Sunday, July 3, 2011

one year, one hell of a run

Well yesterday marked one year since I took off to London. This year, instead, I ran a half marathon. I wonder what I'll do next year..

I did pretty well. I ran 21.8km in 1:53 and came 19th for my age group, which I'm pretty happy/F*&KING ECSTATIC with. I then rewarded myself with some homebrew and a few jugs of amber at the pub.

But alack now I am on holidays, and bored out of my brains as I am not travelling this year. I have so far: cleaned my room, put clothes on ebay, read Jane Eyre, done a treasure hunt, played in a wheelchair, trained for a marathon, completed a marathon, fixed my slr, gotten into photography, baked a cake, bought petrol, quit two jobs, got four more jobs, planned next holiday, and finished my London scrapbook, AND I'M STILL BORED. SIGH. Time to start my novel..

Assorted photos without captions:

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Love letters from Bernard: part 1 of 2 in a mini series

So, I've turned into the pathetic student that emails their middle aged business lecturer with ridiculous questions, and secretly admires his unique passion he possesses for quantitative research methods. This is a series of 8, part one.

Kate Fitzpatrick to b.mckenna
show details 10 May
Dear Bernard

I am prepared to name my first-born child after you if you change our much anticipated COMU2030 exam from a Saturday to any other day.

Yours in hope and research methods,

ps. I've attended all of the lectures and admire your charismatic approach to teaching.


Bernard McKenna to me
show details 10 May

Dear Kate

As deeply flattered as I am by your naming rights (there is currently a shortage of Bernards in Australia, but not in France, I might point out), I have to admit that even Associate Professors have no power in deciding exam dates. This should come as no surprise given that administrations always have more power than the practitioners (a point made evident when Joseph Stalin, the head of the Soviet bureaucracy after Lenin’s death in 1924 beat the head of the Red Army, Leon Trotsky to lead the USSR).

Golly, you must have something important on that Saturday!! Playing for Australia … a wedding … an elopement … an appearance on Master Chef ??

Your “humble[d]” lecturer (sadly unable to comply)



Kate Fitzpatrick to Bernard
show details 10 May
Though the ideas of an elopement or an appearance on Masterchef are truly enticing, I was hoping to work at the Ipswich Races, and provide the respectable punters of Brisbane with beer and wine. I would have happily shouted you a pint and had a big old chin wag about the epistemological relevance of hats and gloves at the races, however now I simply cannot.

Ah I suppose it's like you said. Many of us humble BCommunications students will actually end up as administrators or policy writers one day, who will ironically have more power than all you wonderful ripened and cerebal associate professors. Such is life.

I suppose I'll have to resort to my original naming idea, "Patrick Fitzpatrick"

Your adoring fan,

I lose a pint and a chat, you lose a day’s wages, and your as-yet unborn child awaits a lifetime of ridicule because of a name.

Life truly is tough.


Aaah Bernard, you cheeky bastard you. The clever old fool you are even managed to slip in a Trotsky reference. One day I wish to be a witty sandstone academic with a nonchalant attitude to fashions of the day and ideals of beauty, like yourself.

Forever yours,


Thursday, May 26, 2011

Letters to Opera

Today is a sad day for students, stay-at-home mums, dole-bludgers, and generally anyone else who has grown to love tacky daytime television. Yes, it marked Oprah's last show. Maybe the rapture really is coming...

To mark this sad day, a Norweigan IT company Opera published a selection of emails they have received over the years from people complaining or opening up and telling them about their lives, mistaking them for "Oprah". I highly commend them on their efforts to assist the writers with their myriad and slightly concerning issues.

Goodbye, Oprah. And thanks for the memories.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Back to Bristits

So in quintessential “Kate Fitzpatrick” style, I ran out of money, got evicted, surprisingly didn’t loose my job, but still lost enough to have to come home to never-changing, recently-flooded Brisbane.

But I didn’t come back on ‘just any old day’. Nay, friends. I changed my entire travel plans to arrive on a certain special person’s 15th birthday and jump out of a suitcase to surprise them, not telling any of my dear close friends that I was returning in order to keep the surprise a secret. Brilliant idea right? Unfoilable. Ingenius. I should work in government. Until I jumped out of the suitcase, blasting my vuvuzela, shrieking my return to the far corners of Manly West, to a less than impressive audience. The birthday boy, as it turns out, had just fallen off the jetty and needed medical assistance, rather than 3000 decibels of racket boring into his skull and destroying what few brain cells remain.

But after medical assistance, things went back to normal and I’ve pretty much adopted the same routine as I had before, from poaching two eggs on toast 9:30am every morning to seeing the same regulars on the waterfront running each evening.

Still the same old leagsie

Harry, you could have your own gorgeous middle class brunette Kate...
More silly cakes....

After much deliberation about uni – was so confused I even went to two universities for a couple of weeks until I made a decision – I’ve decided to do the exact same thing as I was before. I’ve also got another job at another pub. Surprisingly, it’s lasted more than a month. PB!!

I’m also interning at an ad agency at West End which is such fun/good experience. So between all that, zumba, personal training, pretending to be a masterchef apprentice, and being a regular at a pub 40 minutes away from me, I’ve hardly had time to scratch myself.

One of my masterpieces for the internship.

So although it's nice to be back amongst fresh linen and 2ply toilet paper, I do miss Camden's crazy pubs and living in poverty, but living in London. Still, I've got the Royal Exchange, the Royal George, the Elephant & Wheelbarrow, a Citigroup, an Oxford Street, and even a Royal Mail of my own. It's not quite the same, but it will have to do.

Saturday, January 1, 2011

bah, humbug!

Ah Christmas time. When for once a year, it is okay to eat 500g of chocolate a day, because it’s a gift, and it would be rude not to. When Londoner’s briefly drop their cold uncaring demeanours to wrangle their faces into a unnatural smile and wish each other “Merry Christmas”. When all people, regardless of their religious beliefs (or lack thereof), gather to celebrate a child that was born amongst animals over 2000 years ago and not even on the same day.

And we only do this once a year?!?!

For the first time I was not celebrating Christmas with my family in typical Shitspatrick style: home made potato salad, backyard cricket, and gifts of unwanted stationary items. Nay, I am in the country that birthed the Christmas spirit itself. My twelve days of Christmas consisted of figs, snow, blizzards, carollers, Regent Street lights, pub crawls, chocolate, Harrod’s, Sunday roasts, and the Walkabout (not typically in the Christmas custom but nevertheless worth a mention). My Christmas day itself was the best; from the moment I awoke at 2am to skype the family to when I stomached the last morsel of food my body could take before imploding at 2am, it was indeed a merry Christmas. I and the Motley Crew of assorted ex-pats I celebrated with cooked up quite a filling (and BMI tripling) TEN COURSE MEAL. I bet you’re rolling your eyes, scoffing. “Ten courses? As if!” you scorn boorishly. Many didn’t believe it could be done, but alas, friends, countrymen, romans, look and you will find the truth:

Course One: fancy pasta of some sort and eggnog

Course Two: Soup soup that tasty soup soup

Course Three: Meat pie

Course Four: Vege pie

Course Five: Mandatory turkey and green salad

Course Six: something....

Course Seven and Eight: More birds........and tequila shots

Course Nine and Ten: Trifle and chocolate pudding

Now I’ve never tried the fabled All You Can Eat Ribs and Pizzia at the humble Royal Mail Hotel, but this is as close as I’m going to get to going through what those poor customers inflicted on themselves. Cold sweats, loss of coordination, loss of ability to speak, decline in morals, increase bowel movements, weight gain, and waking up in the middle of the night screaming “No more! No more!” are just some of the results. Luckily a few days working on the chaotic Topshop Oxford Circus boxing day sales gave me an opportunity to forget my lesser worries of a huge appetite and concentrate on bigger concerns – like if I’m going to make it out alive from the pig pen of angry female shoppers each night.

I’ve also been preparing for my looming travels. I was able to get my Diptheria, Polio, Hep A, Tetanus, and something else shot courtesy of the NHS, but have to pay a whopping 90 pounds for Yellow Fever and Meningitus. And I was pleased to discover that none of them hurt half as much as the haemoglobin needle when you’re giving blood. Now that I’m evicted I’m moving out tomorrow and won’t have a proper address – not that I receive much mail anyway, but just to let you know. OH, and the other night I was lucky enough to score free tickets to Black Country Communion and The Waifs, which was AMAZING. I loved it with every fibre of my being. BCC is a rock supergroup with Jason Bonham (John Bonham's son), Glenn Hughes (Black Sabbath/Deep Purple), Derek Sherinian (just famous because) and Joe Bonomassa (Bloodline). The median age was about 65 and greying mullets and vintage leather jackets were in abundance. But it was mighty craic aaaaaaaaand iiiiiiiiii looooovvvvvveeeeeeeed ittttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt

That's all for now. x