"living out london" - 5 new articles
Buying our hearts out I’ve always championed retail therapy – but I’ve found a glitch in system. Buying property.
Four months ago I was an eager beaver, armed and ready with my constantly updated Excel spreadsheet of inner west properties – their dimensions, stats and sale prices – taking charge of Boyfriend and my first steps onto the property ladder. Grandma was saving Saturday’s Domain section for me and I spent my evenings trawling through online realty sites imagining our lives in Newtown/Leichhardt/Darlington/Potts Point... We’d not been approved for our loan just yet, but I was confident. And well I could be. With an overly generous monetary gift from my parentals we were only seeking to borrow 60 per cent of the mortgage – banks were fighting for our business. Lucky us. So began our Saturday searches. Ever prepared I’d spent lunchtimes formulating itineraries, back-to-back viewings to ensure we were seeing all our market had to offer. With everything up for auction we jumped on opportunities for sale. One Thursday lunchtime I even hijacked a cabbie to take me to two inner city viewings, wait for me and take me back to work. Despite a few wrongs turns down the side alleys of Newtown, I arrived back to my desk on time and unscathed – convinced I’d found ‘the one’. Spending the next week-and-a-half to all extents and purposes moving us in and renovating the 2-bed federation semi (in my head), Boyfriend and I viewed it again last weekend; a fresh pair of eyes helped me realise that this little project was more than just a lick-of-paint and backyard blitz. Driving home with the sun blazing, burning our arms and thighs through the car windscreen, we were hot and bothered but not beaten. We collated our thoughts, went through the pros and cons of renovating and decided we should try for a place that had most of the hard work done already. And we knew just the one: a gorgeous little terrace in Lewisham with a manicured secret garden and covered deck off the second bedroom overlooking said-oasis. Painted and primed we could move in and be blissfully happy. Now we just needed to nab it for $606K. We scoped out an auction and scored oodles of advice – bid at the last hammer, up the last bid by $20K, make your final offer the night before – I honed all my positive energy into visualising our ‘win’. Then last night the realtor rang to say the vendors had been made an offer above their reserve and they were cancelling the auction; did we want to make a counter offer? With a heavy heart I knew our offer wouldn’t make the cut. And while my head tells me it’s better to find out now so we’re free to spend Saturday looking at more realistic options, the ever-positive part of me that had already mentally moved my wardrobe into the master bedroom of Number Four St John’s Street took the blow to heart. Never have I ever had so much money to spend on just one thing and never have I ever felt so low about it. Maybe we should take the money and run away to Europe, travel by gondola, eat and shop like the minted… But we wouldn’t. So we wait the week out and march on come Saturday. Another eight places to view, another eight floor plans to rework. Yep, I feel the power coming back, my spirit rising. We’ll beat the odds and find a place within six months. It’s just shopping, after all.  Working like a machine? I love it when marketing campaigns get really creative. It’s not all about free products, either. If they’re going to grab me on my way to work – and heaven-forbid stand in a queue – then they gotta make me smile.
This morning, Nestlé Kit Kat, did just that. Hopping off the bus at Wynyard I noticed a line forming, leading to a large red vending machine. Free Kit Kats? Yum. Following successful campaigns in Japan and the UK, a human vending machine was set up to offer lucky passersby the opportunity to stop working like a machine and, ‘Have a break. Have a Kit Kat.’ One poor – yet seemingly very happy – guy was stuck in said-vending machine and it was the consumer’s job to tell him which bar they were after. The only catch was that we had to make him work for it! Choose bars that were high, low, to-the-side… make him reach. With camera crews all around I thought for sure there’d be more pics online by now, alas, I had to scrounge one from a London-based initiative (see above)… I’m far too self-conscious nowadays to pull out my own camera phone and take a picture. No way! I grabbed my free chocolate bar and ran. After all, I had work to do.  Have you been 'Dr. Phil-ed'? I have. And I do.
It started about ten years ago when the straight-talking (former football-playing giant) psychologist started making guest appearances on Oprah (the two go way back to Oprah’s Amarillo Texas beef trial-days). In 2002 when his syndicated, The Dr. Phil Show, first aired I went so far as to set my VCR to record it daily (sadly live coverage was scheduled at the same time as my first-year uni lectures!). Dr. Phil (aka. Dr. Phillip Calvin McGraw) was a breath of fresh air. And much like the term, “to Google”, people from all walks of life began “Dr. Phil-ing” each other: re-working Phil-isms into their lives*. No ifs, buts or maybes, Phil helped people, “get in control” of their lives. So last Thursday when a spare ticket to his one-off Sydney show at the Acer Arena came floating by my desk – including wine and dining in the company’s corporate box – I jumped up and got control… of said-ticket. It was only as I was sitting in the back seat of my Director’s car on our way to Acer, listening to her conversation with her other passenger – a National Group Sales manager – that I realised I was in for more than just an evening of motivational speaking. I was networking. Yes, I got to sip of company wine, schmooze clients and talk holidays and shopping with people way above my career-station… it was fun. And I got to hear good ol’ Phil. He even brought doting and dutiful wife, Robin, to the stage (to prove their marriage is not on the skids). We got Dr. Phil-ed – this time on the seven attributes of successful people, abridged from his best-selling book, Life Strategies. I listened – at first slightly put off by his crappy mike setup – and started nodding along with the rest of the crowd. I was going to take something from this fortuitous freebie… and then he drolled off successful trait number six. What? How did I miss one-to-five? Must have been the red wine. Amused by the enlightenment that my sub-standard listening skills probably ruined my chances of becoming one of the world’s most successful people, I attempted to take note of traits six and seven. Six: Successful people have a nucleus – a group of people around them pivotal to supporting and encouraging their success. Seven: Successful people have passion – for their life and for what they aim to achieve. Excellent. Got it. More red wine, please. A typical Gen-Yer, I went home and “Googled” the rest!  In it together I’m all about endurance sport. I know that my body wasn’t built for short bursts of speed; star jumps and high kicks ground me as well. I would pack a zillion things into a single day, if I could, but just don’t make me sprint to each appointment – I’ll arrive sweaty and unhappy.
You can tell a lot about a person by the way they exercise: I have good muscle memory, enjoy strength training, like to count reps and could happily power walk for hours on end. I love the journey and feel revived once I reach my destination. I think that’s why I spend so much time with my family. They ground me. Their support gives me strength and helping them inturn flexes my muscles. And I’d happily walk to the ends of the earth for any one of them. They would do the same for me. On Saturday Mum and I held a stall at Rozelle Markets. We started early – 7am – and stood with our backs to the wind all day. We were selling old knick-knacks Mum had collected, a bunch of old clothes and a pile of books. Our trash and treasure had filled the car to bursting… in the end we made just under $280. A neat hundred each once the stall and a couple of take-away coffees had been paid for. We vowed never to do one again. But it was nice to spend the day together. Bond over bric-a-brac, talk about stuff. So we didn’t make a fortune and ended up donating most of our wares to fellow stall owners – who needs money when you have each other? At least that’s how we felt once we were out of the bitter cold and blood and warmth had returned to our hands, feet and cheeks. From standing nine-hours to running 14 kilometres, I took on the City2Surf on Sunday. Somewhat of a family tradition, this year Dad was celebrating his eleventh consecutive C2S (no mean feat for a 63-year-old), my sisters their fifth (each now a mother to bubs three-years and under) and me, marking my C2S-return, post-NYC and London. Dad and middle-Sis had the finish line firmly in their sights; both having trained to beat last year’s times. Elder-Sis and I were simply enjoying the sunshine. When your sisters are sleep deprived thanks to waking-babies, currently breastfeeding and still up for making the mission from Hyde Park to Bondi it’s hard not to be a little awe-struck – walking or running, just getting out of the house is hard for most young mums. So when Dad and m-Sis sprinted off at the gun, e-Sis and I took off at a canter. We jogged, we walked; weaved in-and-out of the crowd and moved to the side when sprinters came from behind. Best of all we nattered away. She got her a whole morning away from the kidlets and I got two hours of her undivided attention – a very rare treat post-bubs. At the finish the four of us reconvened at Bondi Icebergs. Dad grinning from ear-to-ear having run his fastest time ever – 92-minutes – m-Sis thrilled with 80-minutes and e-Sis and I content with having done it together. Tomorrow we’ll all look out for the Sun-Herald happy snaps taken as we crossed the line. Today we nurse tight muscles. But yesterday was our day – our ‘family thing’ – to remember.  My Sister's Keeper I’m the kind of girl who can be moved to tears watching a 30-second TV commercial. Little kids, old people. The sick, the dying… a malnourished puppy – just add music – my throat gets tight and my chest heaves. I cry.
So l knew that going to see My Sister’s Keeper with my Mumma was going to get me sobbing – I just didn’t realise the effect if would have on my persistent blocked nose. Luckily said-Mumma had a bag full of tissues and needless to say I can now breathe freely; two weeks with a snuffed up schnoz sorted during the course of a 109-minute flick. But seriously, have you seen this film? It’s fabulous. Happily married couple, Sara and Brian, have the perfect family life until they find out their two-year-old daughter has leukaemia. In order to save the life of one child they bring another into the world – a perfect donor match in the form of Anna. And so begins more than a decade of blood and bone marrow donations from sister to sister, constant hospital stays and ultimately the dissolving of Sara and Brian’s happy family dynamic. When Anna calls on the services of a top defence lawyer, to seek medical emancipation, a messy and traumatic reality becomes even more tragic.  Yes the subject matter is horrible and sad and full of life’s-not-fair moments, but the actors are all incredibly well cast – Cameron Diaz is amazing as the fiercely single-minded mother, Sara, and Sofia Vassilieva gives a vivid portrayal of the dying girl, Kate – and both sides of the coin/dilemma are explored, developed and ultimately given credence. You can’t hate Sara for the choices she’s made and you can’t fault her children for their actions.
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