Sunday, June 29, 2008

So it's come to this

I’m springing this on you a little, but tonight is actually my last night in Belgium. I’ve finished up my contract, and am heading off for 2 or 3 months of travel, gadding about Europe, and then Indonesia on the way home; I'll keep you updated on my adventures as they come to pass. However, I have to admit, it’s come as a bit of a shock to finally be leaving. When I first got here, in the depths of a European winter in a very small town, I thought it would never end. I had already had serious misgivings before I came, and when I first arrived I spent a lot of time looking for the escape hatch.


Truly, I never saw sunshine, and those evenings … long doesn’t quite cover it. I read a lot, and I wrote, and when nothing I was writing turned out to be fit for human consumption, I started to blog. I read a lovely quote early on, funnily enough, on another blog, where the author said that he was in danger of becoming ‘less a struggling writer, than someone struggling to write’; perhaps I hope that when everything else has been mired in the tarmac of my brain, this blog has, thus far, kept me on a bit of an even keel, creativity wise. Perhaps.

One thing I haven’t done on this blog, however, is paid my dues to the people I’ve met here. Now, very few of them know I write this, and I’m fairly sure that none of them check it, but I think that even under the cloak of anonymity, they are owed. After my time here, I’ve realised that you never understand how important the basics are until you're physically divorced from everything that is 'yours'. See, believe it or not, no-one actually has to be nice to you. They don’t. They can be pleasant enough, they can be actively un-nice, or, they can just try and do whatever they have to do in order for their own lives to go on untrammelled. And this is all fair enough; we all have our own courses to run.

But none of this is what I’ve experienced here. I’m not sure if it’s a small town thing, or a Belgian thing, but whatever it was I will always be eternally grateful. See, people weren’t just nice, they were welcoming, they were kind, and they were generous. And for no real reason except for the fact that I was alone, and I was new. It’s an incredibly humbling experience. I feel so very privileged to have met so many kind souls who really just wanted to make sure that I was happy, surviving, and not just living on canned soup. I will always be thankful that, in a time when I could have been utterly isolated, I lived and worked in a place where it wasn’t an issue for people to say good morning, ask about your day, and perhaps grab a beer with after work.

It really is the simple things.


Friday, June 27, 2008

Well, hot diggity!

It’s good news, folks, good news! If you’ve been feeling a bit directionless, or just a smidge aimless, don’t worry: I’m here to help. You can trust me; I’m qualified. See, the word is out, and apparently, I’m a Master. Well, almost. On condition of some small changes and alterations, my thesis has been passed. Hurrah! Master H.O.T., not bad, eh?

Although I can’t help thinking that, combined with the funny hat, this title isn’t quite as snazzy as I’d like it to be. Now, you know I’ll always fight in the femullet corner, but I think this is one of those times where non-gender-specification has really been a bit of a downer. Wouldn’t it be more fun to be a Mistress of the Arts and Humanities? It’s certainly less starchy-British public school, less gay-little-hobbits, and more kind of delectably-dominatrixy and a wee bit fun (and that’s wee as in ‘small’, you sick, sad, people). They could create a whole new graduation ensemble that would make the hours of sitting in the grand hall waiting for your moment infinitely more interesting. On the other hand, however, the Humanities already gets such a whipping in public, it probably doesn’t need to shell out for it in private too.

Yet truly, I am very excited about this. As with every extended project, it was a long, occasionally gruelling affair, and it’s nice to know that I’ve acquitted myself with relative grace and that my marks are good (and yes, in case you hadn’t already realised, I am one of those grade me! grade me! types. A scratch-and-sniff sticker can still make me swoon). Despite this, however, I’ve currently put myself in the ‘time out’ corner, academia-wise; I was completely burnt by the time the MA was submitted, so am now going to take a little time to explore a world that doesn’t revolve entirely around the reference section.


In line with this, and as my time in Belgium is rapidly winding to a close, I have begun applying for jobs. I have no illusions regarding my prospects, and I know I’m heading for entry-level territory; the kind of job where you look at your first pay cheque, add up how many years you’ve been at university, times that by your HECS debt, gurgle a little, and then wish like Christ that you’d become a tradie. Last time I tried to do this, i.e. actually looking for careerish type work, I spent a couple of months on the dole before dealing with it in the typical Aussie fashion and going backpacking for six months. However, I still recall my favourite job ad that I have seen reposted again and again in the last four years.

It was an ed assist position at a publishing house of what I would consider to be not-very-interesting-books. After detailing a multitude of achingly boring office tasks for extortionately low pay, it closed so: *MUST HAVE A POSITIVE ATTITUDE TO DATA ENTRY*. Naturally, at this I laughed. A lot. What are they thinking? No one has a positive attitude to data entry. It’s data entry. I mean, I think I’m a moderately optimistic kind of person, but the idea of spending my life entering ISBNs for books that no-one will read leaves me feeling about as perky as Tori Spelling’s left boob.

I’ve seen it re-advertised on and off since then, and always in exactly the same way. Clearly there’s a lack of well-trained lobotomees around, and perhaps every other applicant has only had the good sense to feel sunny about such employ for the split second before they shoved two pencils up their nostrils and banged their face down on the desk.

It’s always good to have something to aim for, however, and I’m sure it’ll be re-advertised in 3 months or so when I get home. Perhaps if times are truly dire, I can apply for it myself.

I’ll just make sure I pack a good sharpener.

I beg yours?!

From today's Age (full article here) :

Brothel shut down in council sting

  • Kate Lahey
  • June 28, 2008

A MASSAGE parlour operating as an illegal brothel has been shut down after a suburban council paid two private investigators to uncover the true nature of the business.

The case comes more than a year after Melbourne City and Yarra councils admitted they had been paying investigators to have sex with prostitutes and dropped the practice. Glen Eira Council paid the two investigators a total of $2275 to separately visit Shanti House on Glen Huntly Road, Caulfield, on May 14.

This week, Moorabbin Magistrates Court ordered the business to close after hearing evidence from the investigators, who each paid $90 up front for a massage.

Both investigators gave statements to the court saying they asked the women, one of whom was nude, to stop when the massage became blatantly sexual.

"I stood up from the massage table telling her that 'I am embarrassed' and 'I have to go'," one investigator said.

"This female laughed, stating, 'How about a tip? I normally get $40 for that.' I gave this female $40 and commenced to rub the oil from my body."

Magistrate Anne Goldsbrough on Monday ordered the proscribed brothel be shut down, with business operator George Hamshari, of Camberwell, to pay $6000 in costs. Mr Hamshari's lawyer Tony Burns told The Age his client maintains he was running the business as a legitimate healing massage centre and that the women involved acted on their own.

Glen Eira spokesman Paul Burke said the council imposed a no-sex condition on investigators and would continue to hire them as needed. "We don't have a huge problem with illegal brothels in Glen Eira as we rooted out most of them some time ago," he said.


Ahem.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

What Would Jesus Do?

I was walking home from work this evening and saw two young men who, I’m pretty sure if I were my mother, I would say looked very nice. Neat. Clean cut. Clean. Weirdly young and yet incredibly well starched. I couldn’t work it out- had they just come from school? But they looked a bit old for that, and no-one here wears a uniform. Black shoes, black pants, white shirts … I’m sure you can see where I’m heading. By the time we got to the tie, I knew what time it was - it was Jesus time.

Now sometimes the fact that ‘ik spreekt nee Nederlands’ can be mighty handy. However when the Jehovahs spreading the Belgian Word are actually from America and totally up for a chat in the mother tongue, it’s quite easy to concede that perhaps today God actually isn’t on your side. Anyway, I’m not sure exactly what it was; perhaps I was called; perhaps I was feeling vulnerable; perhaps I was hoping they’d carry my groceries; but I have a terrible secret to confess: I spoke with the JW’s for 30 minutes. In public. I’m fairly certain I’m the only woman either of them has ever conversed with who either wasn’t related or hiding behind a sofa.

However, after we’d got through the obligatory acknowledgement of my own fiery future, they were actually very lovely, and the older (about 20) especially was up for a bit of chinwag. It went thus:

Older JW: “What are you doing here where abouts do you live oh you’re from Melbourne? I’ve got a friend in Sydney etc. etc…”

At which point, after this had been going for 10 mins or so, the younger, rather more earnest one interrupted. “So, have you heard the teachings of Our Lord?”

Older JW seemed a bit frustrated by this, and gave his mate a sort of, ‘just relax, dude, she’s a chick and she’s talking to us, and we’ll get back to the god stuff in a minute”, kind of nudge. I politely said that I wasn’t really interested and was actually “a bit of an atheist”. Older JW found this hilarious:

“Bit of an atheist, he he, thought that was pretty much all or nothing so what do you do in your spare time here do you like living here it’s a bit quiet but I don’t mind it …”

Slightly nonplussed by the return of the conversation to all matters secular, Young and Earnest waited as long as he could before again sticking up his pert little head to ask, “So, do you think any of your workmates would be interested in the teachings of Our Lord?”

At this, I saw a slightly sharper jab, more a “Dude, she’s a chick and she’s talking to us, we’ll get to the god stuff in a minute”, of the elbow variety. I duly noted the tragic ungodliness of everyone I knew, laughs all round, which was the signal for Older JW to amp up again:

“Have you been to the Netherlands the Netherlands is great I’ve stayed there for a couple of weeks already and I’m going to move there when I finish up here you really should go…”

Perhaps if nothing but concerned by his friend’s lack of proper sentence structure, Young and Earnest decided it was time - it wasn’t Jesus time; it hadn’t been that for the last 25 minutes or so- but time for drastic action nonetheless. One of the flock had strayed, and he was definitely up to the task of bringing its woolly ass back. Young JW shoved himself forward, puffed up his chest with his little name badge on it, took one last look at his still-rambling fallen angel, looked me square in my wanton eyes and chirruped, “Would you like to know about our website?”

Now, I’m not flattering myself here, and I am definitely not so far gone that I’ve taken to inventing the attentions of those sworn to chastity; that’s not really a level playing field, and kind of like getting a confidence boost from a frisky Labrador. But truly I have never seen anything like it. It wasn’t, ‘if looks could kill’; it wasn’t even ‘if looks could perhaps slice open your stomach with a rusty hacksaw and make dwarves dance on your entrails while force-feeding you egg salad’; this was something infinitely more nuclear, something along the lines of ‘if looks could turn an otherwise upstanding, godly young citizen into a slavering, raging, beast of the apocalypse whose last words would be a hormonal shriek of,

“DUDE SHE’S A FUCKING CHICK AND SHE’S FUCKING TALKING TO US!!!!”

before being transformed into the very mouth of hell and swallowing himself’, that might just about cut it.

Slightly concerned that shattered stone tablets were going to start raining from the sky, or at the very least that Older JW was going to need to buy some knee-guards for all the penance he’d be doing, I bid them good day and trudged home with my groceries, my hands all pink and sliced from holding them so long.


Here’s a lesson for you boys: really want to know What Jesus Would Do? He’d help a lady with her bags, that’s what.

Monday, June 23, 2008

On why someone should employ me as their subeditor

From Cleo, ninemsn.com:

'“People use the expression ‘I feel it in my gut’ in relation to knowing something’s right or wrong, but I don’t think that’s a sign of instinct or knowing,” says Butolucci. “It’s an instinct if you feel it everywhere in your body, but if you just feel it in the pit of your stomach it’s probably a fear.” If that’s the case, you need to find out where the fear has originated. According to Gunn, friends can often be the best counsellors.

They know you intimately and are usually able to see sense in a situation you’re freaking out over. [SUBS: Sarah needs to add a Gunn quote here, but will do that tomorrow when she’s back in the office]'

Heh.

But let's not ask why I'm reading this.

Saturday, June 21, 2008

The horror ...

I’m so sorry to do this to you. I hate to worry you … but truly, I can’t fight this alone and time is of the essence. You see, I’ve just unearthed a disturbing new pestilence lurking in Villageville. If my research is correct, it should hit Australian shores in about six months and will prove infinitely more deadly than SARS, bird flu, and the Black Death combined. What’s a girl to do? After checking my sources and doing some quantitative analysis (read: serious googling), I’ve spread the word; WHO is onto it, quarantine measures have been put in place, and the good people at Border Security are on red alert.

Be warned: it comes in spandex form.

You see, I have just discovered a disturbing trend in the world of what I'll generously call ‘fashion’. While shopping today I unearthed what can only in the taste stakes be considered an anomaly. No wait, I was looking for that other ‘a’ word – I meant abomination. Perusing some new summer ensembles, not once, but twice, did I come across a garment that I was certain had gone the way of the cast of 90210. Well, just as Luke Perry’s eyebrows are apparently set for a small-screen resurgence, it seems that a small rip in the time-space continuum has allowed other, infinitely less amusing remnants from the early 90s to come back and say hello.

We’ve had the 80s revamp, and this I understand. It was cool. There was that whole David Bowie ‘Goblin King’ aesthetic going on that was definitely worth another look, even if it was just to see if I could try once more to wish my brothers, aged 20, 21, and 28, forever into the labyrinth. But the early 90s? Cardigans. Shoulderpads. Julia Sawalha in Press Gang. Need I say more? The penance was the offence. However, not everyone, it seems doth concur. Thus, it’s my sad duty to inform you that someone, somewhere, and for some ungodly reason, has decided to resurrect that most heinous of all 90s fashion trends … the bodysuit. Yes. The outerwear bodysuit.

For those of you either not old enough, or not stupid enough, to have let photographic evidence of yourself in a white leotard, novelty earrings, checked shorts, hiking boots, and scrunchie socks, into the wrong hands, I salute you. For everyone else, I think now is definitely the time for a Kevin ’07-style, one-piece related think-tank. Ladies of the world, we need to get philosophical. We need to start asking the big questions: Is it possible to create a garment that could be more unflattering? Who needs to be that streamlined to run to the shops? And why, of all the challenges facing the modern woman, do fashion designers believe it is the ability to wear a top and a bottom which is most in need of elasticised attention?

Furthermore, on a more basic level, what exactly is the point? There is but one job I can think of where having a press-stud crotch is guaranteed to grease the wheels of the working week. One. For everyone else, convenience isn’t perhaps aligned with the ability to divide their own zygotes when they reach for the top shelf.

I know it’s distressing, but I’m showing you this for your own good: know thy enemy.



Be alert. Be alarmed.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Where are my cats?

I have a confession to make. Yesterday, I had a moment. This was one of those moments that, if I were in a novel, a critic might perhaps call 'portentous'. Assuming said novel was any good, this moment would be studied in modern lit classes across the globe, and would feature as the pre-eminent example of the inescapability of death, the inevitability of ageing, and the tragic, bittersweet transience of life. As it is, with the rights to my existence currently going for the bargain price of .01 cent (AUD), I shall have to content myself with the knowledge that it was simply the time when I realised that one should never put off doing pelvic floor exercises until later in life. The future is now, people; the future is now.

Despite this, however, it started out as a normal evening. I left work at 6 and was exiting the begijnhof (a kind of convent), leaving through the front gate as I always do. Birds were chirruping, the sun was out, and all was well with the world. Suddenly, however, a whizzing, bumping noise, a sound often connected either with imminent death or the BMX Bandits arose behind me. I turned just in time to see a kid of about 12 fly past me on his bike, careering slightly out of control on the cobbles. I jumped back and he whooshed through the narrow gate, nearly collecting both me and my bag on the way.


Now, on such an occasion there are many things I could, nay, should have done –my screaming banshee, my foul-mouthed fishwife, or even my shrieking strumpet, perchance – all would usually have gone down a thespian treat in such circumstances. But I choked. I flailed. In the face of such impertinent youthfulness, I had nothing, and not even the slightest whisper in the international language of anger could escape my pursed lips. Thus against my will, I was forced to pull the theatrical equivalent of the silent-but-deadly; the angry girl’s hara-kiri … I released my inner crone. That’s right. In a moment of preteen-induced trauma, I heard it, the voice in my head (not the voices, let's at least make that distinction. This one sounds like my own voice, but is infinitely less nasal and usually more culturally au fait), uttered the fatal words that distinguish the living from the living-on-canned-goods: “kids these days …”.

I couldn’t believe it. Just in case you didn't get it, and seeing as that’s what old people do, I’ll repeat myself: at 25 years of age, I said, “kids these days”. If I’d just been holding a carpet-bag, used the word 'varmints', and smelled a little like cheese, I'd have made a fully-fledged transition from moderately eccentric young woman to that weird lady who sits on your tram and tries to make you eat her sandwich. Now I know I am not old, I have only been walking, staggering, and occasionally, when the money’s a bit tight, loitering around this earth for the last quarter of a century, but this made me realise that perhaps I am no longer exactly young, either.

This realisation of course sent me into a spiral of despair and self-doubt: what have I done with my youth? Did I leave it somewhere? Do I still have the receipt? Even though all I really wanted was a nice cup of tea and a backrub, I decided that it was time for me to do something crazy; something exuberant, youthful, something that would make the world sit up and take notice.

I was high on life, my adrenals were a’pumping; or at the very least, there was definitely a pulse... Where to go? What to do with all this new-found vigour coursing through my veins? So, any guesses, ladies and gents? Hands up - what did I do? What couldn't you do, I hear you chorus?! I’ll tell you what I did: I left work, I went home …

I fell asleep on my bed.

For three hours.

You read it here first.

Saturday, June 14, 2008

A testament to pseudoephedrine

This week I have been sick. Sick, sick, sick. It's just a Belgian 'summer' (and I use the term advisedly, today it's been raining and a chipper 15C) cold, but I feel disgusting - puffy face, grotty nose, and my ears keep popping - all of which gives me the appearance of a slightly unbalanced, alcoholic garden gnome. Hardly the most clear-sighted perspective from which to weigh in on the battle of the sexes. Or to be thinking, really, but I love you guys so I'm going to give it a crack.

Now, what really got the brain bells buzzing on this was the somewhat unwanted comment from a male coworker on my new cold-induced and apparently 'sexy' husky voice. At the best of times, I am many things; at lesser times, I am a few; when I've just spewed something unmentionable into a tissue and broken into a sweat at my keyboard, I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, sexy (unless, perhaps, you thought that 'Two Girls and One Cup' posed a viable alternative to the recycled sewage debate). I have to say, this comment made me a little uncomfortable, and when the only response I could muster was, "I sound like a man, man", I did hope that my (apparent) lady-loveliness would be dimmed by a subliminal reference to The Crying Game. Yes, even in imaginary form, mine is bigger than yours.

Now, after the ick factor of having the 's' word mentioned at work had subsided, this comment got me thinking about gender roles in this day and age. I have to say, I don't worry about being female too much myself. While we seem to be rather lacklustre about supporting feminism in Australia, I do believe that it has a place in current Australian society, and am mystified by women who think that the mere discussion of equality will entail their forced submission to a compulsory razor buy-back scheme. Three words, ladies: Paid. Maternity. Leave.

That said, on a daily basis I don't find the life of a woman of comparative leisure that difficult to cope with, and indeed, the only times I ever really think about it are when I'm flirting my little bluestockings off, or if, as posted below, some little ferret decides to show me his wares on my evening walk.

However, I have worked primarily in either female dominated or 'knowledge' industries, so presumably my relationship to gender in professional terms is generally relatively easy to negotiate. But what if this wasn't the case? What if I had desperately wanted to be an engineer, or a miner, or, let's say citizenship and the desire not to link myself with an economic and moral black hole wasn't an issue, to run for the American presidency? In relation to the issues of 'racism vs sexism' that the US democrat campaign has barely contained, Waleed Aly has argued that while, "Obama discovered the acceptable black man [...] Clinton could find no acceptable way of being a powerful woman".

This made me think: if I was willing to take responsiblity for the lives of more than the small collection of fungi in my shower, what version of myself would I have to present to be a contender? Would I need to start calling the cloudfree sky of rural Australia deliberately barren? Would I be perpetually worried about the contents of my 'fruit bowl'?

I'll be very interested to see how the media portrays Rudd's female cabinet powerhouse now that the honeymoon period is well and truly over. I wonder, how restrictive are our understandings of Australian women in power, anyway?

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Cyber slavery

Look, I'll put it out there: there are some areas of thinkingness in which I am rather deficient. I know that everyone has a few life-arenas in which they wouldn't want to play gladiator, whether it be fixing taps, driving on the right side of the road, or remembering to put their knickers on before they leave the house. In my case, tecknologee and fiscal management are always precursors to a case of blown fuse. I just can't help it, no matter what I do, cash and computers simply gravitate towards the segment of my brain that thought 'Impeded View' was a support act, rather than an unfortunate seat, at the Radiohead concert.

Now, I'm quite happy to admit that I'm not up with the latest in techno-wizzbangery, I don't do my own tax, and I've always thought that economics seemed to be the antithesis of good ole fashioned common sense: how the price of bananas can transform a biro into a luxury good remains a mystery. Thus, as I'm sure you can appreciate, when the combination of the two popped up on my facebook notifications, I was mighty puzzled. Apparently, in the Gospel According to Mark Zuckerberg: "X now owns you as a pet! You were bought for $556, earning you $25 in profit!". I had to look at this twice, and not only because the appearance of two exclamation marks so close together tends to hurt my eyes.

It seems that I had earned money for doing sweet FA; a novel experience for someone who has passed their time in such lucrative industries as retail, administration, and higher education. Free money! Visions flashed before my eyes - designer clothes, a cool haircut, and perhaps a new tin of lentils had all been made possible by my unthinking descent into servitude ... huzzah!

And yet, in the midst of being measured for my new harness, I spat out my bit and had a sudden thought: what does this all mean? What are the ramifications of being a cyberpet? Do I now have to wash my hair through a mobile grooming service (which, on second thoughts, could actually be quite good)? More importantly, can I still roam the interneighbourhood at will, leaving my mark on other blogs around the block?

As I pondered these existential issues, I also began to have some doubts about the fitness of my owner for the task. To put it in context, X is a lad I don't know too well from school, whose friend request was accepted in a fit of late night facebook-induced frenzy. X also publishes status updates which detail his drink driving charges, and photos of himself with a gun ...

Um, actually, on that note, I think I might go edit my profile privacy.

Monday, June 9, 2008

A short sojourn

Have you been missing something in your life? The short, pithy, effortlessly wry commentary on the life of a young woman you may, or may not, know? Well fear not, luvvies, after a wee holiday I have taken off my travelling boots and been recalled to both my cyber duties and my Tiny Town.
While my trip did start off with a work-oriented tour of two of the lesser-known cosmopolitan hubs of the UK (Bradford and Hull, anyone? Think Billy Elliot without the hot men in chicken suits), after that things got a little more exciting. Why? Because, after stopping in London to collect two friends, I went to Paris for the weekend. That's right, you heard it. Paris. Me. Weekend. Friends. English-speakers.
Bliss.

We had SUCH a great weekend, truly, it was everything a Parisian experience should be: we laughed; we cried; Companion No 1 got the squirts; we bought him lemonade; we laughed again (with him this time, instead of at him), and so on; it was just very, very fun. To this day, I'm not entirely sure what we spent our time doing; I'm pretty sure that we just indulged in incredible food while sipping on the better part of a vineyard. The time in-between must simply have passed in a digestive haze.

One thing I do recall, however, was my absolute highlight: the Centre Pompidou. For those of you even considering heading to gay Paree, you simply must go - I'll never communicate with you in pseudoanonymity again if you don't. It's a contemporary art centre that houses a permanent exhibit, films, galleries, etc, and it's simply amazing. It has a fab collection of art post-1905, and has a huge focus on both great curatorship and public accessibility - when I was there, it was busy with a lot of school groups, some aged about as young as five.

Now, I love the little people (not in the way they're saying Bill Henson does, but you get my drift), but as a rule, the combination of chiddlers and contemporary art does not a happy Her maketh. However, the Pompidou simply has to win best practice as an art space that not only engages the public, but inspires and entertains the most finicky of audiences. Hell, I even saw teenage boys in there who weren't speaking Gruntish.
It was just the perfect balance between both traditional gallery presentation and interactive sectors: a personal favourite of mine was the very fun Galerie des Enfants (my French is bad, but I do know that means the 'kid's gallery' ... I'm sad to say that building blocks were involved), but the whole centre was just incredibly well presented and run by people who seemed so passionate about what they did. Definite points, Frenchlanders.

However, after spending four days with mates from home, it was a bit dire to catch my train to Belgium on Sunday, even though I'm heading back to Melbs in the not-too-distant future. I woke up this morning, thinking about my first day back at work and how far I was from home, and had the distinct, sickening, feeling that somewhere in the night part of my bowel had been removed. Did my friends take it back with them on QANTAS? I thought I just gave them some excess luggage; perhaps it would have been more socially acceptable for them to take my heart instead ...? Oh my, alone again, alone again, jiggedy jog.

On second thoughts, perhaps it was just the duck tartare.

Quack quack.

Sunday, June 1, 2008

Some food for thought

For the latter half of this week, I've been ruminating on an article I read in The Age online. It was just a short little factoid in their lifestyle section, but its opening line has stayed with me for the last few days. Under the heading, 'Women turned off by extra kilos', it begins thus: "Sixty per cent of women prefer to have sex in the dark and the reason, they admit, is poor body image". (For the full, albeit tiny, article see here)

Now, I'll be the first to admit that this survey is problematic - it's hosted by Jenny Craig, weightloss supremo, so odds are that the women surveyed are more likely to have weight-related issues than the average bear. And yet, despite this, I can't help coming back to that number - 60%. Even assuming this might be a bit of a blowout from the statistical norm, that's still an awful lot of couples trying to play Blind Man's Bluff ... in the buff.

Body image is a huge problem in Australia. According to the Butterfly Foundation website, approximately 10 % of women are, have been, or will be affected by an eating disorder (including anorexia, bulimia, and binge eating disorder) in their lifetime. I've been pondering these statistics, particularly in regards to its relationship with the 'thin is beautiful' culture that pervades the Australian/American media that so many of us, as it were, ingest.

Since arriving in Europe on this and other sojourns, I have wondered whether women on the continent possess a different relationship with their bodies and what they put in them. Although European culture is fairly activity-centric, (people ride or walk to work more, they join sports clubs for 'fun' and cycle on weekends), I also wonder whether *if* there is a difference (it's currently conjecture on my part), this difference exists because, quite simply, in most European cultures there is a bit more flesh around. By this, I don't mean Europeans are fatter - I'm fairly sure there are some fairly comprehensive, rigorous, and scientific studies, studies like French Women Don't Get Fat, which would suggest that this is not the case. What I am talking about, however, is the nude culture that, for anyone from Australia or America can come as a bit of a shock.

Now I haven't spent the last 5 months on a German naturist reserve (it was a very cold winter and I did have to save something up for July), but what I am talking about are the very small differences - communal showers in the gym, naked saunas, and of course the generally cavalier attitude to the need for bathing suits at most European beaches, that I think must make a difference. I wonder whether this fairly constant exposure to other female bodies - bodies that are hairy, fat, thin, lumpy, lovely, and strange - specifically bodies that are not 'perfect' - has a significant impact on women's attitudes to food and to themselves. There certainly seems to be less pressure to be the thin, toned, and hyper-plasticised image that I think we're in danger of believing is somehow achievable (and desirable) in Australia. Don't believe me? Try looking for your friends on a Croatian beach where the only directions provided are an SMS that says, "behind woman with saggy boobs". Hours of fun; it was like Where's Wally 2.0: The Fleshpot.

Without wanting the size-zero debate to rear its lollypop-esque head, I can't help wondering how often it is that Australian women actually view themselves in relation to one another in ways that are not either competitive (i.e. 'well, at least I'm thinner than her') or negative (i.e. 'she's thinner than me'). I'm not suggesting that every office should become some kind of Spencer Tunick love-in, but I think that it wouldn't hurt for there to be some way of gaining greater exposure to the differences, delights, and deficiencies that make up 'normal'. Apparently, the Dove 'Real Women' ad campaign was a great success; hopefully, seeing this, other companies will follow suit and use real bodies to depict their product.

To close, here's an image of one of my favourite things - the 'Venus de Willendorf' an 11 cm fertility/fecundity figurine that dates from about 24,000 -22,00 BC, and is currently situated in the Naturhistoriches Museum in Vienna. Knowing I loved it, my parents bought me a replica in Vienna, and now it's come from Melbourne to Belgium with me. It fits just perfectly in the hand, and I like to think of it as my own little piece of portable Earth Mother. Beautiful, eh?