Woollomooloo Finger Wharf

Last night we headed out for dinner to Aki's Indian Restaurant at Woollomooloo finger wharf, Russell Crowe's local Indian takeaway (and the place where the Indian cricket team eat when they're playing at the SCG). The locals refer to the area as simply "the Loo" and until a few years ago it was a bit of a no-go area; something like Hell's Kitchen in New York.

The finger wharf is a disused wooden passenger terminal built between 1910-1914. It was where the ten pound poms landed when they came to Sydney and it was where the Gallipoli soldiers waved goodbye to their loved ones, so it has some considerable history. As time went on it was used less and less, partly because air travel took off but also because they built the overseas passenger terminal at Circular Quay, admittedly a finer introduction to the city.

By the 1980's it had fallen into such a state of disrepair that it was listed for demolition but then the locals got hold of the story and managed to get a green ban placed on it, which wasn't lifted until the city council promised to restore it.

These days it's split into restaurants and apartments and one end is a swanky hotel. At the tip is Russell Crowe's $14 million penthouse - you can see right into it when the lights are switched on, which they were; mildly concerning if you're a celebrity, particularly one nobody much likes.

The inside of the structure is much more atmospheric at night; halogen spotlights pointing at the rafters until you can almost hear the voices of the men who used to work here loading and unloading the big ships.

Anyway, the food was great, you know, modest portions, delicate flavours, signature dishes infused with tamarind. I mean, it was the best Indian we've had in Sydney but it still doesn't beat the Grappenhall Tandoori, I don't care who lives nextdoor.

Happy Birthday Amy

My little sister turns 20 today. How time has flown since I was changing her nappies and telling her stories about the Jelly Monster who lived in the garden.

Anyway, in honour of your birthday - an audience with The Pussy Cat Dolls, whoever they are. Ella's even wearing pussy cat ears, though if I'd known she wouldn't agree to share them I'd have bought two pairs.

Things I Don't Like About Australia - III

Living with the knowledge that there are huntsman spiders in the vicinity and that every Australian will tell you they're harmless, nay, useful, because they kill flies. I kill flies but that doesn't give me the right to take up residency in your architraving so I can scare you witless.

Here's one I killed in the living room last night. He's just a baby but if he looks like a tarantula now, imagine how he'll look when he's grown to the size of your hand.

And more to the point, if he's in my living room, where the hell is his mother?

Things I Don't Like About Australia - II

The customs laws, especially the bit where they scan all your mail and rip open anything they think might be prohibited.

Especially when it's your daughter's birthday presents.

Things I Don't Like About Australia - I

The damp in the winter because of the lack of central heating. The condensation on the bedroom windows and mould growing on the curtains.

Clive James - An Apology

Yesterday at Circular Quay I took some photographs of the best of the inscriptions in the "Writers Walk". There are perhaps twenty of these plaques in the pavement stretching from the Opera House all around the quayside as far as The Rocks and they all have something reflective to say about Australia or about Sydney, which as I'm in love with both, you'll understand I could read over and over again.

Anyway, I've taken the same photographs before and they're in an album at home but my absolute favorite is this one by Clive James because I read it the first day I ever came to Sydney, just after we'd gone sprinting down to Circular Quay to see the bridge and I was blown away by the colours and the sights. I can almost feel the longing he has and the reason that Australians almost always go back home in the end because they're like the feelings I struggle with when I consider whether we ought to emigrate.

(Incidentally, his book "Unreliable Memoirs" details his growing up in Sydney and it's a cracking read).

However, in the absence of my photo albums, I've been liberally misquoting Clive James all over this blog for the last five months. For the record, it's crushed diamonds on the water and powdered sapphires in the sky.

Sorry.

Chopperdoc - an Update

And speaking of medics, after weeks of not knowing what we were doing, I can finally give you some news about Darren's job situation.

On Monday he spoke to his boss and formally resigned from his post at the hospital, which means he's now working his notice. He has to reapply for his working visa, so if there are any glitches, you'll be seeing us much sooner than you thought.

The boss was more sympathetic to our cause than we had anticipated. The main sticking point has been the upcoming merger of two hospital departments, one of which provides us with extra private income. With the merger, the private work will dry up, hence the financial implications of staying in the job. The boss is a reasonable man because he seems to understand that we can't have half the number of swanky holidays on what the government salary pays, so after negotiations at work and negotiations at home (I want a new sofa) the deal was done.

From the end of July he'll be working for a not-for-profit organisation out of Bankstown Airport where his mission, should he choose to accept it, will be the recovery of patients from road traffic accidents, crocodile maulings and snake bites in more remote places than the eastern suburbs. The job will take him to outback NSW as well as up to the "top end" of Australia, where Ella and I will be accompanying him on his tour of duty and checking out the local banana bread.

And once every eight weeks he'll be working for the international arm of the organisation. I'm trying not to think about this because the last job that came up was a five day return to London Heathrow and when we came to Sydney I hadn't agreed to being abandoned in this country, no matter how much duty free perfume and Cadbury's Dairy Milk he can smuggle back in his (business class) overhead locker. He tells me these trips pay very well, what he doesn't realise is any trip to London will cost him at least twice that in jewellery.

The amusing news is that he has to wear a jumpsuit and gloves so I'm hoping they'll complete the look with flying goggles and I can nickname him Dr Biggles for the purposes of the blog. I've also struck a deal about being allowed to go in the chopper, which started off as "just up off the helipad and back again" and has grown into "all the way up the harbour and over the top of the bridge", so he's going to be working on the pilots when they're not busy.

Anyway, I've had to measure him up for the flying suit, including instructions to measure the "seat of his pants". That sort of instruction just calls for some sort of quip, so I'll let you think up your own.

Onlookers

This morning we went off to Pacific Square to do our weekly shop. I can't always be gadding about in museums, sometimes I have to be a (slack) housewife.

I've given up on the separate butcher/baker/candlestick maker since Ella decided she enjoys being let loose in Coles to help Mummy with the shopping. It takes forever to get round the shop and afterwards we have to find a $2 coin to ride the Wiggles big red car so we can easily spend two hours just hunting and gathering.

The fish shop, however, is a different matter. Ella loves the fishmongers, not just this one, any fish mongers she can poke her nose into. Every night when we put her to bed, her last words aren't "love you" or "night night", every night she says "fish shop" to remind us that's where she wants to go tomorrow, and sometimes she adds "see lots of lobsters" as she snuggles down into her blanket. It's so endearing that you can't ignore it.

Anyway, today we stopped for lunch at the cafe outside Coles and just as we were munching away on our respective salad and pasta, an Italian lady fell over in the optician, letting out a blood-curdling cry which stopped the entire shopping centre in its tracks. Then her daughter started shouting "No...Mama" and shrieking and I realised all those CPR refreshers they give you in the NHS mean bugger all when you're faced with a real-life incident and a toddler wearing almost an entire plate of pasta carbonara.

The lady lay on the ground in the opticians for well over half an hour while various onlookers tried to help. It wasn't clear what was happening, I could just see her leg sticking out from the crowd that had gathered around her while the security guard spoke frantically into his radio and everyone wondered where the ambulance was.

The other shops had emptied as people came to watch from a respectful distance, the nail salon customers half-manicured, one lady with one eyebrow waxed and the other in it's original state, which was even more compelling than the events in the optician. The owner of the optician was showing more concern for his carpet, rushing to the massage shop nextdoor and returning with a bundle of white towels to clean up whatever had been spilt. The chinese shoppers stood at the optician's doorway leaning in. They have a very different concept of personal space and it doesn't change when they come to Australia.

Things like this usually happen when Darren's around; on one trip to Australia years ago he looked after two patients on two different planes and a man who suffered a stroke outside a restaurant on Bondi Road. I think he attracts this sort of trouble and I'm always amazed how he switches into medic mode and becomes organised and logical, a skill he saves for special occasions at home.

The thing is, as a doctor's wife, I always feel I ought to be able to help, you know, like some of the knowledge ought to have rubbed off in the way you'd expect an actor from Holby City to know how to perform an emergency tracheostomy. Anyway, it's not true, I'm hopeless, though I do have new skills in calling for medical assistance, which is something.

For her part, Ella finished the pasta and smeared her hands across as much of the leather bench as she could manage while I was distracted by the asymmetrical eyebrows. The ambulance still hadn't turned up as we loaded our shopping and drove out of the car park. Expensive service yes, but rapid response it ain't.

Christmas minus eight.

Customs House

Just behind Circular Quay is the lovely customs house building. It probably had a great view of the harbour before they built the railway station and the flyover and all those 1960's office buildings. The whole area is an eyesore and only really fit for waiting for taxis and buses.

This is where the authorities kept out all of the undesirable stuff they didn't want corrupting the good people of Australia, you know, like non-whites and Cadbury's chocolate and Lady Chatterley's lover. And of course, it's produced a nation of Chinese immigrants, fake flake and internet porn, so it worked out well.

Anyway, they've tried to preserve the building though I don't think they knew how to fill the space so there's a huge area for browsing free newspapers, some computers where you can learn about the history of the indigenous Cadigal tribe and this bizarre model of Sydney under a glass floor, which is a bugger to photograph because of the glass atrium. Actually it's incredibly detailed and you feel kind of dizzy just walking on it.

Spoodle

You see some odd people in Sydney, especially around Circular Quay. Today I saw a lady smoking from a cigarette holder and another lying on the grass with pigeons literally crawling across her head.

And then I met this man, who kindly posed for a photo with his dog, a spoodle called Prince Charles because "he has the same face".

I don't see it myself, but I like the dog anyway, much more than I like Prince Charles. He's a cross between a spaniel and a poodle.

As for his owner, a cross between Captain Flasheart from Blackadder and Adam Chance from Crossroads (if you don't remember the latter, well, he looked just like this), he'd dyed his hair but not the roots and was wearing a floor-length leather trench coat and matching leather trousers. He was also carrying a yellow "pooper scooper" bag over his shoulder, which brings a whole new meaning to the Paul Calf classic phrase "bag of shite".

(I've no idea why the italics and I can't put it right)

Winter Clothes

After almost three hours researching on your behalf, I headed straight down MacQuarie street in the direction of the harbour. Catching sight of the bridge from this angle still makes me want to run the rest of the journey shouting "wheee!".

Anyway, I hardly ever appear on the blog, so here's me and the opera house in our winter clothes (me sporting wet gym hair and a hoodie, the opera house wearing a crane and scaffolding, which I've cropped out of the shot). All over Sydney they're digging things up and replacing things. This is a city geared to the foreign dollar. In the winter it goes to sleep.

And here's the view towards Circular Quay, above the opera bar. On any day of the year, with the exception of those when it rains, you'll find people sitting here with a beer unable to take their eyes off that bridge.

Marriage Prospects

Loads of women came unaccompanied to New South Wales in search of employment or marriage. The archeologists who excavated the building found their treasures hidden under floorboards, christening robes for their babies, sewing kits, jewellery made from non-precious metal, rosary beads. They were women of "little means".

Many were fleeing the Irish potato famine or the workhouse. God knows I found it hard enough so it says a lot about the conditions back home that they'd be prepared to come here before the days of Bondi pavillion and skinny lattes.

Anyway, I have a few single friends who might enjoy this quote. You see ladies, the only thing standing between you and a suitable match is the inability to milk a cow. Either that or you're too lady like.

Nits

The museum was deserted except for me and a group of ten year-olds from St Gregory's school so I loitered around them to listen in on what the curator had to say.

Predictably, she turned out to be the shock-jock of the museum world. It was all nits, whips, darkness and rats.

"Can anyone tell me what a convict is?"

"Someone who steals stuff. They committed a crime and came on the first fleet"

I expected at least one of them to lay claim to a convict great-great-great granfather but I was disappointed.

"Well they weren't treated very nicely. They got hit with this whip here, a cat of nine tails, sometimes for something small like swearing or wearing a dirty shirt to church. And the hospital surgeon took notes, things like "he screamed a lot", then they took them to the rum hospital nextdoor and rubbed salty water into the wounds to make sure it didn't get infected".

And this was my absolute favorite quote of the day.

Livestock!

Settling In

Much like my own introduction to Sydney. Especially the bit on the train where Ella shouted she had a stinky bottom.

Work Ethic

Reminds me of my last job in the NHS.

Hammocks

And this is the top floor, which is pretty much how it looked at the time.

They slept in hammocks thirty to a room until the place changed into a refuge for vunerable women. Then they shipped in a load of iron bedsteads because, as everybody knows, it's not ladylike getting into a hammock.

Muck

Descendents of Les Dawson, however, need not bother with checking that database.

Sarah Hunt, female convict, 1800's.

Convict Strides

Between 1788 and 1868, 160,000 convicts came to Australia, mainly from London and Birmingham, but a significant number came from Liverpool, which proves my point that nothing really changes.

Interestingly, 30% of the transportees came from rural Ireland. As I have an Irish surname I was interested to check the database of known convicts on the top floor of the museum and even more interested to discover not a single record of anyone with my maiden name, yet five pages of convicts with my married name. Just goes to show what a band of ruffians I have married into.

After serving some of their sentence (eg eight years of a life sentence), they could apply for a ticket of leave and go off and work for themselves provided they kept checking in with the screws. If they reoffended, they might be put on the treadmill or sent somewhere even worse like Norfolk Island (in the Pacific) or Tasmania. Then they'd have to wear something like this, with space for their leg irons and no pockets for their mobile phones.

Streuth - semaphore it is then.

Transportation

So they unearthed some of the foundations of the building and they discovered all sorts of stuff, including ratacombs, or places rats had hollowed out for their dens. They're on display in the first room in the museum, along with my bic biro, which I accidentally dropped onto the exhibit.

Bugger.

Anyway, on with the story. We had loads of convicts in Britain, some were proper criminals (you know, murderers) and some were petty thieves stealing hunks of meat to feed their families in the manner of a black Richard Curtis comedy. They were all treated the same, sentenced to prison hulks moored on the Thames and in Portsmouth and Plymouth or else sent to the colonies in North America.

Then we lost the American war of independence, so we needed a new colony, preferable somewhere strategic, close to the trade routes and whaling seas of Asia. Hence Australia, or New South Wales was proposed and we started sending our convicts to Botany Bay.

(Australia, you know, that famous Terra Nullius (empty land) as the first explorers labelled it. Empty, except for a sophisticated indiginous population. I suppose you could say we stole it from them, making us the biggest load of thieves in the running).

The painting is a 1790's caricature of what the middle classes thought convicts looked like. You know, all wonky eyes and crabby legs. Come to think of it, some of the Aussies do look a bit like this, especially once you get away from the cities. The bloke who painted it later nicked a load of stuff from one of the big galleries in London, but got off on a technicality so avoided transportation himself.

Hmm

It took about 250 days for the first fleet to sail from Portsmouth to Port Jackson (Sydney Harbour), including 60 days in stopovers, during which they filled up on fruit, Captain Arthur Phillip, commander of the fleet, being keen for the convicts to get some proper food down their necks because the British government was paying him a bonus for every man delivered alive and well to the new colony.

Hyde Park Barracks

You might remember that we arrived in Sydney just before the Australia Day celebrations on January 26th. And we took a bus into the city to join in the fun, which turned out to be not much fun at all because Ella was in a stinking mood.

So we got off the bus at Hyde Park, having explained to the driver that we were new in town and he should let us know when we got there. "Welcome to Hyde Park" he had announced as he pulled into a layby. "The most famous park in the world".

Well, yes, but somehow, no.

Anyway, in the interests of your continued sightseeing and education, all in the comfort of your armchairs and without the jet lag (or the credit card bill), today I'm taking you to the museum at the Hyde Park Barracks, but not until I've fortified myself with two cups of that coffee and read the guide book.

The barracks were used to house male convicts. Then later they were used to house "vunerable women" who arrived in Australia without employment, or without family who could come to meet them straight away. It's a brilliant museum, and what's more, if you're feeling poncy, you can take a photo with the reflection of the Sydney Tower in one of the windows and start crapping on about the fusion of old and new, the link between the present day and the past.

If you're poncy, that is.

nb, crapping on, vt, Australian, "To talk incessantly or irritatingly or in a rambling way".