another date palindrome

Today’s date is exactly the same back to front.

Thought you might find it amusing……… (I did). Thanks to Chris for pointing it out!

01/02/2010
01022010

test

road deaths

OK, I know I said I would stop with the statistics, but this one was on my mind.

In the UK in 2008, 2,538 people were killed in road incidents.

In Ireland, the number killed in the same year was 279.

In the whole of Australia in the same period, 1,464 people were killed in road incidents.

In all statistics, this includes drivers, passengers, pedestrians, cyclists, motorcyclists etc.

So per head of population, you are almost twice as likely to get killed in a road traffic incident in this country as in the UK. As a scooter rider in Melbourne, this does not surprise me in the least.

Interesting that the death rate in Ireland and Australia is so similar. I wonder if this is to do with the rural population, who might take more chances with speeding, drink driving etc. because the police presence will be lighter? My gut tells me this is something to do with drink driving but I will have to investigate further.

I would also love to compare road deaths involving or caused by novice drivers, but it seems that will take a bit more digging to find comparable statistics.

	Population	Road Deaths 2008	Average per 100k pop.
UK	61,000,000	2,538	4.2
Ireland	4,150,000	279	6.7
Australia	21,000,000	1,464	7.0

crime capital

It seems every morning I open the Age newspaper website, at least two of the main headlines refer to another murder, stabbing, shooting somewhere in Melbourne. The other thing that is beginning raise alarm bells is the number of serious injuries or deaths on the roads, so often by young people still on their P plates acting like idiots.

I wondered if my concerns were just down to me getting older and more easily alarmed, or whether I was simply not used to this level of violent deaths. Coming from several years in London, surely this was all in my head?

So, sitting here on a Sunday morning with a coffee in hand, I decided to do a quick comparison of murder levels in London and Melbourne. I used to live in the Borough of Brent, which was reputed to be a tough place to live. Harlesden, my first address in this part of the city, was known at the time as the murder capital of London.

So how does Melbourne – and my new borough of Maribyrnong – compare?

I looked up crime stats for each city and each borough for the last two years, and the numbers were shocking. Since we moved here, so many people have told us how much safer it is living here than in London, and that they appreciate the feeling of security of living in such a safe city compared to London.

Turns out it’s all a myth.

Take the city comparisons first. London, a city of 7.6 million people, has had a yearly average of 142 homicides in the past two years. That is 1.9 homicides per 100,000 of population.

Melbourne on the other hand, a city of 5.2 million people, experienced a yearly average of  173 homicides in the same time period. That is 3.3 homicides per 100,000 people.

Looking at these figures, you are almost twice as likely to get murdered in Melbourne as in London.

The local government figures are even more interesting. The Borough of Brent has just over 260,000 inhabitants and has had a yearly average of 7.5 homicides per year in the past two years. That’s about 2.8 homicides per 100,000 people.

Maribyrnong, a borough of about 68,500 people, has had a yearly average of  6 homicides in the past two years. That comes out as 8.75 homicides per 100,000 people.

So, in my local government area compared to a borough once known as the murder capital of London, I am almost three times more likely to get murdered.

I was going to continue on to analyse road traffic injuries and deaths, and sex crimes, once I’d finished with murders, but my comfort levels are already so compromised I think I’ll stop there.

And people wonder why Orlando and I are so security conscious?

	Average Murders 2007-09	Average per 100k pop.	Population of Area
Melbourne	173.5	3.3	5,257,576
Maribyrnong	6	8.75	68,571
London	142.5	1.9	7,500,000
Brent	7.5	2.8	263,500

all things are possible

I had a really interesting experience today. Shanna is my friend. I met her at work. She is the most unique of characters: artistic, talented, musical, creative… and yet, unafraid of a spreadsheet. Wonderful.

Shanna is psychic. She has known this for a long time. Recently she took a week-long course about communicating with angels. She is, she jokes, a “certified angel intuitive”.

Shanna knows all about my search. I was, as most of you will know, raised a Catholic. As a young person I was reasonably spiritual, and probably still am. But maybe ten or twelve years ago I dared to speak the truth: I didn’t believe in God. I still had respect for the spirit and philosophy of most religions. Bill Bailey said it most succinctly, I think: try and stay out of trouble and things will probably turn out fine. Add to that the Madge Doyle truism – If You Are Nice To People Then People Will Be Nice To You – and you have my angel on life in a nutshell.

On the other hand, I had an open mind when it came to life on other planets/the existence of aliens/spirit life/living consciousnesses existing as an energy cloud/anything that ever confronted Jen-Luc Picard on ST:TNG. Oh – except, the spirit world: they existed for everybody else, not for me. When my father died almost five years ago, I wondered if I would miraculously start believing in Life After Death. I waited. And waited. I didn’t.

As the years progressed I wondered about this apparent contradiction. I worried that, whilst I prided myself on having a wide-open mind, I seemed to have shut out completely the possibility of the existence of God or any kind of higher being, or indeed of the after-life for those who died. So surely this made me a hypocrite – or perhaps signposted a part of the universe I was reluctant to explore. My reading with Shanna was part of my recent odyssey to imagine the prospect that all things are possible. I went to a group psychic reading a few months ago with Eileen, and it seemed both our fathers had met up in the hereafter, made friends and proceeded to make a holy show of both of us in front of about a hundred people (something to do with her father’s toenails and my father’s false teeth… don’t ask). The whole experience was confronting to me. When I finally plucked up the courage to tell my mother, she seemed fairly relaxed about the whole thing.

So this morning, I sat across the hall in Shanna’s room in the Grace Hotel. She used a pack of Angel cards (these ones referred to Saint Michael the Archangel. I’ve seen Supernatural. He’s scary). Shanna spoke of self-confidence at work. She spoke of eternal love, letting people go, accepting. It all made sense, whether I believed it was coming from the cards or from my wise, worldly friend. I hadn’t asked any questions of the universe for this reading; I just asked to be told what I needed to know.

Shanna asked if I’d like to speak with my Dad. Her eyes filled with tears; she apologised. She said she never got emotional during a reading, but that my father’s emotions were overwhelming her. I told myself that it was probably because she was my friend, knew the journey I was on, that she responded so strongly (and there it is again – my instinctive attempt always to analyse and apply logic to anything presented to me).

It was good to be with him again. The detail I will keep to myself.

He came as quickly as he went, reminding me he was proud of me, to call my mother more.

Believe it or don’t believe it. I am just trying to keep an open mind.

I sit on the edge of Darling Harbour, alone in Nick’s seafood restaurant. Shanna tells me that my dad – and indeed my mum who is alive and well in Dublin – is with me all the time, along with a long, long line of ancestors stretching back to infinity.

I sit here alone, but not lonely. I’m never lonely these days. I still don’t know what to think about all this, but I’m trying to open my mind and my heart to all the possibilities of the world. Being at the edge of the water always seems to help. It will probably take all of my lifetime to figure out what I believe, but in the meantime I will try to keep all frequencies clear.

health kick diary 2010

It seems it is exactly a year since I posted a serious Health Kick Diary posting. I have been sitting here contemplating my big belly, wondering where all the Christmas gourmet food and fine wine has gone, and considering how best to remove at least 3kg (half a stone) from my middle bits.

The only upsides are that:

1. This belly is very valuable as it is made up of the best of food and wine money can buy
2. It could have been worse, as I was power-walking a good hour almost every day during the Christmas break, so I am still on the front foot.

So, back to WeightWatchers At Home, measuring food, logging every mouthful. I have marked my Waterford Crystal John Rocha wine goblet with a permanent marker showing where 175ml is, so I can watch every mouthful of the red stuff. Apart from the complete blow-out at yum cha (dim sum for you northern hemisphere people) yesterday, it has not been a bad three days. I am ready for this.

Looking back at last year’s post, the aim is the same:

Good simple fresh food cooked from scratch, no ridiculous-sized portions. Plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables. Lots of T2 herbal detox tea (it tastes great hot and cold). Low salt, low refined sugar. Lots of barbecuing and salads in the sunshine.

I shall add a codicil this year:

Cull the wardrobe, hide the outfits that don’t look amazing on me, and continue to make the most of what I’ve got in the meantime. I can still be fabulous-looking by maximising those curves!

I think I feel a pedicure/manicure coming on…..

And a trip to the hairdressers.

And a spa day.

What the hell, it’s 2010.

once in a blue moon

New Year, new decade, full moon, blue moon….. geography meant we didn’t get to see the lunar eclipse this side of the world but my Irish family braved the bitter cold to stand in a country field on New Year’s Eve to watch the partial eclipse.

The end of the first decade of the twenty-first century: where have the last ten years gone? In the last moments of 1999 I stood on the roof of London’s Hayward Gallery with Orlando waiting to see the “river of fire” and hear the chimes of Big Ben that heralded the new millennium. Little did we know that we would see the start of 2010 living in Melbourne.

The Chinese Year of the Brown (earth) Ox is almost over, and the year of the White (metal) Tiger is coming. They say the hard work of the Ox will make way for the drive and wealth of the Tiger, as metal is often equated with money. The astrologers tell us not to be afraid of starting or trying something new in the year of the White Tiger. We will start the new decade with positive thoughts and intentions, and make the best of what comes our way.

Happy New Year, and Happy New Decade.

a hot night

We lie in bed reading. It is after eleven at night and still in the high thirties temperature-wise. The sash window by my head is open, as is the back door and courtyard door, to catch any chance of a night breeze to cool the house.

“What’s that noise?”, I ask. It has been going on for about five minutes at this stage. I can’t place it, but it sounds like it is coming from immediately next door. I am a little irritated that they would be doing something so disruptive so late in the evening. It sounds like somebody is continuously breaking firewood, or unravelling a huge roll of lino onto the floor, so that it makes a smacking/cracking noise as it hit the ground. It is loud. What the hell is it?

The curiosity gets the better of Orlando and he gets up to investigate. Quite what he thinks he is going to see in the dark on a quiet suburban street without peering into a neighbour’s window I am not sure. Moments later he bursts into the bedroom.

“That noise is the house down the road burning!”

I leap out of bed and pull on my Japanese kimono. Right enough, the house four doors down is ablaze. On closer inspection it appears that something along the side of the house has caught fire. The fence is already alight and angry flames are licking the house. Luckily it is a brick house, one of the few around here, but it is surrounded by weatherboard homes like ours.

The embers catch my attention. A colleague’s home was threatened by fire only two weeks ago when a stray ember from a controlled burn (he lives in the country) set trees alight on his land. I know embers can travel miles, never mind yards, and our wooden house is only about a hundred yards away. I peer at the sky trying to figure out if the wind has changed yet. I think we are safe: what little breeze there is seems to be wafting the embers away from our house onto the wide street.

The fire truck arrives and the fire is controlled in moments. The smoke, on the other hand, is uncontrolled and I rush to the bedroom to close the window. Too late: we lie in the dark with the distinctive smell of burnt wood in our nostrils.

I sleep fitfully. The temperature doesn’t go below thirty until morning. What a hot night.

the bay #2

Christmas week, down at Altona beach. I have been avoiding exercise for weeks, but that means no quiet time time by the beach either. It is time to get back into my stride.

I park the car for the second time today under a shady tree, and start walking. Immediately I can feel myself relaxing, my stresses blowing away across the water. The tide is far in, although the water level does not vary much in the bay. The sun is shining through wispy clouds.

I power-walk down the boardwalk with Christmas songs playing in my headphones. Tinsel wreaths hang from balconies and I can see Christmas trees in some windows, but no twinkling lights so early in the day. Despite the heat of the evening sun it does not seem incongruous to my northern-hemisphere mind.

I see an entire family of Pacific Islanders (Tongans? Samoans?) sitting chest-deep in the sea chatting and hanging out. On closer observation many of them are literally picking mussels off the rocks and eating them. Now that’s fresh seafood.

I realise that I have been in Australia so long now that, not only can I differentiate between Greeks and Italians much more quickly, but I can usually identify Sicilians at twenty paces.

An elderly man walks towards me in what was clearly a Groucho Marx face mask of glasses, big nose and hairy moustache…. then as he walked past I realised that was his real face.

Young surf lifesavers are out training on their boogie boards and boats. I know how cold that water is, even in summer. I am glad somebody wants to do it.

I walk past a family about to share a big box of fish and chips from the place across the road. As I pass I get that divine waft of hot potato, vinegar and seaside. There is something perfect about that combination.

The kite surfers don’t have a gale-force wind this evening, but they are skimming along at great speeds, somersaulting and perfecting their jumps. Listening to Aled Jones singing “Walking In The Air” seems completely appropriate as I pass by.

Happy Christmas everybody.

December Dublin

Grafton Street: Wednesday: noon

 The rain has stopped its unremitting misery for a few hours and Dublin is at its wintery best. Despite the wet streets and darkly-clad lunchtime crowd, there is a distinct Christmassy feel. Even in early afternoon the light is dull enough to show off the chandelier-like garlands of silver lights on Grafton Street laneways, twinkling already.

Bewleys pile the mince pies high and the flower ladies on Chatham Street have poinsettias for sale alongside their lilies and roses. In every shop I enter, people are happy and friendly and talk to me as if I were a regular. But this is not Christmas cheer: this is just Dublin.

The southside shopping precincts show little sign of the recession. Marco Pierre White’s restaurant seems busy for a lunchtime and the jewellery stores along Johnson Court appear to be doing well. No 50% off stickers anywhere; no shops closed up. It’s business as usual. Perhaps it is different in the more downmarket Henry Street.

I visit the Government Publications shop and buy a couple of copies of our Constitution. The one I have must be thirty years old and long out of date. I think we still lay claim to the six counties in that version. I flick through the little blue book, with the English words on the left-hand pages mirrored as Gaeilge opposite. It gives me a degree of comfort, of things being as they should be, to hold a copy of the basis of the nation in my hands.

I narrowly avoid purchasing something in Louis Mulcahy’s artisan pottery shop, in the Powerscourt Centre, in Avoca Handweavers, but I capitulate in (of course) Dubray Books. It’s hard to resist a good bookshop.

The old stalwart restaurants of Wicklow Street are still in business. Marco Pierre might be in town but the Trocadero, the Cedar Tree and QV2 remain too. O’Neill’s pub is exactly the same as always but the Old Stand has had a facelift.

A fake O’Donoghue’s pub has appeared at the bottom of Grafton Street to fool the tourists. The real Dubs will know that the original one still packs them in every night on Merrion Row, round the corner from where we went to University.

(can you spot which this is?)

I sip a coffee and contemplate my home town. I have not lived here for over twenty years and many things have changed, but not enough to alienate me. Dublin is what made me. It is still home. But the coffee’s still shite.