Olfactorially Offensive.

He smells of B.O., my newest colleague.

Its unfortunate as he’s otherwise a nice chap, seems a decent designer, and I don’t mind having someone else in the room (even though my Shrodinger’s Cat Napping opportunities will be necessarily curtailed by his presence)… but he smells.

Not even of fresh sweat – it is, afterall hot and humid here in Summer – but the stale acrid smell of B.O.

Really, can people not smell themselves? I mean, I know I’m obsessively clean but even people who are just averagely clean don’t smell of B.O.

And he looks clean. Dresses well. And he has a girlfriend… how does she allow him anywhere near her?

I’m not asking for a colleague who smells like dewy rose petals picked at dawn or anything… just an absence of noticeable odour would be good.

Schrodinger’s Cat Nap

I’ve just realised that I could curl up and sleep under my new desk, and nobody would be able to see me. I’d totally get away with it. Probably.

I moved into another building on Monday and I have the room to myself, plus a big L-shaped desk with a panel along the front that reaches the floor. I’m in the corner, furthest from the door and nobody can even tell if I’m sitting at my desk (because my iMac screen is so enormous that I’m almost entirely hidden by it) unless they walk all the way over and look behind the screen.

Its the perfect set-up, I tell you.

Of course, I’ll never actually try it because I’m too conscientious/riddled with protestant work-ethic guilt. But still.

In Which I Am Not Going To Beat Myself Up About This

Tall Pilot Guy just wants to be mates with me.

We finally went to see ‘Avatar’ last night (looks beautiful but it should have been at least 1/2 hour shorter and the moral message was laid on with a shovel), and we chatted easily and laughed frequently, but there was absolutely no hint from him of any romantic (or even sexual) interest in me. Confirmed later by a ‘just mates’ text.

Yup. Mates. And I’m not even surprised. I mean, I make an excellent ‘mate’; I can be a good listener, I can be funny, I can be sympathetic, I can be relied upon to tell you the truth/babysit/help move house/lend money, I’m not going to embarrass you by getting shit-faced at a family ‘do’ and I can hold a reasonably intelligent conversation without necessarily agreeing with you on everything.

All strongly desirable mate-traits, I’m sure you’ll agree.

But that’s as far as my strongly desirable traits appear to extend. All my female friends are wonderfully kind and flatteringly mystified as to why men I fancy don’t fancy me, but the fact remains; they don’t.

So – despite well-meant reassurances from one’s friends – once again the evidence proves that I’m simply the kind of girl that decent men just want to be mates with.

Should I endeavour to establish why? What is that I’m doing or being which says ‘just mates’ rather than ‘potential mate’?

In Which The Universe Has GOT To Be Kidding.

I had a feeling I was going to bump into someone on the street today, and I did. But was it Tall Pilot Guy? Nope, it was not. It was the younger sister of the ex who broke my heart.

She always was a lovely girl – well, woman now, of course – and I have not seen her in eight years, so it was a happy albeit brief reunion as we were both hurrying to other engagements. One of the things which made the split with said ex so painful was that I truly loved his family – even though he made me royally miserable by the end – so splitting from them was a real wrench.

He’s now married, of course, with children; like all 3 of my ex’s. We’re not in touch – his wife refused to meet me and apparently didn’t want him in touch with me – but he actually sent me his ‘regards’ through a mutual friend while I was back in the UK over the holidays: I was polite and returned them but quickly changed the subject. I don’t want to be his mate and pretend it never happened. It did happen. It hurt like hell.

Mostly I’m over it, except that now when someone tells me they love me I don’t quite believe them and I can’t quite believe that anyone would actually want to be with me, since I thought he was my best friend as well as my lover, and he didn’t.

He broke my heart so badly that I still haven’t found all the pieces, let alone reassembled them into a decent whole. Pathetic, no?

Still, it was good to see her and we swapped numbers, so I’ll call her and catch up on her life next week sometime. I can’t blame her for what I perceive to be her brother’s failings.

In Which I Am Not Quite As Old As I Think I Am. Or Am I?

1. I have never indulged in hero-worship. But I am going to make a shiny, shiny exception for Mr Dave Grohl, ex-Nirvana, sometime-Foo Fighters, and last night drummer with Them Crooked Vultures.

He rocked. ROCKED, I tell you. And so did the lazily sexy Joshua Homme (ex-Queens Of The Stone Age), the quietly remarkable John Paul Jones (ex-Led Zeppelin) and another bloke called Alan Johannes who wasn’t just along for the ride, no indeed, for he also rocked even though he was bald and rotund and clearly not part of the cool threesome.

There’s nothing more tedious than hearing other people rave about events you missed because YOU HAD TO BE THERE, so I will spare you as much of my joyously over-excited shrieking as I can bear to contain and simply post a little video below for those who are remotely interested…

And am I glad that I was there, in the same room with three talented and committed musicians at the very top of their form who were obviously enjoying the creative freedom of jamming with each other [and, incidentally, I'm sure the word jamming was invented purely so men wouldn't have to say 'playing with each other' in this context] in front of an adoring crowd of fans, rather than at home feeding a new baby?

God, yes. I am hip.

2. But why is it, why, do young men now have to wear skinny jeans so tight they must have been sprayed on, and not even sprayed on beyond their hips, leaving an unenticing slice of arse visible above the now incorrectly termed ‘waistband’? Hmm?

God, I must be getting old.

3. It is January – traditionally the month of importunate phone calls from impecunious artists seeking work. Work that I simply do not have, since we’re finishing up sending last year’s projects to repro and haven’t yet got far enough along with this year’s projects to be commissioning new art.

Its SO hard to have to tell people, day after day, that I don’t have any work for them for at least a month.

Monday. So far, so bad.

1.  So, having spent a significant part of the last two weeks thinking “I quite like Twinkly-Eyed Guy, but I don’t really think we’re compatible so maybe we should just be friends, even though I’m fairly fed up of not having a sexual partner and I do find him attractive so maybe we could have sex a few times without it getting all serious, but I don’t want to mess him about, especially since he’s a friend of a friend and all…”, it turns out I needn’t have worried.

We met for a quick drink last night and before I could blurt out any of the above, he told me that while I was away he had become involved with ‘an old flame’.

I wished him well, and we’re going to stay in touch as friends.

I confess to a slight feeling of injured self-esteem – the usual “What’s wrong with me? How come he likes someone else better?” – which is completely ridiculous, I know, given that I wasn’t that into him, either. But I’m only 90% rational; the other 10% is a giddy vortex of emotional nonsense.

However, the only real downside to this development is that now I am even more hopeful (and thus, more likely to be disappointed) that Tall Pilot Guy will actually get in touch to arrange a date and time for our Avatar viewing pleasure.

I think maybe I’ll text him with the nights I’m free this week – a gentle reminder and some encouragement can only be good, right??

2. I try not to mind apologising when the fault is mine. But it really does grate when I have to apologise for something that was not my fault.

I’ve just had to write a grovelling apology email to one of our freelance artists who spotted one of his illustrations on the cover of the italian edition of a book (he’s Italian), only to discover that it was incorrectly credited to another artist. The cause of this error? My boss supplied the italian publisher with some images from our archive for them to create their own cover, without letting them know that they’d need to change the credits as the artist was different.

Grrrrrr.

3. I have a stomach ache, no doubt due to the lunch I was treated to by one of our photo agency reps. Chicken Caesar salad with enough dressing to swim several olympic-distance lengths in and positively sinking under the weight of parmesan ’shavings’.

I always mean to order it with the dressing on the side, no croutons, only a little parmesan and no anchovies… but then I chicken out (see what I did there?) when I imagine the waitress rolling her eyes over the picky customer. I mean, I basically want some green salad leaves, some grilled chicken, a little crispy bacon and a boiled egg. Nothing fancy. Why do they have to muck about with it?

In Which The Universe Throws A Tall Pilot Guy In My Path. Again.

Guess who I bumped into this morning on my walk to work through the park?

Yep, Tall Pilot Guy.

Honestly, I had just given up on him and Twinkly Eyed Guy – mentally consigning the pair of them to hell as useless muppets – and decided to take the scenic route to work to cheer myself up, when there he was. In all his tall, unshaven, boardshorty glory.

He was en route for the local pool but took a detour and walked along with me partway towards my office, enquiring if I’d seen Avatar yet and, when I said I hadn’t, asking if I’d like to see it with him.

“Yes, I’d love to.”

“Great. I’ve got a few things on this week, so how about next week?”

“Perfect.”

So, let’s see whether he calls me to fix a night next week…

Gaaaahhhhhhhh!

1. If there’s one thing which really reduces me to ravingly incoherent rage its buying and then reading a book which has been badly edited. It makes me LIVID. I mean, I paid good money for that book, for god’s sake! [as opposed to bad money, which presumably is what Russian oligarchs and Nigerian politicians pay for their books?]

Night Train to Lisbon is a decent book – not marvellous or life-changing, but intelligent and thought-provoking – however, the editor and proof-reader need to be taken out behind the building and slapped soundly. Several times. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy. Typos abound. And who on earth decided not to translate the german word ‘Gymnasium’ but to leave it as is? It actually means secondary school, not gym, which I imagine would be enormously confusing to many non-German-speaking readers, since its where the main character works.

I was extremely tempted to correct the entire book in red pen and send it back to the publisher, pedant that I am.

2. Despite the fact that I am single and 38 years old next month – and thus increasingly unlikely ever to have children – I have lately found myself considering what to name my children. Possibly triggered by the arrival of three new babies (welcome Ben, April and Jarvis!) born to friends over the Christmas and New Year holidays.

And I honestly don’t feel I could decide – I mean, its such an enormous responsibility. Its essential not to pigeon-hole your child just because of their name. Perhaps this is not so important in societies which are less class-conscious than the English, but current common names (in more ways in one, sniffs the snob in me) in England for girls are things like Chardonnay (after the wine, presumably) and Chelsea (rather an up-market London suburb), both of which achieve exactly the opposite of their intention and immediately classify the child and their entire family as irredeemable Chavs (that’s ‘white trash’ if you’re in the US).

As does any name containing an apostrophe.

My brother and sisters and I were all given unusual names which were the bane of our childhoods, and which still have to be repeated and explained whenever we meet new people. Consequently, I favour simple names like Sarah and John, except that they have biblical associations which irritate my godless soul.

And its worth mentioning at this point that all the nice, traditional names like Thomas, Alexander, William, Emma, Anna, Isabel etc have been well and truly used ad nauseam by nice middle-class friends of mine.

Which leaves me with either a) Irish names, like Padraig and Aoife, as a nod towards my father’s nationality and my favourite half of myself [of course, the major stumbling block here is that non-Gaelic speakers can't spell or pronounce them] or b) classical Latin or Greek names from history, because of my love for the period… a love which might well become resentment in any child forced to go through life called Leonidas, Gaius or Arete.

Overall, probably a good thing I’m not pregnant, no?

3. So, I’ve been back in Sydney since last Tuesday and neither Twinkly-Eyed Guy nor Tall Pilot Guy have so far been in touch to ask me out. *shrugs*

1st posts of the month meme

I have nicked this from David Rochester and Piereth; the first line of the first post for each month last year. A clever idea for a meme, even if it does rather expose a dull tendency to write my posts as numbered lists and an over-reliance on hyphens…

Jan 2009

1. After a Very-Successful-If-I-Do-Say-So-Myself BBQ on Christmas Day, we had planned to make use of our office’s beautiful roof terrace – which has a clear view of Harbour Bridge and Sydney’s spectacular fireworks display – for our New Year’s Eve celebration this year.

Feb 2009

1. A colleague here in our Sydney office who is originally from Canada – and thus, far from family and friends – turned 40 on Saturday.

March 2009

1. Bees or, more specifically, Queen Bee: “The hostess of bee family is an uterus. It is a womanish individual with the developed privy parts.”

April 2009

Nearly everyone who makes decisions in our office is away until Thursday, sorting out the take-over of a recently bust publishing company in New Zealand.

May 2009

1. When having your hair cut, instead of having to make inane small-talk about your holidays with the vapid muppet wielding the scissors or being reduced to flicking (in horror) through the only available ‘reading’ matter, viz. gossip and fashion mags, you can put in your headphones and watch downloaded episodes of Battlestar Galactica in peace.

June 2009

1. I sent an email today to some of ‘my’ artists and was reminded, looking at the list of names, that they are almost all male.

July 2009

1. Every quarter, our company sets aside up to $100 per head to be spent on an activity or outing.

August 2009

Next Sunday morning at 9am I will be lining up with 7 friends from the office – and 74,993 other people – in Sydney’s city centre, ready to run 14km (8.6 miles) to Bondi Beach.

September 2009

1. I walk to work through a small park.

October 2009

I am so busy.

November 2009

Ever been canyoning?

December 2009

1. It occurred to me recently that I spend so much time focusing on the fact that I dislike the shape and proportions of my body that I forget to be thankful for the fact that, despite all the things I loathe about it, it is strong and healthy.

~~~

So, there you have it. Frankly, I’m amazed and gratified that any of you are still turning up here. I can’t imagine how you get past such fatuous openings…

Fa la la la laaaa, la la la lah!

In Brief:

1. The thing about adventures is that they’re always more fun once you’ve been successfully rescued from them.

2. And the thing about 2 year olds is that they simply never cease to surprise you.

3. And the thing about 3 week holidays in England in the Winter is that, when you return to sunny Sydney in Summer, you need some URGENT maintenance work. Bodily ghastlinesses which can be ignored when said bod is swaddled in 47 layers of wool and tweed for fear of frostbite, are suddenly horrifyingly visible again.

4. I love the French. Just love them. They’re stark, staring bonkers.

~~~

To Elaborate:

1. So, you heard that the UK had an unusual amount of snow, right? And that, of course, the entire ruddy country ground to a halt as a result? Amid media-stoked panic-buying of milk and bread supplies, local councils reportedly ran out of grit to treat the roads and schools were closed across the country…thereby ensuring that many of those people who could have made it into work, despite the weather, nonetheless had to stay at home and look after the kids instead.

And then I did something really rather stupid.

I decided to drive from Wiltshire to Herefordshire, to see my darling friend Piereth. In a Toyota Aygo. Without snow-chains. Following the iPhone’s Google maps sat nav system which, quite obviously once one stops to consider it, didn’t know which roads were treated and thus relatively safe and which were, frankly, winding, hilly Ice-Rinks Of Death.

So, yes, I got stuck, after a 4 hour drive, less than 10 miles from Piereth’s home. But with no mobile signal, so no way of letting her know that I wasn’t dead in a (snow-filled) ditch.

Luckily, I was rescued from the consequences of my own folly by a passing management consultant called Phil, carrying a shovel.

[In future, never let it be said that Management Consultancy is bollocks]

2. My niece is amazing. I know, I know, all 2 year olds are amazing. But, like, she is properly amazing. And cute as a button.

“Are you alright Auntie Woo?”

“Yes you may read me a story, Auntie Woo.”

Here are some photos to warm the cockles of your heart and as soon as I figure out how to upload my .MOV file there will be video footage of Beatrice’s Goodbye Dance, too:

Yup, she loves raw brussels sprouts. Can’t imagine why, I can’t abide ‘em. She also loves olives, edamame beans, broccoli and ‘pudding’. Though not necessarily in that order…

Evidence of the latest iPhone app which stops two-year-old temper tantrums in their tracks. Step 1: retrieve iPhone from bag. Step 2: point the camera in direction of screaming toddler. Step 3: Shrieking fit almost instantaneously becomes photo pose, followed by checking of pics of self on handset. Repeat as necessary.

She’s not allowed to watch TV (except for one DVD of The Snowman), but she’s already getting the hang of ‘checking Daddy’s me-mails’.

That’s the view from the front gate of the Wiltshire village where my brother and his family live, on the first morning of the snow. Rather pretty. We made the most of it…

…and created a snowman, complete with trilby, satsuma nose and pieces of coal for his eyes and buttons.

3. I’m not even going into detail on this one.

4. This was one of the pages in a book belonging to my niece. Roughly translated, it reads: “On the pavement, you find all sorts! Overflowing rubbish bins, dog poo.”

I know, gotta love those crazy cheese-eating surrender-monkeys and their attitude to childhood, right? No saccharine floppy-eared bunny-wabbits wittering about how much they love each other for les Français, oh non. Dog poo.