Sven's life in Oz

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.

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.

In exactly two weeks I will be checking in at the airport for my flight to New York and a fabulous eleven days of American summeriness which should help (a) beat the winter blues and (b) top up the tan. Time seems to be flying and I haven’t even thought about packing yet, which is quite out of character for me. Perhaps I am becoming a well-adjusted individual after all this time. One swallow does not a summer make, so let’s reserve judgment on that for now.

This will be my first time flying over the Pacific and, as a Brit, it feels like I’m about to go the wrong way around the world. Living in England, you get used to thinking that London is the centre of the world (it is zero longitude, after all) and everywhere rotates around the flight paths out of Heathrow. Despite living in Australia now I still think of it as a country on the very edge of the world, as though we are clinging onto the map and just beyond the shores there be monsters. New Zealand is literally dangling over the abyss. I’m a secret flat-earther and I never even knew it.

Three things excite me about my upcoming flight. First, I will cross the international date line. I’m going to try and stay awake as we go over it: I know it will pass completely without event it will still be a little thrill for me. The second thing is linked to the first, in that I will get to see the same sunrise twice. I leave Sydney at 10am, so I will see the sun come up as I head to the airport to check in. As the sun travels through the sky in one direction, my flight will go the other way around the planet and catch up with the same day as we approach LA. I know that it’s just a flight and it happens every day, but it still blows my mind to think of it like that. Living in the twenty-first century is just great. Finally, and perhaps most stupidly, my return to New York means that I will have gone completely around the world once. I left New York after my last holiday there in 2004, and although it has taken me six years with lots of stops, side-trips and doubling back, it marks the end of one complete circuit. I don’t care what you say: I think it’s pretty awesome.

Of course, all of of this is merely the beginning: I haven’t even started on the holiday itself! Not only am I hoping to meet the fabulous New Yorkers from my circle of bloggery, but Emma Blonde – beloved friend and university housemate extraordinare – will be in town; New York Gay Pride kicks off on the second weekend; and the rugby team will all be flying in after their Bingham Cup tour concludes. It’s just too exciting, so to ease myself into the fun we’re having an afternoon in the Sheep’s Meadow in Central Park on 19 June. If you’re in the city, come join me – I’ll be the one drinking champagne and exuding fabulousness.

See you there!

Since the show itself is delayed in Australia, so are my thoughts. The time difference is not your friend when the event takes place on a Saturday night in Europe; and Facebook and Twitter are your mortal enemies when you’re trying to spend the day NOT finding out who won. I only had to open my eyes and some clown had bemoaned it on his Facebook status. I actually quite liked the winning entry, even if she was singing in a cockney accent despite hailing from Hanover.

The show was one of the best ones I’ve seen in recent years, where “best” means “thankfully the novelty entries have been kept to a minimum and the cheese factor is high.” Sarah and I enjoyed two bottles of wine and a healthy serving of fattoush and dukkah (traditional Eurovision party fare if ever there was some) while we mocked the entries mercilessly and wondered aloud at the sexuality of most of the performers.

Since I already knew the winner the only mystery for me was where the UK would end up. Britain put in a sterling performance, of course. So great was our entry that we finished 25th out of 25 entrants. What a success! For a nation that simply doesn’t take this show seriously I can only assume that was the plan all along. Of course we all moan about it and decry the political voting, but next year we’ll send in another Ten Good Reasons-reject song from the Mike Waterman Hall of Forgettable Pop Mediocrity and repeat the cycle. We’re nothing if not consistent.

And so that’s it for another year. I shall be humming the Romanian entry for the next week, and no doubt when I get to Stonewall on the weekend the drag routine will be set to Albania’s rousing number. Enjoy!