Myer's Food Court

Things I like about Sydney No. 36 (or Guilty Pleasures No. 1): Myer's Food Court

I am led to conjecture that Myer is the Australian equivalent of London's John Lewis. They have a similar appearance, sell similar things and are both in the shadow of a mightier competitor (in Sydney this would be David Jones and in London, the marvellous Selfridges - both of which are decidedly classier than their lesser cousins). Myer however can't boast the magnificent slogan "Never knowingly undersold" as John Lewis. Rather, their utterly feeble tagline is "Myer is my store"  upon which they no doubt lavished a fortune. Sigh.

I only ever go to Myer in order to buy one of two things - Clinique shaving gel or towels. For everything else its David Jones any day. There you can buy (at a price) Fortnum & Mason tea (but only the bog standard ones), Ben Sherman shirts, L'Occitane shampoo, Arabia moomin mugs (except for the limited edition ones), bed linen, French cheeses and 2xist underwear. It almost makes you think you're living in a civilised country. Except for the service (impossible) and the willing helpfulness (non-existent).

I once asked in David Jones whether they could get some Mouchoir de Monsieur, a perfume by Guerlain that originated in the nineteenth century and was worn by Proust. This was in March. "Oh no", the assistant brayed, "we only order perfume in once a year and that's for Christmas." And that was that. I then asked in the Food Hall whether they could get some Russian Caravan tea. "Is it on the shelf?" No, I replied. "Well then we can't." Right-ho. Thank you very much. You've been so helpful.

Australia. Where you have to remember that to serve someone is a bad thing. It brings back feelings of colonial shame. Must remember to be rude instead.

I digress.

Even when I don't have shaving gel or towels to buy there is something that draws me back to Myer rather frequently. A guilty secret. My guilty pleasure. This is Myer's Food Hall or, to give it it's proper name, Sydney Central Plaza Food Court.

Underneath the department store is a huge cavern, lit brighter than hell, and this, dear readers, is a food court. Firstly, I need to explain to any Australians that unlike Sydney where every building larger than a house seems to have one London doesn't teem with food courts. I can't think of any back home. Hang on a minute, I have some vague memories of one in the Trocadero Centre near Piccadilly Circus: but that wouldn't really count  because only tourists step foot within that hideous hell-hole. So, instead of pigging out in brightly-lit food courts we Brits go to discrete little sandwich shops. Pret A Manger. Marks & Spencer. Bite. Caffe Nero. Eat. Le Pain Quotidien. Konditor & Cook - the list of those is endless.

So food courts have an exotic quality for me, despite the fact that really there is nothing more vulgar. They  remind me of touring with the David Glass Ensemble around South East Asia for three years (over a decade ago now) when we would fall upon a food court in Hong Kong with ravening glee after spending a month braving five hundred year old eggs and fried chicken feet in somewhere like Kunming. We might, back then, even have been tempted to eat the odd, ahem, burger.

A little bit of Asia then is conjured up for me whenever I descend the escalator to Myer's Food Court - but it's certainly not by the food. Despite the fact that in the Sydney Central Plaza Food Court you can eat in any country you want - Mexico? check; Turkey? check; China? check; Japan? check; Vietnam? check - nothing, absolutely nothing, is authentic. Not a herb or a spice or an unusual condiment is allowed past the Food Court's draconian watchdog for here we proudly fly the flag of mediocrity.

If the food is so bad, why then do I like it?

Firstly, because it is the only place in central Sydney which is always packed to the rafters but where it is nevertheless absolutely fine to be eating on your own. Secondly, because of one dish out of the hundreds on offer - a heart-attack inducing salt-laden dish of squid from the lovely people at Sea In The City...

Sea In The City is really a chinese take-away in disguise. From a distance you think you're in for a lovely healthy steamed fish or perhaps a lightly battered Barramundi or a round of rock oysters but instead (this is a Food Court after all, the Devil's own restaurant), upon reaching the gleaming counter you are confronted with pile upon pile of glistening sauces and stack upon stack of deep-fried morsels, all betokening an early grave.

The Spicy Salt & Pepper Squid (above, bottom right) is my particular guilty pleasure, my heart-stopping indulgence. Crunchy tentacles of squid, deep-fried in a crispy salty batter (oops, where's the spice?) are served along with another dish of your choice (crispy spicy fish with a surprisingly large number of vegetables but, yup, undetectable spice) on top of rice flecked with the odd vegetable (more would obviously be unhealthy). This feast, served up on a cardboard plate, comes to the grand total of $6.50 (at today's conversion rates this comes to a paltry £3.95).

I would like to point out that my server today was rather stinting with her portions. Normally I have to stagger away from the counter under an enormous weight of deep-fried sea-food, tip-toeing to a seat in order not to cause a seismic shifting of battered squid from my groaning paper plate. Today, I think she was rather put out at my taking photographs and she punished me accordingly.


Once sat down at your fake marble table, there are two problems with eating the dish. Firstly, the smallest plate (your £3.95 option) is still too much for lunch. I usually have to leave something behind, wilting under the high-wattage lighting on the side of the plate. Secondly, you have to eat the thing with a plastic fork which is well-nigh impossible. The fork bends, it sways, its prongs refuse to enter into a discussion with anything tougher than a pea. Frankly fingers would be better. But we have standards to maintain at the Sydney Central Plaza Food Court and fingers are a big no-no.

Whilst tucking in to my guilty squiddy pleasure I spend the time people-watching. My fellow guzzling gourmands amaze me with their stamina, with the huge quantities of food they are able to hoover up. I wonder whether they contemplate having dinner as well and note that their waistlines often admit to it.

Spotting who lives here and who is a tourist is always fun. Looking down on those with their KFC and their McDonalds is a good game (although I know that my plate contains more salt than a dozen Super-Sized BigMacKingBurgers and that the working conditions at Sea In The City are probably not the best in Australia). Frightening children by drooping tentacles out of the side of one's mouth is always entertaining. Gazing into space vacantly is encouraged and a lovely way to rest the mind whilst chewing squid. Watching people go up and down the elevators and pondering would it be too much to expect them to walk is not allowed.

Sydney Central Plaza Food Court does not encourage lingering once you have finished your meal. Someone will be wiping down your table before you've chewed your last bit of squid and someone else will be hovering nearby with a ginormous plate of steaming crap, beadily eyeing your table. Obviously it is not advisable to be too energetic after ingesting so much sodium chloride so I glassily get up and idle towards the escalator where, lo and behold, I stand still and let it effortlessly glide me upwards out of the Devil's Restaurant. Looking back over my shoulder I glimpse a waving mascot above the heads of those lovely people at Sea In The City. It is inscrutable and unmistakably Chinese and therefore more authentic than their food. The mascot's left paw waves mechanically up and down in an everlasting farewell and I watch it until it can be seen no more. Until next time that is. Must be about time to get some more shaving gel....

Captain Danny's Lobster Thermidor

Things I like about Sydney No. 35: Lobster Thermidor

Last night, Captain Danny (a moniker he earned whilst we were on a canal boat holiday in Yorkshire some moons ago and somehow fitting here in waterside Sydney) made me my first Lobster Thermidor.

Lobster Thermidor.

A phrase that makes me think of Scott Fitzgerald cavorting on the Riviera with Zelda. Or of Diaghilev wooing Nijinsky. Or of Evelyn Waugh trying to impress Nancy Mitford, hoping his wit will outshine his middle class boorishness.

Lobster Thermidor.

The sort of entree that Noel Coward and Princess Margaret were always throwing down their necks at intimate soirees on Caribbean islands in the 50s. I bet it's what Roger Federer eats when he lunches with Anna Wintour (although she just has the salad).

Lobster Thermidor.

The French invented it in the 1890s, brash Americans ordered it all over Europe in the 1920s, Bulgarian oligarchs are gobbling it up in the 2010s. Lobsters - still very much a status symbol and like champagne, priced astronomically out of proportion to their true worth. Lobster Thermidor clings valiantly on to its status as a dish for special occasions only.

But why thermidor?

I wanted to know. And now I do. Sort of. It's all rather complicated. The recipe is named after a play by Victorien Sardou which was in turn named after a summer month in the French Republican Calendar (who knew there was one?) which was in turn named after the Greek word for heat. The Thermidorian Reaction was a revolt in the French Revolution against the excesses of the reign of terror and it ended the most radical phase of the revolution. (Sardou is best known for La Tosca, a play plundered with great success by Puccini but called "an empty-headed ghost of a shocker" by pompous old George Bernard Shaw. Offenbach, Massenet and Saint-Saens all wrote incidental music for Sardou's plays - a pretty impressive list of collaborators). Lobster Thermidor was created by the chef at Marie's, a Parisian restaurant near the Comedie-Francaise where Sardou's Thermidor opened in 1894.

So it is named to celebrate the end of the scaffold (and the opening of a play). And ironically, to make the wretched thing, you have to commit cold-blooded murder....

We bought our live lobster at Sydney Fish Market. The fish market here would have been the subject of its own blog as a thing I like about Sydney but for the fact that it is a) impossible to park there b) overrun with tourists and seagulls and c) rather shoddy. Yes, it's a treasure trove of fish, an Aladdin's cave of seafood, but unless you go there early on a weekday morning, it's always rather overwhelming. And as Captain Danny is the fish expert in this household (he knows a sparkling eye on a mackerel when he sees one) I always end up meandering about outside the market looking after Sniff and watching people stuff their faces with deep fried calamari whilst the Cap'n peruses the goods.

Armed with a tightly wrapped live lobster and a rather large snapper for the main course, we head home from the fish market contemplating the brutality that lies ahead.

The most humane way it seems to kill a lobster is to put it in the freezer for a couple of hours so that when you attack it with a large knife it's already either dead or numb to the pain. So Captain Danny duly placed Mr. Lobster in the freezer. When he brought him out two hours later there was still the faint wriggling of limbs to be discerned so back he went to his icy grave. That extra half an hour seemed to do the trick and when he next emerged Mr. Lobster seemed dead to the world.

Unfortunately, Australian lobsters seem to be markedly different from those described in Leith's Fish Bible (which really should be renamed Captain Danny's Fish Bible) where Ms Leith describes a certain cross on the lobster's carapace which conveniently marks the spot at which to drive your knife in for the deadly blow. Mr. Lobster bore no such markings. Captain Danny had to plunge unguided into the heart of the beast. Here he is delivering the coup de grace.

There followed some grunting and puffing (from Captain Danny not the lobster) as the knife sliced through all that knobbly exoskeleton before two halves of lobster were presented ready for their thermidorisation.

Captain Danny is a dab hand at making a roux which is lucky because you need one for Lobster Thermidor, along with a whole heap of fresh herbs (chervil, parsley, tarragon) some mustard, some parmesan and some secret ingredients which the Captain refused to divulge. (He also refused to divulge how much Mr. Lobster cost).

My culinary skills don't extend to white sauces. Brown ones, red ones, yellow ones, green ones, fine. But those white ones scare me.

Mr. Lobster was chucked into a pan with some shallots and, no doubt, this is French cuisine after all, heaps of butter before I was banished from the kitchen and excluded from the mysteries of Lobster Thermidor. I waited with bated breath, sniffing out delicious aromas, trembling with the excitement of it all. Perhaps I would spontaneously become Noel Coward with my first mouthful...

Then it appeared. Captain Danny's Lobster Thermidor. In all its glory (and matching the tablecloth I would like to add...).

I can only say it was a triumph, each delicious mouthful a double-edged sword - a marvel but never to be repeated. Mr. Lobster could last only so long. This is why it is such a special dish - there's never enough. You're always left wanting more.

I will leave you with the comforting thought that, although Mr. Lobster had to sacrifice his life for our momentary pleasure, he was at least eco-friendly and came from a good family...Mr. Lobster, we thank you. We salute you.

The remembrance of tidal pools past

Things I like about Sydney No. 34: Tidal pools.

There are many tidal pools in Sydney for those too terrified to venture out into shark-infested waters. If you have followed my recent advice and walked from Bondi to Clovelly you will have seen a whole bunch of them. Also known as ocean baths, tidal pools are cut into the base of cliffs and rocks at the edge of many Sydney beaches - thirty between Palm Beach and Cronulla alone - providing all the thrills of swimming in the ocean within a safe, confined space. Some of them date back to the ninteenth century and these earliest ocean baths were built because swimming at beaches in daylight hours was illegal until 1903. Furthermore, landowners didn't want swimmers near their properties and they frequently had them arrested. Many of the later tidal pools were built  by unemployed labour during the depression - swimming was and is a free activity after all.


There have been many photographic studies made of all these tidal pools, entire exhibitions dedicated to them, articles extolling them, theses written about them: this is emphatically a city obsessed with its prime waterside location. As a reluctant swimmer (and Sydneysider) I am hardly qualified to join in this chorus of adulation.


Which is why I have picked my favourite ocean pool as being one over here on the North Shore, in Tambourine Bay.  It is a tidal pool with no tide. A bath with no bathers. A swimming pool with no water. A remembrance of tidal pools past.

 As you can see, this tidal pool needs (to quote the local Council's newsletter) "extensive repairs". There certainly can be 'NO DIVING' in the foreseeable future. Its blue paint has peeled, its measuring stick, optimistically warning of depths of up to 1.5 metres, remains permanently dry and a boat is docked on the pool's bed as if haphazardly thrown to its fate. The occasional heron stalks past its beached bow,  leaving scratchy footprints in the dirt, but otherwise nothing larger than a crab takes the plunge.

I think it is probably the local scouts who are responsible for the editing of the warning signs around the pool, for there, over to the left, stands the 1st Tambourine Bay Sea Scouts hut. Who can resist scratching out an 'l' in order to change pool to poo? Not the sea scouts, oh no!

The ghostly white handprint on the following sign is palely contradicting the statement that "depth changes due to tidal movement"....

....for the tide is long gone. These days, the sea scouts have to banish all hopeful thoughts of swimming from their minds.


The wrack and ruin of Tambourine Bay's tidal pool seems to have been both swift and thorough. How soon the things of man can fall and decay. Or in this case the things of woman - for Tambourine Bay was named after a notorious prostitute called Tambourine Nell who hid out in the bay, on the run from the police, setting up camp and managing to elude captivity for quite some time. This was before tidal pools and sea scouts and me and Sniff and you and blogs. Nevertheless, I feel sure that, one day, whilst staring out to sea and pondering her future, Tambourine Nell saw a heron stalking across the shoreline, identical in every way to the one I saw this week making a serene and dignified journey away from the confines of the tidal pool.

Bondi to Clovelly Coastal Walk

Things I like about Sydney No. 33: The Bondi to Clovelly Coastal Walk

Everyone and their dog should do the Bondi to Clovelly coastal walk if they come to Sydney. Natalie and I did it yesterday on a rather gloomy, grey day with Sniff tagging along. It was bracing and rejuvenating. Highly recommended.

We started at the world-famous Bondi Beach at about 11 in the morning. At this time the sun was still pretending that it was going to shine all day long and groups of teenagers were hanging about taking endless photos of each other in a narcissistic orgy of self-reflection. A few foolish surfers were out in a rather flat sea, occasionally gliding into shore on a less than impressive wave. They're more fun to look at on shore frankly, walking down to the beach with their youthful healthiness and their wet suits rolled down to the waist. This can occupy you for a couple of refreshing minutes before heading off on the walk, or alternatively you can buy a cup of coffee from the strange Spanish doughnut shop (or rather, as they would have it, a chocolateria) opposite the car park as Natalie did. Churros I think they're called (the doughnuts that is).

Avert your eyes from the disaster that is the coastline to your left - hideous rows of hideous houses built with complete disregard for aesthetics - and head off to the right down the well-trodden boardwalk up towards Icebergs, a fancy club/restaurant where, if you hadn't just started your walk, you would be wise to sit down inside its fancy glass-walled bar and drink a couple of glasses of sparkling wine whilst drinking in the view. (It's not as expensive as it looks. Or was that just because when I was there my friend Fry from San Francisco was paying...most probably). You can see the entire beach, as below.

If, like us, you have only just started and it is still too early for a cocktail press on. You're headed for a small white sandy beach called Tamarama. According to Daniel, Tamarama used to be the gay beach. He sunbathed there when young and beautiful. According to Natalie, it is now the beach where the models and soap stars hang out. So still for the young and beautiful but now they're straight. This just goes to prove that it's us homosexuals who always get there first...

On the track to Tamarama you pass some brilliant rock formations on both sides of the track. I was too busy talking to take any photographs of them so you'll have to take my word for it. I managed to take this photo of the sea. (I should mention that the sun had now disappeared almost completely, never to reappear, and that the wind was rising, which didn't unfortunately give rise to bumper waves. We ran into the owner of Natalie's gym who was out with his board and he told us that the surf was distinctly poor. I would of course like to pepper this blog with lots of surfing terms but find that I don't actually know a single one....).

You'll realise that lots of buff bodies are constantly jogging past as you continue your leisurely stroll. So this is where they all are, you think to yourself. They certainly don't look like this on the streets of Greenwich....Hmmmm....perhaps it's time to move.

You'll also realise that the buff bodies are often accompanied by aggressive dogs. It seems that it's not enough to look butch, you have to have a butch-looking dog to reinforce the macho image (and we're not just talking the men here). This necessitates the constant recalling of Sniff in order to put him on the leash so that he doesn't get his head ripped off by a pit-bull. And there were at least two dogs that were more than happy to decapitate him given half a chance.

Because it was out of season all the beach facilities - the small cafes and surf shops - were closed as we made our way round the track. Bronte, the next destination, was looking particularly forlorn. A group of foreign teenagers, about twenty in all, stood in absolute silence, staring out at the sea, as Natalie, Sniff and I meandered past, as if 'glamoured' by vampires (True Blood fans). Decidedly eerie.

Despite the high density of housing along this walk, building after building clamouring to get some of that waterfront view, and despite the high density of foot traffic along the path, we spotted three Superb Fairy Wrens and a New Holland Honeyeater darting in and out of the coastal bushes, neither of which I ever see in the reserves around Greenwich.

Bronte has a few cafes up the road from the beach and we decided to stop for lunch. Which was fatal really because once we'd eaten the mammoth portions Australia thinks is lunch and once the sky had become even gloomier and the temperature had dropped we decided to return to Bondi rather than to carry on round the coastal track. We wimped out, folks.

If we had continued we would have walked through Waverley cemetery which is a magnificent place to be buried. Buffeted by sea winds and spattered with sea spray, the Australian poet Henry Lawson lies here alongside an aviator pioneer called Lawrence Hargreave. It was established in 1877 but you can still be buried here (as long as you have shedloads of cash). I took the following pictures of Waverley on another trip down the coastal walk with Daniel (pre Sniff).

And once beyond the cemetery you will find yourself in Clovelly, which is a fabulous snorkelling spot and the best place for lunch.

The only problem with the Bondi to Clovelly walk is that, unless you have some poor sap willing to drop you off at one end and pick you up at the other, there is nothing for it but to walk back the way you came. You certainly aren't going to brave those waters without a fleet of lifeguards on your tail. There were two shark attacks within one week at Bondi last year and one of them resulted in some poor surfer having nothing but a bit of skin connecting his left hand to his arm...

Let's play spot the shark:

Spring is springing.

Things I like about Sydney No. 32: The springing of Spring.

I was never much one for noticing the seasons. Winter or summer, living in London always seemed pretty much the same to me: often grey, often wet, with very occasional unpredictable brilliantly bright days scattered around like dropped pennies. And as, increasingly, the seasons aren't behaving as they should anyway, with weather forecasters constantly harping on about unseasonably hot winters or freezing wet summers, why should I pay any attention to the four dividing quarters of the year? I'm not a farmer after all, rather a humble musician and composer, frequently holed up in a theatre somewhere, and, in darkened auditoriums, it's always winter.

This seasonal blindness of mine used to extend further afield than London. For instance, I didn't ever think to plan summer holidays in appropriate summer countries on appropriate summer beaches or winter holidays skiing or chasing after some winter sun. Instead, Daniel and I tended to drift where the mood took us, irrespective of the season. Venice in December and the Queensland rainforest in January - both times considered to be crazily 'out of season' - were however huge hits: empty of tourists, consequently fabulous.

Another instance of my old seasonal myopia: whenever I used to come across descriptions in books of the seasons I always felt them to be a hackneyed device, merely inserted to increase the author's word count for the day, rarely essential to the plot and often just an excuse for a bit of cheap allegory. Oh, it's spring, and as the flowers burst forth our characters are moving onwards and upwards with their lives! Ah, it's winter and as the snow falls our hero feels oppressed and downhearted, smothered by a blanket of sorrow!

But then, back in 2004, early spring to be exact, everything changed.

Daniel and I acquired a long and thin garden in Islington whose upkeep had to be kept up (and to the high standards of its previous owners at that). My seasonal blindness vanished as if lasered away by the eye doctor. I began to pay attention to those budding flowers and ripening vegetables of spring (after all, I'd, God-like, planted them); or to the fluctuating numbers of starlings feeding on our left-overs and bread crusts in winter; or to the falling of leaves in autumn which would need to be raked up, bagged, and hauled through the house to the front drive for collection on a specified third Thursday of the month. I began to join in those conversations when people discussed the unseasonality of things ("My crocuses have come up five weeks early this year." "Did you hear that the Swallowtail Butterfly still hasn't been spotted and it's nearly August?" "Our apples have been destroyed by these early winds." and so on and so on). And by 2008, just before we left for Australia, I could tell you exactly when and where everything in the garden grew and when they died and in which part of which season they did so.

Now, however, I am all at sea again. Just when the rhythms of life (they're a wonderful thing, Sweet Charity fans) and I were in sync, just when Nature and I were talking from the same (atheist) hymn-book, everything got turned upside down and I came to Australia. Where all is topsy-turvy. Where summer is winter and spring autumn. Where people look forward to their long holidays in December and batten down the hatches in July. Where no-one bloody told me that winter DOES exist and that it lasts just as long as an English winter with the added bonus of NO CENTRAL HEATING making it colder in July than Rejkyavik in a snow-storm...

It is precisely this dreadful winter we've just endured in a house equipped with just the one tiny gas heater that has made me agog for the springing of spring as I have never been before. I have been hypersensitive to any signs that spring might be on its way. And this, folks, is what I've noticed.

Firstly, the flowering of magnolias and camellias. Camellias are now identifiable to me because of the pink camellia in our garden in London which was also known to me as a harbinger of spring. Always the first plant to bloom in Islington, camellias were the first flowers out here in Sydney too, rapidly followed, similarly as in London, by magnolias. And what a lot of them. It seems that every gardener in Greenwich (Greenwich Sydney that is, keep up) plants these bushes and trees in their front gardens. Houses which have nothing else but lawn still have a magnolia or camellia plonked in the middle of the grass. Quite extraordinary. And unfortunately quite quite boring once they've done their three weeks or so mad blooming.

Secondly, the rising of the sap means the rising of scents. There are some extraordinary smells around now. Jasmine, eucalypt, lemon tea trees...fecundity whiffed at every step.

Thirdly, the burgeoning of natives. Native plants that is. It seems as if everything has decided to flower at once. Grevilleas, wattles, heather-like things, oh I have no idea what they are all called... here are some pictures of them instead.

Fourthly, whenever Sniff and I head off into the bush for our daily walks I've noticed that the scuttling has begun. Turn a corner and the undergrowth rustles. Step up onto a rock and tails whisk away into the shadows. We're preceded by constant movement, dartings to the left, dartings to the right. This can mean only one thing. The lizards and skinks are back - three cheers for the reptiles! Hibernation is over! The moomins will be out next. (In actual fact, I spotted the first Eastern Water Dragon of the year yesterday, all three and a half foot of it, running upright as fast as it could through our garden away from the scary monster Sniff).

Fifthly, and rather alarmingly, the Sydney funnel web spider's lair has been re-built ready for spring. This particular lair is only about ten metres away from our front door on the slope I climb down daily to get to the creek. At least I'm pretty sure it's a funnel web spider lair. It looks just like the pictures of them on-line. However, as I've watched the videos of funnel web spiders to be found on YouTube I am not about to poke a stick down the burrow just to try and entice the most poisonous spider in the world out to verify its identity. I'm not familiar enough with emergency procedures in this country to invite being bitten. Come to think of it, I don't even know what the emergency number is. I know its not 999....Must do some research. But apparently, there's nothing to worry about yet for it's only at dusk in the late summer and autumn that the male spiders leave their web-lined tunnels in search of mates. Then, although they can't jump, "they can move quickly, and will rear up when irritated and make sudden lunges when striking". Lovely. The Australian Museum reassures me that there is now an effective antivenom for a funnel web spider bite and there have been no deaths since 1981...Here is a gratuitous picture of one which I am glad to say I didn't take.

Lastly, I know that spring is just around the corner because I went out the other day without a jacket on. Still had a jumper and a shirt and a scarf on, but no jacket. This is a major achievement only to be understood but those who have similarly borne a winter of hardship and NO CENTRAL BLOODY HEATING. A friend of mine here, the magnificently named Anca Frankenhauser, is Finnish and agrees with me about the Sydney winter. She has never been colder than she has been at home here in Sydney. Despite being FINNISH!!!!! FINNISH!!!!! That's how ridiculous a Sydney winter is. Don't let anyone ever tell you that Australia is hot, hot, hot. It's a myth. If anyone asks, tell them its colder than Finland and full of poisonous creatures, one of whom has just been announced as Prime Minister.

Except don't, because then no-one will EVER visit us. x

A Miscellany

Things I like about Sydney No. 29: The Men's Shed

A short distance from our house, along the creek a bit, in the strangely named Smoothey Park, is a dark green metal public sign put up by the North Sydney Council. It boldly announces the following:

NORTH SYDNEY MEN'S SHED

What???!!! Is this the male equivalent of those ancient Roman clearings in the woods which were dedicated to female rites and rituals? Do men go to the Men's Shed to bond with each other in secret ceremonies and to howl like wolves at the moon? Or do they meet up there to brush up on their carpentry skills and to admire each other's lathes? Or to compare home brews and get stoned? Or is it all kung fu fighting and the violent crossing of sticks? The Men's Shed. It sounds rather homoerotic to me...

I crept up the hill towards the Men's Shed and peered in through the keyhole the other day, hoping to see some, preferably naked, goings-on -  a cross between a Masonic Ritual and a Caligulan Orgy would have sufficed. Unfortunately, it was both silent and empty.  This does however allow my imagination to continue to run riot...

Things I like about Sydney No. 30: My favourite tree.

My favourite tree stands singly and singular at the entrance to Balls Head Reserve. It seems fairly ancient, on a small well-kept lawn, encircled by a low stone wall. It is currently laden with faded and  drying flowers and is, I believe, some form of banksia (not to be readily spotted in Islington anyway).

Things I like about Sydney No. 31: Sarah and Michael have invited their friends for breakfast, lunch and tea.

I introduced Sarah and Michael back in June. They were Sulphur Crested Cockatoos, new arrivals on the terrace at Glenview Street. Just like Thang and Kev, the rainbow lorikeets, they have since trumpeted the news of the good grub to be had at ours to all their friends. It's frankly getting quite out of hand.

Things I like about Sydney No. 31: Outsize and freaky Fungi.

Fungi can be divided into two broad groups, called ascomycetes and basidiomycetes, depending on how their sexual spores are formed. Many are however asexual or homosexual and therefore if they wanted to get married in Australia they wouldn't have a chance in hell. I mention this because there is about to be a general election in which the ONLY party that supports same-sex marriage is the Green party. The Prime Minister, who doesn't even have the excuse of religion as she declares herself to be an atheist, simply doesn't approve of the idea and that's that. When I casually drop the fact that Iceland has a female prime minister who has just married her female partner into conversations many Australians tend to look at me with either complete disbelief or horror. Sadly, none of them seem to already know this marvellous fact. So the fungi and I are going to stand up for our rights and go on a march on Saturday. Perhaps I'll dress up as a mushroom.

Taxidermy for Beginners

Things I like about Sydney No. 28: Taxidermy for Beginners

Lesson No. 1: Preparing a Skull

1.1 First find a corpse.

The prerequisite for preparing a skull is a corpse to which said skull once belonged. This should preferably be animal or avian and definitely not human...A New Zealand Fur Seal (Arctocephalus forsteri) discovered over a year ago on a trip to the Coorong and re-discovered in the exact same position fourteen months later is ideal as much of the flesh from the seal's skull will already have decayed and/or been eaten. Additionally, New Zealand Fur Seals are not categorised as endangered by CITES or the IUCN or any other environmental body.

1.2 Remove the skull from the corpse.


As this part of the operation is not very pleasant, involving a fair amount of tugging at decaying flesh whilst being besieged by flies, delegation and a pair of surgical gloves are advised. If no gloves are available simply delegate (to Daniel in this instance). Watch the ripping of fur seal flesh and say "Ugggggg" a lot.

1.3 Return at a later date to search for any missing teeth.

You will no doubt realise, when working at close range with your skull, that various teeth are either loose or missing. We will deal with loose teeth later, but those missing teeth might just be found. Return to the now headless corpse and scour the ground roundabout with close eagle-eyed attention and you may be rewarded with more canines to re-insert into your skull. Teeth are, after all, difficult to ingest and therefore confound both the maggots and the larger predators such as rats, foxes and dingoes. Feel especially brave for doing this without any help whatsoever.


1.4 Find a kitchen with plenty of ventilation.


As the next stage of our skull preparation will involve the releasing of a certain amount of unpleasant odours find a kitchen with plenty of windows and doors that open directly to welcome fresh air...preferably not your own (sorry Judith....).

1.5 Boiling the skull

Find a large saucepan (oops, again, sorry Judith), large enough to contain the skull and lower mandibles (which will separate easily from the upper jaw) and fill it with water. Bring to the boil and then submerge your skull and the lower mandibles in the water and leave to a gentle roiling boil for three hours. Open all doors and windows. Do not boil too hard and be careful not to lose any more teeth (the seal's not your own). Try very hard not think of Denis Nilsen as you watch a skull boiling in a pan on your kitchen stove. Try very hard also not to gag at the smell of boiling seal flesh. Try hard in fact to pretend nothing is out of the ordinary at all.

Remove the skull from the saucepan and place on newspaper outside. Search for any loosened teeth at the bottom of the pan amongst the sand, flesh, blubber and other detritus. Wash saucepan repeatedly with gallons of detergent and place back in the cupboard whilst saying determinedly, "It's fine, she'll never know."

1.6 De-flensing the skull.

To flense is to cut the blubber or skin from a whale or seal...Having boiled your skull for three hours, most of the flesh that remains attached to the bone will easily come off with a gentle scrubbing from an old toothbrush. Globby stubborn bits of flesh may need some extra scraping with a knife. Once more be careful with the teeth as some more will have become loose from the boiling process. Wear surgical gloves and marvel at how professional you feel. Ponder becoming a surgeon. Gag a bit at the smell of old boiled seal flesh.

Repeat steps 1.5 and 1.6 if necessary But when your corpse has already been exposed to the wind and sun for an entire year this will be highly unlikely...

1.7 Admire your work so far.

Actually, for stage 1.7 you really require someone else. They need to stop by, admire your work, and say "Gosh, how marvellous you are for bravely tackling the gruesome business of preparing a seal skull. And, oh, how professional you look in those surgical gloves. You should be a Doctor."

1.8 Return home with partially prepared skull in the back of the car wrapped in newspaper and  a bin liner.

Once more, put all thoughts of Denis Nilsen out of your mind.

1.9 Bleach the skull. 


Once all remaining pieces of flesh and blubber have been successfully removed from the skull it is time to bleach it.  Without bleaching it looks rather gray and grubby and there is still the matter of the unholy smell emanating from it. A trip to the chemist is required to buy some 3% Hydrogen Peroxide Solution. You need enough solution to cover the skull in a bucket. A seal skull is quite large and unfortunately Hydrogen Peroxide comes in 100 ml doses rather than 1 litre doses. Buy the chemist out of their entire stock of hydrogen peroxide and, when asked why you need so much, boldly state that you are bleaching a seal skull. This puts an immediate end to any more pesky questioning.

Place the skull in a bucket along with all those loose teeth and pour in bottle after bottle of hydrogen peroxide solution. Remember to wear gloves again and try not to splash your jumper and jeans...(I am speaking from experience here remember). Leave on the balcony for five days and nights, occasionally peering in to see if there has been any progress and to ensure that all parts of the skull are still submerged. Hope that the postman doesn't also peer into the bucket and then call the police.

1.10 Glue back all loose teeth.

Carefully take the skull out of the bucket of hydrogen peroxide and wash obsessively in soapy water. Sniff it gingerly and breath a huge sigh of relief that it no longer reeks. Run down to the local store and buy a small tube of Super Glue. Have fun working out which of the loose teeth go in which tooth socket (it's just like a children's game) and then glue them back in, thinking all the while how awful it would be to glue a seal tooth to your hand, or your fingers to each other, or your eyelids shut - all the things you normally contemplate when holding a tube of Super Glue.

1.11 Display.


Your skull is now ready to display. Find a suitable podium. Place it carefully in position. Stand back, admire it and think how brave you are once more. Wonder what your next project will be...the rat that's taken up his abode in the kitchen? Sniff? Daniel? Decide however that this will be your first and last excursion into practical taxidermy. Pour yourself a large drink. Drink it. Pour another. Drink that too. Decide that you might do some more taxidermy after all. Move on to Lesson 2.