As we descended towards the runway, I felt like a Japanese tourist who had never seen wide open, empty space before. I was fascinated, mesmerised even, by the beauty of the flat, grassy paddocks that lined the runway. I felt compelled to get off the plane and race over to the green and brown plains. I wanted to roll around in the lush, green grass like I did as a child. I was overwhelmed by a desire to take my shoes off and feel the cool, soft greenery beneath my feet.

The fasten seatbelt sign, which was still lit, fortunately brought me out of my slightly manic, 24-hour flight-induced state, so I could exit the plane like a normal person.

But while the urge to make snow angels in the grass subsided, not even the queues at immigration, baggage collection and customs could wipe the happy-as-a-pig-in-mud smile from my face.

After a week had passed, I’d well and truly left my inner-tourist behind and felt more like Darryl.

For the first time ever, I embraced the peace and quiet of Albury-Wodonga, the self-proclaimed ‘regional city’ on the NSW-Victorian border where my family lives.

Each morning I jumped out of bed, flung open the curtains and the window and thought to myself, ‘How’s the serenity?’ Waking up to the smell of gum trees and freshly mowed grass and the sound of kookaburras is truly refreshing and exhilarating when you have been away for so long. And it’s a far cry from the sirens, planes, buses and pollution that I woke up to in London for the best part of two years.

Sure enough though, it’s only a matter of time before you begin to miss London and its hectic lifestyle, and be longing for a new adventure. But in that precious time back at home, embrace your ‘newly discovered country’ loving ways.

Seeing the beauty of Australia through the eyes of a tourist, or the naivety and innocence of a Darryl Kerrigan, is just one of the many great lessons you learn from living overseas.

The post Hitting home: How’s the serenity in Australia? appeared first on Australian Times News.

Behind finding a job and surviving the ghastly winters, searching for a roof over my head was my third most-hated London pastime. If you have ever rented a bedroom or, God forbid, just a share of a bedroom(!), you know exactly what I’m talking about.

There’s plenty to hate about the process. I just can’t decide what part of it exhausted me the most. There’s the hours you have to spend trawling through thousands of ads on Gumtree and the like. Then, once you’ve found a place that a) won’t break the bank, b) isn’t a hoax and c) doesn’t ask for sexual favours in lieu of rent payments, the emailing/calling/texting process begins.

Also see: The Aussie expat who shipped himself home from London in a crate

Even at that early stage, lunch breaks and evenings are wasted as you fire out emails and texts. Sadly, the most common reply goes something like this: “Sorry, the room has already been taken. Good luck with your search”.

Thanks.

Once you’ve got a more favourable reply, the next step is to cancel your plans because more than likely you’ll only be able to view the room you like on a night you’re previously engaged.

Next up – getting to the place. The Tube line you need will probably be closed, so you’ll have to rely on buses.

Once you’ve arrived at the place, your time to shine begins. With so much competition around, looking at a home and room is more like an interview. If the people living in the flat or house are decent enough to care, they’ll probably put you under the microscope.

And you’ll do the same to them: Is the hairy mole on that guy’s chin going to drive me nuts? Are they going to smoke inside even though they said they never do? Will they sniff my underwear when I’m out? All these questions and many more are likely to skip through your mind.

Once all involved have seen and said enough, it’s time to leave and, if you like the place, start the wait. You let them know you’re keen, and then, just like after a job interview, you’re forced to wait and see if you’ve made the final cut.

Once they decide to invite you into their home, the financial pain hits. You want how many weeks’ rent as a deposit?! It costs how much to add my name to the lease?!

However, if you’re new to London or you’re thinking of moving, don’t let all this turn you off the idea. Just like diving in so many other deep ends, everything is fine once you are in. And at least one of your new housemates has ‘potential’, right?

TOP IMAGE: Image by StockSnap from Pixabay

The post The trauma of the London share house room hunt appeared first on Australian Times News.

I knew people who had been living there for almost two years and didn’t have any close English friends. I didn’t get it. How could someone spend two years in Britain and only seem to associate with others from south of the Equator?

I was determined not to spend my stint in London in one of those little Aussie/Kiwi bubbles. I would keep away from the Antipodean (for the uninitiated, in London that means ‘Aussies and Kiwis’, by the way) bars for as long as possible.

I landed in the UK, fresh-faced and tanned, ready to immerse myself fully in the English life — and that meant making friends with as many different nationalities as I could, as well as the locals.

I’d been dossing in West Hampstead and decided to stay on that side of town. I found a nice flatshare with three friendly guys — a Brazilian, an Irish and a French — in Willesden Green. I managed to keep away from the boisterous Antipodean hangouts in She Bu, Clapham and Fulham (except on Australia Day) for a good few months.

But after a few months of living in my international house and working in a very multicultural Liverpool Street office, I began to feel lonely.

All of my mates lived with other Aussies and Kiwis, who they had heaps in common with. They were all here for a good time, not a long time, frequenting those pubs I’d foresaken, and travelling as much as their small incomes would allow.

I longed to live with people who I could relate to; people who understood my need to spend almost four quid on a packet of Tim Tams and who weren’t afraid to strike up a convo with strangers on the Tube.

So I moved to Acton to live with a bunch of Antipodeans. It was awesome! I felt right at home.

Sure, the bathroom was often dirty and my liver hadn’t experienced that sort of abuse since first-year at uni, but I was having a blast, creating the kind of memories and friendships that last a lifetime.

So, despite my best intentions upon coming to Britain, six months after stepping off that plane at Heathrow I found myself living with and hanging out with Aussies and Kiwis. I was as typically Antipodean expat as they came… but with a few English friends to boot.

The post You try not to just live with other Aussies and Kiwis overseas, but eventually it happens appeared first on Australian Times News.

When I moved back home to Australia, I thought that finding my dream Oz job would be a breeze, but I was in for a bit of a shock.

The Australian job market had changed since I left for the UK two years earlier and, in my experience, good jobs are not easy to come by.

This might not be particularly surprising to hear, with unemployment rates high around the globe. But my impression was that Down Under was still faring well compared to other nations.

This fact is certainly true for most industries, but compared to Australia’s buoyant past, which young expats have come to expect, job-hunting had become a lot tougher.

To be honest, moving home just a month before Christmas definitely didn’t make the search any easier.

Being a journalist, my chances of getting work in the media industry were even slimmer thanks to the ever shrinking fortunes and opportunities at both News Limited and Fairfax.

The responses from potential employers and recruitment agencies were like a broken record. A depressing Joni Mitchell record playing loudly… on repeat.

“I’m really sorry but there’s nothing available at this time of year”.

“You won’t be able to find anything before the New Year”.

“We’ll keep you on the books for when the market picks up again in February”.

February?! I could’t be unemployed for that long! I had spent the past two years travelling and living on a shoestring. My savings were small, and that’s an overstatement. Having no income for three months was simply not an option.

So in the face of what was shaping up to be a very poor summer, I did what any true blue Aussie would do. I pulled my Bonds socks up and broke that whining Joni Mitchell record into a million little pieces.

I got serious about my job hunting and fortunately, the hard work paid off. Within three weeks of touching down on Australian soil I had two job offers.

So while recruitment agencies and many others have since said I was very lucky, this is proof that it’s not impossible.

While a big part of job-hunting is about being in the right place at the right time, good support and being able to stay positive are also essential to finding your feet quickly again on home soil.

The grit and determination you gain as a wandering Aussie overseas certainly comes in good stead when you move back down under.

The post Scoring that great job back home in Australia may not be as easy as you’d hoped appeared first on Australian Times News.

It is inevitable that people will come and go during the time you spend in London, as you will do during theirs. New friendships are made, old ones reignited, and Australian ones – for better or worse – get left behind.

While meeting new people was from all over the world was a blast, one of the best parts of my London adventure was actually the rekindling of some old friendships.

When deciding whether or not to take the big leap to Blighty, I got in touch with several old Aussie friends who I knew were living in London. I caught up with most of them; some only once, but one of the friends who I regularly hung out with in London I had emailed from Down Under for some advice after a series of events left me feeling rather lost. What I got by reconnecting with her was more than I could have ever expected.

She advised me on everything: from the perils of London job hunting, to how to use an Oyster card. Hell, she even let me sleep on her lounge room floor for five weeks and wouldn’t let me pay a penny… at a time when I was still calling them cents.

We joked that she was like a big sister to me, but in all seriousness there was no other way to describe our relationship. If I had a biological sister, I’m sure she wouldn’t be half as welcoming. Without boring you with the soppy details – and before I tear up – I’ll get to the point.

This beautiful friend soon had to leave to return home to Australia. Her time was up and she was ready for the next chapter. It really was a sad seperation. And it was just the first of many such London farewells.

Eventually your time will come too.

London expat lives expire, often in rapid succession. The friendships that grow along the way don’t have to fade, but sometimes they do. It’s just something you have to get used to. But a new friend is always just another holiday, flat share or beer away… until the dreaded visa expiry date come and gets you too.

The post Saying goodbye to friends is a part of living in London you’ll just have to get used to appeared first on Australian Times News.

But in as spring’s sunny flower blooms, Londoners who fit the glum British stereotype are more difficult to find.

When the sun finally decides to come out of hibernation and show itself each year, so too do the Poms. In the few grassy spots in the centre of the City, liberated bankers and other corporate types can be seen laughing, drinking and picnicking (often topless) on their lunch breaks.

The Brits shed their glum exteriors (along with their clothes) and retrieving their party shoes from the back of the wardrobe. And after that long, dark, miserable winter, who could blame them?

All my life I’d felt cold when the temperature is below 25 degrees, but in London, when the weather girl promises “15 degrees with sunny spells”, I too could be found basking in the sunshine, swearing I’ll never take it for granted again. Let’s face it; anything is better than a maximum of -2, right?

Seeing all the happy, outgoing Brits emerge after the depressing winter got me thinking: maybe the conservative, whiney nature the British are renowned for is really just about the weather? Poor sods.

When the English relocate to a warmer climate (hello Australia and Spain), do their outgoing, happy summertime personalities become permanent?

In the same vein, does moving an Aussie closer to the Arctic help them overcome racism and a bad Vegemite habit?

Surely being closer to the catwalks of Milan, Paris and London does wonders for our bad fashion sense. But there are those Australians who just wont trade their footy shorts, Bonds wifebeaters and Big W rubber thongs for the world.

The post When Londoners come out of winter’s shadow, they actually have a sunny disposition appeared first on Australian Times News.

Everything was going smoothly. I had managed to squeeze all the essentials into my carry-on bag (Tiger’s check-in luggage fees are even more ridiculous than Easyjet’s).

My liquids were ready for security, placed nicely into one of those plastic bags, and I even had my passport — forgetting that neither of these were necessary for domestic flights.

The outbound journey went well. My companion and I even managed to find our way to the hotel like professional tourists before enjoying a nice extended weekend in the Sunshine State.

It was when the time came to fly back to Melbourne that things got a little amateur.

Clinging to our budget travelling roots, we decided to take the public bus to the airport. It had done a good job of getting us from the airport to our hotel just days before, so it seemed a reasonable idea.

After checking out of our hotel and carting our luggage around Surfer’s Paradise, the time came to make our way to the airport.

The first issue arose, although it was nothing to be concerned about at this stage, when we discovered the bus stop was a little further away than we’d expected. Add 10 minutes extra walking time. No biggie.

The next potential problem popped up when we got to the bus stop and looked at the timetable. Seems we’d just missed our bus and the next one wasn’t for about 25 minutes.

Hmmm. On top of the extra 10 minutes of walking, this would make us about 35 minutes behind schedule. But we were in holiday mode and didn’t bother to do the maths.

The bus came on time. We jumped on board and continued on our merry way. Being a public bus, it was slow-moving, stopping at every stop and taking the best part of an hour to travel 20km. Exhausted from too much holiday indulgence, we fell asleep on the bus and didn’t consider the time

Once at the airport, we made our way to the check-in desk. Other than the fact that our holiday was about to end, we didn’t have a worry in the world. Again, we weren’t thinking about the time.

But with the words “check-in closed five minutes ago”, all of that instantly changed.

“What?” we asked, before checking the time and realising that yes, in fact, the airline attendant was correct.

“Come on,” we said. “We’ve only got hand luggage so just let us on”.

“No. We’ll have to try and get you on a flight tomorrow,” the Tiger staff member replied. And with that, he left.

We were left standing there, dumbfounded. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Instead I did nothing and continued to stand there with a stupid expression on my face.

And so began our mission to recover from this mishap, starting with tracking down a member of Tiger airlines staff.

As you would expect, the only available flights for that day were ridiculously priced and, as I mentioned before, we are budget travellers at heart. So, with no refund from the flight we weren’t allowed to board, we secured ourselves seats on another flight the following day (and let’s just ignore the fact that we both were meant to work the following morning).

We also found a cheap backpackers just five minutes’ walk from the airport — sold! There was no way we were going to miss the next flight.

While we tried to blame the mishap on the rude Tiger staff and their strict rules, we couldn’t help but feel really quite stupid. This was entirely our fault.

But when all is said and done, our holiday was a day longer, and our working week a day shorter (let’s ignore the fact that our bank accounts were harmed in this incident). It certainly wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened. However, I don’t intend to repeat the same mistake.

I’ve learnt my lesson: airlines don’t wait. Not even for experienced, (too) relaxed travellers like myself.

IMAGE: Via Shutterstock.com

The post After settling back in Australia it’s easy make a traveller’s rookie error appeared first on Australian Times News.

WHEN the time comes to pack up your life and head home to Australia, a million and one things run through your mind.

Everyone is different, but my head was largely consumed by anxiety and excitement; not knowing where I’d be living, what I’d be doing and how I’d be feeling in three, 12 or 24 months’ time was all I could think about. But all expats know that moving countries is about so much more than tears, laughter, fear and returning to your own comfy bed.

An international move requires a lot of boring tasks, too. And as mind-numbing as it is, things like bank accounts and health insurance don’t open and close themselves. In a bid to make this process a little easier I have, with the help of a few friends, compiled a checklist of things to remember when leaving the UK for Down Under. In no particular order, let the fun begin!

Moving your things back to Australia

Choosing which courier service to go with can be as difficult as deciding which Brick Lane curry house to eat at. For this reason, be sure to read the fine print; you wouldn’t just agree to any 10-quid dinner deal without knowing how many glasses of wine are included now, would you?!

And shipping company deals require equal consideration. They might say they ship to Australia from £99, but what does that really include? Most companies do online quotes so that’s a good starting point. When you get your quote, consider the following: Are Customs or Quarantine charges included? Do they pick up the box from your house in the UK? Do they deliver the box to your door in Australia? Do they offer insurance and how much does it cost? How long will your items take to arrive?

I went with Excess Baggage, as I was in no rush to receive my things so I chose to ship them rather than send them by plane. It took around three months. The staff were really helpful and the process was very simple.

Also, before you pack your things, I suggest you read:  Hold onto your coats! Australia’s colder than you remember

Bank accounts

I’ve heard of Aussies having trouble setting up bank accounts when they move home. I can’t give much advice on this topic, as I fortunately still had Australian bank accounts so I didn’t have to start from scratch. A friend of mine said: “It turned out that if your family banks with one institution it’s easier for you to also start banking with them (although I’m not sure how common this is)”.

On the flipside, it’s a good idea to keep a UK bank account open – you may be entitled to a UK tax refund so HMRC can deposit your money straight in there and you won’t have to wait for a cheque to arrive in the mail. Also, you may miss Top Shop, River Island and other High Street stores so much that you’ll want to buy some cheap clothes online; when you see the price and poor variety in shops in Australia you’ll understand!

Lastly, make sure you let your UK bank know that you’re going to Australia. I got a rude shock when I went to use my UK debit card to pay via EFTPOS (remember EFTPOS!) in Australia and found my transaction was declined. I called Barclays and after waiting about half an hour (and using up all my mobile phone credit in the process), I was told there was suspected fraudulent activity on my account in Australia. This was after about a month of me regularly using my card. Hmmm…. quick work Barclays! Anyway, moral of the story is that it ‘s best to keep them in the loop. That brings me to my next point…

UK tax returns and refunds

By now I am sure you know that when you leave a job in the UK you get a thing called a P45 (Does anyone know what the P or the 45 actually stand for?!). I guess it’s similar to the old group certificates you get Down Under.

Similar to Australia, you need to provide a P45 from each of the employers you worked with in order to lodge a UK tax refund. As I discovered, this is not an easy thing to do once you leave the UK. Because I never got the P45 from one employer I couldn’t get the £600-odd return that many of my friends were lining up for. And that little boost comes in very handy when you return a homeless, jobless, poor, exhausted traveller.

In addition to that, there’s no need to get an agency who will charge commission to lodge your return, unless of course you have a complicated tax refund. The P85 is the form you need and this is on the HMRC website. Simply fill it out, follow the instructions then send it back to the UK. Hello much-needed cash!

Medicare and health insurance

Remember that little green card with loads of numbers on it? If yours, like mine, is nowhere to be found, don’t worry — finally something that is easily fixed! Simply go into a branch and (providing they still have you on file) ask for a new card. They’ll give you a temporary one to use until the new one arrives. Simples!

Health insurance, meanwhile, can be a little bit more troublesome. Fortunately for me I was smart enough to put my health insurance on hold, which meant I just had to let them know when I was back in the country and my insurance would kick in again without waiting times or anything (I didn’t even realise I had done this, thanks mum for reminding me!).

If you choose not to register for health insurance, make sure you at least get ambulance cover. If in the unfortunate event that you need an ambulance (drunken fall?!) but don’t have insurance, they will charge you hundreds, even thousands. Depending on what state you live in, it can cost just $20 a year to take out ambulance insurance, so it’s definitely a good investment! And while we’re on the topic of insurance…

Travel insurance

Travel insurance is probably the last thing on your mind when you’re moving home, but it’s important to think about it. You might have ‘round-the-world annual cover’, like I did, but once you return to Australia that cover becomes redundant. Well, it did in my case anyway. So get that cancelled and be sure to take out new insurance the next time you go on a trip.

Some insurance companies will be ‘kind enough to automatically renew your policy each year for you, saving you the hassle and worry’ (read: we will take the money from your registered bank account automatically). Be sure to let them know that you’ve left the UK and will no longer be requiring their assistance!

Also see:  Don’t leave your UK pension behind if returning to Australia

_____________________

The information here does not represent either general or specific financial advice.

The post Practical lessons from a returned Australian appeared first on Australian Times News.

NINE months.

That’s how long it takes for a foetus to grow into a baby that is ready to leave the womb. It’s also the title of a 90s rom-com featuring Hugh Grant.

But this article is about neither of those things.

Last week marked the nine-month anniversary of my return Down Under, so for me the past nine months have been about settling back into Australian life.

In the past nine months I’ve moved countries, found a new job, found a new flat, made new friends, broken up with an old one, explored a new city and moved in with my boyfriend for the first time.

When I landed at Melbourne airport in November 2011, after spending two years in London, I was excited, sad, worried and a little lost.

And to be honest, not much has changed.

Deciding to move to another country so far from home was one of the best decisions I have ever made.

And I can honestly say that this life-changing decision has been equally matched by my choice to leave.

And that’s where the dilemma lies.

London opened my eyes to a world of endless possibilities.

I used the British capital as a base to explore cities, countries, cultures and communities that I had barely taken an interest in before – think Egypt, Iceland and Portugal. All such amazing countries which I probably wouldn’t have considered visiting if I wasn’t living abroad.

And now I want to see more. The US, South America, Japan, India, Vietnam (tick!) – the list keeps getting longer.

At the same time, living in the UK has also given me the desire to explore my own country and even check out all that our cousin New Zealand has to offer.

Since being back I’ve been to the Great Ocean Road, Canberra, Albury-Wodonga (it counts, OK!), the Gold Coast and Byron Bay. While I had visited all of these places before, going back after two years away gave me a foreigner’s perspective – I can really appreciate Australia’s beauty and diversity like never before. That in itself makes the move to London worthwhile.

The things that I have achieved in the past nine months also make leaving London worthwhile. In the past nine months I’ve started a blog, joined the Melbourne Writer’s Club, started writing for two local publications and enrolled in two courses – photography and web design. Melbourne is a real melting pot of creative go-getters who inspire you and make you feel as if anything is possible.

Sports-wise, I’ve run three fun runs, one of which was a half-marathon, I’ve joined a gym and discovered a love of cycling. I’ve also been to an AFL match and tried to pick an AFL team – and failed.

Achieving just one of these things would have been near impossible while I was living in London. My priorities were different – traveling, socialising, exploring London and making friends were top of the list because, well, that’s why I moved there.

I would list all the things I have done in the past nine months, but that would take a week (and it would be pretty boring to read)*.

Moving home has been somewhat of an adjustment, and while I’m none the wiser about how long I’ll stay in Australia, and I’ve still got no clue about what I want to be when I grow up, it’s nice to look back on the past nine months and think, ‘hey, that has actually been pretty awesome’.

*A few more achievements to note: I’ve also bought a microwave and drank an estimated 240 proper coffees since moving home (sorry Brits, I’ve returned to my latte-drinking ways). I’ve also mastered Melbourne’s public transport system. On the flipside I’ve received a $150 speeding fine (which I talked my way out of) and a ludicrous $180 tram fine (appeal rejected). Oh Australia!

The post Nine months on and the world has changed appeared first on Australian Times News.

It’s a typical working day in Melbourne.

You’re standing at the tram stop, waiting for your tram to arrive.

When the tram pulls up, the doors open. The stairs are crowded with people. You step up and shuffle your way into the tiny space the stair dwellers have made for you. After the door closes just behind you, you look towards the aisle of the carriage. To your surprise you notice that there is, in fact, quite a bit of space in the middle of the tram. On closer inspection you notice that there are even a few spare seats. Quite a few of them. My word!

Some people might not see the issue here. But for someone who regularly (tried to) board the London Waterloo train at Wandsworth Town, seeing unoccupied seats on crowded public transport can be very upsetting.

For the most part, the Brits are pretty good at fitting loads of  people into small spaces. I used to be shocked by a Wandsworth Town station regular who would often take it upon herself to remind people of the need to cram.

As trains arrived she would tap on the windows and, just like the Transport for London voiceover lady does, she would tell everyone to ‘Move down inside the train!’

Can you imagine how fired up she would get if she saw the state of Melbourne’s trams?! Vacant seats and empty spaces everywhere! Don’t Melburnians know that if you sit down you will create extra standing room? Also, if you move away from the doors more people can climb on board!

Seeing these atrocities makes me want to follow this Wandsworth Town local’s lead and start shouting.

I don’t think it will ever come to that. A little education and consideration are all that’s required – Melburnians could use a lesson or two from Londoners.

Perhaps Yarra Trams should ask the TFL voiceover lady to politely tell people to ‘Please, move down inside the tram’.

We certainly don’t want commuters to have to take this matter into their own hands.

The post Please move down inside the tram! appeared first on Australian Times News.

Battling through the UK’s winter months is a testing experience for any Aussie, especially one who, like me, can’t get enough of lazy hot summer days.

So when trying to decide whether to pack up and go back to Oz, rose-tinted memories of lying by the pool on sweltering 30-degree days are guaranteed to come flooding back.

After making up my own mind and deciding to book a one-way flight to Melbourne, I was faced with the tough task of packing up the belongings I had accumulated in my time abroad.

Courier and Customs fees are sky high, so you have to be ruthless.

All the crappy, faded, falling-apart Primark purchases went straight to the NO pile. The majority of the books, CDs and DVDs in my modest collection also failed to survive the cull.

I left London in November, just as winter was beginning to show itself, so I had no choice but to keep my big warm winter coats until my last day. But when that final day arrived I ditched those coats and headed to Heathrow. My spring coat was the only one I would need in my sunny homeland, I though naively. That wasn’t my smartest moment.

Despite friends warning me that “Melbourne does get pretty cold in the winter” and suggesting I keep them, I could only picture the scorching hot Australian summer which lay ahead.

But now, seven months on and with Melbourne’s winter well and truly here, I wish I’d taken off my rose-tinted glasses and held on to those coats.

While the mornings and evenings are the only time I would actually need them here in Melbourne, and even then I would probably overheat in those 80% wool beauties, the icy wind that roars up the tram line is no match for my light-weight spring jacket.

So if you’re faced with the arduous task of culling your London wardrobe, heed my advice and hold on to those coats. For you never know what icy cold gust of wind the Australian winter has in store.

*Author’s note: Obviously, if you’re headed for any of Australia’s balmy states (Qld, NT and WA), you can probably ignore this entire article and leave behind every item in your London wardrobe. The bikini and singlets you wore while on holiday in Greece are probably the only items you’ll need. But then again, I’ve been wrong before.

The post Hold onto your coats! Australia’s colder than you remember appeared first on Australian Times News.

WHEN I moved to the UK my alcohol intake dramatically increased. In turn, my consumption of late-night kebabs also skyrocketed, while the number of workouts I did each week plummeted to an all time low.

I blamed this on London and its ‘unhealthy lifestyle’.

I found icy, dark evenings to be more enjoyable in warm pubs with a bottle of happy hour wine, rather than pounding the pavements of gloomy, overcrowded Acton and Clapham J.

I would often reminisce of my healthy days in sunny Australia – where the weather and lifestyle made a run in the park more appealing and salads easier to face.

After an hour on an overcrowded Tube, where standing with my face in the armpit of a stressed suit wasn’t uncommon, hitting the grog just made sense.

So as my time in the UK drew to a close I was rather excited about the concept of finding my healthy Aussie self again.

After five months back in the land Down Under, I’m still looking.

I’m afraid the 24-year-old who LOVED running and managed to balance the pub with work, exercise and domestic duties hasn’t suddenly been reincarnated in my post-UK 27-year-old body.

For some reason I naively thought I’d land in Australia and return to my disciplined ways. I had visions of suddenly having the strength to refuse that lip-smacking glass of red wine after a hard day at the office. And for some reason I am not loving those 6am workouts as much as I did in my early 20’s.

Weird, I know!

I’ve since realised that I might have been a little harsh on poor old London Town.

Perhaps my declining interest in exercise and my heightened enjoyment of nights spent in pubs, surrounded by great company, hearty food and feel-good alcohol could have been better attributed to the ageing process, than the weather.

And thinking about it, it’s not necessarily a bad thing.

Many, many memorable moments were created in those pubs. We laughed until we almost wet ourselves and while we often felt a little worse for wear the next day, the friendships that were formed made it all worthwhile. I wish I could say the same about the hours spent alone in a sweaty, stuffy gym.

So, on that note, I’d like to publicly apologise to London.

Sorry I blamed you for my ‘naughty’ habits. Instead, I should have been thanking you.

Without such carefree, fun behaviour, my time in the UK wouldn’t have been so memorable.

So on that note, I’d like to propose a toast to good friends, big meals and a few stubbies. Because life’s pretty dull otherwise. Cheers!

Read about:  Why are we so obsessed with the life and times of politician’s partners?

The post Cheers to London and its boozy ways appeared first on Australian Times News.

I never thought I’d utter these words.

But surprisingly it’s true.

This country town on the border of NSW and Victoria has given me a better birthday bash than London could for my two previous birthdays.

You’re probably quite confused, so I’ll explain.

As with Christmas and New Year’s Eve, birthdays tend to be hyped-up, overrated occasions.

And given that I’ve hit what I call the Reality Stage* of my return home, I expected this year’s birthday to be pretty poor.

I wasn’t about to try and top my London birthdays, so I popped up to Albury with a couple of close friends for some quiet time with my folks.

I was pleasantly surprised.

Country horse racing, wineries, delicious meals and great company in the countryside turned out to be a winning recipe for a great 27^th.

Being among friends who had never been to Albury before certainly heightened the excitement.

But all in all, keeping fuss to a minimum and surrounding myself with close friends and family proved to be a winning formula.

Note to readers: I am in no way suggesting a trip to Albury for your birthday. Or Easter. Or Christmas.

* The point at which people reach this stage differs from person to person after moving back to Australia from living abroad, but commonly occurs between two and four months after returning home. This stage follows the ‘I Love Australia’ and ‘It’s So Nice to Feel Settled’ stages. Signs include: fear and worry that this is how you will spend the rest of your life, you realise you have lost your ‘just returned home’ glow, you no longer find gumtrees and wide open paddocks as beautiful, and hearing the bogan accent makes you cringe instead of smile from ear to ear as was the case in earlier stages.

Where have you found unexpected delights? Tell us below:

The post You just can’t beat an Aussie bush bash appeared first on Australian Times News.

My boyfriend and two former housemates who I met in London, two of them British, the other a Kiwi, decided to follow the crowd and move to Melbourne.

This is exciting for me on so many levels. Not only does it give me an instant group of close friends in my new home city, but I get to show them everything that’s great about this huge nation of ours.

That seemed simple: An Aussie teaching a couple of foreigners about Australia.

But a recent trip to Apollo Bay made me realise how little I actually know about my homeland and all that it’s famous for.

Naturally, kangaroo and koala spotting were central to the ‘Welcome to Australia’  holiday I had planned for my Pommy boyfriend.

The only problem was that when we found some kangaroo-like animals hopping around a golf course at Anglesea on the Great Ocean Road, I wasn’t sure what they actually were. I’d been told it was a good spot for wallaby spotting, but they looked a hell of a lot like kangaroos to me.

“What’s the difference?” my boyfriend asked.

“Well, I don’t really know, actually,” I replied.

I was pretty certain that wallabies were smaller. And that they were a different colour to kangaroos. But I still couldn’t tell which species were hopping about in front of us.

‘This is stuff primary school classes are made of,’ I thought. Oh the shame!

Sadly, the tough questions didn’t stop there.

With the exception of cockatoos and galahs, I described every colourful bird as a rosella. Because, well, there was the tomato sauce with the rosella …

And what about the Twelve Apostles. Are there actually 12?

So many questions and so few answers.

And I don’t even have an excuse. I’m just an uneducated Australian who spent two years drowning out her Australian knowledge with beer and long flights on the other side of the world.

Oh well, now is as good a time as any to start getting to know Australia again.

What is some of the Aussie knowledge you have forgotten? Comment below:

The post This is a kangaroo. Wait, is it a wallaby? appeared first on Australian Times News.

While I was hopping between London’s watering holes on any given weeknight and getting up at ridiculous o’clock to catch cheap flights most weekends, they were in Australia becoming proper adults.

If I’m completely honest, this language barrier has made it harder to connect with old friends since returning home.

I was kept up to date on things like engagements, house hunting and morning sickness via emails, Skype, Facebook and everything else.

But from my little London bubble, as I like to call it, I wasn’t obliged to contribute much discussion on these topics.

Now that I’m back, being 26 years old and totally uneducated on the world of bottle sterilisers, marriage celebrants and house prices distances me from many of my friends. I just sit there with a huge ‘I have no idea what to say’ look on my face.

The unfortunate fact of the matter is that the language of an Aussie in London doesn’t count for much now that I’ve left.

It’s a bit like an 18^th Century painter talking to a graphic designer. They’re both artists, just on different pages.

Words that I consider to be adult-only, things like Tutankhamun (he was way ahead of his peers), Oktoberfest (only adults are allowed in the beer halls) and HRMC (complex tax system), don’t get the same mileage at baby showers as they did at pubs in London.

But it’s not as bad as it sounds. Unlike so many recently returned Aussie expats, I’m lucky enough to be living in Melbourne with friends who also spent time in London, so I have a good handful of people who I can reminisce about my not-so-grown-up life with.

Because being forced to learn about breast-feeding bras before I’m ready is just plain unfair.

The post Learning to speak grown-up appeared first on Australian Times News.

One of these is becoming less of a FOMO (someone who has a fear of missing out).

In the past two months I have spent more nights at home on the couch than I did in my two years in London. And that’s no exaggeration.

Despite there being plenty to see and do here, I don’t feel the same pressure to be constantly busy, like I did in London. I guess this goes hand in hand with the slower pace of Melbourne compared to London, and also the fact that this lovely, relaxed, calm country (biased much?!) is my home. It’s where I feel comfortable.

It’s easy for Australians abroad to get caught up in the must-see-and-do-everything-even-if-it-means-no-sleep-and-bankruptcy lifestyle.

For many of us, the move to the UK or Europe is only ever intended to be a temporary one. For this reason life can feel like a race.

It’s easy to get swept up in the buzz of London. You want to experience everything you possibly can during your time abroad.

Another change I’ve noticed is my rediscovered ability to smile at, and sometimes even talk to, strangers.

Anyone living in London will know how unfriendly shop assistants, fellow commuters and waiters can be.

During a visit to H&M, Tesco or any other usual retail giant and you’d be lucky to get a hello out of the person serving you, let alone a “Can I help you?”.

As an expat I forgot about this phenomenon called customer service. At first I was taken aback by the friendliness of my fellow countrymen. Why do you care what I’ve got planned for the weekend or where I bought this daggy old dress I’m wearing?

At first it was a little hard to adapt to the concept, but now I actually enjoy the chit chat.

I’ve even started thanking the shop assistant when leaving the shop. Something which I did very little of in London.

While these are only minor things and will no doubt mark just the beginning of changes that my new life holds, they’re things that only an expat can understand.

The post Making the old things new again in Australia appeared first on Australian Times News.

By Shannon Crane

I never thought the day would come.

But when I see my fellow countrymen drunkenly stumbling on the footpath or hurling abuse at innocent people on a Sunday afternoon, I want to hide my nationality.

It’s clear where they’ve been and that they’re making their way to one of the many other popular Australian watering holes, but that’s no excuse.

I have no problem with people having fun.

I, too, have been drunk on a Sunday afternoon before, but I have managed to resist the urge to cause a public nuisance.

The sort of behaviour that I’ve witnessed is cringe-worthy.

But it’s more than just the boozing.

It absolutely ticks me off when I hear Aussies, or Kiwis, bagging out Brits.

A bit of friendly banter is completely acceptable, but I have been caught in several conversations with other Antipodeans where not a good word has been said about the Poms.

The discussion usually centres on trivial things like their ‘annoying’ accent or ‘lazy’ work ethic and in my experience, the Aussies and Kiwis who haven’t bothered to give them a chance are the main culprits.

If you don’t like the place then why are you still here?

While we’re living in someone else’s country, showing a little bit of respect is the least we can do.

In a similar vein, I was once told by an estate agent that I couldn’t even apply for a house because the landlord wouldn’t accept Australians.

The last time Aussies lived in one of his rental properties, they trashed it and, understandably, he wasn’t about to take the risk again.

Many Antipodeans treat the two-year youth mobility visa is a ticket to act like an 18-year-old on a schoolie’s trip.

Don’t they realise they can get wasted and make fools of themselves back in Australia, where the rent is a whole lot cheaper and the climate much warmer?

I know people from the UK also have a reputation in Australia for behaving like idiots during their stay.

But I really can’t see the point.

It’s embarrassing for those of us who want to embrace the culture and make a real go of life in this part of the world.

Stop making fools of yourselves and giving the rest of us a bad name.

If you can’t do that, then please, just go home.

The post A little respect is the least we can do appeared first on Australian Times News.

“Everytime you Google yourself you may as well just punch yourself in the face.”

This is the philosophy that helps ARIA award-winning indie pop princess Washington avoid making “shit music”.

As the Melbourne-based 24-year-old tours the UK and US to mark the international release of her debut album I Believe You Liar, she explains her reasoning behind her theory.

“I haven’t really been stalking myself to see how it’s [the album] been received,” she says.

“Once you start to care how things are received, you start creating [music] as though people are going to be assessing or quantifying what you do.

“Thinking that way is just setting yourself up for making shit music.”

But while Megan Washington, who records only under her surname, has no desire to whack her name into Google, we here at Australian Times felt differently.

But it seems the Brisbane-raised singer has nothing to worry about.

With reviews like “extremely impressive”, “fabulously eccentric” and “a brilliant and diverse album of art-pop magic” pouring out around the world, it seems it’s not only Australian audiences who have been won over by her music.

Such high praise comes after the songstress won Best Female Artist and Best Breakthrough Artist at the 2010 Arias, and she’s just been nominated for two more gongs at this year’s awards.

From her New York hotel room, the Megan behind the Washington admits it all just feels “terribly grown up”.

“[The album] came out everywhere, including like the Ukraine, Fiji and stuff,” she says.

“It’s great but it’s a weird thing, going from making a record in a shed in Camberwell in Melbourne and then knowing that if you go to a shop in the Ukraine you can get my record. It’s kinda funny”.

To coincide with I Believe You Liar’s international release, she’s also put together an eight-track exclusive to keep her Aussie fans happy.

Aptly titled Insomnia, the record is an insight into what has been an extremely tough and sleepless year for Washington.

“I had a funny year this year, I was quite unlucky,” she says openly.

“I was hospitalised with pneumonia twice and that was kinda tough. I just couldn’t shake it.

“I became an insomniac, quite acutely, which just f*cks with your entire life.

“It just makes you feel like you’re dreaming, even when things are real. I feel like you can hear that in the record, it’s very solitary and dreamy.

“I had some personal issues and I just kind of wrote through it.”

Another area of her life which has a big influence on her songwriting is her family.

Washington’s dad, mum and sister, who all live in Brisbane, are frequently mentioned in her lyrics, albeit unintentionally.

“It just sort of comes out. I didn’t really realise how much I wrote about my family until someone pointed it out, then I sort of listened and yeah, I do,” she says.

“They’re really important. I haven’t seen my mother in like two months and that’s basically the longest I’ve gone without seeing my mother in a long time.

“We’re a really close family. My family are a huge part of what I do and how I contextualise myself in the world.  I can’t really speak enough about how important they are.”

So after such a jam-packed, turbulent 18 months, what’s next for Washington?

She admits that taking some time out would be nice, and who could blame her.

“I would like to actually sort of disappear into a cave and really concentrate on making music and writing.

“I would like to actually start living a little bit so I have something to write about.”

But first of all she’s got a London show – tonight at Bush Hall in Shepherd’s Bush – some songwriting in New York and Paris to do and a show at the Sydney Opera House to keep her busy.

So despite her desire to slow down, it doesn’t look like that’s bound to happen any time soon.

Which will no doubt come as good news for her now international fan base.

The post The world according to Washington appeared first on Australian Times News.

WHAT will I miss most about the UK?

I was asked this question a few days ago and I am still struggling to come up with an answer.

It’s not that I won’t miss anything, there are many things.

As I pack up my life and head home after almost two years in London, I find it hard to decide what I’ll miss the “most”.

A few superficial things ran through my mind: the shopping, M&S’s amazing ready meals, free newspapers, Monster Munch.

But no, they weren’t the answer – these aren’t the things that drove me to move 10,000km or so to the other side of the world.

I gave it some more thought.

There’s the travel — having Europe on my doorstep has been truly amazing. I won’t be able to pop over to any European country for the weekend. I’ll miss that.

The music — from international superstars to new indie bands, the size and volume of festivals and gigs in the UK are impossible to match.

Call me crazy, but I am pretty certain I’ll miss the Tube. The frequency and reliability of the underground is really phenomenal. Can you imagine how much more Londoners would groan and moan if they had Melbourne’s public transport system to deal with? It’s a frightening thought.

I’ll miss how London never sleeps. I love the buzz of the bars and restaurants which, even on a weeknight, seem to be packed until dawn.

When it’s 40 degrees and I’m forced to work instead of spending the day at the beach, I might even find myself wishing for London’s weather. Maybe.

I could go on forever, pondering all the things that I may very well long for when I’m gone.

But the truth of the matter is that it’s way too early to tell.

Clichés like ‘you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone’ and ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’ will no doubt ring true.

For now, the answer to that silly question will remain unknown, along with the next chapter of my life.

What would you miss most about London? Comment below now:

The post I might even just miss London’s weather … appeared first on Australian Times News.

THIS week’s column is not an easy one to write.

It follows on from a big decision I wrote about a few weeks ago.

I must reveal that the decision has been made, set in stone.

I’m pulling the plug, calling it quits, heading south … however you want to describe it, I am moving home to Australia.

Arriving at this point certainly hasn’t been easy. Probably the toughest decision of my 26-year existence.

Anyone who has actually ‘chosen’ to go home, rather than being kicked out by the UK visa office, can probably understand just how difficult it is to make this decision.

There have been sleepless nights, phone calls, emails, text messages and Skype sessions with friends, family and colleagues.

But I’ve weighed up every pro and every con, and this is the conclusion.

There are many facts that us expats will agree on, like the fact that the weather is better at home, yet life ‘over here’ is an adventure. No one wants it to end before they’re ready.

But there are loads of other personal and individual aspects to mull over. Things that only the person making the decision can fully understand.

For me, my family were high on the list of reasons to go home. The fact of the matter is that I miss them. It’s as simple as that.

To feel settled and at home again was another one of Australia’s magnets. Maybe this is because I am finally growing up, or maybe London with all of its chaos has just got the better of me.

Either way, that sense of belonging is something that only my home country can provide.

So that’s that.

After much hesitation, my flight has been booked, resignation letter signed, sealed and delivered.

There’s no turning back now.

I admit, it’s a weird feeling knowing that in three weeks’ time I’ll be leaving the fun and excitement that this part of the world offers behind.

But the idea of staying felt even stranger.

So that’s how I found my answer.

I just hope it’s the right one.

The post I’ve gone hard, now I am going home… appeared first on Australian Times News.

THE iconic 90’s pop song ‘Ice, Ice Baby’ was the last song I expected to hear when I turned out to see Architecture in Helsinki perform in London on Sunday.

But as a long-time fan of these high-energy, Aussie syntho popstars I should’ve known better.

This band is anything but conventional.

When faced with a power cut about 45 minutes into their set, there was little sign of stress or concern.

Instead, the band took the chance to get a little creative, while the backstage crew at Heaven addressed the issue.

Frontman Cameron Bird kept the party vibe flowing by taking requests from the amped-up sea of fans.

While cries for Cold Chisel’s ‘Khe Sanh’ and a request for The Smiths were quickly shot down, a keyboard rendition of Vanilla Ice’s ‘Ice, Ice Baby’ got the crowd smiling and bopping once more.

With the technical hitch not yet resolved, there was enough time for another borrowed tune, this time in the shape of 70’s hit ‘It’s a Living Thing’ by the Electric Light Orchestra.

After about 10 minutes of downtime AiH’s leading lady Kellie Sutherland took the microphone, quickly said “Sorry to break up the party”,  and within seconds the band had slid effortlessly back into their set.

The Melbourne-based ensemble, who have in one form or another been making sugary-sweet pop songs for more than 10 years, were in London to promote their latest album, Moment Bends.

The catchy tune ‘Escapee’, which features in the football video game FIFA 12, was clearly the crowd’s pick of their new stuff.

But, naturally, it was their old favourites, including ‘That Beep’ and ‘Like it or Not’, that really got the crowd jumping.

With the band ditching their instruments for a retro disco-style dance routine in the middle of ‘That Beep’, and lyrics like “dressed up like bubblegum I’m stuck to your shoe let’s run”, standing still for this gig was simply not an option.

The eclectic neon sound of keyboards, drums, synthesisers, slide guitars and everything else in between is contagious.

As the band left the stage, it was clear the fans were not quite satisfied.

The early days tune ‘Heart it Races’ was the only thing left to play.  The fans were clearly not leaving until it was done.

As expected, Architecture in Helsinki didn’t disappoint, with Bird, Sutherland and their party crew putting a synthesised twist on the old favourite to cap off what was one hell of a party.

The post Aussie boppers act as cool as Vanilla Ice in tech glitch appeared first on Australian Times News.

FOR those who don’t know, the London suburb of Chelsea, and in particular King’s Road , is world renowned for being super-dooper posh.

Wikipedia emphasises this, describing the residents who live in the area as “investment bankers and film stars”.

Even our very own pop queen Kylie Minogue has allegedly scored herself a pad in the exclusive, fancy-pants area.

Keen to learn what all the fuss was about, a friend and I ventured across the Thames for a sticky-beak.

We were not disappointed.

The area and its residents lived up to the pretentious reputation.

Despite being less than half an hour’s walk from my (ever-so-slightly less flashy) home in Wandsworth, it felt like another world.

We sat and watched as women with handbags that cost more than my monthly salary walked their tiny rat-like dogs.

The dogs themselves donned flashy collars that probably cost more than my monthly food bill.

It’s certainly an entertaining sight.

Air kisses and “Hi darlings” swamp the sidewalks, while fancy European cars dominate the road.

We casually strolled in to expensive designer stores, like Cartier, Calvin Klein and Hugo Boss — but perhaps wearing Primark was a mistake (or an achievement, depending on how you look at it).

I was too common and too poorly dressed to be worthy of a glance, let alone a greeting, from the upper-class shop assistants.

We were soon bored with the glamorous lifestyle and decided to return to our common lives south of the river.

But I have to admit, I have since backed up my rich and famous experience with a visit to a Chelsea night club.

Sat in the corner, my friends and I watched, mesmerised.

The locals danced more modestly, dressed more expensively.

Even the way they tried to hit on one another was different.

They were like a different species.

But, naturally, after a few too many vodkas, and a magnum of expensive champagne (which was bought for us by a random guy at the table next to us I might add) we joined those aliens on the dancefloor.

Unfortunately, I can’t remember how they reacted to us, but I do remember having loads of fun.

So, if you get the chance, I’d highly recommend a visit to Chelsea, to see how the other half lives with your very own eyes.

The post Real ‘Made In Chelsea’ worth crossing the Thames for appeared first on Australian Times News.

It helps that our homelands and cultures are so similar.

From a shared love of a booze and a sarcastic sense of humour, to the basics like speaking the same language (well, practically) and driving on the same side of the road, the two nationalities are on the same page about most things.

But there are times when I feel like a bit of an alien.

For instance, when my workmates reminisce about British TV shows or celebrities from back in the day, 95% of the time I have no idea what or who they’re talking about.

In the past I’d admit my ignorance. But that always ended with gasps and reactions like ‘You haven’t heard of (Cheryl Cole/Tulisa/Kate Price or some other trashy celebrity)/watched an episode of (Emmerdale/X Factor/Coronation Street etc)? Are you serious?’

Then a long, boring description of the C-grade celebrity/TV show which regularly features in the country’s finest tabloids is given.

But now I just tune out of the conversation or smile and nod as if I know what they’re talking about. It’s just so much easier.

Of course these sorts of situations are expected in any foreign country, and that’s what makes living here such a novelty.

But on a train ride recently, my alien background leapt out and slapped my fellow commuters in the face.

I broke the cardinal sin of talking loudly on my mobile phone.

The carriage was packed, everyone was silent.

So when I dialled my friend and spent the entire 10-minute journey talking and laughing loudly, my actions were met with glares.

People were disgusted, and they didn’t try to hide it.

I was warned during my first week in this country that unlike in Australia, people don’t talk to each other on the train.

But after almost two years I took the risk, and it backfired.

All I could think was how nasal, loud and annoying I must have sounded.

Ashamedly, I felt compelled to tone my Aussieness down.

It’s an awful thing to admit defeat, but I can’t deny it.

The conservative, quiet British commuters have won.

I won’t talk loudly on a packed train journey again.

The post Sometimes, there’s just no hiding my Aussieness appeared first on Australian Times News.

My friends and I had spent hours in the departure lounge waiting for our delayed flight. We were tired and exhausted from a big night out in the party city the previous night, so the delayed 9.50pm flight only worsened the situation.

Finally, the gate number appeared on the screen and we casually made our way to the final checkpoint before boarding the plane. But when I reached into my bag to retrieve my passport and boarding pass, they were nowhere to be seen.

My heart started racing.

My friends and I scrambled through my bag, throwing its contents all over the floor, while other passengers overtook us in the queue.

They were definitely not there.

I dumped my bag with my friends and sprinted faster than I probably ever have in my life back to the departure lounge.

But in my anxious and panicky state I managed to run what felt like 1km in the wrong direction and found myself at the end of a corridor.

I approached some security guards, puffing like I’d just run a marathon, and tried to ask for directions, but the word ‘lounge’ wouldn’t come out — all I could produce was tears.

They managed to work out what I was trying to say and pointed me in the right direction.

I sprinted again and retraced my steps.

I dashed into the newsagency, where I’d been just 20 minutes earlier, but it wasn’t there.

Next, I bolted to the information desk, but it was closed.

I ran upstairs to the restaurant where we’d eaten dinner and thankfully, the little blue book and piece of paper which were more important than my left arm at that point in time had been picked up by the staff.

I could have kissed the waitress who gave them to me, if it weren’t for the fact that I was about to miss my flight.

I raced back to find my loyal friends eagerly waiting for me, and thankfully, we didn’t miss our flight.
Until then I was impressed with my record of not losing anything valuable while on holiday, and I guess I’d become complacent about it.

It seems this horrible, gut-wrenching experience was exactly the wake-up call I needed.

The post When possessions are worth more than life itself appeared first on Australian Times News.

I DON’T care about the Rugby World Cup. Or the AFL Grand Final!

I told you it was big. At this time of year, when Aussies in London are rising at ridiculous-AM to watch finals and so on, this declaration is comparable to that of “I hate Vegemite” or, worse still, “I don’t like beer” (I love them both very much, for the record).

It’s not as if I haven’t tried to love these macho sports.

I’ve watched plenty of AFL, rugby and even league matches — on big screens in pubs, on TVs at friends’ houses, and even in my own home.

I’ve tried to follow teams, I’ve entered footy tipping competitions.

I understand the rules – they’re not exactly rocket science – and I find many of the players (ie, Buddy Franklin) very easy on the eyes.

Hell, I’ve even watched a (small) handful of AFL and rugby matches live — one of which was at the ‘G’!

I’ve been surrounded by screaming fans, seen the sweat, the blood, the tears with my very own eyes.

But despite all of this I can’t seem to commit to it like most of my fellow countrymen.

After about 15 minutes, on a good day 20, my eyes glaze over and my mind starts to wander.

It’s not all sports — I can watch tennis, swimming, netball or athletics with serious interest.

During the Olympics I feel a true sense of excitement and have been known to stay up until all hours to catch a big event.

But AFL and rugby just don’t have the same appeal.

Naturally, I’m drawn to the social aspects of both sports — the drinking, the banter.

But outside of the main event, I don’t pay any attention to what’s being said in the news, how the ladder is looking, or who is being drafted for the next season/tournament.

I’m reaching the point where I might just have to give up trying and accept the fact that I never have and never will care about what is happening on the field.

The truth of the matter is that it just doesn’t interest me. Now I’ll wait for the hate mail…

The post I have a big confession to make appeared first on Australian Times News.

I LOVE travelling, but lately I’ve realised this love is not as unconditional as it once was.

The more I do, the more I find myself saying: ‘I am getting too old for this!’

Flight delays, hostel dorms, campsites, heavy luggage and dirty bathrooms are just some of the aspects that really test my once easy-going, resilient backpacker ways.

There was a time not too long ago when I found the idea of spending a couple of days in a hostel exciting.

It offered the chance to meet new people from all over the world — whether it was at the grungy hostel bar, in the dorm room itself or while queuing up for the free ‘continental’ breakfast.

But now when I am forced to stay in a hostel (usually due to budget restraints and/or peer pressure), I loathe the idea.

I curse the bar for being too loud when I am trying to sleep, I opt for a private room where possible as to avoid bubbly, talkative roommates, and I choose to skip the continental breakfast. The thought of eating cornflakes, white toast and the nastiest instant coffee you can find now makes me gag.

But it’s not just hostels that now make me cringe while I’m on a holiday.

In the past year my tolerance for airports has declined ten-fold.

A flight delay wouldn’t have affected my mood. Now, I see red — as if I haven’t been waiting in this bloody airport long enough.

And being searched at security gate or interrogated at immigration were things I found actually quite funny — now I groan and think to myself: ‘Honestly! For god’s sake, do I look like a drug smuggler/terrorist?!”

Surviving on a shoestring was also something that never used to bother me, but now the list of ‘luxuries’ that I am willing to sacrifice is shrinking. Rapidly.

If I can’t afford to travel by plane or a super-fast train, I’m just not going.

I’ve reached the point where I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than endure an overnight or eight-hour-plus bus ride, even if it means adding an extra stop to my itinerary.

But despite all the suffering and pain that I endure while travelling, I, thankfully, always look back on my adventures and only remember the fun I had.

And then I book myself into a 10-bed hostel room, just so I can do it all over again.

The post Hanging up the backpack? appeared first on Australian Times News.

IT’S been several days since my first Oktoberfest experience and the recovery process is not going well.

There are still dark circles under my eyes, my immune system is about to cark it and the catchy ‘cheers’ song (Ein Prosit) is still playing over and over in my head.

This, along with way too many embarrassing drunken photos and hazy memories, is all that remains of my time at one of the world’s craziest festivals.

The huge beer-drinking festival that takes over Munich for a couple of weeks each year is something that friends have been raving about for years.

So back in March when some mates were booking a trip to the opening weekend, jumping on that bandwagon was the obvious choice.

Needless to say, booking six months in advance allowed for plenty of time for the anticipation and excitement to build.

Under strict orders from my veteran Oktoberfest-going friends, we awoke early and snatched ourselves a table, albeit outdoors, three and a half hours before the beer started flowing.

Those three and a half hours will be remembered as some of the longest of my life.

Card games and lots of talking about the craziness that lay ahead did nothing to allay the excitement.

But before long it was 11.59am and the place was buzzing.

From the traditional tapping of the first barrel of beer at midday, the site erupted into cheer and Oktoberfest was underway.

From that point on, everywhere you turned there was something exciting to look at — beermaids carrying up to 10 steins in their arms, or barging their way through rowdy crowds while balancing plates of pork knuckle or roast chicken on trays above their heads.

I watched from my valuable seat, stunned, as old men guzzled down a litre of beer in the time it took me to lift the heavy stein to my lips.

Others devoured pork knuckles with their bare hands — no cutlery necessary.

Within a couple of hours I could barely hear myself think — and it had nothing to do with the alcohol consumption. Between the band, the clanging of plates, pots and pans in the kitchen and the loud conversations between the drinkers and the beermaids, it was a noisy, noisy place to be.

The next stage of the craziness had to be table dancing, naturally. The noise and drunkenness just stepped up a level.

One, four, 10 tables joined in the fun and before I knew it I, too, was on a table dancing to the band, and praying the wooden table wouldn’t collapse under me.

The time was flying by and before long my head was on a pillow, with that repetitive, catchy Ein Prosit tune playing over and over in my very fuzzy mind.

Everyone has advice for you when you’re planning on taking on the adventure — “Don’t drink too much too early”, “eat lots of food”, “arrive really early so you get a table”, “go to one of the ‘good tents’”, etc.

But, ultimately, Oktoberfest is what you make it.

It’s a crazy, fun wonderland of a festival where anything goes, so long as you are willing to let go of your inhibitions, and allow a good week or two to recover at the end of it all.

The post Oktoberfest is awesome appeared first on Australian Times News.

I HAVE added several strings to my bow since moving to London.

I’ve mastered the art of walking on icy roads, I’ve become a pro at drinking pints, and my knowledge of the Tube map has sky-rocketed from novice to expert.

But there is one skill that I did not expect to pick up; the ability to survive a face-off with a fox.

It may not seem like the biggest achievement, but I doubt any Aussie (Paul Hogan and the Irwins aside) can honestly say they were not scared when they encountered their first fox in suburban London.

I’d been living here just a few months when I had my first stand-off.

I was leaving my house early one morning when I found a fox standing proudly at my gate.

My heart began to race; at any moment that mangy, evil-looking feral animal would pounce and bite me on the calf. Or so I thought.

It didn’t move. For a good 15 seconds the dumb thing just stood there, glaring at me as though I was the one in his way.

I was running late for work. I didn’t have time for this.

So, with my eyes fixed on his, I cautiously opened the gate and walked out right in front of it.

Still, he did not twitch. Not even a blink (can foxes blink?!).

I walked briskly away, glancing back over my shoulder to check he wasn’t chasing after me.

Nope, he wasn’t. He was just wandering around, probably contemplating whose rubbish bin to make a mess of next.

Which brings me to my next point: rubbish.

Another thing I’ve learnt about suburban foxes is that they love rubbish.

Stepping out of my house to find my garbage bin has been torn open by a fox and my food scraps have been scattered all over the path is not ideal.

And while I’m on the topic of street foxes – that horrible screeching noise you hear on a winter’s night is not actually a young girl being abused, it’s a fox having a randy old time with a mate.

Yep, that noise which sounds like someone is being attacked is actually two feral animals making baby foxes.

I think the loveable star of Roald Dahl’s Fantastic Mr Fox could teach Londons’ foxes a few things.

Until then, I’d advise you to keep your distance when you’re faced with one, put your rubbish out at the last possible minute and don’t call the police when you hear them mating.

The post London foxes are far from fantastic appeared first on Australian Times News.

IN the moments before The Jezabels took the stage at XOYO in Shoreditch this week, suspense and anticipation were sky high.

After what seemed like forever, the lights dimmed and the Sydney four-piece emerged. The cheering began.

It was clear the crowd expected big things from this band, whose fanbase is growing at rapid speeds.

But as front-woman Hayley Mary stepped up to the microphone and belted out her first note, it was clear we were not about to be disappointed.

That voice is exactly what all the fuss is about. From the opening track, Dark Storm, the crowd was engrossed, and for obvious reasons.

Despite some initial technical problems, The Jezabels were on form.

With each line and every one of Mary’s passionate, hip-swinging dance moves, the mood intensified.

During Mace Spray, from their long-awaited debut album, Prisoner, the atmosphere in the underground, intimate venue darkened.

The moving lyrics coupled with Mary’s incredible vocal range and the driving drums from Nik Kaloper sent a shiver ran down my spine, and I doubt I was the only one.

As the set continued the crowd sung along to every word.

Endless Summer, one of the quartet’s more poppy tracks, was another clear favourite, getting the sold-out crowd bopping about.

But it was Easy to Love from the She’s So Hard EP that was the highlight of the night. That voice, those drums and the love for what they do took the audience to a new height during this epic track.

As the band left the stage, the crowd screamed. It was clear they were not going to escape without an encore.

They returned for one track in the shape of Disco Biscuit Love to get the crowd dancing and wrap up what was an emotional, moving and just damn outstanding gig.

If you missed out, bad luck. Because that was possibly the last time these guys will play on such a small stage.

Big things are in store.

The post The Jezabels are taking no prisoners appeared first on Australian Times News.

Wild swimming.

According to Sky News, it’s a new “craze” where people swim in natural waterways, like rivers and lakes.

Come again? Swimming in rivers and lakes is a new craze? Did I hear that right?

Like most Aussies, I have been jumping in to lakes, rivers and dams and having a grand old time since I was a child.

But it seems this is quite a new concept in the UK, and it’s proving rather popular.

Sky interviewed veteran wild swimmers, who offered advice to first-timers.

Apparently they can join wild swimming clubs.

There are clubs dedicated to swimming in rivers? Ok, this is getting a bit silly, isn’t it?

After a smidgen of research I found that yes, they do exist. There’s a host of websites which offer all the information you need to get involved in this “new” hobby.

First of all, let’s address what would seem to be the most obvious barrier for UK swimmers – the bloody cold weather.

You sure as hell won’t find me jumping in any outdoor, unheated rivers in this country, even in “summer”.

The weather hasn’t all of a sudden turned tropical (trust me, I checked).

But no, the climate was never the issue for our brave, warm-blooded UK-raised friends.

Strict health and safety laws were what got in the way.

As well as poor water quality and the usual risks involved with jumping in a river or lake, such as submerged objects, water depth and currents.

Swimming outdoors is something we take for granted in Australia.

But it’s great to see that the people who are brave enough to get their gear off and jump in icy cold water are fighting for cleaner waterways and more relaxed laws.

Read more of Shannon Crane’s Go Hard or Go Home

The post There’s a brand ‘new’ craze sweeping through Britain appeared first on Australian Times News.

I threw in some Penguin biscuits for a bit of a laugh, with a note explaining that they were the UK’s answer to our beloved Tim Tams.

For those of you who haven’t come across Penguins – they’re similar to Tim Tams but available in fewer flavours and of course, have nothing on the Arnott’s favourites.

So, when my little brother declared that he actually thought the Penguins tasted better than the god of chocolate biscuits that is the Tim Tam, I was shocked. It’s like saying Marmite is better than Vegemite, or that light beer is just as good as full-strength. Sure, they’re similar, but nothing like the real deal.

If it were a Brit who had made the declaration, it would have been more understandable, but for my own flesh and blood to make such a bold statement was just insane.

Don’t worry, I put him in his place, and soon got over the shame.

But it got me thinking about the foods that I’ve come across in the UK which are similar to products I’ve grown up with.

Let’s take Twisties, for instance. Over here, Nik Naks are a comparable salty treat, but they’re smaller in size and less fluffy.

Weet-a-bix have surprisingly grown on me. It’s hard to pinpoint the difference between our Sanitarium branded Weetbix – same size, almost the same shape, same texture, just slightly different taste. A bit like Vita Weats – they’ll do when the original isn’t an option.

Another is Jaffas. If, like me, you’re a fan of the chocolately orange goodness, then I suggest you get your hands on a packet of Mars Revels. The taste of the orange flavour is almost identical to Jaffas, but they’ve got more of a chewy texture, which works quite well.

I could go on forever, but another I just have to mention is a match for Fantales. Morrison’s Milk Chocolate Caramels (original name, hey) are a great alternative. They taste amazing; if only there was the trivia on the wrapper.

The post Tim Tams vs Penguins – is there even a contest? appeared first on Australian Times News.

IT’S that time of year when Antipodeans begin their mass evacuation from the UK.

Summer is as good as gone, and so are many Aussies and Kiwis.

The season of festivals, holidays and picnics is history, and so the appeal of warmer climates Down Under proves too hard to resist for many of us.

But for some, it’s more than just the weather driving that’s them to Heathrow — it’s a matter of law, as their two-year working visas expire and they have no choice but to leave.

It’s an emotional time, as we’re forced to say goodbye to friends who have become like family for the past little while.

I’m lucky enough to have a grandparent who was born in the UK, entitling me to a five-year ancestry visa.

But when I left Australia I thought two years would be more than enough time, so I took the easy route and went with the youth mobility visa. Silly.

Now, as my two years come to an end, I am asking myself, ‘Should I stay or should I go?’

If I stay I have to go back to Australia to apply for the damn thing, which means spending an unknown amount of time away from my job and my flat while it is processed, forking out a load of cash in the process.

But considering I spent the bulk of my first year in London setting up a life, ie finding a job that is tolerable, a house that’s livable and making friends whose company I enjoy, it feels like a bit of a waste to go home now and throw away all that hard work.

But as I watch so many of my Australian and Kiwi friends leave, I find myself wanting to do the same.

Naturally, they’re talking about the things they’re going home to — reunions with family and friends, amazing weather and things I never thought I’d miss, like owning a car again.

I know the fact that I can make either of these two wonderful countries my home is a privilege in itself, but it doesn’t make my decision any easier.

Until I decide, that repetitive song ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go’ by The Clash will keep on playing over and over in my head.

If only it could point me in the right direction.

What should I do? Are you, or do you have friends, in the same situation? Comment below now.

The post Should I stay or should I go? appeared first on Australian Times News.

That might seem odd given that this is the home of my native language, the Queen’s tongue. But as anyone who has visited the UK or Europe will know, “English” isn’t always easy to understand.

Accents, naturally, prove to be the biggest barrier, but some colloquialisms also make me scratch my head.

My first job here was as a broadcast media monitor, which meant that every day I was forced to try and transcribe regional radio and television news from all over the UK. I’d listen to each sentence over and over again and in a bid to try and understand what the bloody hell was being said.

While five months in that extremely testing job did go some way to help me get a handle on different UK accents, there are still some I just can’t decipher.

The pub scene is the worst. Everyone’s relaxed, the music is loud and there’s a high chance that alcohol is having an effect.

For example, earlier this month I was introduced to a Scottish guy at a busy, noisy bar. It was a Friday and it was late, so we’d all had a few drinks. After the initial “Hello, I’m…” the conversation went downhill as he began speaking a very different English. I tried my best to listen and interpret what he was saying, but smiling and nodding was all I could do. In my defence, my friend who was standing next to me (who is British, I might add) admitted she could barely understand what he was saying either.

But it’s not just thick accents that throw me; colloquialisms also take time to learn. Some terms, like ‘pants’ (underpants, not trousers) and ‘thong’ (G-string, not footwear), are easy to enough to get the hang of. Other phrases and words are also easy to work out, such as ‘proper’ (“We had a proper meal”), ‘well’ (“It’s well hot”) and ‘brill’ (ie, brilliant), but others are less obvious.

‘Bespoke’ is a word that I see everywhere and for a good six months had no idea what it meant. I now know it means ‘custom made’ or ‘made to order’; for the record.

Other sayings that are likely to throw you off course include: ‘It’s all sixes and sevens’ (something is a mess), ‘She looked poorly’ (she looked unwell/ill) and ‘Let’s get bladdered!’ (let’s get drunk).

Of course, it works both ways. The way I pronounce ‘data’, ‘project’ and ‘yoghurt’ always get a laugh out of my colleagues, while Glad Wrap, Brevilles and bogan are on a whole different level.

But I refuse to give in to the taunts. I’ll continue to talk the Australian way, because calling White Out ‘Tipp-Ex’ is just not cricket.

The post UK ‘English’ is all sixes and sevens appeared first on Australian Times News.

THROUGH the destruction, violence and despair caused by the recent riots in the UK, there was one thing that brought a smile to my face — seeing all the love being sent from Down Under.

While many of us were frightened by the carnage that spread almost as quickly as an Australian bushfire on a hot, dry, January day, the contact from concerned family and friends back home was heartwarming.

I’m sure every expat who lives in the UK has at times felt removed, perhaps even forgotten, as life at home carries on without us.

But the messages and calls that I, and every other Australian living in the UK, received from worried loved ones during the riots was overwhelming.

To be honest, when the riots began I crossed my fingers and hoped that my family wouldn’t hear about the chaos.

There are some things that happen in this big scary city that I’d rather they didn’t know about, for the sake of their sleep patterns and heart rate, more than anything.

But on day three, as the carnage escalated and violence infiltrated the city, I knew it was only a matter of time before Mum and Dad got in touch. There was no way of hiding this.

As I sat in my Wandsworth flat, listening to the sirens and helicopters, breathing in the smoke and watching the heartless thugs destroy Clapham Junction, I was surprised to find myself actually hoping they’d call.

From 10pm London time, (7am AEST time) the Facebook messages and texts began — Australia was awake.

Some of my friends Down Under even changed their Facebook statuses, writing messages of concern for the safety of Londoners or words of hate for the imbeciles who caused the chaos.

My Dad (bless him) even offered to book me on a flight out of London so I could escape the carnage for a week or so.

Thankfully, it never got to that stage, so I declined, however, the idea of spending a week in Spain was certainly appealing.

I know people lost their homes, their businesses and their communities, so this thought must be little consolation, but it’s worth noting.

Thanks for your kind thoughts everyone, it certainly lifted my spirits.

The post Love shines through the chaos appeared first on Australian Times News.

A RECENT incident has crushed what little faith I had in the goodwill of my fellow Londoners.

As I was walking to work, I saw a young woman fall off her bike right in the middle of an intersection.

It was peak hour, but fortunately, all the cars around her ground to a halt and she managed to get up and drag herself and her bike over to the footpath, near where I and several others happened to be walking.

Everyone stopped and watched but, sadly, I was the only one who approached her to see if she was okay.

Despite a few grazes and a seriously high level of embarrassment, the woman, who appeared to be in her late 20’s, was unharmed.

She was so grateful that I had approached her, while everyone else appeared not to care, and she thanked me more than once.

My first reaction was to find out if she was ok, because I know that if I was in her position, I would have wanted someone to do the same.

I know it’s not only Londoners who are too busy to stop and help others; Australia is even home to these sorts of heartless communities.

In fact, when I lived in Canberra several years ago, there was an incident at a bus stop outside a university where a woman had some kind of epileptic fit. Everyone ignored her because they thought she was on drugs, but she was in fact, a university lecturer.

I’m not going to harp on about today’s society and all that, because we’ve all heard it time and time before.

But seriously, something’s wrong when seeing an incident like that doesn’t bring people out of robot mode.

It’s time to start looking out for each other, London.

The post London, where is the love? appeared first on Australian Times News.

THERE’S a myth here in the UK that Australians and Kiwis don’t get along.

I don’t know if I’m alone or not, but I’d never heard of this so-called rivalry until I moved to the UK and, well, I really don’t like it.

My experience with New Zealanders, both abroad and Down Under, has been nothing but positive.

In fact, some of the best friendships I’ve made during my time in London have been with Kiwis.

I’ve lived with them, partied with them, worked with them, watched our nations fight it out in rugby matches and discussed our mutual love for Oyster Bay sauvignon blanc.

I just can’t understand where this idea that we’re not friends comes from.

Sure, I’ve given them plenty of flak about their love of sheep and the way they pronounce bin, six and fush and chups (sorry, fish and chips), and they have the poorest excuse for Burger Rings and Twisties that I’ve ever tasted.

And in return, I’ve had to sit back and listen to them harp on about the Aussie cricket team’s recent failures and the way we give everyone nicknames — Wayne-o,
Dean-o, Smithy etc.

But at the end of the day, we all know it’s just friendly banter.

When earthquakes rocked Wellington and Christchurch, I sympathised with them as if the destruction was happening on my own turf.

And the support was mutual when Australia was overcome by devastating floods and hurricanes.

In fact, the bond I share with our fellow Antipodeans is so strong that while watching Naked and Famous perform at Latitude Festival recently I felt a sense of pride … even though they’re New Zealanders.

With such similar lifestyles and outlooks on life, it only seems natural for us to stick together when we’re in a different country, so far from home.

Besides, New Zealand is, like Tassie, just another Australian state after all.

The post I heart Kiwis appeared first on Australian Times News.

When it comes to festivals, everyone seems to have a different idea about what items are ‘essential’.

For the ladies, what to wear is pretty important — onesie, funky hat, wellies and, should the weather turn nasty a poncho, are all key components of the festival look.

The guys, on the other hand, are more likely to be concerned with the camping gear; the tent, sleeping bags, a sizeable Esky (or ice box or chilly bin, depending on where you’re from).

Meanwhile, sunscreen, loo roll and booze seem to feature at the top of the lists for both genders.

But there’s one item that proves controversial — the she pee.

For those who don’t know, this device comes in various forms but it’s essentially a female urinal that allows women to go standing up.

At best, it means no queuing up for the port-a-loos, which can save you hours over the course of a three-day festival.

At worst, it’s rather disgusting and a little terrifying.

I first heard about the she pee at the Isle of Wight festival in June last year when my camping buddy, who shall remain anonymous, asked me if I’d like one.

She was buying one for herself, and despite her best efforts to convince me of their benefits, I declined.

However, after seeing (not literally) how much time she saved and how many filthy, smelly toilets she avoided, I began to reconsider my decision.

Standing in a queue for long periods while your bladder reaches bursting point is just the beginning.

When it’s finally your turn, the experience gets much worse.

The port-a-loo itself is probably blocked, there’ll definitely be no loo paper and there’s probably no hand sanitizer left either.

But the smell is the worst part — by the end of day one it’s offensive, by day two it’s ghastly, and by day three it’s tear-jerking.

So, with all of that in mind, perhaps using one of these plastic bag or funnel-type devices isn’t such a bad idea.

Sure, there’s the probability of the execution getting, erm, a bit messy.

But it means you avoid the smell and long queues entirely, and if there’s no toilet paper or soap you’ve only got yourself to blame.

Despite the obvious benefits of the she pee, I find myself heading to Latitude Festival without one.

It’s the idea of actually using it that disturbs me — squatting has never really been my thing, and I can’t imagine this being any different.

But come Monday, when the festival toilet experience is fresh in my mind, I’ll probably be ready to overcome the fear.

The post To she pee, or not to she pee, that is the question appeared first on Australian Times News.

But after paying more attention to the art of lining up and my own behaviour, I’ve discovered that it’s no laughing matter.

Forming an orderly line is so central to life in this part of the world that the art of queuing was reportedly going to form part of the citizenship test for immigrants.

The seriousness of the concept became even clearer at Wimbledon, when staff handed me a ‘how to queue’ guide. No joke.

Living in London has seen my queuing experience grow from nightclub-specific situations to everyday activities, such as crossing the road.

While I don’t particularly enjoy it, I find myself standing in an orderly line several times a day.

I did some maths and found that it’s not unusual for my daily queuing time to exceed one hour.

On a bad day, the commute to work alone can involve 20 minutes of lining up.

Within five minutes of leaving my house, I join my first queue for the day — at the traffic lights.

Clapham’s intersections are busy at 7.53am on weekdays, so there are plenty of people waiting for the man to go green. I stand behind them for a minute, sometimes more.

Four minutes down the road is an even busier intersection, and the same situation arises. Add another minute or two to my tally.

Three more minutes of walking and I am at Clapham Junction station, where the queuing gets serious.

I line up at the gates to enter the station — this queue only takes a few seconds, but it all adds up.

Some days, the Oyster card reader adds a few more minutes to my queuing time by telling me to ‘seek assistance’ (which translates to ‘your card’s outta dough’).

Once through the gates I’ll spend anywhere between two and 10 minutes on the platform, standing behind about a dozen other commuters.

Next stop: Waterloo. I repeat the same routine; line up at the gate, and again on the Tube platform, waiting for the Waterloo and City line.

Soon I arrive at Bank station. The queuing begins from the moment I step off the train, and it continues at the gate, up the escalator and right up to the point where I shuffle up the stairs and out of exit number two.

I am at my last train stop, but the morning’s queuing excitement is far from over — there are more traffic lights to contend with on the 10-minute walk to my office.

Heaven forbid should I want to stop and grab a coffee on my way — this adds about four queuing minutes.

So, after all that, I’ve reached my office. The queuing tally remains stable at just under 30 minutes, until lunchtime rocks around.

Off to the shop I go — but first, I’ll need to withdraw some cash. Add two minutes.

Pret, M&S or some other in-your-face chain is my next stop where another three-odd minutes lands on my waiting time total.

And if I want another coffee, a good one this time, I’ll have to wait about six minutes at Taylor St Baristas near Liverpool Station, along with every other Antipodean who works in the decent-coffee-deprived area.

Lunch is over and my queuing minutes rest at 41 for the rest of the afternoon.

Depending on my plans for the evening, this can easily double.

The journey home is less queue-heavy (about 15 minutes is standard), but if I’m going out for dinner, that will easily add 10 minutes.

If we want a couple of beers at a pub afterwards, another 10 creep on.

Should my evening involve a gig, between the queue to get in, the bar and the toilets, that’ll steal another 10 minutes of my time, at least.

So, after highlighting all the time I spend queuing in this city, it doesn’t seem such a stupid idea to teach foreigners how to do it correctly.

Because, as former immigration minister Phil Woolas reportedly said back in February, “Huge resentment is caused when people push in”, and we wouldn’t want that now, would we.

The post Keep calm and carry on…queuing appeared first on Australian Times News.

LIKE most Aussies living in London, spending a couple of years abroad was something I had dreamt of doing since my teens.

My best friend Kate and I talked about moving “overseas” once our University of Canberra days were done and dusted.

A serious lack of finances and a too-good-to-refuse job opportunity meant the move didn’t happen until a few years later than initially planned, but the idea was never far from my mind.

I knew several people who had spent a year or two working and living in another country, and upon their return the stories they’d tell were amazing.

Given that I didn’t leave the Great Southern Land until the ripe old age of 23, their tales of adventure and fun filled me with excitement and anticipation.

I know I’m not the only one who felt or feels like that.

Almost every time I speak to a friend or family member from back home I get an ego boost.

Even my well-travelled friends say things like, “What you’re doing is amazing”.

They want to know every intricate detail of the places I’ve visited and the sights I’ve seen.

Many of them go on to say things like “You’re so brave, I could’ve never done what you’ve done”, as though I’d gone off on a spaceship and started my own colony on Mars.

At first these sorts of comments really surprised me; I don’t consider myself to be brave, not by any stretch of the imagination.

It wasn’t until I heard comments like these that I realised; maybe living abroad actually isn’t every young Australians’ cup of flat white.

Some people are very happy plodding along without change, spending their entire lives in the same town or city, eating at the same restaurants and shopping at the same shops.

But there’s a certain breed of us that just can’t sit still.

And it’s those of us who are drawn to the bright lights of “overseas”. We’re constantly looking for the next job, next place to live, next challenge.

Especially when Down Under, that huge island we call Australia (and home), is so isolated from the rest of the world.

Of course, neither type of person is right or wrong, or better or worse. Just different.

There are times when I wish the Boredom God wouldn’t come knocking on my door as often as he does. It’s quite unsettling to be always looking for change.

The fact that my parents moved my siblings and I around every few years probably had something to do with it (thanks Mum and Dad).

While I hated it at the time, I am so thankful that we left Wagga Wagga when I was 12.

Then we moved to Goulburn, which was, err, different …

Soon after came bigger and better things in the shape of Canberra, where I made friends that will last a lifetime.

Albury was my next stop, and while I didn’t realise it at the time, I had a lot of fun in that “regional city”.

And finally I’ve ended up in London, where I’m having the time of my life.

If I’d stayed in Wagga Wagga, there’s a high chance I’d be a teenage mum by now, and I wouldn’t have been able to experience half of what I have.

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