tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24919322146281562002024-02-21T13:31:08.905+00:00The Euro FileMusings - news and views - from an Italo-Aussie journalist based in London.trullimadlydeeplyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14613501569930220149noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2491932214628156200.post-61194397035934495572016-03-21T22:35:00.000+00:002016-03-21T22:39:10.196+00:00New job, new life<h2>
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<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Hi ho, hi go it's off to work I go!</span></b></h2>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It's been eight years since I worked in an office, to the rhythm of a normal work day, to the ebbs and flows of commuter traffic and the juggle (okay, let's be honest, the clash) between family and full time employment.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Don't get me wrong, I've worked my arse off in this time, as a correspondent working from a laptop to multiple platforms in two time zones, as a full time Master's student for a year then as a freelancer battling to stay afloat, convinced every story might be my last. So, I'm no stranger to hard work, I'm not afraid of that, in fact I love it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But as I headed off to my new office in Canary Wharf in London's City district (a forest of steel and glass, bankers and more bankers - oooh how I love Cockney rhyming slang...think about it) I felt this strange push-me-pull-you feeling between overwhelming gratitude that I've landed myself an amazing professional challenge (and a salary) at this time of total carnage in our profession and a teeny tiny melancholy ache for the little daily things I came to love so much and now trade for financial security: the daily dog walk, the park and its changing light and seasons, the forced down time, between assignments when the biggest challenge was learning how not to succumb to the terror that there'd never be another assignment and forcing myself to knit a pair of socks (and a fox head!).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And so the new adventure begins.....</span></div>
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trullimadlydeeplyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14613501569930220149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2491932214628156200.post-24690749554563943862016-01-28T09:28:00.003+00:002016-01-28T09:28:19.390+00:00<br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Landscape and light</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The English light, so brilliantly captured by the great Romanticist painters - from Turner on - is something I revel in and even seven years on, I cannot help but stop and photograph what I see, everywhere I go - much to the annoyance of my family.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The other morning, I looked out the bathroom window just before dawn and had a moment of deja vu. I took a look in my art books and found what had sparked it - Sir George Clausen's 'In the early hours'.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I adore this vignette as I pretty much live it every single day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Pre sunrise is always a magical time of day for me and remains one of the few upsides of being an insomniac who also happens to work as a journalist for a time zone some 11 hours ahead of her body clock!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Can you see why this painting strikes me so?</span><br />
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<br />trullimadlydeeplyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14613501569930220149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2491932214628156200.post-64466809263800067872016-01-09T18:30:00.001+00:002016-01-27T09:09:04.267+00:00<br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The thing I love most about living in Europe is the change of seasons and the way nature signals where we are in the yearly cycle around the sun.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">This year however, even here in London where the parks and gardens change dramatically, from fragrant, leafy, flower heavy oases to ice coated, skeletal wastelands, there is confusion.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Trees and flowers are perplexed, teased out of their hibernation by a seductively warm December, diluvial rain and Spring like temperatures.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">And so, for the first time in our eight winters in London, December and January look and feel more like March and April.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Climate change? What climate change?</span></div>
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<br />trullimadlydeeplyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14613501569930220149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2491932214628156200.post-21918264430833008052015-01-17T09:18:00.001+00:002015-01-17T11:05:39.079+00:00<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Of class, diplomacy and a bit of Downer</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One of the great things about being an expatriate is that you can observe the society and city you live in with fresh eyes - but at times, you can apply the same prism of distance to really 'see' your own culture, its politicians and artists outside their natural context and in an international environment.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I remember very clearly as Herald Europe correspondent, seeing both Kevin Rudd and Julia Gillard speak in big, global political gabfests (G20s etc) and understanding in an instant significant aspects of their characters, their strengths and weaknesses. Penny Wong was one politician who is widely lauded at home and yet outside the home ground, underwhelming is the only word I can think of. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Anyway, this ain't a report card for Aussie politicians, but rather a musing about Australian attitudes to class, to accents and the realization that living here in the UK, I can clearly see that there is an anti snobbery in Oz I've always perceived but could never put my finger on. So here, I'll try.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On Thursday night, the British-Australia Society held a party at Australia House in the rococo folly of the Downer Room to farewell and laud the outgoing British politician and former Foreign Secretary, William Hague. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Hague is a fantastic speaker, funny, relaxed, utterly uninhibited in his remarks about the relationship and was visibly delighted to receive his plaque, thanking him for reviving the Oz-Brit political relationship. Lord Carrington, British High Commissioner to Australia in 1956 to 59, now in his 90s, spoke with humour and a twinkle in his eye, reminding people that before Hague, no British Foreign Minister had bothered to visit Australia for 16 years! Shows how high we figured on the priority list for so long!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But my interest is in Alexander Downer, now the High Commissioner in Australia. A figure of fun most of the time at home (plummy accent, Billy Bunter jokes, never lived down donation of his fishnetted legs to that 'whose are they' competition in the Women's Weekly), Downer is in fact the consummate diplomat, one who can speak off the cuff with both aplomb and wit and is as much at ease with old ladies who have been coming to Brit-Oz society do's for decades as he is chairing a meeting of the awkwardly named AUKMIN (Oz and UK foreign affairs and defence ministers meeting). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(The fact that we meet about defence when we barely share anything really is madness - perhaps an AUKMIN about climate change might be more appropriate, but that's another story). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Anyway, the truth is that Downer's a diplomat who doesn't make you cringe, who holds his own amongst the Brits without fawning but sans gaffes, with a self confidence born of being utterly Australian and himself as well as the clear, cultural understanding of his host nation and its mores. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He is eloquent and well read.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In his speech, he made fun of himself (failed PM, i.e. party leader in Opposition never in Government), fun of William Hague (also a failed PM), the long time spent in Opposition (more jokes about failure as leader), the fact the British Tories may soon be in Opposition (risky but very funny), potential for Liberals to be in same position (very risky but funny), lots of history (and the neglect by the UK of Australia for so long), pisstake about how one of his first acts on arrival to London was to rename the room we were in to the Downer Room (named for his father) and so on. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(FYI his accent here, by the way, sounds happily Orstraylian, but with 'eyes' 'ohs' that obviously come from private school, not the back of his nose).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In my mind, all the attributes that have made him a figure of fun in Australia appeared to me to be skills and peccadillos that define a certain kind of politician/diplomat - one who represents my country with style, dare I say class - and didn't make me cringe. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In my book, that's a bloody good thing. So there, I've said it (and if he does end up making us all cringe, okay, okay, I'll eat crow. In public.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>trullimadlydeeplyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14613501569930220149noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2491932214628156200.post-14704469419135743992015-01-10T11:38:00.001+00:002015-01-10T11:38:23.380+00:00<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Of dreams, of stupid instincts and the business of life.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ten days or so ago, I woke up in a sweat, heart pounding in terror. I'm not one who often remembers dreams, indeed it is very rare but this one left me so shaken that I had a strange, quiet feeling for days afterward.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In a nutshell, two armed men wearing black facial coverings burst into the newsroom where I was working. The thing I remember most was the profound silence and the deep realisation that all in that room were about to die. I woke when a rifle was pointed at my head. I knew my life was to end and the physical terror of that instant continued after waking for some time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then, the Charlie Hebdo horror unfolded. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I certainly don't believe in premonitions. And </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm not a believer in God. Tell me you believe in astrology and I'm sorry but a part of me will look down her nose and wish you'd read a little more, go expand your mind with some science. I pretend I'm superstitious but am not really - I just like the ancient, rather silly Italian rituals that supposedly protect you from the evil eye. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So how to explain my dream? Was it the sub conscious manifestating a growing realization that we live in a big, global city, that the threat of random acts of terror are a fact of life, that I have kids and fear for them in an increasingly violent world? Deep fears expressed in dream?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">All that's fine if it stopped there, at a dream. But what I hate about it is that post dream, in the aftermath of the ugly reality of Hebdo, I realise I'm now wrestling a newly awakened ugly feeling of overriding suspicion. I hate the fact that I look at my neighbours, the men and women who walk down my street in a different, fearful way. I absolutely deplore that since this dream - and for some reason the Hebdo murders - I have to battle irrational feelings I never had before. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm an educated, middle class woman who works in media and my brain will not allow me to respond solely instinctively. I know this too will pass and I won't allow this stupid response to dominate my behaviour. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">However it leaves me with the profound sadness that if I, who read and try to educate myself on the past to explain or at least contextualise the present, react like this (with, let's face it honestly an us/them instinct) what will it be like in the banlieux of Paris, on the peripheries of big cities all over Europe (and indeed Australia) where social dislocation is high and suspicion and overt hostility between communities is a fact of life?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I don't like to admit this gut sensation. And I will fight it with every ounce of will/intellect I have and know it too will pass. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I can only hope and pray that the global desire for solidarity and unity expressed for the victims of Hebdo will not divide us further and that the instinctive fear we probably all feel at some level won't be allowed to prevail.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We need more cultural inclusion. More dialogue. Greater attention to education and employment for those who fled war and conflict - and better discourse to explain notions of freedom of speech, democracy and personal liberty at personal level - and in society.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I grew up with my French grandfather's pride in liberte', egalite', fraternite' - and fraternity is the bit I want to nurture, keep going, never allow to die.</span></div>
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trullimadlydeeplyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14613501569930220149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2491932214628156200.post-83470498029241268762015-01-06T23:04:00.001+00:002015-01-06T23:04:53.968+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Okay, I admit it: I hate taking the Christmas tree down and the end of holiday thing brings on that 'whale of gloom/now to find work again/will I work again?' feeling . </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">However being anal retentive about some things (see kids, I do admit it!) I got a little solace from packing them up in near perfection and by theme. </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Pathetic but it made the whole darned ritual bearable. . .at least I went to the gym today. Blah. Blecch. </span><a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/notsureaboutjanuary" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-decoration: none;">#notsureaboutjanuary</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/notsureaboutjanuary" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-decoration: none;"><br /></a></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".4m.1:3:1:$comment10205891484989248_10205892087564312:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body" style="color: #141823; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><span data-reactid=".4m.1:3:1:$comment10205891484989248_10205892087564312:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$text0:0:$0:0">Funnily enough, seeing them all there makes me think of the stories attached to them...the jack in the box at the very back far left was bought when I was pregnant with Allegra. We knew it was a girl but pretended (or hinted to the other kids, Rosie, Stevie and Sean) </span><span data-reactid=".4m.1:3:1:$comment10205891484989248_10205892087564312:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0">that I loved the name Jack and steered them to it being a boy! </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".4m.1:3:1:$comment10205891484989248_10205892087564312:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body" style="color: #141823; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><span data-reactid=".4m.1:3:1:$comment10205891484989248_10205892087564312:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0"><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".4m.1:3:1:$comment10205891484989248_10205892087564312:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body" style="color: #141823; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><span data-reactid=".4m.1:3:1:$comment10205891484989248_10205892087564312:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0">The candles and holders were bought in a tiny bavarian town on one of our first forays while living in Europe, lots of the glass balls came from my mum who had a ritual - buy one new decoration each year. When we left, the majoiry became mine and there are still a couple I remember from childhood (which is a long bloody time ago!) There is a whole Australiana section at right, while the wooden stars at right are one each for the chidlren...ha, thinking about it all made me cheer up....the glass typewriter is this year's addition...hopefully an omen of lots of writing!</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".4m.1:3:1:$comment10205891484989248_10205892087564312:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body" style="color: #141823; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><span data-reactid=".4m.1:3:1:$comment10205891484989248_10205892087564312:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".4m.1:3:1:$comment10205891484989248_10205892087564312:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body" style="color: #141823; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><span data-reactid=".4m.1:3:1:$comment10205891484989248_10205892087564312:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0"><br /></span></span></span>trullimadlydeeplyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14613501569930220149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2491932214628156200.post-47922361610035730222015-01-05T23:42:00.000+00:002015-01-06T00:02:40.502+00:00<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Ikea: the modern soup kitchen?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Today, I uttered the words my husband dreads most (well, almost): "I want to go to Ikea". </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A new kitchen is on the horizon - the old is at least 30 - and the loss of yet another baking tray into the house's bowels thanks to decrepit cupboard backs pushed me into activity.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our closest Ikea is in less-than-salubrious, Croydon, on the site of one of South London's biggest power stations. The only remaining signs of this previous life are the two enormous chimneys, now painted in Swedish blue and yellow stripes. I love 'em because I inevitably get lost driving there and can and use them as beacons to lead me into the car park. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">London's FT reports that the business, founded
in 1943, now sells one of its Billy bookcases every 10 seconds. Last year, there
were 684 million visitors to Ikea’s 345 stores around the world while its total revenues reached €28.5bn.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Rather creepily, it is now also reported that
one in 10 Europeans are conceived in one of its beds.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Which led me to observe today that Ikea is now not just about cheap and cheerful furniture. Its in-store restaurants - offering good quality food at incredibly cheap prices thanks to the sheer economies of scale - have become a kind of integrated social service, a giant, light and airy soup kitchen for both young and old, poor and not so poor. Today, I watched a bunch of very old people sit and drink endless cups of free tea in comfy armchairs, reading magazines and hordes of very young parents drink coffee, chat and re-fill baby bottles ad infinitum (I watched one mum who couldn't have been a day over 18 fill three bottles with milk and stash them in her pram bag) and observed for half an hour while two carers/social workers sat with their young disabled charges sharing coffees and cake in a cafè that has enough room for scores of space-guzzling wheel chairs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Downstairs, the queue for child minding in the Smaland playrooms snaked around the corner and I pondered how many young parents seek Ikea out as much for the hour or two it gives them free from their little ones as they do for the chance to cart home a book case in a flat-pack.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The truth is that there'd be few of us (apart from the stonking über rich) who haven't had to go to the ubiquitous Swedish chain for something at some time. And anyone who says they haven't tried and surreptitiously enjoyed the meatballs or gravlax are probably telling porkies.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWrBIGg1kxDC-tukIt0yBgG0sgYIZlvx-cnnQVWdzcpOfgCUWKHvvxuol34Y4mwupqmDLaNSOrM7qvlRO2o6_KAXhyAG6C8QI7L3LZSXsNmyntfC40pGcLkT2Twe-pTkYLfeTKirJNzHw/s1600/Croydon_Ikea_Breakfast_Feast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWrBIGg1kxDC-tukIt0yBgG0sgYIZlvx-cnnQVWdzcpOfgCUWKHvvxuol34Y4mwupqmDLaNSOrM7qvlRO2o6_KAXhyAG6C8QI7L3LZSXsNmyntfC40pGcLkT2Twe-pTkYLfeTKirJNzHw/s1600/Croydon_Ikea_Breakfast_Feast.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And if you're short of a quid (or not for that matter), where else can you get a huge, full English breakfast for £2.30 along with bottomless coffees? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It seems to me that Ikea has created a giant, flatpack curtain that manages to hide the stigma of poverty for a short while for many. Indeed, what seems to have begun as a service to cultivate loyalty from customers has morphed into a high capitalist way of offering less well off customers the chance to feel comfortable and mingle with the richer ones - even if they can, in fact, only afford a bowl of soup and a free bread roll.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm not sure how I feel about this - but I found today's first kitchen foray way more interesting than I'd imagined.</span><br />
<br />trullimadlydeeplyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14613501569930220149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2491932214628156200.post-45172538157490833032015-01-04T11:06:00.000+00:002015-01-05T08:52:23.848+00:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Maples, Wiltshire</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Every now and then, nature puts on a display that leaves you without words, sans mots, speechless. Which is, as those of you who know me, rather odd. . . </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">If you are a lover of the seasons and the dramatic changes they bring in the northern hemisphere, pay a visit to the Westonbirt arboretum in Wiltshire. A kind of tree museum established in Victorian times by a nature loving aristocrat, Robert Stayner Halford, it is one of those places that sear themselves into your memory and revisit in your dreams.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We've been in summer, autumn, spring and winter. Every time, nature offers something to gawp at. We always take the dog, plenty of treats to entice him to return - and we've never been disappointed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />I'm posting this photo today, actually taken in the autumn,because we were supposed to go to Wiltshire for a couple of days but at the eleventh hour, it ain't going to fit in. I'm really really disappointed but will just have to wait!</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVGi1DqA20VHqla4_mGDpOxRR_xA9TiU2i5iMxWJ6WC1ZgU6Q9nwB1Dsmf6jE2W0fZN0uIYjxBRKjc3BkZCA-fJqV1qJOdUTEURQ5G1rM8AACugQ3A44qGdg7j39Pa4zCRKiGTFhSD_mU/s1600/IMG_0040.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVGi1DqA20VHqla4_mGDpOxRR_xA9TiU2i5iMxWJ6WC1ZgU6Q9nwB1Dsmf6jE2W0fZN0uIYjxBRKjc3BkZCA-fJqV1qJOdUTEURQ5G1rM8AACugQ3A44qGdg7j39Pa4zCRKiGTFhSD_mU/s1600/IMG_0040.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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trullimadlydeeplyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14613501569930220149noreply@blogger.com0Westonbirt Arboretum Wiltshire, UK51.2462714 -1.992212699999981949.9760919 -4.5739996999999821 52.516450899999995 0.589574300000018tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2491932214628156200.post-27194789766658236142015-01-03T23:58:00.000+00:002015-01-03T23:58:34.666+00:00<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhiPJH3HppU0v0vLIZEo5RUSGLOe2t0C9VMFjlBMdNdFiAkkmqv2wT6vtQ-S4K0JaX0Z5TGdZbauogQAHuqGbs4nGUVTI6iHlACccaD1tU0S95A-tc5GWsGDwfDC0TumzVzNQFOTLhyphenhyphenBk/s1600/IMG_2035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhiPJH3HppU0v0vLIZEo5RUSGLOe2t0C9VMFjlBMdNdFiAkkmqv2wT6vtQ-S4K0JaX0Z5TGdZbauogQAHuqGbs4nGUVTI6iHlACccaD1tU0S95A-tc5GWsGDwfDC0TumzVzNQFOTLhyphenhyphenBk/s1600/IMG_2035.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCzvSKrfA6pbU4CRXTwP9NtyaG-jH3WWBStQ8_FN36-Z4BsjxEkcdnLcExFdlMLYgWDtdo6fHQOWZIJtfewl1NpMQDXF96bnJ9S2h9oLDI0yqBjOttSxJrSVL9OLd8OMnlHEAu6N69wFU/s1600/Europa-and-the-Bull-Guido-Reni.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCzvSKrfA6pbU4CRXTwP9NtyaG-jH3WWBStQ8_FN36-Z4BsjxEkcdnLcExFdlMLYgWDtdo6fHQOWZIJtfewl1NpMQDXF96bnJ9S2h9oLDI0yqBjOttSxJrSVL9OLd8OMnlHEAu6N69wFU/s1600/Europa-and-the-Bull-Guido-Reni.jpg" height="640" width="492" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">'Baroquing the Streets' </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Very quick post today as it was Rob's birthday and I've been busy. But I did promise to report back when I found the most recent of the 'Baroque the streets' murals (see yesterday's post). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So, here it is: Guido Reni's 'Europa and the Bull' through the eyes and spraycans/brushes of Faith47</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I think this one is wonderful too. Here is her website <a href="http://www.faith47.com/" style="border: 0px; color: #9f137b; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">www.faith47.com</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Rather wonderfully, I've found the Aussie artist too but will save that one for later. . . .and intrigued that a former colleague, Julia Baird, has been in New York and has written about her experiences on a similar subject!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Here is her piece <a href="http://www.smh.com.au/comment/by/Julia-Baird" target="_blank">http://www.smh.com.au/comment/by/Julia-Baird</a></span><br />
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trullimadlydeeplyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14613501569930220149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2491932214628156200.post-34635526869467529812015-01-02T11:41:00.000+00:002015-01-02T11:41:41.945+00:00<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I've no idea why but a </span><a href="http://www.smh.com.au/comment/its-attitude-that-separates-street-art-from-graffiti-20140326-35iof.html" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;" target="_blank">column </a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">by Elizabeth Farrelly last year came to mind this morning and as January 2 dawned bright and clear, I figured I might just get on my bike and go exploring the 'hood. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxF40M4ed9FETyOuLxN-mZw38qNqPFjida_BLKMM_p-wa8gETDEzlJ2Yb2AuHre9HXrwtG-WkCN6ccnDfshl7B74b82Ct93LtuSF7CkUbzbCZwymHqBCDai1dVKIWDmi_SF1aL4-EdG2A/s1600/IMG_8624.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxF40M4ed9FETyOuLxN-mZw38qNqPFjida_BLKMM_p-wa8gETDEzlJ2Yb2AuHre9HXrwtG-WkCN6ccnDfshl7B74b82Ct93LtuSF7CkUbzbCZwymHqBCDai1dVKIWDmi_SF1aL4-EdG2A/s1600/IMG_8624.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The plan is to go see if I can find the new street artwork that's belatedly joined a fantastic suite of murals spawned by the 'Baroque the Streets' project, brain child of the clever types at the Dulwich Picture Gallery last year. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For those who don't know it, this was London's first, purpose built gallery, designed by </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;">the Regency architect Sir John Soane using innovative illumination designs (natural light, glass cupolas) and which opened to the public in 1817.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCWKKlYNjU6SRKS1f1gdSaZek4Z0zblv3ZqUXasDaMEfVOgsaghqOl9ClqSCB9gUVlvFGqUStc0wAPwLcRjML6bLGHwiPmGbq44WcIyw-vSutXB91F9igEEsn5ygKNb5Z1MS1PoaOOi1c/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCWKKlYNjU6SRKS1f1gdSaZek4Z0zblv3ZqUXasDaMEfVOgsaghqOl9ClqSCB9gUVlvFGqUStc0wAPwLcRjML6bLGHwiPmGbq44WcIyw-vSutXB91F9igEEsn5ygKNb5Z1MS1PoaOOi1c/s1600/images.jpeg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;">It's on our doorstep and in the four years we've lived 'souf of the river, Hockney lithographs and Whistler on the Thames have been highlights. The permanent collection is built around the gift of hundreds of Baroque old masters by the aptly named Sir Francis Bourgeois in 1811. It's mind boggling, the two BIG Canaletto's alone worth hours contemplation.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16px;">Anyway, the education team at Dulwich decided a couple of years ago that Baroque ain't cool enough to entice younger types into its permanent galleries and decided to throw open the collection for inspiritation to a raft of street artists from around the world. (There's an Aussie there too). We residents of Camberwell/Peckham/Dulwich are the lucky beneficiaries of these fantastic murals. I've snapped a few of them and pinched pics of their inspiration. . . .</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga5brmuYa3EnUtPTqXNtNQMb2ZMcVpkwDK1newVxcBsR3kjQeiAJ2JPHRJ1dZDanxkkBMn5iIeREHLlRtMBywH-qLQ1NJlMrsIeNHB3w5wBzeEkVVXA7G4XYRV46PS2opfffVssftpCxo/s1600/Snapshot-003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga5brmuYa3EnUtPTqXNtNQMb2ZMcVpkwDK1newVxcBsR3kjQeiAJ2JPHRJ1dZDanxkkBMn5iIeREHLlRtMBywH-qLQ1NJlMrsIeNHB3w5wBzeEkVVXA7G4XYRV46PS2opfffVssftpCxo/s1600/Snapshot-003.jpg" height="384" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My absolute favourite on the wall of the pub on Bellenden Road is this detail from the 1645 painting by Pynacker, 'Landscape with sportsman and game' by the Belgian street artist, Roa. I adore it</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Here are a few others </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgutSbLfNot1BOG3E6tGffpTMUgPRrF1TO877HH-SBlo7B-sKl4xzV8flBOp26c0SUqKUqH-U88Ky3zELOz_vvD87N33d1Gut7KzSzQO6PbnnhkCpGvqzavAvtdfh1to8RsdffQH2XS7W8/s1600/Snapshot-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgutSbLfNot1BOG3E6tGffpTMUgPRrF1TO877HH-SBlo7B-sKl4xzV8flBOp26c0SUqKUqH-U88Ky3zELOz_vvD87N33d1Gut7KzSzQO6PbnnhkCpGvqzavAvtdfh1to8RsdffQH2XS7W8/s1600/Snapshot-001.jpg" height="384" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Rembrandt's 'Girl at a Window' by Remi Rough </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYRtykYScVAQw7q5mBQoUtJu19EgFyKg4wPXd9Z1wH_I3W0qqE0ugm8fqcEdZ6HKo02O4YYkRFFvNs9tfj1ZaU-0QGBKXKclVcogenUeGAfrypQ2nPQt2vmhi0ktv-dltrti7qfqScl08/s1600/snapshot-005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYRtykYScVAQw7q5mBQoUtJu19EgFyKg4wPXd9Z1wH_I3W0qqE0ugm8fqcEdZ6HKo02O4YYkRFFvNs9tfj1ZaU-0QGBKXKclVcogenUeGAfrypQ2nPQt2vmhi0ktv-dltrti7qfqScl08/s1600/snapshot-005.jpg" height="384" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Franceschini's Guardian Angel by Stik</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlpZffoTug-xkC7jUBSh9VbPvHlnlOFnGfMELGJGypZxsiPjEr5jLVPpWnfJwKYP0bBrlb2LjF_VsN3CD7HH5A9rZrTGX9cXbo7TmfdLjkS3IZED6TT1VIrZVC7KP0TGaI9jf_-CYanms/s1600/snapshot-007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlpZffoTug-xkC7jUBSh9VbPvHlnlOFnGfMELGJGypZxsiPjEr5jLVPpWnfJwKYP0bBrlb2LjF_VsN3CD7HH5A9rZrTGX9cXbo7TmfdLjkS3IZED6TT1VIrZVC7KP0TGaI9jf_-CYanms/s1600/snapshot-007.jpg" height="384" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Triumph of David by Poussin (near the school) by Phlegm</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Van Dyck's Samson and Delilah reinterpreted by David Shillingsaw</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Will keep you posted if I find the new one!</span></div>
trullimadlydeeplyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14613501569930220149noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2491932214628156200.post-80524087855202099882015-01-01T14:58:00.001+00:002015-01-01T15:04:31.237+00:00<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One of the things I've promised myself in 2015 is to return to blogging. This time however, I want to do it with discipline: write </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">short, write often, above all, write interesting. (I hope!)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I've traveled a lot on my own and one of the things that strikes me about lone adventuring is the never-ending urge to share experiences when you've seen something beautiful, unexpected, interesting.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'd love this blog to be my 'OMG, will you look at that?! Have you read this? You simply MUST go and see X".</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A Facebook aficionado, I love swapping life/stories/photos with friends all over the world and find that medium easy and natural. Blogging, at least for me when I started last year, felt like sharing into a vacuum, a monologue rather than a dialogue.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />In 2015, I'm going to give Euro File another go: see if I can find a way to share not just the domestic but the political, the news worthy, the creative, indeed whatever takes my Euro-hearted fancy! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />So, happy New Year to you all - from the dog park on Sherlock's birthday of course!</span><br />
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trullimadlydeeplyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14613501569930220149noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2491932214628156200.post-45087042100776658042014-01-25T17:48:00.000+00:002014-01-29T13:30:28.957+00:00Recipes and life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHMNZJExSJCTN6RyR1N7pfqc5D2O1PQORG_Y9sHMJ51oUU02tyuI-4fJkoxaqYgnmaq4SkivFUySIhskn8uV5yPpyxWVav_OnJg8Bz15U0Q9iL8l27T0-Ay_LJYKjxmx0fwuOcZkSfWLs/s1600/IMG_5420.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHMNZJExSJCTN6RyR1N7pfqc5D2O1PQORG_Y9sHMJ51oUU02tyuI-4fJkoxaqYgnmaq4SkivFUySIhskn8uV5yPpyxWVav_OnJg8Bz15U0Q9iL8l27T0-Ay_LJYKjxmx0fwuOcZkSfWLs/s1600/IMG_5420.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This morning, an old notebook full of recipes collected over nearly 30 years fell off the kitchen shelf where it lives and onto my head. It happens all the time and I was intent on throwing the whole bloody thing into the bin, when a card with my maternal (French) grandfather's handwriting inside it floated to the floor.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYVVMephlJj6voFGrf6ATMlQjJmnsoE56XIQxLr-fU4oR5UdfUzg85k2pXTY02lrCIEYX2D9v315y4zpkZKxdFhRqQtwG-aq9K3Uqqz3R1GrIlwqGN8SxwEpxYpCck0MAtL44OHB9MkXw/s1600/IMG_5428.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYVVMephlJj6voFGrf6ATMlQjJmnsoE56XIQxLr-fU4oR5UdfUzg85k2pXTY02lrCIEYX2D9v315y4zpkZKxdFhRqQtwG-aq9K3Uqqz3R1GrIlwqGN8SxwEpxYpCck0MAtL44OHB9MkXw/s1600/IMG_5428.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">His recipe for 'Gateau de Praline', photocopied by my mum, had been given to me as part of my birthday loot many years ago. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This incredibly divine dessert, of a complexity way beyond my talent or patience, is a dense, velvety textured cake made with almond-meal and was served floating in a a cream of such deliciousness that if I close my eyes I can still taste it. Gateau de praline formed a part of the rare and terribly special occasions when Pepère shooed the household's helpers out of the kitchen and took it over himself, usually after returning from a fishing or hunting trip or when he had grand-kids around him who particularly loved his sweet things. 'Les crepes' , thrown in the air with great flair, were a favourite, closely followed by 'ca nougat' (I have no idea if that is how you spell it) which was a kind of chewy, fragrant toffee which he cooked and then cooled and cut up on the old marble table in the middle of the kitchen. These sweets were wrapped in foil (my cousins might correct my memory) and never lasted very long!</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin-AIVFneLYKDKRE06zHpAZ2AZrMxAYAFyUM61K-Dwpo3ooa-pdQpKf5A9fx5WgLfh44E6TR425I_8Jf7reown1KSAo9yFGx5nF5fsnaWeU37HGrwtz-h93V7GJlhsl3JvTB9mi4WTDz4/s1600/CIMG0769.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin-AIVFneLYKDKRE06zHpAZ2AZrMxAYAFyUM61K-Dwpo3ooa-pdQpKf5A9fx5WgLfh44E6TR425I_8Jf7reown1KSAo9yFGx5nF5fsnaWeU37HGrwtz-h93V7GJlhsl3JvTB9mi4WTDz4/s1600/CIMG0769.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Donn'Anna Pepere and Memere's home</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Pepère was also known for making an incredible Nocillo, an eye-wateringly powerful liquor steeped with green (unripe) walnuts although drinking it does not form part of my childhood memory! One of the most romantic things ever done for me was the Nocillo concocted secretly by my husband with walnuts picked from a tree in the garden of our first house in London. Robert followed Pepère's recipe and we still have some in the cupboard, usually pulled out after a dinner party when we've probably all had quite enough to drink but the night still feels young.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTe5iXLig4BYpIC47T72df0CiSmrCvLr2BRkOPadBq5Xt6OGT9dT4GOUgno2Ptx_-_npurhLoQ07qd6_EnOEfT11-kXRBAMCOr_rWroqueKSR81oZhSmwKcsiK1YRLou8EvOeYsRg_obs/s1600/IMG_5421.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTe5iXLig4BYpIC47T72df0CiSmrCvLr2BRkOPadBq5Xt6OGT9dT4GOUgno2Ptx_-_npurhLoQ07qd6_EnOEfT11-kXRBAMCOr_rWroqueKSR81oZhSmwKcsiK1YRLou8EvOeYsRg_obs/s1600/IMG_5421.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For me, sense of smell most vividly evokes old memories: espresso coffee mixed with tobacco will send me right back to Naples just as ripe mangoes and pine trees woosh me smack bang into Aussie Christmases. Today it was bits of </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">paper, old magazine cuttings, print-outs and faded photocopies, that propelled me into childhood and teens (Coco Pops slice, really?!) into the wild early 20s, back to old, old mates, exes, long lost acquaintances and the continuing friendships helped by technology like Facebook. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Among the treasures I found Luis and Isabel Garcia's Cuban Potaje (circa 1987). The Italians call it potacchio, the French potage and it's a lentil and veg and bacon bone thing that has long been one my kids' very favourite comfort foods. Here I've found it impossible because believe it or not, you can't find smoked bacon ribs in London!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I dug out Patricia "Aunty Pat" Sheahan's Spinach Pie, a filo concoction that reminds me of the days in the shared house in Glebe, with John Hanscombe, Mark Cornwall, Henry Everingham and a host of others - all of us young cadet journos, budding artists, musos - all poor but rich with ideas, anticipation and angst and about the future. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Buried a little further on, the delightfully named 'Root Soup', written out I think in Rosie's godfather, Russel Granger's writing. I smiled at this one for title alone - and put it on the table for recipe revival.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIpj0EyYLpaGmuB5co8cxmX3q5jA-HP7WWALMasxJlsasrbHhYLiuM8_0TUUt0wmUZcQgz5l2F0uL_evXIsND1Bz0yx-yskCc1mfWZ2EV6O1lswibhoW8gJmm8TIbJa8M-YU6uFXxy2Ak/s1600/IMG_5425.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIpj0EyYLpaGmuB5co8cxmX3q5jA-HP7WWALMasxJlsasrbHhYLiuM8_0TUUt0wmUZcQgz5l2F0uL_evXIsND1Bz0yx-yskCc1mfWZ2EV6O1lswibhoW8gJmm8TIbJa8M-YU6uFXxy2Ak/s1600/IMG_5425.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I also found pages and pages of recipes I wrote out after sitting down with Cosimina Della Pioggia, who was my nanny as a baby/toddler and who worked for our family for two generations. I knew and loved her as 'Babba': she helped raise my cousins and some of their kids too. A tiny powerhouse of a woman, she never learned to read or write and yet was a dynamo, the most loving, patient, wonderful woman and to this day, a better cook I've yet to meet. She is gone now but lives on in my memories - and my kitchen! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I also found my mum's sugo instructions, the pasta al forno my kids (and my brother's too) call 'crunchy pasta' and probably another 20 recipes jotted on bits of paper in the wake of frantic phone calls home for inspiration after a long day at work and with hungry kids waiting. Missing is my paternal Nonna's recipes: she was a brilliant cook so I must right this omission with my Dad asap.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Oh, I found a host of other wonderful tidbits that I won't bore you with. So to finish, here's picture of me in Naples eating pizza.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My favourite. </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Of course.</span><br />
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trullimadlydeeplyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14613501569930220149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2491932214628156200.post-32113316140188090342014-01-21T07:44:00.000+00:002014-01-21T07:48:41.490+00:00Seasons' greetings (yes, the apostrophe is in the right place!)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQd1zJv6IzLj0oe6W-hWaYQBy7zUaH5gt_DBXaAYGODTIru4T_4RMv_Uw1JQw9W-AD_zWIH0nJvV3z6xlo27msB6XK7P_SvfQlClwSsl7loqeR4BWzslmr1ZyB6QFzQhpaI2VwsI-M750/s1600/wintersunstgiles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQd1zJv6IzLj0oe6W-hWaYQBy7zUaH5gt_DBXaAYGODTIru4T_4RMv_Uw1JQw9W-AD_zWIH0nJvV3z6xlo27msB6XK7P_SvfQlClwSsl7loqeR4BWzslmr1ZyB6QFzQhpaI2VwsI-M750/s1600/wintersunstgiles.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">This morning's winter sun in the St Giles
churchyard, Camberwell</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">The northern hemisphere's seasons -
and the dramatic changes that come with them - are a continuing source of
wonder. I remember a mortifying moment just a few months after we arrived in
2008 when I woke up and saw that the stunning climber that covered the old
brick walls of our rented house in Hampstead were brown, withered and looked - at
least to me - as if a bush fire had swept through overnight. I rang the
landlady's P.A in slight hysterics the flowing day as I knew that just
like the 150 year old wisteria that climbed the house, this was an old, old,
OLD climbing hydrangea. Convinced it was dead, I was having terrifying
visions of the bond being withheld (and red-faced explanations to the
SMH bean counters when the time came). Instead, the voice at the other end
of the telephone burst into a gale of laughter" "Don't worry, it's
deciduous and will come back! You're Australian aren't you? This
happened once before with a tenant who thought they'd killed an old
chestnut tree!" Now, I know better although our garden, planted just 7
months ago after a big debris clearing exercise, is giving me conniptions and
like an anxious mother fretting over a feverish child, I keep checking that
what is left is actually still alive...leading to a lot of snapped twigs
to check for green - and probably more damage than if I just trusted nature a
little more!</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"> In the park today, the light was magic.
The sun behind the clouds in England make you see, first hand, the natural
wonders that enthused poets and artists over centuries, from Wordworth to
Turner, Constable or Alexander Pope.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">John Constable, Trees at Hampstead (left)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">St Giles, the dog park this morning (me!)</span></div>
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trullimadlydeeplyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14613501569930220149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2491932214628156200.post-74680409192891656012014-01-19T18:37:00.002+00:002014-01-19T18:37:47.645+00:00Extra! Extra! Read all about it!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Grey skies and a biting wind this weekend led me straight <a href="http://www.franklinsrestaurant.com/dulwich/" target="_blank">here</a>, a cozy bar cum eatery that does the best smoked British bacon sanger on toasted sourdough in the world. (If you're in the 'hood, put it on the list it's worth it). </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSowF6DPbSvR8A0_N3tyPTQXYHynug8eZhqdJa0NPEBky9DPreCh-4nq4sQNRB6_hlGAfVXioNkLMYeFPUJb2qx6WVNyKsB7_8tlK_OEHz45xkQKCM9TcgHP-IQPQKUMCFlOWW-Py0aVw/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSowF6DPbSvR8A0_N3tyPTQXYHynug8eZhqdJa0NPEBky9DPreCh-4nq4sQNRB6_hlGAfVXioNkLMYeFPUJb2qx6WVNyKsB7_8tlK_OEHz45xkQKCM9TcgHP-IQPQKUMCFlOWW-Py0aVw/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Chomping happily, it dawned on me that one of the things I most love about London is the diversity of its media. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In the daytime, the bar looks like a makeshift news agent as beer coasters are cleared away for big piles of papers. Seen all together, the choice is mind-boggling, especially if, like me, you are used to a diet limited to Fairfax or News Limited. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It's hard to choose between The Guardian, Times, Daily Telegraph, Financial Times, Daily Mail, Independent, Observer, Sunday Times, Sunday Tele, yesterday's Evening Standard, 'i' and a rather grubby Metro. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4XfuMpD3hBJo6PLTrr7Bik1yhFeo8ouYbnJHqWkTsInTIAtnhTpiW1PJyokVvbz2K24fxOd-o1VjLfJeIO-mUjha5B0-3xQExwBh7JGjl0K37vH0MbsilBIFL6lULGHWQW2PguilC3VE/s1600/IMG_5171.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4XfuMpD3hBJo6PLTrr7Bik1yhFeo8ouYbnJHqWkTsInTIAtnhTpiW1PJyokVvbz2K24fxOd-o1VjLfJeIO-mUjha5B0-3xQExwBh7JGjl0K37vH0MbsilBIFL6lULGHWQW2PguilC3VE/s1600/IMG_5171.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Had I holed up in the cheerful greasy spoon just up the road (equally delicious but in a different way), I'd feed up on an artery-hardening full English breakfast washed down with orange juice served in 'return for 10p' glass bottles with foil tops like the old Oz school milk. Here, the tables are covered with myriad tabloids, all of them more tits than news.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA1xrRRhtkdGvApU7xX-ZxqSnjMByAxChBEb3NYG5m8Ff7maL5UxWxeCuZHD8dXM84ILlkXdQIljfKM_O26tHa6wrqneYv58ecegxE9sopbKQU4Id_hIrlr7i77bihMcIhuTv9Hi2TNtI/s1600/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA1xrRRhtkdGvApU7xX-ZxqSnjMByAxChBEb3NYG5m8Ff7maL5UxWxeCuZHD8dXM84ILlkXdQIljfKM_O26tHa6wrqneYv58ecegxE9sopbKQU4Id_hIrlr7i77bihMcIhuTv9Hi2TNtI/s1600/images-1.jpeg" height="133" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Truth be told, I adore reading the red-tops and </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">for a while, after leaving the SMH to settle permanently in London, confess that I harboured a secret fantasy of finding a job on News of the World. The hacking scandal kyboshed that idea but I still have a melancholy hankering for the kind of news room once populated by grumpy, male subs and editors who were masters of the outrageous, double entendre headline and ended their working days snot-flying drunk in the pub across the road. I guess deep down, I'm still a dirty ol' print kinda gal.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJrmxmHZLX6tUJvDzBtXpVPcJIwLBM5DGFi5Qc0axn07iFzOoOcXZlqIs62l-qVE-7uCuVoxS-y6JLW3Klns2yTaRX3wowtC_34Y0f5D55mEmS-Au9BfpxSR9Y06iS24Ub7vGxTDxvfY4/s1600/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJrmxmHZLX6tUJvDzBtXpVPcJIwLBM5DGFi5Qc0axn07iFzOoOcXZlqIs62l-qVE-7uCuVoxS-y6JLW3Klns2yTaRX3wowtC_34Y0f5D55mEmS-Au9BfpxSR9Y06iS24Ub7vGxTDxvfY4/s1600/images-1.jpeg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But back to the serious stuff: casting my eye across the day's front pages, each one is completely different: the front page lead, the picture, the choice of puff and column subject. Some lead on a domestic yarn, others focused on the international, not one looks or reads like the other. Inside, different points of view and axes to grind but none of that sense of deja vu I had reading the metro dailies in Sydney and Melbourne.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Political coverage is equally diverse and while the serious papers attempt to at least pay lip service to objective analysis, everyone knows what paper to buy if they want to their own views reflected as well as what to buy (or avoid) if you prefer to be irritated or read views different to your own. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxn82Dl07ECrWUs7wzolg-Y2IsCiwDZ0KOZPt4BnUu3uSVaG_hJBmvFqKswlxGDCChSfAJc4_yevl7_hqJuADev2Oca4dwGFIbwK-gHOmevV6qrjIOp4PzKtG7LJFveQZ-nV17SNsTkHM/s1600/IMG_5349.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxn82Dl07ECrWUs7wzolg-Y2IsCiwDZ0KOZPt4BnUu3uSVaG_hJBmvFqKswlxGDCChSfAJc4_yevl7_hqJuADev2Oca4dwGFIbwK-gHOmevV6qrjIOp4PzKtG7LJFveQZ-nV17SNsTkHM/s1600/IMG_5349.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">On weekends, it is unusual for me not to learn something new from the papers, </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">whether it's about the arts, about the city, about this country's history - or its people. And more often than not, I am e</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">lated by a piece of writing, amused by columnists who have both a honed sense of satire and an erudite approach to their patch (Dominic Lawson, Caitlin Moran, Simon Jenkins et al). Inevitably too there is still stuff to set aside or cut out, interesting tid bits like recipes, things to do or see, a review to put inside a book read and to be remembered or loaned to a mate.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">During the week, I admit that I too rely on newspaper websites although I am an avid fan of the Evening Standard and read a hard copy most days, handed out gratis at the station. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Fleet Street has had its share of troubles - and they are far from over. But London, at least for the newspaper readers (if not for the journos) still offers a sense of hope, of inspiration and enthusiasm that print ain't dead. Papers are on planes, trains and buses, spread in cafes and pubs, rolled under the arms of walkers and still as visible as phones and tablets on the Tube. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They're varied and they're gutsy - and when it comes to politics, with each and every one of them, you know where you stand.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Yep, I'm a fan.</span><br />
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trullimadlydeeplyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14613501569930220149noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2491932214628156200.post-47800698794992250282014-01-15T15:53:00.002+00:002014-01-15T15:56:55.636+00:00Francois Hollande, the elephant dans the room - and wombats<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> Francoise Hollande and his scooter in 2012. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #999999; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: start;">Photo: JACQUES DEMARTHON/AFP</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Ah the French! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Am in seventh heaven watching the British press sniff and double entendre their way through coverage of Francois Hollande's latest tryst, from the midnight scooter visits to his actress friend to current partner, Valerie Trierweiler's rather Victorian attack of the vapours and admission to hospital for nerves.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Daily Mail branded Hollande 'France's most unlikely swordsman'; the Telegraph headlines shouted 'Hollande et son alleged bit sur le side' and the Indy referred to "Hollande et l'elephante dans the room".</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Brits, like the Australian media I suspect, would never have allowed David Cameron or Tony Abbott (let alone Julia Gillard!) to conduct an entire media conference sans mention of the aforementioned pachyderm. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Can you imagine Abbott caught visiting an actress friend on a scooter and getting away with it? Or David Cameron snubbing Sam, enjoying breakfast croissants in a love nest a brisk walk away from Number 10 and then fronting the Westminster Lobby with not a word to say?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">One of my favourite tidbits is </span><a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/france/10571277/Photographer-reveals-how-he-tracked-down-Francois-Hollande-and-lover-Julie-Gayet.html" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;" target="_blank">this account</a><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> of how an accidental encounter at a cafe led the photographer who caught Hollande on his two-wheeler directly to the love nest!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">However my very favourite is a blog written when Hollande was first installed in the Elysee Paris and an unknown (at least to me) fabulous wit decided that the new head of state bears more than a passing resemblance to a wombat.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Check <a href="http://wombatsandfrancois.tumblr.com/page/2" target="_blank">this site out </a>for a giggle but here's a taste in the meantime.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> Genius, n'est pas?!</span><br />
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trullimadlydeeplyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14613501569930220149noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2491932214628156200.post-2967659708335060002014-01-13T08:45:00.001+00:002014-01-14T10:06:56.663+00:00Walking with dogs - and the dead.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Our 'hood, Camberwell, is just three miles south of the Thames from Big Ben. It began as a<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"> village in rural Surrey, developed into an elegant, Georgian retreat, was quickly absorbed into the expanding Victorian metropolis and finally - after the devastation of the World War - morphed once again into the vibrant, mixed inner city suburb it is today.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">The Domesday Book, the great census/survey of 1086, described Camberwell, as "22 villagers and 7 small-holders with land for 6 ploughs, ... a church, 63 acres of meadow and woodland providing 60 pigs". A sizeable village at the time of the Norman invasion if it even had its own church.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Today, St Giles Church, designed by Sir Gilbert Scott,architect of St Pancras Station and the Albert Memorial, sits on the site of the 12th Century church. </span></span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">It is also the </span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">magical place where we walk the dog every day. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">I became slightly obsessed about what lies under my feet in the park and while most of the headstones are so weathered you can't decipher terribly much, local history sites reveal some extraordinary souls floating around there! <a href="http://www.camberwellsociety.org.uk/Camberwell.pdf" target="_blank">More here </a>and <a href="http://www.camberwellsociety.org.uk/" target="_blank">here</a> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The first was Mrs. Wesley, the apparently shrewish wife of the founder of the Methodist movement, John Wesley. She died in 1781 and her headstone says she's "a woman of exemplary virtue, a </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">tender parent, and a sincere friend." It says nothing about her excellence as a wife because according to local historians, it is well documented that she made her husband thoroughly miserable for
twenty years and when she left, took off with his personal papers and journals. Wesley never sought to see her, again and a biography, contains an account from a friend who caught </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Wesley's missus in the act of trailing the poor old cleric on the floor by the hair of his head. "I felt," wrote the friend, "that I could have knocked the very soul out of her."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In the churchyard, too, lies a Miss Lucy Warner, better known as the "Little Woman of Peckham". She was exactly thirty-two inches tall - and apparently ran a school. Start </span>of a<span style="font-size: small;"> novel there. . . .</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There is also a handsome tomb of the notorious
democrat, well known as "Equality Brown," of Peckham and wonderfully, a James
Blake, who apparently sailed around the world with Captain Cook (although who knows if he made it to Oz). </span><br />
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trullimadlydeeplyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14613501569930220149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2491932214628156200.post-547607031744959472014-01-11T21:09:00.002+00:002014-01-11T21:34:42.255+00:00When Greece gets to boss Germany around . . .<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There is something decidedly weird about the fact that Greece, economic basket case of Europe, is about to take the reins of the European Union.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 1.077;">This week, it became Greece's turn to hop into the driving seat of the EU under the traditional six-month rotation that allows all 28 member states to have a turn at the leadership.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 1.077;">But for those of us who have watched and reported the last four years of savage cuts endured by Greek workers, the national sacrifice, austerity drives, outbreaks of horrendous street violence and finally, the multi </span><span style="line-height: 16px;">billion</span><span style="line-height: 1.077;"> bailouts needed to salvage the Euro, the notion of Greece telling France and Germany and, dare I say, even Italy what to do is, um, surreal.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Greece has been through an unimaginably difficult time. Antonio Samaras, Greek PM, said yesterday that his country has lost standards of living like no other nation since World War II. Still, he added, </span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">taking on the presidency at a time when growth was returning to Greece offered room for the nation to "be optimistic”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 1.077;">Evangelos Venizelos, the Foreign Minister and leader of the Pasok Socialist party, was </span><span style="line-height: 14px;">even more</span><span style="line-height: 1.077;"> Polly Anna-esque suggesting it showed “the equality of all member states” insisting that </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 1.077;">“Greece is rising to the occasion and showing we are up to par.”</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 1.077;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 1.077;">So, Athens is now all primed up to set the European agenda - and try to prove that the worst is over. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">Here's hoping that the leadership are well stocked up in these. . .</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;"><a href="http://www.ft.com/cms/s/0/2d825152-7863-11e3-831c-00144feabdc0.html#axzz2q7sBrGle" target="_blank">For more, read the venerable Financial Times</a></span></span></div>
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trullimadlydeeplyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14613501569930220149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2491932214628156200.post-58238088799358000372014-01-11T00:00:00.000+00:002014-01-11T09:06:54.007+00:00Love a political gaffe. . .when it isn't an Australian MP for once.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">After enduring months of sniffy UK reports quoting the clangers and faux pas of Australian politicians - and no, I am not the suppository of all political wisdom so can't be bothered listing them all again (although you can find them <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/world/2013/aug/13/tony-abbott-gaffe-world-stage" target="_blank">here</a>) - I got all skip-skippingly happy to read tonight that the Brits are not immune from foot in mouth disease either.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Red faces at Westminster after Tory MP, Nadine Dorrie, warned her constituents to brace for a "tidal wave of immigration from Yugoslavia".<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The fact that Yugoslavia ceased to exist a while ago - and the er, break up, sparked a wee fuss - seems to have escaped La Dorrie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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trullimadlydeeplyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14613501569930220149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2491932214628156200.post-30432655812797818242014-01-10T09:42:00.000+00:002014-01-10T09:42:50.423+00:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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When friends come to visit us for the first time at home in London, we give them our street address - and then add 'the house with the yellow door'.<br />
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Five years after I was posted to the UK to cover Europe for The Sydney Morning Herald and The Age, we are Aussie emigres: settled and active participants in a vibrant, friendly, south-east London neighbourhood. We are still adjusting to new lives without our older children, our parents, family and old mates. (We will probably never adjust to the insecurity of jettisoning (two) good salaries!)<br />
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Life's an adventure though. And it is never, ever boring.<br />
Now that I've finished my Master's and am returning to freelancing, I've decided to blog about this new life, about the news and events in Europe that resonate with me - and my Australian news nose - and the things I see that make me want to turn around to you and say 'Wow! will you look at that!'<br />
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I hope that you'll walk with me through the yellow door and enjoy the Euro File.<br />
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