For regular readers of my adventures in Playland, you will know that I write an annual wrap up a little earlier than most people. I can’t wait until the veritable end of the year; I’ll be far to busy drinking lukewarm White Wine in the blistering sun over Sydney. So I need to get in early, before people start nicking off to the countryside with their families, before people turn away from social media in favour of their social real lives, before you all get so hyped up on the Sherlock or Downton Christmas specials that little else in life matters.
This annual wrap up usually coincides with the world’s most ridiculous holiday that went viral beyond America and no one knows why, Thanksgiving. So this is my wrap up for 2015, as well as my thank you to all the beautiful ones that made my canvas so colourful.
MMXV kicked off with the hugest of highs, I wasn’t sure how I would ever recover. Me myself and I started the year in my new spiritual home, #bridgetinbeverlyhills. I had managed to exist for 39 years without ever having been to Los Angeles. Considering my obsession with all that is Hollywood, and a life long love with Pretty Woman, it was only fitting that I spend at least half my week in Beverly Hills, staying at the hotel in which Whitney died, and closing out the best week in recent memory with a day at Universal Studios.
I’m still not the biggest fan of America, I think they are all a bit too cheerful, a bit too oblivious, a bit too God-Fearing and not enough actual-real-life fearing; their blind faith in God and Country unsettles my natural sense of unhealthy scepticism. But after a week in Hollywood, one can understand why they do so well; the wholesale manufacture of Fairytales in this sort-of-a-bit-shitty world in which we live is comforting. Comforting like a warm hug from an elderly aunt, comforting like a tepid snifter of Brandy, comforting like an inky blindfold shielding your eyes from the harsh light of reality. No wonder I loved it so much. #bridgetlovesaprincess #bridgetlivesindenial
All geed up on bullshit and fantasy, I returned to London and decided I wanted to be a Ballroom Dancer. Classes were paid for, poor self esteem was overcome and I spent my Tuesday evenings with the former Serbian Idol, Nico. I was actually quite good at it, but the ritual humiliation of being one of the ‘singles’ in the class was more than my fragile confidence could bear.
The winter thawed (not really, but the calendar said it should have) with the arrival of Mater, Mamacita, The Old Girl, Müttiroo, she of the Katherine Hepburn Up-High-Hairdo, Motherbear. It had been a whole 5 years since she had visited me in Europe and I was so excited to share my 50m2 with her, I immediately left for Brazil. #badtimingisabitch #bridgethasabloodyjobyouknow
Three months with Motherbear was a pleasure in so many ways, but not all the ones you might expect. Sure, having a ready ear to listen when I returned, exhausted and over it from work is a unique joy for someone who has lived alone for as long as I have. Having someone to hang out with on the weekend was also a rare novelty. But it made me especially happy to have the Motherbear hang out in London for Mummy-Daughter Manicures; a habit she has maintained since returning to the Great Southern Land. It was fascinating to hear her recount the miniscule differences between Border Control regulations in NZ, Canada, the UK and of course Australia; The Old Girl loves a bit of cable TV. It was refreshing to not have to wash a shirt, a plate, a glass, a knickers, a bra or on one memorable day, the balcony tiles, for an entire 3 months; she also doesn’t mind coaching the housekeeper on how to improve her life while observing as she bleaches the bath. #alwayslookingafterthelittlepeople
Having mum to play with on the weekends saw us off for weekends to Brighton, Bern and Boleyn’s house in Kent. It was all very relaxing, very civilised, very Pinot Grigio and poached eggs on toast…and then March saw the invasion of the Barbarian Hordes. #bridgetandbess #bridgetandsqueal Did you know that two very independent middle aged women, a mildly batty senior citizen and a stubborn toddler could share two rooms, one bed, one toilet, one couch and one shower? Well now you do.
A particular highlight for me…
The Little Squeal, who was sleeping on her Pink Princess Bed at the foot of mine, stood up one night in terror, asking her mother “what was that rattling noise?” Her mother, The Art-sist-ologer, was wearing earplugs to defend against said noise and didn’t answer her curious mite. I did wake up, and explained to the innocent little’un, that yes, ladies, even ones who have nail polish, can snore too. #bridgetbreathes
Other adventures included the consecutive wanderings west, to Paris and Salies and the following weekend to Stockholm. In both cases, Squeal was subjected to people who didn’t use ‘her words’, Motherbear was subjected to the culinary roulette that is Europe and I was subjected to far too many hours in an airport without enough loyalty status points to bring them to the lounge. We all had a fabulous time, then Big Al and AG showed up and seeing 6 people sitting in my living room having dinner really did make me feel like home had travelled 17,000KM; seeing all my people, all together, doing our things, on the other side of the world felt very odd. #therewasnobbq
Everyone left, I was alone again, and wondering why I was subjecting myself to the humiliation of dance lessons with a man (not Nico, a new teacher) I wanted to spontaneously combust every time he spoke. One night, I made a decision. I knew I needed a change. The rest of that Herculean trial is documented here so I won’t repeat it, only digitise it: 7 months, 3 dress sizes, one busted knee, one dodgy hip, one skinned patella induced trip to Guys hospital, 7 bleeding knuckles, 40kg bench, 20 push-ups and 90kg dead lift. You should also acknowledge that 7 months ago, I wouldn’t have known what any of that meant. I’ve lost a pound of flesh and gained a vernacular.
I’ve also gained an encyclopaedic knowledge of Theatre; standing ovation to The Critique. She whisks me off to see this and that; I rarely ask questions, I just show up. Planning in advance for a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants-girl like me is limited to what I do for a living. On the weekend, just give me a time and a dress code and I’m there, there with bells on and a Pinot in its theatre-rules-enforced plastic cup. #bridgetbytheboards
A couple of highlights from the limelights this year; James McAvoy in the Ruling Class, Bradley Cooper in The Elephant Man, BC in Hamlet twice, Romola Garai in Measure for Measure, Damon Albarn’s wonder.land and my favourite, I can sing the whole thing now, Minchin’s Matilda...twice. Living in London, going to the theatre doesn’t feel so much like a luxury as an obligation; we’re English, we have to uphold our birthright for sitting in overheated spaces, panting in frustration and ignoring the fleshed pressed against us. The Theatre; the Thinking Woman’s Tube. #theystillhaventfiguredouttheaircon
While my life may have seen a few ‘Famous’s” in MMXV, it is the people I see everyday that fill my days with sequins and starshine, unicorns and rainbows, love and laughter. #yesitsthatgood #notherearenodrugs
Because I spend the most time with them, I’ll begin with the team of very patient individuals that have that unique privilege of my human form as the Amazonian Tyrant guiding their careers. The Duchess, Semi and #ashtag have been my constant companions through thick and thin. The Body, the BFF with whom I now share a desk, and Miss Jones are the formidable duo who walk that fine line between laughing at my increasingly unhinged antics and wishing I worked in a different postcode. A special mention for The Kaiser of Kool, a man so beautiful, so perfect, I’m not sure why he dares to look upon something like me, something with skin marked by sun and a soul besmirched by sadness. #willheturntostone
We’ll continue with the beautiful ones, Louis XIV, Braveheart, Sunshine and Dazzle. Beautiful men, beautiful souls, the shiny cheerleaders that dance me out of my depressions, forever proffering a Flute to flutter away the nagging obsession, the flagging motivation and the gagging inebriation. They are fabulous, they are friends, they are a female fantasy.
There are also the girls; the ones who know how to use Tinder instead of Grindr. New Girl and The Tequila Sister, my adopted London Ladies. Always available for ‘a drink’ after work, a drink that is invariably seven. #thatswhytheyputitinbottles
There are those earthy French ones I visit all the time; a small family that will imminently add two more. My Famille Far Far Away, so close in nature to my actual family that we even achieved the over-the-dinner-table-fat-insult during a memorable lunchtime in Provence. Fortunately they ply me with pate and Pinot, so all is very quickly forgiven.
I cannot close without a penultimate word of gratitude for Bear, that strong and sensitive man who is my constant headache. He is the Fighting Apollo to my Warrior Artemis, Stable Mark to my Wobbly Bridget, Wicked Dr Frankenstein who has handcrafted his very own wailing monster.
And Finally, the biggest thank you of MMXV is proffered south to the First Family of Fruitcakedom.
UPAD, Big Al, AG, Giggle and the rest. They visit, they cheer and remind me of my very deep roots, roots buried far below the red clay and sandstone of Sydney. The Art-Sist-ologer, she of the golden-thumbs and Little Squeal; waking me up every Saturday at sparrow’s fart to show me the latest Frozen toy. #hangoversandprincesses The SmartArse, His MotherChef, Sapphire and Smack; always keeping me true, never letting me forget my own story, reminding me of what it is to be one of us. #sarcastic Motherbear LX, carrying the burden of two parents, living her own melodramas, but always listening to mine, loving and supporting her growing brood, inspiring us all.
Thank you to all of you who read this. I do it for fun; your comments and criticisms are making me a stronger, sassier, swearier writer. I long for the day when I might just have the courage to do it full time.
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year. #bridgetbuggersoff #bridgetbythebeach #bridgetbytheharbourbridge #mumlooknoswearing
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