Let's be honest, there's not much to recommend the UK winter. When I told people in New Zealand I was coming back for a month there was much chorus of, "aw, at least you'll have a white Christmas". Er, really? I know that you all think we spend the months of December and January in some kind of magical winter wonderland, where children sled (yes, I claim my American heritage) and people roast chestnuts over an open fire, but the truth is sadly a lot less idealistic. Less red-breasted robins perched atop snow-topped branches, more massive queues in Tesco and Iceland adverts for Easy Carve Three Bird Roast (why? Just.... why?)
However, all is not lost, I had forgotten about the brilliance of British television and, of course, the fabulous British journalism. And when I say television, I am, of course, referring to "I'm a Celebrity... get me out of here!" Or, as the Chink and I renamed it, "How desperate am I to be famous again?" You can keep your Downton and your BBC 'Original British Drama', what I really want to see on screen is Alfonso from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air teaching Kian from Westlife how to do 'Carlton dance' (after initially sulking for several days and refusing to perform it), and arguing with Joey Essex from TOWIE about who is the most famous ("are we talking about the UK or worldwide? Because I am DEFINITELY more famous in Turkey"). I tell you, this is British broadcasting at its finest. I'm not ashamed to admit that I was not a little heavy of heart when it all ended last Sunday.
But perhaps that's the Bombay Sapphire talking.
The good news is that, whilst there may now be a telly void in my life, The Times has served to be a rather unlikely source of entertainment. They reported today that The Ministry of Justice has removed the offence of "being an incorrigible rogue" from the statute book. The article finished, " in case, however, one gets the idea that Britain is becoming a more accommodating country for rogues, especially of the incorrigible type, there have been 327 new offences created in the 12 months up to May - a 12 per cent increase on the previous year". Is it just me, or does 327 new offences created IN ONE YEAR sound like kind of a lot? I had no idea that there were so many new crimes one could commit in 2013. Ooh it's enough to make me want to enlist the services of a solicitor. You know, just in case.
But my favourite news story of the week - aside from the fact that John Terry buys his wrapping paper from Poundland - has to be from the trial into phone hacking, which has revealed that the Queen was incensed when royal protection officers "scoffed" her bowls of snacks. An email from the News of the World revealed, "The Queen is furious about police stealing bowls of nuts and nibbles left out for her in the BP Queen's corridor. She has a very savoury tooth and staff leave out cashews, Bombay mix, almonds, etc. Prob is that police on patrol eat the lot. Queen is so narked she started marking the bowls to see when the levels dipped". Don't you just love the image of HRH Queen Elizabeth II surreptitiously marking her Bombay mix with a black Sharpie? Austerity drive indeed. It all starts in the home....
I'm not sure it's appropriate to blog about a funeral, but since Barack Obama deemed it appropriate to take a selfie this week, I will include one 'take-away' from Wednesday. The celebrant did have a very soothing voice, despite stumbling over my sister's choice of "empathetic" which looked in danger of becoming "emphatic". Afterwards a friend was heard to remark, "didn't she have a lovely reading voice? I couldn't wait to hear the next story!" Well. Quite.
Overheard at Allpress
CHEERLEADER: Ooh when you go home you can stock up at all those cheap stores like Primark and H&M.
ME: I know, but I always feel really guilty, you know, child labour and those sweat shops in India.
CHEERLEADER: Yeah I know what you mean, but I watched a documentary and actually all the children looked really happy. I think they might really enjoy learning those skills.
ME: Ummmm.....
Friday, 13 December 2013
Friday, 8 November 2013
She doesn't even go here!
And so the time has come to discuss the most devastating bombshell of 2013. Nope, this has nothing to do with terrorism, earthquakes or Miley Cyrus at the VMA's (although I'd say that's on a par with most natural disasters). This is the news that has LITERALLY shattered my sister's world:
According to the dictionary, '"literally" now also means "figuratively".
No longer can she cite the following quote from Nick Clegg as an example of the ignorance of the British men in politics: "It makes people so incredibly angry when you are getting up early in the morning, working really hard to try and do the right thing for your family and your community, you are paying your taxes and then you see people literally in a different galaxy who are paying extraordinarily low rates of tax". LITERALLY IN A DIFFERENT GALAXY. THERE ARE LITERALLY PEOPLE ON MARS WHO ARE PAYING LESS TAX THAN THE GOOD PEOPLE OF SWINDON.
No Alana, according to Merriam-Webster, you are wrong and Nick Clegg is LITERALLY right (OK that didn't work). As they say here in NZ, sorry 'bout it.
I was chatting to Aunty the other day and he commented, "you should put me in your blog". Er, OK, what am I going to write about you? "You know, just my life and all my relationship dramas".
Right, let's clear this up now shall we? Contrary to (apparent) popular opinion, my blog is not a showcase for gay men and their various love-life dramas. Although I do love the fact that, when I'm talking to my straight friends about their relationships they will often pause at some point and ask with suspicion, "this isn't going in your blog is it?" Compare this to Homosexual Male, who will start telling me a story and finish with "you MUST put that in your blog babes".
The Blonde has given me permission to talk about the disastrous date she went on yesterday. Said date was apparently the longest 50 minutes of her life and, to make it worse, she had been set up by a mutual friend. I asked why the friend had thought it might work. "Well, I think she mistook him for being all deep and emotional. When in fact I can see he's actually just an arrogant tosspot". He told her that he'd stopped reading the New Zealand Herald because he felt that it was actually making him stupider, and will now only touch The Wall Street Journal and The Guardian. And, presumably, Heat Magazine.
Compare if you will this anecdote to my story from The Queen about Grindr. (I'm assuming you know what Grindr is. Tinder for the gays. If you don't know what Tinder is, then you're even more behind the times than me. And I don't have an iPhone). He told me that the trick is to have a catalogue of photos ready to send at a moment's notice. You have to do some serious preparation. Apparently one must set aside an evening, dim the lighting, have a glass of wine to relax, put on some seductive music (this is all by one's self, you understand) and then take some suitably sexual photo's from various creative angles so that you can reply instantaneously upon receiving a message from Gary the IT Consultant. Jesus, it sounds exhausting. Whatever happened to the Dome II and being told "my friend thinks your friend's fit. She's not a virgin is she?"
Anyway, since this blog has somehow ended up being about all the gays anyway (goddammit, they always manage to steal the show) I thought I would write a "how to" guide for would-be Fag Hags:
1. Know your Mean Girls quotes. "Fetch", "she's fabulous but she's evil", "somebody wrote in that book that I'm lying about being a virgin because I use super jumbo tampons... but I can't help it if I've got a heavy flow and a wide set vagina!"
2. Understand that The Gays say stuff to your face that Straight Girls say behind your back and Straight Men don't even notice: "Where did you get your hair done?", "Toni and Guy", "Mmmmmmm.... don't go back there"; "that's a nice belt, is it holding your tummy in?"; and (when I came home after my first semester at Leeds) "Gosh, haven't you got fat at university?"
3. And comment on your age. Recently I discovered I was the oldest person out of a group of friends. "Repeat after me. Men..... Oh...... Pause......"
4. Do NOT try and out-dance them. You won't win. Like, ever.
5. Teaching attack to them is the most terrifying experience known to man. Right before a 6am class I was informed, " I hope you're good. We WILL judge you". Don't mind me, I'm just off to the changing room to quietly slit my wrists.....
OVERHEARD AT THE GYM
MALE ATTACK INSTRUCTOR TO FELLOW MALE ATTACK INSTRUCTOR:
When did you last shave your legs bro? They're out of control!
(Allegedly, straight).
According to the dictionary, '"literally" now also means "figuratively".
No longer can she cite the following quote from Nick Clegg as an example of the ignorance of the British men in politics: "It makes people so incredibly angry when you are getting up early in the morning, working really hard to try and do the right thing for your family and your community, you are paying your taxes and then you see people literally in a different galaxy who are paying extraordinarily low rates of tax". LITERALLY IN A DIFFERENT GALAXY. THERE ARE LITERALLY PEOPLE ON MARS WHO ARE PAYING LESS TAX THAN THE GOOD PEOPLE OF SWINDON.
No Alana, according to Merriam-Webster, you are wrong and Nick Clegg is LITERALLY right (OK that didn't work). As they say here in NZ, sorry 'bout it.
I was chatting to Aunty the other day and he commented, "you should put me in your blog". Er, OK, what am I going to write about you? "You know, just my life and all my relationship dramas".
Right, let's clear this up now shall we? Contrary to (apparent) popular opinion, my blog is not a showcase for gay men and their various love-life dramas. Although I do love the fact that, when I'm talking to my straight friends about their relationships they will often pause at some point and ask with suspicion, "this isn't going in your blog is it?" Compare this to Homosexual Male, who will start telling me a story and finish with "you MUST put that in your blog babes".
The Blonde has given me permission to talk about the disastrous date she went on yesterday. Said date was apparently the longest 50 minutes of her life and, to make it worse, she had been set up by a mutual friend. I asked why the friend had thought it might work. "Well, I think she mistook him for being all deep and emotional. When in fact I can see he's actually just an arrogant tosspot". He told her that he'd stopped reading the New Zealand Herald because he felt that it was actually making him stupider, and will now only touch The Wall Street Journal and The Guardian. And, presumably, Heat Magazine.
Compare if you will this anecdote to my story from The Queen about Grindr. (I'm assuming you know what Grindr is. Tinder for the gays. If you don't know what Tinder is, then you're even more behind the times than me. And I don't have an iPhone). He told me that the trick is to have a catalogue of photos ready to send at a moment's notice. You have to do some serious preparation. Apparently one must set aside an evening, dim the lighting, have a glass of wine to relax, put on some seductive music (this is all by one's self, you understand) and then take some suitably sexual photo's from various creative angles so that you can reply instantaneously upon receiving a message from Gary the IT Consultant. Jesus, it sounds exhausting. Whatever happened to the Dome II and being told "my friend thinks your friend's fit. She's not a virgin is she?"
Anyway, since this blog has somehow ended up being about all the gays anyway (goddammit, they always manage to steal the show) I thought I would write a "how to" guide for would-be Fag Hags:
1. Know your Mean Girls quotes. "Fetch", "she's fabulous but she's evil", "somebody wrote in that book that I'm lying about being a virgin because I use super jumbo tampons... but I can't help it if I've got a heavy flow and a wide set vagina!"
2. Understand that The Gays say stuff to your face that Straight Girls say behind your back and Straight Men don't even notice: "Where did you get your hair done?", "Toni and Guy", "Mmmmmmm.... don't go back there"; "that's a nice belt, is it holding your tummy in?"; and (when I came home after my first semester at Leeds) "Gosh, haven't you got fat at university?"
3. And comment on your age. Recently I discovered I was the oldest person out of a group of friends. "Repeat after me. Men..... Oh...... Pause......"
4. Do NOT try and out-dance them. You won't win. Like, ever.
5. Teaching attack to them is the most terrifying experience known to man. Right before a 6am class I was informed, " I hope you're good. We WILL judge you". Don't mind me, I'm just off to the changing room to quietly slit my wrists.....
OVERHEARD AT THE GYM
MALE ATTACK INSTRUCTOR TO FELLOW MALE ATTACK INSTRUCTOR:
When did you last shave your legs bro? They're out of control!
(Allegedly, straight).
Friday, 11 October 2013
Leave Britney Alone
So, 12 months on in New Zealand, I am proud to bring you Lesson #1 of Moving Overseas: namely, that it's wise to have your post forwarded to your new address, rather than having your parents open it for you. If I can present Exhibit A to the court:
Conversation With Mr Shortt On Skype
DAD: Now look Darling, there's some mail here for you labelled 'private and confidential'. Would you like me to open it for you?
ME: Yep, sure.
DAD: Oh it's from the NHS.... Let's just get this open....
[LONG PAUSE]
DAD: Oh! They'd like to invite you for a cervical smear test.
ME: Right..... great.....
DAD: I'll leave it up in your room shall I? (CHUCKLES, UPBEAT) Well, it's nice of them to invite you!
Is it? IS IT?? It's not like I'm being invited to accept my lifetime achievement at The Oscars, they're inviting me to be lie down on a sterile white couch and be scraped with a cold metal instrument. Last time I went (at the insistence of my then-boss, who kept loudly asking me in the office, "HAVE YOU BEEN FOR YOUR SMEAR TEST YET?" - we have a close relationship) I accidentally moved my foot on the bed and planted it straight into the lubricating jelly they were about to utilise. Just typing that makes me cringe. In fact, close my eyes and I can still feel that cold wetness on my right heel; 6 years later, I'm still recovering from the embarrassment.
(At which point my sister would tell me: Get Over It).
It's kind of been one of those weeks. On Monday I was having a perfectly lovely afternoon until one of my colleagues commented, "oooh you smell nice, is that Britney?" Er no... no, it's not Britney, it's Jo Malone. Pomegranate Noir. From England. It costs about 5 times the price and (so I thought) was a very unusual and classy scent. Well, we live and learn. Apparently, I could have saved myself about $100 and bought Cosmic Radiance (Anniversary Edition) from The Perfume Shop in The Pallasades. Always good to know.
I always like discovering new ways to tell I'm in my (early) 30s. This week's gem came in the form of a Rihanna concert. Pre-Concert, it was my outfit. I was chatting with The Gay and telling him I was about to go and see Miss S&M. He cast a dubious eye over my pink paisley top and commented "er, you're wearing THAT to Rihanna?"
"Yes.... what should I be wearing?"
"Something that makes your butt look bigger and your tits look higher".
Right. Well, seeing as the last 'gig' I attended (yes, I'm aware I already sound old using the word 'gig') was Pulp, the NEC, circa 1996 when it was de rigeur to wear Converse and Diesel T-Shirt, I thought I was doing pretty well in my costuming efforts. After all, at least I now get my eyebrows threaded. None of that Romanian Peasant look for Sarah in 2013 thanks very much.
In-Concert, it was my choice of drink. Firstly I had my 2L bottle of water confiscated during the security bag search - as my friend commented, "RiRi does NOT approve of hydration" - then I got to the bar and ordered a red wine and water. The bartender looked a bit unsure at my request for wine (clearly displayed on their drinks menu I might add) and said she'd just check if they had any. I'm not sure anyone had asked for Merlot since 2009.
(At this stage I feel compelled to add that, until attending the Vector Arena, I had always thought you couldn't get any uglier people at a concert than the Birmingham NEC. I hold both hands up - I was wrong).
Since I've now been in NZ for (almost) 12 months, I thought I would take some time to reflect On The Fings Wot I've Learnt (Learned, Alana?)
Obama's out soon isn't he? I'm just off to finalise my health insurance proposal.
Conversation With Mr Shortt On Skype
DAD: Now look Darling, there's some mail here for you labelled 'private and confidential'. Would you like me to open it for you?
ME: Yep, sure.
DAD: Oh it's from the NHS.... Let's just get this open....
[LONG PAUSE]
DAD: Oh! They'd like to invite you for a cervical smear test.
ME: Right..... great.....
DAD: I'll leave it up in your room shall I? (CHUCKLES, UPBEAT) Well, it's nice of them to invite you!
Is it? IS IT?? It's not like I'm being invited to accept my lifetime achievement at The Oscars, they're inviting me to be lie down on a sterile white couch and be scraped with a cold metal instrument. Last time I went (at the insistence of my then-boss, who kept loudly asking me in the office, "HAVE YOU BEEN FOR YOUR SMEAR TEST YET?" - we have a close relationship) I accidentally moved my foot on the bed and planted it straight into the lubricating jelly they were about to utilise. Just typing that makes me cringe. In fact, close my eyes and I can still feel that cold wetness on my right heel; 6 years later, I'm still recovering from the embarrassment.
(At which point my sister would tell me: Get Over It).
It's kind of been one of those weeks. On Monday I was having a perfectly lovely afternoon until one of my colleagues commented, "oooh you smell nice, is that Britney?" Er no... no, it's not Britney, it's Jo Malone. Pomegranate Noir. From England. It costs about 5 times the price and (so I thought) was a very unusual and classy scent. Well, we live and learn. Apparently, I could have saved myself about $100 and bought Cosmic Radiance (Anniversary Edition) from The Perfume Shop in The Pallasades. Always good to know.
I always like discovering new ways to tell I'm in my (early) 30s. This week's gem came in the form of a Rihanna concert. Pre-Concert, it was my outfit. I was chatting with The Gay and telling him I was about to go and see Miss S&M. He cast a dubious eye over my pink paisley top and commented "er, you're wearing THAT to Rihanna?"
"Yes.... what should I be wearing?"
"Something that makes your butt look bigger and your tits look higher".
Right. Well, seeing as the last 'gig' I attended (yes, I'm aware I already sound old using the word 'gig') was Pulp, the NEC, circa 1996 when it was de rigeur to wear Converse and Diesel T-Shirt, I thought I was doing pretty well in my costuming efforts. After all, at least I now get my eyebrows threaded. None of that Romanian Peasant look for Sarah in 2013 thanks very much.
In-Concert, it was my choice of drink. Firstly I had my 2L bottle of water confiscated during the security bag search - as my friend commented, "RiRi does NOT approve of hydration" - then I got to the bar and ordered a red wine and water. The bartender looked a bit unsure at my request for wine (clearly displayed on their drinks menu I might add) and said she'd just check if they had any. I'm not sure anyone had asked for Merlot since 2009.
(At this stage I feel compelled to add that, until attending the Vector Arena, I had always thought you couldn't get any uglier people at a concert than the Birmingham NEC. I hold both hands up - I was wrong).
Since I've now been in NZ for (almost) 12 months, I thought I would take some time to reflect On The Fings Wot I've Learnt (Learned, Alana?)
- In one year, nobody has ever said to G'Day to me. Not even once.
- When I moved here, people told me that New Zealand was like England in the 70s. Which is a bit weird, given that most of those people weren't even alive in the 70s. It's NOTHING like England. In the 1970s or 2013.
- Unless you count the copious amounts of rain. And fixation with Coronation Street. (Coro)
- People also told me that Kiwi's didn't get sarcasm. Er, not true. For all their apparent nicety, I think most Kiwi's are actually more sarcastic than the Brits. In fact, most of the time I feel like the idiot who didn't get the joke.
- Everything can be shortened. Preso. Convo. Tammy. Coro. Unco. Bro...
- Which is weird, given that everyone generally seems to have more time here than in the UK.
- People in the supermarket here smile at you. Like, all the time. In a really genuine, non-rapey manner.
- Trying to teach in New Zealand is actually like trying to win the X Factor. I pretty much feel like I'm auditioning for Simon Cowell every time I teach. To wit, I was told by one GFM (group fitness manager), "Well, you don't bore me". THAT'S 110 PER CENT YES FROM ME! Naturally, this is followed up in the next round by I'M SORRY, SWEETHEART, YOU'RE NOT GOING TO JUDGES' HOUSES. THIS JUST ISN'T YOUR YEAR.
- In fact, I think it would be easier to run for US Presidency than it is to teach here.
Obama's out soon isn't he? I'm just off to finalise my health insurance proposal.
Saturday, 28 September 2013
Just don't mention The America's Cup
So I was discussing threesomes with my friend last week (well, what do you talk about at Sunday brunch?) and I made some interesting discoveries that I feel I would like to share with the group:
1. Apparently some people have threesomes on a Wednesday night, on their way home from the gym. While other people (who will remain anonymous) thought that midweek entertainment didn't get any more exciting than watching 'The Block (New Zealand)'.
2. Said threesome is preceded by a cup of tea in the lounge and a discussion about what it's like to live in London.
3. Having a threesome with a couple is different from everyone being single - apparently the additional person is the Guest Star. Much like our guest artistes in Doctors - who receive unprecedented special treatment, exampled by their being accommodated in The Jurys Inn on Broad St.
4. Threesome is followed by another cup of tea and further discussion of clubbing in Soho.
So now you know.
In other news, apparently the Kiwi's have several choice names for their northern Hemisphere friends. In the last week I have heard us referred to as both 'whinging Poms' and 'beige Brits'. That's nice isn't it? Need I remind you who is (still) your Queen and of the not inconsiderable fact that, without England, most of you wouldn't be here. You Invaders. And, also, you wouldn't have Cadbury's. FACT.
(I have just done some research (Google) and in fact New Zealanders aren't the only ones to have less than favourable names for us. Apparently during the Hundred Years' War the French called us 'les goddams' because we swear so much. Bloody Frogs.)
Let's return to Cadbury's though, and Fact of No Small Concern that, not only can I no longer taste the difference between chocolate here and Cadbury's in the UK, but I am actually starting to really like Cadbury's here. They even have a special Marvellous Creations out here - which I don't believe you can get back home - and I think it's my new favourite over Wispa. And I'm from BIRMINGHAM. Where is the loyalty?
I have been told that it takes a year (at least) to settle in a new country. And I have spent much of the last 12 months feeling like a bit of an alien. OK we speak the same language but that's where many of the similarities end. Why do they insist on calling the kettle 'the jug' (very confusing for everybody) and flip flops 'jandals'? Why do New Zealanders get up so ridiculously early in the morning? Why does everyone say 'nek minnit' and add 'ay' onto the end of all their sentences? How does Shortland Street manage to keep getting commissioned? And why is everyone so relentlessly happy? (Apart from the barrista at Tana Mera Coffee in Mission Bay. He's refreshingly miserable.)
However, since returning to New Zealand 3 weeks ago, I have noticed a disturbing turn of events that suggest I am becoming One Of Them. 0430am no longer seems like the middle of the night, but rather a completely reasonable time to set one's alarm for. I have noticed certain foods making an appearance on my food shelf - LSA, macadamia oil, quinoa - that I'd barely even heard of back in Selly Oak. Unless reading the 'what's in your fridge' section of Closer counts. I add coconut oil to my black coffee for 'good fat'. I say I feel 'sec' when I refer to feeling nauseated (correct usage - Alana?) and I work at Liz Mells. I will send you a tixt and let's now work the muscles of our chist. Dear god, WHAT HAVE I BECOME?
And, cause I know it's keeping you up at night....
How to tell the difference between working in telly and working in the gym
1. Apparently some people have threesomes on a Wednesday night, on their way home from the gym. While other people (who will remain anonymous) thought that midweek entertainment didn't get any more exciting than watching 'The Block (New Zealand)'.
2. Said threesome is preceded by a cup of tea in the lounge and a discussion about what it's like to live in London.
3. Having a threesome with a couple is different from everyone being single - apparently the additional person is the Guest Star. Much like our guest artistes in Doctors - who receive unprecedented special treatment, exampled by their being accommodated in The Jurys Inn on Broad St.
4. Threesome is followed by another cup of tea and further discussion of clubbing in Soho.
So now you know.
In other news, apparently the Kiwi's have several choice names for their northern Hemisphere friends. In the last week I have heard us referred to as both 'whinging Poms' and 'beige Brits'. That's nice isn't it? Need I remind you who is (still) your Queen and of the not inconsiderable fact that, without England, most of you wouldn't be here. You Invaders. And, also, you wouldn't have Cadbury's. FACT.
(I have just done some research (Google) and in fact New Zealanders aren't the only ones to have less than favourable names for us. Apparently during the Hundred Years' War the French called us 'les goddams' because we swear so much. Bloody Frogs.)
Let's return to Cadbury's though, and Fact of No Small Concern that, not only can I no longer taste the difference between chocolate here and Cadbury's in the UK, but I am actually starting to really like Cadbury's here. They even have a special Marvellous Creations out here - which I don't believe you can get back home - and I think it's my new favourite over Wispa. And I'm from BIRMINGHAM. Where is the loyalty?
I have been told that it takes a year (at least) to settle in a new country. And I have spent much of the last 12 months feeling like a bit of an alien. OK we speak the same language but that's where many of the similarities end. Why do they insist on calling the kettle 'the jug' (very confusing for everybody) and flip flops 'jandals'? Why do New Zealanders get up so ridiculously early in the morning? Why does everyone say 'nek minnit' and add 'ay' onto the end of all their sentences? How does Shortland Street manage to keep getting commissioned? And why is everyone so relentlessly happy? (Apart from the barrista at Tana Mera Coffee in Mission Bay. He's refreshingly miserable.)
However, since returning to New Zealand 3 weeks ago, I have noticed a disturbing turn of events that suggest I am becoming One Of Them. 0430am no longer seems like the middle of the night, but rather a completely reasonable time to set one's alarm for. I have noticed certain foods making an appearance on my food shelf - LSA, macadamia oil, quinoa - that I'd barely even heard of back in Selly Oak. Unless reading the 'what's in your fridge' section of Closer counts. I add coconut oil to my black coffee for 'good fat'. I say I feel 'sec' when I refer to feeling nauseated (correct usage - Alana?) and I work at Liz Mells. I will send you a tixt and let's now work the muscles of our chist. Dear god, WHAT HAVE I BECOME?
And, cause I know it's keeping you up at night....
How to tell the difference between working in telly and working in the gym
- Smiling is mandatory on the gym floor. Even if it's a rictus grin after 12 hours.
- In TV people will suspect you have taken too much of your Class A again.
- Gym breakfast: Protein shake, egg white omelette, side of avocado. TV breakfast: red bull, fag, side of Snickers.
- Conversation starters: GYM: "how's your training going?"
- BBC: "Fag break?"
- Sarcasm is mandatory in TV. And it's perfectly acceptable to explain that you have to do something for someone "because he's a c*&^". In the gym... not so much.
- Nobody at the BBC ever got excited when the cafeteria had broccoli.
- Or refused the bread basket at lunch.
- A 5am start at the gym means you should be Vivacious, Onto It, Enthusiastic and Self-Assured. In TV you are permitted to be Vicious, Off On One, Effing Knackered and Self-Loathing.
- Current buzz in the gym: "have you been to the new paleo cafe in St Heliers?"
- TV: "what's your opinion on Peter Capaldi?"
- (sorry, that's soooooo August 5. We just heard the news)
- Er... I'm out.
There is one factor universal to TV and the Gym, and in fact, every workplace I have ever experienced. When the manager is in, Look Busy.
Monday, 26 August 2013
London is not a Country
Hands up if you've heard of Coolsculpting? It's apparently the latest way to get rid of fat without surgery, and is described on their website as a "targeted cooling process that kills the fat cells underneath the skin, literally freezing them to the point of elimination". Well, I have great news. There's no need to spend $2000 (US) on getting one isolated part of your body frozen in the hope you'll make a dent in your muffin top. All you need to do is spend approximately 60 seconds in the balmy waters of the New England Atlantic for the optimal cryogenic experience. It might be the peak of summer here in Hull, MA, but the water is truly icy. I expect to return to Auckland 10lb lighter (at the very least).
It's been an interesting experience flitting from NZ to the UK to the US. In NZ I am Posh (literally, that's my nickname) and they think I have a cut-glass BBC accent. In the UK I have a twang. And in America I am speaking a foreign language. I had completely forgotten the issues I have over here in ordering anything with a crisp 'T' sound, until I tried to ask for water the other day. "What?" "Water..." "What?" [...... several minutes] "Oh, you want WAAAH-DAH". I foolishly followed up on this experience by trying to buy a butternut donut at Dunkin Donuts yesterday. You can guess how that one panned out.
When I describe what it's like living in New Zealand to my friends in the UK, they are horrified by the high-fiveyness, fist-bumpyness, general sheer enthusiasm. In the US, they are freaked out by the lack of dessert and Lite beers. In New Zealand, they think that everything in England is grey. I wanted to write in further depth about the differences between Brits, Kiwi's and Yanks, but I then read the following article by an American correspondent for the NY Times - who had been living in London for several years before returning to the states:
Even after 18 years, I never really knew where I stood with the English. Why did they keep apologizing? (Were they truly sorry?) Why were they so unenthusiastic about enthusiasm? Why was their Parliament full of classically educated grown-ups masquerading as unruly schoolchildren?
Why did rain surprise them? Why were they still obsessed by Nazis? Why were they so rude about Scotland and Wales, when they all belonged to the same, very small country? And - this was the hardest question of all - what lay beneath their default social style, an indecipherable mille-feuille of politeness, awkwardness, embarrassment, irony, self-deprecation, arrogance, defensiveness and deflective humour?
So.... anyone else bewildered by the phrase "same, very small country"? I wasn't going to bring this up, but then I had the same conversation, twice, IN ONE WEEK, regarding the fact that London is not the same as England and Birmingham is, in fact, an entirely separate city in its own right. We are, much to our pride, the Nation's Second City. (This title belongs to us and not, as many Northerners erroneously believe, to our covetous sister, Manchester). Anyway, both conversations went something like this:
AMERICAN: Are you from London?
BRIT: No, from Birmingham.
AMERICAN: But London's the capital of England right? So it's the same thing?
BRIT: Er, well.... no, not really...
AMERICAN: It's like me saying I come from Boston, when I really mean Massachusetts.
BRIT: No, you see, Birmingham is a totally different city. We're actually the next biggest city after London...
AMERICAN: But London is the capital city yes? Same difference!
BRIT: OK. I'm from London.
In other news, until I arrived in the states I had forgotten the principle source of my summer joy. Yes it's nice to catch up with family, and we can't get Entenmann's in NZ, but my favourite thing to do here is read the police log of the Hull Times. For all you out-of-towners, this is the weekly police record for the beautiful town of Hull, Massachusetts, where you apparently can't sneeze without someone calling 911:
SATURDAY. 5:32pm Manomet Ave. caller reports that there is a loud radio on in the backyard and same requests that an officer ask them to turn it down. Music has been turned down... 8:12pm Nantasket Ave. Chair is in the roadway. O/Costa reports that female is not in the area and has moved the chair to the side of the road... 10:32pm Nantasket Rd. & Seventh St. caller states that there is a young male sitting against the telephone pole. Male was waiting for a ride...
We're sincerely hoping we make it into the police log before we leave town. Plan A: have a conversation in the street after 8pm.
OVERHEARD AT THE GYM
THE RUSSIAN: So when are you going to come and train with me?
ME: Er... I'm not sure.... maybe next month?
THE RUSSIAN: OK, I really want you to come and train with me. I think I can make you aesthetically pleasing.
And that's what it's like to work in a gym.
It's been an interesting experience flitting from NZ to the UK to the US. In NZ I am Posh (literally, that's my nickname) and they think I have a cut-glass BBC accent. In the UK I have a twang. And in America I am speaking a foreign language. I had completely forgotten the issues I have over here in ordering anything with a crisp 'T' sound, until I tried to ask for water the other day. "What?" "Water..." "What?" [...... several minutes] "Oh, you want WAAAH-DAH". I foolishly followed up on this experience by trying to buy a butternut donut at Dunkin Donuts yesterday. You can guess how that one panned out.
When I describe what it's like living in New Zealand to my friends in the UK, they are horrified by the high-fiveyness, fist-bumpyness, general sheer enthusiasm. In the US, they are freaked out by the lack of dessert and Lite beers. In New Zealand, they think that everything in England is grey. I wanted to write in further depth about the differences between Brits, Kiwi's and Yanks, but I then read the following article by an American correspondent for the NY Times - who had been living in London for several years before returning to the states:
Even after 18 years, I never really knew where I stood with the English. Why did they keep apologizing? (Were they truly sorry?) Why were they so unenthusiastic about enthusiasm? Why was their Parliament full of classically educated grown-ups masquerading as unruly schoolchildren?
Why did rain surprise them? Why were they still obsessed by Nazis? Why were they so rude about Scotland and Wales, when they all belonged to the same, very small country? And - this was the hardest question of all - what lay beneath their default social style, an indecipherable mille-feuille of politeness, awkwardness, embarrassment, irony, self-deprecation, arrogance, defensiveness and deflective humour?
So.... anyone else bewildered by the phrase "same, very small country"? I wasn't going to bring this up, but then I had the same conversation, twice, IN ONE WEEK, regarding the fact that London is not the same as England and Birmingham is, in fact, an entirely separate city in its own right. We are, much to our pride, the Nation's Second City. (This title belongs to us and not, as many Northerners erroneously believe, to our covetous sister, Manchester). Anyway, both conversations went something like this:
AMERICAN: Are you from London?
BRIT: No, from Birmingham.
AMERICAN: But London's the capital of England right? So it's the same thing?
BRIT: Er, well.... no, not really...
AMERICAN: It's like me saying I come from Boston, when I really mean Massachusetts.
BRIT: No, you see, Birmingham is a totally different city. We're actually the next biggest city after London...
AMERICAN: But London is the capital city yes? Same difference!
BRIT: OK. I'm from London.
In other news, until I arrived in the states I had forgotten the principle source of my summer joy. Yes it's nice to catch up with family, and we can't get Entenmann's in NZ, but my favourite thing to do here is read the police log of the Hull Times. For all you out-of-towners, this is the weekly police record for the beautiful town of Hull, Massachusetts, where you apparently can't sneeze without someone calling 911:
SATURDAY. 5:32pm Manomet Ave. caller reports that there is a loud radio on in the backyard and same requests that an officer ask them to turn it down. Music has been turned down... 8:12pm Nantasket Ave. Chair is in the roadway. O/Costa reports that female is not in the area and has moved the chair to the side of the road... 10:32pm Nantasket Rd. & Seventh St. caller states that there is a young male sitting against the telephone pole. Male was waiting for a ride...
We're sincerely hoping we make it into the police log before we leave town. Plan A: have a conversation in the street after 8pm.
OVERHEARD AT THE GYM
THE RUSSIAN: So when are you going to come and train with me?
ME: Er... I'm not sure.... maybe next month?
THE RUSSIAN: OK, I really want you to come and train with me. I think I can make you aesthetically pleasing.
And that's what it's like to work in a gym.
Saturday, 6 July 2013
The Brit Abroad
So Anne's back. And it all begins again.
For the uninitiated, Anne is a half-baked Scottish woman whose age remains un-guessable, I'd hazard anywhere upwards of 46 - 83. She is a member of The Gym and, in the words of Ellis Shortt, Esq., "a complete nutter". The gym closes on Friday nights at 9pm. On the stroke of 840pm she streaks in through reception like she's saving Scottish Independence, and scuttles across the bridge to the small Ladies changing room where, I am given to understand, she does her washing in the shower. All members are supposed to be out by 9pm. It's like some sick game to this woman. If the gym instructors don't go in to the changing room every 3 minutes to remind her of the time, she will gleefully stay in the shower until ten past the hour, like she's won the war against us and our petty timekeeping. It's all mind games to this woman. She's like some naked Scottish Hannibal Lecter.
She had briefly returned to Scotland and thus many happy months had passed in her absence, when every gym instructor managed to leave the gym on time. I had heard a dark rumour that she had returned, but until last night I'd not had the misfortune to encounter her. Well, indulge me as I share with you the last 15 minutes of my shift on a cold, wet, Auckland Friday night.
INT. GYM. SMALL WOMEN'S CHANGING ROOM. NIGHT. 20:50
SARAH, ANNE
SARAH: (Speaking to running shower) We close in ten minutes.
ANNE: (Inside shower) Yes.
[SARAH WAITS OUTSIDE. RE-ENTERS CHANGING ROOM]
SARAH: (Speaking to Naked Anne) We've closed now.
ANNE: (Naked) Yes, just coming.
[SARAH WAITS OUTSIDE. CONSIDERS VARIOUS CAREER CHANGES. ANNE EMERGES AND FLEES BACK ACROSS THE BRIDGE]
I severely miss closing the gym with my colleague Luke, who would stand outside the door and bellow in his Auckland accent, "Anne? If you don't come out in 2 menutes I'm coming en to get you. And neither of ass wants that to happin."
On a happier note I am heading home for ten days at the start of August and am very excited about.... Marks and Spencer's. Yes, OBVIOUSLY, I want to see my friends and family too, but ask any Brit what they miss most about the UK and I defy you to find anybody whose first response isn't "Percy Pigs. And M&S sandwiches. And Boots". I'm not quite Kiwi-fied yet, but I must confess I have swapped Cadbury's for Whittakers. Does that make me a disloyal Brit Abroad? I still buy Heinz 'English style' baked beans though. There's actually a British sweet shop in Auckland called 'The London Lolly Shop', which quite frankly I find very confusing since we Brits quite clearly call them 'sweets' and it's the Kiwi's that call them 'lollies' and who are you aiming these overpriced Quality Street tins at? BRITS.
Who do you think you are kidding Mr Hitler?
(Writing the last paragraphy has just led me to open a Crunchie of dubious edibility. The best before date is in Mandarin. I'm sure it'll be fine).
In other breaking news we have discovered tonight that the biggest slut in a household of 3 Kiwi girls and one Pommie is.... the cat. My flatmate bought a grey Burmese called Bella a few months ago and she is extremely lovable. It's rare for all us flatties to be in the same room together for longer than about 10 minutes, but we discovered tonight (during a rare flat conversation) that Bella has been whoring herself for cuddles around all of us like she's some kind of Mormon husband. She'll scratch upon one person's door for attention, and then if she has no luck with them she'll move on to the next one. Not unlike many of the Handsworth Grammar boys in the Dome II, circa 1998.
However, while I can't wait to check out Heat magazine to find out who Jordan is married to this year, I am rather concerned about how I will survive without the amazing coffee that Auckland has to offer. Seriously, only the tourists go to Starbucks here. I have to confess that working in the gym has turned me into something of a caffeine addict. I read an article recently by a Kiwi journalist who was detailing his attempts to give up said beverage, and I confess that all his symptoms were sounding eerily familiar. Just as I was warming to his writing, however, he moved on with the following:
"I refuse to drink tea for fear that it will turn me into some Beige Brit, and I shall be forced to whinge about the public health system and the weather".
Well, Andrew Perkins, you just lost yourself one WEEKEND HERALD reader. I hope you can sleep at night.
OVERHEARD AT THE GYM
GAY PT: A hole's a hole.
Lovely.
For the uninitiated, Anne is a half-baked Scottish woman whose age remains un-guessable, I'd hazard anywhere upwards of 46 - 83. She is a member of The Gym and, in the words of Ellis Shortt, Esq., "a complete nutter". The gym closes on Friday nights at 9pm. On the stroke of 840pm she streaks in through reception like she's saving Scottish Independence, and scuttles across the bridge to the small Ladies changing room where, I am given to understand, she does her washing in the shower. All members are supposed to be out by 9pm. It's like some sick game to this woman. If the gym instructors don't go in to the changing room every 3 minutes to remind her of the time, she will gleefully stay in the shower until ten past the hour, like she's won the war against us and our petty timekeeping. It's all mind games to this woman. She's like some naked Scottish Hannibal Lecter.
She had briefly returned to Scotland and thus many happy months had passed in her absence, when every gym instructor managed to leave the gym on time. I had heard a dark rumour that she had returned, but until last night I'd not had the misfortune to encounter her. Well, indulge me as I share with you the last 15 minutes of my shift on a cold, wet, Auckland Friday night.
INT. GYM. SMALL WOMEN'S CHANGING ROOM. NIGHT. 20:50
SARAH, ANNE
SARAH: (Speaking to running shower) We close in ten minutes.
ANNE: (Inside shower) Yes.
[SARAH WAITS OUTSIDE. RE-ENTERS CHANGING ROOM]
SARAH: (Speaking to Naked Anne) We've closed now.
ANNE: (Naked) Yes, just coming.
[SARAH WAITS OUTSIDE. CONSIDERS VARIOUS CAREER CHANGES. ANNE EMERGES AND FLEES BACK ACROSS THE BRIDGE]
I severely miss closing the gym with my colleague Luke, who would stand outside the door and bellow in his Auckland accent, "Anne? If you don't come out in 2 menutes I'm coming en to get you. And neither of ass wants that to happin."
On a happier note I am heading home for ten days at the start of August and am very excited about.... Marks and Spencer's. Yes, OBVIOUSLY, I want to see my friends and family too, but ask any Brit what they miss most about the UK and I defy you to find anybody whose first response isn't "Percy Pigs. And M&S sandwiches. And Boots". I'm not quite Kiwi-fied yet, but I must confess I have swapped Cadbury's for Whittakers. Does that make me a disloyal Brit Abroad? I still buy Heinz 'English style' baked beans though. There's actually a British sweet shop in Auckland called 'The London Lolly Shop', which quite frankly I find very confusing since we Brits quite clearly call them 'sweets' and it's the Kiwi's that call them 'lollies' and who are you aiming these overpriced Quality Street tins at? BRITS.
Who do you think you are kidding Mr Hitler?
(Writing the last paragraphy has just led me to open a Crunchie of dubious edibility. The best before date is in Mandarin. I'm sure it'll be fine).
In other breaking news we have discovered tonight that the biggest slut in a household of 3 Kiwi girls and one Pommie is.... the cat. My flatmate bought a grey Burmese called Bella a few months ago and she is extremely lovable. It's rare for all us flatties to be in the same room together for longer than about 10 minutes, but we discovered tonight (during a rare flat conversation) that Bella has been whoring herself for cuddles around all of us like she's some kind of Mormon husband. She'll scratch upon one person's door for attention, and then if she has no luck with them she'll move on to the next one. Not unlike many of the Handsworth Grammar boys in the Dome II, circa 1998.
However, while I can't wait to check out Heat magazine to find out who Jordan is married to this year, I am rather concerned about how I will survive without the amazing coffee that Auckland has to offer. Seriously, only the tourists go to Starbucks here. I have to confess that working in the gym has turned me into something of a caffeine addict. I read an article recently by a Kiwi journalist who was detailing his attempts to give up said beverage, and I confess that all his symptoms were sounding eerily familiar. Just as I was warming to his writing, however, he moved on with the following:
"I refuse to drink tea for fear that it will turn me into some Beige Brit, and I shall be forced to whinge about the public health system and the weather".
Well, Andrew Perkins, you just lost yourself one WEEKEND HERALD reader. I hope you can sleep at night.
OVERHEARD AT THE GYM
GAY PT: A hole's a hole.
Lovely.
Monday, 3 June 2013
Idiot, ego and super-ego
So it's not been the greatest few weeks, ego wise. I'd say it all started about a fortnight ago: I was sitting in the cafe with NZGBF (New Zealand Gay Best Friend, obvs) and I pointed out a bloke I had given my number to in an uncharacteristic fit of bravery. Said NZGBF turned around to look and said, "Oh it's HIM? He's a celebrity. You aim high!" Nice. The next day it was commented that I wasn't looking as tired as normal. I felt quite paranoid and asked if that meant I constantly look exhausted? "No-oooooooo... you just look like you give a lot". Translation: yes, you look perpetually knackered. I was then blazed (yes I use the word 'blazed' - I am down with the youth of today) by my local barista. I was sitting in the cafe, peacefully reading my book, MY CHOICE TO BE ALONE, when he added an additional chair to my table and said with a wink, "just in case somebody decides to join you. You never know."
"You never know"? This is my new most depressing anecdote in addition to the crazy man who told me circa 1999 "I hope somebody asks you out".
The grand finale to my ego bashing fortnight, alongside being told by a supervisor that at work I can come across as "timid, shy and needy", was yesterday, the Queen's Birthday - a public holiday here in New Zealand which I had foolishly volunteered to work. I sat down to have a chat to a fairly affable looking older member, who suddenly said to me, "God your job looks boring, what do you do all day? It seems like such a waste of time. I think if I had your job I'd be seriously asking myself what I'm doing with my life. In fact, on my dying breath, I would look back on my life and think, 'well that was a vacuum'". (I'm not ashamed to admit, at that point I went up to Studio 2 and had a little cry).
I spoke to my sister about issues above and she told me that her current MO for cheering herself up is to sing Bruno Mars' "Just the Way You Are' to herself in the morning whilst doing her hair. Except she changes the lyrics to, "cause I'm amazing, just the way I am". She recommended I find a song to do the same for me. The first tune to pop into my head was "Real Wild Child (Wild One)" - from the soundtrack to Pretty Woman. However, given the context in which we were discussing this - me staying in with the cat on Saturday night, the wildest part of the night having been my devouring an entire bag of Freddo's - I feel that this is somewhat false advertising. "At Seventeen" seems more fitting, albeit it might make me cry at work again.
(Note to self: in future, don't write blog with PMS).
On a happier note, tonight I get to see my favourite NZ sporting team. No, I'm not talking about the All Blacks, although they have been training at The Gym all week and making many a male member feel keenly the insecurities detailed above. (No innuendo intended). I am clearly referring to The Scottish Country Dancers. I teach a class in a local hall on Tuesday nights and as my class finishes, in they march, bearing plates of fruit cake and sporting matching paisley scarves. The highlight for me came a few weeks ago when one woman turned up, as wide as she is tall, with a severe grey bob and fringe, horn rimmed spectacles, sporting a black T-Shirt with MAMA MIA emblazoned upon it in rhinestones. I feel that the Doctors' office would all appreciate that one.
Speaking of Doctors, how could we possibly not win anything at the Soap Awards AGAIN? (Yes I use the word 'we' - I'm sure I tech reviewed at least one of the nominated eps). I read an article in the Guardian which I did think was most unkind:
The Soap Awards allows these actors to put on their best frocks, douse themselves in Charlie Blue, pile into a minivan and get drunk on free booze. And because these people see each other every day, there's none of the irritating air-kissing luvviness of other occasions. They cheer for their gang, whoop every time a colleague is nominated and don't seem to take a second of it seriously. It's a night out for them, and they're the same way we'd be if we were invited to an awards show. It doesn't matter who wins, so long as you can get hammered at the after party or – if you work on Doctors – stuff your pockets with enough complimentary vol-au-vents to keep you going until next year.
Having said that, last year I arrived back into our hotel room and woke up the Office Princess by ripping open all the free chocolate that had accompanied the Soap Awards tickets. But that's neither here nor there.
I would like to conclude with some more Kiwi-ana lingo for you. Feel free to use at your next New Zealand convention:
Nek minnit - next minute. EVERYONE says that here. Youtube it.
Sorry bout it - sorry about that. But they don't really mean they're sorry. It's all rather confusing.
You look skuks bro - you look devilishly handsome, my friend.
'Crazy as a mad woman's s%$#' and 'off like a bride's nightie'. I've been assured that these are both in common NZ usage.
Having thought more on my ego song, and in homage to the fact that my shorts no longer fit my huge New Zealand ass, I'm going to go with Baby Got Back. I have ten weeks to lose my ass before I pop home for a holiday to the UK. Nek minnit....
"You never know"? This is my new most depressing anecdote in addition to the crazy man who told me circa 1999 "I hope somebody asks you out".
The grand finale to my ego bashing fortnight, alongside being told by a supervisor that at work I can come across as "timid, shy and needy", was yesterday, the Queen's Birthday - a public holiday here in New Zealand which I had foolishly volunteered to work. I sat down to have a chat to a fairly affable looking older member, who suddenly said to me, "God your job looks boring, what do you do all day? It seems like such a waste of time. I think if I had your job I'd be seriously asking myself what I'm doing with my life. In fact, on my dying breath, I would look back on my life and think, 'well that was a vacuum'". (I'm not ashamed to admit, at that point I went up to Studio 2 and had a little cry).
I spoke to my sister about issues above and she told me that her current MO for cheering herself up is to sing Bruno Mars' "Just the Way You Are' to herself in the morning whilst doing her hair. Except she changes the lyrics to, "cause I'm amazing, just the way I am". She recommended I find a song to do the same for me. The first tune to pop into my head was "Real Wild Child (Wild One)" - from the soundtrack to Pretty Woman. However, given the context in which we were discussing this - me staying in with the cat on Saturday night, the wildest part of the night having been my devouring an entire bag of Freddo's - I feel that this is somewhat false advertising. "At Seventeen" seems more fitting, albeit it might make me cry at work again.
(Note to self: in future, don't write blog with PMS).
On a happier note, tonight I get to see my favourite NZ sporting team. No, I'm not talking about the All Blacks, although they have been training at The Gym all week and making many a male member feel keenly the insecurities detailed above. (No innuendo intended). I am clearly referring to The Scottish Country Dancers. I teach a class in a local hall on Tuesday nights and as my class finishes, in they march, bearing plates of fruit cake and sporting matching paisley scarves. The highlight for me came a few weeks ago when one woman turned up, as wide as she is tall, with a severe grey bob and fringe, horn rimmed spectacles, sporting a black T-Shirt with MAMA MIA emblazoned upon it in rhinestones. I feel that the Doctors' office would all appreciate that one.
Speaking of Doctors, how could we possibly not win anything at the Soap Awards AGAIN? (Yes I use the word 'we' - I'm sure I tech reviewed at least one of the nominated eps). I read an article in the Guardian which I did think was most unkind:
The Soap Awards allows these actors to put on their best frocks, douse themselves in Charlie Blue, pile into a minivan and get drunk on free booze. And because these people see each other every day, there's none of the irritating air-kissing luvviness of other occasions. They cheer for their gang, whoop every time a colleague is nominated and don't seem to take a second of it seriously. It's a night out for them, and they're the same way we'd be if we were invited to an awards show. It doesn't matter who wins, so long as you can get hammered at the after party or – if you work on Doctors – stuff your pockets with enough complimentary vol-au-vents to keep you going until next year.
Having said that, last year I arrived back into our hotel room and woke up the Office Princess by ripping open all the free chocolate that had accompanied the Soap Awards tickets. But that's neither here nor there.
I would like to conclude with some more Kiwi-ana lingo for you. Feel free to use at your next New Zealand convention:
Nek minnit - next minute. EVERYONE says that here. Youtube it.
Sorry bout it - sorry about that. But they don't really mean they're sorry. It's all rather confusing.
You look skuks bro - you look devilishly handsome, my friend.
'Crazy as a mad woman's s%$#' and 'off like a bride's nightie'. I've been assured that these are both in common NZ usage.
Having thought more on my ego song, and in homage to the fact that my shorts no longer fit my huge New Zealand ass, I'm going to go with Baby Got Back. I have ten weeks to lose my ass before I pop home for a holiday to the UK. Nek minnit....
Friday, 3 May 2013
And where do you get YOUR drugs from?
So we are in the month of May and. apparently, autumn in New Zealand. Er, whatevs. I feel it is my duty, as a good Brit abroad, to Represent, and therefore I will continue to wear my pink Topshop hotpants and loose fitting Betty White Tee for as long as I can stand. Or until I get drenched in Aotearoan rain. Whichever comes soonest. I just popped out to my local 'mall' (gosh I am soooooo Kiwi) for a coffee, and must admit my get-up - as detailed above - did provoke some rather strange looks. In point of fact: as soon as the first spots of rain splashed the window the barrister in the coffee shop informed me, quite gleefully I thought, that "You're going to get wet". Yes, well. Luckily for you Mr Coffee, I can run like the wind and I parked in a disabled spot. Not laughing now, are you?
I'm joking about the disabled parking of course. I did work for the BBC, remember.
But yes we are coming into winter and it's a bit of a shock. I was kind of thinking that the summer we had just experienced over what are, for us northern hemisphere - ers (new invention - TM), the winter months, were some kind of bonus. Call it a Gift from God. So, to my mind, I had been given an Extra Summer by fluke, and now would experience the Real Summer, in its proper place i.e. June/ July/ August. Not so. Apparently Auckland is going to get rainy, cold and miserable, and I will feel just like I'm back in Colmore Row on a wet Monday morning. Awesome.
On the subject of Awesome, if Kiwi's were banned from using that word, I'm not sure what they would say. Everything here is Awesome. Your Flat White is awesome. Parking is awesome. It's an awesome day. Those horrific multi-coloured leggings look AWESOME on you. The word has lost all meaning. I've been told I'm awesome several times but I'm no longer sure what it means. In England we might say "quite good" in an understated tone of voice, and we would mean THAT'S F&%$ING WICKED!!! YOU HAVE REACHED THE PINNACLE OF BRILLIANCE!!! Here the word is bandied about willy nilly, so it may as well replace "and", or, "the". I'm not quite sure where I'm heading with this thread, except to warn any would-be travellers to NZ that, if you get told you're awesome, you're probably just not a complete anathema. Think on.
So I am doing some work experience next week and (I couldn't help but wonder), what is the accepted expiry date for being Too Old to do work experience? I went into the office last week and I think the girl who came to collect me from reception was slightly taken aback when I explained that I am the thirty two year old work experience. I suspect she was expecting someone half that age. Remember the episode of Friends when Chandler decides to do some work experience, and feels exceedingly old? Have I just made myself look even older by citing that example?
But yes, I am doing work experience, and it has put me in mind of the various placements I have done in the past. There was the school-enforced work experience I did when I was 16, forgot about until it was about to dawn, and discovered that the only company that would take me on at a week's notice was The Botanical Gardens. I thus spent an unhappy 2 weeks plucking aphids from bushes in the orangery, and following a bad tempered gardener and his lawn mower around with a rake. Said lawn mower perpetually broke down every 20 minutes or so, causing the gardener to fly into a rage and kick it viciously whilst turning the air blue and no doubt upsetting the nearby Ladies of Edgbaston enjoying tea on the lawn. There was my week with a publishing house, when on my first day my mentor told me "This is the kind of job that people queue up around the block for. And then when you get it, you wonder why". My time with the criminal lawyer, when I was propositioned by his client during interview in the cells... The work experience I did with the art dept on Coronation Street, when I decided that working on set started far too early in the morning. (This was clearly before I worked in fitness, and had to be at the gym at 5am to open up).
Career Confused much?
I will conclude with the following advice for on would-be Pommie settlers attempting to fit in with the locals:
1. Know your vowels. 'E' becomes 'I', as in "send a tixt", "can I borrow an igg". 'A' becomes 'E', as in "Seeeeeeer-rah" (that's my name over here, apparently). Make sure you say the "Seeeeeeeeer" for about 10 minutes before finishing with the staccato "rah". Nobody's in a hurry over here.
2. Add 'ay' onto the end of EVERY sentence. "That's a mean workout, ay". "You're working today, ay". "He's gay, ay". You get the picture.
3. Corrie is Coro here. And remember we are about 2 years behind. So Michael Le Vell won't be a paedophile here until about 2015.
4. Perfect the local greeting. The lifted chin and raised eyebrows acknowledgement is apparently not limited to personal trainers, as I had initially thought. Apparently it's a New Zealand/ Maori thing and means anything from "hello", "goodbye", "great job", "I hate you"....
5. Add awesome into at least one out of every 5 sentences and you'll be sweet as, bro.
Top Reasons I Am Proud to Call Myself a Brummie
MEMBER: Where are you from in the UK?
ME: Birmingham, have you been?
MEMBER. Nah. I lived in London for 3 years but never made it to Birmingham. We used to get all our drugs from there though.
Another one to add to the list.
I'm joking about the disabled parking of course. I did work for the BBC, remember.
But yes we are coming into winter and it's a bit of a shock. I was kind of thinking that the summer we had just experienced over what are, for us northern hemisphere - ers (new invention - TM), the winter months, were some kind of bonus. Call it a Gift from God. So, to my mind, I had been given an Extra Summer by fluke, and now would experience the Real Summer, in its proper place i.e. June/ July/ August. Not so. Apparently Auckland is going to get rainy, cold and miserable, and I will feel just like I'm back in Colmore Row on a wet Monday morning. Awesome.
On the subject of Awesome, if Kiwi's were banned from using that word, I'm not sure what they would say. Everything here is Awesome. Your Flat White is awesome. Parking is awesome. It's an awesome day. Those horrific multi-coloured leggings look AWESOME on you. The word has lost all meaning. I've been told I'm awesome several times but I'm no longer sure what it means. In England we might say "quite good" in an understated tone of voice, and we would mean THAT'S F&%$ING WICKED!!! YOU HAVE REACHED THE PINNACLE OF BRILLIANCE!!! Here the word is bandied about willy nilly, so it may as well replace "and", or, "the". I'm not quite sure where I'm heading with this thread, except to warn any would-be travellers to NZ that, if you get told you're awesome, you're probably just not a complete anathema. Think on.
So I am doing some work experience next week and (I couldn't help but wonder), what is the accepted expiry date for being Too Old to do work experience? I went into the office last week and I think the girl who came to collect me from reception was slightly taken aback when I explained that I am the thirty two year old work experience. I suspect she was expecting someone half that age. Remember the episode of Friends when Chandler decides to do some work experience, and feels exceedingly old? Have I just made myself look even older by citing that example?
But yes, I am doing work experience, and it has put me in mind of the various placements I have done in the past. There was the school-enforced work experience I did when I was 16, forgot about until it was about to dawn, and discovered that the only company that would take me on at a week's notice was The Botanical Gardens. I thus spent an unhappy 2 weeks plucking aphids from bushes in the orangery, and following a bad tempered gardener and his lawn mower around with a rake. Said lawn mower perpetually broke down every 20 minutes or so, causing the gardener to fly into a rage and kick it viciously whilst turning the air blue and no doubt upsetting the nearby Ladies of Edgbaston enjoying tea on the lawn. There was my week with a publishing house, when on my first day my mentor told me "This is the kind of job that people queue up around the block for. And then when you get it, you wonder why". My time with the criminal lawyer, when I was propositioned by his client during interview in the cells... The work experience I did with the art dept on Coronation Street, when I decided that working on set started far too early in the morning. (This was clearly before I worked in fitness, and had to be at the gym at 5am to open up).
Career Confused much?
I will conclude with the following advice for on would-be Pommie settlers attempting to fit in with the locals:
1. Know your vowels. 'E' becomes 'I', as in "send a tixt", "can I borrow an igg". 'A' becomes 'E', as in "Seeeeeeer-rah" (that's my name over here, apparently). Make sure you say the "Seeeeeeeeer" for about 10 minutes before finishing with the staccato "rah". Nobody's in a hurry over here.
2. Add 'ay' onto the end of EVERY sentence. "That's a mean workout, ay". "You're working today, ay". "He's gay, ay". You get the picture.
3. Corrie is Coro here. And remember we are about 2 years behind. So Michael Le Vell won't be a paedophile here until about 2015.
4. Perfect the local greeting. The lifted chin and raised eyebrows acknowledgement is apparently not limited to personal trainers, as I had initially thought. Apparently it's a New Zealand/ Maori thing and means anything from "hello", "goodbye", "great job", "I hate you"....
5. Add awesome into at least one out of every 5 sentences and you'll be sweet as, bro.
Top Reasons I Am Proud to Call Myself a Brummie
MEMBER: Where are you from in the UK?
ME: Birmingham, have you been?
MEMBER. Nah. I lived in London for 3 years but never made it to Birmingham. We used to get all our drugs from there though.
Another one to add to the list.
Thursday, 21 March 2013
The Snob and the Cockroach
So, to summarise, I have hit 32 and - apparently - middle age. You know how on dating sites people always write,"I'm just as happy staying in with a bottle of wine and a good book as I am dancing the night away"? (Don't lie - I know you've looked even if you've not subscribed). Well, I have come to discover in 2013 that I am happy staying in. Period. Give me hot a bath, 'The Best of Enya' on Youtube, a bottle of wine and a copy of 'Brighton Rock' (I am an English graduate remember. Three years of Book Critiquing = Literary Snob) and I am one Happy Granny. No dancing the night away, no flaming Sambuccas or Jagerbombs for ME thank you very much. I need to be in bed by at least 930pm or I'll never get up for body attack tomorrow.
Just re-read the last paragraph. I think I need a night out on Broad Street pronto. Key Largo anyone? Oh, that's right. It shut down in 1998.
The down side of staying in is that I'm more likely to encounter Sid The Cockroach at some point during the night. I'm calling him Sid, but in fact there have been several Sids over the last few days. For three consecutive days now I have woken up only to discover a GIGANTIC cockroach lying on its back, antennae going mad, legs flaring, on my bathroom floor. I have no idea where these bastards are coming from, but to keep discovering them one morning after the other is not unlike some kind of Groundhog Day of the scene in The Godfather with the Horse's head. I feel like I've starred in The Cockroach 1, 2 and 3 this week.
Of course, my friends at work think this is hilarious. My first encounter with a cockroach in New Zealand occurred in a very public and shameful manner. Picture the scene: it's 0617am on a Friday morning and a very sleepy Sarah decides to fill up her protein shaker at the water fountain in the gym. As I was standing there staring into space, I suddenly felt something move on my hand. I looked down only to see a massive, shiny, black shield perched on my hand. I screamed the house down, threw my protein powder all over the floor and fled to the other side of the gym. This greatly bemused the massive Maori blokes who were doing incline chest presses in the weights area. My friend Blyth thinks it's brilliant now to peer furtively at the floor when I'm around, in a manner suggestive of several cockroaches (cockroachi?) scurrying around.
One is not amused.
I went out on my first date in New Zealand last week, are you proud? It's only taken me 5 months. It was a guy I found surfing on the beach, I'm so Kiwi bro....... anyway, before you get all excited I need to tell you that I've not heard from him again so no need to rush to House of Fraser to snap up a hat. It wasn't a promising start anyway. In our first conversation I asked him if he was a member of the gym I work at and his reply went like this: "No. I did a 3 week trial but it was too gay for me". I was so taken aback by this reply that I said, "Are you serious?!!" Apparently getting checked out in the men's changing room was too much for him. "I'm pretty homophobic". Being the little Fag Bangle I am I was not a little distressed by this, but I still went out for a drink with him because.... well, mainly because he's the only person to ask me out here and he has big arms. Call me shallow. So I've not heard from him again but perhaps it's just as well. I did feel like I was cheating on my Gay Sisterhood the entire date. I've put YEARS into becoming the camp, cliquey, friend of Friend of Dorothy that I am. My record collection alone would cause most gay men to turn green with envy.
(Celine, anyone?)
KIWI 101 TO BRUMMY
That's mean, bro = that's good, friend = yam alrooight, bab.
Just re-read the last paragraph. I think I need a night out on Broad Street pronto. Key Largo anyone? Oh, that's right. It shut down in 1998.
The down side of staying in is that I'm more likely to encounter Sid The Cockroach at some point during the night. I'm calling him Sid, but in fact there have been several Sids over the last few days. For three consecutive days now I have woken up only to discover a GIGANTIC cockroach lying on its back, antennae going mad, legs flaring, on my bathroom floor. I have no idea where these bastards are coming from, but to keep discovering them one morning after the other is not unlike some kind of Groundhog Day of the scene in The Godfather with the Horse's head. I feel like I've starred in The Cockroach 1, 2 and 3 this week.
Of course, my friends at work think this is hilarious. My first encounter with a cockroach in New Zealand occurred in a very public and shameful manner. Picture the scene: it's 0617am on a Friday morning and a very sleepy Sarah decides to fill up her protein shaker at the water fountain in the gym. As I was standing there staring into space, I suddenly felt something move on my hand. I looked down only to see a massive, shiny, black shield perched on my hand. I screamed the house down, threw my protein powder all over the floor and fled to the other side of the gym. This greatly bemused the massive Maori blokes who were doing incline chest presses in the weights area. My friend Blyth thinks it's brilliant now to peer furtively at the floor when I'm around, in a manner suggestive of several cockroaches (cockroachi?) scurrying around.
One is not amused.
I went out on my first date in New Zealand last week, are you proud? It's only taken me 5 months. It was a guy I found surfing on the beach, I'm so Kiwi bro....... anyway, before you get all excited I need to tell you that I've not heard from him again so no need to rush to House of Fraser to snap up a hat. It wasn't a promising start anyway. In our first conversation I asked him if he was a member of the gym I work at and his reply went like this: "No. I did a 3 week trial but it was too gay for me". I was so taken aback by this reply that I said, "Are you serious?!!" Apparently getting checked out in the men's changing room was too much for him. "I'm pretty homophobic". Being the little Fag Bangle I am I was not a little distressed by this, but I still went out for a drink with him because.... well, mainly because he's the only person to ask me out here and he has big arms. Call me shallow. So I've not heard from him again but perhaps it's just as well. I did feel like I was cheating on my Gay Sisterhood the entire date. I've put YEARS into becoming the camp, cliquey, friend of Friend of Dorothy that I am. My record collection alone would cause most gay men to turn green with envy.
(Celine, anyone?)
KIWI 101 TO BRUMMY
That's mean, bro = that's good, friend = yam alrooight, bab.
Thursday, 14 March 2013
Sex O'Clock
So the latest obstacle I have encountered in New Zealand is pronouncing the word 'six'. Due to the difference in our vowel sounds, I'm apparently saying 'sex'. Just like they pronounce 'pen' as 'pin' and 'eggs' as 'iggs'.... I had a conversation with my friend last week that went something like this:
KIWI: What are you doing tonight?
ME: Nothing. I'm in at six tomorrow.
KIWI: You're having sex tomorrow?!!
ME: Nooooo.....
So now every time we meet she asks me if I've had sex yet that day. It's not unlike the incident which occurred during my first year at uni: everyone in our flat was shouting "we want sex", I misheard and somehow thought they were shouting "Sarah" (clearly, they sound the same), opened the door to say "Yes?" and this minor mishap thus lead to my nickname throughout the proceeding 3 years of university - Sarah Sex. Eventually it got shortened to just 'Sex', which was not a little embarrassing when it was hollered at me as I was stumbling my way into lectures. Wearing my Diesel backpack with the one strap which wrapped around my torso on a diagonal angle. You know the one, with the mobile phone holder on the front strap. Yep, back then I had my finger on the fashion pulse.
But I digress. My point is that I have spent years trying to shake my 'affectionate' nickname of Sarah Sex. It followed me beyond university, because then whenever I went to visit my Uni friends in London they would introduce me to their new Job Friends as Sarah Sex.... Job Friends would then ask curiously where the name derived from, and I would have to explain that it really wasn't anything racy in the slightest - more that I just have hearing problems. It's really quite a dull story when you have to recount it to drunken Londoners, and I was rarely invited to the next party.
I thought I had escaped this particular embarrassment by moving to the other side of the world. But then I hadn't reckoned on Kiwi Vowels. My other nickname in the UK is 'Sperm'. But I think that's quite enough hilarity for one day.
In other news, I am no longer allowed to buy sporting equipment in NZ. Not until I have learned to Love And Utilize The Stuff I Already Have. I think I may have been a bit over-zealous when I first arrived, and in my excitement about my future outdoorsy lifestyle I have purchased a car, surfboard, bicycle and boxing gloves. I use my car every day (LAZY English girl). The bicycle I have used twice so far - making those two rides a rather costly $67.50 each. The boxing gloves are still in their packet in my boot. Ready for Action. And I took the surfboard out for the first time last Sunday - and managed to cut my knee, break a fin, and discover that the wax I bought for it doesn't work on my particular board, thus resulting in my continually sliding off when I tried to stand up. I'm positive that was the reason I couldn't stand up. I can assure you, I will have a brilliant surfing career once I have found the right wax.
My final revelation of the month is this: don't ever believe people when they tell you that a netball game is 'just social'. They are lying. My flatmate texted me last week to help her out with their final netball game of the season. I am trying to be more proactive in getting-out-of-the-gym, so like the little Keen Bean I am I agreed. Then I panicked. I've not played netball since 1997, and even then I was never quite sure of the rules. But she reassured me that it would just be a bit of fun, "nobody takes it seriously". Like the fool I am, I believed her. About 60 seconds into the game I realised that I had been duped, and in fact we were all playing like it was the World Series. It's the girls that are the worst - the Irish blonde I was marking was short, fast, and vicious. It was the longest 30 minutes of my life. (And remember, I was doing tech reviews for a year back home). At least it reminded me why I like group fitness. I like it when we're all on the same side. Fighting to change the world. Challenging Obesity. Making the Planet Fitter. But most importantly, Getting Bigger Biceps.
KIWI 101 Translated to Yam Yam
Chur Bro (Auckland) = Choice Bro = Nice One = Noice One, Bab (Dudley)
KIWI: What are you doing tonight?
ME: Nothing. I'm in at six tomorrow.
KIWI: You're having sex tomorrow?!!
ME: Nooooo.....
So now every time we meet she asks me if I've had sex yet that day. It's not unlike the incident which occurred during my first year at uni: everyone in our flat was shouting "we want sex", I misheard and somehow thought they were shouting "Sarah" (clearly, they sound the same), opened the door to say "Yes?" and this minor mishap thus lead to my nickname throughout the proceeding 3 years of university - Sarah Sex. Eventually it got shortened to just 'Sex', which was not a little embarrassing when it was hollered at me as I was stumbling my way into lectures. Wearing my Diesel backpack with the one strap which wrapped around my torso on a diagonal angle. You know the one, with the mobile phone holder on the front strap. Yep, back then I had my finger on the fashion pulse.
But I digress. My point is that I have spent years trying to shake my 'affectionate' nickname of Sarah Sex. It followed me beyond university, because then whenever I went to visit my Uni friends in London they would introduce me to their new Job Friends as Sarah Sex.... Job Friends would then ask curiously where the name derived from, and I would have to explain that it really wasn't anything racy in the slightest - more that I just have hearing problems. It's really quite a dull story when you have to recount it to drunken Londoners, and I was rarely invited to the next party.
I thought I had escaped this particular embarrassment by moving to the other side of the world. But then I hadn't reckoned on Kiwi Vowels. My other nickname in the UK is 'Sperm'. But I think that's quite enough hilarity for one day.
In other news, I am no longer allowed to buy sporting equipment in NZ. Not until I have learned to Love And Utilize The Stuff I Already Have. I think I may have been a bit over-zealous when I first arrived, and in my excitement about my future outdoorsy lifestyle I have purchased a car, surfboard, bicycle and boxing gloves. I use my car every day (LAZY English girl). The bicycle I have used twice so far - making those two rides a rather costly $67.50 each. The boxing gloves are still in their packet in my boot. Ready for Action. And I took the surfboard out for the first time last Sunday - and managed to cut my knee, break a fin, and discover that the wax I bought for it doesn't work on my particular board, thus resulting in my continually sliding off when I tried to stand up. I'm positive that was the reason I couldn't stand up. I can assure you, I will have a brilliant surfing career once I have found the right wax.
My final revelation of the month is this: don't ever believe people when they tell you that a netball game is 'just social'. They are lying. My flatmate texted me last week to help her out with their final netball game of the season. I am trying to be more proactive in getting-out-of-the-gym, so like the little Keen Bean I am I agreed. Then I panicked. I've not played netball since 1997, and even then I was never quite sure of the rules. But she reassured me that it would just be a bit of fun, "nobody takes it seriously". Like the fool I am, I believed her. About 60 seconds into the game I realised that I had been duped, and in fact we were all playing like it was the World Series. It's the girls that are the worst - the Irish blonde I was marking was short, fast, and vicious. It was the longest 30 minutes of my life. (And remember, I was doing tech reviews for a year back home). At least it reminded me why I like group fitness. I like it when we're all on the same side. Fighting to change the world. Challenging Obesity. Making the Planet Fitter. But most importantly, Getting Bigger Biceps.
KIWI 101 Translated to Yam Yam
Chur Bro (Auckland) = Choice Bro = Nice One = Noice One, Bab (Dudley)
Monday, 18 February 2013
Honesty
My sister is the most honest person I know. We were chatting on skype 2 days ago and she asked me how life is going in New Zealand. After I had chatted for a few minutes there was a massive silence. "So, apart from the gym, what else have you got going on in life?" Another silence. "Right, you need to start doing other things".
"Am I really boring?"
"No.... Not REALLY boring. " (PAUSE) "Yet".
Oh god, it's official, I have become a Gym Bore. I have met these people (now, My People) countless times before. At workshops, at training sessions, at team teaches. Yes I like body attack, but I'm not particularly interested in how many classes you teach a week or how difficult the 64 tuck jumps are in the new release. I'd rather hear about your weekend, or how you met your husband. The problem (I've surmised) is that, when it's your job to promote the gym and group fitness classes, it all starts to merge into one. Even when I'm in a social situation with absolutely no intention to discuss exercise, someone will ask what I do, I'll explain that I work at the gym and the conversation will inevitably run to: "Oh I joined the gym, but I've not been in 2 months...." I then feel obliged to ask "why haven't you been going?" and suddenly I'm right back at work, on the gym floor, trying to motivate someone to take more exercise. It happens all the time - with my hairdresser (whom I persuaded to come in and try body pump), with the man in the Dairy (that's cornershop to us Brits), with the man on the phone selling me car insurance.... I might make up a different job, that will invite no further conversation whatsoever.
IT Recruitment springs to mind.
So, with the fear of my conversational topics becoming limited fast, my sister has persuaded me to sign up to 'Meetup.Com'. And no, this isn't a dating site. At least, it's not JUST a dating site. Apparently, they have meet-ups for everything. And I mean, EVERYTHING. If I'm so inclined, I can join Vampyre Community Auckland. They have 5 members. And have had one meet-up since they were founded in October:
"This is an Auckland community for all real vampyres and those interested in real vampyres. The purpose is to build a real vampyre community as has already been done around the globe. Meet with fellow kindred and all who are interested, gain support/ aid of vampyre community for those newly awakened and any who feel the need.
The only rule here is behaviour intended to cause harm is totally unacceptable and will not be tolerated.
Aside from that, welcome, come hither in darkness!"
I kind of want to join just so that I'll have a great story... I'm thinking Keanu Reeves in Dracula was quite hot (despite the 'British' accent). Although in fact I suspect that the reality will be 5 people who have watched Twilight one too many times, and are trying to escape from their alter ego in IT Recruitment. I'm also not a little concerned re: how many members there were originally before their last meet up.
And what have I got against IT Recuitment? (= Boring Squared).
Speaking of hot vampires, I spent Valentine's Day at the gym feeling very sorry for myself as one member after the next asked me what I was doing and if I had received any Valentines. DOES THIS FACE LOOK LIKE IT'S BEEN GIVEN ANY VALENTINES? EVEN ONE? DOES IT?! I was bemoaning my plight to my friend who was rather less than sympathetic: "Sarah, you've only been in New Zealand 3 months, you shouldn't have a boyfriend yet. You're not a slut, so you keep it shut". When I pointed out that nobody even asks me out here, he replied, "Well, you give off an air of being unavailable. Plus you work in fitness so everybody assumes you're a lesbian". So the upshot is.... I'm an unavailable, non-slutty lesbian.
Is that worse or better than being A Virgin Who Can't Drive?
So you'll be pleased to hear that, having reached the eminent age of 32, I still think that smoking is the best way to fit in with the cool kids. I went out on my first proper night out in Auckland last weekend, and discovered that going out with Kiwi's is not unlike hanging out with Irish Americans. I always end up feeling like the extra who thought the shoot was Pride and Prejudice, when in fact I've ended up in Jersey Shore. And I can never keep up with the alcohol consumption (Lesson #1, Boston, 2012). But, apparently, I will bend to peer pressure and attempt to smoke in an effort to fit in. Never mind the fact that my efforts are more Sandra Dee than James Dean.
Cause (let's be honest here), smoking is cool, and I'm just jealous cause I can't inhale properly.
Generally I've found Kiwi's to be somewhat less than sympathetic. And very honest. I'm still adjusting. We're all so polite and we love a good moan in the UK don't we? I met a British lady from Golders Green who's out here visiting her daughter. The conversation went like this"
ME: Hi, did you have a nice weekend?
JEWISH MOTHER: No, not particularly.
ME: Oh, why not?
JEWISH MOTHER: I don't to be here, I hate this country. I want to go back to London. There's nothing here.
Riiiigght.... She then told me how her son-in-law is Kiwi and doesn't get her at all - "I'm a Jewish Mother. He thinks I'm an alien". It's weird when you meet people like that and can understand where they're coming from. She was thoroughly miserable until I told her that I used to work on Coronation Street - which perked her up no end, "now you're talking the business" - and now I'm her favourite gym instructor.
I knew one day that job would come in useful.
Overheard at the Gym
ME: I'm never doing cross fit again. I've not been able to walk for 4 days.
INSTRUCTOR: Go to the kitchen and pour yourself a big glass of concrete, cause you need to harden the f$%# up!
And that's sympathetic New Zealand.
"Am I really boring?"
"No.... Not REALLY boring. " (PAUSE) "Yet".
Oh god, it's official, I have become a Gym Bore. I have met these people (now, My People) countless times before. At workshops, at training sessions, at team teaches. Yes I like body attack, but I'm not particularly interested in how many classes you teach a week or how difficult the 64 tuck jumps are in the new release. I'd rather hear about your weekend, or how you met your husband. The problem (I've surmised) is that, when it's your job to promote the gym and group fitness classes, it all starts to merge into one. Even when I'm in a social situation with absolutely no intention to discuss exercise, someone will ask what I do, I'll explain that I work at the gym and the conversation will inevitably run to: "Oh I joined the gym, but I've not been in 2 months...." I then feel obliged to ask "why haven't you been going?" and suddenly I'm right back at work, on the gym floor, trying to motivate someone to take more exercise. It happens all the time - with my hairdresser (whom I persuaded to come in and try body pump), with the man in the Dairy (that's cornershop to us Brits), with the man on the phone selling me car insurance.... I might make up a different job, that will invite no further conversation whatsoever.
IT Recruitment springs to mind.
So, with the fear of my conversational topics becoming limited fast, my sister has persuaded me to sign up to 'Meetup.Com'. And no, this isn't a dating site. At least, it's not JUST a dating site. Apparently, they have meet-ups for everything. And I mean, EVERYTHING. If I'm so inclined, I can join Vampyre Community Auckland. They have 5 members. And have had one meet-up since they were founded in October:
"This is an Auckland community for all real vampyres and those interested in real vampyres. The purpose is to build a real vampyre community as has already been done around the globe. Meet with fellow kindred and all who are interested, gain support/ aid of vampyre community for those newly awakened and any who feel the need.
The only rule here is behaviour intended to cause harm is totally unacceptable and will not be tolerated.
Aside from that, welcome, come hither in darkness!"
I kind of want to join just so that I'll have a great story... I'm thinking Keanu Reeves in Dracula was quite hot (despite the 'British' accent). Although in fact I suspect that the reality will be 5 people who have watched Twilight one too many times, and are trying to escape from their alter ego in IT Recruitment. I'm also not a little concerned re: how many members there were originally before their last meet up.
And what have I got against IT Recuitment? (= Boring Squared).
Speaking of hot vampires, I spent Valentine's Day at the gym feeling very sorry for myself as one member after the next asked me what I was doing and if I had received any Valentines. DOES THIS FACE LOOK LIKE IT'S BEEN GIVEN ANY VALENTINES? EVEN ONE? DOES IT?! I was bemoaning my plight to my friend who was rather less than sympathetic: "Sarah, you've only been in New Zealand 3 months, you shouldn't have a boyfriend yet. You're not a slut, so you keep it shut". When I pointed out that nobody even asks me out here, he replied, "Well, you give off an air of being unavailable. Plus you work in fitness so everybody assumes you're a lesbian". So the upshot is.... I'm an unavailable, non-slutty lesbian.
Is that worse or better than being A Virgin Who Can't Drive?
So you'll be pleased to hear that, having reached the eminent age of 32, I still think that smoking is the best way to fit in with the cool kids. I went out on my first proper night out in Auckland last weekend, and discovered that going out with Kiwi's is not unlike hanging out with Irish Americans. I always end up feeling like the extra who thought the shoot was Pride and Prejudice, when in fact I've ended up in Jersey Shore. And I can never keep up with the alcohol consumption (Lesson #1, Boston, 2012). But, apparently, I will bend to peer pressure and attempt to smoke in an effort to fit in. Never mind the fact that my efforts are more Sandra Dee than James Dean.
Cause (let's be honest here), smoking is cool, and I'm just jealous cause I can't inhale properly.
Generally I've found Kiwi's to be somewhat less than sympathetic. And very honest. I'm still adjusting. We're all so polite and we love a good moan in the UK don't we? I met a British lady from Golders Green who's out here visiting her daughter. The conversation went like this"
ME: Hi, did you have a nice weekend?
JEWISH MOTHER: No, not particularly.
ME: Oh, why not?
JEWISH MOTHER: I don't to be here, I hate this country. I want to go back to London. There's nothing here.
Riiiigght.... She then told me how her son-in-law is Kiwi and doesn't get her at all - "I'm a Jewish Mother. He thinks I'm an alien". It's weird when you meet people like that and can understand where they're coming from. She was thoroughly miserable until I told her that I used to work on Coronation Street - which perked her up no end, "now you're talking the business" - and now I'm her favourite gym instructor.
I knew one day that job would come in useful.
Overheard at the Gym
ME: I'm never doing cross fit again. I've not been able to walk for 4 days.
INSTRUCTOR: Go to the kitchen and pour yourself a big glass of concrete, cause you need to harden the f$%# up!
And that's sympathetic New Zealand.
Friday, 18 January 2013
How to Lose Friends and Alienate People
Right, so I wasn't too cut up about turning 32 (ahem), until The Russian told me I am now a MILF. Or, to be exact, on MILF doorstep. The conversation went something like this: Russian perved on a female personal trainer at the gym, and commented that she was a MILF. I was somewhat aghast, since the PT in question is about my age, and/ or possibly younger. When I pointed that out that be a MILF you surely need to (a) actually BE a mother and (b) be aged over 40 (at least), he replied that nope, I could also be a MILF. I was, as he phrased it so succinctly, on "MILF threshold".
And people wonder why there are so many single women in their thirties.
It was very strange to be in a hot country over the festive period. Even having Christmas songs on the radio and wearing Santa hats at the gym didn't really put me in the mood. I kept bumping into other Brits who seemed similarly lost. I think we all sported the same look of having landed in a desert island without having being told we were leaving the library. I also missed the little reunions you have back home when all the City Mice come home from London and we catch up in the Plough to discuss who's got married, pregnant, already divorced and (most importantly) who's got fat and bald. Although my sister's experience on Christmas Eve wasn't the best. She was standing in the toilets when she was suddenly recognised by two girls from the same year at school she couldn't recollect for the life of her. Whilst she was desperately trying to remember their names, they both commented how changed she seemed from school: "You look so glamorous, I hardly recognised you. You're so different from when you were at school, when you walked around looking like you wanted to shoot everyone".
So it turns out that New Zealand is very high-fivey. Or fist touchy. I'm not sure if it's just working in a gym, or a general Kiwi enthusiasm, but, as an English Lady, it all makes me very uncomfortable. I can just about pull off the high five. The fist pump touching thing I leave well alone. If someone tries to do it to me I just smile apologetically, leaving my hands open by my sides, and explain "sorry, I'm English". Kiwi's also shorten every word they possibly can: un-co (uncoordinated - surprisingly this comes up in conversation quite a lot on the gym floor), tammy (tampon).... OK maybe that's it. I'm still recovering from having to pick up a used tammy from the ladies' changing room floors last week. The receptionist called me over, looking extremely apologetic, and gave me a post it with 'Locker 204' written on it. Hereafter known as Locker of Doom. Did you think that working in a gym would be glamorous?
Speaking of the ladies room, just when I thought that actors couldn't cope with daily tasks, I encountered Incompetent Members. I was in the changing rooms earlier today when a girl who was blow drying her hair paused, turned off the hair dryer and asked 'excuse me, if I've lost my comb, do I just ask reception?' Er, yes..... she carried on blow drying her hair and, indicating the strands which were now blowing wildly in her face commented, 'I kind of need it now'. Right... well you'd better get yourself down to Boots then hadn't you?
I am definitely over the judginess (it's a word) of personal trainers on my diet. Yesterday I was eating my muffin made of WHITE SUGAR in the cafe when one of the PT's came over, passed comment on what I was consuming, and pointed out that he has 9% body fat. Oh hurray for you. I am sure you and your paleo meatloaf will be very happy together. You do start to get a bit paranoid when you work in an industry devoted to being fit, healthy and beautiful. I never feel fit enough, toned enough, healthy enough here. Should I be doing cross fit, GRIT or 3 attack classes in a row? Am I making my legs too big if I lift too much weight in pump? But then will I not be strong enough if I don't lift the weight? And are large quads attractive, or will they simply weigh me down when I try to jump? WHAT HAPPENS IF I HAVE WHOLE MILK ON MY MUESLI MIX WITH SUNFLOWER SEEDS INSTEAD OF GLUTEN FREE ALMOND MILK??
In short, I'm starting to understand why Kirstie Alley ate the whole cake.
Overheard at the Gym
INSTRUCTOR: I love the women in this gym. I'm not sure if they're getting hotter, or I'm getting hornier. They're awesome...
And people wonder why there are so many single women in their thirties.
It was very strange to be in a hot country over the festive period. Even having Christmas songs on the radio and wearing Santa hats at the gym didn't really put me in the mood. I kept bumping into other Brits who seemed similarly lost. I think we all sported the same look of having landed in a desert island without having being told we were leaving the library. I also missed the little reunions you have back home when all the City Mice come home from London and we catch up in the Plough to discuss who's got married, pregnant, already divorced and (most importantly) who's got fat and bald. Although my sister's experience on Christmas Eve wasn't the best. She was standing in the toilets when she was suddenly recognised by two girls from the same year at school she couldn't recollect for the life of her. Whilst she was desperately trying to remember their names, they both commented how changed she seemed from school: "You look so glamorous, I hardly recognised you. You're so different from when you were at school, when you walked around looking like you wanted to shoot everyone".
So it turns out that New Zealand is very high-fivey. Or fist touchy. I'm not sure if it's just working in a gym, or a general Kiwi enthusiasm, but, as an English Lady, it all makes me very uncomfortable. I can just about pull off the high five. The fist pump touching thing I leave well alone. If someone tries to do it to me I just smile apologetically, leaving my hands open by my sides, and explain "sorry, I'm English". Kiwi's also shorten every word they possibly can: un-co (uncoordinated - surprisingly this comes up in conversation quite a lot on the gym floor), tammy (tampon).... OK maybe that's it. I'm still recovering from having to pick up a used tammy from the ladies' changing room floors last week. The receptionist called me over, looking extremely apologetic, and gave me a post it with 'Locker 204' written on it. Hereafter known as Locker of Doom. Did you think that working in a gym would be glamorous?
Speaking of the ladies room, just when I thought that actors couldn't cope with daily tasks, I encountered Incompetent Members. I was in the changing rooms earlier today when a girl who was blow drying her hair paused, turned off the hair dryer and asked 'excuse me, if I've lost my comb, do I just ask reception?' Er, yes..... she carried on blow drying her hair and, indicating the strands which were now blowing wildly in her face commented, 'I kind of need it now'. Right... well you'd better get yourself down to Boots then hadn't you?
I am definitely over the judginess (it's a word) of personal trainers on my diet. Yesterday I was eating my muffin made of WHITE SUGAR in the cafe when one of the PT's came over, passed comment on what I was consuming, and pointed out that he has 9% body fat. Oh hurray for you. I am sure you and your paleo meatloaf will be very happy together. You do start to get a bit paranoid when you work in an industry devoted to being fit, healthy and beautiful. I never feel fit enough, toned enough, healthy enough here. Should I be doing cross fit, GRIT or 3 attack classes in a row? Am I making my legs too big if I lift too much weight in pump? But then will I not be strong enough if I don't lift the weight? And are large quads attractive, or will they simply weigh me down when I try to jump? WHAT HAPPENS IF I HAVE WHOLE MILK ON MY MUESLI MIX WITH SUNFLOWER SEEDS INSTEAD OF GLUTEN FREE ALMOND MILK??
In short, I'm starting to understand why Kirstie Alley ate the whole cake.
Overheard at the Gym
INSTRUCTOR: I love the women in this gym. I'm not sure if they're getting hotter, or I'm getting hornier. They're awesome...
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