Many hands make light work

Sydney Morning Herald - Shoot the Chef - 2008 finalist

'Many hands make light work', by Trish Honeyfield

I'm a casual observer who can see the line and write the line
but just can't draw the line - this is where the camera comes in handy.

I was captivated by the space, the informal balance and the play of light that fell over the space in an inverted arc.

This wasn't posed and only took two shots to capture, so strong was the sense of mood.

'Out of the communal wardrobe'

Individual expression is alive and well and living in Sydney.
I took a cross city bus from a trendy up market suburb via a
funky area to a grungy suburb that flaunts individual style as
its masthead. A suburb where glam lives comfortably yet
unpretentiously next to grunge.
Having lambasted those who slavishly adhere to lists and look alikes
I’m pleased to report that after my session of street ‘gazing’ and ‘grazing’
there’s a new trend emerging in the fashion stakes and it’s refreshing to see.
The look – anything goes. It doesn’t have to mix and match nor does it need to be colour co-ordinated.
There is no ‘new black’ but rather a mish mash and hot potch of lucky dip style dressing. The look – let’s call it ‘out of the communal wardrobe.’
Spotted
On the bus – blue denim shorts over long black woollen tights, brown ankle boots
and a grey, long sleeve, waisted jacket.
On the street – 10:15am! a diaphanous primrose yellow mini dress, bare legs, long black cardigan and silver lame 12cm heels. No wonder the poor girl had to stop by a fountain to apply sticky plaster to her blistered and bleeding heels.
Coming soon to a street near you……
Have you spotted the ‘out of the communal wardrobe’ look yet?
Let’s hear about it……….

Technology overload kills the shopping bug

I have a mega moan and feel sure I’m not alone with it.

The impact of technology has not been lost on us sensitive souls. Those who have no mechanical aptitude and who are technically challenged to the point of tears, will empathise with me.

Whilst the majority of the world’s population embrace technology and demand bigger, brighter, better play things, the dissenters must begrudgingly accept them as ‘the new world order’.

Why can’t there be a global operating standard for basic every day items, a sort of electronic equipment pack for dummies?
A one touch does it all remote control that opens the garage door and turns on the burglar alarm; a friendly car park ticket machine that doesn’t have a personal vendetta against you: a two button mobile phone – one button for incoming and one for outgoing calls. Standardised credit card processing machines that speak a universal
language.

Twice a year I hit the sales on a shopping spree. I delight at the money I’m saving and revel in the buzz that retail therapy brings.

Decide to shop where cash is king and a pre shopping excursion to an ATM is a basic requirement. The one that you had in mind is invariably closed - you then have to master an opposition’s machine, and pay for the privilege.

The joy of shopping and the thrill of the chase for a bargain soon turn to frustration as shop after shop you are faced with yet another technical variation on the machine that is used to rack up debt on your credit card.

The exasperated shop assistant (not his/her most favourite time of the year) snappily demands, cash or credit card, credit or savings, signature or pin, cash out, store loyalty card?

Next challenge, the none to user friendly electronically wired exit. Burdened down by your rapidly accumulating loot you are stopped, mid stride, by the shrill sound of the door alarm. You know you’re guilt free but that a harassed shop assistant has left the security tag on one of your many purchases. Back you go to have it removed.Head for the exit and again that guilty sound pierces the air. Do you take a look over your shoulder, procrastinate, run, or obligingly hang around for the strip search?

Frustrations behind you - your thoughts turn to a refreshing smoothie.Personal details, including your ‘chatty’ first name, are fed into a machine and when your double banana, pinapple and passion fruit smoothie is ready your name is broadcast over a 10 metre radius.

There’s no escaping the technology bug, it will get you every time.
There is one thing that keeps me sane and that’s the power that I can wield by pressing the ‘delete’ button on incoming junk mail.

The Journey

A warm, almost but not quite, cloud free Sydney day.
A reprieve before the sticky heat that heralds the oncoming of summer.

The 389-bus route passes through several areas that make up a very small segment of this sprawling, cosmopolitan city. It's a pretty route -
It starts at the sleepy seaside suburb of Bondi North and ends up at Circular Quay. It travels via a trendy new shopping centre, through a leafy suburb of gentlemen’s residences. then meanders its way through two kilometres of lovingly restored (at great expense) Victorian Terrace houses. It passes through a one street Italian quarter, then on to the throbbing heart of the city, the CBD.

My journey begins in the gentlemen’s suburb, sitting, praise be, in a covered bus stop. My silence is broken. “Is there a bus due soon?” asks a guy in his mid 50’s. He is casually dressed in a plain blue open neck shirt, indigo blue jeans and on his feet a pair of 'I do a lot of serious walking', shoes. I reply “there’ll be one within ten minutes” He’s off on another tangent, “I used to live around here thirty five years ago”. I did some quick arithmetic. Based on my mid 50’s assumption; he was 20 when he lived here. “There are a lot more trees around here now than there were then.” He considers this to be "a good thing" I consider it to be a not such a good thing as the trees are rapidly encroaching on my spectacular view back towards the CBD. He must have been on a trip down memory lane as he got off at St Vincent’s Hospital hospice “to visit an old friend”.

One stop prior to this, a red faced guy with a shirt to match, and a bottle that’s not a bottle when it’s wrapped in a plain brown wrapper, boards. He is obviously on his way to join a friend or two for lunch. We pass a small park sporting pigeons, prams and pushchairs then on to the stop at the National Art School to pick up a couple of funky 'grunge' mode students. A corner florist with a glorious window display of November lilies affords a sea of tranquility and a visual respite from my people watching.

The pavement tables of the tiny pocket of Italiana named, Stanley Street, are very under populated for mid day on a Saturday. I resolve to stop off at Bill and Toni’s on my return journey for a shot of good strong Italian coffee. A Sydney institution, Bill and Toni's is renowned for its big bowls of ‘spag bol’ and its even bigger jugs of sickly Orange cordial that they plonk unceremoniously on the tables.

What are my fellow passengers wearing? There’s the beach gear from Bondi, the dateless suit that is heading for an afternoon at the Bridge Club and, because of the outdoor air temperature, lots of bare arms and legs. What are they carrying? - shopping from the flashy shopping centre, numerous variations on a theme of the handbag, and heaven forbid, a plastic wrapped packet of sushi. I fear for its shelf life and for the e-coli count when it reaches its eventual destination.

The air in the bus is close; opening the window provides no relief. The sound of silence ensues. It’s surprising what a rise in air temperature will do to the tongue. No one is talking; this is a journey of visual and aural observations only. The fountain in the park dances teasingly in the middle distance.

The CBD arrives unannounced. A long queue has formed on the pavement outside of ticketek, all eager for tickets to watch Kylie Minogue wiggle her bum or to hear the sounds of U2 or perhaps both. Fortunately for those in the queue, ticketek uptown is located next to the Hyde Park pub. No worries mate; Aussies don’t need an excuse to buy a beer.

It’s 11 November 2006 and the big department store, David Jones already has its windows bedecked with Christmas decorations and the inevitable snow and a Nativity Scene. Hasn’t anyone told them that it’s 32 degrees celsius and that there are still 43 days to Christmas. It’s got to have something to do with the recent increase in interest rates. Guess they want their bite of the household budget before the next mortgage repayment is due. Make mental note, the post Christmas sales will be BIG this year.

A reality check, we have arrived at Circular Quay and the remaining three passengers are left to face the gathering of the masses. The moment has passed; my journey has come to an end.

My next journey begins with the hauntingly beautiful overture from Les Sylphides................

On a list with too many lists

Are we falling victim to lists?

Why do we slavishly adhere to what’s considered to be currently

socially acceptable?

Why do we so willingly cast off the old and embrace the new?

To list a few
What’s hot, what’s not
What’s in, what’s not
Who’s in, who’s out
Where to go and what to see.
Where not to go and what not to see
and the lists just keep coming….

We must be taking notice of and responding to them otherwise they wouldn’t exist.

Surely our life should be about what we want, desire and enjoy, not what we’re told

we need, should covet and take on to make our life more exciting.

If speckled nail polish were to appear on the ‘what’s not hot’ list an entire generation

of users would stop using it. The small manufacturer who is on the ascendancy with

this short lived winner would go to the wall. His suppliers and distributors would lose

a customer and his loyal staff would lose their jobs.

On the ‘what’s hot’ and ‘what’s not hot’ lists our personal dress code is under

unrelenting scrutiny. List follower, Kyle Sandilands has the audacity to tell Australian

Idol contestants that their gear ‘just wont grove it.’ These poor sods are being

humiliated on National Television and have to stand and take it as he is the one that

holds the power - and the list.

Would it not be better to check them out behind the scenes and make the necessary

adjustments to their style before the show? Since when did a good voice have to come

with the ability to wardrobe plan under pressure? Surely it’s the singer and the song

that count, not the perceived wardrobe disaster.



A casualty of the ‘what’s in’ list, Crown Princess Mary of Denmark is a robotic

version of her former happy, casual and relatively carefree (I’m speculating here) self.

Apparently to be a successful Princess it’s important to adopt a reserved demeanour

and have that ‘current’ look –the one that the stylist comes up with. The ‘look’ goes

on a ‘must have’ list and before long there are Mary clones popping up everywhere.

Sadly our friends fall victim to lists to. One of my so called good friends

recently commented “you keep your clothes for a long time don’t you”

and in response to my quizzical look, replied “that coat you’re wearing; you

don’t see that look here”, implying that it is just so not this seasons. For the record it’s

this year’s model that I bought in Amsterdam. Obviously to make us acceptable and

pleasing to the trained ‘spot this year’s fashion icons’ eye we need to adhere rigidly

to the dictates of the local scene.

Food is another area that falls victim to the list mentality.

This is confession time for me. Yes, I do check out lists, purely in the name of

research (of course). Two food fads that I was pleased to farewell were building food

pyramids and covering half the plate in a sea of exotically flavoured ephemeral foam.

The café and restaurant crowd are fickle when it comes to embracing lists.

They act like the passengers on a sightseeing flight, all rushing over to the side with

the best view – the pilot has to adjust the trim to avoid disaster.

Then it’s back to the other side for a new and more exciting view.

I haven’t done a survey so I can’t confirm my hypothesis. That the ‘what’s hot’ and ‘what’s not’, and the ‘in and outs’ of food fads lists are the most thumbed through lists.

There is one list that I do half heartedly respond to though - the 'don't put off till tomorrow what can be done today' list.

I’m starting a comments list to comment on lists - interested?
All comments welcome

Age sensitive - gender - F

Don’t worry, you’re not the only one that’s getting older.

Sure it’s frustrating, but it doesn’t have to be a death sentence, well not quite yet anyway.

Yes it’s winter and we’re wearing our full length coats, fleecy lined gloves, pure wool scarves and sensible flat shoes.

Take off our outer layer and what do we reveal underneath, more of the same comfortable clothing. Why? for warmth and practicality’ - we left our mini skirts and midnight frolics in near freezing temperatures, way back in the past.

Let’s just agree to let the sweet young things in their designer gear, freeze instead of making our generational grumpy asides to them. Remember, we’re the enlightened ones, the ones that have “been there, done that” and are now so far ahead of the pack that our practicality
is to be envied, not pitied.

Why does age have to be such a leveller, something to run from, to pretend that it’s not happening to us.

“The young”, as my Grandmother referred to them (she pronounced it as YUNG), see us as old (do you blame them). It’s our fault – we’re the ones guilty of labelling ourselves. We make disparaging comments – “I’ll ask the old boy what he thinks”; “she’s having a senior moment”. And on health issues – “it comes with age”, regardless if it’s
only constipation or a simple nose bled, its just got to be age related.

I have reached that sensitive age – the ‘Claytons’ the age when you apparently don’t admit your age. I’m past being coy about it, past stretching the truth and happy to embrace where I’m at now.

Recently I celebrated a chronologically significant birthday. Significant only because I achieved a milestone that 100 years ago would have been inconceivable and unattainable. Although we’re all moving onward and upward at the rate of one year per year my friends felt it necessary to point out the obvious.

Birthday cards were oh so tongue in cheek – singled out were wrinkles, wisps of greying hair, tacky teeth, back problems, failing eyesight and a slow down in lateral thinking and information processing – who needs enemies?

Presents have moved from the pretty and sexy, through the practical (toasters, irons and vacuum cleaners) and onto the everything perfumed vintage, or worse still, nothing.

Well worn clichés and ultimate put downs – “you’re only as old as you feel” and “age has nothing to do with ability”, were sympathetically offered.

Damn it,don’t we want to be accepted and acknowledged for who we are and for what we have achieved? We’ve seen a lot, heard a lot, and lived through a lot.

A World War, the first sub four minute mile, the moon landing, the assassination of John F Kennedy – at that time in that moment, these events were history in the making.

Here’s to a future of health, happiness and a large dose of social altruism.

An observation

Uninvited, I watched a couple of pigeons at play.

He circled triumphant around his hapless female prey, then

unabashed, casually walked away.

She crouched shell shocked, her head jammed up against the

the concrete wall of the bus depot; her dishevelled tail fanned out.

Some time later she moved away.

No questions asked, no guilt perceived, no defence needed...

The Peach and the Rosary

I used a new shampoo this morning - it had the perfume of a freshly picked peach.

Outside the rain was bucketing down, as it had been for the past fortnight.
That brief waft of peach perfume lifted a weather induced gloom and
put a smile back on my face as I reflected on the taste experience of lifetime.
That first bite of a giant sized peach, on the stone steps of the Church of Saint Domenico, at the top of the main Piazza, Perugia, Italy, May 2004.

That moment I felt sure that Saint Domenico, the patron saint of Astronomers,had purposely steered me here for an as yet to be disclosed reason.

The skin of that over-sized unforgettable peach had taken on the muted pink and golden hues of an early sunset. Surely nothing so big could deliver the flavour that its external appearance so teasingly promised. Just one bite proved that it could.
The nectar, sublimely sweet; the juice oozed through my teeth saturated my mouth and lips and trickled slowly through my outstretched fingers and down my bare arms.

Unannounced, out of the corner of my left eye, I caught sight of an exquisite object, a dainty rosary made of tiny ruby coloured wooden beads with a delicate silver Crucifix, its fragile anchor.
Lost, friendless and waiting to be found.
What was its history, who had loved and cherished it, were they upset to have lost it? With a furtive glance sideways and one subtle scoop downwards, it was mine.
A souvenir of sorts that’s been pricking my conscience ever since.

After ten days of walking in the rolling hills of Tuscany I headed for Umbria arriving at the station in Perugia a hilltop town, in the very centre of the Italian Peninsula,a seventy minute train trip from Terontola in Tuscany.
Italian trains run on timetables of their own making. Different gauges mean several uncouplings and changes of train per journey.
Passengers go along on this ‘pot luck’ mystery ride, uncomplaining, and with little expectation of an on-time arrival.

Umbria is earthy - rich in natural beauty; craggy mountains, unkempt landscapes, harsh gorges, wild woods, sweeping hills, fertile plains and arable farmlands.
Perugia is its sparkling gem built atop Roman ruins, sitting on an ugly speckled carpet of light industrial sprawl(food companies and textile manufacturers) at its base.

The bus from the station takes new arrivals on a short ride to an escalator that transports them and their luggage to the main Piazza.
This modern escalator system is in marked contrast to the several steep flights of uneven stone stairs the locals use to access their shoe box size homes in equally narrow shoe box size streets.

In this predominately Catholic country students from every creed and of every colour become honorary Italian citizens for the summer. They come to the Italian University, a centuries old institution, to learn the Italian language. In step the locals they
gravitate to the main Piazza late every afternoon to embrace the daily ritual of the Promenade. It’s that time of the day when families ‘step out’ to be seen and to exchange pleasantries.
Pre pubescent teenagers, self conscious to be seen with what they consider to be their ‘caught in a time warp’ parents, dream idly of Rome and well beyond.
Post pubescent couples, with the blessing of their parents, stroll arm in arm, stopping off at a colourful Gelateria to buy a fruity gelato before continuing on their Promenade.

Franciscan monks (the order was established by St Francis of Assisi)in their plain brown habits, wander the main Corso on their way to Vespers. Their dress is simple(they live, sleep and are buried in it),their demeanour serious, their stance humble.
True to the founder of their Order they have taken the oath of piety and poverty with a commitment to serve the poor and the less fortunate.
The local dogs, their pedigrees indistinguishable after centuries of in-breeding,also pay court to the sunset ‘promenade’. Unfortunately they have no consideration as to where they do their business and in the warm summer months the narrow, cobbled,
grassless, treeless back alleyways take on the distinctive smell of fresh excrement.

The Piazza buzzes with excitement; the cafes serve local Italian beers and wines;there’s espresso that you could stand a spoon up in; trays of yummy pastries, and marvellous ceramic platters groaning with fresh olives, cheeses and ample slices of pancetta and fresh bread - the classic anti pasto plate.

My insatiable curiosity took me on an unscheduled journey to trace the origin of these platters. Naively with this mission in mind I boarded what turned out to be a ninety minute bus trip to the ancient walled town of Gubbio, the home of gorgeous ceramics.
A pretty but winding drive through a deep gorge with grandiose mountains closing in on either side. Don’t do this trip alone though - there I was heading for the hills on a local bus with only a grumpy faced bus driver and three craggy locals as companions
- none of whom spoke a word of English. No one knew where I was - I could have disappeared into the black hole of history without a trace.
The designs of the ceramics are modelled on ancient shapes and patterns; the brilliant colours reflecting the strong earthy tones of the mineral deposits found in the surrounding mountains.
Had I done my homework I would have found out that most of the ceramics in Gubbio are so big that it would require a shipping container and a ten ton truck to transport them out.
Sadly there was no room on the local bus for these monuments to beauty and style.
Not to be put off, once back in Perugia I scoured the back streets
in search of a less cumbersome reminder returning triumphantly to the hotel with my very own piece of Umbrian earth – a white ceramic jug embellished with a bunch of grapes and a full blown rose. The significance of the rose - rose bushes are planted at the end of each row of vines to ensure a fruitful harvest
Unlike the ‘only on loan’ Rosary, the jug became my rightful property. It sits on display in my suburban kitchen ready to decant the next bottle of Italian Red.

Time to leave Perugia to its ancient past and head reluctantly back to the present.The train trip to Rome was made in the company of thirty three brown robed Franciscan monks,yes, the same Monks that I’d passed on the Corso in Perugia.
What should have been a short two hour journey turned into a four hour travail.There was no eye contact made during the three unscheduled stops for three gauge changes.
From under lowered brows thirty three pairs of eyes watched me hump my 20kg suitcase not once, not twice but three times into and out of the carriage. What happened to their vow of caring and compassion? What would the Holly Father have said about their lack of consideration for others?
Maybe they had been simultaneously visited by a sense of injustice
and I had been identified as the one guilty of transporting an icon from its spiritual home to worldly parts unknown.
A moment of silent self confession ensued followed by an unspoken vow - to return the ‘borrowed’ icon to the steps of Saint Domenico before I meet my maker.

I’ll go back to enjoy the fruits of this arable land, to share in and embrace the history of this core of civilization and above all, to return the delicate ruby red Rosary to its spiritual home.

Only then will I consider my journey done.

Desperate and dateless

Where have all the available Aussie men gone?

Long live a unique piece of Australiana – but first you’ve got to find him.

A statistically proven shortage of males brings out a sense of anguish and concern in our unattached females.

I recently flew to Europe for, in my mind, an eagerly awaited holiday.My friends viewed it differently - a mind boggling opportunity for me to indulge in an international talent pool of eligibles. Hot Italian Romeos, steamy Irish Lepricorns, sensual Spanish Don Juan’s, pompous pooch loving Brits and ‘in the grove’ Dutch guys.

Unsolicited pre take-off advice on how to attract your would be mate was ruthless,relentless and unashamedly directional – “don’t waste time, just go in for the kill”;make sure that you pack your sexiest underwear, little black dress and matching killer heels”. No thought given to the pending eight flight sectors in a month, 20kg (must be adhered to or strong financial penalties apply) baggage allowance and the numerous tourist style activities planned. Climbing mountains in Italy which left me looking like something the cat dragged in; walking all day around Barcelona, passing plenty of Spanish hunks enroute - none showing the slightest inclination to cast an eye on a bedraggled tourist (their Crown Princess is drop dead gorgeous as is her Prince); hitting the sales in London and the Fashion strip in Milan – neither historically hallowed turf for mere males; travelling to the west coast of Ireland where it’s so cold that the numerous layers of clothes disguise your physical attributes and meandering the canals of Amsterdam - so gorgeous you don’t notice a potential date
cycling past.

Why was it so important for me to snare a European Adonis? - pass

Only now can I appreciate the pressure that our Mary’s bridesmaid was under.Mary was successful, our Nicole scored, our Kylie snared a French man and our Livvie has recently pulled in a big overseas catch.

Back in Sydney the post mortem/inquisition continues unabashed – “did you find your Prince and if not where did you go wrong?” “Which nationality took your fancy?” and the million dollar question – “how did they compare with our Aussie blokes?”

Home, where the turf is familiar, the language a breeze, and attitude and approach, predictable, it’s time to return to the hunt for a true blue blooded Aussie bloke.

This ‘get a guy at any cost’ is puzzling. It’s reassuring that the desire for companionship and co-habitation are strong but surely it’s not healthy when it reaches this level of obsession.

Come on girls – chill out.

Name withheld - for fear of being inundated with approaches from fair dinkum Aussie guys…..if only.

The Coffee Addiction

Is it a habit, an addiction, or a social condition? Whatever - it’s firmly ensconced.
It’s not life sustaining, but it does seem to be the essential ingredient needed to kick start the day – we’re talking coffee in a paper cup.

Full grown men, resplendent in business suits, sucking on the nozzle of the lid of a paper cup. A hang over from their infant dummy days perhaps, or a more recently discarded cigarette habit? It’s not gender specific though, the females of the species
are equally ‘sucked’ in.

If you’ve ridden a peak hour escalator you’ll relate to this comic situation.
You’re standing directly behind a suit clad, briefcase carrying, umbrella wielding, coffee balancing person; it becomes a matter of judgement as to which you should dodge to avoid - a crack in the ribs, a poke in the eye, or a coffee down your front

I’ve watched bus, train and ferry passengers on a short commute, either sitting or strap hanging, clutching their precious morning coffee fix without touching a drop. There are those that put it on the floor for safe keeping and then promptly kick it over leaving a trail of lukewarm milky liquid that makes its way under the seats. There it stays for the rest of the day unless some unsuspecting person accidentally uses their bag to soak it up. If the carrier and the cup do make it to the office the cup often gets knocked over in the flurry of the morning’s activities. Result – a soggy keyboard or worse still, a drowned laptop.

During office hours these same coffee addicts punctuate their day and hence the time they spend at their desk, with frequent trips out to get another ‘fix’.

City bins overflow with discarded cups; that’s if the drinkers subscribe to the ‘keep Australia clean’ message. If not, you’ll notice these wayward cups dumped on ledges, in gutters or heaven forbid, on a vacant table of an outdoor café.

Office workers haven’t got exclusive rights to this ‘sucking’ compulsion.
Bus drivers have cottoned on to. Here’s a real life experience: It’s the end of a shift, time for a change of driver. Passengers sit patiently while the driver checks the destination board, ticket machine, and then for a place on the dashboard to rest his coffee cup. Passengers pray that we will stop at every red light, not a prayer you’d normally want delivered, to allow him time to finish his coffee before we reach the peak hour CBD traffic.
He has competition on the inside lane; a sweet young thing, in a mini minor, is doing a juggling act with, you’ve guessed it - a coffee, a mobile phone and a steering wheel.
What guise will this socially acceptable norm take on next, how about coffee on a kebab or coffee tapas perhaps?