There’s an app on my phone which tells me how many steps I walk each day. Sure, there’s a margin of error, as it relies on me actually having my phone on me every day. But the margin of error is low, as I actually do have my phone with me most days.
The app tells me that I generally walk about the “required” 10,000 steps most days, but that it sometimes falls below that, and often increases well above that. During my travels in July and August, the number of daily steps has increased dramatically. But since arriving back, I’ve turned into a bit of a lard arse.
That’s been particularly the case this weekend. I’ve been a sloth. The combination of post-holiday blues, daylight saving, and a long weekend, has meant I’ve spent large parts of the weekend doing nothing much at all. I’ve slept, I’ve watched TV, I’ve rested, and I’ve gone out for lunch/dinner.
And today I’ve gone walking with my friend Sue. We visited Art & About’s Australian Life, we walked through the Botanic Gardens, and around Barangaroo. I felt awfully proud that I’d made about 13,000 steps throughout the day. And then of course I ruined it all by having a beer on the way home. Nonetheless, I’m feeling virtuous that I didn’t spend the entire long weekend as a sloth.
Steps for the last few months
Lamb roast at the Bat and Ball Hotel, Sydney
Australian Life – my favourite, a photograph from Wilcannia
Australian Life – my second favourite, look closely to see people in the foam
Having worked as a journalist and broadcaster for over thirty years, I’ve got to know a LOT of politicians. In my view, some of them have been very good people, and some of them have been arseholes.
On one side of politics, I’ve had the son a politician threaten me with physical violence over a fairly explosive interview I did with his father. On the other side of politics, I’ve had a former Senator tell me my career was now “fucked” because of an interview I did with him. “Your career at the ABC, mate, is over”, he shouted down the phone line.
Less “explosive” were my interactions with Tim Fischer, who I first met when I was presenting the Morning Show for ABC Radio Riverina in Wagga Wagga. It was the early 1990s, and Mr Fischer, who was then the Member for Farrer, lived about 50km away, at a place called Boree Creek. When he was at home, he would often listen to my program, he told me.
I remember him once calling my producer, Tiffany, saying he was in a hot air balloon and he told her he could describe what conditions were like flying over Hay, in the far western part of the Riverina. “Tim Fischer’s on the phone, flying in a hot air balloon. Do you want to talk to him?”, she asked. It was a Friday morning, it was a bit of “colour”, so of course we put him to air. Delightfully, he described the landscape and his near encounter with some power lines.
On another occasion, I recall getting a call from him one morning just after 7.45 after I’d appeared on the Breakfast Show, previewing what was planned for the Morning Show. “I just heard your preview. It sounds like you’re a bit light-on this morning. I’ve got a few stories I could give you” and he then went on to offer me five “announcements” he could make.
I guess this highlights the often symbiotic relationship between media and politics. The media provides the oxygen; the politicians provide the stories. Many of those of us working in the media would often describe him as a bit of a “media whore”. I don’t know if he loved appearing on radio and TV, but he most certainly knew it was a way of getting his name and message out there to the public.
Though much has been said today of the important and powerful role he played in ensuring the passage of gun laws in Australia, there has also been some some commentary made about some of the misinformation he communicated about land rights. No politician is a saint.
Often, when politicians tell you they’re leaving politics “to spend more time with their family”, that generally means one of two things. Either they’ve lost their steam, or they’ve lost the support of their political allies. When Tim Fischer declared the reason for leaving politics was to “spend more time” with his family, it seemed genuine. He had a family “later in life”, and his son had been recently diagnosed with high level autism. Of course, he kept busy with his various interests, and later became the Ambassador to The Vatican, but his “retirement” seemed genuine. I remember feeling a little sad at the time, because I’d come to know Mr Fischer as a seemingly, genuinely lovely man.
As a boy from the bush, myself, who was also interested in the “outside world”, I connected with Tim. I loved the fact that one day I could be interviewing him about inland rail development, and minutes later, I could be interviewing him about development in the Kingdom of Bhutan. Unlikely many of our politicians, these days, he had interests “outside his portfolio”.
As a person, I really liked Tim, and I was sad to hear of his grave health over the last few days, and news of his death this morning.
Interviewing Tim Fischer at the NSW Farmers Conference in 2003
After years of listening to Swedish pop via record, CD, downloads and, more recently Youtube, I have now listened, watched, experienced, and danced to it, in its natural environment.
I went out last night to Lino. Although as an Australian I was tempted to refer to it as “lie-no”, of course it’s actually “lee-no”. In researching this trip, I’ve been looking at online, and the photographs of the crowd always seemed to indicate it was a pretty cool place. Maybe too cool for me, I thought. As I entered last night, I walked around for a bit of a reccy. There was an outdoor courtyard playing generic “cool music” where people were smoking. I must write sometime about the Swedes and smoking by the way. There was a room where they were playing generic kinda housey-disco. There was another bar of an indescript nature. But of course, I settled into the “schlager bar”. The bar was a fairly even mixture of men and women out for a good time on a Saturday night. OK maybe two thirds male and one third female, to be honest. They were all boozing up and singing along with the music. The music was loud, by the way, and definitely Swedish. And on the television screens they were playing this year’s Melodifestivalen DVD.
After years of waiting to experience something like this, I actually became a little bit teary for a moment. And then, of course, they played “Crying At The Discoteque” which is one of my favourites from the last ten years. “Oh my God”, I thought this is it… “some absolutely classic Swedish disco in an absolutely classic Swedish disco”. And then…“Mamma Mia” came on. OH MY GOD. At that point I thought I had died and gone to heaven. You know how in Sydney when you go out and ABBA comes on, it can sound a bit “rinky-dinky”, and is usually only played in a “retro” context for a bit of novelty value? Well last night, “Mamma Mia” sounded totally contemporary and totally in context with the rest of the music played.
Oddly enough they sometimes played the same songs over and over again in quick succession, which I thought was strange for a nightclub. The DJ last night, though, clearly LOVED the music he was playing, and it was infectious. The American tourists standing near me were totally overwhelmed by the sight of hundreds of people singing along to pop songs in Swedish. You could see the look of bewilderment on their faces as they walked through to the outdoor bar.
I don’t recall what time I got home, but it was just starting to become daylight, so I guess it was about 3.00am.
I got a little teary also tonight at the Peter Joback and Eva Dahlgren concert at Skansen. I’ve been aware of Peter’s work since he appeared on the original CD for “Kristina fran Duvemala”. Along the way, I’ve picked up three other CDs. I wasn’t, however, really aware of Eva Dahlgren (nor her work), though I knew she was a legendary Swedish “rock chick”. Without the intimate knowledge of their respective back catalogues, I lacked some of the instant familiarity with the work enjoyed by the rest of the audience. Also, because all of the songs were in Swedish (along with all of the patter in between), I sometimes found myself a little confused. I could understand the basic premise of some of the anecdotes, but the punchlines usually went over my head. Although there was a funny bit relating to musical instruments. As an encore, they began a song together playing recorders (flute things) of differing size. When Peter said something along the lines of wishing he had the bigger one, Eva responded along the lines of “of course you do”. I understood that joke perfectly.
Peter Jöback at Skansen
Eva Dahlgren at Skansen
Peter Jöback and Eva Dahlgren at Skansen
Peter Jöback at Skansen
Peter Jöback and Eva Dahlgren at Skansen
Crowd watches Peter Jöback and Eva Dahlgren at Skansen
Peter Jöback and Eva Dahlgren at Skansen
Sun sets over Stockholm
Dance floor at Club LIno in Stockholm
I had an excellent seat on the far left-hand side of the second row. I’m reasonably sure Lena Ulvaeus (Bjorn’s wife) and daughters were sitting in the same row, though I’m not sure, as I haven’t seen photographs of them for a while. She did, however, laugh and scratch her nose during an extended anecdote about Bjorn and Benny. But the concert itself? Wow, what a great experience. Peter is a much better singer live than I’ve ever heard captured on CD. He has a lovely voice which can both be gentle and soar, and really has a “joyous” quality to it. He seems to sing well effortlessly. Eva also had a wonderful voice, which really shone when she sang slow and gentle ballads. Most memorable was a song with the recurring line about “I saw you” which was sung beautifully and with passion. The song which made my eyes well up, though, was “Stockholm i Natt”, one of Peter’s recent hit songs. It’s a love song about Stockholm in effect, as it takes you on a journey around the city, with specific mentions of places like Medborgarplatsen and events such as the assasination of Anna Lindh in 2003. And so I’m sitting there, listening to a wonderful song sung by a great performer, about a terrific place that I’ve longed to visit for many years, and I’m looking at both him and the wonderful Swedish summer evening… so of course my eyes welled up. Does life get any better, I thought to myself. And I really loved their third encore, yes third, a song called “Juni, Juli, Augusti”. I know this sounds all very dramatic for those in Europe who can regularly go to Stockholm and have this experience, but for a kid from the bush in Australia, it’s all very exciting indeed.
Afterwards I followed the crowd out and caught the ferry from Djurgarden to Slussen. I couldn’t believe how many people they managed to squeeze on board. Catching the ferry, I was squeezed in tightly between a couple of gay boys and a male/female couple. Needing to steady myself I held on to the railing. And then the woman kinda lent against me and plopped (and rested) her left boob on my hand. I’ve had to totally re-think my attitudes to personal space since arriving in Stockholm, clearly.
“I’m glad I don’t have to use the Tube every day,” I told my Australian friend who has lived in London for almost exactly ten years.
The night before, she had been a wonderful guide and support, navigating us through the damp tunnels, the sudden stairs, and the grey, rainy weather of a weekday peak hour. For me, London is a place of deep unfamiliarity—it’s been 18 years since my last visit, and in that time, my physical reality has shifted completely. As a lower right leg amputee, the stakes of city travel have changed. The possibility of falling in the rain or losing my footing on a slick staircase is no longer a minor annoyance; it’s a genuine risk. I also have osteoporosis, and only twelve months ago, I broke my hip and had a full replacement after a fall on a simple footpath.
While my friend had coached me through the transfers the previous night, last night I was determined to make it on my own. We were due to meet at the ABBA Arena in the London Olympic precinct. She was travelling from work, and I was coming from a matinee show in the West End. Thanks to Google Gemini, I had a set of directions that involved a few different lines and changes. On paper, it looked simple; in reality, it was an exhausting gauntlet.
The mental exhaustion came from the sheer density of the crowd. The London Underground is the oldest subterranean railway in the world, and you can feel that age in its cramped, narrow carriages. Getting on and off involved a series of tactical decisions: Which hand goes on which rail? How far is the gap between the platform and the carriage? Because of the risk of falling, I absolutely needed a seat.
In Sydney, this is rarely an issue. I almost always wear shorts, and the sight of my prosthetic is usually a visible “pass” that prompts people to stand up before I even have to ask. The biggest issue I’m finding is getting people to look up from their mobile phones and notice me. Lots of other people with disability and generally older often complain about this. But in the London chill, tucked behind long pants, my disability was invisible. I found myself standing in a packed carriage, swaying unsteadily, scanning the faces of those in the priority seats. I was looking for a flicker of eye contact, a moment of recognition that I was struggling, but everyone was buried in their phones or staring at the floor.
Eventually, I had to speak up. “Excuse me, could I please have a seat? I’m an amputee,” I said to a young man in a designated spot. He looked up, confused, his eyes trailing down to my perfectly normal-looking denim jeans. I felt the heat rise in my neck as I realized I had to justify my existence. “I have a prosthetic leg,” I added, my voice a bit tighter. He moved, but there was a lingering look of skepticism, as if he thought I was just a tired tourist trying a cheeky line to get off my feet.
A few stops later, after a change of lines, the same dance happened again. This time, I had to explain the hip replacement too, just to be sure they understood the fall risk. Each exchange felt like a mini-negotiation of my dignity. I’m not sure they all believed me, and frankly, I shouldn’t have to convince a stranger of my medical history just to travel safely.
It was during that second train leg that I reached a conclusion: I needed to stop explaining and start showing. I resolved that for the rest of my time on the Underground, I would roll my jeans up. Back home, showing the leg takes zero explanation; it is a silent, immediate communicator of need. By revealing the carbon fibre and the socket, the social friction simply evaporates.
It’s a strategy I’ll carry through to airport security later this trip, too. There’s no “surprise” when the metal in my leg or my hip sets off the scanners if the officers can see exactly what they’re looking at. There is a certain power in making the invisible visible—it’s not about “showing off” the disability, but about reclaiming the ease of movement that comes when you don’t have to talk your way into a seat.
The physical exhaustion of London is real. Only about a third of the 272 Tube stations have step-free access. At Russell Square, the PA system warns you of 176 steps if the lifts are out. To a man with a prosthetic and a metal hip, that’s not a staircase; it’s a cliff face. In my entire journey, I didn’t see a single person using a wheelchair, which speaks volumes about how difficult this “heritage” system is to navigate.
By the time I reached the shimmering lights of the ABBA Arena, I was spent. But I had made it. I had navigated the world’s oldest maze on my own terms, and as I sat in those brilliant disability seats they’d organised for me, I felt the satisfaction of independence. Next time, though, the jeans are staying rolled up.
“They’ve been playing for twenty minutes and nothing’s happened”, I heard the five year old sitting next to me say to his father at today’s soccer match at Gosford. I was reminded of the episode of “The Simpsons” where there’s an off-field riot due to the lack of on-field activity at a visiting soccer match in Springfield.
His dad was one of those blokes who you just know could have done a much better job than the referee if given the chance. The referee was clearly an idiot without anywhere near the level of experience or insight as the bloke sitting next to us.
Unfortunately his level of interesta and enthusiasm seemed to be washing over his son. Although I discovered the son was playing soccer at school, he seemed far more interested in trains. “Can we catch the XPT back?”, I heard him ask. Peppering his conversation with words like”Countrylink”, the son seemed far more interested when he saw a freight train go by than with anything to do with what was happening on the ground before us.
I was reminded about my own similar lack of interest in sport as a child. “They’re running away from the ball more than I did”, I commented to Damo, at one point about the team from New Zealand. “They’re phoning it in”, Damo responded with a laugh, noting the lack of activity in the match between Central Coast Mariners and Wellington Phoenix (NZ).
As Damo was born in Wellington, and then settled on the Central Coast in his teenage years, I asked him who he was going for. At the end of the day I think we both hoped Wellington would win (and they did, undeservedly in a Stephen Bradbury-like contest). I don’t know about Damo, but I kinda felt sorry for Wellington because in the vast sea of yellow and blue (I could have worn my Swedish shirt) of Central Coast supporters, Wellington seemed have just one sole supporter in the audience, sitting in the row in front of us. Given his response to the sole goal scored during the match in favour of Wellington, I suspect he’s still celebrating now.
I don’t remember the last time I’ve been to see a soccer match, but when I got the invite last night, I said yes instantly I thought it would be an interesting and different way of spending the afternoon. And it was.
I caught the train to the Central Coast around lunchtime and it was reasonably quiet, meaning I could read the papers (the most interesting thing was the Madonna-Guy Ritchie divorce stuff), and even have a sleep before arriving at Gosford station.
Mariners vs Phoenix at Gosford Stadium
We both enjoyed the match a fair bit. In the boring bits, Damo had his new camera to play with while I enjoyed the father-son commentary with a sense of familiarity and amusement.
We left just before the end when the result was clear, to avoid some of the crowds. As we walked towards the car, we passed the now infamous Iguana Joes where Belinda Neal and John Della Bosca met their Waterloo. Unfortunately it was closed, which we both thought unusual for a Sunday afternoon. So we hopped in the car and just came back. As it was, the trip back to Sydney was fairly smooth sailing, aside from a few snarls here and there.
Back in Surry Hills, we had a bite to eat an old favourite, the Dhaba Restaurant. A pretty good Sunday, eh?
Crust Pizza I didn’t mean to end up eating take-away pizza tonight, especially on such a warm night, but somehow it happened.
Grant and I were supposed to go to see the recently-released film “Angel”, at a film night organised by the Swedish Church in Sydney.
We were both looking forward to it, even though we had both read some awful reviews on the internet. The film-maker, Colin Nutley, has made some really great films. But this one, released last year, wasn’t rated so highly by the amateur critics on IMDB.
Nonetheless, we headed off this evening with every intention of seeing the film.
I’m anxiously awaiting the re-commencement of Swedish classes, and Grant is resuming Swedish studies for the first time in a number of years. For both of us, we were hoping it was a way to re-enter our language studies in a non-threatening manner. And besides, we had read somewhere the regular film nights featured films with English sub-titles also.
And that’s where it all came unstuck. As we arrived at the cafe tonight, we both understood enough Swedish to realise what “ingen engelsk texting” meant. “Without English subtitles” was a major impediment for both of us. As much as we both love and speak a little Swedish, it’s not enough so that we could watch a film without occasionally glancing downwards to follow the action.
In the end, we decided to meet Graeme for a couple of beers at a nearby pub.
And that’s how I somehow ended up ordering one of those very tasty Crust Pizzas.
