All hail the Mirren

I love my fella with all my heart. But if I were to throw him over, which wouldn't happen lightly what with him being my heart's love, it would be for Helen Mirren. My sister and I watched the Golden Globes recently and I swear she was the best looking woman in the room, hands down. I don't even bat for the team, yet Ms Mirren is just quite spellbinding. So, after whisking cattishly out of work at five on the dot in order to make the bus, I talked my fella into going to see the movie The Queen, in which the lovely Ms Mirren plays the title role. Oh, such a lovely, rich, emotive drama it is, too. You don't need to be a monarchist, as I am not, to love it - but you do have to be someone who likes getting into a good piece of psychological and emotional exploration. Just like a chunky vegetable pie. I loved it.

I'm a friend first and a boss second, and probably an entertainer third

A thousand apologies dear gentle-hearted readers, all three of you. It's been two weeks since my last post, and I've been plagued by both blogger's block and blogger's nag. Each night as I begin the long bus journey home I promise myself that I will write ... and then I get home, and that damn couch looks like such a good deal. Plus my fella has undoubtedly cooked up a good meal, and then we settle in for some trash tele, and then my eyelids start to drop and drag.

A lot of the past two weeks has been taken up with playing let's get acquainted, in which I attempt to acclimatise to the environment in which I work and feel out the personalities therein. Any workplace is a little community in its own right, office politics are just the tip of the iceberg. I know you know that, but there's nothing like coming into a new work space to make it patently apparent. It's funny just how much energy you can expend learning to read the moods and ways of new people. The impact of such an effort never makes itself apparent to me until I slide onto that bus seat at 5.10 pm, and then all of a sudden I switch off. I make this sound like my workmates are emotionally discombobulating, and that's not the case at all. It's all the subtleties of getting to know which folks are chatty; who is supportive of newcomers; who appreciates a systematic approach; who likes to keep to themselves. It's about feeling out the boundaries and conducting myself accordingly, at the same time as being clear about my own boundaries and needs. One thing I will say: librarians are a little more reserved in their conversations than I am used to. I'll give you a second here to recover from your "well, duh" facial expression. I did know this was coming, yet still I sort of miss the frank, profane trash-talking that went on in my last workplace, where we were able to talk reasonably openly about the issues that were affecting our lives as well as the state of the world in general. There, everyone had similar political perspectives; in my new workplace, with so many folks, there's a political spectrum. And yes, diversity is good; but it does mean treading with care in tea room discussions about, say, WorkChoices legislation. Whereas previously any of us in my old workplace could have a good, cathartic Liberal-quibbling spray and everyone else would be all "hear, hear", now I'm a bit more, well, uh, diplomatic/restrained. It's probably good for me.

On a completely different topic, one not related to libraries but definitely related to untamed-ness: my sister's three month old kitten, Frankie, is one of the lights o' my life at the moment, scrappy little bugger that he is. He's discovered the joy o' claws and is completely besotted with their usefulness in hauling his little fluffy ass up and over virtually any obstacle you want to toss his way. I let myself into my sister's joint tonight before she got home from work so that I could indulge in a bath, something sadly lacking in our abode. Poor Frankie has to be where the action is, but he is so hypnotised by the running water that he forgets me, himself, his own feet. I was reading my next booky obsession, The thirteenth tale by Diane Setterfield while relaxing in the tub, and so engrossed was I that all I heard was the thump as Frankie propelled himself joyfully onto the edge of the bath before almost losing his balance ... out of the corner of my eye I saw his little kitty paws betray him, causing him to drop off the edge of the bath in a split second and slide with a fluffy-muffled splat onto the tiles. Small things, they can really make your night.

PS: Yes, the title of this post comes from The office.

On your marks ... get set ...

Oh, the salutoriest of greetings from your faithful correspondent. I did the ol' first day and it was grand. Met lots of folks and all were very nice and polite and welcoming, which put me at my ease considerably. I was a bit edgy this morning - after a night of some restlessness, I couldn't finish my cornflakes, ended up at the library forty minutes before it opened and was nearly eating my own hair by 11.30 am. I cannot express how odd it is to be at a workplace where I know nothing. Certainly not to toot my own harpsichord, but I had been around at my last workplace long enough to end up being the go-to person for the history and rationale for the last several years of decision-making, and it was a privilege indeed to be that ol' soul. Now I'm utterly tabula rasa and hoping that no one will be too put out by it. However: I have a quiet library in which to start fine-tuning ye olde crafte, at least until the end of February when patron influx will put my learning to practical purpose. My spirits were buoyed today by the wellwishing of lovely folks: Janie, Annie, Jess, thank you for your texting, it made my bus ride that much more comforting this morn.

Oh, and guess what? I can wear open-toed shoes, which is a stone-col' blessing when the weather tomorrow is slated for a paltry 40 degrees. Oh, stop your piffling, Al Gore.

I did a bad reader thing and actually paused in my reading of Black Swan Green, fabulous though it is, to get hooked in completely by We need to talk about Kevin by Lionel Shriver. What an ass-kick of a book! It's one of those stories in which you warm to none of the characters, the story is painful, and yet you just can't put the durn thing down. Excruciatingly delightful.

Alrighty, my gorgeous fella is preparing a celebratory meal (postscript: it was vegetable polenta pie and a chocolate brownie for dessert. Heaven, it was) and it's time for me to get my chow on. New colleagues will be unprepared for Operation Virgo, which will commence on my new desk as of tomorrow. Old colleagues will sigh with relief that the sight of the world's neatest paperclip collection and the scent of eucalyptus oil is now far behind them.

Just one more sleep ...

... Until I become a Real Librarian, in much the same way that Pinnochio became a Real Boy. 'Course, I've got to actually get to sleep first - there's always a catch. My fella and I have just finished watching a gorgeous movie, Cave of the yellow dog. I had me a nice cup o' herbal tea with purported relaxing properties and we both laid back and got completely captivated by this beautiful tale, which was a nice way to mark pre-librarian life from librarian life, although I had to keep a pad beside me to make notes on for things to remember tomorrow, which means that librarian life already had me in its talons. Oh sure, they look like small talons, but don't be fooled.

So I've gone through several outfits trying to find the right ensemble for tomorrow. It'll be 36 degrees and I'm bussing it, but in the interests of restrained librarian-dress I'm in black slacks and closed-toe shoes. Note to self: deodorant, deodorant, deodorant. Oh yes, and I'll have a top on too. Sure I want to be memorable; just not mammorable.

I am making my lunch tonight and packing my bag so that it's all systems go in the AM. And AM it will be: settin' the alarm for 6.30, is I. Oh, I'm not saying I'll get out of bed at that time, but I will be gently brought into consciousness by the dulcet tones of ye olde clocke at that hour, so that I might lie in bed fretting for a further fifteen minutes.

My fella has just come up and rubbed my back and told me I will be good tomorrow. He's a good man, he is. And while I'm at it: thank you folks and Lady Dahlia for your care and well-wishing. You all know what it's like to anticipate change: and funnily enough, Dad and I are both starting new jobs tomorrow, so there's some symmetry there.

Time for a shower and a turn in. I shall report my adventures as the first foot dips into libraryland in due course. Wish me luck, comrades.

Smell them ... the last days o' freedom

So, my fella asked me yesterday how I was enjoying my last days of freedom. He didn't actually mean it quite like it sounded, but since I've found out that my graduate librarian compatriot isn't starting for another month, the idea of leaving the ol' holidays behind is not so enticing, excited as I am to get my libraryin' on. Just this weekend to go now. Gulp. Meanwhile, my compatriot passes the month in a leisurely fashion. No, I'm not jealous; what makes you think that?

We are going to see Limp Wrist tonight after having seen them in Melbourne on New Year's Eve. They were a surprisingly fun band, and with tracks like Fake fags fuck off, how can you go wrong? Ah, but the Melbourne show: what a display. I haven't seen gen-u-wine crusty punks getting their gear off for quite some years now, but it seems the Arthouse crowd needs no encouragement to de-kit. Oh sure, the band wear some bad-taste skimpy-hot outfits, but a couple of the patrons one-upped them and kept it even realer by simply getting down in the buff, or perhaps just a pair of daks. Rarely have I felt so overdressed. In such an environment, the trusty liber-ma-rarian's tweed skirt would have been quite out of place unless custom-cut to about ass-cheek level. Which would just be sacrilege, don't you think? I can't see Adelaide getting down in quite the same style as the Arthouse crew, but I stand ready to be corrected. Someone may surprise me.

I got my hair done yesterday and very happy with it I am too. It's back to ye olde fiery red, with a choppy short fringe and lots of long layers a la Kate Bush circa 1985. Yes, look at the picture one more time. My question to you: how fabulous is she?

OK, so, getting back to more literary/liberary matters. During these last heady days of freedom, I've been enjoying David Mitchell's Black Swan Green. Set in 1982 with the Falklands War as backdrop, the book encompasses thirteen months in the life of thirteen year old Jason Taylor from the English village of Black Swan Green, an ordinary but articulate young man who writes poems for the parish magazine under a pseudonym and has a stammer. Here are some gorgeous quotes.

1) From Jason about being a poet: "I felt giddy with importance that my words'd captured the attention of this exotic woman. Fear, too. If you show someone something you've written, you give them a sharpened stake, lie down in your coffin and say, 'When you're ready.'" (p. 183)

2) From Madame Crommelynck, connoisseur of poems: " ... Verse is "made". But the word "make" is unsufficient for a true poem. "Create" is unsufficient. All words are unsufficient. Because of this. The poem exists before it is written ... T.S. Eliot expresses it so - the poem is a raid on the inarticulate ... poems who are not written yet, or not written ever, exist here. The realm of the inarticulate." (p. 186)

I am only about halfway through, but mercy me, I'm enjoying it immensely.

Work it, baby

Hmmm, looks like I'm going to be gettin' my network on this week. I have a bona fide library mentor, yes I do, and she and I are catching up today to chat over what to expect next week. And I'm lunching with a lovely fella who also got a graduate position in the library, 'cos he and I are starting at the same time next week. So I'll be pickin' brains, that's fer sure.

I'm not always good with anticipation, really: but especially when I can't get a picture in my mind's eye of what to expect. Oh, flying blind, it's a treat. I'm still not sure what to wear in my first week - maybe I should take my cue from Bust magazine, who have done a librarian fashion spread in their latest isshue. Or maybe not. The lovely Vanessa Berry advised me to make sure that I have a tweed skirt in my wardrobe as a professional staple. I've got tweed pants (and fetching they are too) but not a skirt. Yet. I don't dare to contradict Vanessa so something may need to be sorted out. What if she came to Adelaide for a surprise wardrobe inspection? It has also been suggested that a twinset is mandatory librarian daywear. And of course, I'll need to hook up a chain for my eyeglasses. My question to you: what fashion items are de rigeur for a librarian? My question to me: can I curb my filthy mouth in a new workplace? We cussed our asses off at my last job, and it becomes really fuckin' addictive.

Oh, the shivery anticipation of it all

Well, when I say untamed, I don't really mean, like, y'know, wild and crazy and off-the-chain. I just mean that I am a new librarian, one who is yet to be inducted into the hallowed sanctum of the Library Institution. The lovely LeighStarDust works at my new place of employment, and in her quotable quotes she tells of a patron's request to find legislation that proves that a chicken is a pet. What now? I can just imagine the puzzled expression I would be displaying for that patron, and I'm starting out in the goddamn law library, for pete's sake. A confession: real, seasoned librarians intimidate me a wee smidge, they seem so tech-savvy and just plain onto it. Can I hold my own? Only time, my friend, will tell. Just under a week to go: better start practising that ingratiating look as I might be relying on it.