How Dare He?

I have just been shouted at by a senior* colleague.

Really, actually yelled at. In front of his two staff – at least one of whom is fairly regularly yelled at, I’m told.

I walked away and came back to my desk.

It made him look childish and unreasonable, and I hope I retained my dignity by refusing to stoop to shouting back… tempting though it was.

I’m more angry than upset, but should I:

a) apologise for walking out but explain that I won’t stay to be yelled at in the workplace

b) forget it

or

c) tell the boss – who is away on leave this week?

 

* senior in the sense that he is older than me and has been here longer, but he is in Sales and I’m in Creative, so I don’t report to him in any way. And I’m pretty senior myself.

OMG OMG OMG

Ohmigod, my brother and sister-in-law, parents of my adorable niece Beatrice, have undergone a second successful IVF cycle and are now expecting not one but TWO babies in June.

Ohmigod.

Twins.

Oh. My. Gawd.

My New Most Favourite Thing To Do In a Wetsuit

Ever been canyoning? Nor had I, until yesterday. As of now it is absolutely my Most Favourite Thing in the whole world bar none.

My canyoning buddy was Tim, partner of one of my friends at work and general all-round Good Chap. He’s the ideal person to do this kind of thing with: he has all the kit, he’s fit and capable without having anything to prove and he explains things exceptionally clearly and then doesn’t fuss while you get your head around it.

Also, while he can hold an interesting conversation, he doesn’t chatter incessantly – he’s quite comfortable with silence unless he has something to say.

Canyoning involves trekking – with ropes, wetsuit and harness – to the entry point and then abseiling down the cliff to the river which has cut the canyon, where you alternately swim and scramble down stream to the exit point. Then you haul out and trek back up to where you left your car… and your dry clothes, if you’ve any sense.

“Hey Tim, this is like hiking in bondage gear with a water fetish” I said, as we made our way along the track, clad in neoprene and with harnesesses securely fastened round our nether regions.

“Yeah” he said, and grinned.

I hadn’t abseiled before so while we were hiking to the canyon entry point he demonstrated how to attach the various ropes and metal bits and then let me practice a couple of times on some rock steps.

It’s pretty simple, really.

Our entry point was a tree growing out of the canyon wall, above a waterfall. The cliff dropped steeply below it with a little overhang and the walls were obviously very slippery because of the water, so it was just tricky enough to be challenging for him without being so tricky that it was beyond the enthusiastic but untested novice.

I can’t describe how quietly beautiful it was down there, with crystal clear water sparkling in the rays of sunshine which reached us from far above, and no sounds other than our own splashing.

My god, the water was cold in the swim-through pools at the bottom of the canyon though!

I saw my first superb lyrebird, as well as several large orange freshwater yabbies.  The waratahs were in bloom all over the hillsides, too.

[Those are not my photos - I didn't have my camera with me, rather stupidly]

All in all, a perfect Sunday. Even if I did have to get up at 5.30 after a late night at a friend’s Hallowe’en party dressed as Captain Jack Sparrow.

Cat Doppel-Gängers, Rules for Life and Publishing Deadlines

1. On my walk home from work in the evening I trundle along a little street of beautiful ‘Federation style’ detached houses with mature gardens and terribly smart, shiny cars in the driveways.

One of the houses has a brick wall, about 5 feet high and painted white, at the front, atop which usually sits a large black and white cat. If the cat is not sitting on the wall it is almost invariably sitting on the bonnet of one of the nice cars – presumably recently parked and therefore still pleasantly warm to a generously proportioned furry underside.

Every evening I stop briefly to pet this cat, who always gets up politely to say hello.

Last night, I turned the corner into this street, looked left and, sure enough, there was ‘my’ cat on the wall. Then I looked right, too, and, wait, what? There it was again, on the car.

Huh? Magic cat? Two places at once? Optical illusion caused by light refracting off the shiny BMWs? Or a reflection, somehow, with like, physics and stuff?

For several seconds I actually considered these explanations seriously as I walked forward but no, turns out there are actually two, very similar, black and white cats at this house. Maybe even siblings.

Of course.

Talk about the brain over-complicating one’s life…

2. I have devised a new Rule For Life which will become law as soon as I am made Empress of the World, which can’t be far off now, surely…?

Men, when seated, should always have their knees wider apart than their ankles. The opposite is true for women.

3. I often wish I had Douglas Adams’ insouciance when it comes to the stress of a rapidly-approaching deadline.

“I love deadlines”, he famously said, “I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.”

As it is, I confess I am just a teensy bit anxious about whether all the art, photos and text for this MASSIVELY IMPORTANT FLAGSHIP CHILDREN’S LIST SERIES will, in fact, be in, edited, reviewed and approved by Friday.

I need a sandwich-board sign and a handbell:

The End of The Week is Nigh!

 

The Most Boring Book Ever In The History Of The World, and other rants

1. This morning I had to check the plotters (by which I mean printer’s proofs, in sections, folded in the order they will be bound into the book) on our 512 page book on Weather.

Good thing the scalpels are several feet away and that the book had stupified me so deeply into lethargy that I couldn’t be bothered to get up and reach for one, or I might have taken my own life. As it was, I had to content myself with banging my forehead on the desk a few times and groaning.

I mean, yes, okay, illustrations of the various types of cloud can be quite interesting. But no, really, I do not give the most arse-waggingly remote of tosses about maps showing the prevailing winds and average precipitation levels for every region of the entire bloody planet. And I care even less now, having first commissioned the illustrations, then checked them, re-reviewed the amended versions, double-checked the CRA-ready files, triple-checked the proofs from Repro and now been faced with the same dull buggers yet again.

2. Spring is here, and more flesh is currently on display in Sydney than is decent. In my opinion.

Look, I know its sunny but if you’re over 25, less gazelle than wildebeest, and you have to walk up stairs in public at any point during your day, DO NOT wear a mini skirt.

I have no desire to see your wobbly thighs and dimpled bum cheeks ahead of me as I climb the steps by the bridge on my walk to work.

3. Please do not water my plants. I will water my plants. They are my responsibility. They are on my desk and outside my window. They are succulents: I know how much water they need and I provide it. If you water them as well, you will kill them. And then I will kill you.

Oh alright, I won’t kill you, but I will be very cross.

A Quick Vox Pop

Okay, folks, I need your help.

We’re in the early stages of development on a new series of books for adults – pocket sized illustrated guides on a range of subjects.

Here is the proposed list of subjects. Which titles would you buy? Please choose your top 10.

aborigines

ancient china

ancient egypt

ancient greece

ancient rome

architecture

astrology

aviation

barbarians

big cats

birds of prey

buddhism

cars

castles

cathedrals

christianity

cinema

civil rights

clippers

codes

communism

cowboys

democracy

deserts

dinosaurs

early civilisations

earthquakes

elephants

evolution

exploration

first humans

fishing

forensic science

ghosts

global warming

greek myths

heraldry

hurricanes

impressionism

islam

jazz

judaism

king arthur

longitude

medicine

modern art

moon

mountains

mozart

norse myths

native americans

picasso

planets

prehistoric life

railways

rainforests

renaissance

revolutions

rivers

sacred sites

shakespeare

sharks

shipwrecks

skyscrapers

space travel

stars

sun

troy

vampires

vikings

volcanoes

weather

whales

writing

And, at the risk of adding to our present predicament, do you have any other suggestions for topics we’ve missed?

One caveat: they need to have international appeal as our books are translated and sold in 42 languages.

Back off bitch

You know how some girls are scarier than others? I have a well-developed radar when it comes to such people and I do not, EVER, intentionally annoy them.

Alright, not until I know them well enough to judge how much damage they can do, anyway.

On Saturday night I toddled along to a pub I’d never even heard of before, in a harbourside suburb I had never visited (other than running through it on the City to Surf course a few months ago, which hardly counts since I was not paying a great deal of attention to the ambiance for obvious reasons), for the birthday celebration of a new friend, Bondi Brunette.

BB and I hit it off the moment we were introduced by our mutual male friend, Not-So-Vanilla IT Guy, and most of her friends who were there on Saturday night were equally lovely. I had a wonderful night.

One of the girls, however, did that thing of subtly looking me up and down as we shook hands and then pretty much ignoring me. “Fine”, I thought, “You clearly don’t like me for whatever reason. No problem.”

Then she bumped into a group of guys while going to the bar. She’d apparently had a one-night-stand with one of them several years ago – they’re all from similar school and college circles – and mentioned this fact when she rejoined us.

“So, is he hot? Is there any potential there?” we all asked.

“Oh no. I’m not going to hook up with him again. Definitely not. He’s drunk.”

Leaving aside the fact that its a bar, so yeah, people are going to be more or less inebriated, okay. You’re not interested in him. Understood.

A little later we all shifted into the main bar area and were introduced to the group of guys.

“Oh-oh”, methinks, “I bet that this tall interesting-looking fair-haired guy is the one that the girl who doesn’t like me has the history with. That would absolutely be just my luck.”

I was right. It was indeed he. A little tipsy but very funny and, if I’m not very much mistaken, trying to flirt with lil’ old me. As we laughed and leant close to speak into each other’s ears (it was pretty loud in there) I was aware of hostile eyes boring into my skull. Goodness, if looks could kill…

So, I backed off. Right off. In fact, so far off that I left abruptly and early, without making any effort to get his number or giving him chance to ask for mine.

I’m an idiot, I know…

Olden Times

An old friend – someone I haven’t, in fact, seen since 1991 – recently posted some ancient snaps to facebook, including some of me.

My first reaction was, predictably, “Oh my god, we were so young. What happened to her?”

Then, “Gosh, those boys were good friends. We certainly had some fun. And I really did love him, my first ever boyfriend.”

[That's him, sitting next to me on the boat in the photo above, in the sunglasses. His name is Iain.]

“Oh wait, that weekend on the boat on the Broads, wasn’t that the weekend I lost my virginity? Yes, it was. I’m glad we lost our virginity to each other. It was romantic and comic at the same time. And very probably tragic, too, come to think of it.”

We’re still in touch although he now lives in the USA with his American wife and two beautiful children and has edged further towards the political right (which tends to happen to the children of armed forces families). His facebook status updates occasionally make me cringe because of their homophobic or racist undertones.

But still, at 17, he was a kind, gentle and sexy sweetheart. I was lucky.

It was 1990 and I was 17 years old. I had spent 8 years at an all-girl’s boarding school with a serious military bent (all the girls’ parents were in the armed forces, bar one, whose Dad was the local vicar), before attending this school which was mixed, for two years.

I remember being nervous before I started – mostly about what I should wear since the all-girls school had a uniform whereas the mixed college didn’t – and it took a good year before I was at all comfortable talking to the boys. But now, I look back and remember them most clearly.

I wish I were still in touch with Tim. That’s him, below, in the blue shirt and cardi (all the boys wore cardis, it was the cool thing. And they all had that ridiculous floppy fringe and short back and sides). Tim was my favourite, after Iain.

The boys all went skinny dipping off the boat later that night. I have a fond memory of a row of white bums against the rail as they counted down to their jump… And not one of them mentioned the blood on the sheet. Amazing how tactful 17 year old boys can be.

I miss that girl. She was blithe and bonny, way back then. Would I trade all my experiences and hard-won knowledge of myself to go back and try my adult life all over again? Yes. In a fucking heartbeat. And I’d do it all differently.

I know one is not supposed to say that, but I really would.

Cor blimey, that’s big, innit?

Just came across this – an illo from one of our old books – which roughly illustrates the size difference between the highest mountain on Earth, Everest, and the highest mountain in our solar system, Olympus Mons, on Mars.

That canyon below sea level is Challenger Deep, part of the Marianas Trench, in the Pacific ocean. Again, deeper than Everest is tall.

Scale is something I struggle with, I confess. Big stuff is all just, well… big, you know? But, like, jeepers. That is BIG.

Here’s another, this time comparing the height of various waterfalls with the Empire State Building.

I mean, fuck me, imagine standing on the street in the centre of your nearest city, looking up at the office block skyscrapers… and then imagine the biggest one turning into a waterfall.

Imagine the noise!

I love this kind of illustration. I like when pictures make sense of the world for me.

[Waterfalls L-R: Venezuela's Angel Falls; Tugela Falls, South Africa; Yosemite, USA; Espelandsfoss, Norway]

You Probably Don’t Want To Read This But

1. My boss has eyebrows nicknamed ‘the slugs’. Though naturally we don’t use that nickname to her face – or eyebrows. Speaking of naturally, she has naturally pale blonde eyebrows which is presumably why she draws them on her forehead with thick dark grey or brown pencil. It is not a good look. Sometimes it is virtually impossible not to stare at them in meetings. Especially when they are ever so slightly wonky.

2. Why is it that when I am walking along a footpath, approaching an obstacle – a lamppost, say, or a wheelie bin – and there is someone coming towards me from the other direction, we ALWAYS meet just where the obstacle makes it impossible for us to cross without jiggery-pokery?

3. If you had a hacking cough which you were unable to contain, would you trot along to a classical music concert? No, moi non plus. Vaughan-Williams’ The Lark Ascending and Flos Campi on Friday night were enlivened by a medley of dry, hacking, chesty coughs which made me desperate to deliver resounding slaps to their thoughtless progenitors.

Still, the music was glorious, even if the setting was a little incongruous – the terribly English Britten, V-W and Elgar at the Sydney Opera House rather than the Royal Albert Hall.

4. The Festival of Dangerous Ideas? Ah well, I slept for 14 hours on Saturday so I missed Christopher Hitchens entirely. Can’t say I wholly regret it, either. I needed that kip.

Germaine Greer’s Sunday morning lecture ‘Freedom: The Most Dangerous Idea of All’, on the other hand, I would not have missed for all the kip in Rudyard. She was marvellous: clearly argued, witheringly funny, unpretentious and genuinely thought-provoking. Excellent.

5. Last night I saw a new Aussie film, ‘Van Diemen’s Land’, which I thoroughly enjoyed although it should be, and is, shocking.

The film tells the tale – a true story – of a gang of 8 convicts in the early 1820’s British penal colony of Tasmania, or Van Diemen’s Land as it was then, who escape their guard while on a timber-felling work detail and then find themselves forced to struggle through the untamed and unfamiliar forests and mountains of the interior in search of an unguarded stretch of coast and freedom.

They run out of food within a few of days and are then faced with the starkest of choices: kill and eat a ‘mate’ or starve to death.

Its a fascinating story, not least because once that choice is made, the rest is inevitable – especially when, even though the first man may have been killed because they were starving, the other murders were carried out when they were still laden with bags of human meat.

It became a classic kill-or-be-killed struggle, with cannibalism the gruesomely pragmatic cause and/or effect. Who could trust whom to carry the axe after all? And how does one sleep when numbers have dwindled down to just two?