Sven's life in Oz

Since I got back from the US, I have been rushed off my feet. Work has been mad thanks to the sudden departure of my boss and the merging of my team with the media team. This is a great opportunity for me, but it has meant I have been busier than ever. I’ve barely had time to catch my breath. Of course, this merge means I get more opportunity to move my career in the direction I want, i.e. more writing and less communications strategy, so I’m happy to do it. That said, I was recently told that I take things a bit too far.

“How do you have any fun?” I was asked when I entered into the very rant I am about to transcribe here. I was so perplexed that it was all I could do to stammer out a response with a puzzled look on my face that really didn’t make things any clearer. “Don’t you understand,” I said, “that this is how I have fun?”

Airline grammar

It has long been said – and when I say that I mean: “Every time I go out to eat I say” – that restaurant menus are where the English language goes to die. Every noun has an adjective, every adjective has an adverb; the very worst have verbs in their own right, as though your dinner is capable of performing some activity other than simply being, which is the kind of extant position you would have thought we could assume when placing our order. Whilst nothing can be worse than the lamentable state of the modern bill of fare, there are other places where our language is, if not gasping its last breath, at least clocking off early and taking a breather. I speak, of course, of the airline industry. At the prospect of crossing a border – and I’m including you in this as well, America; you’re as bad as anyone else – English seems to break down, and airline personnel are willing accomplices.

Now, I know several cabin crew members for various airlines very well and they are among the cleverest, most informed people I know. (See also: ’some of my best friends are gay’.) International languages trip from their tongues like Austrian children in outfits made from curtain fabric. They talk like natives of places that I would have to look up on a map. And yet, whenever I am in an airport I can guarantee that I will hear at least one of the following:

• “This is the last and final call for…”
• “If I could have your full and complete attention…”
• “Ladies and gentlemen, at this time…”,
• or sometimes all three together: “Ladies and gentlemen, at this time I would like your full and complete attention as this is the last and final call for…” *head explode*

Tautologies abound! If it is the last call it must be final; if you want my full attention, it must also be complete. As for “at this time”, it is wholly redundant. Re-read that sentence and tell me that it doesn’t make sense without those three little words. What annoys me is not that people use them. I can understand that it helps to distinguish between advance notices such as “in five minutes we will start selling you duty free and robbing you of all your loose change for an unspecified children’s charity”. What annoys me is the way they litter airline announcements like grammatical dog turds on an picturesque linguistic village green. Sentences that begin with: “At this time…” frequently also end with “…at this time”! Sometimes there’s even one in the middle!

I have no doubt that this little phrase is an air steward’s version of an “ummm” – the pleonastic symptom of an attack of stage-fright or a mental blank – but please, for the love of sanity, think before you press “page”. Good planning is the key to successful public speaking. And while you’re at it, put a comma in this, and a question mark at the end:

Thanks ever so much.

On the whole, since moving to Australia, I’ve found it fairly easy to adapt to my new life. It’s really not that different to the northern hemisphere, except the water goes down the drain the wrong way and the closest pole is the South. But one thing I have found a real challenge is the upside-down seasonal backwardness that comes with living here. At present we are enduring a particularly biting Australian winter, with frost on the ground and a wind that makes even my European bones shiver. Despite all that, I am still the envy of my peers thanks to a fabulous tan, gained after ten days in the summery sunshine of the New York.

I’ve been to New York before and this time, since I was visiting a friend, it was nice not to have to rush around and do the touristy things again. Nick’s family live a little out of Manhattan in a beautiful country town where we could sit on the dock of the lake at night, drink wine, get bitten by mosquitoes and try to attract the resident bear with imitation mating calls. When we weren’t pestering the local wildlife, we got some target practice with the family guns, of which there were more than enough to fuck you up should you come looking for trouble. Turns out I’m a natural with a firearm; I’m considering jacking in the writing lark and becoming a marksman. I’m sure I could make a mint in downtown Sydney with my wicked skills.

Of course, I didn’t go all that way just to sit out in the countryside getting a tan and beating people at Scrabble and Rummikub; those were just additional benefits. I went to the Met to see a couple of exhibits (including one on Aboriginal art – how’s that for poetic?), caught a Broadway show (Phantom of the Opera – excellent), and spent a day at Six Flags. I also shopped my ass off. I left Australia with one suitcase and came back with two. That’s some serious retail. The total inventory looks something like this:

• 2 x sunglasses
• 2 x jumpers
• 6 x polo shirts
• 2 x formal shirts
• 3 x jeans
• 3 x shoes/trainers
• 2 x bedsheet sets
• 1 x writing set
• assorted gifts/cards etc

Considering I have done virtually no shopping in the past six months, I think I was actually very reserved. I didn’t spend all my holiday cash on clothes, however: I also ate like a king and drank like a fish. You haven’t lived till you’re drunk on champagne in Central Park at 4pm on a Saturday afternoon, thinking that margaritas and mexican food is a good idea. (It isn’t, as your colon will remind you the following morning.) So, while I didn’t see the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building this time, I did see the inside of Vlada and Therapy, which was probably more fun. After all, when was the last time you got home-distilled vodka on the Staten Island ferry?

Photos of my trip (including me looking fierce with firearms) are in the usual place.

I’m cheating on you with New York, but you’re still beautiful.

We cannot always do what our heart desires; but if we always do what our head tells us then what is the point in having a heart at all?

When I was a boy I used to complain about doing things without any choice in them. Little did I know then that making choices means living with them. You can’t blame other people when you make the decision freely. You can talk to people and ask for opinions, but you must decide who listen to, and whether you think they are right. Sometimes you should listen to their advice. Other times not.

A choice is always a gamble: living with the right ones always easier than the wrong ones. Hardest of all are the ones where your heart was right, your brain was wrong and there’s nothing you can do about it. Sometimes you can go back and change your mind. Other times not.

I need to remember to trust myself more: I am best when I lead with my heart. I’m lucky like that: my heart is usually right and my trust or love or caution is usually rewarded. But sometimes my brain takes the lead, and sometimes it agrees with my heart, and other times not. Regret comes after your brain betrays your heart, even for noble reasons; and you have no one to blame but yourself.

Over the past few months I have made some bad choices. I have to live with them now. That’s the deal you make when you listen to your head and not your heart. For better or worse, we’re in it together. I’m not dead, but I don’t feel stronger.

Maybe, after a while.

A few months ago I blogged about how I wasn’t paying for my power at home. We all knew it wasn’t going to last forever; inevitably the power company realised that I was lighting my home, washing my clothes and living my digital life with zero capital outlay; and sent me a bill. Thankfully it wasn’t as astronomical as I was expecting, but it was from the wrong company. I had instructed AGL to supply my power but the bill came from TRU. Quite the mystery.

AGL were very helpful: they said they would talk to TRU, sort out the problem and bill me retrospectively. They also said they would let me settle up over a few months rather than pay for a whole year’s energy in one go. “Leave it up to us,” they said, so I did. Six weeks later TRU threatened to cut me off. I rang AGL again. “We have no idea why we read your meter but didn’t transfer the contract,” they said, “and we have no way of finding out.” I went apocalyptic on them, but to no avail. Apparently AGL don’t (a) keep records or (b) chase up potential business contracts. I guess (b) is a logical result of (a), but it’s no way to run a business. “It really doesn’t matter whether it’s our fault or TRU’s,” said AGL, “you’re still going to have to pay that bill, then we can take on your contract.” Au contraire, AGL. I’d rather power the whole place with batteries than give you my custom in future. Your dreadful service has cost you my business.

I love Australia, but I wonder how we are so wealthy with service like this. Businesses in any other country would simply go under. AGL is still trading because everyone else is exactly the same. The customer service bar here is so low that the most derisory, patronising, unhelpful call centre worker can sail over it with ease. Telstra, the single most awful company I have ever had to deal with, remain the national telco despite their abysmal service reputation. I suspect the number of complaints is actually spectacularly low: anyone calling to raise a concern would wizen and expire long before they got through the queuing system. Similarly, Strata – the ubiquitous property management company – seem to have based their service philosophy on “The Stalinist guide to keeping your tenants happy”: by-laws abound and their staff are ruthless, tyrannical martinets; like a military junta running a helpline.

Life in Australia is a extant case for the minimum wage and performance-based commission. Luckily for businesses here, we have glorious weather, beautiful beaches and an amazing standard of living instead. When we finally reach the unsatisfactory end of our disappointing customer experience, at least we can conclude that it wasn’t a total loss: three hours on hold in the sunshine can give you a marvellous base tan for summer.