I am convinced that drinking Coronas is a humanitarian service.

I don’t know what made me come to Sagres. No one recommended it to me. Perhaps it was the description in my Portugal Lonely Planet that it had a ‘relaxed vibe’ that drew me in. Not that I try to rely on the LP too much – have you ever read the LP for your own city? In Brisbane, they recommend that visitors go to the Three Monkeys in West End. A coffee shop that was cool when I was at University 15 years ago (15 years? God, almost fell of my seat just writing that). So clearly the LP is not to be totally relied on.

So maybe it was gut instinct.

When I first got on the connecting bus from Lagos that was destined for Sagres, I was a little concerned that my gut instinct might just have been a stomach cramp, or perhaps some weird form of food poisoning. Because piled on to the bus was me and about 30 grey haired pensioners. I nearly went and asked the driver if I was on the right bus – perhaps I had got the Aged Care Shuttle by mistake. It turns out that Sagres does attract a lot of retirees (and lots of grey hair nomads in swanky winnebagos), but it attracts an equal amount of surfers – of the hot Portuguese variety.

So I quite like Sagres after all.

It’s a small town, and out of season there’s hardly anyone around. Just me, the oldies and the hot surfer dudes. Right now I am sitting in my room, looking out over the ocean (just took pic for you, nice eh?) and watching the old guys in the square next door play boules. In about an hour I’ll head down to the bar owned by a crazy German where I have become a familiar face after my first night spent there drinking Coronas and reading my Kindle like a nigel-no-mates. Now the owner is giving me complimentary barnacles with my beer (who ever would have thought barnacles could be so tasty? I always thought they were a type of weed that grew on Popeye’s boat) while his hot surfer barman gives me free shots (because I am clearly just a free-wheeling, party all night long, reading Kindles in bars kind of fun time girl).

Well, I am often the only customer. As much as I would like to think it’s my great personality, I think they’re just bored. And I’m happy to be entertained, at least for another week because I’ve extended my Sagres stay. I like my routine here, which basically consists of five main activities:

Eating: I always have this fantasy when I travel abroad that I am going to live off fruit and fish for months and come home whippet thin, only to stay at places that offer white-bread-served-twenty-ways and cake at the buffet breakfast.

Writing: Since I don’t actually have to go anywhere to smell the sea air or look longingly at the ocean, the motivation to keep my bum on the seat and write is much higher than when I was in London and felt like I should be out visiting museums and doing other important cultural activities rather than sit inside at a computer all day. The fact that I have no internet connection in my room helps a lot as well. With all of these things aligned, I am writing anywhere between 2500 and 4000 words per day (of varying quality).

Reading: all my e-book angst is long behind me. I am officially in love with my kindle, which allowed me to bring about 40 books to Portugal. Since arriving in Lisbon nearly two weeks ago, I have read 13 books, which averages out to one a day. It’s been a book reading binge. I will probably start vomiting up words very soon.

Walking: Need to burn off those breakfast cakes somehow.

Drinking: There’s something about being in Portugal that makes me want to drink a lot of Corona. And someone has to pay the wages of the hot surfer barmen. It’s practically a humanitarian service really. Just like the UN.

Looking at this list, you’d be forgiven for wondering if perhaps I'm getting a tad bored. I’m not sure what it means that I'm not. In fact, half the time I don’t seem to have enough time in the day to do things I set out to do. It took me a week to organise to get my washing done. This week I need to try and squeeze a hair appointment into my hectic schedule - I feel slightly stressed just thinking about it. It's a ridiculously self-focused existence really. Thank God I’m doing the humanitarian work for the hot surfers to appease some of the guilt.

This is not a blog about Portuguese tarts. Honest.

I know that you’re all expecting my first blog entry from Portugal to be an ode to the Portuguese tart. So I’m not even going to mention them. Honest. Because there’s more to Lisbon that Portuguese tarts (which are in fact not even called Portuguese tarts. Or custards tarts. Or even just plain tarts. I don’t actually know what they’re called. I spent five minutes in a café on Tuesday trying to communicate with a waiter than I wanted one, saying tart in every way imaginable (rolling my r, sounding like fart, party etc) and eventually resorted to using my hands to demonstrate the approximate size and thickness of said tart. He finally seemed to cotton on to my inept sign language, hurried over to the bar and came back to me with a drinks menu, to which he enthusiastically pointed at and said ‘Gin!’. Even though it was barely noon I could do little else but nod. I had my Portuguese tart for afternoon tea instead, somewhere where I could point directly at it).

Anyway, as I was saying, there’s a lot more to Lisbon than Portuguese tarts. Like strolling the streets and checking out everyone’s jocks and socks hanging from their windows. I find it quite amazing actually, based on my own laundry experiences, that I haven’t yet stumbled across any random undies lying in the street, having made their great escape from three or four storeys above. Lisbon in many ways reminds me of Athens, just a lot less stray cats. From the outside most of the homes look like they should be cordoned off for demolition control, yet inside it’s like something straight out of Vogue Living.

It’s only been twelve months since I last travelled on my own in a non-English speaking country (or a week if you consider the last conversation I had with Paul, who is from Liverpool), but you do tend to forget how hard it can be. The sign language has been coming in quite handy, although I have discovered that I seem to make the same shape (thumbs and forefingers joined together) for everything from Portuguese tarts to wine, nail polish remover (nasty incident on the flight involving pen ink and my favourite pants) and a side plate of salad. No wonder everyone looks so damn confused. However when I try to fumble out a few Portuguese words it only seems to make things worse. Kind of like when I was in Argentina and no matter how hard I tried to order a ham sandwich I just kept getting served a slab of steak the size of my shoe.


As for the writing, well it seems to be coming along quite well, even though I decided last week that I really needed to go back to the drawing board. Quite literally, I started again. Told Maggie Alderson to delete everything she had from me to date, so it was quite fortunate she hadn't read anything yet really. The other lot was just crap, to be honest, and at least I realised that 50,000 words in rather than 100,000 words in, hey? (she says with false chipper smile on her face). I am now 10,000 words in to the new manuscript and much, much happier with it. I am just trying to look on it as all part of the process. And a good excuse to drink wine (to drown sorrows etc). 

Speaking of which, I have found a couple of lovely spots to drink wine in Lisbon. Like Brisbane, Lisbon is quite a hilly city (good for burning off all of those things that I eat one-per-day-of that I’m not talking about), and has some lovely vantage points where some enterprising people have set up bars to serve hard working aspiring writers at the end of a hard days slog. Here’s the view from one such bar where I have taken to walking each afternoon to have my evening’s tonic, read my book, and try not to get scared by all the pigeons. 

A night of bahji smuggling on Brick Lane

I remember reading Brick Lane by Monica Ali many years ago. I think I enjoyed it, although, to be totally honest, the details of what it was actually about escape me. But it still seemed sensible that I should add a night out in Brick Lane to my extensive list of London literary outings - William Blake’s grave, Bridget Jones’ door, Jane Austen’s writing desk, and now a Brick Lane curry. Because apparently it’s more famous for those than it is for having a book named after it. Who’d have thought.

The expedition was the brain child of Fran, a South African friend of mine from back in the day when I was an Exchange Student at Pretoria Girls High. So even though I was in the heart of London, I could have been in downtown Jo’burg, surrounded by South Africans. Ja, ja, it was a baie lekker night okes. Even though every time I looked at Fran’s sister-in-law (wife of Kevin the King, or KTK – self named but a truthful account, or so he assured me) I kept thinking I was out with Katrina Warren of Aussie TV vet fame. And her name’s Katrina as well (cue spooky music). Here is a pic of Katrina the vet for the benefit of those at the dinner…with a couple of kittens for the entertainment value of those of you who weren’t.

We started out in a bar called The Vibe, which had about as much vibe as a divorce court on Valentine’s Day, before Frannie and co headed off to hunt us down a curry house. And there are literally hundreds to choose from, probably all catered from the same ginormous underground kitchen. If not, they should look into it. Economies of scale and all that.

Needless to say we did not choose a good one. I guess anywhere that offers two drinks, an entrée, main and tea/coffee for ten quid should be looked on quite dubiously. I realised this as soon as I took a sniff of my complimentary white wine and rather than fruity tones of peaches and smoked wood, I got a whiff of someone’s underarm.

As for ordering, all I can say in my defence is how was I supposed to know that when I ordered eight onion bahji’s he would bring out eight plates rather than eight singular bahjis? It was just a small miscommunication due to the language barrier. But no matter, we organised for the leftovers to be bagged up, so nothing went to waste. I proceeded to refer to it as a bad case of bahji smuggling, which was met with seven blank stares. It didn't even help when I tried to explain that I was referring to budgie smuggling. Clearly I needed some Aussie support at the table to get a laugh from that one. Or perhaps not. Perhaps it is just a very lame joke.  

When I was recounting this story to Paul (of festival of Paul fame) yesterday, he told me that the key to choosing a good curry house on Brick Lane is to check the toilets out first. So when you are first approached in the street by your curry man offering you a quick deal, just say ‘That sounds lovely my man, but I’d like to see the state of your amenities first’. Which would probably have saved us the underarm wine and bahji smuggling incident. The first person to venture to the toilets for the night (whose identity I shall protect, and no this isn’t one of those ‘I have a friend who has a little rash’ moments) came out after about a minute and asked the 10 year old waiter for a few napkins as a toilet paper substitute. So Paul’s theory holds true. A restaurant that can’t even muster up a few scraps of toilet paper is probably not going to provide a stellar dining experience.

Thank God the company was excellent though. Even if we did seem to spend an inordinate amount of time talking about KTK’s belly button fluff (‘why is it always blue? Even when I wear a pink shirt?’), how far you are from a rat in London at any one time (three metres), the difference between being popular and being cool (‘I was popular at school, but I was not cool’ ‘Neither was I, but I was definitely cooler than you’) and whether the London underground is cleaner than it used to be (‘my snott doesn’t seem to be as black anymore’). Ah, to be a group of seasoned intellectuals solving the problems of the world.

After eating copious amounts of suspicious looking yellow curry, we made our way down Brick Lane to Redchurch Street and selected an establishment for a night cap. And what a night cap it was. We ordered a bowl of punch for six, transporting us from India to Jamaica with the generous shake of a rum bottle. Only when it arrived it looked more like something Queen Victoria might have used in the middle of the night before the advent of the indoor toilet than something you would want to drink from. Or a pot plant. I imagined the barman getting an order for punch for six and thinking ‘crap, I don’t have a bowl big enough’ and upending the nearest indoor fern. And yet we all drank it. It sat incredibly well in my stomach on top of the hundred’s of onion bahji’s and yellow curry, as you can imagine.

In the taxi on the way back to Knightsbridge, I wondered whether this was the Brick Lane Monica Ali had in mind when she wrote her bestselling novel. Probably not. I suspect hers had a little more culture and fewer references to toilets.

I can only imagine what literary experiences Portugal is going to cough up. While A Small Death in Lisbon sounds fascinating, I’m not sure I want to add that one to my list. Unless it’s death from Portuguese tart gluttony. I’m happy to have a shot at that. 


(Have just realised that is two blogs in a row I have ended with a reference to Portuguese tarts. My waistline is in trouble.)

I never knew that Dirty Dancing was a romantic comedy

I never knew that Dirty Dancing was a romantic comedy. Honestly. I always thought you’d find it in the drama section of the DVD shop, somewhere near Dead Poets Society and Diary of Anne Frank.

That was until I went to see the London West End musical version.  

Now, I should make it clear straight up that I am a Dirty Dancing fan. If I could write a book set in 1960’s Kellerman’s with Baby and Johnny, without it being a clear rip off, I would. For years whenever I have met someone by the name Johnny, I have not been able to help myself from saying their name in the anguished tones of Jennifer Grey “Juuuhhhnnyyyy!!’. Probably highly annoying to any man whose name actually is Johnny, but it’s kind of like Tourette's syndrome. I can’t control it.

So I thought going to see the musical would be a great idea. I even conned Jane and Lizzie into going with me. I can only beg their forgiveness.

I am not sure what I imagined it was going to be like. But given it’s classified as a musical, I had visions of a cast of people singing along to ‘She’s like the wind’, waving my hands in the air, perhaps flicking on a zippo lighter for added effect (even though I haven’t smoked in eight years and don’t actually carry a lighter with me). Then cue to end scene with me, Lizzie and Jane dancing in the aisles to ‘I had the time of my life.’ Because I really did expect to – have the time of my life that is.

Sorry, that was corny. I couldn’t help it. I was just getting into the spirit - because DD the musical production was corny enough to keep Mexico supplied with corn tortillas for about a century. I spent a lot of time not wanting to dance on my seat but hide under it. And wiping the tears of laughter from my eyes.

The problem was that it wasn’t so much a musical as a direct dramatic reproduction, right down to the watermelon and a few cringe worthy bedroom scenes. But the people on stage aren’t actors (at least I hope for their sakes they’re not), they’re dancers. And very talented ones at that. But Johnny (whose real name is actually Johnny. Strange coincidence or deed poll?) was no all-dancing, all-acting Patrick Swayze. In fact, he reminded me more of Ben Mendelsohn, only with a ridiculous he-manesque six pack that he kept sucking in. See for yourself. The Hoff eat your heart out.

I admit that the dancing was great. Even though the stage seemed a tad too small and I kept waiting for someone to get a gold heel in the head. But the acting was wrong, and the set and props were very, very wrong. Especially the log that was lowered like a gigantic boom gate onto the stage for the balancing-on-log-on-river scene. I’m not even going to try to describe the water scene itself. Let’s just say it involved an image of a lake projected onto a transparent sheet, with splashing water sound effects that sounded like my nephews in the bathtub.

Now I am no theatre critic, but it all felt a bit like a high school musical production to me. I may have been the only one that thought this however. When Johnny appeared in the aisles in the final scene to take baby out of her corner, women in the theatre were cheering and yelling louder than the crowd at Twickenham.  In fact, based on the 33,000 fans Dirty Dancing the Musical has on it’s facebook fan page, it obviously is just me.

Anyway, that’s my last foray into the West End theatre scene for a while – not that DD has turned me off forever but because on Monday I am off to Portugal, the land of…..why, Portuguese tarts of course. And if that’s not reason enough to go there, I don’t know what is.

My day of worship in the hallowed halls of HarperCollins

On Saturday I did what many aspiring novelists dream of doing, and spent the day in the hallowed halls of HarperCollins in London (if any other publishers are reading this, which I strongly suspect not, I think all publishers halls are hallowed. Just for the record).

Unfortunately I was not there to sign a book deal. Shocking I know. I was there to attend a writing workshop run by the folks from Authonomy, a HarperCollins website where aspiring authors can upload their latest pages of fictional gold for the review of other writers/readers. I haven’t actually posted anything to this site as yet because:

1.  I still subscribe to the Stephen King model of Writing with the Door Shut (very firmly and sealed with super glue).
2. The site has this rating system, so the thinking would be that you want to get into the top 100 or so in order to get noticed and offered a Big Book Deal. Therefore, I’ve noticed that a lot of the reviews go something like this: Hello Sharon, just read your first chapter of 'The Mystery of the Missing Kitchen Aid', I think it’s amazing, you are such a talented writer. Definite thumbs up. Now if you wouldn’t mind just popping over to my book called 'The Night the Light Bulb Blew and other Mysteries' and giving me a good rating, that would be brilliant!”
3.  I fail to see the benefit for my writing in that, although I’m sure it’s a good gee up for the ego.

Since I haven’t uploaded anything, I really shouldn’t pass judgement (she says while passing judgement). I did after all meet Miranda Dickinson who got a publishing deal when her book was plucked from obscurity on the site. So it does happen.

Anyway, the day started off well, with a brilliant talk by Simon Toyne on his experience writing his first novel and getting published. Three years ago Simon quit his job and took seven months off work to move to France and write his book (and is now being touted as the next Dan Brown, so no pressure there eh Simon). He, like me, thought that six/seven months would just about be enough to pump out a quick manuscript and polish it up, ready to fall into the hands of some grateful agent or publisher.

Seems not.

After seven months, Simon had written one third of his novel. And by 5pm that day I realised that I was on a fast track to joining him in the “Shit that wasn’t nearly enough time” camp. Because I realised that I have a tad bit of work to do on my novel. You know, just change the plot and the characters really. So nothing too drastic at all.

But better that I figure out now that I need to make a major manuscript overhaul than six months down the track. Right? I can say that now, after two days of staring out the window and drinking straight vodka. It’s all good.

But there was some positive to come out of it all. Apart from working out my novel needs more work than the solution to climate change, I met a lot of other aspiring writers. Which was certainly interesting. Writing novels means you sit by yourself in a room for hours and hours on end, with no one to talk to but cats and sheep, as I have discovered, and I guess it’s only natural therefore that this type of profession attracts a few odd bods. Like the woman who wasn’t afraid to admit that she hadn’t read a book since she was 16 because she’s too busy. Which was about 40 years ago. I’m sure HarperCollins is looking to sign her up straight away.

It was also interesting to find out what floats other writers boats. I met one lady who writes young adult fiction with a Greek mythology theme.  Which sounds absolutely torturous to me. The only Greek I’m interested in is of the souvlaki, ouzo and feta cheese variety. Just like I'm sure that every time a bloke asked me what I write and I said romantic comedy, his eyes glazed over faster than the crust on a crème brule.  

So thanks HarperCollins for letting me come and kneel at the alter of the publishing Gods for a day. Although I hope next time I see you it’s to receive a big fat cheque. Or even a very small one would do.

Corporate Girl turns IT Geek #2: Email subscription to my blog now available

A few people have asked me to set up an email subscription for my blog. So I have.

Just click through the link on the right that says Subscribe to When Corporate Girl went Creative by email. And voila! My blogs will start landing straight in your inbox*. You lucky devils.

* Whether this actually works is not guaranteed. I will not be getting a part time job in IT any time soon.

A brief encounter with Dr Coffee and the English medical system

It all started with a paltry little sinus infection that wouldn’t go away. After weeks of buying up big over the counter in boots to no apparent effect, I decided it was time to make a quick visit to the local GP to get something a little stronger.

Not having been to see a Doctor in England before, I did a quick Google search and found a Family Medical Centre, just down the high street, which sounded just lovely, not a haven for junkies or prostitutes or anything untoward like that. So I gave them a call.

A woman answered the phone in an accent that sounded like something from Russia. I briefly wondered if she had read my blog.

“Are you registered?” she asked me. Registered for what? To vote? To drive my car? To donate my left lung if I die in a car accident?

“I don’t think so,” I had replied cautiously. “I’m just visiting.”

This is greeted by deathly silence.

“You have to make private appointment,” she barked at me. Private as opposed to what? A public audience? “And pay. 40 pounds.”

She said 40 pounds as though it was 400 million pounds. As if I should say “40 pounds! My goodness me, don’t worry, I’ll just lie down and die instead. But thanks for your help”.

Anyway, when I tell her that’s fine, she tells me to call back tomorrow. After 9am. And then hangs up. Clearly no private appointments are on the cards for today.

So I call back at 9:01am this morning only this time I know to say up-front that I would like to make a private appointment. It is a different receptionist today. She reminds me about the 40 pound payment, and when I tell her that’s fine, I can almost feel her raising her eyebrows as if I am some rich hooty-tooty lady who can afford to throw her money around on such ridiculous things as healthcare.

I arrive at the medical centre at 12:25pm. I go up to the reception desk and introduce myself. Which apparently is not-the-procedure. She gruffly points me towards a computer screen mounted to the wall where I am supposed to announce my arrival. Seems the English are a step ahead of us Aussies and have figured out a way to cut contact with medical centre receptionists down to the bare minimum. I think this might be a good thing.

Of course the virtual-receptionist hasn’t quite yet worked out how to deal with ye of the private appointment, so I return to the real-life-version, and apologetically explain that I am here for a private appointment. So she checks me in, which takes as long as it takes me to tell her my name, and then tells me that my appointment is with Dr Coffee. Now there’s a good sign I think. I do love coffee.

And then I wait. For 30 minutes. In a dark waiting room with plastic chairs, brown carpet and people hacking up phlegm. So not dissimilar to most doctors waiting rooms anywhere else in the world. Anyone that wants to try and tell me that the practice of medicine is glamorous, clearly hasn’t spent enough time in any of these joints.

Finally Dr Coffee’s door opens and I am met by Ken Follett’s near identical brother. I swear, it was unnerving. I nearly asked for his autograph. Then he invited me inside his medical suite. Now I am no neat freak, but I have this strange notion that Doctor’s should be somewhat organised and tidy  -you know, so that you feel reassured that they’re not mixing up blood samples and telling you you have AIDS when you merely have the flu. Not Dr Coffee. He invited me to take a seat and I wondered briefly which chair to choose – I eventually settled on the one that didn’t have the spittle stained pillows piled on top of it. He sat opposite me – I think. I couldn’t really see him over all of the paper, numerous stethoscopes and other doctorly type things strewn across his desk. I half expected that if I lifted up a piece of paper I might find someone’s urine sample buried underneath.

Now Dr Coffee may not be the tidiest bloke, but he is certainly friendly. I soon discovered why I had waited for 30 minutes.

“So Tyrrell, hey? From Ireland then?”

“From Australia actually. About fifth generation. Although there is some Irish blood back there somewhere.”

At which point he then proceeded to tell me in detail about the Tyrrell’s of Ireland, who are apparently quite a noble lot (I always had an inkling I was from noble blood). I half expected him to whip a Collins Atlas out from under the pile on his desk and give me a quick history lesson.

But before he could get into any details about the battle of Cork in 1608, there was a knock on the door. Which to my surprise he answered with a friendly “Come in”. And in walked the patient from before me, who was looking for her umbrella. So they spent a minute or two having a hunt around for it, while I sat there thanking God I hadn’t come in for a pap smear. That would have been a little awkward.

After she left, we finally got down to business. He diagnosed me promptly, and prescribed me an antibiotic. At which point he located a blank sheet of A4 letterhead and wrote down the name of the antibiotic on it, signed it with a flourish, and handed it over to me. Could he not find his prescription pad? I must have looked at it with bewilderment because he said “Any chemist will fill that for you”. We then spoke about wine from the Barossa valley for another five minutes before he sent me on my way.

When I took the prescription to the counter at the chemist, I tried to look all confident and nonchalant, but I felt like I was handing over a forged note from my Mum. But she took it without batting any eyelid and proceeded to hand me over my drugs. Coming from a country where you have to show ID to get Sudafed, I was more than a little surprised at how laissez faire the English were when it came to drug dispensation. Especially when I got home, looked at my own little box of wonder drugs and saw that they’ve been prescribed to Miss Katherine Tagnell. Whoever she is.

Perhaps it’s a sign. That can be my pen name if I ever start writing Mills and Boon.

A note to my fans in...err....Russia.

WARNING: This blog contains references to information technology. Not suitable for technophobes.

A lot of people lately have been asking me if I can see who is reading my blog. With a certain amount of fear in their eyes. The answer is yes, of course – Jimmy, I can see that you’ve read the blog entry ‘The Sex and the Cash Theory’ 25 times. Naughty boy.

Just joking. That would be, like, illegal.

But I can see a whole host of other information which is really quite interesting, in a geeky kind of way. And all at the click of a button – which is useful when you are a person like me who hasn’t even figured out how the fax machine works yet, let alone a computer.

One of the things I have found most interesting is the top ten countries that people come from. Most of them I can account for, but not all. Here they are, in order:

1.       Australia – ooohhhh, big surprise there!

2.      United States – where they probably think I am Austrian and am surprised I speak English so well.

3.      United Kingdom

4.      Canada

5.      New Zealand

6.      Thailand

7.      Singapore

8.      Russia – now this one has me really baffled. I can only assume that it is because I have referenced vodka in a couple of my posts.

9.      South Africa

10.  Germany – maybe I made more friends at the Oktoberfest in 1998 than I realised…..

Somewhere further down the list are Qatar, China, India and Estonia. I am quite keen to get a Chinese following actually – imagine that, I’d get about a billion pageviews a month.

I can also see what operating systems you are all using to look at my blog – 50% from Windows Explorer, 22% from i-phone’s, 17% from Mac’s, and 2% from i-pad’s. So, at least 41% of my followers are cooler and more creative looking than me with your fancy apple products. In case you didn’t read my blog about buying my Dell computer, I hate you.

And how do people find my blog? Well, a lot of you come to it from Facebook, Twitter or Google. Google is how all my Russian fans found me.  The searchwords that people have used have been everything from hilarious to mortifying. While “Bora Bora Martial Arts Ninjitsu” was interesting, as was “Corporate head shot Toledo Ohio”, I simply found “corporate girl sex” a little horrifying. I can only hope they didn’t look at my profile photo while they, you know, played….monopoly.