It was something of a mixed weekend for the Irish in Australia. Collectively we were unfortunate with the result of the rugby but my personal good fortune in the Blue Mountains more than made up for the disappointment.
Prior to the commencement of the rugby you’d have had to say the Irish had a fighting chance of taking home some silverware. The Wallabies might have been at home but the forecast was for rain which ought to have levelled the teams. The climate in Ireland gives us more experience of scrapping though the mud. However, it was not to be. The crafty Australians have got a roof on their stadium. Tantamount to cheating to be sure, but sure, what can you do. The conclusion was 18 – 12 to the yellow team.
But fortune did shine on one Irishman. For, while the 15 Paddies were without luck in Melbourne there was one lucky leprechaun in the Mountains. Not only did our team win a pub quiz but, of the three lottery tickets I bought for $5, two were winners. What’s more I walked off with the grand prize; a colour laser printer. Come on you greens!
It certainly was a bountiful expedition. Between the 10 of us the takings looked more akin to loot than winnings. Apart from the printer, power tools and attachments for power tools, there were children’s games, garden chairs and gardening accoutrements, a tray of meat (very Australian) and bottles and bottles of wine. Time for a barbeque methinks.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Thursday, April 24, 2008
'Ello 'Ello
The police turned up this morning. And in bigger numbers this time.
The knock came early. I wasn’t quite fully dressed, but the blue ones were in no mood to wait for sartorial adjustments.
The last time I had a policeman appear at my door he came on his own. His tone was conversational, almost convivial. Not so this time. The four burly lumps of Sydney’s finest crowding my narrow doorway this morning wanted help with their enquiries and looked as if they knew how to get it. I had a mental image of being whisked away into a Kafkaesque nightmare of waterboards and devilishly ingenious things with tweezers.
But this is Australia not Orwell’s Oceania so they were quickly disarmed with the news that Karen Anderson did not live here. Miss Anderson is, in fact, completely unknown to me despite the fact that she’s been giving my little terraced house as her address to all and sundry. Strictly speaking the (now fugitive) Karen has given her address as an apartment within my house. Apartment number 319, would you believe. A neat trick getting that many apartments into my two bedroom Victorian.
The lone policeman from the prior visit was searching for a gentleman with a similarly confused domicile. Presumably that individual was an accomplice of master-criminal Anderson. The pair are doubtless hatching intricate plots at this very moment, impervious to statute behind a vast web of assumed addresses.
It would seem that somewhere in Surry Hills (perhaps a parallel Surry Hills, “Surrey Hills” perchance?) there is building on a “Belvoir Street”, bearing my number. This parallel Number 5 is a significant edifice of many flats (a disturbingly high proportion of which house wanton criminals). The evidence for this parallel world is mounting. Aside from head-scratching constables, meter-readers and pizza delivery boys there’s been a steady stream of bemused individuals standing in front of my house with faces of bewilderment, often shouting into a mobile phone:
“No. I’m standing at number 5 now and it’s definitely not an apartment block. It’s a house.”
It would appear that the parallel world has a link to our telephone network.
This of course would all be harmless (if occasionally irritating) fun, were it not for the first incident of this nature. Nearly a year ago, when I first moved in I was woken at 2 or 3 am by frantic activity at my door. The first people I knew of to be misdirected here. I will never know if that ambulance crew ever found the people who called it.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Not Just Cricket
I don’t really get cricket. There’s something suspicious about a sport that takes a whole working week to reach a conclusion. In fact it’s a dubious proposition in my mind whether it can deservingly be defined as a sport at all. I think it is in fact ‘a game’. Honestly, can it be a sport if the spectators are getting more exercise than the participants?
By any standards cricket must have the most complicated scoring system known to man. Not just rivalling but actually surpassing GAA “points v goals” system in this respect. Consider the following score:
And that’s just the one team’s score! But that’s not what makes the whole pursuit so utterly impenetrable to the casual observer. All fields of human endeavour generate an individual argot, but cricket takes the prize for building its own private tower of Babel. The quaint English pastime has added to the lexicon: “Zooter”, “Bump Ball”, “Doosra”, “Silly mid-off”, “Arm Ball”, “Beamer”, “Bosie”, “In-ducker”, “Jaffa”, “Bouncer”, “Googly”, “Grubber”, “Leg-cutter”, “Yorker”, “Sticky wicket”. You could look up the definitions, but I promise you; you’ve got better things to be doing with your time. Consider the following excerpt:
He’s not the only one that’s stumped by that sentence. Or this:
“Ireland reached 2 for 32 after 10 overs ...
Pakistan losing wickets when Hafeez (4)
was caught behind from seamer Langford-
Smith. Khan then followed with a third-ball
nought, caught at slip, to make the score
2 for 15”.
Cricket people say things like this all the time and actually expect to be taken seriously.
So why am I so concerned with this particularly bizarre example of the English practice of creating-a-sport-and- exporting-it- so-that-everyone-else- can-beat-them-at-it? Well the hint is in the two quotes above. We were all more than a little surprised last year to discover that not only did the Irish have a cricket team, but they had actually advanced to the World Cup in the Caribbean. Then they took the huge scalp of Pakistan – on St. Patrick’s Day! The BBC describes this as “one of the greatest victories in cricket's rich history”.
Over a year ago, Paul Davey, an Irish friend of mine based in Sydney, had the idea of making a documentary film about the Irish participation. He took a huge risk. Giving up his lucrative technology job and investing his savings in the venture. Paul had unprecedented access to the whole team. In a sense he became part of it, getting first hand reactions of the players.
The resulting documentary is a really good story, even if – like me – you don’t know the first thing about cricket. The players were all part timers and Paul shows them going from their ordinary lives as postmen and teachers to the superstar world of international sportsmen and back to their inevitable postal-rounds. And on top of that you will all remember the controversial, untimely death of the Packistani coach. The documentary has had great critical acclaim and I want to encourage you all to go and see it. To do so, follow this link.
By any standards cricket must have the most complicated scoring system known to man. Not just rivalling but actually surpassing GAA “points v goals” system in this respect. Consider the following score:
South Africa: 170, 178/4 (57.0 Ovs)
And that’s just the one team’s score! But that’s not what makes the whole pursuit so utterly impenetrable to the casual observer. All fields of human endeavour generate an individual argot, but cricket takes the prize for building its own private tower of Babel. The quaint English pastime has added to the lexicon: “Zooter”, “Bump Ball”, “Doosra”, “Silly mid-off”, “Arm Ball”, “Beamer”, “Bosie”, “In-ducker”, “Jaffa”, “Bouncer”, “Googly”, “Grubber”, “Leg-cutter”, “Yorker”, “Sticky wicket”. You could look up the definitions, but I promise you; you’ve got better things to be doing with your time. Consider the following excerpt:
“...he tried to hit off-spinner Shoaib Malik for six
with 21 needed and six wickets still in hand,
he was stumped”.
with 21 needed and six wickets still in hand,
he was stumped”.
He’s not the only one that’s stumped by that sentence. Or this:
“Ireland reached 2 for 32 after 10 overs ...
Pakistan losing wickets when Hafeez (4)
was caught behind from seamer Langford-
Smith. Khan then followed with a third-ball
nought, caught at slip, to make the score
2 for 15”.
Cricket people say things like this all the time and actually expect to be taken seriously.
So why am I so concerned with this particularly bizarre example of the English practice of creating-a-sport-and- exporting-it- so-that-everyone-else- can-beat-them-at-it? Well the hint is in the two quotes above. We were all more than a little surprised last year to discover that not only did the Irish have a cricket team, but they had actually advanced to the World Cup in the Caribbean. Then they took the huge scalp of Pakistan – on St. Patrick’s Day! The BBC describes this as “one of the greatest victories in cricket's rich history”.
Over a year ago, Paul Davey, an Irish friend of mine based in Sydney, had the idea of making a documentary film about the Irish participation. He took a huge risk. Giving up his lucrative technology job and investing his savings in the venture. Paul had unprecedented access to the whole team. In a sense he became part of it, getting first hand reactions of the players.
The resulting documentary is a really good story, even if – like me – you don’t know the first thing about cricket. The players were all part timers and Paul shows them going from their ordinary lives as postmen and teachers to the superstar world of international sportsmen and back to their inevitable postal-rounds. And on top of that you will all remember the controversial, untimely death of the Packistani coach. The documentary has had great critical acclaim and I want to encourage you all to go and see it. To do so, follow this link.
Monday, February 18, 2008
5 Kilos of Books
I recently confronted an interesting conundrum. On a brief, 4 day, visit to Dublin I decided to send a portion of my Irish library to myself in Sydney. Between one thing and another it turns out that it’s really cheap to send 5 kilos of books and starts to get rather pricy if you want to send more.
This raised the question of what were my most valued books, by weight.
Thus while my Concise Oxford English Dictionary is valuable to me, weighing in at over a kilo it displaced far too many other works to make the cut. At the other extreme, even the lightest of my ‘Holy Bible’ collection was never likely to be scheduled for transportation.
[Some readers will be surprised to learn of my scripture stack. As I see it; if the Gideon Society give me their stuff it would be rude not to accept it. Taking their gift saves the next occupant of the hotel room from reading the thing and after a while you get a paper pile that can be useful for packing material, origami, or fuel.]
My 5 Kilo pack was made up of Carl Sagan, Karl Popper and Richard Dawkins works, but the real question for you, gentle reader, is; what would you take with you? (I feel this owes something to the last page of H. G. Wells’s ‘Time Machine’ which I may send in the next 5-kilo instalment).
This raised the question of what were my most valued books, by weight.
Thus while my Concise Oxford English Dictionary is valuable to me, weighing in at over a kilo it displaced far too many other works to make the cut. At the other extreme, even the lightest of my ‘Holy Bible’ collection was never likely to be scheduled for transportation.
[Some readers will be surprised to learn of my scripture stack. As I see it; if the Gideon Society give me their stuff it would be rude not to accept it. Taking their gift saves the next occupant of the hotel room from reading the thing and after a while you get a paper pile that can be useful for packing material, origami, or fuel.]
My 5 Kilo pack was made up of Carl Sagan, Karl Popper and Richard Dawkins works, but the real question for you, gentle reader, is; what would you take with you? (I feel this owes something to the last page of H. G. Wells’s ‘Time Machine’ which I may send in the next 5-kilo instalment).
Friday, November 30, 2007
Awake
It's 5am and I find myself wide awake and restless in Cork. I'd like to be asleep like everyone else, but my metabolism has other ideas. It's not really convinced about this whole Ireland business and is having none of it. As far as it's concerned we never left Sydney and we shall damn well rise when Sydney rises.
There is a possibility that I have unfairly accused my internal chronometer. An equally plausible suggestion is that excitement is keeping me awake. I have just finished a week of meetings and tomorrow I'll be in dirty old Dublin town meeting friends and family. The meetings have confirmed that I shall be rewarded with my own business in Australia and have instantly generated an enormous workload. I'm guessing that my enthusiasm for the task ahead, and general buoyancy over going home, are as much the culprits for my insomnia as jet-lag.
Ah! What's this I see? Yes! A glimmer of light in the east.
There is a possibility that I have unfairly accused my internal chronometer. An equally plausible suggestion is that excitement is keeping me awake. I have just finished a week of meetings and tomorrow I'll be in dirty old Dublin town meeting friends and family. The meetings have confirmed that I shall be rewarded with my own business in Australia and have instantly generated an enormous workload. I'm guessing that my enthusiasm for the task ahead, and general buoyancy over going home, are as much the culprits for my insomnia as jet-lag.
Ah! What's this I see? Yes! A glimmer of light in the east.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
The Personal Trainer
It began innocently, as these things do. But looking back at that beginning now, knowing the suffering and pain that was to come, that innocence is unimaginable. Like a forgotten Eden
‘Physical exercise is good’; an unassailable truism. And so our team willingly submitted to the regime. Weekly at lunchtime we would exercise under Mark’s direction. It was as simple as that, as innocent as that. So the compulsory, regimented, exercises began, under our new Personal Trainer (‘El Persodente’). If we had only known the road down which that simple, innocent agreement would bring us; a road of terrible pain, a road of wretched suffering, a road around Farm Cove and Mrs. Macquarie’s Chair.
As the weeks passed Mark’s gentle encouragement gave way to demands that we improve our times. Mark, or ‘Che Cahill’ as he insisted we call him, became a brutal disciplinarian. Each outing was more challenging, more arduous than the last. Che branded all objections as descent and they were mercilessly crushed.
The objectives were inhuman. It was only a matter of time before the effort would overcome one of us. Aziz was first to succumb; Poor, gentle Aziz. The demands of our leader were simply too much for him. He always lagged the rest of us. With our support he persevered. But one day we looked back, and Aziz was no longer there. What became of him? Did Che execute him? Did he die of sheer exhaustion? Was he sitting at his desk trying to polish off a bug during his lunch break? Who knows? Who could know?
Undaunted, the Personal Trainer commended our loss as a sign. He declared it ‘Year Zero’, and pressed us to, and beyond, the limit.
Words can not describe the horror that Tuesday lunchtimes (or Wednesday if it rains or whatever on Tuesday) now hold for us. The agony is monstrous, but dread of our leader’s capricious temper and fear of his wrath keep us running.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Congratulations Nina
Nina was always willing to go the extra mile. Now she’s jumped through hoops and snatched her MBA from the ambition tree.
It’s always good to be proactive and touch base with the industry to get a heads-up on the benchmarks for fast-tracking your career. The bottom line is that a knowledge-based strategic game plan is needed to prove you are a goal-focussed team player who is in the loop. You need to play hardball to empower a win. The prevailing philosophy is to quantum leap over your peer resources by obtaining a superior business oriented academic enablement. Thus pushing beyond the parameters under which most of one’s career competitors operate, therefore enhancing your value while radically reducing internal angst, synchronizingly marginalyzing your rivals to a point where they are almost nil as a potentially competitive factor, thereby dominating, in a total way, all the marbles. That’s what Nina’s all about.
But it hasn’t been just about picking the low hanging fruit. Bilaterals with Nina have been at a premium while she’s been at the academic coalface. We’ve all had to adjust to the low-Nina-availability environment. That was a paradigm shift that required us all to re-solutioneer our collective social interactions. Often Nina was engaged in valued added initiatives and needed to skip opportunities to exchange discourse regarding matters that were not within the strategic MBA-box. This had a negative impact on all of our bottom lines. Happily, newly equipped with her MBA, she’ll have enhanced face-time for us all. (Though we may never again understand a whole sentence that comes from her lips).
Well done Nina!
It’s always good to be proactive and touch base with the industry to get a heads-up on the benchmarks for fast-tracking your career. The bottom line is that a knowledge-based strategic game plan is needed to prove you are a goal-focussed team player who is in the loop. You need to play hardball to empower a win. The prevailing philosophy is to quantum leap over your peer resources by obtaining a superior business oriented academic enablement. Thus pushing beyond the parameters under which most of one’s career competitors operate, therefore enhancing your value while radically reducing internal angst, synchronizingly marginalyzing your rivals to a point where they are almost nil as a potentially competitive factor, thereby dominating, in a total way, all the marbles. That’s what Nina’s all about.
But it hasn’t been just about picking the low hanging fruit. Bilaterals with Nina have been at a premium while she’s been at the academic coalface. We’ve all had to adjust to the low-Nina-availability environment. That was a paradigm shift that required us all to re-solutioneer our collective social interactions. Often Nina was engaged in valued added initiatives and needed to skip opportunities to exchange discourse regarding matters that were not within the strategic MBA-box. This had a negative impact on all of our bottom lines. Happily, newly equipped with her MBA, she’ll have enhanced face-time for us all. (Though we may never again understand a whole sentence that comes from her lips).
Well done Nina!
Monday, October 08, 2007
Meta Blog
It’s been quite some time since I’ve made an entry here. The drought is finally at an end; I’m back, by popular demand.
The record will show that, after 24 successive entries over the course of a year, (an average of a blog posting every fortnight or so), this blog experienced something of a hiatus. Fully two months have elapsed since my entry bemoaning the evils of white ants and their voracious appetite for all things wooden (not least of which is my house).
The white ants are at least in part to blame for the cessation of my scribbling. Or rather the effort to expunge the imprint of their munchings has consumed my free time to the point that generating missives for recreational purposes has taken something of a back seat.
It would appear that the long, dark teatime of this blog has not gone unnoticed. The initial, lone voice of disquiet has been joined and lately risen to something of a chorus. Many of you are demanding 'the return of the blog' (sounds like a bad B movie).
It is gratifying indeed to hear you express this interest. I might have been forgiven for believing that this forum amounted to little more than me talking to myself. (A practise I reserve for my solo trips to crowded cinemas). But here you are in your thousands demanding fresh entries.
And have them you shall.
The record will show that, after 24 successive entries over the course of a year, (an average of a blog posting every fortnight or so), this blog experienced something of a hiatus. Fully two months have elapsed since my entry bemoaning the evils of white ants and their voracious appetite for all things wooden (not least of which is my house).
The white ants are at least in part to blame for the cessation of my scribbling. Or rather the effort to expunge the imprint of their munchings has consumed my free time to the point that generating missives for recreational purposes has taken something of a back seat.
It would appear that the long, dark teatime of this blog has not gone unnoticed. The initial, lone voice of disquiet has been joined and lately risen to something of a chorus. Many of you are demanding 'the return of the blog' (sounds like a bad B movie).
It is gratifying indeed to hear you express this interest. I might have been forgiven for believing that this forum amounted to little more than me talking to myself. (A practise I reserve for my solo trips to crowded cinemas). But here you are in your thousands demanding fresh entries.
And have them you shall.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
White Ants
From the sheltered perspective of Ireland, Australia is a place populated by ferocious creatures. From the tiny Sydney Funnel-web spider to the gigantic Crocodiles of Queensland, from the fictitious Drop Bears to the very real Common Brown snake, it would appear that Australian fauna are intrinsically malign. So one shouldn't be surprised to discover the place if crawling with termites (or White Ants) earnestly bent on the destruction of all human constructions.
I knew there was some termite damage in the roof of the house when I bought it. "A couple of carpenters will sort it out in a day", I was told. Also there was no urgency to the work. It appeared that a termite invasion had been chemically thwarted decades ago but much if the damage was covered over rather than repaired.
When electricians recently descended on my little Surry Hills cottage, they exposed some of the damage in the bedrooms and I decided it was no longer feasible to ignore it. I set about identifying and replacing effete floorboards.
A lot of the damaged boards look fine on the surface, but they are little more than a paper thin veneer over a fragile honeycomb of minute tunnels. In many cases you can crush the stuff to powder with your hands and none of the affected floorboards would hold the weight of a person.
The photo above shows something of a low point in the life of my house; the carpets are up and the dead boards removed but not replaced. Meanwhile everything (carpets, underlay, deceased floorboards, replacement floorboards, disassembled bed, clothes) is piled up in the remaining bedroom.
As I write it has been put to rights. I have two bedrooms once again and slept in a proper bed for the first time in weeks. There's still a big tidy to be done and the downstairs remains formidable, but more significantly, I now live in fear of the "Revenge of the White Ants".
I knew there was some termite damage in the roof of the house when I bought it. "A couple of carpenters will sort it out in a day", I was told. Also there was no urgency to the work. It appeared that a termite invasion had been chemically thwarted decades ago but much if the damage was covered over rather than repaired.
When electricians recently descended on my little Surry Hills cottage, they exposed some of the damage in the bedrooms and I decided it was no longer feasible to ignore it. I set about identifying and replacing effete floorboards.
A lot of the damaged boards look fine on the surface, but they are little more than a paper thin veneer over a fragile honeycomb of minute tunnels. In many cases you can crush the stuff to powder with your hands and none of the affected floorboards would hold the weight of a person.
The photo above shows something of a low point in the life of my house; the carpets are up and the dead boards removed but not replaced. Meanwhile everything (carpets, underlay, deceased floorboards, replacement floorboards, disassembled bed, clothes) is piled up in the remaining bedroom.
As I write it has been put to rights. I have two bedrooms once again and slept in a proper bed for the first time in weeks. There's still a big tidy to be done and the downstairs remains formidable, but more significantly, I now live in fear of the "Revenge of the White Ants".
Monday, June 18, 2007
Sparks Fly
"Computers are the future", I was told by the career guidance teacher, "There'll be plenty of work in that".
In my old school, the position of career guidance counsellor was a sort of repository for senescent dodderies. My counsellor was an affable relic that was kept-on out of some kindness. There was some unspoken financial matter in the chap's past that restricted him from taking to pasture as he clearly needed to do. As a result every pupil was individually slumped before the fellow, to spend an hour of their life that they would never recover, as he dispensed the worst vocational advice known to man.
His determination of one's ideal path was algorithmicly linked to the most recent exam results. So the bookish were pushed towards the professions while less accomplished academics were told that lifelong nirvana could be obtained from a trade.
I was able to save the man the bother. Having made up my mind that software engineering would be my life's work at an early age. Even back in 1988 the grey had a vague notion that "computers are the future", and I saved myself perhaps 30 minutes of wasted teenage time.
Nearly 20 years on and I'm less certain. On the face of it the less erudite school boys have enjoyed two decades of unbelievable wealth accumulation. Sitting as I do now, in a home that demands the attention variously of chippies, sparks and plasterers. They can more or less name their price and certainly command hourly rates that make me blanch. That, of course, is if you are lucky enough to get a quote from them. I've had tradesmen who didn't turn up, electricians that took one look and vanished into the ether and a single quote from a sparks with a lasso and ten-gallon hat.
It seems to me that I would be a rich man had I taken up a trade in preference to a career in computer science. I don't blame the should-have-been-superannuated man. My mind was set and he could no more have made me pursue a life as a mason than as a medic. I fear the mistake was mine, but I do fear it was a mistake.
In my old school, the position of career guidance counsellor was a sort of repository for senescent dodderies. My counsellor was an affable relic that was kept-on out of some kindness. There was some unspoken financial matter in the chap's past that restricted him from taking to pasture as he clearly needed to do. As a result every pupil was individually slumped before the fellow, to spend an hour of their life that they would never recover, as he dispensed the worst vocational advice known to man.
His determination of one's ideal path was algorithmicly linked to the most recent exam results. So the bookish were pushed towards the professions while less accomplished academics were told that lifelong nirvana could be obtained from a trade.
I was able to save the man the bother. Having made up my mind that software engineering would be my life's work at an early age. Even back in 1988 the grey had a vague notion that "computers are the future", and I saved myself perhaps 30 minutes of wasted teenage time.
Nearly 20 years on and I'm less certain. On the face of it the less erudite school boys have enjoyed two decades of unbelievable wealth accumulation. Sitting as I do now, in a home that demands the attention variously of chippies, sparks and plasterers. They can more or less name their price and certainly command hourly rates that make me blanch. That, of course, is if you are lucky enough to get a quote from them. I've had tradesmen who didn't turn up, electricians that took one look and vanished into the ether and a single quote from a sparks with a lasso and ten-gallon hat.
It seems to me that I would be a rich man had I taken up a trade in preference to a career in computer science. I don't blame the should-have-been-superannuated man. My mind was set and he could no more have made me pursue a life as a mason than as a medic. I fear the mistake was mine, but I do fear it was a mistake.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Butt Ban
This weekend marked the final opportunity to smoke in a public bar in New South Wales. I'm happy to announce that all my socialising will now be free of passive smoke.
House Warmth
The new house had it's inaugural party last weekend. It was something of a landmark event for me and I'm pleased to say it went swimmingly.
I hate throwing parties. For one thing you never fully enjoy a party that you are throwing yourself. There's far too much running around making sure that everybody else is enjoying themselves. And you have to expend a modicum of time with each guest so you never really get to have a conversation with anyone.
But the main problem with parties is the fact that it provides a potentially brutal barometer of one's popularity. First of all there's the decline-ratio: the proportion of the people you want to be there that don't want to be there. And in my case (having only been in the country for 8 months) there's the thorny question of having people to invite at all.
On both counts I have to say I was very pleased. When I sat down to prepare a list of invitees I was slightly worried that it would be depressingly short. I quickly realised that I had nothing to worry about there. There are friends from work, friends from my old house-share and of course the netball team. The decline ratio was also pretty good. And my little house was duly packed on the night.
My two sofas had arrived at 6:30am on the morning of the party. The only other furniture consisted of 5 milk crates and this fridge that arrived mid-afternoon.
Mandy and Aoife brought me shopping for all my party needs. (I would have been lost without them). The two continued much of the running during the party. I took each new guest on a tour of the property, while Nathan began an industrial scale production-line of baby-Guinnesses.
I'm very content that the party went exactly as I had hoped. Above all I had a strong sense that the people who had gathered there were of the highest calibre, and I'm deeply happy to have made friends with so many genuinely pleasant people so quickly after arriving in a new country.
More photos here.
I hate throwing parties. For one thing you never fully enjoy a party that you are throwing yourself. There's far too much running around making sure that everybody else is enjoying themselves. And you have to expend a modicum of time with each guest so you never really get to have a conversation with anyone.
But the main problem with parties is the fact that it provides a potentially brutal barometer of one's popularity. First of all there's the decline-ratio: the proportion of the people you want to be there that don't want to be there. And in my case (having only been in the country for 8 months) there's the thorny question of having people to invite at all.
On both counts I have to say I was very pleased. When I sat down to prepare a list of invitees I was slightly worried that it would be depressingly short. I quickly realised that I had nothing to worry about there. There are friends from work, friends from my old house-share and of course the netball team. The decline ratio was also pretty good. And my little house was duly packed on the night.
My two sofas had arrived at 6:30am on the morning of the party. The only other furniture consisted of 5 milk crates and this fridge that arrived mid-afternoon.
Mandy and Aoife brought me shopping for all my party needs. (I would have been lost without them). The two continued much of the running during the party. I took each new guest on a tour of the property, while Nathan began an industrial scale production-line of baby-Guinnesses.
I'm very content that the party went exactly as I had hoped. Above all I had a strong sense that the people who had gathered there were of the highest calibre, and I'm deeply happy to have made friends with so many genuinely pleasant people so quickly after arriving in a new country.
More photos here.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Plunge!
I'll take a break from the world of property to mention a plunge of a different sort.
At the time of writing I am 35 years old and I cannot swim. I personally find this completely unremarkable. It's absurdly simple to avoid swimming. If everyone decides to go swimming you just do something else.
If you grow up in Ireland in the 1980's there aren't any swimming pools worth going to and, even in the summer, it's far too cold to brave the sea. Although Irish people usually do learn to swim at some point in their childhood, not being a swimmer never hindered me in any way. Swimming occasions rarely arise and there's always something else to do. Down Under, opportunities to swim are plentiful. As are the swimming pools. And it's not always the case that other activities are on offer.
On rare occasions when the topic of my inability to swim arose in Ireland I was met with mild surprise and generally pressed to take adult lessons of some sort. I politely ventured that I really ought to look into it at some point and promptly dropped the subject. As always Australia is different. The locals are positively aghast when they hear I cannot make my way about on the surface of water unaided. It is almost as if I had announced that I cannot hear and have been secretly lip-reading all their conversations with me. I've had more than one person email me with comprehensive lists of classes. They've practically listed which bus routes to take and have barely stopped short of offering to pay for the classes. Aussies REALLY just don't get that you can't swim.
So I took the plunge (so as to speak) and I'm taking lessons.
At the time of writing I am 35 years old and I cannot swim. I personally find this completely unremarkable. It's absurdly simple to avoid swimming. If everyone decides to go swimming you just do something else.
If you grow up in Ireland in the 1980's there aren't any swimming pools worth going to and, even in the summer, it's far too cold to brave the sea. Although Irish people usually do learn to swim at some point in their childhood, not being a swimmer never hindered me in any way. Swimming occasions rarely arise and there's always something else to do. Down Under, opportunities to swim are plentiful. As are the swimming pools. And it's not always the case that other activities are on offer.
On rare occasions when the topic of my inability to swim arose in Ireland I was met with mild surprise and generally pressed to take adult lessons of some sort. I politely ventured that I really ought to look into it at some point and promptly dropped the subject. As always Australia is different. The locals are positively aghast when they hear I cannot make my way about on the surface of water unaided. It is almost as if I had announced that I cannot hear and have been secretly lip-reading all their conversations with me. I've had more than one person email me with comprehensive lists of classes. They've practically listed which bus routes to take and have barely stopped short of offering to pay for the classes. Aussies REALLY just don't get that you can't swim.
So I took the plunge (so as to speak) and I'm taking lessons.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Hicks Mansion
With the settlement on the house some weeks away, my frenetic workload had suddenly and completely evaporated. It was long past time to make good on my promise to visit Paul.
Paul Hicks is one of my best friends from college. We studied together, worked together and drank together. We've even pursued the same girls and managed not to fall out over it. About four years ago Paul decided to settle in New Zealand and he now resides in Wellington.
Final approach into Wellington airport revealed New Zealand's national capital from behind a bank of long white clouds. A dispersed conurbation of low housing packed into undulating hillsides bounded by infinite seas. Paul was there to meet me at the gate.
We passed the four day weekend pleasantly. The days we spent drinking and hiking. We also drank, and got drunk, I think every night. Visiting perhaps every Irish Bar in town, and a significant proportion of the remaining pubs. But the insobriety was always good natured and the whole experience thoroughly relaxing. Are we getting too old for full on carousing, or just too old to start fighting over the same girl?
My lasting impression (inevitably, perhaps, because of my recent home purchase) was of Paul's house. It is simply vast. A four bedroom home on two levels may not be Buckingham Palace, but for a bachelor in his first home it's positively sprawling.
Paul offered me a choice of rooms. Selfishly I selected the largest. A room that might otherwise have accommodated a training session for a basketball team. I considered the dimensions carefully and concluded that the entire original structure of my house (both floors) would fit in the volume provided by this single room. The ceilings were absurdly high and fiendishly ornate. Daybreak illuminated the chamber through an imposing window in the north wall and flooded the space with brilliant light. It was like waking up in a cloud.
I think I'll be going back.
Paul Hicks is one of my best friends from college. We studied together, worked together and drank together. We've even pursued the same girls and managed not to fall out over it. About four years ago Paul decided to settle in New Zealand and he now resides in Wellington.
Final approach into Wellington airport revealed New Zealand's national capital from behind a bank of long white clouds. A dispersed conurbation of low housing packed into undulating hillsides bounded by infinite seas. Paul was there to meet me at the gate.
We passed the four day weekend pleasantly. The days we spent drinking and hiking. We also drank, and got drunk, I think every night. Visiting perhaps every Irish Bar in town, and a significant proportion of the remaining pubs. But the insobriety was always good natured and the whole experience thoroughly relaxing. Are we getting too old for full on carousing, or just too old to start fighting over the same girl?
My lasting impression (inevitably, perhaps, because of my recent home purchase) was of Paul's house. It is simply vast. A four bedroom home on two levels may not be Buckingham Palace, but for a bachelor in his first home it's positively sprawling.
Paul offered me a choice of rooms. Selfishly I selected the largest. A room that might otherwise have accommodated a training session for a basketball team. I considered the dimensions carefully and concluded that the entire original structure of my house (both floors) would fit in the volume provided by this single room. The ceilings were absurdly high and fiendishly ornate. Daybreak illuminated the chamber through an imposing window in the north wall and flooded the space with brilliant light. It was like waking up in a cloud.
I think I'll be going back.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Waiting...
It seems like the last several weeks have all been about waiting.I have a strong sense that from the moment I move into my house every spare second shall be spent repairing it. Preparing it for winter storms. Sealing it against the cold. For now I wait.
An intense effort lies ahead, so I have prepared. Last week two builders and an engineer came by to quote and advise on the necessary building work I want completed before I move in. Not to mention the destruction and re-build of the collapsing laundry (currently a million dollar law-suit waiting to happen).
Meanwhile, I find myself taking an interest in other people's homes. A window shopper of architectural details, furniture, lighting options and storage solutions. But for now I can purchase none of these. So I press my nose against the shop window and admire, and wait.
Waiting also for Joanne to return from New Zealand as she finally did last week. On a fleeting visit with her sister, Lisa, she politely admired the outside of my new home. Provided all the right assurances about location and builders. Now she has gone, once again. Returning to her own house in Wales, via New Zealand and South America, with a promise to come back to Australia once Lisa is safely married. Meanwhile, I continue to wait.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Signed
I signed contracts for the little house on Belvoir Street today. I'm still reeling.
As well as contracts, I signed up for a mortgage with my employer, BigBank, with all it's attendant guarantees and check lists. Then there's the small matter of a cheque for $49,000 (10% or the purchase price).
The tenants will still be in the place 'til the middle of May. That gives me some breathing space to shop around for home insurance and to decide what physical changes I want to make to the property.
I've just been discussing my basic plans with my house mate, Aoife. She disagreed with every single opinion I had. Even down to the idea of removing the dividing wall downstairs, which I regard as fundamental. Admittedly, her ideas were grander and would make for an attractive home, but the planning regulations for a listed building would be a problem. And cost would be prohibitive.
If anyone out there has any suggestions I'm currently open to them all.
As well as contracts, I signed up for a mortgage with my employer, BigBank, with all it's attendant guarantees and check lists. Then there's the small matter of a cheque for $49,000 (10% or the purchase price).
The tenants will still be in the place 'til the middle of May. That gives me some breathing space to shop around for home insurance and to decide what physical changes I want to make to the property.
I've just been discussing my basic plans with my house mate, Aoife. She disagreed with every single opinion I had. Even down to the idea of removing the dividing wall downstairs, which I regard as fundamental. Admittedly, her ideas were grander and would make for an attractive home, but the planning regulations for a listed building would be a problem. And cost would be prohibitive.
If anyone out there has any suggestions I'm currently open to them all.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Belvoir Street
It looks as though the house search has come to an abrupt end. As I have just agreed to buy this:
I can already see the start of problems. The scanned documents from the vendor were mostly illegible, and my solicitor has sent a list of questions to them that I never even countenanced. I'm sure these are pretty standard but they looked scary.
The house itself turns out to be heritage listed. They were quiet about that during the viewing. Of course, I never thought to ask either as the building is not THAT old. It's seems the Australian authorities get all misty eyed whenever they see a building that's more than about 20 minutes old. If you applied the same criteria for heritage listing in Dublin, everything inside the M50 would be a heritage site. While "heritage listed" sounds lovely, it may make certain extension plans I was thinking about a bit tricky.
All in all I am really excited and there's enough DIY there to keep me busy for the foreseeable future. Ideally I'd be calling in some free-labour debts. Unfortunately the small matter of the intervening planet will makes it unreasonable to expect my friends to drop round and operate a paint brush in exchange for pizza and beer.
In the short run there's the conveyancing to deal with. I'll probably need to get the place rewired. but I hope to be in it by May and then it's just the small matter of paying off a loan over the next 25 years.
I can already see the start of problems. The scanned documents from the vendor were mostly illegible, and my solicitor has sent a list of questions to them that I never even countenanced. I'm sure these are pretty standard but they looked scary.
The house itself turns out to be heritage listed. They were quiet about that during the viewing. Of course, I never thought to ask either as the building is not THAT old. It's seems the Australian authorities get all misty eyed whenever they see a building that's more than about 20 minutes old. If you applied the same criteria for heritage listing in Dublin, everything inside the M50 would be a heritage site. While "heritage listed" sounds lovely, it may make certain extension plans I was thinking about a bit tricky.
All in all I am really excited and there's enough DIY there to keep me busy for the foreseeable future. Ideally I'd be calling in some free-labour debts. Unfortunately the small matter of the intervening planet will makes it unreasonable to expect my friends to drop round and operate a paint brush in exchange for pizza and beer.
In the short run there's the conveyancing to deal with. I'll probably need to get the place rewired. but I hope to be in it by May and then it's just the small matter of paying off a loan over the next 25 years.
Monday, February 19, 2007
House Shopping and Melbourne
I went to Melbourne this weekend, to spend some time with Fiona B.
The alternative was to spend the time trawling though other people's homes with a view to acquiring one of them. Finding a home ought to be an exciting task; a project of discovery and adventure. But with each viewing I become ever more despondent. I've just realised why I do not enjoy looking for a new house: It's shopping.
I don't understand shopping. It's necessary, because you can't walk around naked and hungry, but I've never grasped how some people, Mary Poppins like, manage to turn it into a recreational activity. A friend once intimated to me the value of her favourite Swedish shopping emporium. "It's cheap, disposable fashion", she exclaimed, " so you can wear it a few times and constantly shop for new things!". Honestly, she thought eternally browsing for that ideal blouse or belt would be paradise. To me it's a purgatory I'd just as soon avoid.
And so my temporary reprieve was to spend a day or two with Fiona as she caught up with pals from her college years in Melbourne. How much better this was than shopping for bricks and mortar I cannot relate. Fi enthused about her town. Beamed as she described her college haunts and marvelled at the changes of more recent years. On Saturday we sat beneath the stars and listen the the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra do justice to Verdi. Not an estate agent in sight.
I was sorry to leave Fiona and Melbourne behind, to return to Sydney and grasping for the bottom run of its property ladder.
The alternative was to spend the time trawling though other people's homes with a view to acquiring one of them. Finding a home ought to be an exciting task; a project of discovery and adventure. But with each viewing I become ever more despondent. I've just realised why I do not enjoy looking for a new house: It's shopping.
I don't understand shopping. It's necessary, because you can't walk around naked and hungry, but I've never grasped how some people, Mary Poppins like, manage to turn it into a recreational activity. A friend once intimated to me the value of her favourite Swedish shopping emporium. "It's cheap, disposable fashion", she exclaimed, " so you can wear it a few times and constantly shop for new things!". Honestly, she thought eternally browsing for that ideal blouse or belt would be paradise. To me it's a purgatory I'd just as soon avoid.
And so my temporary reprieve was to spend a day or two with Fiona as she caught up with pals from her college years in Melbourne. How much better this was than shopping for bricks and mortar I cannot relate. Fi enthused about her town. Beamed as she described her college haunts and marvelled at the changes of more recent years. On Saturday we sat beneath the stars and listen the the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra do justice to Verdi. Not an estate agent in sight.
I was sorry to leave Fiona and Melbourne behind, to return to Sydney and grasping for the bottom run of its property ladder.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Changing the Guard
We are getting a new housemate at our house on Barcom Avenue. This is a good thing because she is beautiful, intelligent and Irish. But it’s also bad because we gain Aoife at the significant expense of losing Natalie.
Natalie is nice. She’s kind to strangers and small animals. But great character strengths can be weaknesses too. And her habit of lending her room to near-random strangers when she was out of town was mitigated only by the fact that they always turned out to be quite pleasant, or at least not actual axe murders. Not being hacked to bits in our beds by Nat’s houseguests, however, was more due to providence than planning. The thing that annoyed me was when she announced that we were now in possession of a puppy.
Now caring for strays is a good thing. They’re not well loved and who amongst us could not benefit from a modicum of tenderness every now and again. But I regard the kennelling of canines as akin to rain during this New South Wales drought. It’s desirable and even necessary but I prefer when it’s happening far, far away.
Seriously, I expect to be asked before a pet is brought into my home. As in; “Hey guys, my friend is going to be out of town and I was thinking of offering to look after his Doberman. What do you think?” Of course, what I’d think would be “No!” and I imagine my thoughts were predictable. That however does not excuse turning up with said mutt as a fait accompli.
Anyway, annoyance at Nat was disgorged in a whispered conversation between the other three housemates. It's really not pleasant to be talking about someone behind their back and unfortunately our whispering was not quiet enough and Nat overheard. She was justifiably outraged and to my disappointment she has decided to leave us. I think the overheard conversation came at the end of a really bad week for Nat (her uncle passed away and she’d been slaving all hours at work). Any other time and we might have been able to gloss over the matter, but we are where we are.
And although no one will replace Natalie, I am quite looking forward to having an Irish girl about the place – especially this Aoife one.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Italy in August
It's difficult to achieve anything in Italy in August. Like buying a bed, for example. Unless you regard endlessly flitting from one furniture shop to another in a futile effort to find one that is open as a achievement. No, on balance, it's best not to bother. Even if you do find one that is not physically shuttered, it will be but a show-room and a caretaker. The elderly individual will brush off any attempts to so much as place an order, telling you to come back in September. Your sleeping on the floor 'til then my friend.
This goes beyond frustrating. Your western-consumerist mind will tell you that it HAS to be possible to give people money in exchange for goods and services. But alas, no. Your Euros (or dollars, old Lira, Ringgits, whatever) are no good to you in Italy in August. So you might as well kick back, make your own coffee and bask in the certain knowledge that sleeping on terracotta tiles is your fate for the rest of August.
And so it is in Sydney in January. At least if you're trying to view residential property. This city is utterly bereft, entirely devoid of real estate agents for the whole month. Seriously, there's not one to be found. I phoned up one place and actually got an answer, only to be told that all the agents were away until after Australia Day (January 26th).
My Euros are no good here.
So I might as well kick back, pour my own beer and relax in the certain knowledge that an absence of estate agents makes this city even more desirable in January.
This goes beyond frustrating. Your western-consumerist mind will tell you that it HAS to be possible to give people money in exchange for goods and services. But alas, no. Your Euros (or dollars, old Lira, Ringgits, whatever) are no good to you in Italy in August. So you might as well kick back, make your own coffee and bask in the certain knowledge that sleeping on terracotta tiles is your fate for the rest of August.
And so it is in Sydney in January. At least if you're trying to view residential property. This city is utterly bereft, entirely devoid of real estate agents for the whole month. Seriously, there's not one to be found. I phoned up one place and actually got an answer, only to be told that all the agents were away until after Australia Day (January 26th).
My Euros are no good here.
So I might as well kick back, pour my own beer and relax in the certain knowledge that an absence of estate agents makes this city even more desirable in January.
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