For six and a half years I've worked in the city. Well, not any more.
Go west
Now I inhabit an office in Kidman Park - west of the city on Grange Road - because I've been seconded to the team down there to replace a person who themselves have been seconded to one of the major projects that's going on in our business.
Oh, I should probably explain what it is I actually do1 - I'm an analyst for a company that (amongst other things) manages the distribution, infrastructure, billing and asset management of that most exciting of utilities: natural gas. In the old office I was more concerned with the billing side of things, but now I'm more interested in the distribution and asset management side of things.
What does that mean I actually do? Well, in short – because it's arguably the least exciting job to talk about of any job of anyone I know – I find stuff out for people, either by pulling data out of one of several databases we use, or by looking into documents like the (surprisingly complicated; thanks, lawyers) gas industry market rules and specifications.
Wake up! Sorry, I have to do that once or twice whenever I explain what I do to people in person. So no more on what I do; it's where I do it that's significant – at least in this post.
1You might be surprised to know I'm not actually professional blogger, ha-ha.
There and back again
Switching from the city office to the Kidman Park (KP for short) is a fairly significant change, mostly because of transport. As I said earlier, for the last six and a half years I've worked in the city, and in both the houses I've lived in over that time I've been close to bus stops – so I've always caught public transport.
But KP is a) a bit further away (roughly twice as far), and b) isn't as well serviced by buses as the city. But – very handily – the bus that goes from the city to Kidman Park is one of the buses that goes past my home stop, so I don't have to change buses in the city and deal with the fun of switching. But, as noted earlier, it's twice as far to KP as it is to the city – and it takes somewhere around 50 minutes all up.
Driving is an option, though – there's a car park at KP so it's not like I have to pay obnoxious parking fees if I do. And if I leave early enough to beat the morning rush traffic – which I usually do – it takes between 20 and 25 minutes to get there and 25 to 30 to get home2 . But while sitting behind the wheel takes less time (and means I'm not bound by the occasionally unpredictable bus schedule) I don't really enjoy driving in traffic all that much. To work isn't too bad, but from it is a bit more hectic because it's much busier at 4.30pm than it is at 7.30am.
But there are negatives, like wear and tear on the car – I justify not spending a lot of money on my cars because, before now, I didn't need to drive all that often, and it currently spends its time under cover in my garage3; at KP it's out in the open.
Some people dislike the passivity of public transport, and don't opt for it even when it's a more cost-effective or sensible choice. But I'm not one of those people, for several reasons - environmental for one, and also because ever since I stopped reading before bed (I found I get to sleep a lot easier if I don't) the bus trip is one of the few chances these days I get to engage in some quality book time. In the past I've read as many as two books a week so to not be reading regularly is, for me, unthinkable.
One good thing, though, is that I don't have to choose just one; I can do both. And that's what I've been doing so far, basing my choice on what I have to do after work – if I'm going to the gym, or have plans earlier in the evening, I drive. If I've got nothing planned, or am feeling tired (as I was last Friday – but more about that later), if I'm going into the city to have dinner and see a film, or know I've got a stressful day of work – since driving through busy traffic while stressed is not a good idea; I get a bit...shouty – then I'll catch the bus.
2It can, of course, take longer if the roads are clogged with slow-moving dimwits. Driving in rush hour has none little to lessen for my distaste for people whose limited capacity affects me personally.
3Or car-hole, if you're not a la-di-da Mr French man.
But...
There are things I miss about the city. The convenience, for one – I can wander down to Rundle Mall and shop for just about anything: books, clothes, cds, dvds, whatever. I have to hire a suit for the upcoming ATG awards dinner; to do that before was quite simple while now it's going to require a lot more effort. I have several friends who work in other offices around the city, and catching up for lunch was as easy as sending an email.
I also miss the people, some of whom I've been working with for the whole six and a half years I've been working for Origin/APA. I see them every day – which, since I live alone, means I see them more than I see anyone else – as well as outside of work from time to time as well. So there's an emotional link there that I've not yet managed to recreate in my new office.
But it's not like I'm surrounded by strangers – the majority of people around me now are people I've worked with before, albeit mostly via email and the telephone, and there are a few others who I have shared office space with as well. And everyone else has been really friendly so I'm certainly not feeling unwelcome or out of place.
You can't stop the music4
One good thing about driving is that I can listen to cds again. I've got an mp3 player I take on the bus, but I tend to use the shuffle function (because it's there) rather than listen to whole albums; prior to the magic of compression, that's exactly what I used to do, either in the car or on my cd walkman.
The vagaries of cd encoding has also meant that I have several albums that just don't seem to convert to mp3 – and some of these are albums I really like, such as 13 Tales From Urban Bohemia by The Dandy Warhols and Trading Snakeoil for Wolftickets5 by Gary Jules.
4Okay, that's the second time I've used a Village People song as a subject heading. Maybe it's a sign I should join the navy. Or make a milkshake.
5No, I don't just like them because they have odd titles. That's just a bonus.
So...
So, it's going okay – at least so far. Will I think the same way after a few months when the novelty's worn off? No doubt I'll be writing about it if I do.
Showing posts with label biography. Show all posts
Showing posts with label biography. Show all posts
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Sunday, August 2, 2009
The Birthday Party
Birthdays aren’t something I hold particularly significant, at least not compared to some other people. For many it’s a good excuse to have a party – or at least a celebration of some kind, even if it’s a small one. But I’m not really into doing that each year.
I am, at best, a reluctant host – as the vast majority of my friends who’ve never seen the inside (and many not even the outside) of the home I’ve lived in for just over two years can testify – because the idea of ‘entertaining’ scares the crap out of me. Admittedly, some of that is due to the fact it’s a small two-bedroom unit which would struggle to fit as many as ten in the dining/lounge area - and that’s if I moved stuff around; there’s also the fact that it’s a bit shabby; and, finally, I just find that having people in my place makes me really uncomfortable.
Don’t ask me to explain why; I’ve got no idea. Just add it to the (long) list of things listed under the heading ‘things Jamie is weird about’.
Thinking about it, I don’t believe that, even when I lived in a share house of reasonable size (and I’ve lived in several) that would suit a party – at two houses in particular, Norwood and Payneham, we had plenty – I ever had people over for birthday drinks. The last time I can distinctly remember a party at my own place was at about age 15.
18
Anyway, there have been a few significant birthday hootenannies over the years. First was my 18th; I was still living in Bowen, so I went on a pub crawl with a few friends to celebrate. But it would be a few years before I did anything of significance to mark the passing of the year.
21
My 21st, typically a big event these days, was anything but for me. After I’d finished school we’d moved from Bowen to the Sunshine Coast where I didn’t know anyone and, because I was going to uni in Townsville, didn’t have any way of meeting anyone. As a result, my 21st was a How To Host A Murder dinner with my family. Yeah, it was okay – but not exactly spectacular.
22
My friends decided that, because I didn’t get a proper 21st, we’d have to do something special for my 22nd. I ended up staying in Townsville for the holidays, rather than going back to Maroochydore, and we had a huge bash at the house five of them shared.
It was a very big night indeed, at least for me. I got very drunk – we played ‘goon lotto’, aka ‘goon of fortune’ where the bladder from a wine cask is taped to a Hills Hoist clothesline and everyone stands in a circle and spins the cask. Whoever it stops in front of has to drink. I got unusually lucky and ‘won’ a disproportionate number of times.
What I didn’t realise, in my drunken naïvety, was that it was rigged – and by ‘rigged’ I mean someone out of my line of sight was grabbing it and making it stop in front of me. But hey, I was getting drunk so it’s not like I minded. Back to the action.
I also got very stoned, since the first of the gifts I got was marijuana. Unfortunately, as I learned later, getting drunk and stoned at the same time isn’t necessarily a good idea. But more on that later.
So, quite stoned. This is when it seemed like a good idea to bring out my big present – what I thought was a cake. And no, I wasn’t so stoned I’d lost the ability to tell cake from not-cake; it was big, covered in icing and adorned with 22 (I assume) candles.
‘Blow out the candles!’ was the cry. I complied, and blew them out. They lit back up again – since they were the relighting kind. I blew them out again, laughing. They lit back up again. I laughed some more – remember, I was quite stoned at this point – and blew them out again. I didn’t want to stop. I was having far too much fun with the candles to actually bother cutting the ‘cake’. It took someone to yell something helpful at me – ‘just cut the fucking cake!’ – before I did.
Let this be a lesson to you all – as funny as relighting candles are, they aren’t suitable for stoned people.
Anyway, I cut into the ‘cake’, which – despite being covered in icing and topped with candles – turned out to be a box. A very special kind of box from Ireland, St. James Gate in Dublin, to be precise; home of the Guinness brewery. Aware of my (at the time) fondness for the blackest of the black, had bought me a carton of draught stubbies.
I was very happy. They did make me chug one, which – if you’ve ever drunk Guinness you’ll know – not an easy feat. But I got it down and held it down. Well, for a few minutes at least. I did have a fairly spectacular power hurl not long afterwards. But I didn’t let that stop me.
I don’t remember much else, though there is one incident that stuck in my head; my friend and future flatmate Kristy waving a cigarette lighter around chanting ‘We want Chilly Willy’ a la Barney Gumble in that episode of The Simpsons where Moe is trying to convince the Red Hot Chili Peppers to play at his bar. There’s even a photo of this. I’m lying on the ground and my face is purple – literally, purple – from laughing so much.
Drugs are bad, kids. Trust me. Sometime later I passed out - in a beanbag. I think everyone else continued on and had a good night. I know I did.
30
It would be another eight years – and a move interstate - before I’d attempt another big birthday celebration.
But, six years later, I can’t remember what exactly prompted me to do it. I suspect it might have had something to do with the significance of the age I was turning – 30 seems to be getting more popular as a ‘landmark’ age to reach – and perhaps some pressure from people around me as well.
Anyway, I chose the Brecknock hotel in the city – possibly because they have Guinness on tap; I was still drinking it back then – and told everyone to show up at 8pm.
Now, one of the more interesting things that differentiate South Australians (at least the ones I’ve met) from Queenslanders (at least the ones I was raised around) is that the latter will generally arrive at a function close to the time it’s supposed to begin. South Australians, on the other hand, don’t tend to be as punctual. So, when no-one had shown up at 8.45, I was getting quite annoyed – I was there by my bloody self. But eventually people showed up, so it was okay.
Quite a lot of people, actually – certainly more than I’d expected. But there wasn’t anything especially notable about the night, other than the fact I had an excellent time – oh, and I got some cool stuff, including a copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire and (continuing along the same them) an awesome Harry Potter pencil case.
36
Last year it occurred to me that I hadn’t had a birthday party in a while – for starters, the last few years my birthday had always coincided with a theatre production - so I was just getting my head around the idea when my friends Dan and Amy decided they’d get engaged and announced they’d be having the engagement party on the closest weekend to my birthday. And that was enough for me to decide not to do anything.
This year I had no such excuse. It was time for a party.
And party we did, at the Maylands hotel – the nearest pub to my place - at which I’d booked a room a couple of months back. I went to dinner with some people from work first and then we moved into the function room I’d hired to await everyone else – I’d learned my lesson from my thirtieth and made sure I wasn’t waiting on my own – and had a few glasses of the complimentary champagne.
People showed up, which was good. A few people (who shall remain nameless) didn’t for a range of reasons, which was a bit disappointing, but that’s the way it goes, I guess.
Over the course of the evening I got very drunk. So drunk that there are sizable segments of the night I don’t remember at all, and others that I only recall only vaguely. It may well be better for all involved if those gaps remain; I have little doubt they contain things that I’m better off not knowing.
Because, while I don’t change much from my sober self when I’ve only had a bit to drink, when I’ve had a lot to drink I get a little, um, silly – for want of a better word. Silly in a sentimental, blabbering kind of way. Which can come as a bit of shock for people who’ve never seen me in that state before – since it’s a far cry from what I’m like the rest of the time.
But, from all accounts, I had a good time. And so did everyone else. The party wasn’t the end of the night for me, though; I went to another pub for a while and then into town for some bad drunk dancing. I was still in a good mood when I got home so I sent a (surprisingly coherent) Facebook message before dragging myself to bed; the timestamp indicates that was at 3.30 Sunday morning.
Next morning I wasn’t so great, which was a problem ‘cause I had the first rehearsal, the read-through, of a show (Arsenic and Old Lace) later that afternoon. But a couple of mugs of strong tea, some Vegemite on toast got me on the road to recovery, and a trip to Hungry Jack’s for some medicinally greasy fast food took me a step further toward normality.
I had a good time, and - despite my asking people not to bother - some cool gifts. We didn’t trash the place and, as far as I can tell, I didn’t manage to insult or offend anyone. I call that a success.
40?
I imagine that, since 40 is one of those ‘big’ numbers I’ll be doing something big for that, too. No idea what, exactly – but at least I’ve got a few years to plan.
I am, at best, a reluctant host – as the vast majority of my friends who’ve never seen the inside (and many not even the outside) of the home I’ve lived in for just over two years can testify – because the idea of ‘entertaining’ scares the crap out of me. Admittedly, some of that is due to the fact it’s a small two-bedroom unit which would struggle to fit as many as ten in the dining/lounge area - and that’s if I moved stuff around; there’s also the fact that it’s a bit shabby; and, finally, I just find that having people in my place makes me really uncomfortable.
Don’t ask me to explain why; I’ve got no idea. Just add it to the (long) list of things listed under the heading ‘things Jamie is weird about’.
Thinking about it, I don’t believe that, even when I lived in a share house of reasonable size (and I’ve lived in several) that would suit a party – at two houses in particular, Norwood and Payneham, we had plenty – I ever had people over for birthday drinks. The last time I can distinctly remember a party at my own place was at about age 15.
18
Anyway, there have been a few significant birthday hootenannies over the years. First was my 18th; I was still living in Bowen, so I went on a pub crawl with a few friends to celebrate. But it would be a few years before I did anything of significance to mark the passing of the year.
21
My 21st, typically a big event these days, was anything but for me. After I’d finished school we’d moved from Bowen to the Sunshine Coast where I didn’t know anyone and, because I was going to uni in Townsville, didn’t have any way of meeting anyone. As a result, my 21st was a How To Host A Murder dinner with my family. Yeah, it was okay – but not exactly spectacular.
22
My friends decided that, because I didn’t get a proper 21st, we’d have to do something special for my 22nd. I ended up staying in Townsville for the holidays, rather than going back to Maroochydore, and we had a huge bash at the house five of them shared.
It was a very big night indeed, at least for me. I got very drunk – we played ‘goon lotto’, aka ‘goon of fortune’ where the bladder from a wine cask is taped to a Hills Hoist clothesline and everyone stands in a circle and spins the cask. Whoever it stops in front of has to drink. I got unusually lucky and ‘won’ a disproportionate number of times.
What I didn’t realise, in my drunken naïvety, was that it was rigged – and by ‘rigged’ I mean someone out of my line of sight was grabbing it and making it stop in front of me. But hey, I was getting drunk so it’s not like I minded. Back to the action.
I also got very stoned, since the first of the gifts I got was marijuana. Unfortunately, as I learned later, getting drunk and stoned at the same time isn’t necessarily a good idea. But more on that later.
So, quite stoned. This is when it seemed like a good idea to bring out my big present – what I thought was a cake. And no, I wasn’t so stoned I’d lost the ability to tell cake from not-cake; it was big, covered in icing and adorned with 22 (I assume) candles.
‘Blow out the candles!’ was the cry. I complied, and blew them out. They lit back up again – since they were the relighting kind. I blew them out again, laughing. They lit back up again. I laughed some more – remember, I was quite stoned at this point – and blew them out again. I didn’t want to stop. I was having far too much fun with the candles to actually bother cutting the ‘cake’. It took someone to yell something helpful at me – ‘just cut the fucking cake!’ – before I did.
Let this be a lesson to you all – as funny as relighting candles are, they aren’t suitable for stoned people.
Anyway, I cut into the ‘cake’, which – despite being covered in icing and topped with candles – turned out to be a box. A very special kind of box from Ireland, St. James Gate in Dublin, to be precise; home of the Guinness brewery. Aware of my (at the time) fondness for the blackest of the black, had bought me a carton of draught stubbies.
I was very happy. They did make me chug one, which – if you’ve ever drunk Guinness you’ll know – not an easy feat. But I got it down and held it down. Well, for a few minutes at least. I did have a fairly spectacular power hurl not long afterwards. But I didn’t let that stop me.
I don’t remember much else, though there is one incident that stuck in my head; my friend and future flatmate Kristy waving a cigarette lighter around chanting ‘We want Chilly Willy’ a la Barney Gumble in that episode of The Simpsons where Moe is trying to convince the Red Hot Chili Peppers to play at his bar. There’s even a photo of this. I’m lying on the ground and my face is purple – literally, purple – from laughing so much.
Drugs are bad, kids. Trust me. Sometime later I passed out - in a beanbag. I think everyone else continued on and had a good night. I know I did.
30
It would be another eight years – and a move interstate - before I’d attempt another big birthday celebration.
But, six years later, I can’t remember what exactly prompted me to do it. I suspect it might have had something to do with the significance of the age I was turning – 30 seems to be getting more popular as a ‘landmark’ age to reach – and perhaps some pressure from people around me as well.
Anyway, I chose the Brecknock hotel in the city – possibly because they have Guinness on tap; I was still drinking it back then – and told everyone to show up at 8pm.
Now, one of the more interesting things that differentiate South Australians (at least the ones I’ve met) from Queenslanders (at least the ones I was raised around) is that the latter will generally arrive at a function close to the time it’s supposed to begin. South Australians, on the other hand, don’t tend to be as punctual. So, when no-one had shown up at 8.45, I was getting quite annoyed – I was there by my bloody self. But eventually people showed up, so it was okay.
Quite a lot of people, actually – certainly more than I’d expected. But there wasn’t anything especially notable about the night, other than the fact I had an excellent time – oh, and I got some cool stuff, including a copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire and (continuing along the same them) an awesome Harry Potter pencil case.
36
Last year it occurred to me that I hadn’t had a birthday party in a while – for starters, the last few years my birthday had always coincided with a theatre production - so I was just getting my head around the idea when my friends Dan and Amy decided they’d get engaged and announced they’d be having the engagement party on the closest weekend to my birthday. And that was enough for me to decide not to do anything.
This year I had no such excuse. It was time for a party.
And party we did, at the Maylands hotel – the nearest pub to my place - at which I’d booked a room a couple of months back. I went to dinner with some people from work first and then we moved into the function room I’d hired to await everyone else – I’d learned my lesson from my thirtieth and made sure I wasn’t waiting on my own – and had a few glasses of the complimentary champagne.
People showed up, which was good. A few people (who shall remain nameless) didn’t for a range of reasons, which was a bit disappointing, but that’s the way it goes, I guess.
Over the course of the evening I got very drunk. So drunk that there are sizable segments of the night I don’t remember at all, and others that I only recall only vaguely. It may well be better for all involved if those gaps remain; I have little doubt they contain things that I’m better off not knowing.
Because, while I don’t change much from my sober self when I’ve only had a bit to drink, when I’ve had a lot to drink I get a little, um, silly – for want of a better word. Silly in a sentimental, blabbering kind of way. Which can come as a bit of shock for people who’ve never seen me in that state before – since it’s a far cry from what I’m like the rest of the time.
But, from all accounts, I had a good time. And so did everyone else. The party wasn’t the end of the night for me, though; I went to another pub for a while and then into town for some bad drunk dancing. I was still in a good mood when I got home so I sent a (surprisingly coherent) Facebook message before dragging myself to bed; the timestamp indicates that was at 3.30 Sunday morning.
Next morning I wasn’t so great, which was a problem ‘cause I had the first rehearsal, the read-through, of a show (Arsenic and Old Lace) later that afternoon. But a couple of mugs of strong tea, some Vegemite on toast got me on the road to recovery, and a trip to Hungry Jack’s for some medicinally greasy fast food took me a step further toward normality.
I had a good time, and - despite my asking people not to bother - some cool gifts. We didn’t trash the place and, as far as I can tell, I didn’t manage to insult or offend anyone. I call that a success.
40?
I imagine that, since 40 is one of those ‘big’ numbers I’ll be doing something big for that, too. No idea what, exactly – but at least I’ve got a few years to plan.
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