Sven's life in Oz

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!

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?

I’m back! I decided that connecting up my internet was daft since I was leaving the country for three weeks, so upon my return I set about getting myself back online.  This week I finally received my new modem and got back online, meaning I can blog, tweet and browse from the comfort of my sofa again! (I could do all that with my iPhone, in truth, but the keypad is RSI waiting to happen if I tried serious browsing on that tiny device.)  More importantly, I can get back onto feedly and catch up with everyone else’s blogs…

…erm, maybe not.  I might just have to scrap the lot and start again.  If you read me maybe you could leave a brief summary of your past couple of months in the comments, or pick one or two posts that could bring me up to speed? Thanks so much.

So, my sojourn in the UK is over and there isn’t time to write up everything that happened – it was non-stop from the moment I arrived to the time I left.  Much fun was had and the photos are up on flickr (several of me looking trashed and disheveled, you’ll be delighted to know), but more than that, I learned a few lessons about myself which I think I needed my friends to remind me I already knew.

1. I must write. The number of friends who gave me a serve for not having moved my novel on at all can’t be counted on my fingers.  Having a job where I get to write is good, but it’s not enough for my friends who, for some crazy reason, have faith in me and get disappointed when I’m not fulfilling my potential.  I know, unreasonable, right?  However, it’s not all bad news – this month I am researching my MA options properly, so hopefully I can start study in February.  I need someone to beat me into completion, so I figure an MA is a good way to do that whilst also networking for a future career.  I’ll keep you posted.

2. Being single is nothing to fear. I haven’t really been alone before in my life. Obviously I’ve been on my own, but I’ve never been properly on my own – I’ve always had my family, flatmates or a partner to keep me company. When I visited Liccy and Robin in London and they headed off to work on Monday morning, I think it was the first time I have ever been truly left to my own devices. Nothing depended on my achieving anything that day: I had only myself to please and the whole world to do it in. I went around St Paul’s Cathedral, and walked to Hyde Park Corner, Buckingham Palace and St James’s Park before heading back to meet my hosts for dinner. Some of that was new, some was well-trod, but all of it was my choice – no stopping to eat when someone else was hungry, no going somewhere or missing somewhere else as a compromise.  At the start of the day I was almost paralysed with the prospect; by the end I was pleased with what I had done.  Being alone is no big deal, and certainly nothing to fear.

3. I am a catch. When I discussed with my good friend CaroMel how I was a bit intimidated by dating someone who was older and more successful than I was, she practically jumped down my throat.  “You are brilliant and anyone would be lucky to have you,” she roared vehemently, “don’t let anyone make you feel like you aren’t.”  This is exactly what I say to others in my position but sometimes you need to hear it from someone else to remember that it also applies to you.  (I remember telling my self-deprecating friend Al: “Oh, I’m not having any of that” when he tried to suggest his now wife might be out of his league.  “You’re fantastic. Now get over there and talk to her.”  I’m nothing if not direct.)  No one should intimidate you: we’re all just muddling along as best we can, hoping people see that we dressed for the party and don’t notice our fly is open.  Confidence is sexy: if you’re intimidated by your date, he’s not going to be your date for very long.

4. Friends are food for the soul. No matter what, there is always someone who would be thrilled to hear from you. Good friends give so much, even if you feel like you have so little to give in return.  Even though my holiday wasn’t restful in the traditional sense, being with people with whom you “need be neither brave nor reticent” is a rest in itself.  Starting a new life in another country takes stamina and perseverance, so going home to familiar faces and being able to share the bad stuff as well as the good without seeming to whinge is a relief.  Listening to friends fills up your soul; their stories, their care, their advice all help you to grow.  So long as you have friends, you can do anything.

Leaving England was harder this time, perhaps because it was not the big adventure it was last time, but more likely because I better appreciated what I was leaving behind.  The flight itself was uneventful and I slept most of the way so my jetlag only lasted a couple of days.  Within a week things were back to normal and it was like I had never been away.  My Australian friends were as thrilled to have me back as my English friends had been to see me, and they were keen to fill my diary with all manner of parties and events.  Of course I took them up on the offers, such as tonight’s Sleaze Ball.  I’m still a big bag of insecurity and overconfidence and arrogance and doubt, but I’m damned if that’s going to stop me having a good time.  I am who I am, and life is too short.

When I first came back to the UK I was remarkably blasé about living abroad.  It’s not that far away, it will be nice to see my friends, and I’ll be going back in a few weeks.  Now, with only a couple of days before I leave I’m finding it harder to go back than it was to quit the country in the first place.  The past ten days have been so full of laughter and love that I actually found myself crying on the train the other day when I thought about leaving it all behind again.  (In my defence, I was exhausted.  Normally I only cry when I’m so tired I can barely function; this was certainly one of those times.)

In just over a week I squeezed in more fun with friends than I thought possible: trips to Southampton and London, a night at the theatre that turned into a night at the bar, a dinner party, a wedding, two raucous nights out and an afternoon entertaining a two-year old and lounging about on the sofa.  I will go home with a mountain of photos from this period, and every second was a sheer delight, but the absolute highlight must of course be the wedding.  There’s something about a wedding that fills the heart with such glee that you could almost touch it.  They are magical, and this one was the perfect example.

I have known Mike for nearly 15 years.  He and Kerry are quite clearly made for each other and seeing them get married was an utter joy.  I was privileged to be a part of it and give the reading.  (I was doing fine till I looked at them both; as soon as I saw their faces my hands started shaking so hard I could barely read the poem.)  Watching them take their vows was humbling.  I’ve thought a lot about how I could describe what I saw.  All I can say is that I would not have been surprised to see their love literally balloon up like a beach ball and get thrown around the room.  They had such fun that it was practically tangible.  Theirs is a conspiracy against the world full of laughter – Maria, sitting next to me, was crying within seconds and I was not far behind.

After the ceremony we all had a chance to walk around and see the animals (their venue was Bristol Zoo), and catch up with friends I haven’t seen in almost a year.  It was as though I had never left.  We laughed so hard our sides hurt, took stupid photos and told each other our stories.  The wedding breakfast, the dancing, the drunken walk into town and the after-party party at a crazy club in Clifton; each was perfect and more than once I wondered how I could ever have left these people to live in Australia.

Of course, a wedding is not real life: if every day were like this it would become unbearable very quickly.  But a wedding does highlight the best parts of family and friendships.  For me, it was the perfect seal on a week of renewing those friendships and it made me remember how lucky I am to know these people, to listen in and share their lives, and go away knowing that next time I see them there will be new stories to tell and new experiences to share, but that nothing will have changed; it will all be as though we had never been apart.  These are my friends, and I am in love with them all.

Whilst I was in London I managed to squeeze in a quick drink and nibbles with Milo.  He and I have been online friends for a couple of years now but this was the first time we had managed to meet up face to face.  As anyone who has ever joined an online dating service will attest, meeting people from the internet is so common now that it’s barely worth mentioning, but it’s still a daunting prospect meeting someone for the first time.

In the event, it was eerily natural; Milo and I got on as though we had been drinking together for years.  He took me to a wine bar he frequents with a waiter he fancies.  Sadly the waiter was not there so I couldn’t work the old Sveny magic and hook them up (I’m a regular Yente) but we had a good time any way.  We talked about everything and everyone, had some food and a couple of bottles of wine and laughed a lot.  It was great fun.  It’s sort of weird to know so much about someone before you meet them, but there was no ice-breaking or awkward pauses while you search for conversation and things in common – it’s all right there.  You just have to open your mouth.

Sadly it was all too short as I had to get the coach back to Bath (far cheaper than the train – I’m a prudent traveller) so it got to the stage where I was literally throwing the prosecco down my throat (something I probably wouldn’t do with a new friend: strange I felt quite happy to do it in front of Milo) before hitting the road.  I’ll be back in the UK next year so hopefully I can do it again with a bit more time and class in 2010.  Milo’s side of the story is over on his site, and if you are ever in Sydney, dear reader, make sure you say hello – I’m a tweet-up pro now!