Sven's life in Oz

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.

Australia is an arid, parched land most of the year. Not that we city-dwellers would know it: I turn on the tap and water comes out, so I don’t ask any questions. I seldom think that only a few hours drive away there’s a giant desert the size of Europe where every drop of water is trapped and reused three times before it eventually evaporates away. But the idea that we live in a paradise of perpetual summer is not entirely accurate. It may not ever freeze in the Red Centre, but Sydney gets cold in a hurry when winter arrives and I am never prepared for it.

Before I continue I should  define the term ‘cold’. I am not talking northern hemisphere cold. If it ever snows in Sydney I’ll eat my bobble hat. I don’t think I’ve even seen a frost in the city, although last year the temperature did drop to -1C overnight. The days usually peak at around 12/13C in the coldest period, which may not seem all that frigid to you, but when it’s 30C on an average day a 20-degree drop feels pretty baltic to me.

As usual I caught the first cold of the season, spread it around the office and got it back again with interest. I was feeling smug to have shifted it in two days, little suspecting my colleagues were just looking after it for me. I’m beginning to think I’m some kind of influenza incubator; a common-cold Typhoid Mary just waiting for the next wintry snap to spread my infection like a seasonal plague.

Last week I packed up the fans and rolled out the heaters as my aluminium-framed windows aren’t exactly built for the colder seasons and, this being Sydney, central heating is unheard of. I admitted defeat and accepted the summer was over when I dragged my duvet out of the cupboard and installed it on the bed. I dug my slippers out from the back of the drawer and wrapped myself in a blanket while I watched tv. I am a beaten man.

Winter in Sydney is horrible for two reasons. Firstly, it’s not Christmas. In the UK winter means the end of the year, a winding down from the summer and a ramping up of the party season as we race towards December. Here there’s nothing to look forward to but the return of summer. There’s no Christmas, no New Year and no party season. It’s just an inconvenient three-month interregnum between barbecues and pool parties. And secondly, nothing happens. Everyone rugs up, stays in and waits for the sun to come back. When you live in an outdoors-y nation like this one, you forget how to entertain yourself at home. By September everyone has gone stir-crazy and deathly pale.

At least this year I have three things to look forward to: my holiday in NYC, my birthday and my sister’s wedding. I’m sure that will keep the blues at bay. Now, where did I put that Scrabble?

When you’re finished, you too can have beautiful Christmas cards like this:

Some days I forget that the Earth is just a giant ball hurtling around the sun at 25,000 miles an hour; that tricksy force called gravity fools me into thinking that the UK isn’t that far away and I can just scoot home for the weekend at the drop of a hat.  It’s not all gravity’s fault, of course: Sydney feels quite homely now and it makes sense that my two homes would not be inconceiveably far apart.  By and large I’m quite happy in this little daydream, but every now and then something rudely shatters it for me and I am forced to exact a terrible revenge.  I justify this not by simple retribution, but in defence of public health.  In England, we don’t get spiders and mosquitoes and cockroaches: in Sydney the buggers are everywhere.

Spiders
I should start by saying that I have a very limited experience of spiders in Australia, and though I am not a believer in fate I have just nonchalantly rubbed my hands over my laminated MDF desktop and hope there’s enough wood in there to appease the gods.  However, there are more deadly arachnids roaming the streets than I am comfortable with and it’s only a matter of time before one of them crosses my path.  To date, my closest encounter with anything dangerous has been by text, and I’m happy to keep it that way.   James sent me a message telling me not panic, but he saw a redback spider on the way out of the apartment one morning; he also sent the message to my sister.  Before you could say ‘over-reaction’ she had the balconies shut, the windows sealed and an escape route mapped out on a post-it note.   By the time I went looking for the deadly creepy-crawly, someone else had killed it off.  We didn’t even get to see it.  I’m not normally scared of spiders, but the really big ones do make me feel a bit nervous.  It turns out this is no help at all in the survival stakes.  The bigger they are, the less harm they can do you.  It seems that if you are the size of a house, you don’t need super-powerful venom to kill off your prey: you’ve got brute force.   Evolution rewards the smaller guy – the one I would be more likely to encourage out the door with my finger – with poisons to rival ebola.  Neat, eh?

Mosquitoes
You learn something new every day: mosquitoes are nectar drinkers.  Don’t believe it?  Yeah, me either.  Turns out that the men are docile, placcid flower-loving beatniks, but the females are the work of Beelzebub.  Apparently nectar just doesn’t incubate the eggs like the warm internal juices of an unsuspecting mammal.  Every time you get bitten and shout “Bitch!”, you can be confident in the knowledge that you are linguistically accurate: only the girls bite.  Mosquitoes are my pet hate: they are devious, patient and tenacious.  They bimble around in the area, trying to look nonchalant, and approach you quietly before alighting imperceptibly on the only bit of skin you forgot to Aeroguard.  (I thought they were supposed to buzz: someone forget to tell the aussie mozzies that noise was fair warning.)  Then, they use their anaesthetic-tipped stabbermajig to pierce your skin and drink your blood.   Anaesthetic!?  We’ve only had it for a century and the mosquitoes have been using it for 150 million years?  Where’s the justice?  Even the insect repellents aren’t without risk: reading a bottle of Bushman’s the other day, I was surprised to learn that daily use for more than four months can have serious side-effects like skin-poisoning.  You’re screwed either way.  The only way forward is death.  Kill them all and leave nothing to chance.  Mercy is for wimps.

Cockroaches
There are only two things that must be killed, in my book.  Mosquitoes, of course, but above them and at the top of the list are these wonders of evolution.  Cockroaches are without a doubt the creature least likely to make it out of my apartment alive.  Part of it is my Britishness: you only get roaches in England if you are dirty.  Not so in Australia: EVERYONE gets them and no matter how hard you try, they keep coming back.  If I see you, you carapaced spawn of Hades, I’m coming for you and sending you back to the depth of Hell from whence you came.  I’ve got sprays and traps and an arsenal that makes the Red Army look like the Girl Guides.  This is WAR.  I suppose it is a bit of an over-reaction: I mean, what harm can they actually do?  They don’t bite, they aren’t poisonous and they don’t play their music loud when I’m trying to sleep.  They should be the perfect neighbour.  But they don’t wipe their feet, they never wash their hands, they rummage around in my cupboards looking for food and they don’t pay any rent.  Well your freeloading days are over, you disease-riddled miracles of resilience.  I’m over it.  You are DEAD.  I’m going to be fighting you from now until the day I die.  But it’s a just war and you mark my words, it’s only just begun.

I know you are all dying to know, so here is how I made my pom-pons for the Mardi Gras.  First, take ten ordinary bin liners and lay them in a pile, one on top of the other:

Next, fold that pile in  half.  (If you are using fancy schmancy tie-top bin liners, you might want to cut that bit off first):

Then, take a pair of scissors and cut the pile into strips, starting at the folded end (if you start from the other end, you’re screwed):

Now, roll the uncut end together to form your handle:

Use some electrical tape to secure your bin liners and finish the handle:

Finally, give it some volume.  Rub the strands between your hands to floof them out and create that pom-pon look.  This works best if your hands are slightly damp:

Et voila!  Fabulous pom-pons in no time.  Shake those mothers!