Well hello there everyone - it's been a while since I have come across anyone I could put in the socially impaired and therefore 'bloggable' bracket' and today it happened. Thank God there are still people out there who are so dysfunctional in their expression of basic manners, otherwise what would I write about?
It was a standard Thursday for me today. Work was none-too-hectic which was a breath of fresh air and the revision I had done last night from a PDF of 600 moronic questions for my Driver Knowledge Test at the RTA was firmly imprinted on my brain, ready for my computerised exam at 1.30p.m.
Now I had dealt with these clowns before, so to give myself plenty of time I headed off just shy of 1 o clock to make sure I had my queue ticket and faculties together to take the test at half past. Lucky really, seeing as how I got the female version of Death as my RTA advisor. It went something like this:
Me: "Hi, I'm here as I have my DKT booked in for 1.30p.m. - sorry I am a bit early".
Satan: ...................................."hmphh"...............(slowly looking up).............................AND?"
Me: "Well, I came in and booked it about two weeks ago....with yourself actually".
Satan: "WELL - HAVE YOU GOT YOUR DOCUMENTS THEN????????????????????"
Fuck me - the fire she breathed nearly set light to my Pantene sprayed fringe.
Me: "Yes, here they are" (Fumbling around in my bag like passenger who had lost their air ticket with only seconds to catch a flight).
She snatched them off me, rifling through them in that manner as if to say 'I know there is going to be something wrong with the documentation you have provided, I just need to get my magnifying glass out to find it'.
What I find absolutely infuriating with these people is that they tell you you need certain documents etc - twice I have left that place and had to come back the next day with the 'relevant proof of ID' and twice they haven't even checked it the second time round. I don't get it - is 'Qualified Arsehole' part of the job description?
Anyway, there it was. The piece of information I so desperately needed in order to be able to take the test and not lose my booking fee. The signature page of my tenancy agreement. She went through each piece of evidence like a high court judge, making sure my brain was keeping up before sending me on my way to find someone who had known me for a year that had a full AUSTRALIAN driving license. So off I fucked, quickly since I had 15 mins to get this vital information before sitting the grand exam.
Bingo! My work colleague was sat at his desk and kindly whipped out his license and provided me with the signature that meant I could complete the procedure. Or so I thought. I ran back to the RTA wearing UGGs.
Upon my return, Satan was busy pissing someone else off - I thanked Jesus and prayed for someone a little less volatile. I got a Lobotomy casualty. I'd like to say we swiftly went through the document check but we didn't. After asking me my residential status at least five times and giving me the look that you'd only expect to get during a customs interrogation, she eventually set me up on a computer. The dude talking to me was charming. Shame he was a machine.
I breezed through the test, 45 out of 45. I am not bragging, but that was the easiest part of the whole experience. The final henchman I had to speak to was a woman who saw my score, got excited as she congratulated me although that lasted for a nano second, before she took me through the proverbial strip search once again.
I NEVER WANT TO GO BACK TO THAT PLACE AS LONG AS I LIVE!
I found an interesting link on how to deal with rude people following this afternoon's unecessary sequence of events. My favourite quote is "if you wrestle with a pig, you will stink":
http://www.helium.com/knowledge/109760-how-to-deal-with-rude-people
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Sex? No? See ya...
Smoking has its many disadvantages – one of them being the conversations you enter into with complete strangers whilst standing alone in the proverbial smoker’s corner. But you know me, I love this shit so in my case it's fuel for the fire!
This friends, is a tale about Memo. Memo was a relatively handsome German man with Italian heritage who was very well presented and had just flown back to Sydney from Melbourne where he had been in the process of acquiring a business. No shit – we were standing outside Establishment on George Street so he was the type.
As we were chatting about his impending triumph, my girlfriends left the bar and walked past us – “we’re going to the Ivy, come and bring your 'friend'!” I laughed off the innuendo in Fiona’s tone and continued with the intelligent conversation I seemed to have found myself in. At that point, Memo invited me inside for a drink. I toyed with the idea – coming to the ultimate conclusion that I needed to get out and meet more people so picked up my bag and followed him back inside (after taking a detour via the ladies – for a wee).
When I arrived at the bar he was standing alone which surprised me as he’d told me he had been with some friends. “They’re over there” he grunted. Now I know that Germans are the straightforward, directional type but this guy struck me as borderline pissed off. I don’t think it helped that when he was buying me a drink, a bunch of wasted English guys came over and introduced themselves – they were pretty funny though..
Nevertheless, I politely turned my back on them to resume my dialogue with Memo and set my sites on getting to the bottom of why he looked so fucking miserable. “I am tired” he said, “AND my colleague pissed me off today as he kept presenting my bits of the presentation”. No way, that sucks. Anyway, moving on…
The conversation moved on to ‘so what do you do when you’re not working on banky stuff?’ (Obviously I tried to sound a bit more educated than that).
Memo: “I listen to violin music with a glass of wine”.
Me: “…………..and………….”
Memo: “And occasionally I do some work”
What??? When this guy’s not working, he’s working. I told him he needed to get a life – in the nicest possible way of course. He seemed to open up. I even told him all about my end dreams to have a family and loving husband whilst sustaining a steady and fulfilling career – I felt it essential we moved onto me after he whipped out a CD of violin anthems. “Do you know Bach?” he said as he handed it to me. Immediate thought – since when did Bach play 'My Heart Will Go On'?
At this point I decided we should go for another cigarette - the change of scenery was enticing enough to shake the conversation up a bit. To inject some humour back into the situation as I regularly feel the need to do, I spotted a rather sweaty looking fat bloke a few metres away who happened to be wearing a strikingly similar shirt to my Deutsch friend. In a moment of comic genius, I pointed this out to Memo. It went down like a fart in a space suit. Still, I seem to get a kick out of winding people up that simply don't find ANYTHING funny. It's a challenge to me.
The final leg of this encounter was exercised back in the bar. We had moved on to talk about business aspirations - a topic we both seemingly enjoyed to the point where I felt it relevant to discuss a new business idea of my own. Memo gazed at me with a look of admiration - what a reception - my idea clearly rocked! Then I made the mistake of pausing my chat to take a breath. He moved in. He went for the lips. I retracted my attention.
Memo: "We have been talking serious for an hour now".
Me: "Have we...?"
Memo: "We can talk about how I might end up back at yours"
Me: "No we can't"
Memo: "Why not?"
Me: "Look, I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong idea but I met you an hour ago - I mean what are the chances of us exchanging phone numbers and getting to know each other?"
Memo: "We won't"
Me: "Fair enough, I'm off..."
And that was it! It was then I realised that admiration face = sex face. This guy was amazing! There was no bullshit, he simply wanted a shag and had no quarms expressing it. And I did so much to test the situation and put him off - I mean talking about marriage and the desire for offspring within 30mins of meeting someone is practically saying "I am going to stalk you and make your life a living hell" to a guy isn't it? I may as well have had 'Bunny Boiler' tattooed on my head and he still went in for the kill.
I got on the Manly ferry which I made within 5 mins of it leaving which made me happy. I remembered the last couple of hours which made me even happier. It's material like this I live for!
This friends, is a tale about Memo. Memo was a relatively handsome German man with Italian heritage who was very well presented and had just flown back to Sydney from Melbourne where he had been in the process of acquiring a business. No shit – we were standing outside Establishment on George Street so he was the type.
As we were chatting about his impending triumph, my girlfriends left the bar and walked past us – “we’re going to the Ivy, come and bring your 'friend'!” I laughed off the innuendo in Fiona’s tone and continued with the intelligent conversation I seemed to have found myself in. At that point, Memo invited me inside for a drink. I toyed with the idea – coming to the ultimate conclusion that I needed to get out and meet more people so picked up my bag and followed him back inside (after taking a detour via the ladies – for a wee).
When I arrived at the bar he was standing alone which surprised me as he’d told me he had been with some friends. “They’re over there” he grunted. Now I know that Germans are the straightforward, directional type but this guy struck me as borderline pissed off. I don’t think it helped that when he was buying me a drink, a bunch of wasted English guys came over and introduced themselves – they were pretty funny though..
Nevertheless, I politely turned my back on them to resume my dialogue with Memo and set my sites on getting to the bottom of why he looked so fucking miserable. “I am tired” he said, “AND my colleague pissed me off today as he kept presenting my bits of the presentation”. No way, that sucks. Anyway, moving on…
The conversation moved on to ‘so what do you do when you’re not working on banky stuff?’ (Obviously I tried to sound a bit more educated than that).
Memo: “I listen to violin music with a glass of wine”.
Me: “…………..and………….”
Memo: “And occasionally I do some work”
What??? When this guy’s not working, he’s working. I told him he needed to get a life – in the nicest possible way of course. He seemed to open up. I even told him all about my end dreams to have a family and loving husband whilst sustaining a steady and fulfilling career – I felt it essential we moved onto me after he whipped out a CD of violin anthems. “Do you know Bach?” he said as he handed it to me. Immediate thought – since when did Bach play 'My Heart Will Go On'?
At this point I decided we should go for another cigarette - the change of scenery was enticing enough to shake the conversation up a bit. To inject some humour back into the situation as I regularly feel the need to do, I spotted a rather sweaty looking fat bloke a few metres away who happened to be wearing a strikingly similar shirt to my Deutsch friend. In a moment of comic genius, I pointed this out to Memo. It went down like a fart in a space suit. Still, I seem to get a kick out of winding people up that simply don't find ANYTHING funny. It's a challenge to me.
The final leg of this encounter was exercised back in the bar. We had moved on to talk about business aspirations - a topic we both seemingly enjoyed to the point where I felt it relevant to discuss a new business idea of my own. Memo gazed at me with a look of admiration - what a reception - my idea clearly rocked! Then I made the mistake of pausing my chat to take a breath. He moved in. He went for the lips. I retracted my attention.
Memo: "We have been talking serious for an hour now".
Me: "Have we...?"
Memo: "We can talk about how I might end up back at yours"
Me: "No we can't"
Memo: "Why not?"
Me: "Look, I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong idea but I met you an hour ago - I mean what are the chances of us exchanging phone numbers and getting to know each other?"
Memo: "We won't"
Me: "Fair enough, I'm off..."
And that was it! It was then I realised that admiration face = sex face. This guy was amazing! There was no bullshit, he simply wanted a shag and had no quarms expressing it. And I did so much to test the situation and put him off - I mean talking about marriage and the desire for offspring within 30mins of meeting someone is practically saying "I am going to stalk you and make your life a living hell" to a guy isn't it? I may as well have had 'Bunny Boiler' tattooed on my head and he still went in for the kill.
I got on the Manly ferry which I made within 5 mins of it leaving which made me happy. I remembered the last couple of hours which made me even happier. It's material like this I live for!
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Demon Cleaner
"Demon Cleaner" is a song by Kyuss, a Californian band that were influential in the early nineties. The band were formed in the late1980s but split up in 1995 with members of the band dispersing and continuing their musical careers by going on to appear in bands such as Queens of the Stoneage and Slo Burn.
Demon Cleaner has generated some debate around the underlying meaning behind the lyrics - some believe that it denotes themes of alcohol abuse, a theory associated with the washing away of demons. Others look to use drugs as an explanation for similar reasons. This song touches my heart in a different way - to me the lyrics are clear in their expression:
"I've got the demons in me, I've got to brush them all away, I feel the demons rage I must clean them all away Yeah (yeah)"
This opening verse resonates on me like the fires of hell experienced as a small child when freshly awoken from a chilling nightmare. The cold sweats, the racing heartbeat, the longing to be beside your parents to collect their warmth and safety that only their time and presence in the dark night can calm. As a 26 year old adult, this translates to 10a.m. in the office.
I see him, he enters the room with a 'click,click' of the security enabled doors. Slower than most, and bringing with him a cool, spooky smell. The air changes from a room filled with the bitter sweet aroma of the morning's freshly made coffee to the bitter smell of - the cleaner. He is an elderley man, although appears younger than his age, with Greek origins. Moody.
During the period of innocence I embraced during my first few weeks at my current company, I was amazed at how welcoming the office could be - I mean what other company provides you with barista fresh coffee and a selection of breakfast options before you embark on a long day in media? I had found my home.
A inevitable consequence of this ultimate luxury however is obvious. Dishes. And unfortunately mugs too. But wait - there is a cleaner that comes in at 10a.m. to combat this situation - this place just gets better! Except for one thing. One small issue - this man resents having to move soiled crockery from one place to the next. Herein lies the fundamental problem and thus, marks the point in time where our relationship both starts and finishes. And so my story begins...
One glorious Wednesday morning, the sun was out, people in the office were buzzing as the hump in the week dawned and I had decided to treat myself to a glass of water as well as my usual caffeine based beverage. I had also decided that cereal was the way forward that morning. To make life easier for the cleaning staff, the cereal bowls are made from paper and easy to throw away and recycle. But this particular morning, something happened that diverted me away from my regular Wednesday morning routine - a meeting. In the hustle and bustle of preparation, I left my desk in a fleeting disorganised fashion, prioritising as I felt necessary. This meant leaving the remnants of my breakfast experience on my desk. To my ultimate misfortune, I failed to even throw the paper dish in the bin.
10.01a.m. and I am returning to my seat - shit. I am one nano-second behind the cleaner - this isn't a good position to be in. The conversation went something like this:
Cleaner: "What is this?"
Me: "That's my bowl"
Cleaner: "Fucking Jesus Christ"
Me: "I'm sorry?"
Cleaner: "Filthy fucking fuckers"
Me: "Sorry, I had more than the usual coffee this morning"
Cleaner: "Fuck"
Now forgive me if I am speaking out of turn here but isn't that a little extreme? In response to the scenario I had just found myself in and to my colleague's hysterics as he sat next to me, witnessing the whole thing, trying not to throw up through too much amusement, I spoke again although more quietly this time:
Me: "Hang on...isn't that his job?"
Now some might think that this is out of order on my part, but I am done with trying to be politically correct in this uptight day and age we live in and tend to say things as I see them. FACT.
At this point, I was informed by my fellow co-workers that I should probably watch out as the death stares I received following this incident suggested that pre-meditated murder might be on the cards. I kindly asked Ben to move the axe he had as a secret santa present from his desk incase this encouraged the situation.
This isn't the first episode of this nature by any means, there are many, many more, including the time when he called his 7 year old Grandson by the C word before giving him permission to shake Ed's hand. This was only okayed because Ed wasn't a homosexual, I think his exact words were 'it's OK, he's not a faggott'. And so I have added one more person to my list of people who I vow I will never get on with (and there aren't many).
And so from this unique individual, I take from the experience of meeting him the determination to go about my work with a smile and kind word to my fellow co-worker (alright, that probably doesn't happen all the time, but I don't think they sit there worrying I am about to commit GBH).
Enjoy:
http://video.google.com.au/videosearch?hl=en&q=demon+cleaner&um=1&ie=UTF-8&sa=X&oi=video_result_group&resnum=4&ct=title#
Demon Cleaner has generated some debate around the underlying meaning behind the lyrics - some believe that it denotes themes of alcohol abuse, a theory associated with the washing away of demons. Others look to use drugs as an explanation for similar reasons. This song touches my heart in a different way - to me the lyrics are clear in their expression:
"I've got the demons in me, I've got to brush them all away, I feel the demons rage I must clean them all away Yeah (yeah)"
This opening verse resonates on me like the fires of hell experienced as a small child when freshly awoken from a chilling nightmare. The cold sweats, the racing heartbeat, the longing to be beside your parents to collect their warmth and safety that only their time and presence in the dark night can calm. As a 26 year old adult, this translates to 10a.m. in the office.
I see him, he enters the room with a 'click,click' of the security enabled doors. Slower than most, and bringing with him a cool, spooky smell. The air changes from a room filled with the bitter sweet aroma of the morning's freshly made coffee to the bitter smell of - the cleaner. He is an elderley man, although appears younger than his age, with Greek origins. Moody.
During the period of innocence I embraced during my first few weeks at my current company, I was amazed at how welcoming the office could be - I mean what other company provides you with barista fresh coffee and a selection of breakfast options before you embark on a long day in media? I had found my home.
A inevitable consequence of this ultimate luxury however is obvious. Dishes. And unfortunately mugs too. But wait - there is a cleaner that comes in at 10a.m. to combat this situation - this place just gets better! Except for one thing. One small issue - this man resents having to move soiled crockery from one place to the next. Herein lies the fundamental problem and thus, marks the point in time where our relationship both starts and finishes. And so my story begins...
One glorious Wednesday morning, the sun was out, people in the office were buzzing as the hump in the week dawned and I had decided to treat myself to a glass of water as well as my usual caffeine based beverage. I had also decided that cereal was the way forward that morning. To make life easier for the cleaning staff, the cereal bowls are made from paper and easy to throw away and recycle. But this particular morning, something happened that diverted me away from my regular Wednesday morning routine - a meeting. In the hustle and bustle of preparation, I left my desk in a fleeting disorganised fashion, prioritising as I felt necessary. This meant leaving the remnants of my breakfast experience on my desk. To my ultimate misfortune, I failed to even throw the paper dish in the bin.
10.01a.m. and I am returning to my seat - shit. I am one nano-second behind the cleaner - this isn't a good position to be in. The conversation went something like this:
Cleaner: "What is this?"
Me: "That's my bowl"
Cleaner: "Fucking Jesus Christ"
Me: "I'm sorry?"
Cleaner: "Filthy fucking fuckers"
Me: "Sorry, I had more than the usual coffee this morning"
Cleaner: "Fuck"
Now forgive me if I am speaking out of turn here but isn't that a little extreme? In response to the scenario I had just found myself in and to my colleague's hysterics as he sat next to me, witnessing the whole thing, trying not to throw up through too much amusement, I spoke again although more quietly this time:
Me: "Hang on...isn't that his job?"
Now some might think that this is out of order on my part, but I am done with trying to be politically correct in this uptight day and age we live in and tend to say things as I see them. FACT.
At this point, I was informed by my fellow co-workers that I should probably watch out as the death stares I received following this incident suggested that pre-meditated murder might be on the cards. I kindly asked Ben to move the axe he had as a secret santa present from his desk incase this encouraged the situation.
This isn't the first episode of this nature by any means, there are many, many more, including the time when he called his 7 year old Grandson by the C word before giving him permission to shake Ed's hand. This was only okayed because Ed wasn't a homosexual, I think his exact words were 'it's OK, he's not a faggott'. And so I have added one more person to my list of people who I vow I will never get on with (and there aren't many).
And so from this unique individual, I take from the experience of meeting him the determination to go about my work with a smile and kind word to my fellow co-worker (alright, that probably doesn't happen all the time, but I don't think they sit there worrying I am about to commit GBH).
Enjoy:
http://video.google.com.au/videosearch?hl=en&q=demon+cleaner&um=1&ie=UTF-8&sa=X&oi=video_result_group&resnum=4&ct=title#
Friday, January 30, 2009
Model Behaviour
It's been a while since my last blog about the random sex pest I met in the Greenwood and I wanted to pick this thing up and continue with the noting down of learnings brought about by my inquisitive side when I have had a few glasses of Sauvignon Blanc.
Since I am blogging about Weird and Wonderful people, and the last one was pretty weird, I thought I'd shake it up a bit and go with wonderful this time.
And so it goes...last night we were out with a friend of mine who had just finished her last day at her current job and following a bottle or two, it was announced that we were heading to the Ivy. Now for those of you who don't know the Ivy, it is a picturesque bar spot of the city, with a large outdoor area, fairy lights and a spiral staircase leading up to the VIP bars. There is also a swimming pool on the top floor but this bit is kept for the elite apparently. The Ivy has been described in Time Out as a place where you go 'to see and be seen'. I resent that quote...they won't let me upstairs.
So we are on our way from the comfort zone of Ryan's Bar to the not so comfortable Ivy (I guess that depends on one's perceived position in the social food chain) and due to my thongesque footwear, I already had doubts on my admittance to the bog standard bar area, let alone the bit where the important people go.
We arrive at the entrance on George St to be greeted by a little blonde beauty who asks the crucial question "how many of you are there?" Between us, we managed to figure out there were five. "Oh, well in that case you'll have to go to the back entrance". Firstly, "why?" and secondly..."why?" But rather than argue, we took ourselves off on the 200 metre journey that eventually brought us to the back of the building. On the way round in seek of the winding queue that would lead us to the venue only dreams could compete with, we got to see a tramp, some people eating their dinner and....and well that's it. In fact, the queue wasn't even visible. Not a pretentious looking doorman in sight. Were we the only minions here tonight? Had the rest of the rifraf decided to stay for one more in Ryan's?
As the realisation dawned on me that we had ended up at exactly the same entrance we would have come to had we been allowed through the golden gates of Heaven, I started to question my own self worth and where I ranked in the pecking order. Afterall, I had just done the walk of shame into this metrosexual swankhole. Were they going to tattoo my forehead with "I came in the back way...(which is the same as the front way only takes six times longer) ?"
Anyway, negativity aside, later in the evening I met a woman who struck a chord with me. She was a friend of a friend's friend, a woman in her mid thirties but who clearly felt she stuck out like a sore thumb because of the fact she was older than us and had two kids. As I was left alone with her and her friend while my mate went to buy drinks, I began to talk the biggest amount of shit I have spoken in 2009 and I am not sure why. Conscious of this, I started to feel uncomfortable so began mentally exploring the archive of stories locked away in my mind that would fit my mate's law of socially acceptable anecdotes of F.R.I (funny, relevant or interesting - any one of the three is fine). But this lady stopped me in my tracks and just began a normal conversation.
I know this sounds weird but it's moments when a complete stranger senses you feel a little out of depth and come to your rescue with a soft smile and genuine interest in you that make you feel so relaxed and safe in the big wide world. You rarely meet people who make you feel this way, and those you do, I try to take a leaf from their book, or better still, keep them as friends. That's why I have the people around me I do.
It wasn't just her ease to be around that had me intrigued, but the story she later told me of her recent discovery that her husband of 13 years had been having an affair for five of them. Two kids in and the guy decided that this was a good time to start playing away from home. Now obviously I only got one side of the story but what a fucking jerk? Five years man - grow some balls.
She looked so lovely, with long blonde hair and black evening dress. I wanted to stand next to her in my scruffy shorts and flipflops by contrast to make her stand out even more.
And so her night was about catching up with some friends and making the most of the babysitter, and gliding through what clearly wasn't the night she'd hoped would make everything feel better again with such grace and elegance and hope for the future. These people are what make me tick. The ones that get shit dropped on them from 30 thousand feet and think 'well at least it wasn't 40 thousand'.
I'm glad I met that inspirational lady.
Since I am blogging about Weird and Wonderful people, and the last one was pretty weird, I thought I'd shake it up a bit and go with wonderful this time.
And so it goes...last night we were out with a friend of mine who had just finished her last day at her current job and following a bottle or two, it was announced that we were heading to the Ivy. Now for those of you who don't know the Ivy, it is a picturesque bar spot of the city, with a large outdoor area, fairy lights and a spiral staircase leading up to the VIP bars. There is also a swimming pool on the top floor but this bit is kept for the elite apparently. The Ivy has been described in Time Out as a place where you go 'to see and be seen'. I resent that quote...they won't let me upstairs.
So we are on our way from the comfort zone of Ryan's Bar to the not so comfortable Ivy (I guess that depends on one's perceived position in the social food chain) and due to my thongesque footwear, I already had doubts on my admittance to the bog standard bar area, let alone the bit where the important people go.
We arrive at the entrance on George St to be greeted by a little blonde beauty who asks the crucial question "how many of you are there?" Between us, we managed to figure out there were five. "Oh, well in that case you'll have to go to the back entrance". Firstly, "why?" and secondly..."why?" But rather than argue, we took ourselves off on the 200 metre journey that eventually brought us to the back of the building. On the way round in seek of the winding queue that would lead us to the venue only dreams could compete with, we got to see a tramp, some people eating their dinner and....and well that's it. In fact, the queue wasn't even visible. Not a pretentious looking doorman in sight. Were we the only minions here tonight? Had the rest of the rifraf decided to stay for one more in Ryan's?
As the realisation dawned on me that we had ended up at exactly the same entrance we would have come to had we been allowed through the golden gates of Heaven, I started to question my own self worth and where I ranked in the pecking order. Afterall, I had just done the walk of shame into this metrosexual swankhole. Were they going to tattoo my forehead with "I came in the back way...(which is the same as the front way only takes six times longer) ?"
Anyway, negativity aside, later in the evening I met a woman who struck a chord with me. She was a friend of a friend's friend, a woman in her mid thirties but who clearly felt she stuck out like a sore thumb because of the fact she was older than us and had two kids. As I was left alone with her and her friend while my mate went to buy drinks, I began to talk the biggest amount of shit I have spoken in 2009 and I am not sure why. Conscious of this, I started to feel uncomfortable so began mentally exploring the archive of stories locked away in my mind that would fit my mate's law of socially acceptable anecdotes of F.R.I (funny, relevant or interesting - any one of the three is fine). But this lady stopped me in my tracks and just began a normal conversation.
I know this sounds weird but it's moments when a complete stranger senses you feel a little out of depth and come to your rescue with a soft smile and genuine interest in you that make you feel so relaxed and safe in the big wide world. You rarely meet people who make you feel this way, and those you do, I try to take a leaf from their book, or better still, keep them as friends. That's why I have the people around me I do.
It wasn't just her ease to be around that had me intrigued, but the story she later told me of her recent discovery that her husband of 13 years had been having an affair for five of them. Two kids in and the guy decided that this was a good time to start playing away from home. Now obviously I only got one side of the story but what a fucking jerk? Five years man - grow some balls.
She looked so lovely, with long blonde hair and black evening dress. I wanted to stand next to her in my scruffy shorts and flipflops by contrast to make her stand out even more.
And so her night was about catching up with some friends and making the most of the babysitter, and gliding through what clearly wasn't the night she'd hoped would make everything feel better again with such grace and elegance and hope for the future. These people are what make me tick. The ones that get shit dropped on them from 30 thousand feet and think 'well at least it wasn't 40 thousand'.
I'm glad I met that inspirational lady.
Friday, September 5, 2008
New Beginnings
Since moving to Sydney from London two weeks ago, I've have made it part of my mission statement to try new things, meet new people, go to new places and generally be open to ideas - well it's the perfect time to start living.
It's not that I haven't lived before, but I have certainly put limits on what I will and will not do dependent on my comfort zone. And moving to the other side of the world has blown that whole way of life out of the water.
Reading 'The Yes Man' by Danny Wallace has also had an effect - for those of you who haven't read it, I highly recommend it. The guy is an absolute nutter!
So here we are - I'm blogging as part of my new lifestyle. Not exactly crazy is it but I've never done it before so here goes.
Choosing something to actually blog about wasn't difficult. Finding myself in new situations because of my new attitude to 'try new things' has brought me to meet some very weird and wonderful people in a very short space of time. Rather than trawling back over the last couple of weeks and talking about my experiences of Sydney folk so far, such as the woman on the bus to Glebe who had red lipstick dots all over her face and stripped off to ask if the general public thought she looked fat, I thought I'd kick this off with talking about the very odd man I met in a bar last night while the whole experience is still firmly printed on my mind - in fact it will haunt me for a while.
A group of friends/colleagues and myself were standing at a nice bar in North Sydney (the Greenwood to be precise) when an Aussie guy approached to ask me firstly if I was English and secondly if he could buy me a drink. At the time, I thought he was offering to buy me AND my friend Flick a drink but apparently he was homing in on me.
At this point, Flick said, (pointing to a guy in our group) "he's English, are you going to buy him a drink too?" to which he replied "I only like English girls". Now, that wasn't too weird given the context, what straight, Aussie guy would offer to buy another random bloke a drink after all?
Now, neither me nor Flick fancied this guy - he was much older than us and had something a little bit strange about him, such as a lack of co-drinkers. So we politely declined his offer, to which he seemed to take offense. Flick then explained that by accepting a drink from him, we would effectively be signing ourselves up to a conversation - he looked hurt.
I felt bad so changed my mind and accepted so went with him to the bar. Flick had well and truly done one at this point. Something in me makes me much more tolerant than my friends when it comes to talking to twitching strangers. I find them interesting.
Stood at the bar, the man explained how the whole drink offering scenario had now made him feel uncomfortable. So there we were, stood at the bar, with nothing to say to each other, in a state of complete awkwardness with him asking for a round of drinks that he no longer wanted to buy. So I paid for them - well it eased the situation momentarily.
In an attempt to make him feel better about the whole thing, I began asking questions. Just the usual small talk bollocks like "so what do you do?" Again, he took offense. He commented that by me asking him this, I would cast assumptions on who he was as a person. Now the guy has a point, but I explained that I wasn't prying or intending on being judgmental, I just thought there might be some common ground there. After all, a flowing discourse between parties can really fucking help a strained conversation. And I also mentioned that if I was going to be judgmental, I would have walked away at the point he spilled beer all down himself - twice.
So I tried another question "what were you doing in Philadelphia for three months?" Again, he didn't want to answer. So now, I had found myself alone with a weird guy, who I had ended up buying a drink, who really didn't want to reciprocate the verbal part of the whole encounter.
Then we found a mutual talking spot he was comfortable with - the Foo Fighters. The gem I took away from that dialogue was that Dave Grohl is good with a crowd. Enlightening stuff.
So moving on, I began to talk about how I wanted to start some singing lessons (notice it is me doing pretty much all of the talking). I banged on about my aspirations to get back into theatre for a few minutes - the one way conversation was wine fueled.
Now, here's for the crescendo. The part of the surreal experience that blows me away. The finishing sentence that was uttered from this socially inept man's lips which made me feel sick for reasons other than the amount of booze I had consumed - "do you sing while you are having sex?"
I stared - then I stared some more. Then I got the fuck out of there.
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