The Girl in the Cafe 2005

Lawrence, an aging, lonely civil servant falls for Gina, an enigmatic young woman. When he takes her to the G8 Summit in Reykjavik, however, their bond is tested by Lawrence's professional obligations.

-IMDB

Made for TV movies usually get a bad rap but this one is exceptional. There are many similarities between The Girl in the Cafe and the much loved American movie Lost in Translation.

• A girl finds herself unwillingly alone in a foreign country.
• Unlikely characters, each lonely in their own way, fall in love.
• The ending is not schmaltzy and unbelievable, leaving you to groan and say 'Well, that won't bloody last, will it?' (Like I say after many rom-coms.)
• The atmosphere is as powerful as the sparse dialogue.
• The setting is in the austere, clean environments that surrounds the professional class in developed countries such as Iceland and Japan. The environments reflect the emptiness and loneliness of the characters.

Despite these obvious similarities, I didn't really like Lost in Translation. Yet I really loved The Girl in the Cafe, starring Billy Nighy and Kelly McDonald. Their performances were moving. The script, too was excellent. Of course, writers rarely get the accolades they deserve. This one was written by Richard Curtis*, however, who receives accolades for writing (the very different) Vicar of Dibley, Mr Bean, Blackadder, and also some other movies I really like such as (equally different) Love, Actually, Notting Hill and Four Weddings and a Funeral. The Girl in the Cafe is not much like any of these because it's not a true comedy. There are the same dead-pan humour and cringe-worthy moments, however. I don't count this as comedy.

This is one of the best movies I have seen for a long time, with believable characters, a realistic setting and a satisfying ending. Unlike Lost in Translation, I genuinely liked the characters in this movie. They reminded me of real people I have known.

*Richard Curtis was born in the hotbed of creative talent, Wellington. New Zealand can't claim him, though, because he grew up in a number of countries. (If he were Australian, Australia would claim him. Australia probably does - much of his family live in Sydney!)

The Royle Family meets Kath and Kim

THE KATH AND KIM CAST

THE ROYLE FAMILY

The Royle Family is a kitchen sink drama set in a working-class Manchester living room. There are plenty of working class dramas that come out of Manchester, most notably Coronation Street, but unlike Coronation Street, this one is without the melodrama. It is simply a snapshot view of someone else's living room. And I sure am glad it's someone else's, not mine.

Ricky Tomlinson plays Jim, the father: an overweight griping couch potato who criticises everyone on the telly for being fat when he's borderline obese himself. His wife Barbara Royle is played by Sue Johnston, and you'll have seen her in plenty too if you're a fan of BBC drama. Their grown-up daughter is one of the most unpleasant, manipulative women you could hope to avoid, played expertly by Caroline Ahern, who wrote the script with Craig Cash, her onscreen fiancee. It's a shame those two fell out in real life, otherwise there may have been more than three series.

The relationship between Denise Royle and her mother reminds me very much of the Australian Kath and Kim. Infact, I think this is pretty much the Manchester version of Patterson Lakes. Of course, in atmosphere, dialogue and plot, the lives are nothing alike. Which is why the Americans need to come up with their own version of Kath and Kim rather than trying to blindly imitate Australia's. But that's a whole different story.

Denise Best = Kim Craig as the girl who refuses to grow up, relying equally upon her mother and her poor, manipulated husband to treat her as a princess.
Barbara Royle = Kath Day-Knight as the long-suffering mother pandering to her selfish daughter
Anthony Royle = Brett Craig as the gormless male bossed around terribly by the women.
Cheryl Carolle = Sharon, and is treated equally poorly as the overweight second best friend.
Jim Royle = Kelvin Knight, albeit much more grumpy and not nearly as enthused by life.

• Both dramas are set in a working class house.
• Regional dialects are fully utilised for comic effect.
• The audience is encouraged to laugh at the characters' version of 'posh': their clothes, their pastimes, their treasured items and food.
  
• We laugh at the characters because they look down on others unlike themselves, which is a bit ironic really.
  

Everyone is someone else's snob. I always look suspiciously at an Australian who doesn't find Kath and Kim funny, and I do know a few. They tend to remind me of Kath and Kim themselves. Likewise, a Mancunian who doesn't find The Royles funny probably finds it a bit too close to home for good humour.

Promo for the American Kath and Kim

Blowing Bubbles

Toothy Grin

Some might say Evil.

Woo hoo!

The Picnic in the Backyard

Flicker the Drunken Dog

The Swing Chair

Burrawang

End of Year Reflection Meme

1. What did you do in 2008 that you’d never done before?

Started cooking pork chops.
Used a pressure cooker and finally made some decent soup.
Drove a ride-on mower (briefly), and a Subaru.
Got bitten by green ants.
Changed a nappy. Actually I'm pretty good at that now.

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next this year?

I was meant to write the first draft of a book. Almost made it I think, but the process of writing isn't as cut and dry as that after all!

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

Yip. Someone very close to me gave birth.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

My second cousin Cheryl died this month. So that's one too many.

5. What countries did you visit?

New Zealand

6. What would you like to have in 2008 2009 that you lacked in 2007 2008?

I have everything I want. Except perhaps the first draft of a novel.

7. What dates from 2008 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?

On April 30 I became a Mum.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

April 30.

9. What was your biggest failure?

The Russian fudge that didn't set, which I then tried to make a new creation out of, which stuck to the bottom of the muffin pans like glue. Thank god for dishwashers and power cycles.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

No. Do mosquito bites count?

11. What was the best thing you bought?

Heaps of babies' clothes from the Yass Vinnies at fifty cents each.

12. Where did most of your money go?

What money?

13. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

I'm not the excitable type. Can't you tell from my lack of exclamation marks?

14. What song will always remind you of 2008?

That Doors song 'Break on through to the other side' or whatever, which Dan played while I was in labour. Also: 'That's Not My Name', which is played every time I go to the mall or accidentally happen upon a commercial radio station.

15. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder?

I was happy last year and this year.

b) thinner or fatter?

Significantly thinner. Especially round the womb.

c) richer or poorer?

That's a tough one.

16. What do you wish you’d done more of?

Weeding.

17. What do you wish you’d done less of?

Virus updates and faffing about with operating systems.

18. How did you spend Christmas?

At Kris and Derek's in Canberra with their friend Mikey, and Jack and Poosey.

19. Did you fall in love in 2008?

Yes. With a baby.

20. What was your favorite TV program?

Flight of the Conchords

21. What was the best book you read?

The God Delusion

22. What was your favorite film of this year?

No Country for Old Men

23. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

Mum made dinner and a carrot cake. I turned 30.

24. What kept you sane?

Blogging.

25. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

Barack Obama is a huge improvement on the last one, Watzisname. I still think his name is too close to Osama Bin Laden.

Hannah Opens Christmas Presents

Kris Derek and Bub

Mikey and the Aussie Pav

Pavs are not Aussie. But this one is. (Was.)

The Girls in Red

Dex, HM and Kris

And Hannah's singing flowers

Me in my Cancer Society Approved Wide Brimmed Red Sunhat

And Hannah's legs

Dan at Lunch

In his new shirt.

Can You Eat It Though?

The Dog Whisperer

The Green Ball

Santa Tests Out the Booty

Santa's Fluffy, Smelly little helper

Last night there was a thunder storm and Flicker followed me round like a bad smell.
Actually, I think he was the bad smell.
There's only one thing worse than the smell of a wet dog.
And that's the smell of two wet dogs.

How to tell if you're a grumpy old woman

1. You have called noise control on a neighbour.
2. You have advised someone against getting a tattoo.
3. You own a household full of household appliances, including several in the kitchen that you don't really use.
4. You find yourself wishing a sorry end to younger drivers overtaking you on double lines.
5. You open a celebrity magazine and such and such has had a baby and you think that's nice, who the hell is she?
6. You give disapproving looks to litterers, and fools on public transport with very loud, tinny ring tones that go on and on and on.
7. You are annoyed by silly, oft-repeated phrases in shops and cafes (No problem, Too easy, What was the name, Can you just go ahead and write your name for me?)
8. When it comes to clothes, function over form.
9. At home you take the role of environmental saviour (That goes in the recycling!)
10. You prefer the national programs to the commercial ones.

Yes, to all of the above.

Bye to the Impreza

Dan finally got rid of his Impreza this week. He sold it on eBay. It went to a boy just finished high school for the year; someone from a little country town not far from here. He texted later that afternoon to tell Dan how well it runs.

Dan knows this of course. He knows that the Subaru Impreza has been the best ever car over the eventful ten years of his early adulthood. That car took him to Sydney, Newcastle, Melbourne, Laurieton, Queanbeyan, Murrumbateman. Somewhere in there was a stint in Darwin. He lived in the tropics without air conditioning. The windows were permanently down, except in the tropical rain when they would steam up so badly he no doubt became a danger to himself and everyone else on the NT roads. That's how much he loved this car.

Yes, Dan was very quiet after it was driven gleefully away by its excited new owner. A type of male mourning, I think. No wonder he seemed so reluctant to get rid of the thing. It had been sitting under a tree for several weeks, until the gentle reminders to get rid of it before rego was due were seriously in danger of turning into full-on nags.

I guess for a typical bloke, cars carry sentimental value that some women just can't understand. I have never fallen in love with a car. I have never felt the slightest bit sentimental getting rid of one, and I'm sure I'll feel the same again next time. I can quite happily go stints without a vehicle, in the right circumstances. It took me six months living in Australia (and a bit of saddlesore) before I finally decided I needed another one. Cars are a pain in the neck. I'm reminded of this again after receiving the bill for its greenslip renewal. As soon as I've paid the insurance, something else is due. As soon as I wipe the bugs off the windscreen, I go for a night drive down the Barton Highway and the glass is once again splattered in slimy bodies, sacrificed to the night.

Perhaps I could do with a vehicle love affair. Any money and time spent on the thing would transform my resignation into the far more pleasurable knowledge that money has been well spent.

Toothy

No I won't open my mouth. My lips are sealed.

First Tooth

Bub has got a tooth! After 'teething' for the last five months, finally, after red cheeks and dribbling and runny poos and runny nose, the tooth has arrived. Talk about fanfare. If only my arrival into a room caused half as much fuss.

No photo, unfortunately, because it's hard enough prizing fingers into the mouth to have a closer look at this amazing development. Anyhow, it only just passes for a tooth. We knew it was there first off not for catching sight of it but because Bub managed to scrape the paint off Dan's rawleigh's tin. The tin is now etched with the distinct, indelible marks of Hannah's first little chopper; who could ask for a better memento than that?

Bonjela is the trick. Except Bub seems to enjoy the taste of aniseed, and can be heard lying in her cot making kissing sounds as she sucks it all off.

Morning View in Murrumbateman

We were up at cock shout due not to a cock but to a baby who woke suddenly and started screaming for a bottle. At five. By the time the sun came up, Dan had one coffee under his (dressing gown) belt and was in the humour to dash outside and photograph the sunrise.

Regal Flicker

HM in the midst of a scientific experiment

Hannah was given many toys when she was born but has only recently started making full use out of them. When I say full use, I mean banging them, squeezing them, chewing them, dribbling into them, rattling them and poking them.

Delicious

Hannah has started saying 'nyum nyum nyum' when she *eats* things. But nothing everything is as delicious as custard and banana. Plastic forms a major food group for teething babies.

Santas, Plural

I've noticed lots of people moaning about Christmas lately. I have always really liked Christmas and think there's little point moaning about it. On the other hand I can understand where this all comes from. Councils should pass a bylaw banning Boney M from belting out their Christmas Album on replay in shopping malls. In November. While they're at it, they might want to limit the number of 'Santas' allowed in the one mall.

The other day I met a woman whose father works as a Santa. He wears a long white beard all year round, which led him quite naturally to his post-retirement career. Apparently the Santas all have to go to Santa training. (I'm imagining a Catherine Tate scene about now.) Not surprisingly, this training also involves the acquisition of a police check. So apart from the police check, just what is the point of Santa School? Turns out there's a set of rules that Santas must follow. At Belconnen Mall, where there is a Santa on each level, the Santas are under strict instructions to never leave their floor. Fancy! Two Santas together! Now I'm imagining a Santa off to buy his lunch, catching sight of another red suit in the distance and running frantically in the opposite direction, pushing over small children and grannies in an effort to follow the rules.

What, do they think kids of today came down in the last shower? I was never fooled by all those Santas. Even as a little kid I knew that the Santa in Deka had a ruddier complexion and a bigger nose than the Santa in Woolworths. Some Santas were even women. As much as I'm against sex discrimination in the workplace, come on, since when was Santa a transvestite? Even with an acrylic beard, a kid can still tell the difference between a woman and a real man.

Santa usually managed to scare the hell out of me anyway. As soon as I was old enough my parents dutifully took me along to the Christchurch Christmas Parade and I think I'm still haunted by the vision of a bulbous nose being plunged towards my face yelling 'Ho! Ho! Ho!' Apparently I screamed my head off. I have never lived it down.

So, why all the santas? 'They're Santa's helpers,' Mum explained. And I guess that's what I'll be telling Hannah at Belconnen Mall when she's old enough to ask.

Obviously I got over the Santaphobia by age 11. I'm even wearing the dreaded hat.

And Much Excitement Was Had.

The Glasses Grab

Nana and Hannah

With a secret.
I've pooed my pants.

Hannah and Poppy

The Visit to the Vet

Yesterday the dog went to the vet. He doesn't seem to remember the last time he was there, as he was rather enthusiastic, pulling me along on the lead. Flicker was too busy peering round the door at the other three dogs in the waiting room to even notice that the man was poking a needle into his neck, which means the whole process was far easier than taking a baby for vaccinations. (No half hour of inconsolable screaming, for instance.)

Flicker is now in possession of his very own medicine chest, including worming tablets and doping tablets. That's for when he goes, very reluctantly, into a vehicle. Now that Dan has a new car, I'm sure he doesn't want the 'new car smell' overpowered by the rich aroma of Flicker's stomach contents, despite the fact he purchased a custom fit plastic tray for the boot. Flicker has also had a heart worm vaccination (at eighty smackaroos for a year) in case we decide to take him with us to Laurieton. Heart worm is a problem around that area, as are ticks. I'm pretty sure Flicker got bitten by a tick as a puppy, as he was dragging his back legs around as with temporary paralysis last Christmas. Those ticks can be dangerous for dogs, and they need to be checked every day. Fortunately we don't have them in the Canberra region.

But we do have pine trees, and Flicker loves rolling around in the needles. He gets big lumps of gum stuck in his fur. Perhaps it all came back to Flicker when the vet turned on his shaver. Standing on the slippery table, his claws scuttled frantically as he tried to jump off. The vet gave up.

I hope the vet didn't use a razor to desex the dog. I guess it might have been a similar sounding object (?)

Anyway, Flicker still has a big lump of sap stuck behind his ear. For later. I figure it'll fall out eventually. I'll find it behind the fridge, with all the rest of Flicker's fur. (It gets to looking like a rabbit died behind there.) Something to do with the air circulation in the house, I guess.

The Lawnmower Doodaky

On Sunday Dan wrecked his push mower by pushing it into the side of the veranda. Or something. On Tuesday, Bill and I went into a lawnmower shop in Mitchell looking for a doodak to fix it. Bill knows about these things. He knew which bit had broken and which bit he needed. So he pulled off a little twisted up bit of rusty metal, put it in his pocket and produced it once we were in the shop.

The man behind the council takes the twisted up bit of rusty metal, examines it for a second and says, 'Oh right. Yeah, this is a wigwom for a goose's bridal.'

Of course, I have no idea what he said, but he knew exactly what it was, and that of all the little twisted up bits of rusty metal he had in the jars out the back, that he'd sold the last of those ones last week.

What I don't get is how (many) men know exactly what such things are called. Handy men know the names of the bits of wood under a floor, or how to describe the parts of a faucet, or that the threads in screws come in metric and American, and which ones match up. Handy men can break down any building into tiny little parts, and know the names for different parts of skirting, walling, insulation, and where they might find a stud. They know that if you knock out this beam the house will fall down, but that one's just for looks.

I don't know where handy men learn all this stuff. Nowhere in my sphere of existence do I have the opportunity to learn such things. People don't talk to me about such things, and I wouldn't know where to go to learn.

Likewise, there are things women just know. We know when to do up the top button and when to leave it open. We know the appropriate length of a pair of trousers, and when someone is wearing too much lip-liner. We can walk into a room and just know that it's been professionally designed. We know the difference between a spatula and a skewer.

I don't remember being taught these things. I don't remember sitting around in a group with my school friends discussing buttons and spatulas. But we know.

Somebody has obviously made a study of this socialisation process. Then they made an ad.

THE NEW ZEALAND MITRE 10 ADVERTISEMENT