Following on from the whole Baby or Budgie debate, while in Australia I found evidence that Dr G and I were destined to be together. It seems we've both wanted the same thing all along! While pawing through a folder full of stories I'd scribbled as a five year old, we found this:
I like budugies. Can't spell them but I like them! FATE, I tell you.
There needs to be a word for the pathological loathing one feels when boarding a plane and having to walk through the First and/or Business class sections en route to your own pissweak Economy class seat. Nothing makes me spew more with futile rage than seeing a fully reclined someone with a pre-takeoff glass of champagne in their hand, especially at the start of your third eight-hour flight of the day.
Another delight of long haul travel is watching your reflection progress through increasing levels of shithouse. With each trip to the bathroom the hair has limpened a few more notches; the eye bags bloom; the tiny pimples peek above the surface.
We got back to Scotland today and I think it is possible (but bloody impractical) to be equally in love with two countries. For example: when I first got to Melbourne, an Aussie accent came strolling over the speakers, "Passengers arroiving from Duboi, yer bagserat carousel foive!"
Shortly afterwards at Carousel Foive, a tiny Glaswegian lady suddenly thrust her handbag at her grandson. "HOUD MAH BAG, SON! HERE IT COMES!" * she rasped, before throwing herself on top of her wheelie suitcase as it trundled by.
Both sounds were music to my ears.
* I wish I knew how to capture an extremely thick Weegie accent. but I have been awake for thirty house.
Update: That was 18 April and it's now 7 May. I dunno where I was going with this but will post anyway!
Here's a theory: The fancier you make your wedding invitations, the more you increase the expectation that the wedding will be of corresponding fanciness. Like a few months ago a friend of Gareth's got hitched. The event was announced by a posh, creamy envelope swishing through the mail slot. The two of us gawked at the invitation in horror. The embossed lettering. The silk ribbon. The date spelled out in proper words. The lack of exclamation marks. Finally, Gareth broke the silence. "How SHIT were our wedding invitations compared to this?" "I knooooooooooow!" I howled. We really did have rubbish wedding invitations. Some background if you're new around here – Gareth and I eloped last March in the madness of Las Vegas. This was followed by parties in both Scotland (July) and Australia (October). Neither of us have ever been comfortable with being the centre of attention at social gatherings. For example, I loathed birthday parties as a child. Why give your classmates insight into all that dysfunction? Why try and meet their lofty expectations vis-a-vis party games and party food when you will no doubt fail them before you can say Home Brand Lemonade? I initially felt the same about our wedding festivities. At least if your kiddy party was a fizzer, you could pap off the blame to your parents. But now we were the grown-ups, and I was consumed by this imaginary pressure to provide a Good Time for All. Luckily Mary, my Mother-in-law-ship, was on the case – she'd organised the venue, the food, the flowers and the ceilidh band. All we had to do was the invitations. I knew Gareth was my soul mate the moment he uttered my exact thoughts and fears: "We better not make them too fancy, we don't want to get people's expectations too high!"
I think I may have set them just a tiny bit too low by knocking up the invite in Microsoft Word in under ten minutes. We did jazz it up with a photo from Wedding Part I complete with Elvis impersonator, but the effect was lost once it had been churned through the photocopier. And for the final note of crapness, I mailed them off in poo-brown envelopes that I'd found up the back of the stationery cupboard at work, so ancient that I had to glue them shut.
Wedding Part II turned out to be a nice event. A good time was had by the guests in proportion to the expectations set by our lo-fi invitations. I never really stopped think how rubbish they actually looked until Wedding Part III. The Mothership was at the helm this time and called me up to ask, "What are we doing about invitations?" "It's under control," I said breezily, "I'll just edit the date on the Scottish invite and email it to you. All you have to do is hit Print!" "That doesn't sound very classy." "People don't expect me to be classy!" When we arrived in Australia the week before the Big Day (which is now actually a year ago. I'm right on the ball with these blog entries, hey?), I was calm and serene. I was not feeling in the least bit stressed about the connubials. After all, I was a veteran by then! I was more concerned with catching up with friends and getting my mitts on my first decent mango in two years. But this all changed at Jenny's house. She was cooking us dinner when I saw the familiar picture on her fridge. Gareth, Elvis and me. But it was in colour. On fancy marbled paper. With elegant fonts. "Oh no," I squawked. "Is that the wedding invitation?" "Sure is! Your Mum did a great job eh?" "She did do a great job! That's terrible!" "Why?" "It's far too fancy," I whined. "It's too nice. It sets false expectations! People will show up thinking it's going to be a really fancy wedding but it's just a wee party with me trying not to burst out of my dress and they're all going to be disappointed and HATE me!" I should have known The Mothership wouldn't just stick the invitation through the photocopier. She always has to do things properly. Now I had to deal with all this pressure. I started thinking about my friends who were travelling from far flung corners of Australia for the party, and calculated that the greater the distance one had to drive to get to a wedding, the more one should expect to be shown a good time! I'd say this expectation increases by a factor of ten for every 100 kilometres travelled. And the prettiness of the invitation made it look like a Proper Event. Before when it was just a crappy Word document, I didn't have to take it seriously. I didn't have to worry about Wedding Politics, and who I had or had not invited; who I had or had not offended. I didn't have to think about the Family Issues I'd been ignoring for years, with the paternal side feuding to the point of Jerry Springer-ness (actually I wish they would hit each other over the head with chairs; some mild concussion or amnesia would do everyone some good). The Word document meant no pressure and low expectations, so I'd be able to tell any offended parties, "Oh you didn't miss out on much! It was just a naff little party!". But now I was wracked with guilt and panic. The Mothership reassured that my worries were unfounded. People weren't expecting a Broadway production – they were just happy to come along and catch up with everyone; to eat and drink and find out if my Scottish husband was real or imaginary. But for the days leading up to Wedding Part III I was a melodramatic mess. It had taken six months, but I was finally having my Bridezilla moment. To be continued!
"G'dafternoon!" boomed the cheery blonde behind the Virgin Blue desk. "Have ya got any bags to check in?" We heaved our giant suitcases onto the scale. Virgin Blonde tapped away at the keyboard, then suddenly froze and gasped. She whipped off her shoe and started pounding Gareth's suitcase with the pointy heel. "Crikey!" she panted, "That's got the bugger. There was a spider on yer bag!" she explained to our blank, jet-lagged stares. "Oh! Well, thanks for killing it for us!" "No worries." I wanted to leap across the counter and kiss her. Just for sounding so bloody Australian and reminding me I was home at last. Our first day back was beautifully surreal. After two and half years I'd forgotten just how Australian the Australian accent can sound. We'd arrived in Melbourne at 1am and spent the next few hours in the airport hotel, where Gareth got his introduction to Australian television. First up was a rugby league semi-final replay. Every player seemed to be called Jason, Brett or Mick. Gareth grinned as they slobbered breathlessly through their post-match interviews. "Howzit feel Brett? Howz it feel to be going to the grand final?" "Aww I'm stoked mate! But full credit to the other team!" He particularly loved the low-budget local commercials, especially the plumbing company that urged you to, "Be Australian, BUY AUSTRALIAN!". "Boee Ostrayan, BOY Ostrayan!" Gareth parrotted gleefully. Then it was time for Rage, a legendary music video show that goes from midnight til dawn. The familiar theme tune and graphics filled me with a nostalgia so overwhelming I nearly wept, as happy memories flooded back of endless nights spent watching the show in various stages of intoxication. I soon dozed off but Gareth was instantly hooked, "Just one more clip and I'll go to sleep. OHH this is a good one! Last one I promise." A few hours later we staggered into the sunshine, gazing in awe at the endless blue sky. We walked through the carpark to the terminal and I crowed at the familiar sight of Australian number plates. After checking in with the exterminating Virgin Blonde, we grabbed lunch at an airport cafe. "Oh my god, this pizza has VEGETABLES ON IT!" I squealed. "Why is there salad on the side?" Gareth asked, "Where's the chips?" "Ha ha ha." "And why does my coffee taste so good? And why do we have a pile of change from a twenty dollar note?" "This is just the beginning baby. You're in Australia now!" "CROIKEY!" Soon enough we arrived at the amusingly named Canberra International Airport. "Ladies and gentleman," said the flight attendant, "As you disembark from the plane, please be sure to follow the witches hats into the terminal." "Follow the witches hats?!" asked Gareth. "What the hell is a witches hat?" "You know, the orange pointy things." "Like a traffic cone?" "Like a witches hat!" My dear friend Jenny was there to greet us. As we drove through Canberra, I admired the sprawling orderliness of the roads; the manicured lawns, the logic of roundabouts. Gareth was busy bird watching. "HOLY SHIT there's a GIANT PARROT on the side of the road!" "That's a cockatoo." "There's another one! And a pink one!" It didn't take long to settle back in. As the days went on my speech slowed, I dropped my G's and the colloquialisms came back. Gareth really got into the spirit too; I'd catch him laughing at the television and practicing his accent. "Today in Brizben: foine, sunny and twenny-noine dugrees!" I loved how totally Oz my friends and family sounded. At one point a car in front of us failed to indicate before turning a corner, and Jenny yelled, "JEEZ, thanks for the blinker mate!". Gareth still loves to say that one. And of course, The Mothership. Distance makes one cherish her Teacher Voice and colourful turn of phrase all the more. Not so her insane need to fling open every door of the house in the mornings to let the Fresh Air in, even during a late cold snap. "Are you cold, Gareth? You're sitting there shivering!" "Oh I'm fine, Mrs -" "Don't bullshit me, Gareth!" I'd missed the Australian news too, how there's wacky phrases that would never cut it on the BBC. One night there was a report on a netball match and the graphic behind the presenter simply read: FLOGGED. "Flogged?" Gareth looked confused. "Flogged?!" "Well derr!" I snorted, "Flogged! To defeat convincingly!" Would you believe, he didn't know what trifecta or dink meant, either! Almost eight months since we returned to Scotland, I thought my accent had diluted again – it's something you have to do if you want the natives to understand you. But Gareth is always there to point out that I am still true to my origins. The other day I made vegie burgers for lunch, and was choosing my condiments. "Ohh. I reckon I feel like some HP Sauce on mine." "You feel loike HAITCH POYEE SORCE?" he cackled, "Oi moight have some of that HAITCH POYEE SORCE too!"
"Are you ready for the ride of your life!?" "Yeah," I sulked. "I s'pose so." Gareth grinned. "Then brace yourself, lassie!" We were briefly in Sydney last year to visit my little brother and sister. Our schedule was crazy, but we squeezed in a detour to the Blue Mountains. After all, no introductory trip to Oz would be complete without a peep at the Three Sisters through the famous eucalyptus haze. We were sitting in a carriage on the Scenic Railway, beneath the gum trees and cockatoos, about to take a terrifying plunge into the valley below. Or so I had mistakenly believed, for approximately twenty years prior to that day.
According to the Guinness Book, the Scenic Railway is the steepest railway in the world. It was originally part of the Katoomba mining tramways constructed in the 1800s. The funicular line descends through sandstone cliffs, ferrying tourists past spectacular views and lush rainforest. All this happens at a gentle 4 metres per second. But somehow, for the past two decades I had got it into my head that the Scenic Railway was not a harmless trundle suitable for the most feeble-hearted pensioner, but in fact a hair-raising hell ride. My first visit to the Scenic Railway was when I was about ten years old. We'd been learning about the famous explorers in Social Studies class, and how we owed our cosy rural central-west New South Welshman lives to the poor convicts who'd slashed the perilous path across the Blue Mountains from Sydney. But I had my own perilous path to worry about. Our teacher had bought tickets for the Scenic Railway. He explained about the rainforest and the miners, but all I heard was "415 metres" and "descent". My stomach churned with panic as we queued up. I pictured the flesh of my face being flung backward by the G-forces as the carriage plunged down. My internal organs would combust. My eyeballs would pop out and ping onto the rainforest floor, where they would be devoured by carnivourous possums. I wanted to cry. Oh yes, I was a big baby. But The Mothership happened to teach at my school back then, so there was no way I could let anyone see me being a big baby. I had no credibility as it was! But it was The Mothership who saved my bacon in the end. She was taking a bunch of students on the Scenic Skyway, so I just scooted over to her queue. Instead of going south, this ride was a cable car suspended 270 metres above ravines and waterfalls. Strangely, I had no problem with horizontal heights. About six years later I returned to the Mountains on a high school excursion. Time had not dimished my fears. But I managed to worm out of it again. When my friends lined up for the ride, I elected to stay in the souvenir shop. "You guys go ahead," I said breezily. "I'll just stay here. Oh look, kangaroo teaspoons! And five dollars for a dozen clip-on koalas in a tube, what a bargain!" Fast forward to last October. We were back in Australia and having morning tea at Chez Grandmothership. She was endearing herself to her new grandson-in-law by plying him with Tim Tams and lamingtons and generally being very charming. "So what's next on the newlyweds itinerary?" she asked. Gareth looked confused, as he'd done for much of the trip. "Ummm…" "Sydney next," I piped up, in my capacity as Tour Manager. "With a brief stop in the Blue Mountains." "Oh, so will you be going on the Scenic Railway?" "I think so," said Gareth. "I'm not going on that thing," I snapped. "No way in hell." "Why not?" "Because it's a rickety old death trap, that's why!" There was a long, baffled pause. Then the Mothership started to laugh. Then the Grandmothership joined in. And she laughed quite bloody heartily too. I was miffed. Grandmothers are not supposed to laugh at their grandchildren! Their role is to smother you with kindness and cake, and then produce a large Nescafe tin full of spare change that they've been saving up for years and insist that you have it. "What's so funny?" I demanded. "You're not afraid of the Scenic Railway are you?" "No!" "You are! Why!?" "Because! I don't fancy a high-speed ninety-degree dive on some rusty old cart, that's why!" "What are you talking about? It's not scary! It's just a little choo-choo train ride down a hill!" "What? It's the Steepest Incline Railway In The World!" "Well it is quite steep, but it's a very gentle pace," grinned the Mothership. "It's not fast?" "No!" my grandmother chortled, "It's scenic!" "And it doesn't just go straight down?" "No! What kind of a railway goes down at ninety degrees?" "I don't know!" I huffed, "But I was positive that's what it did!" The laughs changed into all-out guffaws. My grandmother dabbed at tears with a tissue. Gareth almost choked on his lamington. Bastards. I only recently figured out the reason for this ridiculous fear. The confusion arose from a trip to SeaWorld on Australia's Gold Coast in 1986. I'm not sure if The Mothership will verify this version of events, but my evil parents forced me go on a ride called The Viking's Revenge. The SeaWorld website describes it as, "a favourite for all ages… a 460-metre floating ride before a conveyor takes the Viking's boats to the battlements of the Castle for a fun-filled splash down." To the wee wimpy Shauna standing there in the queue for an hour, the "fun-filled splash down" looked like an Extreme Suicide Plunge Into Darkest Hell. I knew nothing about geometry back then but it was a ninety-degree drop, I tell you. I watched boat after boat of screaming patrons, convinced their glee was actually terror. I wasn't a religious child, but I prayed for the ride to break down, or for the Queensland sun to overcome me with a fainting spell, or some projectile vomiting. Anything to get out of that ride. But no amount of whining convinced my parents to leave me behind. The Mothership probably told me it was character building. I remember sitting in that stupid faux Viking boat, my heart thumping as it rattled past the stupid faux rainforest scenery. But most of all I remember that horrible pause right at the end, the mocking hiss of the artificial waterfalls; then my stomach flying into my throat as the boat plummeted down. When I was in pre-school, sometimes my grandfather would drive by on his way into town. He'd stop if he saw me in the playground and come up to the fence to say hello. I'd peer up at him through the wire mesh, thinking that the barrier was as tall and impenetrable as the Berlin Wall. But when I saw the fence again decades later, I laughed at how low and tiny it really was. I'm sure I'd feel the same if I saw the Vikings Revenge today. But your old childhood perceptions can linger if they're never challenged. I'm convinced that the Viking Ride trauma got muddled in my head and transferred itself to that bloody Scenic Railway, the fear multiplying and mutating as the years went by. Either that, or I am simply chicken shit. The only way to overcome old fears is to boldly confront them. So I got into that railway carriage, the cockatoos cackling above my head. As the descent began, Gareth valiantly threw his arm across my chest. "Whoa! WHOA!" he cried as we inched past ferns and trees, "OH MY GOD! HOLD ON TIGHT BABY!" Somehow I survived to tell you this tale, but Gareth is pretty lucky that he did! (see also: Part I)
I'd assumed going to see a bike race in Australia would be pretty much the same as seeing a bike race in Scotland. Same speedy bikes, same clouds of dust, same hairy bikers, same skanky lassies in lycra shorts. However, there was one major difference: the food.
Last summer at the British Superbikes at Knockhill we had agonised over our options:
If you choose curry sauce they slap it onto the chips for you, scooping it up from a metal tray, all yellowy brown like toxic waste, the surface stiff and puckered from hours under a heat lamp. If you want Red or Brown it's DIY from plastic bottles with crusty nozzles. And don't ever call it ketchup or tomato sauce. That has to be one of my favourite things about Scotland. It's either Red or Brown sauce. Just like when you're a kid and your Mum asks what flavour milkshake you want, and you say, "PINK!".
When we arrived at Phillip Island a few months later for the Australian MotoGP, I saw the same white vans plonked all round the circuit. My stomach purred in anticipation of being dished up the same greasy slop by the same sweaty-browed ladies.
But while a few served traditional burgers and chips, the majority of the vans were rather… cosmopolitan. There were fresh salad wraps, Turkish kebabs, German sausages on fat white rolls, meat pies, baked potatoes, samosas, noodles, wood-fired pizzas and a freaking gelato stand.
They even had Real Coffee. It was bizarre, hearing the familiar schhhhhhh of the coffee machine right next to screaming motorbikes. Baristas fished out Melting Moments and chocolate cookies from glass jars with those dainty little tongs. Biker Types balanced their helmets in one hand while stirring their cappuccinos with the other. This was no Styrofoam and watery Nescafe stirred with a Paddlepop stick operation. They even had plastic lids! And two kinds of sugar!
"Look at those big Aussie guys there, they're just sooo tough with their leathers and lattes!"
"It's all a bit poncy, isn't?"
"Darn right!"
"You want a hot chocolate?"
"Yes please."
I won't bore you with the details of the race, because I know most people aren't terribly interested in MotoGP. But let me tell you it's one of the greatest ways a girl can spend two days, and not just because for once the queue for the Ladies loo is heaps shorter than the Mens. MotoGP is also noise, smells, adrenaline, engines, crashes and slutty chicks holding umbrellas over tiny men in leather suits.
On Saturday we watched the qualifying from opposite the pit lane, peering into the garages through my zoom lens at the mad buzz of mechanics and riders. On Sunday we perched in Bass Strait Grandstand, the race right in front of us and the ocean at our back, as Valentino Rossi cruised to yet another victory.
After the race came the grand palaver of getting back to Melbourne. With tens of thousands of bikes, cars and coaches all trying to escape at once, it took over an hour to crawl off the tiny island. This provided great entertainment for those staying behind. Every house we passed had people sitting in front yards and verandas, hanging from the balconies with beers, watching the passing parade. Even when we finally reached the turn-off for Melbourne, more people appeared from out of the hills, jumping up and down beside the highway, waving flags and beers.
This strange spectacle continued for almost the entire two hours back to the city. Just people bloody everywhere, grinning and leering and waving; turning the side of the highway into one big living room. The roads were flanked by rows of folding chairs, occupied by beer-bellied blokes, knitting grannies and bikinied teens with mirrored sunglasses. There were dogs and babies and cartwheeling kids. People picnicked on car roofs, in the back of utes and in the middle of roundabouts. Two guys had even brought along a sofa. Life can be pretty quiet in small Aussie towns, so a few thousand motorbikes swarming by all at once could be the most glittering day of the year. At least it's a great opportunity to drink beer and jump up and down like a dickhead.
"What the hell are you Aussies all about?" Gareth asked, gawking out the window in amazement.
"I don't know. We're a bunch of idiots!"
And I'd never been so proud.
"Now whatever you do, don't pay full price," the Mothership lectured as we pulled into the Woolworths petrol station. "You have to haggle."
"But we're buying an electric frying pan!"
"So?"
"You can't haggle on a frying pan! We're going to Retravision, not a market in Thailand."
"Nonsense! Did you know, I got five dollars off my hair straighteners. And the new toaster."
"I'm not going to haggle."
"Oh come on, live dangerously." She switched off the engine. "Can you rummage in my handbag and find me a fuel voucher?" In many respects, The Mothership was still the same old Mothership, generous provider of years of golden blog fodder.
Anyway, we went to Retravision to fetch an electric frying pan. Gareth had never seen one before he went to Australia and thought they were a brilliant invention. And I fell in love with them all over again, the way they heat up instantly, do exactly what you tell them - roast, simmer, fry, boil to oblivion - and remain non-stick and wipe-clean for years on end. Unlike our grotty bastard of an electric stove here in Scotland. It has just two settings: Flames o' Fire or Cold Indifference, with nothing in between. Even with the postage back to the UK, a good old Aussie frypan was still a bazillion times cheaper than buying a new oven.
We had just settled on the gigantic Sunbeam model when the saleslady approached. "Can I help you?"
"Yes," I smiled, "I'd like to buy this fry pan please."
"Sure, if you'll just come over to the till, I think that one is eighty dollars."
"Excellent."
Mum cleared her throat. "Is that your best price?"
The woman looked puzzled. "Erm. Yes?"
Gareth grinned while I pretended to be fascinated by the display of electric steamers.
"Would there be any discount for paying in cash?"
"Well... I'm pretty sure the price on the sticker is already our best price..."
"Would you mind checking?"
"I suppose I could go out the back and ask the manager?"
"That would be wonderful, thank you."
"Muuu-uum!"
"Well! It doesn't hurt to ask!"
Ten minutes later the lady returned from Out The Back. "The manager says we can't reduce the price, but I can give you this $10 fuel voucher for any Caltex Petrol Station."
"Excellent!" said The Mothership.
"Yeah brilliant," I muttered, "That'll be just enough fuel to get you to the Woolworths Petrol Station!"
So the lady still loves a bargain. Yet many things have changed since I first left Australia. She has developed an adventurous streak, and always seems to be going on a holiday or to a concert or taking a new class. She is energetic and fun and sparky. You could probably pinpoint it from the moment she hopped on the plane to visit us last year. It was almost like once she saw that Rhi and I were safe and happily living it up in Scotland without too many fire hazards, she just let go of old Mothership worries and focused on getting her own life. I'd never seen her so happy and settled. I had a lot of fun hanging out with her in Goulburn, and bawled on Gareth's shoulder when we said goodbye at the airport coz I knew I'd miss her more than ever. And would you believe she even makes the tea now and then. Ma, I am so proud of you and everything you have achieved. Love ya heaps.
Bread Clips!
In Britain, loaves of bread are sealed shut with these infuriating strips of sticky plastic that, unless you have ten-inch talons, take half a bloody hour to pick open and then rarely reseal with any degree of satisfaction.
But in Australia, you get a miniature masterpiece — the humble bread clip.
The simple twist-and-clip motion has dazzled bread lovers worldwide since American Floyd Paxton invented them sometime back in the olden days. And I was bedazzled all over again while back in Australia. So secure! So simple! So sensible! I smuggled a few back home, and plan to do a Daz/Napisan Doorstep Challenge-type of thing and bully my neighbours into abandoning their stickers and trying a bread clip for fourteen days.
Smug Bags!
Also called Alternative Bags or Go Green bags, Smug Bags are green woven shopping bags that put the standard environment-killing plastic numbers to shame. For just 99 cents you get a reusable bag that is wide enough for a loaf of bread and sturdy enough for a couple kilos of Australia’s very affordable fresh fruit and veg, and a delightful feeling of smugness for your token effort towards helping save the planet. “Look at me,” these bags scream to passers-by, “I may be a consumerist pig, but observe how I hold the loot in an enviro-friendly vessel!”.
I was first introduced to Smug Bags last year when bemoaning the lack of affordable tracky dacks (sweatpants US, trackybottoms UK) in this country. The cheapest I could find were £30 and shithouse. I refuse to pay the equivalent of $70 AUD for Couchwear.
So my ever thoughtful friends Monkey and Matt sent me two pairs of top quality 100% cotton Bonds trackies (one pair Traditional Grey, and one Black for more formal occassions. Bonds incidentally are also the makers of PURPLES!) She had nestled the precious garments into what she’d dubbed a Smug Bag. I thought the Bag was a bit weird at the time, but when I was in Melbourne last month I finally put it to use. I swanned smugly around the CBD with a green bag full of non-essential foodstuffs, lost in my apartment-dwelling, cafe-breakfasting, non-working, chocolate-scoffing vacation fantasy world. Back in the UK I tried to recapture the feeling with an ASDA Bag For Life, but when it’s made from plastic and holds your stinky gym clothes it’s just not the same.
Balls!
Along with the Smug Bag and superior trackies, my friends had also sent me a bag of Mint Slice Balls. They were all the goodness of a Mint Slice biscuit distilled into a Malteser-size ball, the perfect ratio of chocolate biscuit to zingy mint to dark chocolate coating. Imagine my delight to arrive in Australia to find the whole country had gone BALL CRAZY. Cadbury Dairy Milk Balls, Crunchie Balls, Cherry Ripe Balls, Clinker Balls, Ski Yogurt Balls, Fry’s Turkish Delight Balls. They weren’t all actually called balls – some were Bites or Chocettes or Minis, and the Cherry Ripes were decidedly cube-like; but to me it was just balls balls balls!
Unfortunately I didn’t get to sample the mother of all balls – The TimTam Ball! I still tremble at the thought of what sweet and faintly salty delights they would have been, but by the end of the trip my jeans were tighter than a Scotsman’s purse strings so I thought I’d best not partake.
“Isn’t it GREEN?” cried The Mothership, taking her hand off the steering wheel and waving it round. “I’ve never seen it so green. Have you ever seen it looking so green?”
“Never!”
For once The Mothership wasn’t exaggerating. It really was green. Australia, that is. At least the little chunk we saw on our trip. Everyone had warned me to expect things to be brown and dead after years of drought. But just before we arrived there’d finally been some rain, and all was lush and bright. As Mum sped along the highway I was glued to the window. The canola crops were blinding yellow, the sky was huge and blue, the trees dripped with cockatoos and galahs. Beautiful. The whole bloody country was conspiring to mess with my emotions.
Many have asked why I haven’t written about Australia yet. And Mum called me on the premise of wishing me happy birthday to ask when was I going to get on with it. Some people even worried that the silence meant the trip went badly. But the problem is the exact opposite. It was so heartachingly fanbloodybrilliant that I’ve been too much of a snivelling, mopey mess to properly write about it.
I never felt homesick until I went home. It’s easy with emails and phone calls to feel like you’re not that far away, but when you’re actually there you see all the details that you didn’t realise you’d missed. A smile or a scent, or even the familiar arrangement of someone’s furniture would trigger waves of memories.
It’s such a tired cliche but you really do have to leave a place in order to appreciate it. When I left Australia in 2003 I literally ran out the door. While The Mothership tried not to cry Rhi and I skipped to our departure gate, cackling madly. I was desperate to escape. I’d grown restless and lacked direction, and felt smothered by people and the past. But two years of travelling made me grow up, let go of old crap and gain some perspective. When I returned home I saw everything and everyone with fresh eyes.
I’d drawn up a relentless schedule for our trip, every day was crammed with at least two or three engagements. For three weeks we scuttled round the country like election campaigners, Gareth gracefully shaking hands and kissing babies. I slipped right back into Australia-mode, slowing down my accent, discarding my g’s and packing in extra vowels.
Seeing all these friends (and eating my grandmother’s caramel slice) left me all soft and mushy. Everyone was so warm and welcoming. It’s easy to feel nostalgic when you’re just breezing in for a visit with everyone rolling out the red carpet for you. You forget about everyday realities like work and paying bills and mosquitos and seeing the Prime Minister’s piggy little face on the news every night. But even without the blinkers, Australia is one kick ass nation, full of kick ass people that mean everything to me, and I will never take that for granted again.
When our plane touched down back in Glasgow, it was rainy and cold.
“Isn’t it GREY?” I smirked to Gareth, “Have you ever seen it looking so grey?”
“I’ve never seen it so grey!”
I wondered if anyone would notice if I stayed on the plane I went straight back to Melbourne.
But the Father-in-law-ship was waiting to drive us home, his usual cheery self. And back in our flat the Mother-in-law-ship had put flowers on the table and stocked the pantry with bread and cheese and posh M&S biscuits. I called Rhi and we gabbed for an hour and I started to remember all the things that kick ass about Scotland.
The next day I wandered to the train station, jetlagged at 6.30am, through the grotty tunnel under the road. I stopped to admire the familiar, searingly intellectual graffiti.
On the platform it was windy and pitch black, fallen yellow leaves clung to my shoes. And then it started to rain. And then my train was delayed.
Two weeks later I’m still prone to tearing up just reading the bloody Sydney Morning Herald online and I miss everyone like hell. But over here I have Gareth and new family and friends. And cheap flights to Europe. So maybe it’s possible to feel right at home in two completely different places.
What’s big, brown and looks like a turd? Why it’s the Big Potato, one of Australia’s premier tourist attractions.
A couple of years ago we told Gareth about this monstrosity and I don’t think he ever quite believed us when we said it was utterly crap – an entirely pointless giant concrete lump plonked in the middle of an overgrown block in the main street of Robertson, New South Wales. But he vowed to make the pilgrimage if he ever made it Down Under.
I managed to capture the exact moment of underwhelmed-ness when the spud came into view:
According to the Big Things website, the definitive guide to all things Big and Australian, the Big Potato originally served as the toilet block to the adjacent Potato World, both long since abandoned.
But The Big Potato merely played entree to the main course that was The Big Merino of Goulburn – fifteen metres of concrete jowls with a souvenir shop where its balls should be.
Once again Gareth was bedazzled.
Inside the Merino, you can learn all about the history of the Australian wool industry with a display that remains unchanged since the Merino first opened its guts to the public in 1985.
We learned that you should always dress your children in wool, not evil man-made flammable fabrics. Like they say, 165 million sheep can’t be wrong!
After that, all that’s left to do is climb upstairs into the sheep’s majestic head, gaze out at the world through its yellow eyes and ponder, “I flew 24 hours for this?“
