++ If one is in Scotland, one must be wary that mobile phone locks can be undone by dialling 999, which gets hold of the police. This was discovered when my father's nether regions dialled 999 on his locked phone, which was in his pocket. The Scottish police called him back and asked him what the devil he thought he was doing.
Even though he told them everything was fine, I think they might still be convinced that the call was made by an imprisoned urchin or battered housewife, and are keeping us under close concealed watch. (If the Lothian police are reading this: I, while undeniably an urchin, am quite at liberty, and my father's battering practise stops at fish.)
++ The slang in Scottish for 'knee in the crotch' is 'nick', as in 'does yer daughter know how ter nick if the gents get too close?' It's a useful abbreviation, isn't it? (And yes. Yes I do.)
++ Scottish children are excellent. They're loud and happy and have very vivid imaginations. Example 1: two boys, looking at a rusted old copper statue- boy 1 says: 'Oooh look! Tha' man's got green skun!' Example 2: tiny girl in lift, highly excited: 'Coz if it dud, it'd be daaark, and there'd be mooonsters, and spooks, ooh yaes!' The accent, in small mouths, becomes utterly hilarious for reasons beyond my comprehension.
++ As part of the pre-Hogsmanay festival last night- don't ask me how to pronounce it, I've no idea- there was a grand and empty demonstration ring in Princes Street, surrounded by confused people. It looked roughly like an Evel Knievel set- a large ramp, a crane, several miscellaneous motor-like objects. A roadie, when asked, admitted to being just as confused, only saying, 'Ah thunk it's sommat tae do wit them magnificent men in their flyin' machines, if ye ken.' Which I don't, not really, but which I also think is an excellent explanation for anything, really.
There was also a wig-making competition set to high-speed techno, and a fiddle-playing troupe playing to a delighted crowd of link-armed dancers. Tonight's gale-force winds (Happy New Year!) will either mean that the fireworks will be called off, or will create a highly amusing but dangerous situation where the entire parade gets peppered with off-course meteorites of pyrotechnics, making the link-armed dancing into something of a Riverdance to avoid being hit.
Currently in Edinburgh for the New Year period. Have just bought a full-length black ball gown for about $AU70. (Yes. A ball gown. As in, could wear to actual balls. With diamonds.) Just thought I'd mention it.
Let me put the sheer terror of Parisian weather into perspective for you. This is Scotland, in winter, where there are approximately four hours of daylight. And every member of my family expressed relief and delight about how warm it was. That, my friends, is what Parisian wind chill means.
I adore this entire country unconditionally 24 hours after arrival. Reasons include: the truly beautiful accent, which I am already picking up (admittedly on purpose); the extremely funny taxi drivers, who tell us that 'this is a nation of alcoholics' ; the fireworks (consistent); the pastoral fields/thatched cottages/quaint reality of everything. Admittedly I am recovering a little from the aggressive chicness of Paris.
Also: an observation. Practically every teen visible is gothic. One girl even walked past in a genuinely excellent top hat and three-piece suit. Is it the cold weather (which, a friend suggests, means 'there are no gay people in Scotland') that turns them so darkly counter-culture? Is there nothing else to do? Did Marilyn Manson tour early in this generation's childhood and leave indelible markings? (He did get married in Scotland.) Whither the goth, Edinburgh?
Not that I'm complaining; but I do think that having facial piercings in bitter 80km/h winds must be somewhat uncomfortable.
1. Every French person smokes. If they're not smoking at this very moment, it is because they're drinking or kissing or making disparaging remarks about tourists. Therefore, a night in a French jazz club leaves one's windpipe feeling as if it has a boot made of charcoal crammed down it.
2. Invariably, when a brave French jazz singer and her accompanying piano player allow the crowd to choose their tunes, somebody will request the Beatles' 'Let It Be.' Said somebody will be fat, bald, and insist on singing along. They will probably also be French. (My admirable friend Tatyana later marched up to the piano and actually taught the singer-pianist duo 'Stop Before You Break My Heart'. I was impressed by their virtuosity, but they probably recognised that saying no to Tatyana, who is Russian and terrifying, is never a good idea ever.)
3. It has been decided that Frenchmen in tight black T-shirts who sound like Creed's frontman and glower at the audience must have practised the art of flexing whilst holding a high C.
4. To be actively hit on (inexpertly, in wavering English) by a man wearing the outfit of a particularly gaudy Robin Hood is to reach the pinnacle of French underground-jazz-grotto experience. (I left his presence, and the club, before discovering what possible significance the outfit had. My ignorance doesn't pain me much.)
5. Blue hair opens doors. More specifically, it gets you access to restricted club areas, on the basis that the various singers and partially-clothed flamenco dancers, who were recovering/smoking in said restricted club area, insisted I come over so that they could all touch it. I am actually very used to people tugging at my hair out of curiosity, but having my scalp pawed by several French nightclub personalities is a new one.
6. I am told, on good authority, that you should never order the tequila, for the excellent reason that one shot costs 20 euro (about $AU35). In Australia, tequila is used to kill stomach infections and anaesthetise backyard surgery patients. I presume French tequila is, in contrast, made from the tongues of sacred dolphins under blue moons.
6. When faced by a six-foot-tall black woman with a skin-tight black lyra dress, a hideous blonde weave, a growl like a carburetor and a vocal range of six notes exactly- we counted- one's survival strategies are limited. You must simply clap obediently, saying 'yeah' when she demands it, ignore her mangling of 'Ain't No Sunshine', and hope she doesn't come and stomp on your head. And yes, for the record, I do think it was a woman- I sure as hell wasn't getting close enough to make sure.
This, right here, is a summary of everything that possibly could be said about the quality of public French television.
http://youtube.com/watch?v=NZEbiHUrS9A
Pay particular attention to the shaking bee-butts.
(Yes. You read that correctly.)
I have decided, after close observation, that the way towards obtaining physical perfection, in the absence of cosmetic surgery or the implementation of mass hallucinations, is to be one half of a couple in Paris.
Coupledom in this particular city, at least in the public and parade-able form, appears to be a hallowed state reserved for those so aesthetically blessed that their combined facial symmetry warps mirrors. Paris is populated by beautiful people anyway, but the real eighth-wonder-of-the-world creatures are all gallivanting about in twos. It's like some hyper-selective version of Noah's Ark.
(I'd take photos to demonstrate the point, but it's very difficult to casually snap a gorgeous duo while apparently aiming at a church behind them. They seem aware of such suberfuges, and the power of le withering glare francaise is not lessened by glarers being beautiful.)
One can only imagine that there's some governmental meddling here- not necessarily at the genetic level, but perhaps it's part of a Clean Up The City Campaign. Only those with modelling portfolios pass the stringent requirements for permission to hold hands on boulevards. Giggling under lamp posts require physical examinations and weekly reviews of bodily wellbeing. I daren't even think about public displays of affection.
My brother suggests that perhaps all the unnattractive couples are shamed into remaining indoors, peering out from cafe windows and holding hands sheepishly in half-darkness, or that the beautiful twosomes of the world congregate here at Christmas (beautiful, romantic, blah blah blah.) I, however, like my own theory better.
Therefore my course is clear. I will market Parisian open-air hand-holding as an alternative to anti-cellulite cream.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is war.
The University of East Anglia has just let me know that I can’t study any of the three subjects I signed up for in September, because they are full. This is a problem for two reasons.
a) I only have permission from the University of Sydney to study those three subjects. Without them, I’m effectively in British limbo. That, however, isn’t the biggest problem (although it’s still fairly whopper-sized), since I can conceivably do some electronic acrobatics and wrangle permission from Sydney Uni for other subjects. It would possibly involve bribery and threats of violence to family members, but it could be done. The BIG problem is:
b) I’m currently going into third year. I want to study English Honours in 2008, my fourth year. To do that, I need to do two specific English subjects in 2007, one in first semester and one in second. (Following? Good.) Obviously, being in England and all, I can’t do the first semester one in Sydney. So, with the alternate aid of eyelash batting and aggressive pestering, I obtained a precious piece of paper saying ‘If you study Course A or Course B while in England, we’ll count that as the same thing as studying that Honours prerequisite course thingie. Have fun!’
Problem (if you don’t quite understand yet)- Course A and Course B are ‘full’. Consequence- I can’t study Honours in 2008, as I haven’t fulfilled the criteria.
‘But Jenny,’ you say, cowering behind something sturdy, ‘surely you can just do the Honours prerequisite course thingie another time?’
Good point, I say, only I can’t. I have a piece of paper asking me very politely but firmly not to attempt to study any more English beyond what I’ve signed up for in 2007, because I’ve already exceeded the limit. And I mean ‘exceeded’ in the sense that if academia were a highway, my speeding ticket would be the equivalent of a small African country’s GDP. If I attempt to study any more English, I will receive more polite refusal letters, and possibly a baseball to the kneecaps.
Let’s play ‘What Annoys Jenny About This Situation.’
- The fact that the notification comes, oh, about a month before I’m due to arrive on the university’s doorstep, and four months (FOUR) after I first submitted my enrolment preferences. (Note that my enrolment preferences contained a big ‘REQUIRED’ symbol on top of Courses A and B.)
- The knowledge, even if unspoken, that the courses have been ‘filled’ by British students who picked it because it ‘sounded good’.
- The fact that this is the second time their enrolment people have screwed me around. First time, they supplied me with an outdated course catalogue, so I effectively signed up for courses that didn’t exist. I had 24 hours to get new permission forms, for Honours and my other two courses, and only made it because Australian academics appear to find desperate wails persuasive.
The stress of this kept me up for most of my first night in Paris, which continues to be aggravatingly Parisian (gardens on top of garret apartments, arrogant pigeons, Smartcars locked in desperate battles around statues of angels) despite my problems.
Doha, a few days ago
The 31 hours (yes, 31) in transit from Sydney to Doha essentially cured my jetlag. After a day and a half in artificially lit limbo, time zones become just a privilege for those within a mile of actual ground. Suffice to say that a highlight of the entire ordeal was flying over Iraqi airspace and being aware, far below, of slight flashes of light and dark which I uneasily interpreted as bombs.
The sun (while I write this) is setting over the plain- vividly pink, from the air pollution. The space here in Doha is extraordinary- the starkness, the dust. Every building visible in this desert is under construction, covered in cranes- I'll upload photos soon. An entire city of office buildings and hotels being built out of nothing. It's like a surreal conjuring trick, or a huge-scaled game of badly organised chess taking place in a void. The gross, slick ziggurats on the coast are the only buildings in clear sight; the suburbs are only just visible, on the horizon.
For example: there is, a little while away, a large theme park, fully lit up, and empty.
My father’s business partner (the aspirationally named Chris Boss) came up with an apt simile for the feel of the place. Describing the sheikh to whom they’d presented their latest mad commission (a stadium shaped like a tent), he said he was ‘as happy as a child with a new railway’. That's what this miscellaneous scattering of mad ships and glowing hotels over an empty desert represents- boys with toys. There is no interpretation of function, no understanding of need or environment; they just want to play, or to flaunt. Hence the rising towers (cue ‘compensating for something’ joke).
Perhaps I only know the European ideas of cities having history- being built up upon themselves, layers and layers, so that in one place there exists centuries (or, in Sydney’s case, maybe a few decades) underfoot. Things are lush, they multiply, they cross over and crowd, and there is somewhere a soul, or at least an idea of place. Here, city-wise, we seem to be floating, and making it up as we go along. Contrast to Paris could not be starker.
Literary reference: Ozymandias, Shelley’s ‘king of kings’. In other news, the chauvinism is ridiculous- people insist on asking my mother whether she has 'permission from her husband' to make decisions. If you know my mother (or know me and can project what kind of person my mother might be like), you will understand the peculiar kind of Apocalypse which was wreaked on those who asked this.
What use is the sonnet form, if not to commemorate your travel plans in advance of the fact? If there's a better excuse for pretentious applications of poetic structure, I would love to hear it.
A stopover in Frankfurt- several hours
Without the benefit of food or chairs,
Since neither seems to strike Qatari Air
As a productive use of German power-
Lands us in Doha, as my dad (again)
Attempts to tell a Sheikh that there’s no sense
In building stadiums to look like tents,
Because (for one) they won’t keep out the rain.
(I swear that this is truth, yet not the best-
A Sheikh once asked for serious ideas
For floating cities. Airborne. Had no fears
About the physics. Wanted to invest.)
The minds of Sheikhs unshaken, off to France
And Paris, our apartment- just six days
Of play-acting at being la fille francais-
Croissants, bad French, and all too brief a chance
To wear berets and not attract derision.
The wilds of Scotland- Edinburgh- ahead,
I might refrain from Braveheart jokes. Instead,
I’ll stick with haggis-mocking. Wise decision.
I may just live to see Cardiff and Bath,
About which nothing witty springs to mind,
Perhaps because they’re small, and hard to find-
And I must prod them hard to get a laugh.
My parents’ optimism has decreed
That we’re all crammed in one small four-wheeled space,
Traversing the UK at breakneck pace
And organising routes from feed to feed-
Which is a brilliant send-off- I believe
That once I get to Norwich, the idea
That I won’t see them for near half a year
Will suddenly appear as a reprieve…
To Note: I now leave the country on the 18th of December. If you have any money to pay back, favours to ask, or confessions of ardent love to make, keep that date in mind.
My first sample of authentically English red tape was so silly I thought I'd share the experience. Even before leaving Australian soil I am discovering new things.
For instance- Lesson 1: The English Love Paradox.
So! I received a pretty letter from the University about a week ago, containing a Form and a Letter. (Stop me if you've heard this one.) The Form said, very politely, 'Please fill me out and send me back to England with a photograph of your choosing, for your Campus Card.' I liked this idea, since my Australian Campus Card had NOT allowed me to choose my photograph, and it consequently bears a likeness of a smug-looking Tawny Frogmouth with blue-black hair.
The Form went on to say- 'To fill me out, you require a Registration Number. But don't worry- that's in the accompanying Letter.' But the plot thickens! I looked at the Letter. I looked at it again. I held it up to the light, rummaged through the envelope, and practically got out a microscope to examine its molecules. No Registration Number.
It took three emails before somebody at the University said 'Oops' and told me what my number was. I don't like the precedent this sets. Will I arrive in the UK only to be told that I have been enrolled as a non-English-speaking father of four from Russia? Will I be told I'm only allowed to study Ancient Aramaic, and have been given accommodation up a college chimney? The suspense is killing me. No, wait, I think that's just worry.
The Set-Up Post
As of the 21st of December I will leave for Paris-Edinburgh-England. It remains to be seen whether I will rapidly develop a plummy English accent and a taste for talking about the weather.
I'll update when things happen- probably sarcastic things, as I refuse to hold back on making fun of a country which calls its villages names like Puddleton-on-Sea and Lettuce-On-Rye.
