The distance viewed from distance.

It has been close to a year since they last spoke properly, a winter of awkwardness which has blanketed four seasons in clouds that show no sign of breaking. There have been texts and emails in that time, but no real conversation and if it is true that it takes two to tango then it is equally true that he's never been much good at dancing.

Or much good at apologising. I struggle to recall an apology in the thirty six years we have shared and that streak shows no signs of ending today. Not that an apology is even required any more - her desire for that gesture has been slowly asphyxiated by the silent dragging months and these days she would content herself with contact of any kind; a stilted conversation, maybe the start of a thaw upon which warmer relations could be built. Her attempts so far have been met with silence at worst, terse and impersonal responses at best. He politely declines because he's not ready, not prepared, not interested. Maybe one, maybe two, maybe all. Maybe we will never know.

Experiencing this from the other side of the world is a strange experience. Removed from the full facts and the people involved, I am acutely aware that each story has two sides and that the only side I am privy to is hers. The other side is silent and he says that I do not truly understand the situation. He adds that I am unlikely to understand it fully given that he has no desire to share his side of it and just like that, another conversation ends with another signing-off pleasantry for the sake of a sign-off rather than any desire to be pleasant. That is how it's been for close to a year between him and I. That is how long it’s been since the two of us last spoke properly but that particular sting is thankfully reduced; dulled by the thousands of miles between our two lives, our two houses. It is the only time I am thankful for that distance and I cannot contemplate how it must be for her, living her life in the same city as him and with so much bad blood and silence crammed into the mile which separates their existences.

It has been over two years since I last visited the UK, last saw either of them. She is due to visit later next month, spend a week with us and I am looking forward to seeing her, sitting down in the same space as her. We have had our differences over the years, will continue to have our differences and issues as families often do - but I know without doubt that when she leaves, I will wish she could stay longer and be closer. I know without doubt that when she leaves, she will be going back to a life lived in the shadow of a chill which shows no sign of ending.

Blood may indeed be thicker than water, but therein lies the problem. Blood is so much harder to remove - and once it has seeped into your fabric you must work so much harder to eradicate its stain. I will continue to wish it were different though; continue to hope that the coming months will somehow conspire to bring this long winter of discontent to its long overdue conclusion.

Betty.

She was well used to discomfort by now. You reach a certain age and discomfort is something it becomes all-too easy to become accustomed to, stop complaining about. That was how it had become with her - and maybe she downplayed it without meaning to, paid it no mind when it should have been a concern. Maybe she was just scared; aware of the gravity of her changing situation, the chain of events which would be set in motion if she raised attention to her lack of wellbeing. We will never know for sure - indeed all we know for sure is that her time here has ended, that it ended suddenly and came as a shock to those who knew her. All we know is that we remain behind, that our questions may never be answered.

The sister of my wife's mother, I only met her a brief number of times and all towards the end of her life. I only ever knew her as a matriarch; an elderly woman who was increasingly housebound, often quiet. There are plenty who knew her better, knew her longer and would write this posting much better than I. Those people will mourn her appropriately, miss her hugely and me, I will travel with them; travel to the mountains to support those people and farewell her as a part of this huge family which I joined by marrying her niece. I will pay my respects because she deserves that gesture - because without exception this is a family deserving of that gesture, that respect.

I come from a small family background: mother and father and brother, aunts and uncles and a smattering of cousins. By contrast, hers is the largest family I could ever imagine and my head aches at every family gathering as I try to piece together the myriad of relatives one, twice, three times removed. Her relatives were almost impossible to count. Two sisters and a brother for sure; then child after child, a multitude of grandchildren and at least one great-grandchild. She is survived by so many - and if what they say is true, if we really can live on in the memories of those who we touched and those who loved us then we can take comfort from knowing that she lives on, that she will be remembered for many years yet.

Five for a Friday.

Last week was rather introspective and this Tuesday was more than a little serious. Hopefully today's five will lighten the mood a bit, because today's five is all about the guys I'd choose to do if I were that way inclined.

I'm not - but if I was, it would come down to these five. In no particular order.....

1. Alexander Skarsgard

The best thing about HBO's True Blood for the last two seasons, in my humble opinion. He lost out by a country mile to Lafayette in the competition for Character of Season One but he came back in season two with a brand new hair cut, a much improved and considered role and all of a sudden we're sitting there thinking 'god, wouldn't it be great to be Eric'.
Forget that Pattison kid. If you're going to live forever, this is how you want to do it.

2. Terence Stamp

The Mr Robinson of the pack, I remember him before he was an old dude but I think he's improved with age so I'm picking current day Terence over Superman-Mid-Eighties Terence. If I reach seventy looking look half as good as Terence does, I'll be more than happy.

3. Jose Mourinho

'I am the Special One' he proclaimed upon joining Chelsea as their manager in 2005. If he had failed and gone down in flames, we'd probably just remember him as an arrogant loudmouth who couldn't deliver - but Jose has delivered constantly and he's another man who seems intent on getting more suave with every passing year and every greying hair on his sultry little head. Sport's answer to George Clooney, you either love him or hate him. No prizes for guessing which camp I'm in.

4. Evan Dando



A sentimental favourite and the 'one for old-times sake' inclusion.

I have loved music for as long as I can remember and The Lemonheads have a special place in my affections, as does Evan Dando's voice. He can do anything: mournful, quirky, romantic or snarly and if I could sing like anyone, it would come down to a choice between him and Scott Matthews as far as I'm concerned.

Apart from his voice, his style swings it for me. Having spent years with long hippy hair, he then managed to continue looking cool and dashing even with a crewcut. As someone who tried and failed at the very same thing, I salute the man.

5. Johnny Depp

We have a few things in common, Johnny and I: We both hooked up with women called Vanessa, we both have facial hair and we both have tattoos. After that, sadly, the similarities begin to run out - and I think it's fair to say that I regret that a little more keenly than Johnny does.

And that concludes my grand outing. I don't normally ask for input on my postings but I'm curious on this one. The comments field is just down there......Come on people - let's hear your same-sex five?

Fuck off, we're full.

I have no passport at present. It expired in 2008, literally hours after I returned to Australia from a month in the UK. Since then I have always joked that I choose not to have a passport because this way, there's no chance anybody can coerce me into leaving this country but the reality is that I need to sort my passport situation out. My family in the UK are healthy enough but if there was an emergency, if I needed to fly to the UK at short notice then having a passport would make matters significantly more routine.

There are two options available to me: either take out a replacement UK passport or sit the test for Australian citizenship, then pay my money and get an Australian passport. When I first arrived in this country five years ago I felt more British than ever, could never see myself going the Australian citizenship route yet five years is a long time and now I find my views slowly changing on the best way to sort my passport situation out.

Of the past five years, I have spent precisely one month in the UK and what happens there impacts little on my life. I did not vote postally in the recent UK elections because I did not feel sufficiently informed or sufficiently affected by the outcome. I live in Australia and the concept of influencing a country I have no relationship with seems pointless given my circumstances. However, voting in the UK elections represents my best chance of exercising my democratic right at present - because as someone who is a migrant rather than a citizen, I cannot vote or influence things here in Australia. And lately, that's started to bother me.

Fuck off, we're full. Blunt and bigoted, it was a bumper sticker I saw stuck to the occasional redneck Ute after arriving here in 2005. I always found it distasteful but told myself that it was a minority view; reminded myself that every country has its bigoted minority and that Australia was no better or worse than most other places. As true as that is, it's still no excuse - for this is a country founded on immigration but as so often happens, it seems the tolerance has mutated and these days there's good immigration and bad immigration. Me, I am classed as a good migrant. 'They' say that I am one of them, not one of them - yet a significant proportion of 'them' also pour scorn on, stereotype the indigenous population and it is hard to come to any conclusion other than the fact that most of 'them' are racists; that the only people they are prepared to welcome are english speaking caucasians.

In less than a week now, them and their fellow Australians will go to the polls and the choice they make will essentially boil down to one between Labour and the Liberals, between left and right. There are differences in promises, differences in the policies being delivered by both camps and yet the right wing Liberals have campaigned almost exclusively on just one of their five key election promises. They have played the race card, hoping to turn it into a golden ticket and their promise, should they be elected, is plain and simple and catchy. They promise to Stop The Boats.

Stop The Boats. The complicated issue of dealing with those who seek safe haven and asylum and a better life summed up in three words. Stop them setting out in the first place and if you can't manage that and they actually reach Australian waters, simply turn them away. The subject is more sophisticated and involved than that, I'm sure - it would surely have to be when we consider the issue and the lives at stake, yet all we hear is a simplistic and knee-jerk Stop The Boats - and when I hear that, it makes me wish I had a recognised voice with which to raise my disapproval.

Immigration has been a contentious subject in many countries for many years and there are some people who have exploited immigration policies in the past and will continue to do so - but I would still prefer to see a review of the checks and balances rather than a shutting of the borders . Australia's previous Prime Minister spoke of his desire for a 'Big Australia' and there were rumblings of concern, of discontent. There were those who wanted to bring Australian standards of living and education upwards before the door was thrown open to outsiders - and now the new Prime Minister talks instead about filters; about a sustainable influx in the population number and about growth based on resources as opposed to sheer land mass.

My hope is that it will be enough; that we will reach a compromise between self interest and altruism. My hope is that there are enough people in this affluent first world country I now call home to remember that migration can never be so black and white; that change and adaptation is part of life and that when people approach us seeking sanctuary from an existence we would neither wish to imagine nor endure, we are better people for keeping our minds open and our doors ajar.

Five for a Friday.

I'm officially back then - and if you missed me half as much as I miss(ed) these five, I'll be halfway to happy....

1. The disappeared.
I got the money clip as an eighteenth birthday present from my mother and father. It was engraved - nothing fancy, just my name and the date - and as eighteenth birthday presents go it was not particularly effusive or gushy. Given what had transpired leading up to my birthday that year it was not the lack of sentiment that surprised me; more that I had been bought any present whatsoever.
Two months previously I had realised that my mother had a routine; that she always went to the bank on Tuesday to withdraw her money for the week. I knew that she would not go back to the bank for another seven days and so I would borrow her cash card and go to the bank on her behalf. I would supplement my soft-earned wage with her hard-earned money, go to the pub as often as I desired rather than as often as I could afford. For a while it was great but then, inevitably, a crack appeared in my carefully constructed plan and I was forced to admit my fraud. Then, inevitably, I was in a great deal of trouble.
It was the latest in a line of misdemeanours and my parents were as angry as they were frustrated as they were disgusted. When they later announced that my eighteenth birthday would be marked but far from celebrated, I could only nod my head in acceptance. I had finally crossed a line which was unacceptable and deep down I knew it.
Despite the fact that it was not a 'me' present, I found the money clip fascinating. It was my unspoken second chance, confirmation that I was loved even though I did not deserve to be and I put it in my pocket at all times, even if it there was only a five pound note to keep it company. I took it with me on numerous now-legal drinking trips and the inevitable soon happened. One night, some place, too soon I lost it.
I had lost many things before and have lost many things since that money clip - but none have played on my mind as much. I cannot forget the truth that everything we lose is somewhere - and as I sit here typing about it, I know that some semblance of my money clip remains present in this world. It may be crushed, mangled, broken; it may be dulled, tarnished, scratched - but it's out there somewhere and I wish I could find it again, keep it safer a second time around.


2. Breaking news.
Into my winter's night come images of a summer I remember, streets I remember. The streets of a city I lived in for many years - yet they look so different from this new airborne top-down perspective, and even more different with the entire population evacuated to a safe distance.
The footage does not belong to this Australian television network - the telltale Sky News ticker running along the bottom of the screen tells me that. It also tells me that something out-of-the-ordinary is happening - and suddenly I feel that I should be somewhere else for the first time since arriving here.
A bomb. Bombs. Some detonated, some didn't. Evacuations, casualties, fatalities. Shutdown, lockdown, meltdown. Ambulances and bloodied eyewitnesses speaking above the sound of sirens piercing a desolate rush-hour. My mind is running fast. I passed through there on the Hammersmith & City line regularly, found myself at Bank, at Trafalgar Square, at Strand regularly. It could easily have been me, if I were still there. It could easily be the people I knew, still know - those people I left behind.
The phone rings and my wife answers. It is her friend Cheryl who has seen the news and is ringing to ask if my family are alright. I know that my family are well removed from London, that they had no plans to be in London today - but as my wife tells Cheryl that my family are safe, I wonder about my friends, my colleagues. I start to make a list of people to contact, to check on - and for a second time since arriving here, I feel in the wrong place, like I should be nowhere but there.


3. Cigarettes & Alcohol.
These days the only stain on my soul takes the form a coffee cup ring. If my track record is anything to go by, that will also be scrubbed clean in time and at that stage, I will finally have achieved something which once upon a time never looked likely. Somehow, against all odds, I will have finally become a vice-free zone.
How it came to this, god only knows. Once upon a time I was a constant combination of poisons and intoxicants and my main priority was to keep it flowing, keep it flowing. There would be breaks caused by an unavoidable need to sleep or work - but for many years I was successful in keeping those breaks short and all too soon I was able to get out. All too soon I was able to get back to the main task of eradicating any semblance of balance which had managed to seak in during those breaks, open the valve and get that bad stuff flowing again.
All these years on I tell myself that things are better these days, this way and I know it instinctively, mean it wholeheartedly. Those years of sustained imbalance skewed me. They damaged my health and dulled my senses, rendered me incapable of maintaining healthy relationships and things are better now, better this way. I know that abstinence is the only way for me now but that does not stop me from questioning sometimes. It does not stop me from wondering why some people can be dabblers and I cannot; why I was made a diver when some are made toe-dippers. It does not stop my body from twinging occasionally when I see someone light a cigarette, pour a glass of thick red wine without a care in the world - and it does not stop me from wishing on occasion that I could get one final carefree pass; just for one night, one final time.


4. The broad abroad.
It's a waiting game. She sits in Australia waiting for me and I sit in England waiting for the Immigration people to read my forms, nod their heads and stamp their papers. Some days are good but inevitably some days aren't and on those bad days I feel as though I dreamed her up, that she was just a figment of my imagination. Some days are bearable and some days are just frustrating; endless and frustrating.
On the bad days, having Fay & Dave being in the country helps immeasurably. Friends of hers from long before I entered the picture, they took over the lease on our flat when we left London and I travel up to see them because they're funny people and fun company. They can spin stories from something or nothing and they always brighten my day, lighten my mood - not least because they know my wife well, understand her well.
We were upstairs at Waxy O'Connells, a bar off Leicester Square for some reason, one sunny autumnal Sunday afternoon. I do not remember what we were doing but I remember we were with Michael and I remember that the day was a bearable one; that my mood was light and that I was happy. I remember sitting upstairs in a narrow booth as the four of us talked. There were two conversations taking place; Dave and Michael were talking about something in the background and Fay and I were discussing something else. I mentioned my wife because it was relevant to the discussion and Fay looked at me, her expression shrewd and her voice gentler than before.
"You miss her, don't you."
It was a given really and it wasn't the first time that had been raised. I was well-used to answering that question but there was something about her timing, the tone of her voice that cut straight through my defences. That day had not been a hard day by any means, yet those gently spoken five words brought me to an immediate stop, floored me and all I could do was nod my head as the aching lump in my throat exploded and stopped me from speaking. Blinking away tears from newly wide eyes, all I could do was nod my head.


5. Hamilton.
Six years ago I travelled to Sydney for the first time. I stood on the quay, Harbour Bridge to my left and Opera House to my right and I watched those iconic ferries dock and depart. It was heavenly because six years ago, Sydney was a new experience and Australia was a new experience. I had never believed that my life would bring me here but it had - and standing there on the quay six years ago, I was convinced that I would never, never tire of seeing Sydney.
Six years later, it is cold and I am weary. Sitting alone in a deserted carriage as my train winds and rocks on its long return journey from Sydney, I look out of the window; look for familiar specks of lights in the darkness to indicate that I am nearly home. I recognise the station we pass through and I know that the next time we stop I will finally be home, finally be getting off. I have texted my wife to pick me up and she knows what time I will be arriving. In turn, I know that she will not be there when I arrive. I know that I will have to wait because I always do, because she's always late - but that's who she is and she's who I love so that's okay.
The train draws to a halt, the doors hiss open and I have finally officially returned from Sydney, finally officially arrived back home. As I waiting in the station car park, I watch the car lights fight for space with the neon from the nearby pubs, watch people come and go as try to kill time. There's no iconic bridge and no iconic concert hall here; just the sprawl of my anonymous suburbia punctuated by flashing lights and clanging bells as the level crossing barrier is lowered and my train departs, continues its journey to the end of the line. It's not a glamourous place by any means, but it's where I am most comfortable and where I most belong. I can be in other places with ease, but coming back to where I most belong is always something I look forward to and I doubt that will ever change. Six years ago I could not contemplate ever being tired of Sydney and time proved me wrong. My heart tells me that this place, this town is different though; that I will always be this keen to arrive here rather than leave here.

Introducing Andrew (again).

Good news: our computer is back home where it belongs.
Bad news: recent illness and increased workloads mean that AbodeOneThree's grand re-opening is postponed until Friday.

In the meantime, here's something that the majority of you will not have seen before. It's a reposting from the blog which I wrote before this one. Of the few readers who did see this first time around, I know that at least one of them enjoyed it so hopefully everyone won't feel too cheated by a repost in place of something brand new.

Thanks for sticking around in my absence. Only one person decided to cut their losses during the recent silent patch and that's a better result than I was expecting.


Many years ago I worked with a woman called Anne. I don't remember her surname because it didn't really matter - we all knew her as Mad Annie and it fitted so well that her surname became an irrelevance. This was the late eighties and I imagine she would have been in her late forties by then. Most days, Annie would buzz around the office wearing a check mini skirt, purple stockings and bright yellow sandals with a four inch heel. She was perpetually flushed and her hair usually alternated between purple and auburn. It was worn short at the back and long at the sides, savagely parted in the middle and hairsprayed into stiff curtains with a ferocity that only the eighties and hardcore aerosols could manage. She wore heavily-framed glasses which took the emphasis away from her piercing blue eyes and focused it on her sharp, pointy noise. She was Irish, of course. She had to be Irish: the Gods of Stereotype would have been most displeased if Mad Annie had hailed from deepest darkest Surrey. I have no idea how many years it had been since Annie had left the Emerald Isle and found herself living in Reading, but her accent gave the impression that it was only yesterday she had stepped off the mail boat and turned up for work at my office. She was deliciously weird and once you understood that she wouldn't harm a fly - let alone butcher you with scissors as the voices egged her on - she was very easy to work with. She helped you when you asked for help, laughed at all your jokes and then repeated them in a high pitched mutter over and over again, laughing to herself throughout the day.

It was Annie who first called me Andrew. She was always getting names mixed up and I thought nothing of it. Then she did it again - and again. Every time, she would apologise and make a big deal of calling me Matthew for the next ten minutes. Then before you knew it she'd be preoccupied or distracted and she'd be calling out for this Andrew character again. It got to the stage where I answered to the name and just waited for her to realise her error. In hindsight it was a schoolboy mistake - because the less I challenged her, the more she forgot that I was actually called Matthew. Somehow, for reasons I have still to fully comprehend, she found herself working on the company switchboard a few days a week. It was there that she did her finest work, telling customer after customer that there was no Matthew in the department they had specified, but there was a nice boy called Andrew who could probably help them. She would always realise her mistake eventually and laugh like a hyena as she transferred calls through to me. Direct dial eventually did away with switchboard operators and she was subsumed back into the general gopher underbelly of my office. I saw less and less of Annie, her presence eventually reduced to a rush of colour gibbering away merrily to herself as she pushed a trolley full of mail around the office twice a day.

At the time I just thought that Annie was scatty and a bit nutty, but she might have been more clued-in than I gave her credit for all those years ago. The reason I say this is because people have gotten my name wrong regularly over the years since Annie started the trend. It's always in new environments, always at the start of meetings with people I don't really know or who haven't met me many times before. You'd think that if someone was going to get my name wrong, the most obvious mistake would be to call me Michael or Mark - that's what I'd have assumed anyway. I'd have been wrong though - 99% of the time, people who get my name wrong, who don't know me or have just met me, they call me........ big drum roll......

You guessed it: Andrew.

It's occurred with such regularity that I don't even act surprised when it happens any more. All I can think is that I must look like an Andrew, whatever one of them looks like. I can only think of a few Andrews - Prince Andrew, Andrew McCarthy, Andrew Symonds - and I can't imagine anyone would struggle to tell us apart in a lineup. Anyone apart from Mad Annie, that is.
I look at pictures of myself these days and I only see a Matthew staring back at me. Maybe there's a hint of a Matt or a Matty in there, but I never see Andrew no matter how hard I look. That's fine with me. I'll answer to Matt or Matty if that's what someone calls me but deep down, I've always been a Matthew and I think I always will be. There was no 'Matt' option when I was small - I first became aware of it when Bros exploded onto the UK music scene in the mid eighties. Luke and Matt Goss were stomping around Top Of The Pops in their patent leather shoes with Grolsch tops tied into their laces and suddenly, all the cool kids I knew called Matthew were telling the world that their name was actually Matt. You could have called me many things in the mid eighties but cool was definitely not one of them so I stayed a Matthew, knowing that any comparison to Bros just wasn't going to work for me. If they had called their band Dweebo instead of Bros, it might have been a different story altogether.

As for being referrred to as a 'Matty' these days, that's something I would have cringed at until I emigrated. Those Australians love their nicknames and the antipodean twang makes being referred to as Matty just about bearable - especially knowing that I'm narrowly avoiding being called 'Matto' on a regular basis by those abbrevation-loving people I live amongst now. Even being called Andrew is better than Matto in my book.

It was so much easier when times were more simple, less complicated. In some ancient cultures, your name was chosen for you by the tribal elders and their selection process was based on the traits you exhibited as you grew up. Now in today's world, you're just given a name from birth and it's up to you to make it your own, to make it fit you. I find myself thinking how romantic it would be to have been born in those older, more simple times; to have been given a tribal name that was based on my traits - maybe I would have been named 'Soaring Eagle' - maybe even 'Flowing Feather'. Then the romance pops like a rancid water balloon as I realise the crushing truth. The reality is that the tribal elders would probably have taken one look at me and named me 'Looks Like An Andrew'.

I guess it's just as well the old ways aren't around any more. It's time to embrace the present - now I just have to decide whether to do it as Matthew, Andrew or Matto.

Today's Two Short.

Sometimes life intervenes and in place of the usual Five For A Friday, all I can offer are three reasons for its absence.

1. I was in Sydney on business from mid-Wednesday. I got back late last (Thursday) night and I ran out of time and inclination to write a posting. Now I find myself sitting at work, Friday lunchtime beckoning and writing a full posting would be preferable to catching up on all of my emails – but sadly the emails have won the battle of priorities.

2. I shouldn’t have had to worry about writing my posting late on Thursday night though. When I was travelling down to Sydney on Wednesday, the plan was to write Friday’s posting that night whilst staying in my hotel room. Unfortunately I arrived to find that my hotel had no public internet access. There was a broadband-shaped cable in my room but that only worked if you had brought your own laptop with you. As someone who doesn’t own a laptop, my options were therefore limited – and before someone points it out, yes, I know I could have handwritten it and then typed it up later – but that would have been complicated too. Why? Read on…..

3. When I left for work on Tuesday, I did my bit for the environment. I thought I’d lighten my carbon footprint and shut the computer. Evidently my shutdown gave the power button some ideas because upon returning home that night I found that repeated pressings of said button no longer yielded the desired result.
If I had not been in Sydney with work, the computer would have been taken in for repair on Wednesday night and maybe we would be picking it up today. Maybe it would have been given the last rites by the repair guy and we would be starting the shop around for its replacement - but whichever way it goes is something we won’t know for a couple of days yet.

Will everything be sorted in time for Tuesday’s posting? No way of knowing right now but if you cross your fingers then I’ll cross mine……