today, and hopefully others.
Being more present today, I took the opportunity to express my appreciation with a proper round of applause.
Sunday afternoon hospital singer.
Hospitals often exude a lifeless ambiance with their white and beige walls, medical signage, and unremarkable artwork.
Yet, amid these sterile surroundings, we experience moments of happiness through interactions with fellow patients and staff.
The art on the hospital walls is pretty unremarkable, quite generic. Though I loved these pieces from Balmain Public School donated to the hospital.
Over the weekend, I’ve also received some welcome guests. “We thought we’d drop by for a visit on Sunday evening when it might be quieter for visitors,” one of them explained. Another friend mentioned she “happened to be passing by and decided to stop in.”
Today also featured a delightful moment when a group of friends organised a video call. The last time we did that was in the early days of COVID, when many of the group struggled with the “new technology”.
Remote hospital visitors.
The week ahead holds excitement on both physical and emotional fronts.
Today’s session at the gym drew praise from the weekend physiotherapist who observed a significant improvement from the previous week in my abilities and strength.
Emotionally, anticipation is building as some of my family plans to visit next weekend, traveling from Lismore.
The upcoming days promise significant events. A visit to my apartment, accompanied by an occupational therapist, is scheduled for Friday to assess my needs for returning home. On Saturday, I’ve been granted a “day pass” by my doctor, allowing me to leave the hospital temporarily. In the nearby vicinity, we plan to enjoy a leisurely lunch and a long overdue haircut.
“What do you think of the new menu?” the manager at my local pub asked me the other night, leaning over the bar with an expectant smile. They’d recently changed chefs, and there was a distinct buzz in the air.
I paused, trying to find a polite way to phrase it. “The food is good,” I replied, “but the menu is terrible. The font is too small, and I can’t read the text against that background.”
Look, I’ll be the first to admit that my eyesight is not as good as it used to be. But I am surely not the only one disadvantaged by this phenomenon.
It’s a scene that’s becoming far too familiar for diners of all ages. Lately, it feels like countless venues have adopted a bizarre trend of tiny, illegible text slapped onto heavily coloured or textured backgrounds. Whether it’s white text on a pastel peach card or charcoal font on dark kraft paper, it’s a design choice that prioritises a vague “vibe” over basic functionality. You shouldn’t need perfect 20/20 vision and a headlamp just to order a chicken parma.
My working theory? Venues probably no longer hire professional graphic designers. Instead, it looks like younger staff members are mocking these layouts up themselves using Canva. Don’t get me wrong, Canva is a brilliant tool, but it doesn’t automatically grant an eye for core typographical principles like hierarchy or contrast ratios. The result is a flood of menus that look pretty on a desktop screen but fail miserably in the dim, ambient lighting of a busy dining room.
Looking through the menus I’ve had to photograph lately, the design errors are glaring.
A Total Lack of Contrast and Grid Structure
The worst offenders ignore basic readability. One cocktail menu I encountered used thin white text against a light orange background—virtually invisible in a dimly lit bar. Another printed dark text on dark, textured brown paper, meaning the background grain actively competed with the words.
Floating Prices and Wall-to-Wall Text
Then there’s the layout chaos. I’ve seen breakfast menus where the alignment is completely erratic; some prices are glued to the dish title while others float mid-page or drift to the far right with massive gaps of dead space. Without dot leaders to connect them, your eyes have to do extra work to track what a meal actually costs.
Even worse, description text is often squeezed together with terrible line spacing. Ingredients blur into a solid, unindented wall of lowercase text, while dense columns of numbers and confusing dietary acronyms like LDO and VGO clog up the margins. Instead of guiding the diner, it creates immediate visual fatigue.
There Is a Better Way
Then there is the other modern dining scourge that completely drives me crazy: the QR code menu that forces you onto a web app. Inevitably, the app isn’t scrollable, it lags, or it demands your email address before you can even look at a drink list. I was recently up in Darwin and faced this exact digital roadblock. When I asked the waiter for a proper, physical menu, I pointed out just how frustrating the interface was. A menu shouldn’t feel like a data-harvesting exercise.
Ironically, the one place that seems to have cracked the code on modern tech integration is Thai Tha Pong down in Newtown. They utilise digital menus on tablets right at the table, but they actually understand user experience. If you can’t read the ingredients, you can simply pinch and zoom to enlarge the text. It’s practical, accessible, and elegantly simple.
In the meantime, the rest of the hospitality industry seems lagging behind. Because of this epidemic of poor design, my phone’s camera roll is no longer full of scenic holiday snaps. Instead, it’s completely filled with hastily taken photographs of menus that I’ve had to snap just so I can zoom in and figure out what on earth I’m actually ordering.
Restaurateurs, please: check your contrast, bump up your font sizes, and test your layouts in low light. Good food deserves to be read by everyone.
It was just after midnight last night when I entered Tallinn’s grooviest nightclub, Angel for the third time. But as I entered the bar last night something was quite different. In stark contrast to the two previous times I’ve been there, the place last night was actually empty.
“There’s no one here yet. The place starts late?”, I said to the bloke behind the bar. With a nod of his head he confirmed as much. For a while it was just me, him, and another bloke who arrived at about the same time. It was probably one o’clock before anyone else turned up. Ordinarily I’d be thinking going home at that time in the morning, but I’m on holiday so I figured “why not have a late night on the town”?
I’d been out earlier in the night for a quick bit to eat. The restaurant was a dark and dingy cave-like affair that I happened upon. I don’t recall the name of the place, though it’s probably not the kind of place I’d recommend anyway. It was the kind of place you might walk past, look briefly at, and then keep walking, as you imagine there might be somewhere better further along. But a voice inside my head told me to go back.
Atmospheric restaurant, Tallinn Old TownMy groovy Tallinn t-shirt
The tuna salad they served was okay, as was the wine. The atmosphere was good though, with lots of 20 and 30-somethings enjoying good conversation, and cheap food ahead of a late night on the town in Tallinn.
There was only one conversation I could listen into though. A couple of young Australian blokes were sitting next to me. Their conversation was pretty innane, actually, as they discussed the pros and cons of living with parents. It was like they were describing a share house situation, more than anything, with the central theme being the kind of arguments you can have about the usual share-house dilemmas cooking and cleaning.
Old Town, Tallinn
From there I wandered back to my hotel, dropped off my camera, and then made a return to the nightclub area of Tallinn’s Old Town. I had a couple of beers at the rather confrontingly named X Baar. Last night all the staff were female, and I suspect it might have been a lesbian-inclined evening. Still, men were very welcome.
Behind the bar there was an older woman who might have been the owner. There was something a bit “Dawn O’Donnell” about her as she surveyed the room. Amusingly there was another woman behind the bar who bore a remarkable resemblance to Gretel Killeen. I must have been staring a little too much, as she gave me a “why are you staring at me” look at one point.
And just when I thought I was gonna go home, that little voice inside my head told me to walk next door to Angel. Even though it was my third time this trip, I thought “why not”? And I’m really pleased I did, as I met a nice bloke there and had my first “real” conversation with a “local”.
Later he told me he was born in a small town near the Estonian/Latvian border. He’s also lived in both the United States and Spain, and would like to live in Australia. “I’m too old to get a working visa”, he told me. I gave him the good news the entry requirements have changed somewhat in the last twelve months. “Tallinn is too small”, he added.
Today was my last day in Tallinn, as I’m heading off to Riga tomorrow morning. In some ways I haven’t explored as much of the city as I probably should have. Today, for example, I didn’t do very much at all.
After sleeping in, I went for a wander around town. I went without my map this time, and unfortunately I got terribly lost again. Once again, I was forced to catch a cab home. But that’s not a problem as they’re reasonably cheap.
I’ve discovered the problem is the city isn’t well sign-posted. There’s one point right in the middle of town, at a major intersection, where you can’t actually see any road signs at all. I was reassured it wasn’t just me when I saw a young backpacker late this afternoon with a look of absolute confusion on his face, as he too, tried to make sense of the town’s geography. If I’d felt a little more confident in my skills to get around I suspect I’d have explored more.
And tonight I’m back in my room, resting up and channel hopping. Oddly enough, there’s an Australian sketch comedy show on television. They run “Home & Away” here too.
But unlike Sweden where they just sub-title English language programs, and Germany where they dub, in Estonia, they have a variation I’ve never seen before. The programs are in English with as Estonian over-dub. So you can hear the English in the background, but over the top there’s a single bloke who reads the script in translation. He doesn’t act, he just reads the script. On another channel there’s an American program which is overdubbed into Russian (you can still hear the English) and with Estonian sub-titles.
I’ve been trying to avoid BBC World, as the current war between Russia and Georgia is dominating the news. It’s odd, isn’t it. Although Georgia is thousands of kilometres away, it still seems very close. And then, of course, you’re reminded Estonia was a former Soviet country just twenty years ago. There have been occasions while I’ve been here where I’ve had to stop and think for a moment what the people here have had to live through, with both German and Russian occupation in the last century. Amazing stuff.
Old Town, Tallinn
After four weeks on the road with some pretty intense experiences, it’s been great just to rest up for a while in some nice accommodation. I’ve managed to beat the bug that I picked up, and the blister on my foot has gone for the moment.
And I feel pretty good about the world, ready for my next big adventure.
My niece told me she had to summon up all her courage to tell me halfway through the year that my lower right leg had been amputated. I had been in an induced coma for several days and was still heavily sedated, so, in all honesty, I don’t remember the conversation or my immediate reaction.
Pretty quickly, I remembered my grandmother, with whom I grew up, had a diabetes-related amputation as well. I’ve also noted that in 2022, my family had nearly drowned in the Lismore flood. Only a few weeks earlier, I met some people in Cambodia who had amputations due to landmines.
Without the privilege that comes from living in a wealthy country with a great medical system and surrounded by a fantastic network of family and friends, I’ve tried to look on the bright side of what happened to me earlier this year. I’m incredibly grateful to be alive, and to have had all the wonderful support I’ve enjoyed. Many others would not have been so lucky.
As Elton John once sang, “I’m Still Standing”.
There have been a couple of days when I’ve been a little “down.” In both cases, it was due to fatigue more than a any kind of depression about becoming a “person with disability”.
On my first night home after a few months in the hospital, I also shed a few tears. Thankfully, a good friend was with me that night and provided me with great reassurance. Looking back on the situation now, I have to laugh. I was in my own bed, and a tap in the ensuite was dripping. Knowing to stop it, I would first need to get up and put on my prosthetic limb was all too much for me. “You’ve been so good throughout this. You’ve been the model patient. You need to stop worrying about how everyone will respond and just be in the moment,” I remember my friend saying.
At the end of 2023, the response and reaction of friends, family, and colleagues remain higher on my list of concerns than any negative feelings I’ve had myself. Sure, the change is associated with the classic “stages of grief” (denial, anger, acceptance, etc.), which a couple of people have said I’ve gone through “too quickly.” That is to assume a linear approach to the theory, whereas I know at any time I could lapse into a period of negativity.
But what’s the point? Millions of people around the world are in a far more desperate situation than I am, and besides, there is so much to be grateful for this year, including participation in Mardi Gras/World Pride a wonderful two-week vacation to Vietnam and Cambodia with two wonderful friends.
Group tour, visiting Angkor Wat
I also had some wonderful time with my family. They’ve come to visit me in Sydney, and I’ve been home to Lismore on a couple of occasions.
As 2023 comes to an end, it’s great being home with my family. After all they’ve been through since the flood almost two years ago, things are looking good as they approach 2024, and hopefully, moving into new accommodation. It will be tough for them in many ways, as they’ve lived in their house since 1968, but now they’re in their 70s and 80s, having somewhere new, modern, and with greater comforts will hopefully make their remaining years a little easier.
Crossing the Sydney Harbour Bridge with the incomparable Manda Hatter at Sydney “World Pride”
As the year comes to an end, I’m thinking about what 2024 has in store. Work has changed quite a bit. The approach to the area of ABC Radio I’ve been looking after changed quite dramatically while I was in the hospital. It was only when I returned part-time to work in November that it became apparent to me. So far, and I’m not 100% sure of what my job will be like in 2024. But in the grand scheme of things, I remain positive that I still have a job, a generous amount of personal (sick) leave up my sleeve, and colleagues who have been supportive with wishes, gifts, and understanding.
The greatest lesson I’ve learned in recent years, and which I’ve been trying to convince family and friends of, is the need to stop for a moment, don’t think too much about what might happen, accept it, and get on with your life. As I’ve lived through the experiences of 2023, I’ve been extremely conscious of the depressive impact of negativity. The whole “glass half full/empty” thing has been a recurrent theme for me this year. Chatting with people recently, I’ve heard too much about all the terrible things that MIGHT happen and not enough about the good things that COULD happen.
As the year comes to a close, my heartfelt message to both myself and to you is to savor the positive moments and express gratitude for the blessings surrounding us. While this may not be a groundbreaking revelation, it’s a sentiment that many individuals like us, who lead privileged lives, might not always do enough.
There was a long queue for taxis at Brisbane Airport this morning. At one point, there was maybe 100 in the queue with no taxis. Thankfully the taxis didn’t take too long to arrive. Lucky for me, I was wearing shorts as it was pretty bloody humid.
By mid-afternoon the humidity had gone. In its place were dark skies with a greenish hue, and bucket loads of rain. At one point, the thunder and rain were so loud I could barely hear the radio on the desk next to me. Looking out my window, all the cars had their lights on, and it was almost as if it was night.
Unfortunately the rain came inside our building also. As pathways flooded, the rain found its way under doors and through cracks. A bucket and mop became my tool of trade for my first day in Brisbane.
I’m here for a week helping out the team who’ve been working flat out over the last two months covering the seemingly never ending series of natural disasters. On a personal sense, it’s good too, as I get to catch up with family.
I also get to go down memory lane, as I’m staying at Toowong, not far from where I used to live. Although the house I used to live in is no longer at Taringa (replaced by an apartment block many years ago), not much else seems to have changed. The train station is a little more modern, admittedly, but the Toowong Village Shopping Centre doesn’t seem to have changed that much in twenty-something years.
I swear the last time I went to the Toowong Village was when I used to work for Coles New World (as it was called then). In the intervening period between when I quit Coles Fairfield – and was largely unemployed – before beginning my radio career, I did a fair bit of night-packing at Coles Toowong.
It was funny to go back to Coles tonight on a bit of a grocery run, and to think what if I’d stayed in Brisbane, hadn’t pursued my radio career dream. I don’t know what the answer is, but it was fun to briefly consider that thought as I walked around the supermarket tonight.
