My Sydney trip: Part II (The best bit)

So...on with the rest of my Sydney visit then. No more messing about! Mark Forsyth's show Around the World in 80 Etymologies was an enjoyable etymological jaunt from England to Sydney, with a brief stop in Melbourne to consider the glory that is Batmania. Much to my delight, of course.  

For those who don't know, Melbourne was once briefly known as Batmania, after one of its founding fathers, John Batman. The settlement was eventually named after William Lamb, 2nd Viscount Melbourne, some poncey English bloke who'd never even visited the place.  

The mention of Batmania was my favourite part of the event. I would share some other snippets with you except that my fatigue and migraine had severely diminished my brain's capacity to retain any information. 

Oh, I just remembered (go, brain!) that when asked to nominate his favourite etymological connection, Mark mentioned that 'shit' and 'science' have a common word ancestor. Don't tell that to the climate change deniers, OK? Don't ask me to explain it either. 

After we'd been around the world in 80 etymologies, I nipped downstairs and nabbed a spot  right at the front of the book signing queue. *fist pump* I had Mark sign The Etymlogicon  "To Jayne from Batmania...". Naturally. 

At around this point Miss Jane (fellow Melburnian and word-nerd blogger at Six Degrees of Sir Thomas Urquhart, who was also in Sydney for the Writers' Festival) tweeted me and invited me to come for a drink with Mark after the book signing. She's a friend of Mark's you see. *gulp* I was going to decline since I was already thrilled to have my book signed and because I had started to entertain the idea of catching an earlier flight home on account of feeling quite rubbish, but in the end, I thought, "Ah, what the hell. You've been to work feeling worse than this dozens of times! Harden up! To the bar!" 

So, off I went to hang out with Jane and her mother, Mark and a few other friends, fans and associates. We whiled away a few pleasant hours sitting in a nearby waterfront bar, sipping on champagne as the sun set (and developing a raging face full of rosacea if you were me. Mental note: No. More. Champagne. Again. Ever.)  

I didn't have much of a chance to chat to Mark, but I didn't mind because I probably would have been rendered completely dull merely from being in his presence -  or my pounding head would have actually exploded from the awesomeness of it all. He was apologetic about not having had a chance to talk to me, which is rather lovely, isn't it?  

I did have a chance to chat with an older Irish gentlemen in our party. As a tall ship sailed past us, he told me he once used to work at sea. I commented that it must have been a hard life, but he said it wasn't and told me that he once saw the captain have a poop overboard. 

I only realised later - as in half an hour ago, by accident when I was looking at the Sydney Writer's Festival site - that he is Dermot Healy. The festival guide introduces him thus:

Described by Roddy Doyle as Ireland's greatest writer, the poet, novelist and playwright Dermot Healy is an unconventional and original storyteller and a master of character.

Oopsie.  I'm a philistine. 

Oh, by the way, Mark has another book in the works. Hurrah! 

I headed back to Circular Quay a little before 6.00 to get a train to the airport. I was just in time to see the kick-off of the Vivid Festival, Sydney's festival of light, music and ideas, which lit up the Opera House and buildings around the Quay. It was very pretty, but I didn't linger. I was desperate to get home to bed. 

I slept long and well that night. 

My Sydney trip: Part I

I've been very slack blogger the past week or so...actually,  a very tired blogger to be precise. But tonight I'm going to push through the fatigue. Lots of gleeful stuff has happened and I want to get it out there. 

First up, my much-anticipated day trip to Sydney to see Mark Forsyth, author of The Etymologicon, at the Sydney Writer's Festival.  I arrived in sunny Sydney at around 11.00am, giving me 3.5 hours to fill before seeing Mark.  I had originally planned an inner city ghost sign hunt, but I was exhausted (partly due to excitement-induced insomnia) and my head was aching quite badly (confounded noggin!) so I just um...wondered around the city for hours instead.

I did find one ghost sign in the city, on George Street, if I recall correctly. Well, a tiny bit of a ghost sign. 

Life?

I also came across the graveyard of a demolished building like the one in the Carlton Gardens in Melbourne where fragments of the Colonial Mutual Life Building now lie. I couldn't find anything on site to say what this Sydney building once was. Anyone?

 Thanks to Luke's googling, I now know these things, 

usually found at the top of columns, are called 'capitals'

An old YWCA building?

I eventually made my way to Walsh Bay, nestled near the base of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. I even knew where I was going since I'd wandered about the area when I was in Sydney in  December. 

There's something about this woman that makes me 

suspect she came up from Melbourne too  

Sorry, but I'm going to leave this here without telling you about the Inky Fool event because it's taken me ages to write this and now my brain is worn out. Next time... 

Spruced up, delightful company, score!

On my way to meet Bertie and Lauren for dinner last night I noticed the GPO was sporting a festive new look thanks to red lighting in its windows. I'm not sure how I didn't notice this before because I work on the opposite corner, although I do look down on the building, so that's probably why. I did notice the clock appears to have emerged from the building's recent refurbishment with a new face - or has it always been blue around the outside? Maybe it's just brighter and more eye-catching now. (Hard to see here.)

Bertie, Lauren and I ate at Ca De Vin, one the the restaurants in the alley beside the GPO. Sounds unsavoury, but it's not. It's quite lovely, and warm thanks to lots of overhead gas heaters. 

 The entrance

The view from our table 

(Camera phone = not very good pics)

There are quite a few old signs from the days when the GPO was an actual GPO (general post office) and the alley was a laneway servicing the GPO. I took some photos, but the lighting was very dim further in where the best ones were. I'll have to go back during the day. 

Oh, the dinner. The food was tasty and, as always, the company of my former work colleagues was delightful. I really miss working with people I'm genuinely fond of - people I consider real friends, not just work friends.  Sigh.

Today I ate a mandarin, one of those ones with two or three pips per segment. I dropped a pip on my desk and it bounced along it, fell off and landed in my bin. 

TWO MORE SLEEPS TIL SYDNEY!! 

I'm going to Sydney!

I'm off to Sydney to see the Inky Fool! Just booked my ticket and flights before. I contemplated staying Saturday night as well to see Cheryl Strayed (author of the memoir Wild and writer of the Dear Sugar advice column on The Rumpus), but the return fare for the Sunday was significantly more expensive, and I'm supposed to be saving money for a trip to the UK with Luke in August. 

I'm still pretty excited about it though. I've never flown anywhere just for a day before. I must remember to take my copy of The Etymologicon with me in case I have an opportunity for Mark to sign it.  (Incidentally, Mark doesn't look the way I imagined. I expected an older, fusty man, perhaps with a bit of ear hair, but no.)

Speaking of Cheryl Strayed, when I read Wild on my Christmas holidays, I made a note of a quote from it that resonated with me and reminded me of the George Bernard Shaw quote in the sidebar of Gleeful, but I forgot to mention it. Now seems like the time to do bring it up.
  
Wild recounts the story of Cheryl's physically and emotionally gruelling solo trek of more than 1,000 miles up the west coast of the US four years after the death of her mother and breakdown of her marriage. She was a novice hiker lugging a pack almost as heavy as herself on long distances nearly every day for months, in ill-fitting boots that caused painful blisters and the loss of several toenails. Add to that the risks of encountering big cats and strange men and dealing with extreme weather (including snow)... Anyway, she wrote:

"In the moments among my various agonies, I noticed the beauty that surrounded me, the wonder of things both small and large: the colour of a desert flower that brushed against me on the trail or the grand sweep of the sky as the sun faded over the mountains."

Life wasn't meant to be easy...but it can also be delightful.


Fancy some cow facts?

Someone I follow on Twitter tweeted a link to a story on the Top 10 facts about cows. My favourites: 

• In Moscow circuses cows have been trained to play football. Circus cows! Playing football! 
• A group of 10 or more cows is called a 'flink'. 
• In 1983, a Czechoslovakian was refused Swedish citizenship because of his dislike of cowbells, which showed he hadn't assimilated successfully despite living there for 14 years. The Swedish citizenship forms must be quite a read.