Wednesday, April 30, 2008
The smallest particle, which everything is made out of, is called a(n) ........
How can I pretend to help my 13 year old student with his science homework when thousands of feet below us are highly educated genii locked up in their man-made caverns desperately striving for this very answer?
An affair to remember
I just wanted to let everyone out there know that the Brooker-Bright relationship has come to an end. Yes, Robyn moved out today to her new life in a new appartement to be with a lady she has known from way back in Canada days. It's been rather sudden (to me at least) but no-one can truly be surprised. Our happy union was always going to come to an untimely end and there is absolutely no bitterness on my part. My darling, I just wanted to take a moment to remember the good times...
What was it like to be married to Mr B-B? Well, having a husband is rather spiffing. I would get up every morning to send her off to work with a big kiss and sometimes even a packed lunch. Then I'd mop the floors and arrange our social calender till hubby returned home of an evening. Turns out being a wifey suits me. True to the modern 'man', Robyn would cook me dinner (albeit at 11 O'clock at night) then make me eat cake and was truly the best husband a girl could ask for. We may not have had matching PJ's but when I lent her my second pair of red velour trousers I knew it was marital bliss.
There were the things that one may not expect from a husband. Like turning up to church to see them wearing your necklace and shawl or lending her knickers when she runs out of clean laundry. On the whole I think these are happy additions to spously duties. I will miss her curling tongs and the fact that my hair will never again look as good.
An interesting observation about femme-femme relationships is that at the end of the day, you both want to talk about it. We learned to balance this a little, well we more or less just talked a lot. From the rising of the blinds to the flossing of the teeth...
I discovered a lot with Robyn. Never before have I eaten so much asparagus and I can tell you now with honest conviction that it does indeed make your wee smell nasty. I now find vanilla rooibos with lots of milk and sugar to be the most indulgent fabulous thing ever, have hosted more pancake parties than anyone in the history of time and am suffering quite a lot from an unhealthy interest in maple syrup. Additionally are the simple things that make you say "I would never have thought of doing it like that". A broccoli cutting style for example, or eating pancakes frozen...?!
So now with a tear in my eye do I bid you goodbye. *There's nothing I won't miss about you my dear, from the bathroom light always being on to the balcony doors left wide open all day. I have never had such good conversation whilst on the toilet and fear I never will again. However, I go on to be Sassy Single and Satisfied and to prove this point have a cat moving in tomorrow. If I can survive this one night alone then tomorrow will welcome in the reign of Cleopatra. I have a feeling that being a cat-lady is going to suit me...
*[EDIT: originally I put "I will miss nothing about you" - couldn't be further from the truth. Grin.]
What was it like to be married to Mr B-B? Well, having a husband is rather spiffing. I would get up every morning to send her off to work with a big kiss and sometimes even a packed lunch. Then I'd mop the floors and arrange our social calender till hubby returned home of an evening. Turns out being a wifey suits me. True to the modern 'man', Robyn would cook me dinner (albeit at 11 O'clock at night) then make me eat cake and was truly the best husband a girl could ask for. We may not have had matching PJ's but when I lent her my second pair of red velour trousers I knew it was marital bliss.
There were the things that one may not expect from a husband. Like turning up to church to see them wearing your necklace and shawl or lending her knickers when she runs out of clean laundry. On the whole I think these are happy additions to spously duties. I will miss her curling tongs and the fact that my hair will never again look as good.
An interesting observation about femme-femme relationships is that at the end of the day, you both want to talk about it. We learned to balance this a little, well we more or less just talked a lot. From the rising of the blinds to the flossing of the teeth...
I discovered a lot with Robyn. Never before have I eaten so much asparagus and I can tell you now with honest conviction that it does indeed make your wee smell nasty. I now find vanilla rooibos with lots of milk and sugar to be the most indulgent fabulous thing ever, have hosted more pancake parties than anyone in the history of time and am suffering quite a lot from an unhealthy interest in maple syrup. Additionally are the simple things that make you say "I would never have thought of doing it like that". A broccoli cutting style for example, or eating pancakes frozen...?!
So now with a tear in my eye do I bid you goodbye. *There's nothing I won't miss about you my dear, from the bathroom light always being on to the balcony doors left wide open all day. I have never had such good conversation whilst on the toilet and fear I never will again. However, I go on to be Sassy Single and Satisfied and to prove this point have a cat moving in tomorrow. If I can survive this one night alone then tomorrow will welcome in the reign of Cleopatra. I have a feeling that being a cat-lady is going to suit me...
*[EDIT: originally I put "I will miss nothing about you" - couldn't be further from the truth. Grin.]
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Clichès and close calls
There is nothing quite like success in a sporting event to ram home a sense of patriotism, all the more enhanced by a) Pickwicks, the biggest ex-pat haunt in Geneva and b) Scottish rugby watching "buddies". When England jammied their way into the finals of the Rugby World Cup last October, it was clear to me that I was meant to be at that game. Mainly cause it coincided with my one weekend off and I had already made plans to visit Paris anyway.
So Anastasia the legend got a shirt in the post to me, I packed my rucksack and grabbed a blanket in the full expectation that I would find nowhere to sleep that weekend. (I later discovered it was a very lux 100% cashmere throw that came with my appartement and probably would not have suited living on a bench for the duration.) As it is I was fortunate and found a space in a hostel about 10 minutes after stepping off the train (at Gare de Lyon) into the fray and realising I had possibly been a little too laid back. I may venture to say God was looking after me, but luck will suffice for the cynical.
Anyway, the whole weekend was totally fabulous; full of revelation and beauty, purchases of random second hand clothes at Marché aux Puces for 50 Euro centimes each and lots of bread, cheese, walking, walking and walking. Needless to say, I love Paris in the fall.
But what about the main event as it were? Well, it turns out being a lone blonde female in Paris at the best of times can aid making friends (not an observation of fortitude I may note) but during the England/SA rugby world cup final the atmosphere is so charged and fabulous that donning anything white and red and hanging out near the crowds (note that you are better off in crowds that aren't wearing predominantly green and yellow) is a sure bet to not be alone for very long - not always a issue but you want to have someone to alternate cheering, shouting and crying with. I had already decided that I would be watching the game at the big screen by the Eiffel Tower and so headed in this direction a few hours before. After ditching the Frenchies I went with (well meaning people but not really clued in with the fact that I was no longer in caring-about-their-culture mode) I found myself in a bar clutching a 2-pint tankard of beer and for a moment feeling the same sensation as when I stepped off that train the day before. Panic not, within mere moments the very fact that I had made the journey on my own to be there at this historic moment (which by the way I would recommend everyone do, it is a safe bet way to plan a holiday that will not be forgotten) had impressed a group of young English lads and one Saffa. A bit of banter about the fact that they had kidnapped this guy later and I was invited to sit down (mainly to get out of the way of the door). I had made some friends and boy were these good friends to make. Superficially and the biggest cliché of it all is that I had happened upon a group of young dashing trainee airforce pilots who were all too willing to take me under their wing(!). More usefully however, they invited me to watch the game with them and the rest of their colleagues who had secure a spot on the Champ de Mars (area in front of the tower where screen was erected) not 3 foot from the front along with a well stocked supply of beer, water and Maryland cookies (which were my salvation halfway through the match when I realised I had not had lunch or dinner excepting the aforementioned 2-pinter). There were even some really cool girls there too which was great for toilet camaraderie, not feeling like a common English trollop and also, seeing as my camera battery had died, proved a fabulous resource for photographic evidence to be retrieved at a later date via the dreaded facebook...
But yet, though the picture is sweet, it is joyful and it's also a true example of provision(!), what was it that made it so momentous? Well, it's a little something known as "Top-Gunning". I tell you, watching the thousands from the shoulders of a burly pilot is one thing but this is sommat else... Joining in with the banter of the crowds, singing a little JC and a few 'negro spirituals' (thanks Mr Powell) was a lot of fun, but then a new song was added to the repertoire which soon left me confused and a bit red in the face as the realisation dawned on me. 'We've Lost That Loving Feeling', classic tune and movie scene, but when you get the distinct impression that the boys around you are singing not alongside but toward you it gets a little disconcerting. A sideways glance at Hannah (really cool chick) and she was encouraging me in my assumptions. Suspicions were confirmed at the line "baby baby, I get down on my knees" and these 20-odd servants of her Majesty were all on the floor serenading me in unison, with their own unique harmonies going on and a firm beat being tapped out (on my bottom). I was not being self absorbed - they were singing to me! (Hannah later informed me that this is a long standing rugby crowd tradition). It did not end there however; as one of the guys gestured for me to to turn around and I look behind me at the crowds, I see the neighbouring folk - I kid you not environ 200 of them - in an alcohol fueled moment of worship: with me on the pedestal.
So yes Richard, Paris, Eiffel Tower, Rugby World Cup and pilots serenading me: it does seem a little far fetched. But hey, someone has to do it...
As for the close calls. End of the game aside there was falling in a river whilst looking for somewhere to pee (no I was not 'in Seine'), French riot police at the end of the night and the obvious stupidity of heading off to Paris with no clue as to anything, poor French skills and a whole lot of drunken English sports fans. Would I do it again? New Zealand 2011 anyone...?
So Anastasia the legend got a shirt in the post to me, I packed my rucksack and grabbed a blanket in the full expectation that I would find nowhere to sleep that weekend. (I later discovered it was a very lux 100% cashmere throw that came with my appartement and probably would not have suited living on a bench for the duration.) As it is I was fortunate and found a space in a hostel about 10 minutes after stepping off the train (at Gare de Lyon) into the fray and realising I had possibly been a little too laid back. I may venture to say God was looking after me, but luck will suffice for the cynical.
Anyway, the whole weekend was totally fabulous; full of revelation and beauty, purchases of random second hand clothes at Marché aux Puces for 50 Euro centimes each and lots of bread, cheese, walking, walking and walking. Needless to say, I love Paris in the fall.
But what about the main event as it were? Well, it turns out being a lone blonde female in Paris at the best of times can aid making friends (not an observation of fortitude I may note) but during the England/SA rugby world cup final the atmosphere is so charged and fabulous that donning anything white and red and hanging out near the crowds (note that you are better off in crowds that aren't wearing predominantly green and yellow) is a sure bet to not be alone for very long - not always a issue but you want to have someone to alternate cheering, shouting and crying with. I had already decided that I would be watching the game at the big screen by the Eiffel Tower and so headed in this direction a few hours before. After ditching the Frenchies I went with (well meaning people but not really clued in with the fact that I was no longer in caring-about-their-culture mode) I found myself in a bar clutching a 2-pint tankard of beer and for a moment feeling the same sensation as when I stepped off that train the day before. Panic not, within mere moments the very fact that I had made the journey on my own to be there at this historic moment (which by the way I would recommend everyone do, it is a safe bet way to plan a holiday that will not be forgotten) had impressed a group of young English lads and one Saffa. A bit of banter about the fact that they had kidnapped this guy later and I was invited to sit down (mainly to get out of the way of the door). I had made some friends and boy were these good friends to make. Superficially and the biggest cliché of it all is that I had happened upon a group of young dashing trainee airforce pilots who were all too willing to take me under their wing(!). More usefully however, they invited me to watch the game with them and the rest of their colleagues who had secure a spot on the Champ de Mars (area in front of the tower where screen was erected) not 3 foot from the front along with a well stocked supply of beer, water and Maryland cookies (which were my salvation halfway through the match when I realised I had not had lunch or dinner excepting the aforementioned 2-pinter). There were even some really cool girls there too which was great for toilet camaraderie, not feeling like a common English trollop and also, seeing as my camera battery had died, proved a fabulous resource for photographic evidence to be retrieved at a later date via the dreaded facebook...
But yet, though the picture is sweet, it is joyful and it's also a true example of provision(!), what was it that made it so momentous? Well, it's a little something known as "Top-Gunning". I tell you, watching the thousands from the shoulders of a burly pilot is one thing but this is sommat else... Joining in with the banter of the crowds, singing a little JC and a few 'negro spirituals' (thanks Mr Powell) was a lot of fun, but then a new song was added to the repertoire which soon left me confused and a bit red in the face as the realisation dawned on me. 'We've Lost That Loving Feeling', classic tune and movie scene, but when you get the distinct impression that the boys around you are singing not alongside but toward you it gets a little disconcerting. A sideways glance at Hannah (really cool chick) and she was encouraging me in my assumptions. Suspicions were confirmed at the line "baby baby, I get down on my knees" and these 20-odd servants of her Majesty were all on the floor serenading me in unison, with their own unique harmonies going on and a firm beat being tapped out (on my bottom). I was not being self absorbed - they were singing to me! (Hannah later informed me that this is a long standing rugby crowd tradition). It did not end there however; as one of the guys gestured for me to to turn around and I look behind me at the crowds, I see the neighbouring folk - I kid you not environ 200 of them - in an alcohol fueled moment of worship: with me on the pedestal.
So yes Richard, Paris, Eiffel Tower, Rugby World Cup and pilots serenading me: it does seem a little far fetched. But hey, someone has to do it...
As for the close calls. End of the game aside there was falling in a river whilst looking for somewhere to pee (no I was not 'in Seine'), French riot police at the end of the night and the obvious stupidity of heading off to Paris with no clue as to anything, poor French skills and a whole lot of drunken English sports fans. Would I do it again? New Zealand 2011 anyone...?
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Blog-off (and a closet door sprung open)
Hmmm, so this is my first ever blog entry and the problem I am facing is this: I was talking to Darryl today - expert on many things and blogger extraordinaire - about the fact that I was going to start a blog (great advise about not putting anything racy and incriminating on which is ace for my career prospects but does means that the one person who cared enough to read this far just got disinterested) and I made the careless error of saying "I reckon I could find as many words to write as you if not more".
Foolish.
Hence the pressure is on as I make my first and most likely lame attempt at this 'Blog-off'. How I will ever compete with The Yellow Couch I do not know and surely I would do well not to risk trying, but I have a lot of free time of my hands and like the sound of my own voice...!
Why now? You may ask. Having moved to Geneva 8 months ago it would seem logical that I began to log my exciting adventures here so that all the lovelies back home could keep up with the soap opera that is my life. Frankly I was lazy but it's hitting home to me now that I am leaving GVA to return to BRS is a little under 3 months and these days I have friends not just in an other country but in a multitude of them. For those non-faux-Genevoise reading (she says hopefully!) the reason for this is that there seems to be a culture of passing through this beautiful city and onwards; to something no doubt bigger and better but having shared for a moment as part of a living organism, that takes a little of you and gives a little back of something else. A glorifying experience indeed but not without its issues as it threatens to numb one towards a life of loving and losing. Well, I have now decided what this first entry is about: T'seems natural to me to mention in brief (a kind of recap as it were) what it has meant to me to be a part of this organic experience - what I gave, what I took and how ultimately it has changed my life inconceivably loads. I suppose this is me coming out to all my friends back home who haven't heard yet about the changes and discoveries I have made in this land of neutrality, chocolate and reformation.
Someone once said (note the vagueness in this statement) that it is ok to talk to God, it's when he talks back that you should start worrying. Now, I feel it may be a little insane to publish this on the intraweb but I am feeling feisty and proud to say that when I came to Switzerland I met God.
*Taking a moment for everyone from Woodies to shut their mouths; for my mum to wipe her eyes and for the rest to roll theirs, snigger and either say they saw that coming or that they really really didn't, respective to what the last conversation we had was.*
So, I think I will leave that topic there for now, keep you religious nuts coming back for more... Next installment promises a semi-interesting anecdote from my more worldly experiences since I left the cider country. My own brother thinks it is so good it actually isn't true, and he is really cool so he must know (not that I am liar just that it is a good story). I choose it because when Darryl first heard it his reaction was "How does a guy compete with that?" and so I think it has a slightly better chance than some to, well, compete.
Foolish.
Hence the pressure is on as I make my first and most likely lame attempt at this 'Blog-off'. How I will ever compete with The Yellow Couch I do not know and surely I would do well not to risk trying, but I have a lot of free time of my hands and like the sound of my own voice...!
Why now? You may ask. Having moved to Geneva 8 months ago it would seem logical that I began to log my exciting adventures here so that all the lovelies back home could keep up with the soap opera that is my life. Frankly I was lazy but it's hitting home to me now that I am leaving GVA to return to BRS is a little under 3 months and these days I have friends not just in an other country but in a multitude of them. For those non-faux-Genevoise reading (she says hopefully!) the reason for this is that there seems to be a culture of passing through this beautiful city and onwards; to something no doubt bigger and better but having shared for a moment as part of a living organism, that takes a little of you and gives a little back of something else. A glorifying experience indeed but not without its issues as it threatens to numb one towards a life of loving and losing. Well, I have now decided what this first entry is about: T'seems natural to me to mention in brief (a kind of recap as it were) what it has meant to me to be a part of this organic experience - what I gave, what I took and how ultimately it has changed my life inconceivably loads. I suppose this is me coming out to all my friends back home who haven't heard yet about the changes and discoveries I have made in this land of neutrality, chocolate and reformation.
Someone once said (note the vagueness in this statement) that it is ok to talk to God, it's when he talks back that you should start worrying. Now, I feel it may be a little insane to publish this on the intraweb but I am feeling feisty and proud to say that when I came to Switzerland I met God.
*Taking a moment for everyone from Woodies to shut their mouths; for my mum to wipe her eyes and for the rest to roll theirs, snigger and either say they saw that coming or that they really really didn't, respective to what the last conversation we had was.*
So, I think I will leave that topic there for now, keep you religious nuts coming back for more... Next installment promises a semi-interesting anecdote from my more worldly experiences since I left the cider country. My own brother thinks it is so good it actually isn't true, and he is really cool so he must know (not that I am liar just that it is a good story). I choose it because when Darryl first heard it his reaction was "How does a guy compete with that?" and so I think it has a slightly better chance than some to, well, compete.
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