Bath-mas

I have had a long and tumultuous relationship with Christmas. Actually that’s completely inaccurate. What I mean to say is that I haven’t really liked Christmas since I was about 14. I’ve blogged about it before, in fact, so I won’t go into great detail, but basically it’s always been a disappointment, or stressful, or a combination of both.

As I’ve matured I’ve come to realise that vehemently hating things is kind of draining, and also not particularly amusing to friends and people around you who kind of just want to enjoy their day and don’t want to listen to you being so *different* by not liking *Christmas*. I’m not about to buy tinsel themed outfits or anything, but my objection to the holiday has certainly mellowed.

And this Christmas just gone was the best of my adult life.

After LonDon, Boyfriend and I caught a train to Bath. Due to flooding, this was an adventure in itself. Our train was cancelled, but we (along with hundreds of others) were allowed on the next one. This meant we had to stand in Paddington Station waiting for an announcement and then run (literally run) with all our luggage and amongst a mob of people to the platform. This also meant we were on an incredibly crowded train filled with young Londoners heading home for Christmas. I haven’t been in such a 20-something heavy crowd since university. If you’d done a survey you would have found perhaps 2 or 3 outliers represented in a baby and an old couple, terrified at their mistake, and everybody else would have been within 2 or 3 years of the mean age of 25. That’s right, statistics, people, statistics.

Bath.

Bath is nice. Incredibly nice. The entire city is heritage listed, which means everything looks like it did hundreds of years ago, except that instead of having sewing shops and teahouses it has Marks and Spencer and Starbucks. Actually that’s an exaggeration, Bath still has heaps of teahouses. Probably they are the same teahouses Jane Austen sat in and thought, “I’ll make him seem really aloof and cold but actually he’s just shy and dreamy! Genius!”

When we arrived at our hotel, there was a jazz band made up of teenagers playing really good jazz. We listened to the jazz and ate afternoon tea and thought about how is was 42 degrees back home. Then we walked back down to the train station to meet Amy, who is our friend, who has been living in the UK for more than a year and who would be spending Christmas with us. Back at the hotel the jazz band had gone, but the afternoon tea remained. It was a good compromise. Plus we discovered the cocktail list.

What followed was three days of eating and drinking and being stupid. On Christmas Day we went for a walk through the almost empty streets, looked at houses for rent and decided we definitely should move to Bath, the three of us, and have adventures. We came back to a five-course lunch, where we befriended our waitress, got tipsy and wore paper hats. 

Hats.

Ok, no I actually got a bit drunk, so while Amy and Boyfriend went to the bar to continue drinking, I (probably not so) quietly excused myself and retired to our room where I proceeded to have an hour long bath (in Bath, yes) and sobered up slightly.

After dinner that I can’t believe we had any room for, we watched the Doctor Who Christmas special, wherein I managed not to weep like a baby until Amy Pond’s surprise cameo, at which point I think I looked like my face had had a shower. As soon as it was over, we switched channels to ITV, and Amy and I watched the Downton Christmas special as well. As strange as it is to say, watching TV that night was one of the highlights. I discovered Doctor Who with these people (Boyfriend and Amy, I mean, as well as others) and we got to enjoy it as it aired in England, together. Similarly, Amy and I have been watching Downton together for some years now, and it felt so nice to lie on a bed and watch a silly English drama in England with her.

We spent Boxing Day drinking. I mean, we went for a walk and stuff, and things were open this time so that was nice, but mostly we continued to make our way through the cocktail list. The head bartender had some kind of degree in cocktails. The dude was amazing; he mixed us drinks not even on the list, had a vegetarian Bloody Mary recipe and gave us all gifts at the end of our stay. Basically he made our Christmas even more amazing (and drunk) than it was already. On the 27^th we did the obligatory Roman Baths tour, had lunch and said goodbye. Which was sad, in a way, but also ok, because we’d had this time together, and it filled us all up, I think, with the maximum amount of happy points.

Boyfriend bought me this owl bag for Christmas

Things I managed to not mention chronologically but definitely warrant a mention:

 - Boardgames in hotel lounges are the business.

 - We came third in the trivia despite being at a significant disadvantage when they started asking England-specific Christmas questions.

 - There was a “ski bar” outside the hotel that did warm cider and jars of cocktails.

I'm not kidding.

 - We went to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve even though Boyfriend and Amy weren’t actually that keen and it was basically just me bullying them into coming so that I could sing all the songs and pretend I was still in a choir and that was really nice of them.

 - Some swans tried to kill us.

Right after I took this I started running.

 - The meals were absolutely incredible and I discovered what celeriac is and it makes good soup.

 - I was too drunk to work out how to use the bath plug and had to get someone from reception to show me.

 - All traditional Christmas decorations make 300x more sense in cold climates and did not fill me with nearly as much rage as usual so that was nice.

 - Hey Australia, let’s get some decorations that don’t have fake snow on them, how about that?

 - Christmas can be really awesome.

 For those interested we stayed at Bath Abbey Hotel and booked the Christmas Package. Seriously, A+, 5 stars, would recommend. 

It's a Bird! It's a Plane! It's an Overanalysis of Man of Steel!

So today’s blog is about Man of Steel. It doesn’t contain spoilers, as such, but if you haven’t seen it and you want to go in without my opinions bouncing around your head, maybe save reading this for later. Alternatively, my opinions are pretty good, so definitely take that into consideration.

The problem with overanalysing this film is that I decided to do so ten minutes into it, and also I’ve only seen it once. When I did Mulan last week, I stopped and started it, took screenshots, and wrote notes. Not having that luxury yesterday, I mostly spent the film leaning over to Boyfriend and making “witty” comments in an attempt to remember them. I’m sure this really enhanced his viewing experience. It certainly improved mine.

Here’s what you need to know about Man of Steel: it’s not a Superman movie. “Oh but Lizzy!” you cry, “I’ve seen the trailer, I’ve seen the poster, it has a dude in blue and red punching the air while flying. He has a cape. I know what is what.” Yeah, well, sure it has Superman themes and ideas but because the film focuses on Superman’s origin story, it’s actually an alien movie. More than that, it’s an alien invasion movie. . It follows a bunch of the same tropes as other alien invasion films, the first act of the movie is set on Krypton and there’s a bunch of dudes in suits talking about the importance of protecting earth. I love alien movies that are set in America. They always vaguely reference how other countries react (usually in front of well-known landmarks), but it still comes down to the CIA or FBI to sort that shit out.

...and this guy

The aliens look exactly like humans, except they have cooler clothes. Kryptonians are big on skintight suits and armour, and after seeing the film; I must admit I’m a convert. What a badass way to dress. We should all incorporate a little more armour into our wardrobes. But I’m less inclined to adopt their architecture… the major theme of which is genitalia. I know I’m not alone in thinking this because Boyfriend definitely nodded at one point when I whispered “are they living in a giant penis?” And when a bunch of Kryptonians got incarcerated in sarcophagi-like things, Boyfriend said, “You’ve been sentenced to dildo prison, sorry”. Given that a large part of the film is about how babies are made, and (SPOILERS, select to read) how great it would be to make them on the ashes of earth, the phalluses are more than a little off putting.

                                                                             

Now, I must come clean here and say that my Superman knowledge is limited. In fact, all of it comes from the TV show Smallville (please, don’t judge me). Perhaps I’m not the best person for this job, but hey, I’m the boss at Hum Drum Plum and I just seemed like I had a good head on my shoulders, I gave me a shot despite my initial misgivings. My Smallville watching did prep me for noticing the little references to the Superman source material. I particularly enjoyed that lots of trucks and buildings are branded with “LexCorp”. Also Clark lives in a town called Smallville and the nearby city is called Metropolis. Look, I understand the metaphorical nature of these place names but they are kind of awkward in the context of serious film called Man of Steel.

but 100% fine on the show that thought this was a good promo image

Speaking of Metropolis, you know that scene in The Avengers where they fight in New York? It’s a great, action packed ending but I spent most of it being distracted by the overwhelming concern that they were breaking New York. Yeah, well if you felt anything similar while watching that film, be prepared to be weeping for humanity as you watch Man of Steel. Sure, Metropolis is a metaphor for some other city (not New York, as Boyfriend reliably informed me, Gotham is New York), but they BREAK IT INTO A THOUSAND PIECES. I don’t think it’s spoilers to say that the day gets saved (it’s a Superman/alien film after all), but an entire city gets smashed up in order to do it. What are the repercussions of this? The American economy would be significantly effected, hundreds of thousands of people would be refugees, there’d be disease, crime, looting. How could they begin to rebuild? Would Clark Kent be held accountable? Where the hell is the Daily Planet situated now given that the entire city just burnt to the ground? These are the important questions people. I have no doubt there will be a sequel, and I really hope that the writers and directors endeavour to answer my questions in due time. I am confident they read my blog religiously.

What did you think about Man of Steel? Got some shit to say? I am happy to provide you with a platform to do so here in the comments, on facebook and on twitter. Get involved!

Country/Girl: The Show

One of the reasons I committed to writing this blog weekly (which I’ve been doing for about 10 months, by the way, where is my medal?) was to document for my mostly city-dwelling readers what living in a country town is actually like. I haven’t really done that much lately, mostly because living in a country town is a lot like living anywhere else. Do you guys really want to hear about studying and going to work and paying bills and doing normal stuff? Nope. But I had a decidedly country-town experience this weekend, so I thought I would share it with you.

The Dalby and District Show, I’m sure, is much like many other country town shows. But it’s the only one I’ve been to, and it’s pretty cool, so I’m gonna tell you about it. We went last year, but I had only been in Dalby about a month, and everything was new and baffling and strange. I don’t think I really took much of it in, and it was a cold blustery day and I kind of just wanted to be at home, I think.

This year, though, we knew what we were doing. If you’ve never been to a country show, let me break it down for you. The Dalby show is a wonderful mix of old and new – cattle showing and dressage next to terrifying rides and neon lights. Think a tiny, way better Ekka, rather than a shit version of the Ekka. It’s way better because it costs a lot less, has far fewer gross people in it and is not associated with flu epidemics. It’s also just a generally more enjoyable experience.

My one criticism would be that the people who run it, while probably being great organisers, are not so great at communicating. It was almost impossible to find a schedule either online or in hard copy, and even when we did it was wrong. We deliberately arrived in time for the pet parade (a pet parade, people. A parade of pets. This is not a drill). You have no idea how excited I was for the pet parade, or how devastated I was to learn it had been cancelled.

After learning that my dreams were over, we went exploring. First up was the hall, which was filled with all the prize-winning… everything. Scones, flower arrangements, terrifying cake decorations that look like the bust of a gypsy, fruit, giant vegetables, crochet, photography, art, all the things. I suppose it is probably patronising to say these displays were adorable, and I don’t mean to be offensive, but walking up and down the aisles in that hall was like going back in time. The creations were generally quite impressive, but for me the true highlight were the names. A lot of the competitors are children, and it’s awesome to see them getting involved with tradition and culture, but most of the names were old lady names. Berryls and Beverleys, Mavises and Dots. The best part is finding the same name over and over again. Oh look Beverley took out first prize in the cakes, the crochet AND the flower arrangements. What a bitch. I bet all the Mavises hate her.

Of course at this point we start to see students. Boyfriend is a high school teacher, as you know, which meant choruses of “Hi Mr _____!” “Is that your girlfriend, Mr. _____?” (We were holding hands, he responded with “no!”- hilarious). The show is an excellent opportunity for teenagers to be teenagers. I’m sure living in a country town must seem a bit tough for some of these kids, so having rides and games and sugar and loud noises for a weekend must be the best. It was fun watching so many kids having such an excellent time.

After watching the fashion parade and seeing the sights, I had one thing on my mind. Sheep dog trials. Hoo boy was I excited about sheep dog trials. Unfortunately, I was in a minority. Far from the white picket stadium and jeering crowds of Babe, the Dalby Sheep Dog Trials were attended by a handful of the competitors and a couple of families. Still, it was genuinely one of the most interesting sports I’ve ever witnessed. The old man next to me could tell I was interested and shuffled over to me.

“You know how it works?”

Desperate though I was to say, well I’ve seen “Babe” about 50 times, I settled with, “no, fill me in”.

“You start with 100 points, and then the judges start taking them off for mistakes.”

Knew that, I think, whoever said watching TV and movies would rot my brain did not predict this conversation, obviously. “What kind of things will lose you points?”

“Going outside of the corridors, see them? Marked with the pink things? Yeah, your sheep go out of them you lose points. You miss an obstacle, you lose points. Every time a sheep walks back over ground it’s already covered, you lose points.”

“Tough gig then?”

“You betchya, best sport in the world”.

To be honest I’m inclined to agree with him, it was genuinely fascinating. The sheep were aggressive, stamping their feet and bolting at every opportunity. The dogs were beautifully trained, seeming to hear the thoughts of their trainers as much as anything else. One guy got so close to finishing the course, hand on the gate and everything (Babe viewers know what I mean) and his time ran out. Devastating. At another point, the sheep made a run for freedom and the dog leapt through the air to stop them. Would’ve been a disqualification, had there been any biting, but luckily (especially for the sheep), there wasn’t. Yeah... I know stuff now.

We got some lunch and some lunch dessert, bought some plants and then headed home for a while. We live just around the corner from the show grounds so we could hear the noises and shouts all afternoon. We headed back (no need to pay twice, just flash your ticket, take that Ekka) for dinner and fireworks. The next evening we watched them again, from our back door. I’ve never been one for fireworks, to be honest, but while leaning against Boyfriend, watching bright lights explode in a dark, country sky, I couldn’t help but think, “This is alright, you know? This is alright.”

I Am The Boyfriend - Riff & Rhyme, a Guest Post

Ladies and Gentlemen, your attention please/Let me introduce myself before I bring you to your knees/Today I am the Master of these Ceremonies/Thrilling and delighting like the flying trapeze...

We interrupt your regularly scheduled blogging to bring you this special bulletin and extra- special-guest-hosted-edition of Hum Drum Plum. That’s right bloggeroos...wait, is that too familiar? I feel like that’s Lizzy’s word; we haven’t even been formally introduced. Well, not directly. This is more of a blogger-ruse - allow me to explain. Lizzy has been called away to familial duties, so I have stepped in to keep the streak alive. You, dear reader, know me simply as Boyfriend. Yes, that Boyfriend. The one who dragged our host out to the country so I could help transform teenagers into the leaders of tomorrow. But I digress. I am here, as I said, to blog - so blog I will.

Need to find some willpower, apply it to the task/Realise that clarity’s not bottled or comes in a glass/I need to take a shot; of one kind not another/Face my demons head on instead of trying to run for cover/I need to pay attention to these lines I wrote/You can try to drown your sorrows - but the little bastards float...

I’ve only officially been teaching for five terms. Fifteen months, not counting holidays; a drop in the ocean in terms of how long some have been doing it, and only 1.25 of my own 29 years on the planet. But in that time, I have already evolved to be twice or three times the educator I was when I started (Ding! Level 2 Educator Class: +5 to discipline, +10 to effective planning, +10 to emotional fragility and substance abuse) and would happily admit that I have learnt as much from my charges as they hopefully have from me.

In terms of employment, I’ve been a lot of things in my time - actor/writer/director/producer/ rapper, customer service assistant (or Customer Service Ass. as my paycheck pointed out), rug salesman, kitchenhand and noodle dispenser, learning support teacher aide and confectionary retailer, among others. But even at this early stage of the game, an argument could be made for teacher being one of the roles that has had the most impact on me; definitely top two or three.

Lights on-off, eyes can’t adjust/Day-light, dark-bright, pain arcs and thrusts/ Wallowing or dealing if you feel you must/But always at the back of your mind - dust to dust/Ash to ash, back to back where it began/Washed up victim of a complex scam/Twist and turned, taut and tied, stoked and fired/Last page of legal documents reveal they lied...

By impact, I mean emotionally and mentally. It’s like nothing else I’ve done. I could easily while away the hours regaling you with tales of how hard I’ve worked over those five terms, the hours I’ve put in, the unpaid overtime that makes up the vast majority of those hours (and which more than justify the extra handful of weeks holiday we get per year - I’m not even going to start on that with you dear reader, as this is our first time together and I don’t want it to get ugly. Suffice to say, until you do it, you can’t really fathom what goes on) and the extra miles I have gone to and am expected to go to in the course of my job.

I could tell you about all the wonderful things - the connections I have made with staff, students and the community, the contributions I’ve been able to make through extra- curricular events like musicals and fundraisers, and the simply indescribable feeling of knowing that you’ve helped a child “get” something, or helped shaped their life or future in some way, however infinitesimal. I could tell you about all the less-than-wonderful things - the kids who have gone out of their way to make trouble or bully people, the classes that I hated, the times I felt tiny and alone, the disrespect and the moments of stomach- clenching, all-encompassing doubt.

I want to tell these kids when they step through that doorway/That if I could I’d take them and look over them always/And everything about them is amazing in all ways/ And even if they're changing all their parts that the core stays/But this time is a raw stage/And words can be misunderstood and easily cause rage/More maze - that's whats up ahead to navigate/They don't need a preacher, just a teacher who can captivate/Maybe one who helps them see that they don't always have to hate/They could learn they've got a choice and got a voice and master fate...

As I’m sure you’ve guessed already though, I’m not going to describe these things to you. I’ve decided for today to focus on one thing that has become a real struggling point for me recently, as this written medium provides me with an outlet through which to best phrase some things that may otherwise come out awkwardly or be misconstrued. I teach Drama, and in these classes, I try to build an environment that values safety and respect, where people can try and fail and experiment and improve. And in these Drama classes, more often than not, there are more females than males.

I wish I could tell some of female students that they’re beautiful and I have love for them.

Now before you freak out, just listen - not that I’m in love with them, or any silly rubbish like that. I just want these girls to be told by someone who’s not their family that they’re pretty and loved and can be whatever they want to be. I have caught wind lately of how many students, particularly female, are self-harming and suffer from depression and self- esteem issues. Now, I’m not suggesting that one gesture of encouragement from some teacher is going to solve any of that, or that every girl’s confidence and problems are linked to how they look or are dependent on being thought of as attractive. Not even a little. And I’m not suggesting that one male teacher knows all there is to know about the minds of these girls, or that he knows best, or anything at all. But for the last little while, I have just wanted to express my helplessness and swell of emotion that comes from hearing their stories or seeing their faces.

I hear how they are treated by boys. I hear how they are treated by other girls. I hear how their parents or siblings treat them. And it fucking tears me up inside to know I can do so little to protect or help them, and I just want to be able to tell them: “You are beautiful. You are young, and so full of life and promise and potential. If you can hang in there, if you can realise how many people around you love and appreciate you, even when they may not always be good at showing it, then you’ll see it gets better, and that these school days do not need to dreaded or feared. If that boy treats you like that, you don’t really want to be with him anyway. Its ok to wait to have sex, and its ok to want to have sex. Don’t ever, ever let anyone make you feel ashamed about wanting (or not wanting) to explore your body or your sexuality; wanting to do those things does not and will not ever make you a ‘slut,’ nor does the opposite make you ‘frigid’ or a prude. I promise if you are brave, and take chances with making new friends instead of being stuck in negative cliques, that good things will happen. I promise that you are pretty, and have worth, and that you are capable of loving and worthy of being loved. The world will always have dickheaded people and shit days in it - but those days never last, and those people will fade away. You can do anything and be anyone.”

“I cannot fight right now. I cannot rage, or roar, or do the things my soul yearns to do. But I stand - know this. And tomorrow is, they say, another day. Well, good. Tomorrow then. Or the day after. Or the morning after that. I will rage. And I will roar. I will.”

This is of course, the iceberg tip of an issue. One could talk for days on the way we are conditioned to treat males and females, and the way they are conditioned to see each other, and how that means that arguably boys too often are not educated enough in their teenage years to see girls as people, or how it means that women are told how to avoid rape instead of men being told not to rape. Lizzy has some great and interesting ideas and opinions on this topic, so I’ll leave future musings up to her. I’m no expert. I’m not even an experienced teacher yet. What I am, is someone who feels deeply, and who wants to help turn these kids, regardless of gender, race or ability, into capable, thoughtful citizens of the world who dream large and live larger. I want them to be better than I am.

Thankyou for letting me riff and rhyme for you today, dear reader. I remain your humble servant.

Love, Boyfriend. 

A Million

“Do you have enough space back there? I have like a million leg room”.

You know how sometimes you just develop your own language, and your friends know the language, so it just becomes so normal that you forget it’s not real language? I went on a road trip with some new work friends on the weekend (which is why this blog is late). I said the above sentence and the three people in the car laughed like it was a joke.

“A million leg room haha.”

“A million undetermined units of legroom, hahahaha.”

It wasn’t a joke. That’s just how I speak sometimes.

I’m a bit of a show off, and an orator. I love to tell a story, love to have people listen to me, to laugh at my jokes (to read my blog). But sometimes, new people laugh at things I wasn’t intending to be funny. It’s not a bad thing; it’s just a strange realisation to have in the passenger seat at 100Km per hour on a country road.

It’s one of the things I miss most about my Brisbane friends. Having and developing a language of our own is one of the best ways I’ve ever felt close with people. I love words, I feel in many ways they are almost holy, but I also love to mess with them. Years of living and working and studying with friends have produced a special lingo over which we all subconsciously bond. Meanwhile, Boyfriend and I shorten everything. We’re not seeing a movie, we’re “going to the moves”, we don’t eat dinner we have “the dins”. These aren’t even particularly sickening, coupley things, we’re just quite lazy (or “laze”).

And it’s not as if my new friends don’t do it too. The phrase “legit strat” was used over the weekend, and we all laughed and discussed how it would be silly to say “legitimate strategy” (especially when I think we were discussing sand castles). But of course the speaker was just using a turn of phrase, not trying to make a joke. I wonder if he felt like it was a bit weird we all laughed and dissected his words. Maybe he says “legit strat” every day. We just don’t all speak the same language yet.

I’m reading Paper Towns by John Green at the moment (shh I haven’t finished yet, no spoilers). One of the major themes is about how we see others. Do we see them through a window, something of their creation that allows us to see certain aspects of their personality? Or do we see them through a mirror, as variations of ourselves? The main character hasn’t quite decided yet, but I think it’s a combination of both. Language is one of the most subtle ways we can portray ourselves, yet is the most present, we use language almost every moment of every day. It is also one of the more obvious tools we use to create our conceptions of others. Do they speak like me? Do they use words I understand? Are they gentle, abrupt, silly, loud, intelligent, crass or rude?

So maybe it’s not about windows vs. mirrors, maybe it’s about megaphones vs. sounding boards.