Supermarket Guilt

In Australia, as in England, I have always found supermarket shopping to be an exhausting and mind-numbing experience, invariably due to the multitude of choice and the ethics of shopping to which one is supposed to subscribe, which do not change from London to Sydney.  This indecisive maze I find myself in usually begins in the fruit and vegetable section – an area particularly fraught with moral dilemmas.  For a start, I know I shouldn’t even be there. I should be waiting serenely at home for my box of organic, crunchy fruit and crooked, earthy vegetables - picked that morning by an apple-cheeked farmer in Kangaroo Valley and delivered by horse-drawn cart (or white van) to my door.  But as usual I’ve not got around to setting this up online and the supermarket’s four-day old lacklustre fare will have to suffice. Though at least in Australia they have a large selection of exotics such as dragon fruit, which adds a temporary frisson to the experience.

Rummaging around the sweet potatoes (low GI, healthier than white), I look for those with a manageable, rounded shape – easier to peel and chop than the wonky ones.  After a momentary pause to reflect on the fact that life has become so busy that one has to pick a vegetable whose ergonomic shape might shave valuable seconds off its preparation time, I move on to the halves of shrink-wrapped butternut squash in order to add some more plastic to the landfill. Small wonder that environmental change cannot be brought about in supermarkets when consumers like me are about.

Staving off this guilt, I move from aisle to aisle, weighing up the sugar content of various breakfast cereals, assessing the positive aspects of wholemeal versus multigrain and ending up in the household aisle, where my conscience is caught in a tussle between eco-green cleaning materials (somewhat ineffective but morally superior) and old-fashioned, bleach-based liquids that will remove anything from biro to blood (invaluable with small children).

Wearily I traipse to the check-out, only to remember that I’ve not brought my own shopping bags and will have to bring home another mound of plastic. This criminal act of environmental recklessness is further exacerbated by the till operator’s insistence on placing solitary items such as milk in their own bags. Apparently they can’t run the risk of placing more than one inside - in case the bag bursts, milk sprays everywhere and they are sued for negligent packing.  Still, at least they pack for you here.

Once I am home, I promise myself that next time I will order my fruit and vegetables online, that I will take my own bags to the shops and that I will set myself a maximum time in which to race round the aisles, making swift, decisive choices.  But it never happens.

Playground Politics

Playgrounds are always playgrounds - and no matter where you are in the world, the politics that prevail are always the same. Living in London meant queuing for the swings, demand always being greater than supply. In true British fashion we stood patiently waiting our turn, trying not to look annoyed when one parent pushed a little longer than was politely acceptable, and shushing impatient children desperate for their turn. This sense of order was rudely disrupted for me one day when, next in the queue and waiting my turn, a child (heaven forbid) shot out of nowhere and grabbed the next available swing before me. I looked round for the parent, expecting them to appear and perform the smiling-through-clenched-teeth "You must wait your turn darling" ritual, but no one came. I was thus faced with the dilemma of ousting the child (not a popular choice, given the determination with which he bore down on the swing) or waiting another ten minutes with my son wriggling in my arms. In the end, swing etiquette prevailed and I deferred to the queue-jumper.

In Australia, as everywhere, mothers and fathers are particularly keen to demonstrate their honed parenting skills and an aptitude for peacekeeping more suited to a United Nations summit. As soon as one child grabs another’s toy, both mothers descend on the warring parties, determined that each should benefit from a moral lesson on the issue of sharing and taking by force what is not one’s own. However, the social and emotional development of a toddler is not advanced enough yet to grasp the concept – which is why they all go round the playground in a state of autonomy, blissfully unaware of any underlying protocol, while their mothers hover like wasps, ready to pounce at the first sign of social injustice.

Rather like the United Nations, come to think of it. Third world government ruled by despotic madman, totally unaware of any democratic imbalance, first world country hovers to see how the situation affects its own and then dives in, moral guns blazing. One would hope that said despotic madman would have enough cognitive awareness by now of right and wrong but history points to the contrary. When it comes down to it, we are all living in one vast global playground.

Mother's Day Discounts

Today is Mother's Day in Australia. Now, my family have never really acknowledged Mother's Day, Father's Day or any parental celebration of that ilk, but we would be hard-pressed to ignore such a media-fuelled frenzy in Australia.  Weeks before, radio advertisements broadcast suggestions for what to do on the day and of course the ideal Mother's Day present - a gift certificate from Woolworths (ubiquitous "good value" supermarket), the Big W (discount department store, whose motto is "live big for less") and Dick Smith (electronics).  Now, I am not saying it isn't every woman's dream to be given the freedom of choice between grocery supplies, discounted homewares and computer gadgetry, but still...one has to draw the line somewhere. Luckily, my children (husband) know me better than that and after the customary card-giving and, "here's what I (teacher) made at preschool", I was presented with a cup of tea and an English newspaper - heaven!  And then taken out for what Australians really excel at - breakfast.

Sanctimony, hospitals and where is winter?

When did we become so openly self-righteous? Last week I passed a car proudly bearing the bumper sticker, "Drive safely, I'm a blood donor - you might need me", or something equally sanctimonious.  Resisting the urge to ram the car from behind, I marvelled instead at how someone could be so publicly pharisaical about their role in saving lives when, behind the scenes, in neon-strip-lit hospital wards, doctors and nurses are working day and night to save lives, through diligence and hard work. 

Though it must be said, there are times when I wonder if the government's money is not better spent. We took my son into the Emergency department last night after he gashed his forehead on the bath. He was attended to by not one, not two, but three members of the hospital staff, in addition to my husband and me. A doctor, a nurse and a play therapist. Yes, one of those endlessly cheerfully-dispositioned women who waves toys in the child's face to distract him from the administrations of the doctor. 

Whilst I understand entirely the role they play for emergency cases (and more importantly, for children without parental support), I do believe that for minor cuts and bruises, the toy-waver can be relieved and sent to do something more productive, like make the coffee to keep everyone alert. But it seemed rude to suggest this, so we gritted our teeth and laughed as she made acutely perceptive observations about the helicopter on my son's shirt.

Winter is here, and to herald it's arrival Sydneysiders have donned trousers, jumpers and scarves - all this despite the average daily temperature being a balmy 23 degrees.  We must be the only people walking around still in shorts and t-shirts, but they are determined the season has changed and it seems futile to point out that in England this would be like midsummer.

On the Road

A recent road trip up north has exposed some some particularly Australian idiosyncrasies. Though it's not the subtlest of nations, we were nevertheless surprised by some of the more unsavoury characters we encountered on our journey. Stop for petrol at midnight in insalubrious Kempsey and you might have any number of "ocker" Aussies ogling porn magazines over the ice-cream freezer. Bare-footed fisherman smoke cigarettes on the garage forecourt before collecting their bait and journeying on. Drunks weave out in to the road before disappearing off in to the mist. It's not somewhere you want to linger. 

The lack of subtlety in Australia is manifested in its hard-hitting and direct road safety billboards. "Don't Die for a Deadline"and "Drinking Kills Driving Skills" hammer home their message, while gentler signs show you the way down "Bald Knob Road" to "Sandy Beach". When they want to describe something, they don't mince their words.

But they look after you too - there are frequent "driver revivers" where you can stop for free cups of coffee, a welcome relief for long distance lorry drivers (and of course somewhere else they can digest their porn magazines).   And it's not just humans who benefit from this milk of government kindness. There are frequent wildlife crossings on the major freeways, from overhead wire climbing structures - potentially lethal should a koala fall in to the path of a heavy duty truck travelling 120km an hour, but otherwise a useful option if the gum trees on the other side look a little tastier - to properly constructed bridges.  Indeed the Coffs Coast Advocate is pleased to report that, "The Roads and Traffic Authority estimates there have been as many as 250 animal crossings over highway structures on the Mid North Coast." Perhaps they could investigate domestic crossings for chickens next - and kill two birds with one stone.

A nation apart?

There is a sense, in Australia, of being disjointed from the rest of the world. Geographically it's miles apart but one also feels socially and culturally isolated. It's as if the rest of the world - all the big players at least - are having a party, and you're just on the landing listening and picking up snatches of conversation. 

The media here doesn't help. On the whole news is parochial. At best, anything global tends to be gleaned from other papers or feels second-hand. It leaves one feeling marginally unable to take the country seriously. Yet when the global financial crisis hit, Australia was laughing, safe in the knowledge it was relatively protected by stringent regulatory measures.

Indeed it is a nanny state on the border of obsession when it comes to bureaucracy and safety. These rules and regulations juxtapose with a country that in many parts is wild and untamed, host to several of the world's most poisonous species and long-time sufferer of flooding, bush fires and extreme temperatures. Maybe Australians need their rules in order to make themselves feel safe. Or perhaps they just have the tiniest - micro if you will - chip on their shoulders and this is their way of tasting a bit of power?

Christmas thoughts

Sydney is very transient city, despite being at the end of the line, as it were. So many people come here for work, or simply to experience the great Australian lifestyle, at the same time as having every city amenity on one's doorstep. There aren't many cities where you can be on the beach one minute, splashing about in turquoise blue Mediterranean waters, and twenty minutes later be rubbing shoulders with crowds in places like Chinatown or Oxford Street. 

You would expect a city that is so transient to be well-equipped for expats, but unlike the Asian cities of Singapore or Hong Kong, which are geared towards an expatriate lifestyle and have ready-made communities to join, Sydney is has such a wide diaspora of people it is far harder to make like-minded friends and Australians can be quite insular in sticking to their own.

Christmas, on the other hand, appears to be the same the world over. Throngs of people wending their way through shopping malls wearily buying in to today's consumerist religion. It has been said a thousand times before, but it is so easy to lose sight of Christmas and the religious aspect that it represents, when faced with unashamed commercialism. However, even for those who have a secular outlook on the festivities, the key is to remain true to traditions and above all to celebrate family, friends and, ultimately I suppose, love. Happy Christmas. 

Christmas is coming

In the spirit of all things Christmas, I took Charlie to meet Father Christmas yesterday. He was all gung-ho and then came over shy when we got there. However confidence was resumed at the suggestion of showing "The Man" his cars and they chatted about the merits of BMWs versus Minis while the obligatory photo was taken.  We were offered a somewhat overwhelming choice of photos on bookmarks, photos on keyrings, photos blown up to poster size and photos in a snow dome. An unashamedly commercial experience, just like they had back in Bethlehem. Father Christmas looks a little worse for wear in the photos, which lead me to believe he kept something stronger in his sack than the shopping-centre-branded antlers he extracted for Charlie.  I suppose if I had to ask 87 children each day what their name was and what they wanted for Christmas, I'd be on the sauce too.

Strange to be seeing Christmas decorations everywhere, mulling over present lists and trying to work out when is a suitably appropriate time for a Christmas tree - given the Yuletide excitement that has been provoked in Charlie - when the sun is blazing outside. Odder still to hear strains of "Jingle Bells" wafting through the air-conditioned shops and fake snow scenes in windows. We pass one house each day that has a host of decorations outside, making up for in quantity what it lacks in taste or charm. A rather sad and deflated-looking blow-up Santa, endless strands of wispy cotton wool and lots of brightly-coloured present boxes. Still, it guarantees excitement from Charlie every time we pass, so at least they are spreading the joy. 

Nature

Comparisons between Australia and England are inevitable but none are so obvious as the discrepancy between the two when it comes to nature. Where the English countryside is a softly muted palette of grey, green and brown, with gentle overtones of weak sunshine filtering through, the Australian landscape is clear-cut and harshly defined, every colour standing out boldly and brilliantly against a seemingly endless sky. 

Everything is bigger and brasher, including the birds. Innocuous-looking rainbow-coloured lorikeets and bright rosellas utter harsh screeches, while ugly magpies are relatively melodious. There are no soft English songbirds or gentle twittering. 

Insects are aplenty too. Yesterday evening, while sitting outside in the garden having supper, we heard one persistently loud and shrill cicada which, when tracked down and gently flicked from it's bush to the grass in the name of a peaceful meal, turned out to be a monster, capable of bringing traffic to a standstill with a mere brush of its legs.

Charlie carefully scrutinises each insect he discovers and has an irresistible urge to manhandle them all - he visibly fights with his conscious knowing it may retaliate, but in the end curiousity wins and the poor creatures (usually hapless beetles) are upended or pursued around the house until I take mercy on them and throw them in to the garden. 

Introduction

Having been in Sydney almost a year now, I feel it is time to offer a soupcon of antipodean life by way of this blog. My mental note-taking and daily observations of Australians and the way they live may not serve up anything extraordinary or remarkable, but it might offer a small insight into this rugged, beautiful and often harsh country, and our transient experiences here as an English family with two young children. 

Inevitably there are pros and cons of living the other side of the world; of being thousands of miles away from family and friends, yet of living the lifestyle dream - not to mention experiencing a certain schadenfreude every time we read news reports of rain lashing Britain, postal strikes and transport problems. 

We swing wildly from high days to low days and yet the challenges are ultimately rewarding and what we don't have we know we will appreciate even more.

I hope you enjoy my thoughts, for what they are worth.