I have a new blog now...

Tumblr

2008-05-16T10:51:00.007-04:00

In the spirit of The Purge, I have decided to cease and desist blogspot and carry on with Tumblr...

You can find me here from now on...

The Purge

2008-05-16T10:06:00.002-04:00

In the past month I have purged the following:

My wardrobe

My jackets

My shoe collection

My books

My underwear

My facebook friends (I deleted 103 people - you could be next...)

My filing cabinet

My job

My kitchen cupboard

My DVDs

My CDs

I am now officially anti excess...

Crimes against marketing

2008-04-11T12:50:00.010-04:00

There is something magical about the sales assistants at Singapore’s Changi International Airport. I disembarked from a 13 hour flight, looking (and feeling) a lot like Gary Busey, and stumbled blindly down the corridor contemplating getting my stomach pumped to purge the ‘omelette’ the airline had served me a few hours earlier.

That's hot...

I was jolted out of my jetlagged stupor by 4 teensy weensy Singaporean women shouting at me to buy barbecued pork and thrusting cocktail skewers garnished with flesh in my face. My first mistake was to panic and take one because they then took that as permission to manhandle me into their store:

“Yeeeess yeeees you buy ok?”

“Just one piece ok, only $24.95 per kilo, real cheap for you ok?”

I didn’t know what to do, so I walked awkwardly around the shop feigning interest in their crazy Asian meat products while frantically trying to snap out of Gary Buseyville so I could formulate an escape plan that wouldn’t be culturally offensive. This was made more difficult due to the 4-foot sales brigade, who were force feeding me samples and telling me the price of every single product in the store.

“Prawn string. You buy only $8.99 yeeees ok? Two for $13 ok?”

“Chocolate pork ball. Real nice ok? Only $14. You like? You try? Just one ok?”

Before I had a chance to politely decline, they stuffed more spiced pork into my mouth until I passed out from what I presume was protein poisoning. Later on, as I was regurgitating the aforementioned omelette and small pig, I realised their marketing tactics were about as effective as a promotional poster for the borough of West Lancashire I saw at Manchester airport. It featured a picture of an old man in a suit (who, believe it or not, also looked like Gary Busey) in front of a tired, 80s-style office building with a garish red slogan screaming:

“We’ve got it all in West Lancashire!!”

Pure genius. Note the excruciating use of not one, but two exclamation marks to drive home the full meaning of this inspired (yet wildly inaccurate) strap line. I think this design team may have missed the memo that told the world that the 1950s didn’t really bring much to the marketing table...

nuff said...

How hard can it be for marketing to be classy, intelligent and understated? When I’m pounced on within a nanosecond of entering a store and/or confronted by a tacky promotional poster, it sends me into emotional anaphylactic shock. I guess you could say I’m of the school of ‘leave-me-the-fork-alone-if-or-until-I-ask-for-your-help’ consumer and I apply that attitude to most areas of my life with varying results.

I usually walk into stores, give an awkward grimace to the sales assistant praying it scares them enough to leave me alone, and then spend the first 90 seconds of my visit skulking in a corner not making eye contact with anyone other than shop mannequins. So you can imagine my surprise at a recent visit to Turkey which featured lewd men with beards and body odour shouting at me to come and eat in their restaurants. When I refused each night, they would follow me down the boardwalk loudly offering marriage proposals or better still, the opportunity for ‘sexy’ with them. I’ll take two thanks...

You see, this is why God should invent a Worldwide Marketing Authority to stop these crimes against marketing. I would franchise that thing, send it world wide and drink tequila on a Spanish beach for the rest of my life... Someone has to tell these people that If I want ‘sexy’ I’ll google Sony Bravia... or Gary Busey...

Mummy is funny...

2008-04-01T11:24:00.002-04:00

-----Original Message-----
From: Mary
To: Katie
Subject: Wow

Wow to your phone call last night.

Good news. The new season pears are in the shops just in time for your visit.

Mike is learning to shoot people on the late shift 3.30 to 11.30 pm this week.

Love ya

M

Katie wrote:

My good news is that I found my passport which I thought I lost...

The bad news is that I have lost my plane tickets...

From: Mary [mailto:mary@xxxx.com.au]

Whaaaat???? Ask Jesus to show you where they are.

M

The Betablocker effect...

2008-02-11T10:06:00.002-04:00

Today, in between important tasks like googling my own name and rebranding the company, I could be found deep in thought trying to figure out the answer to this question:

If you had to choose between:

A guy who was 4 foot tall and whose upper arms were as skinny as your wrists, but he was absolutely hilarious and loaded with money and could play music really well.

Or a big fat ranga giant** who was 7 foot tall and weighed 150kg and had a huge curly orange afro and pasty white skin but was equally hilarious and loaded with money and could play music really well.

Or a really, really ridiculously good looking guy who was an asshole and never spoke when he went out with your friends and also had a really strange disgusting odour...

… who would you choose???

(and you HAVE to choose one)

**Ranga = redhead

Lateral thinking has never been a strong point with me and I’m not generally attracted to short, obese or mute men, so why then was I devoting so much brain space to this ludicrous question? Well partly because it was posed by Liv who was clearly experiencing a sugar-rush at the time (which is always hugely entertaining), but mainly because I was under the influence of a little white pill known as a ‘betablocker’.

The DNA of a betablocker

A betablocker by any other name would be called ‘kickass valium’ and was forced upon me by a couple of concerned colleagues to help scrape me off the ceiling after a fairly intense fortnight at work. However, to make this little experiment more interesting, I had taken two codeine tablets about 15 minutes earlier to stave off the feeling that an elephant was break dancing behind my eyes, so we did question the wisdom of taking the betablocker as well. However, Concerned Colleague #2 concluded that if the effects were bad, they would probably be bad in a good way, so in light of that flawless logic I gave it a go.

So mid beta-haze, I decided on the fat ranga (because personality goes a long way), wrote a couple of inspired design briefs and won an argument with a shoddy printing company. Not a bad effort considering I was having difficulty remembering my own name...

My perfect ranga...

However, Liv – upon learning that I had resorted to substance abuse – and being the responsible journalist that she is, delved into the wonderful world of Wikipedia to find the truth about these little white pills. She then sent me this excerpt:

“Beta blockers (sometimes written as β-blockers) are a class of drugs used for various indications, but particularly for the management of cardiac arrhythmias and cardio protection after myocardial infarction. Whilst once first-line treatment for hypertension, their role was downgraded in June 2006 in the United Kingdom to fourth-line as they do not perform as well as other drugs, particularly in the elderly, and there is increasing evidence that the most frequently used beta-blockers especially in combination with thiazide-type diuretics carry an unacceptable risk of provoking type 2 diabetes.”[1]

Her conclusion was that drugs are bad, but I was too busy hallucinating to care.

Homographs...

2008-02-08T09:34:00.000-04:00

Are words that have multiple meanings... They do not relate in any way to close sexual encounters of the third kind. So in line with my commitment to educate the masses, allow me to illustrate a homograph in action...

I work with a whole bunch of Polish guys who speak great English but nuance and innuendo are often a bit lost on them.

So the lovely Jacek (who can generally be relied upon to make complimentary remarks about my shoes and wax lyrical about oysters) decided to contribute to a recent office debate about what we should christen one of our new meeting rooms. People were leaning towards a music theme and were suggesting things like ‘the Bob Dylan suite’ or the ‘Hendrix Room’ and Jacek, clearly not picking up on the direction of the conversation, weighed in with the following suggestion:

“I am thinking we should call the name of the room: The Sweet Little Hole.”

This was met by deafening silence punctuated by a lot of English people suddenly experiencing a compelling need to stare at their shoes... I couldn’t decide which was funnier, Jacek’s confused expression upon seeing everyone else’s expression or everyone else clearly trying to suppress mental images of sweet little holes and succeeding only in looking perverse and/or constipated.

When I asked him to explain this little gem Jacek revealed the following:

“You see it is the English translation of the name of a cafeteria I like eating at in Krakow. I like it. The Sweet Little Hole is nice, it has nice ring to it.”

Er...

When it was explained to him in hilariously careful words what else that could mean, (while everyone else made mental notes never to eat at Polish cafeterias) he simply shrugged and said:

“Well, let’s be honest, sometimes the words, they have two meanings.”

I guess one person’s sweet little hole is another person’s Polish cafeteria.

Potato, poh-tah-toh innit...

Reppin for Manchester (innit)

2008-02-07T12:16:00.000-04:00

I was recently chastised by a friend because she felt my blog was becoming less and less about me and more and more about crap. Which, as far as I’m concerned, is her way of complimenting my literary genius...

However, in an effort to placate her (she is my main source of bangers and mash after all), I allowed her to choose my next blog topic.

Verbatim:

"I want the top five things you love about Manchester on the blog by 5pm. And no, one of them can’t be a person. None of them can be a person."

So here I go. Maya – you know why I’m singing...

1. The winter sunsets of late.

2. The Northern Quarter.

3. The Christmas Markets.

4. Its proximity to the Lake and Peak Districts.

5. The red curry from the unpronounceable Thai restaurant near the Grinch Wine Bar.

Raw Material

2008-02-05T13:38:00.000-04:00

I'm going to kick off a new segment called 'Raw Material'. This will be a verbatim transcript of some of the more random conversations I have in my life because I'm increasingly realising that the sheer volume of crap that comes out of my brain should be shared. Maybe I'll turn this into some amazing hollywood script one day and then this chuffing blog won't be in vain...

WARNING: For some, 'Raw Material' will be a lot like Waiting For Godot...

Here is a random sampler to kick things off...

Meet Sam. He's Sri Lankan (which means he's brown with a pink ass), but you can't tell that from this photo on account of him wearing a polar bear skin...

He is one of my dearest friends and since I've changed hemispheres, he and I have developed a daily MSN ritual, which involves us connecting during my lunch break (which equates to his stupid-o-clock) so we can talk crap for a few minutes each day. It's like verbal junk food - satisfying at the time, sometimes makes you feel a bit sick, but it's never long before you're craving it again...

To fully appreciate the comedy of this discussion, you will need to know the following:

1. Guy Sebastian was the first ever Australian Idol... B-grade celebrity at its best... However for some reason, Sam discovered that his wikipedia site had been cyber-vandalised by people who thought it would be funny to call Guy a 'gaylord' and a 'faggot'. Australian originality at its best.

2. He is not gay (Guy or Sam for that matter)...

3. I once watched a short 44-year-old, slightly overweight man (who bore a remarkable resemblance to Martin Short) do a striptease to Guy's romantic first single - a ballad entitled 'Angels Brought Me Here', at a hen party in 2006. Just one more thing to add to the list of reasons why I should never go to hen parties...

Samuel says:
oi

Katie Eleanor says:
HEY, I'M READING CYANIDE AND HAPPINESS AND ITS CRACKING ME UP... SORRY MY CAPS IS ON...

Samuel says:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guy_Sebastian

Samuel says:
scroll down to his singles.

Samuel says:
I just noticed something odd...

Samuel says:
to say the least.

Katie Eleanor says:
hmmm

Samuel says:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guy_Sebastian#Singles

Katie Eleanor says:
i just noticed something even more odd... you're on Guy Sebastian's wikipedia...

Katie Eleanor says:
what the f***?

Samuel says:
was following links about famous Tamils.

Katie Eleanor says:
Ok, seriously, you should go to bed now...

this post totally blew...

2008-01-12T16:13:00.000-04:00

yeah, so i was embarrassed about that post, so let's all just forget it ever happened eh?

My tribute to Halford's Employee of the Year...

2007-12-21T13:08:00.000-04:00

Following on from previous rants about the collective crapness of English customer service operatives, I think that I experienced the pinnacle of the industry’s evolution when I went to buy a bike the other day.

Accompanied by my friend, Dave, who was acting in an official capacity as chauffeur and resident sound engineer, and unofficially as a pain in the ass, we arrived at Halfords and walked in to see they had a whole range of children’s chopper bikes on sale. Dave (clearly experiencing some kind of cerebral conniption that caused him to behave like a meerkat on speed) then spent 20 minutes trying to convince me to buy one... I left him there pointing out the various attributes of the children's chopper bike and went upstairs to look around.

Basically I saw a bunch of bikes, helmets and Colin...

Artist's impression of Colin.

Young Colin is a proper northern sales assistant who had the broadest accent I’ve ever heard.

For those of you who haven’t been treated to the delights of a northern drawl, they speak very slowly and all their vowels are bizarrely elongated. For example:

“Alllraaaight there loov, would yew laaaaike a coopa or soommet?”

(Hello, how are you? Can I interest you in a cup of tea or some other beverage?)

“Aii laaike chicken and sweetcoooarn bootties me...”

(I like chicken and sweetcorn sandwiches...)

“Doo ee heck want to go to tha cinema”

(No thank you, I would prefer not to go to the movies.)

Now that you understand what I was dealing with (phonetically speaking), you'll be able to fully appreciate my Halford’s experience - which went a little something like this:

K: Hi, I need to buy a bike just to get from A to B, I’m not going to be doing any crazy jumps or whatnot, I just need something that’s not too expensive, but decent quality.

C: Ohh ok then, well to be honest any of these will be fine then. (gesturing to every single bike in the store)

K: Great, it’s just that that one over there costs £99 and that one over there costs £560 so I’m going to need you to be more specific.

C: Well how much d’you want to spend then?

K: Well how much do I need to spend to get a decent, middle of the range bike?

C: Well how much have you got?

K: Um, I just need to know what you would recommend I spend to get a sturdy, decent bike.

C: Oh well it’s up to you really innit. (I'm completely incredulous at the conversation thus far)

K: Yes, yes it is. Would you excuse me for a moment please?

C: Yeah no worries...

So I grabbed Dave who by this stage was giggling like a school girl, and we whispered to each other for a while trying to figure out whether this Colin character was for real. After a while, Dave - still high in meerkat land - started to witter about the bluddy chopper bikes again and was proving to be no help whatsoever with choosing a bike. So being brotherless and fatherless in this crazy country, I realised I had no choice but to regroup and give Halford’s employee of the year another shot...

K: What’s this bike like? (pointing to a red bike priced at £99)

C: Yeah it’s alright (allraaaait)

K: Ok, so compared to the other bikes, how does it measure up?

C: Well there’s loads of better bikes isn’t there.

K: Let me rephrase. Out of the bikes in this price bracket, which is the best quality?

C: Well that one over there’s only £89. (gesturing to a black bike with the phrase 'x-rated' emblazoned down the side)

K: I can see that, but why should I choose the £89 x-rated one over the one over there that costs £99.

C: Well it looks better for one thing.

K: Colin, it says ‘x-rated’ down each side, so we’re going to have to agree to differ on that one. So are there any other outstanding features I should take into consideration?

C: Well, it’s just a better bike innit.

K: Riiight. Ok, can you tell me why it’s a better bike? I need to know what features it’s got that this one hasn’t.

C: Well, it’s just more of a mountain bike style, and it’s better.

Dave is holding on to one of the display stands trying not to fall over from laughter at this point.

K: Ok, so Colin, how long have you worked in the bike industry for?

C: Bout 6 years now.

K: Great, so in your experience, for someone like me, what sort of bike do you recommend I buy.

C: Well it depends how much you want to spend.

K: Oh my giddy aunt. Colin, ok, Iet’s make this easier, I don’t want to spend more than £100. Can you work with that?

C: Yeah, well in that case those two bikes you were talking about before are the only ones really that we’ve got in that price bracket.

K: So out of those two, which one should I get.

C: Well the black one’s cheaper.

K: Yes, but if the quality of an £89 is different to a £99 then I’m happy to spend £10 extra. Do you know what I mean?

C: Oh, well the black one’s a better bike and it’s half price at the moment. It was £190 last week.

K: Ok, then in that case, the x-rated bike will be fine then.

C: Riiight then. Ok, well what size do you need?

K: What size bike do I need? Do I look like the kind of person who knows what size of bike she needs? (I think I'm starting to break out in a rash by this stage but for some reason am pushing on, willing Colin to prove to me that he wasn't a massive horse's ass...)

C: There’s some tape measures on the wall over there, I can measure you up if you like.

K: That would be great, thanks.

Colin proceeds to spend a lot of time lingering around my inner thigh with a tape measure...

C: It says you’re a 76.

K: Ok so what size bike does that equate to then?

C: I don’t know really, it doesn’t matter that much cos you’ll know when you get on the bike if it’s the right size.

K: So I didn’t need to get measured then.

C: No, not really.

K: So maybe I should just sit on the bike and try it out.

C: Yeah ok, if you want to.

So I sit on the freaking bike, starting to feel like I'm stuck in a Samuel Beckett play...

Dave is sitting on the steps now, too weak from laughter to stand...

K: So what do I need to be feeling right now?

C: I dunno really. Does it feel alright?

K: Well, to be honest I don’t spend heaps of time on bikes so I don’t really know. It feels ok. You know what? Who cares, it’ll do.

C: Great, I’ll go see if we have it in stock.

K: You mean you might not have them in stock after all that?

C: Well they're on special so we’re running out.

Colin disappears into the back of the shop for 200 hours, presumably chatting on MSN to his online girlfriend from Bulgaria who has bad breath from eating too much onion goulash hence the need for an internet relationship.

He returns with a plain brown box...

K: Is my bike in there?

C: Yeah.

K: And it’s the same one I just tried out?

C: I think so.

K: Well maybe you could check?

C: Well the box is sealed innit.

K: Yeah, but I don’t want to buy the wrong bike.

C: Well I’m pretty sure it’s the right bike. Just bring it back if it’s the wrong one.

K: Or you could just check it now and save me another trip?

C: Sighs dramatically (oddly, this also sounded northern)

Once we established that it was the right bike. Or so he said, we moved on...

K: Colin, I’m also going to need a chain to lock it up cos I kind of live in the ghetto.

C: Oh yeah? Where in the ghetto?

K: In between Moss Side and Fallowfield

C: Oh, I live in Moss Side.

K: Well, don’t you steal my bike then.

(Dave is paralytic on the floor)

K: So... bike locks, which one is good.

C: Well any of those are ok really. (pointing to 500 different locks)

K: Yeah, but they’re all different, which is the best?

C: Well that one's good.

K: But it’s the size of Jamaica, what else is there that you would recommend that’s a bit smaller.

C: Well how much do you want to spend?

K: How much do I need to spend to get a decent bike lock?

C: It doesn’t really matter, I mean they all lock don’t they.

K: Ok, let’s not do this again Colin. How about this one then?

C: Well this one is better I reckon.

K: Really, why is it better?

C: It just is a stronger lock.

K: So I should get that one then?

C: Well it’s up to you innit.

K: Right, you know what, I’ll just get this one.

C: Actually you probably should get this one. (hands me a different chain)

C: Even a chainsaw can’t cut through this.

K: Right. Information that would have been helpful five minutes ago...

Epilogue:

So £140 worth of bike, chain and mudguard plus one headache later, I got home and realised I didn’t have a helmet or a bike pump and the tyres were flat. Dave, bless his heart, offered to put the bike together for me and managed to put the front forks and wheel on back to front (presumably because of the mind altering meerkat experience) and I couldn’t ride it. Eventually I ended up wheeling it into work one morning and asked one of the builders to take a look so Kimble pulled it apart and put it back together again the right way around and one of our mortgage consultants pumped up the tyres for me. But, the good news was I figured out that I could pull the ‘x-rated’ stickers off the bike all on my own, which means I don't look like some ghetto porn star riding to work each day...

Thanksgiving

2007-11-30T07:29:00.000-04:00

(Part 2)

As I’m sure you’re all aware, the other day was Uncle Sam’s National Day of Thanksgiving. I believe very strongly in the importance of a grateful heart in terms of shaping attitude and actions and generally making the world a better place, so I spent the day refusing to answer the phone to my colleagues until they had prefaced the conversation by telling me three things they were grateful for… This drew mixed reactions, but by the end of the day we all agreed that we have much to be thankful for and despite whatever hurry we’re in, we should communicate these things with our PR and Marketing department…

One of the more entertaining phone conversations went a little something like this:

K: Mushi mushi and a happy thanksgiving to you.

C: Hey, can you quickly look over an email I’ve drafted to Joe Bloggs, I think it needs tweaking and can’t afford for it to be misconstrued. I have to send it before lunch, do you have time?

K: Let me answer your question with another question… What are the three things you’re most grateful for on this Thanksgiving Day?

C: Oh bloody hell Katie, are you being serious?

K: Hey man, don’t hate the playa, hate the game. And let me answer your question with yet another question: out of you and me, who knows where to put commas in sentences?

C: Seriously Hawkes, I’m in a hurry.

K: Then you better hurry up and get grateful my friend otherwise my journalism degree and I are just going to sit here and think about how thankful we are that we have communication skills…

C: **muffled expletive** Ok fine, I’m thankful for my woman, the new Wes Anderson movie and Topgear, now will you help me?

K: Yes indeed, but before we go any further, I want to share with you the things that I am feeling particularly thankful for on this special day.

C: You are such a pain in the ass when you’re in these moods.

K: You love it…

C: Ok, seriously, just forget it.

In case you were wondering, the things I decided I was most grateful for on that particular day were as follows:

1. Custard
2. KCPC
3. Bluetooth (which I discovered for the first time the other day)
4. My current proximity to Europe
5. This little Thai restaurant on King Street which makes a red curry that is so beautiful it honestly leaves me feeling a little emotional…

So this evening, in between me trying (unsuccessfully) to draw Heath and Liv’s attention to the various mind blowing attributes of my new Onitsuka Tigers and explaining to Olivia why she should never say ‘service’ and ‘needs’ in the same sentence, I have been lamenting that the Burdith Bunnies haven’t spent nearly enough time entering into the Thanksgiving spirit. In line with this, I forced Heath and Olivia to belatedly share five things they were grateful for about living in the happy land of Burdith. Their (direct quote) answers are as follows:

Heath:

She may be tapped in the head, but she's my neighbour...

I like living across the road from Katie and Olivia because:

1. You are both interesting and have good things to talk about.
2. I can come and talk to you whenever I want.
3. You’re both really enthusiastic.
4. I like it when you guys sing together.
5. You take me to Lammars with you on Thursday nights which is always fun, although I struggle to keep up with Olivia’s pint pace…

Olivia and Katie:

Our neighbours are so funny they make us wear 3D glasses and go crosseyed...

We like living across the road from Heath, Laura and Cate because:

1. They bring food on a regular basis including quiche, chocolate pudding and broccoli.
2. Heath protects us from the robbers and brings balance to the force.
3. Dance Sunday (which involves low light, wigga music and laura grinding against the mantle)
4. They have a fridge and a washing machine and a constant supply of milk.
5. They are all hilarious. With special kudos going out to Laura for being the single most entertaining individual we have ever encountered…

You will notice that (despite my best efforts) my Onitsuka Tigers have not been mentioned these top 5’s but I’ll forgive Liv and Heath for this because technically I didn’t own them on the National Day of Thanksgiving and also because I’m left handed and know what it is to be marginalized for a deficiency I have no control over…

Onitsuka this…

2007-11-27T04:53:00.000-04:00

(Part 1)

I’m sitting in the living room with Liv and Heath (one of our across the road neighbours) and typing to you while tuning out of their conversation about Manchester United, friends who get married and become annoying and the location of Palestine (?)… Irritatingly, neither of them are paying any attention to my new pair of Onitsuka Tigers which I bought about 2 hours ago after a day of intense research and deliberation with Liv and Claire...

It needs to be said here that Onitsuka Tigers are an investment. To use the immortal words of the RSPCA, ‘they’re not just for Christmas, they’re for life’… So one must go to any length to make the right choice and it’s safest if this is done in collaboration…

Initially I wanted to get this pair of Tigers:

They’re plain, go with everything and are understated… But the entire world seems to have sold out of my size so I can only conclude that there must be a lot of size 7 emo kids kicking around Manchester….

Then I stumbled across this pair:

Which caught my eye due to their cheerful retro Wonder Years feel, but we felt it would have been a bit of a risk to invest in such bold colour and that it might limit wardrobe options… I (stupidly) asked the sales guy what he thought when I tried them on, and in the grand tradition of English customer service operatives, he looked at me like I’d asked him to sacrifice his firstborn, shrugged and said ‘dunno, I mean I fink they look good but it’s up to you innit’.

10 points for stating the obvious my friend… But what you gonna do? Just fix my sink… I love DJ Sneak – he has the answer for everything… Kind of like Jesus, but with more bling…

So moving right along, we discovered this pair, which Liv and I both agreed were the most “racially balanced” pair of Onitsukas and therefore the safest bet. I also realized that the design of these shoes was actually a metaphor for my life in Moss Side given that I am now officially an ethnic minority.

But, there was a late entry into the game, a bit of a dark horse which caught my eye en route to Selfridges to purchase the equal opportunity Tigers. These beauties ended up the breakaway champion. Mainly because they were in a shop about 50m closer to my location at the time, they had my size and I wasn’t in the mood for wanky Selfridges assistants with too much eye liner…

To celebrate, I put them on straight away and wandered around the Manchester Christmas Markets for a while drinking mulled wine on an empty stomach and wondering why I couldn’t string a sentence together… I was supposed to meet some friends but apparently was a bit too mulled to find the right meeting point and waited in the wrong place for 45 minutes not realizing my phone was off, while drinking (more) mulled wine to keep warm. I also spent quite a bit of this time trying to extricate myself from the hilariously accented advances of a 24-year-old Dutch Christmas Tree seller.

I gave up in the end, managed to find a taxi and on the way home, concluded that I probably shouldn’t drink alone under any circumstance and that it’s probably best that I don’t talk to Dutch people while inebriated… The guy actually said ‘fajah’ to me, what was I supposed to do?

I sure do love my Tigers...

The Steinbach Piano Email...

2007-11-14T10:29:00.000-04:00

This is Olivia. She's a good egg...

She happens to share a house with me and NO we are NOT lesbians, even though we spent a weekend in TK Maxx and Marks and Spencer buying linen for the bed that we (had to) share for ONE WEEK ONLY until my new bed was delivered. A disclaimer which Olivia felt the need to explain to every shop assistant we encountered while on this domestic excursion on the off chance they were thinking that two females shopping together on the weekend meant they were raging mega huge brendas...

She also happens to share my love for music, although worringly she has a penchant for a diabolical South Australian hip hop crew called the Hilltop Hoods who would have better served themselves and the self respect of Australia's music industry if they'd stayed packing groceries at the Aberfoyle Hub...

But I digress...

Given that we share a passion for music, Liv has been trying to convince me to buy an upright piano for our new house. I'm well up for this, but given that I've just bought and furnished a house from scratch (yet again on my OWN thanks to my lack of a husband and the ensuing lack of a gift registry) I am not overly keen to spend more money on, ohh lets see... anything at all (with ASDA extra special belgian chocolate chip cookies being the notable exception).

Undeterred by the state of my bank account, my still quivering lip from two trips to Ikea within a week and me chanting 'I never want to buy any-bloody-thing ever again' around the house while ritually burning receipts and cardboard packaging, Liv decided to hop onto good 'ol gumtree.com and find me an upright piano.

The emails started coming through around 5pm yesterday:

'hey check out what I've found on gumtree.com for you!'

Says the annoyingly peppy automated email template, followed by a short blurb about a £250 Steinbach upright that has been 'lovingly cared for over the years, tuned every year, but needs to be tuned because it hasn't been played in a couple of years' (?).

Since then, my Blackberry has been beeping incessantly to let me know I have mail (always an exciting prospect). But each time I leaped across the room in anticipation of hearing from ANYONE from home (you jerks), I was greeted by the same annoyingly peppy email from Olivia-via-Gumtree.com 'hey, check out what I've found for you...' The current tally over the past 24 hours is now at 64 and counting... That's 64 email disappointments friends.

Liv, methinks you don't have Gumtree skills. Methinks you clicked 'send repeatedly ad-nauseum' instead of the button which says 'Katie isn't up for this game and I should quit before she makes me buy another quilt cover with her'.

I'm reminded of those ads that say 'in the time it takes you to watch this, 200 species of Guatemalan guinea pig will become extinct', well in the time it's taken you to read this blog, this farking email from Olivia-via-Gumtree-'hey look what I've found for you'-.-com will have accosted my email inbox at least 3 times...

**UPDATE: tally now at 187 emails within 48 hours**

Wikipedia of my clan...

2007-11-13T10:24:00.000-04:00

If I write this now, then it will save you playing 'get to know you' games around the dining table the next time you find yourself at Chez Chesney... We'll start with Dad because he's about a 9 on the entertainment scale...

(My Dad... is the thinner one)

Dr Nicholas John (Bsc, Ma Sc BAS Sc Hons Th Dip Sc Theo etc)**

Born: 04/05/1953

Gender: Male (so far as we know)

Religion: Rock ‘n roll

Political affiliation: Swinger

Favourite colour: Blue

Useful information:
A highly intelligent man with many important letters after his name, he has been found trying to switch the television on with the cordless phone on more than one occasion and once cut his finger off while using a band saw, wrapped it up in a hankie and carried on sawing before cutting off the same finger on his opposite hand in exactly the same way a few minutes later.

A Doctor of science and theology and the Pastor of a Christian Community named after a gate and a river, Nick divides his days between counselling people, enjoying lattes and pasta carbonara at local cafes and sitting in front of his computer on his 20-year-old office posture care chair (which he has upholstered himself many times) writing sermons, bible studies, training programs, articles, books, theses and short emails to his daughter asking her to email him.

Often opens conversations with “hallo sausage, how’s the state of your heart? How's morale?” and before you can answer, begins to monologue about whatever is on his mind at the time. This varies between being highly entertaining and immensely irritating. Never one to flow in the mainstream, Nick resolutely refuses to acknowledge that sneakers, jeans, a denim shirt, red braces and a spotted cravat along with his bottle green waistcoat that he’s owned since boarding at the Kings School Rochester in Kent, UK in 1968 is not a good look.

But don’t be fooled by his antifashion and lack of technological know-how, Nick can create stunningly beautiful handcrafted furniture, and is also a skilled artist, pilot, athlete, sailor, stonemason, architect, author, handyman, scientist and knows all the tenor and bass lines to the Christmas carols his daughter and nieces enjoy singing around the piano during the season to be jolly. He is the quintessential ‘all rounder’.

Not known for his ‘cultural relevance’, Nick oozes the vibe of English college professor and if he’s honest, wishes he could be Hugh Grant’s character in Sense and Sensibility...

"Wouldn't it be great if I could dress and act like this ALL the time?"

Fortunately for Nick, 60 - 80 per cent of the time this is endearing and his idiosyncrasies provide a huge amount of fodder for practical jokes, impersonations and entertaining conversations had by his children and his children’s friends...

He is one half of a set of twin boys, his brother Timothy (older than Nick by 4 minutes) is his most important relationship outside of his marriage to Mary (older than Nick by 8 months – controversial? You be the judge). His connection with Tim is as beautiful as it is inspiring and the likeness between them has been a novelty which he has enjoyed exploiting since puberty... However, Uncle Tim drinks more red and eats more cheese and has a slower metabolism than Dad so the years have not been as kind, which is making them easier to tell apart...

Nick is one of the few people in the world who can simultaneously inspire people to laugh at him for inability to perform basic tasks and his bizarre obsession with Microsoft powerpoint and the times new roman font while simultaneously revering him for his passion, intelligence and wisdom...

He’s my Dad, I’m proud of him, often entertained by him, hugely exasperated by him but he’s undeniably brilliant, undeniably lovely and is undeniably what the French call ‘un bon oeuf’.

**Letters may or may not be accurate because I don’t actually know what they are off the top of my head – I only know that there are a lot of them because he has about 500 degrees.

renaming my blog...

2007-11-13T07:52:00.000-04:00

I feel the need to christen my blog with a name that more accurately reflects my comedic genius (ha!)... so the interim name 'the million dollar question' is kind of a lameass way (which probably accurately reflects my comedic genuis) of opening up the floor to suggestions...

So suggest away...

Technologically disabled

2007-11-08T09:39:00.000-04:00

that's what I am... no shame in that... just practicing uploading images. I feel like inserting one here:

src="http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=624759&l=f91a7&id=699345341

lets see if it worked...

it really didn't... hmmm.... okay, time to call in the calvary... My godbrother Patrick sent me the following email which I actually think may have been more useful to me if it were written in Hindi... Thanks Patch, you're the shiz...

PATRICK'S EMAIL:
On your edit posting page there's a tab up the top saying Edit Html. normally you're in the "Compose" tab. The Compose tag is a nice user-friendly way of editing what you're posting. The Edit html is exactly the same thing, but you're viewing it in less user-friendly computer jargon.

Once your photo is uploaded, click on the Edit Html tab. Because the photo always loads up the top of the posting, the first chunk of complex looking html code will look something like this:

href=">http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_hI/RzduKbkK2RI/AAAAAAAAANY/lbMW4ubwwlU/s1600-h/NAME OF PHOTO FILE HERE .gif style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_h-_x0ZM5XMI/RzduKbkK2RI/AAAAAAAAANY/lbMW4ubwwlU/s320/NAME OF PHOTO FILE HERE.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5131691425889179922" border="0" />

That's the code which represents your photo. It's usually sitting on it's own with a space before the next bunch of code so you can tell it apart. It will begin with a tag and at the end . So you gotta copy and paste this code into the part of the posting where you want it. Your challenge will be to discern the spot in the code where you want it.

In the html you can still read all your text, it's just surrounded by the occasional bit of code in < > brackets. If you just want to drop the photo in between paragraphs then you should be able to clearly pick in the html code where those paragraphs are. Once you've pasted the code into that spot, you can go back to COMPOSE mode and tidy it all up the user-friendly way. Don't forget to delete the original photo at the top of the posting!

Hope you got all that. I haven't yet found any other way of moving photos around. If you do, let me know.

An open letter to my fat cells:

2007-10-17T09:56:00.000-04:00

Let’s get one thing straight. You suck.

There is nothing about you that I like, enjoy or value...

What I find particularly amazing is the fact that it doesn’t seem to matter whether I starve you or feed you, you do whatever the hell you feel like, with no regard for anything I’m trying to achieve in terms of your placement, shape, size or attitude.

Yeah, that’s right. You have a bad freaking attitude.

So I joined the gym. Oh yeah baby, I took my life in my hands and joined the chuffing Moss Side Leisure Centre in order to sweat you out, despite the proliferation of muscle-bound gang members with scary tattoos who use the weights room to settle scores with each other. But you jerks appear to be impervious to that too. And by ‘that’, I mean the cocktail of adrenaline (caused by fear of death by gang member) and an elevated heart rate for prolonged periods of time (caused by the hill program on the X-trainer) and presumably, you just sit back, sipping on mojitos while luxuriating somewhere in my inner thighs...

So thanks to you ignoring all my attempts to purge you, what I am currently faced with is constant gnawing hunger, tiredness from flogging myself on the treadmill and X-trainer every night after work and severe emotional trauma. Because instead of packing up your sun loungers and heading back to the beach house, you all seem to be involved in some kind of greasy fat cell orgy which is causing you to reproduce at a rate that makes most rabbit breeds sit up and say ‘respect innit’.

Don’t get me wrong, I know that medically speaking I do require some of you, keyword ‘some’, but I get the feeling you may have missed that memo... What I’m trying to say, is that when I find out which one of you jerks decided it was going to be ok for you to invite all your friends to party with you while I was sojourning in sunny England, there will be trouble.

Until such time as I receive a satisfactory response, I will continue to have fruit for breakfast, steamed cabbage and leek for lunch and a protein shake for dinner (unless I’m out at a restaurant in which case theses guidelines no longer apply).

To be perfectly frank, I don’t care if you think Nigella is a hotbox and I don’t care if you don’t enjoy English cooking, I WANT YOU OUT OF MY ASS...

Love Katie.

Katie's Rocktober update... (dedicated to Liz Ballinger)

2007-10-17T09:15:00.000-04:00

Musings from today...

English customer service:

I don’t really know why there are so many people in the UK who clearly hate other people and yet choose to work in jobs that require them to relate effectively to others in a manner that should, in theory, encourage good will... Have I missed something??

Gender ambiguity:

The amount of times over the past 6 months I’ve done a double take because I couldn’t tell if someone was a man or a woman is ridiculous. I would appreciate some clearer direction and/or an explanation as to why these people have chosen to present so many people (well, mainly me) with potentially embarrassing situations if it ever came to pass that someone needed to ascertain their gender without asking... Sort it out...

Saving the world:

I’ve decided that the best way we can sort out our landfill and hard rubbish issues as a planet is to put all the crap that we produce/waste into huge steel containers and then attach rockets to them and propel them into space to orbit out in the back of beyond around Pluto way... Then it won’t hurt anyone, it won’t leak, it won’t be an environmental hazard and with any luck will get sucked into a black hole and we never hear from it again...

Church:

I chuffing miss corporate worship, but dread the thought of getting involved in a congregation again... Thinking about giving Ivy Cottage a whirl every now and again...

Olivia:

Is coming to live with me in about 10 days. This is excellent news.

Nikki:

Is also coming to live with me in about 3 weeks. This is also excellent news.

1 Burdith Avenue:

Will soon be mine... BWAHAHAHA... Trying to negotiate with the current owners to get access prior to settlement to enable me to house Olivia and also to get some renovation works done...

26:

Is what I’ll be turning on Friday the 19th of October (A.K.A. ‘Rocktober’ for those of you playing at home). Feeling pretty good about that...

Naples, Italy:

Is where I will be this time next week... Actually, to be honest I’ll be on the Amalfi Coast this time next week, but will be in Naples soon after that...

Tired:

Is how I am right now. This could be something to do with the fact that I haven’t been sleeping very well and have been running between 8 – 10km every night at the gym in what has so far been a vain attempt to lose the stone I’ve put on since coming to this devoid-of-customer-service-country...

Alicia Jane Hawkes:

My gorgeous cousin (one of) is arriving in Manchester on Boxing Day for a visit.

Homesick:

Is what I’ve been quite a bit lately, but I’m learning to place it a lot better. I’m pretty confident that when Liv (who is Australian and a brilliant friend) comes to live here, it will help me. There’s something about being around Australians that makes me feel more settled no matter where I am...

Hayward, Penny and Sally:

Are birds who have provided much entertainment and fun for me over the past few weeks. Big hugs for them.

My brother:

Is now a cop. With a gun and everything.

Rollerblading:

Is an activity I wish I was good at...

CURBSIDE IN A BLIZZARD

2007-09-04T05:53:00.000-04:00

(**this is something I wrote back in March, but enjoyed re-reading it.**)

Picture me wearing nothing but jeans and a long sleeve t-shirt, wearing little slip-on shoes by the side of the road somewhere in the West Highlands of Scotland.

Now picture me in exactly the same scenario, but add in a blizzard featuring 180kmph wind gusts and zero visability.The snow storm was so intense I couldn't see further than about 6ft in front of me, I have no phone, no money and no idea where I am.

Fortunately, I am not alone in this scenario and am standing alongside two other bewildered and slightly pissed off people named Tony and Pippa . Neither of them had jackets or phones and were also knee deep in snow and having trouble seeing their hand in front of their face.

We were victims of a long-standing game invented by Caleb and co which involves one or more in a group of people conspiring to ditch their fellow passengers on a car trip of any description and leave them to find their own way home. One notable instance involved Caleb being dumped in the South of France while paying for petrol and being forced to make his own way to Calais to catch the ferry back to England.

To set the scene a little more for you, myself, Caleb, Claire and Tony and Pippa had set off on Friday for a weekend of skiing and snowboarding at Aviemore in Scotland. Very exciting. We arrived there only to be told that they had just shut all the lifts because of high winds and blizzard conditions.

Caleb said what he was feeling about being told we couldn't ski must be what people who haven't had sex in a while feel like. You know, kind of angsty and frustrated but still excited about the prospect of doing whatever and hopeful about the future which would probably involve doing you know...whatever...

So, in line with this change in our circumstances, we were left to amuse ourselves with other Scottish activities including snowball fights, building snowmen, playing cards, hanging out in Scottish pubs and mountain cafes, watching the rugby union 6-nations final with a group of drunk Scotsmen (and burlesque women with broad backs) and that sort of thing.

We also stupidly went for a hike on the lower part of the mountain and had a grand time trying not to get blown over by the wind. I have a extremely painful bruise on my chin and a twisted knee to show for that little endeavour.

When it came time for us to drive back to Manchester, we were told that all the roads had been closed for safety reasons and we were advised that all travel should be deferred until the weather conditions cleared.

Personally, I was very much up for waiting until the storm had cleared before driving six hours on a UK motorway during a blizzard, but I was the only one in the party to think along these lines. Possibly, because I am Australian and the effects of brain freeze from the icelandic British weather haven't yet taken serious hold on me.

So we set out to drive back on less travelled roads. I especially liked the parts of this drive where the car would start sliding over to the wrong side of the road on ice or sludge and you just had to hope that no-one was coming the other way. I also liked it when the snow would fall harder and faster than the windscreen wipers could get rid of it.

But my absolute favourite part was when we realised that we were about to run out of petrol and had a matter of minutes to get to a petrol station before we got stranded in a snow storm in the middle of nowhere. Fortunately, we had a little device called a SAT NAV (satellite navigator) in the car and it was able to navigate us to the nearest petrol station, which mercifully, was only three minutes away.

As well as re-fuelling, I needed to pee, Pippa wanted treats and Tony was being gentlemanly and paying for petrol, so we all ran inside to sort ourselves out and I can only deduce that Claire and Caleb drove away somewhere between Tony punching in his pin number and me flushing the loo.

We three just stood there, slightly bewildered at what had happened. Naieve lil fools... After few minutes, the petrol station guy came out having noticed us standing outside like frikkin idiots and yelled at us for being so stupid.

Eventually, he went back inside and we stupidly waited outside just in case the car came back for a mercy run (where they slow down and you have to chase the car and get in it while it's moving slowly).

The petrol station guy came out again about 10 minutes later and told us we should get out "daft asses" over to the pub across the road before we froze to death. We couldn't even see the bloody pub because of the snow, so we were very grateful for this news.

So for the next two hours we sat by a fire in this pub, and the staff (who were lovely Australians) took pity on us and gave us some thai curry and fairtrade hot chocolate (which is the kind that doesn't expoloit african bean growers but tastes like crap) and lent us a mobile phone so we could call Claire and Caleb and broker a deal that would enable us to get home safely, in the warm and in the same car as them.

Vengeance is mine...

A crappy day...

2007-08-22T07:27:00.000-04:00

The past 24 hours have been rubbish.

Major highlights included running over a hedgehog and killing it, reversing my hire car into a freaking pole and severe lack of sleep.

Add in to the mix a few pretty emotional moments over relational stuff and you've got what the French call "a crappy day".

Good times had by all.

DRYER DRAMAS

2007-08-07T12:19:00.001-04:00

I was late for work this morning. Not because I wanted to stick it to the man, or because I couldn’t decide which pair of Italian stillettos to wear. It was because I had no underwear.

Yes, you heard me. No jocks. No knickers. No spanky pants.

Those of you who know me, or who have rifled through my drawers at any stage, will know that I am the proud owner of 53 pairs of jocks. These range from practical cotton briefs, through to, actually I don’t particularly want to finish that thought in case my father ever reads this – which he will. Hi Dad...

So this begs the question: how can a girl blessed with such a bountiful supply of undergarments find herself stranded in the kitchen at 8:55am on a Tuesday morning clad in nought but a fluffy purple dressing gown hissing expletives at a grey machine under the sink.

I’ll tell you why. Because English washing machine manufacturers are a bunch of fascist Nazis who hate the human race.

If you think I’m joking then you try to figure out how to open the chuffing door of the washer/dryer in Caleb’s kitchen after the drying cycle is supposedly finished.

There’s nothing quite like having to send an sms to your General Manager and explain that the reason you were going to be late was because you couldn’t figure out how to extract your g-bangers from the Whirpool washer/dryer 4000 deluxe.

I have no qualms about saying that this entire situation could have been avoided if Caleb wasn’t such an eco-friendly hippy. Honestly, he and my mother should start a Facebook group. So really, it was his fault I was late for work. Perhaps I should have included that in my sms to the GM.

You see, at number 57 Broadfield Road, we try to do our bit to save the dolphins by not using the dryer as it chews through a whole bunch of electricity which in turns chews through a whole chunk of the ozone layer. But due to the inordinate amount of sunshine that living in Manchester affords, drying washing outside is a complete joke. So I had opted instead for draping my freshly washed apparel around the house on various chairs, radiators and the staircase to dry. Which wasn’t to the liking of Mr Save-The-Ozone-But-Offer-No-Viable-Alternative-For-Drying-Jocks-Storkey.

So with no dryer for use, no outside washing line (which would have been completely redundant anyway) and no green light for drapage-around-the-house-drying, I was pretty much buggered - in the Australian sense of the word.

Hence the reason I had worked my way through 53 pairs of jocks and had done no washing for close to six weeks. I knew there was a divinely inspired reason why I own so many clothes...

So in desperation, I came to a sneaky agreement with our lovely housekeeper that I could use the dryer solely for the purpose of drying my “delicates”.

So that’s how I ended up pulling, yanking, banging, prising and swearing at the door of the Whirlpool washer/dryer 4000 deluxe (by “deluxe” I assume they meant "piece of crap") for a cool 45 minutes. See I'm not a native to the world of washer/dryers. In Australia, we have things like fresh air and sunshine and top loaders so my skills with this particular household appliance are still being honed.

But throw me a bone people, the drying cycle was finished. The power was on, the door said it was “unlocked”, and I can only assume that because so much of the word “unlocked” actually reads “locked”, then that’s what the engineering twats who designed it meant to say. The instruction manual offered no assistance, although it did tell me (in four different languages) about an exciting new range of Persil washing tablets designed specifically for the Whirlpool Piece of Crap 4000.

I ended up turning all the power to the house off and on again and that managed to sort out the machine’s anaphylactic shock.

Why not freebag I hear you say? I’ll tell you why not. Because freebagging, freeballing, going commando and/or shooting the breeze is for grimy, unhygienic perverts who really ought to know better (Mike – I’m talking to you).

So to safeguard against future unfortunate incidence like these – which are the kind that wind up with me getting heckled during morning staff meetings when I’m trying my best to sound professional and not at all like the sort of person who can’t figure out how to open the dryer and/or who doesn’t do any washing for up to six weeks – I went out and bought 12 more pairs which I have stashed away just in case the dryer decides to eat my Elle McPherson Intimates again...

FOUR EMOTIONS IN ONE DAY...

2007-07-31T19:48:00.000-04:00

DISCLAIMER: I have moved away from my shallow, exaggerated lyrical nonsense for the past couple of blogs. Special apologies to my godbrother - I will be back to trying my very best to top your witty prose just as soon as I've got this off my chest...

It’s been a tumultuous year so far. I’ve moved to the other side of the world, changed jobs three times, moved in with my friend Caleb who is also my new boss, left my family and friends and have had to build an entirely new life in a different cultural setting.

Emotionally I’ve been like a yoyo since I’ve been here. On some days I can experience total elation and within hours be anxious and teary, other days I'm totally fine, it varies from day to day and week to week.

I was chatting to a friend today who has just moved to America to be with his fiancée and he was saying how crazy it feels to be filed with excitement and anticipation at all the possibilities ahead of him, but at the same time completely frightened and uncertain. It’s a rush, but an exhausting one! I can totally relate.

Some days I catch myself wherever I am, be it in a café or walking down the high street, and I realize I’m in Manchester and am overcome with awe and excitement. Other days I feel so homesick I find it hard to breathe.

Mostly I miss my family and close friends, other times it’s the way the air smells or how the food tastes. It’s really strange looking into the night sky over here and not recognizing the stars. I miss the Southern Cross and the sound of the cockatoos and cicadas at dusk.

Sometimes I just crave the taste of a summer mango, other days all I want is to be at Henley Beach reading a book or to hear mum and dad chatting in the back garden over a cup of jasmine tea. I sometimes daydream about making wood oven pizza’s in the Raimondo’s backyard or sitting with Laura in the paddock while the sun sets. I miss singing with Stu and Char and playing basketball with Carl, listening to tunes with Wilko, talking crap with Sam, having lunch with Nikki and lounging by the pool at Yat’s.

But I know it’s not what I need right now.

I’m coming to realize that although home is a beautiful and important place, it can sometimes be the worst thing for you. It can hold you back from growing and the newness that is waiting to be drawn out of you.

There’s something incredibly profound in simple things like not knowing where the post office is or how to get to the bus stop. It represents so much more than that and the process of finding out and learning how to thrive in a new city, strengthens, sharpens and wakes you up in a really brutal but beautiful way.

At times its exhausting, other times it’s exhilarating, but I know that if I were safe at home with my family and old friends I wouldn’t be doing any of the growing I’m doing here in England.

2007-07-31T19:18:00.000-04:00

MASTERING THE MOTORWAY

2007-07-31T04:50:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I was appointed as the designated driver for a business trip to Newcastle in the far north of England - about three hours away. This trip involved driving on the A1 which is a major motorway to the north.

For those of you who haven't had the pleasure of driving on an English motorway, it's essentially three lanes across - a slow lane, normal lane and an overtaking lane. On a good day they're gridlocked with trucks and service vehicles all pelting down the road at ludicrous speed and it's truly terrifying. On a bad day it can only be described as Satan's playground.This day was akin to the latter.

Now being the naieve and stupidly gullible girl that I am, I just assumed that when Caleb said that I could go as fast as I wanted on the motorway like you can in Germany, that he was, oh I don't know... TELLING THE TRUTH. He wasn't.

So I'm barrelling down the motorway at 110 miles per hour (180kms) weaving in and out of traffic feeling so tense I thought I might start hallucinating. To make this experience more sadistically entertaining, English drivers don't indicate, they just flash their lights at each other when they want to overtake, which I had no idea about. So there's me thinking that I've got my high beams on (in the purest sense) and am totally freaked out the entire time as cars zig-zagged aggressively around me in an apparent competition to see who could make the little Australian girl soil herself first.

Just to reiterate that point again, I had zero idea or warning of when people were going to cut across into my lane or move out of my lane so this rendered checking my blindspot fairly redundant. Not only that, but everyone wants to overtake everyone and will cut you off at any stage, regardless of what speed you're travelling at.

Now I'm literally driving at 180kmph because we're running late for the meeting, having a mental coronary due to images of fatal car crashes flashing through my brain and quietly wanting to stab Caleb who is calmly listening to Eva Cassidy and emailing people on his blackberry...

On the way home (11pm at night) after being in back-to-back meetings for eight hours and then force fed a bunch of frikkin vegetarian tapas I had to do the whole drive again. So it was much the same scenario, minus the vision that natural sunlight affords.

So again I find myself streaking down the A1 at 100mph (160kmph), hardly able to see three feet in front of me because the hire car headlights are badly adjusted, sandwiched in between forty million trucks who don't indicate at any stage while playing slalom with each other down the motorway all the while with Caleb telling me that my driving was making him nervous just to piss me off.

As we're entering Manchester after two hours of high speed hell that hadn't involved more than about five minutes below 100mph, Caleb casually remarked that you instantly lose your license if you're busted going at 100mph or more. This was after we had drivent through countless speed cameras and passed two police patrol cars.

Due to the lack of objects to throw at his head (having exhausted my supply on the way up to Newcastle) I just said: "I hate you" and as punishment I turned up the heating in the car so that I was pleasantly warm and Caleb sweltered because of his weird English internal temperature that can happily survive in this retarded icelandic climate.

It was an experience that I never ever, under any circumstance want to repeat. I'm sure one day I may look back on this and laugh, but right now I just want to kick every truck driver, courier van and english person named Caleb in the nuts...

SPRECKENZEE DE SAME LINGEDEE

2007-07-17T12:41:00.000-04:00

Manchester lingo is quite amusing. The amount of times in the past 48 hours I've had to ask people to repeat themselves and then try not to sound like a total douchebag as I ask them to further explain themselves is bordering on ridiculous.

At about 2am last night I was driving back from Southampton and we pulled into a "Motorway Services" which, in Aussie lingedee translates to "highway servo" but offering a slightly more exciting range of food and sunglasses.

The toilets though smelt like rancid donkey vomit and I think it's largely to do with the incredible number of English people who eat curry on a religious basis.

And when I say religious basis, I mean the fanatical right wing muslim type religious basis, not the kind of fluffy, feel good, oops I did it again, thank Christ for the crucifixion so I won't go to hell, maybe I'll get into church or proactive Christianity if Sunday sport doesn't interfere kind of religion… But I digress.

I think it's important to point out here that we were buying honey roasted nuts and a kooks cd when I spied the biggest block of aero chocolate I had ever seen.

As it was a childhood favourite of mine I was quite vocal when I discovered this laying idly next to the cash register.

In response to my exclamations of joy and pleasant surprise, the servo assistant guy (and yes, it seems that late night service station attendants across the globe are pale, chubby and tall with greasy brown hair and pimples) said to me:

"wull if err un erro bar be worf doppin a coop as be aff prie dunna ninny nin pee"

Possibly due to extreme tiredness and possibly due to the cold, and possibly due to the donkey vomit bathroom I'd just emerged from I started to laugh uncontrollably to the point where I had to brace myself against the counter with both hands to stop myself falling over.

Caleb explained to the guy that I was jetlagged, Australian and a bit simple and that seemed to make rather too much sense to him.

After I collected myself fourteen hours later, I asked him to repeat what he said (in what I later discovered was a thick Birmingham accent) and it turned out to be:

"Well if you want an aero bar here it would be worth buying a couple as they're half price at the moment down to 99 pence.

"I didn't buy any.

Other interesting colloquialisms I've come across so far are as follows:

Beasting – when someone has a go at you
Naff – embarrassingly cliché
Nipper – small child
Blagging – bluffing your way through
Eyuppa – hello, how are you?
Well good – really good. Can also be used for just about anything – eg: well nice, well cool, well cold, well hot, well fun
Nosh – food
Pudding – dessert.

In response, I have been rolling out my own little Katie vocabulary to try and mix it up a bit.

I'm starting small and using just some of my old favourites to break the Mancunians in:
Bum-in-your-hand – meaning don't get your knickers in a twist
Oojie – term of endearment
Slept sexual – shagged
Neu – term of endearment. Can also be used to communicate sympathy.
Wowserstrousers – gee that's unusual or gee that's surprising
Dzshyme – gym
Bugger – meaning darn. This one hasn't gone down so well because the poms can't seem to separate it from a mental image of sodomy.
Eyuppa outta here. Now we can sprekenzee de same lingedee…

BRASS BANDS AND JET LAG

2007-07-17T12:37:00.000-04:00

I'm staying with eccentric but entertaining friends for the next few days while I recover from jet lag and whatnot.

For those of you who may not have been jet lagged in the past or who do not need as much sleep as me, it is horrendous. You don't have control of anything, you can hardly stand up and its impossible to concentrate.

But the trick is to keep awake until its a normal hour to sleep in the country you're in, which is a challenge when you've been awake for close to 40 hours.

So my friends thought the best thing they could do for me to keep me awake until a normal hour on the day I arrived back in England was to take me to a music concert.

Excellent, I love concerts. I had been for a walk in the day and was travelling quite well considering I had spent the past 28 hours sitting next to a lovely but gargantuan Mancunian woman named Rosemary who took up all of her seat and most of mine.

So off we go, dolled up and feeling a little bit spaced out (me because I was and them because they are) and drive over to a little village church where the concert was playing.

I started to fade on the drive over and upon stumbling thru the church door realised to my horror that the band we were about to see was the famous Leyland band. A.K.A a 50 piece brass band.

Sorry, scrap that, it was a 50 piece brass band performing in a stone church to five hundred pensioners and me. Again I was wedged in between a fat woman and a very broad man who appeared to have some sort of skin condition and scratched incessantly leaving little flakes of skin everywhere.

But this was quickly forgotten when the band started and my fuzzy head was assaulted by honking, clanging, flatulent brass music that reverberated around the entire building and made my teeth ache.

I suddenly stopped caring that I had a stranger's skin all over my new jacket and shoes and just wanted to stab the conductor in the eye with his little stick. I was so tired I wanted to cry and almost started when they played their first Disney overture.

Mercifully by the end of the first act I had fallen asleep on the fat lady's shoulder and my friends took me home. The next day I was feeling better. Still phenomenally tired but entirely encouraged by the fact that there were no brass bands on the horizon.

KATIE GOES SPEED DATING

2007-07-17T12:36:00.001-04:00

Meet Tony. He's in his mid to late thirties. He has a blunt cut hairstyle that makes him look like a 1950s German school teacher and is wearing chinos and a tacky business shirt. He is plain but severe looking.

Tony's interpersonal skills are not excellent – in fact, they are non existent.

Our three minute "date" started off as per normal.

"Hello Tony, how are you?" I said, wondering if he was in any way related to the Hitlers. I then entertained myself by squinting my eyes and imagining him with a little black moustache.

No answer. He's too busy pulling his chair in closer to mine so that our knees were interlocking and with zero attempt at subtlety looking me up and down. Presumably I meet with his approval and so he leans in even further with his pen poised over his speed dating score card and says:

"So where you from then?"

For those of you who have not done any Christian speed dating before, most conversations start off very friendly and with polite laughter at lame jokes about how of course neither of us has ever done anything like this before ha ha ha cringe. What they don't involve is perfunctory (A.K.A rude) interrogation style questioning that would make a shy or nervous person want to jump out the nearest window.

Fortunately I was neither shy nor nervous and thought he was a bit of a dick, so I humored him.

"I live in Manchester," I reply.

"Right," he says, and ticks the 'NO' box with a flourish right in front of my face. "I'm not interested in long distance relationships," and promptly leans back and asks me disinterested business-related questions for the remainder of our time together.

I wanted to beat him to death with my stiletto heels because if he had spoken to me like that, I'm sure there were other girls in the room with far more romantic hope vested in their three minutes with him with far less self confidence who would have been crushed by his arrogance and tactlessness.

So on my card I wrote "jerk" with an even bigger flourish and hoped he saw it.

Other favourite "dates" included a 40-year-old West Indian postman.

"But really I'm a romantic musician. I mainly write love songs. I could write one for you."

"That's sweet, but no thanks."

And upon learning I was Australian.

"So you go to Hillsong Church then?"

"No, I live in Manchester."

"Ohhh, so do you know Darlene Zschech?"

"Sadly, no."

"You know there's a Hillsong in London now. Do you go there?"

"No, because I live in Manchester."

"I've been there a few times myself. Hillsong Church. The one in London. Have you ever gone there?"

"No."

"I've been there a few times, do you know where it is?"

"In London."

"Yeah in London. I've been there a few times."

Quite possibly the longest three minutes of my life.

It might be worth me unpacking a little of the history behind why me and my friend Cate had decided to go Christian speed dating at the Christian Resources Exhibition in Surrey.

We were there exhibiting wares for our work and one morning, while walking to our stall we passed a display stand with a sign that screamed:

IS THERE SOMEONE MISSING IN YOUR LIFE?

Next to the sign was a double bed mounted on the wall with a crudely dressed dummy tucked into one side of the bed while the other side was empty.
Next to that was a sign that said:

HOPING, SEEKING, LONGING

For a couple of minutes Cate and I just stood there incredulous at what we were beholding. The marketing ploy was effective. Crude but effective - shamelessly designed to make any single person walking past that stall feel completely rubbish about the fact that they weren't sharing their bed with a crash test dummy.

Incredulity quickly gave way to hilarity and we laughed and laughed and laughed and while giddy with endorphins I said "come on we have to do this, it will be so funny, it will be such a good story to tell, let's do it."

To which Cate flatly said no.

But after 36 hours of wheedling and cajoling and promises of laughter and fame among our friends for subjecting ourselves to such an unnatural, contrived and pathetic experience she finally agreed to go with me.

So we signed up hoping to the dear Lord that no one saw us doing it but feeling as though every male in the place had somehow zoomed in on us paying 10 pounds to find true love.

Of course there were women clambering all over each other to sign up and no men in sight – which was a very promising sign, but we forged ahead anyway.

You sit in a room and the guys move from girl to girl every three minutes having get-to-know-you chats and hoping that romantic fireworks will explode.

While there wasn't even a spark for Cate and me, it's only fair to say that most of the guys were lovely, well intentioned albeit slightly gooby but very pleasant people who were very sincerely looking for love.

What was amazing was that so many of the guys had come to the Christian Resources Exhibition specifically to go speed dating. But what shocked me more was how many of them freely admitted that was the sole reason they had come. As if I wouldn't think it was completely sad that they had traveled two or three hours from wherever they lived to go to the CRE in order to do speed dating.

Having said that, they were probably thinking the same about me…