Here's What I Found This Time

The last time I did a post like this I think I referred to it as "my favourite things". So original, so creative, so totally stealing Oprah!

So this time I'm referring to it as here's what I found this time. Which is exactly what it is, stuff that I like that I think you might like too.

These jeans. I love these jeans. They were at GAP a couple of months ago. I bought the coral and I should have bought the pale blue at the same time - instead my sneaky friend Kirsty (I like all my friends to have the same name as me) went back and got the blue - and now there's none left. But all is not lost. I've just ordered a pair online and according to GAP and DHL they'll be here in a week. These jeans are comfortable, flattering and they make them big enough for me. They're called the skimmer legging jean if you're looking.

Last year when I was the proud owner of a urethral diverticulum, I found myself on a constant course of antibiotics to treat my oh so lovely never ending urinary tract infections. Oh, look at that, the one solitary man that was here has just ran from his laptop. Where was I? Oh yes, I was back talking about my foofy again. Some of you may have experienced the joy of antibiotics and the beautiful side effects. I don't want to gross anyone else out, but lets just say that this year I am not only antibiotic and UTI free, but thrush hasn't been, erm, around these parts either.

A couple of years ago my very lovely sister in law gave me the tip of adding a couple of drops of Tea Tree Oil to the bath to, ahem, keep things fresh. I took it a bit further and came back to Doha with roughly 20 bottles of this. I know I'm not the only one addicted to this stuff, I noticed it in my girlfriend's shower in Paris.

This morning I had a coffee with the lovely Jackie from The Bodyshop (Jackie and I met in the toilets of a Mall one day and struck up a chat, as one tends to do). She too agreed that tea tree oil was the miracle worker for ailments rhyming with crush. And then promptly marched me down to the store and gave me this to try.

The little bottle on the right is pure tea tree oil which is great for the bath. The bottle on the left is their bodywash which means I no longer have to import 20 bottles of shower gel from Oz each time I return to Doha. 

The next winner of the week was the Tangle Teezer that I picked up at Boots pharmacy. The second little traveller has thick long hair and at times has attempted a hidden deadlock that would rival Bob Marley.

This thing is bliss. No complaints and she uses it herself. Except of course, when she has somehow managed to convince the third little traveller to do it for her. How does that work??  Notice his own unbrushed hair? Ever heard of treat em mean keep em keen. Exhibit 1:

And this. I'm a big lover of Instagram, and I wanted to print some of my shots and get them framed. I've just ordered my first poster from PosterCandy. It was $49 for a 70 x 100, all the sizes match with IKEA frames which is perfect for me as I can find a frame here or in Adelaide.

Okay, that's it for now. Anyone else found something they love?

*In the interests of full disclosure, I didn't receive a cracker for any of the above suggestions. 

Kirsty x

Dear Diary...

How far can you go back without losing the details? Which ones do you push to the back of the shelf, the memories that are quickly flicked by as you make your way to the old favourites. Which details have received a sand down and a buff, a little gloss added to give it more shine.

When we head back to Granny's house each year, I return to my room. A room that has the old bridesmaid dresses hanging next to the year twelve school uniform. A room with t-shirts I can't bear to let go and jackets that might come back into fashion. Every year I flick through the contents of drawers in the hope that I've missed an undiscovered gem. I cringe at old photographs and then place them right back where I left them. I have my own house in Australia now, but these are the things I choose to leave in limbo, in the old, old life. Perhaps it's a feeble attempt of keeping a little piece of me in my hometown, or maybe I don't want to take those memories with me. I like them to stay tucked away.

In the back of one of the drawers was a diary. A diary full of self absorbed, highly anxious, teenage angst. A diary that has been there forever but rarely opened. A quick glance at the handwriting and the names had me pushing it to the back of the drawer. Thirteen year old Kirsty. I didn't want to go there. It wasn't that great the first time. I didn't really like that girl very much. And I'm still confused to how I feel about her now.

This year I took the diary with me. All the way back to Qatar. It wasn't a conscious decision, it just came along with a few other bits and pieces. It was here that I found another drawer, and once again there it went, straight to the back. I couldn't throw it away, but I didn't want to revisit it.

"What's this?" the second little traveller asked while looking for a pencil.

"Umm, it's an old diary of mine."

"Can you read it to us? She was smirking at the PRIVATE that was written in block letters on the back cover. Instantly being able to sniff out the idea that something was happening without them, her two younger brothers arrived in the doorway.

"Can you read it Mum, what does it say?"

"Erm, let's see, let me have a look and see what I can find" I knew if I said no, the diary would instantly become more of a must see item.

"Dear Diary..." I fished my way through the pages, plucking out the moments I wanted to share. The netball games, the swimming carnivals, and the cleaning of rooms and washing of dishes was emphasized. The purchase of eyeliner, and the sneaking off from the skating rink to head to the party that was held under the Paringa bridge was omitted. There were so many names, names that were then a part of every day life. Names that signified a vibrant existence of weekend sport, school, swimming and a life growing up on the river. Names that are now attached to bodies that are older, adults who have mortgages and drive their kids to sport on weekends. People who I now run into at the local pub or the service station who look at me with a vague passing interest "So where are you living now?"

I had forgotten. I'd forgotten how confusing thirteen was. My diary serves as a reminder that if the details are blocked for long enough they slowly fade. "Tania and I bludged assembly and had a smoke in the toilets". I was unknowingly auditioning for the lead role in Puberty Blues. "Stinky told me he just wants to be friends". I liked Stinky? Really, I liked Stinky?? I was constantly terrified of what I was about to do, but exhilarated that it wasn't what I was supposed to be doing. I was hovering on the edge of childhood. Balancing precariously between being so excited about the upcoming netball grandfinal and the school play, but knowing that the boy who wanted me to get into his ute with him at Nicole Morgan's farewell party wanted more than a quick pash.

The diary stayed tucked away because just like thirteen, it felt embarrassing, I didn't like going back there. The bad grammar, the poor judgement, the brutal evidence of complete self indulgence. The diary took me back to an awkward place, a town where I felt I belonged in the scrum yet was constantly trying to jostle my way into the huddle. Who said that? Why did they do that? He doesn't like you? She wants to be with him.

My 44 year old eyes have now skimmed each page, this time I managed a giggle at my "secret codes" and shook my head at my lack of understanding of what was really going on. I read pieces out to G, and made a mental note that I had to make sure I made more time for proper catch ups instead of quick fly by's this year. And then I pushed the diary back into the back of a drawer, where it belongs, in the past. Things have changed, I'm not sure who that girl was exactly, but she's gone now.


Do you have an old diary?

Football, Meatpies, Kangaroos and What?

I launched myself at Australia's Foreign Affairs Minister last night. I was so enthusiastic with my hand shake and my gushing "I'M SO GLAD THAT YOU'RE HERE!" that poor Bob Carr didn't quite know what to do with his newest devotee. He appeared to almost recoil with my fanatical and spirited greeting.

Frightened, it would be fair to say he looked frightened.

After a couple of quick sentences he made a hasty retreat muttering something about being glad to hear our thoughts and taking them on board. I was left grinning like a crazy women at the back of Bob's head.

It would be easy to blame my fervent greeting on the woeful display of early appetizers and the abundant supply of white wine. But I think it was more than that. We had a special guest from Australia last night, a real live Australian who spoke about Australian things. And in one quick speech he carefully touched on all the things Australians abroad like to hear. We know you're here, we're learning about this place and we're trying to grow more business. A connection has been formed.  And of course the usual patriotic confirmation of what we've been thinking for years, that there truly is no place like home.

It's a question I love to ask people. What makes you identify with being Australian? I've asked the children again this morning and I know I'll do it again before the year is out. Their answers fascinate me as they change. I really love to hear the answer from new immigrants, it's all about optimism and new lives being started. If you haven't been to a citizenship ceremony, please go, I defy you not to cry as you watch someone with a huge grin on their face and a tear in their eye complete a leap of faith.

If I ask the question of any other middle class Aussie of my age the answer will be invariably littered with references to sport, beach, Anzac and weirdly, Olympic memories. Last night a friend talked of his Dad taking him to rugby, someone else talked of heading "down the coast".

Earlier in the day a twitter conversation had taken me back to a commerical that played on high rotation in Australia in the 80's I remember hearing my Dad sing it around the house. Football, meat pies, kangaroos and Holden Cars. Can you remember it? Is there anything that could be any more Australian in 1981?



Can you hear that sound? That's the sound of South Africa saying "Hang on, I've heard that tune before?"



Oh wait. Uh Oh. That's not how it goes at all! 1974. America.




Hmmm, anyone else know this tune?

Suddenly it doesn't feel so quintessentially Australian anymore. :-)

You're An Expat

Travelling is often a very selfish act. You choose when you want to go, what you'd like to see and how long you'd like to go for. Often as travellers we underestimate just how much our arrival is going to affect the local population. If you've ever stood at the bottom of the Borobodur temple in Yogjakarta and watched a bus load of tourists arrive - you'll know what I mean. Like fresh meat ready to be devoured, key rings, bicycles and postcards are pushed into faces with the hope of a quick sale to feed a family. We clamber over ancient ruins and shuffle through historic tunnels, visit markets and drink on side streets - trying to learn the rules as we go along. And then we disappear with a memory stick of selfies and a suitcase full of washing, ready to head back to our everyday lives.

Unless you're en expat.

Things are a little more permanent when there's a resident stamp in your visa. The locals are your work colleagues and fellow parents at the school. You have a vested interest in the price of gas and what's happening with the roadworks out near the new business district. You're following the news of the virus that's now confirmed to be transmitted by humans just over the border with great detail, and your decision to tip the waitress is not a one off moment of generosity - she's become part of the weekly routine, you know the details of her family.

The expat is the opposite to the one night stand or the quick fling - she/he's the long term relationship. The one you're going to have to introduce to your parents and choose a new couch with. There's the usual honeymoon period, the flutter of excitement and the sweaty palms of new discoveries - and then things inevitably begin to get comfortable. You've sat in your expat location in your tracksuit pants watching series three of Downton Abbey while scoffing imported chocolate from home.

You could be anywhere.

As you load the next lot of podcasts full of accents just like yours because you can't bear the local radio, you begin to wonder if  technology has allowed you to be so connected, that you've disconnected from this local life. The call to prayer distracts you from your thoughts as you watch a man in a thobe make his way in the desert heat to the mosque.

No. You've just settled in, made yourself more comfortable. You're not a tourist, you're not a local - you're a little bit of both. You're an expat.

This Is What I Had Hoped For You

The first words I heard were from the medical student. He was new to the baby business, not new enough that he hadn't seen the process before, but new enough that he hadn't been told that  "Woah, that's a big one!" was perhaps a little enthusiastic. He was right. You appeared to be about three months old when you were born. Shortly after this shot was taken you crawled out of the delivery ward and ordered a steak from the bar next door.

A little bit later in the day you had an introduction to what was in store. You were to realize that you were not an only child, that there were others and they were noisy. After the initial excitement of your arrival you were relegated to the corner. Everyone wanted to hop in the bed with Mum.

Can you see that your eyes are open? I have my suspicions on your thoughts at the time. Nobody puts baby in a corner. *you won't know but that's a Dirty Dancing reference*

It was chaos for the first few months. Daddy had to go away for a few weeks and a girlfriend came to stay. At one stage I ducked over to the neighbours, when I came back I found the second and third little travelers hanging from the garage door while the first little traveller pushed the button to make it go up and down. She was doing me a favour by providing some games. 

This is what I had hoped for you. I wanted chaos and narrow misses. I wanted fun and the camaraderie that comes with a big family. I wanted you to feel surrounded and engulfed by us. We were to be inescapable.

I've watched the others drag you across the floor. They've picked you up to carry you over the snow. They learnt to skate while pushing you in the stroller, you were their anchor keeping them upright. They've all taken you as show and tell in class, you've sat next to them while they've explained how things worked and what to do. And when you finally decided to learn how to ride a bike, it was them  cheering in the middle of the road while you weaved your way back to us.

Last night at dinner we talked about your birthday, and how it was your final night of being six. The second little traveller suddenly gasped with excitement as her idea made its way from her head to her mouth.

"Shall we have a sleep over, like now, all four of us in the playroom?" 

"Can we? Can we? Can we?" you pleaded.

And in one swift moment you all disappeared, a mass of hysteria amongst pillows and mattresses. You all talked over the top of each other while arrangements were made on who was to go where with whom. 

This is what I'd hoped for you.