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.

Living alone does funny things to you. Not only must you wash your clothes, hoover your floors and make sure you go to bed at a reasonable hour without anyone telling you to, but you need to keep yourself healthy and avoid the peculiar ailments that only the vivant seuls seem to contract. The most high-profile condition affecting those of independent residence, mainly middle-aged women and upwards, is Stray Cat Kleptomania. The symptoms of advanced SCK need no explanation: there’s at least one poor victim of this peculiar disorder in every neighbourhood. Early warning signs may include, though are not limited to, owning a Nissan Micra with decorative cushions and blanket on the back seat (frequently with feline detailing and needlework); and listening to The Carpenters whilst driving. Stay alert. Fortunately I am a man, I live in the centre of town, and I have no desire to house any pets, least of all cats; my immunity to this particular pathogen is relatively high.

Of greater concern to those living alone is Audible Internal Monologue Disorder. Persons who spend a large portion of their day alone have been known to suffer from internal monologue leakage. This can be particularly concerning when the stream of consciousness – normally purely a mental activity – leaks into the vocal chords, giving rise to what observers have termed ‘talking to oneself’. Sufferers of AIMD are frequently ridiculed as suffering from a mental disorder. This is often incorrect: talking to oneself is the result of a physical imbalance and can be corrected over time by frequent contact with non-afflicted individuals.  It should be noted that sufferers of AIMD generally do not regard their affliction as a burden and report that they frequently produced superior responses in comparison with standard conversation.

I am fortunate to work in an industry where talking and meeting people is an everyday activity, and am therefore inoculating myself daily against the threat of AIMD. Nonetheless, I have not been so lucky on all fronts, and James recently diagnosed me with a severe but reversible case of a common male complaint: Bachelor Fridge Syndrome.

A prescription for a week’s worth of proper food shopping and a course of fresh vegetables should clear it up. Failing that, we will have to cauterize my take-away menus. Fingers crossed for a full recovery.

You know when you watch that awful advert in the UK, where Gloria Hunniford is flogging an adjust-o-matic bed with some homely advice on having good beds and shoes, “because if you’re not in one, you’re in the other”, and you want to hate her but it actually sounds like quite a handy tip? Well, however much it sticks in my craw, I can say without fear of contradiction that Gloria is right on the money: shoes matter.  And all the ladies in the room, let me hear you.

One of my earliest purchases in Sydney was a new pair of flip-flops.  They’re called ‘thongs’ over here, but that just makes me laugh so we’re sticking with the (only slightly) less loony English name.  Within a fortnight of landing I had learned my first lesson about sensible footwear:

“Always buy your shoes in the climate you will wear them”

Just like you wouldn’t buy a winter coat in Australia, nor should you consider your British flip-flops appropriate for everyday wear down under.  British flip-flops are not designed to be worn for longer than 30 minutes, which gives you five minutes to dig them out of the wardrobe, five minutes to gently peel them off when they start to rub, and twenty minutes in between to enjoy the British summer in its entirety.  Unless you bought them in Dune, in which case you will have blisters at the mere thought of wearing them, although they will match your outfit perfectly.  Within a fotnight, it was either buy some new flip-flops or cut my feet off.  Since I was fresh out of ether, I went with the shopping plan.  Fortunately, I knew exactly what to do.  My sister had taught me the second important rule of appropraite footwear:

“Wear what the locals wear”

When she arrived in Sydney a year ago, she made the same mistake I did, and thought that her glitzy, trendy Brit-flops were going to do the job.  Oh, I believe she too was in some agony for a short while, before she admitted to herself that you can’t look good with trendy footwear and a face like you’ve been kicked in the genitals.  After some enquiries she discovered that if you want to look hot in sandals, you need to buy yourself some Havaianas.  She was an immediate convert and I too have followed in her wake.  They are like walking on clouds.  They are like having two little lambs throw themselves underfoot with every step you take.  They are, well, just ordinary flip-flops.  And this is where the third rule comes in:

“Keep it simple”

Havaianas are just one step up from the good old-fashioned flip-flops your parents bought you at the shop on day trips to Weston.   It’s two foot-shaped pieces of foam and a plastic thong to hold them on and that’s it.  There’s nothing to rub your skin; there’s nothing that won’t immediately give way to the deformities that have caused you such agony in conventional shoes; hell, there’s practically nothing to them at all.  Which begs the question, why are they $30 a pop?  Well, it’s because they know they are good, and everyone buys them so they have become a mega-brand.  That’s the free market for you.  On the other hand, the benefits of being so popular are that they come in a range of colours and, although they aren’t cheap, they’re not so expensive that you can’t have five or six pairs to go with the entire spectrum of your wardrobe.  I’m not there yet, but it is my ambition to have a rainbow of flip-flops before long.  In the meantime, a final rule for summer footwear style:

“A classic never dies”

I have worn my flip-flops every day since I arrived, and they’re only wearing out because they go with everything.  Flip-flops: I love you.

It seems that all I needed was to get all that off my chest; once I told the truth and shamed my devil I felt much better.  Today, despite the weather predicting rain, thunder and lightening and other apocalyptic harbingers of the Beast, the sun was scorching and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.  My sister and her boyfriend got engaged last week and today was ring-shopping day: they’re getting a temporary ring till they return to the UK to get a proper one.

First we met Jim for lunch (he’s the only one of us with a job, so it was the least we could do):

Then we went and picked a ring for Kara, which was VERY exciting:

Then I bought some stationery which, as we all know, is one of my favourite things in the world, before we all went and hung out by the big Christmas tree in Martin Place:

And now it’s 6pm and I’m drinking Jacob’s Creek on special and looking forward to the weekend.  Oh, and my furniture is released from Customs tomorrow but the delivery company can’t deliver it till after 5 January, so we’re going to pick it up on Monday ourselves.  I knew I didn’t have a job yet for a reason – despite everything, I still get to sleep in my own bed before Christmas.  I’m back, bitches!

Ah, Christmas is coming.  It’s snowing already and the nights are well and truly drawn in.  Kerry Katona has switched on the lights in your local shopping centre and the season is well and truly upon us.  It’s time to down your mulled wine, pull on the D&G winter range you bought in the January sales, and hit the high street: people need presents.

Not for me!  Christmas Down Under is a far more civilised affair.  Don’t get me wrong: I love a traditional, chilly Christmas; it’s just that while you are puttering around jumping over slush puddles and dropping your gloves, I am donning my flip-flops, swanning around Target and then heading to the beach.  And this is just one of the benefits I have discovered in celebrating Christmas on the other side of the world.

First, I have the opportunity to buy sensible, practical presents.  It’s the height of summer here: no one wants tat.  No one would be seen dead in a Santa-laden swimming costume and the shops, correspondingly, seem not to stock such items.  There are a few snowy Christmas windows but they seem incongruous with the weather and, well, just plain odd.  The department stores have not filled up on brightly coloured scarves and comical boxers, because there just isn’t a market for it.  Perhaps this means that there are 18 million Old Spice gift packs making their way to households across the country, but isn’t that better than another pack of roses and a pair of reindeer socks?

Secondly, the postal deadline.  You have to love the post office.  They waste your time day after day with their unending queues and pointless form-filling, and Australia Post is no different.  But they come good around this time of year when they set the posting date so early that you have to have everything done by the end of November to stand a hope of getting it delivered on time.  Last posting from the UK to Australia is 5 December; I got my Christmas list out a month in advance.  Once I’ve sealed up my boxes and sent them back to Blighty, I’ve got three weeks to sit, drink and wonder what’s going to appear on my doorstep come Christmas Eve.  Farewell, last minute panic: hello, Tanqueray.

But finally, and perhaps most importantly, people wear less.  Say what you want about the snug feel of a cashmere scarf, or the warming glow of a festive window on a winter’s night: nothing puts the Happy into Christmas like a man with a tan on Bondi beach.  When was the last time you drooled over anyone dressed head to toe in anti-blizzard gear?  I suppose there’s the thrill of imaging what’s underneath it all, or perhaps even peeling off layer after layer if you get that lucky, but why bother?  Australia is the home of the speedo, and it’s the best gift of all.