2017/18

2017 was an exhausting year.

It was a year that found me working more hours per week than I ever thought I would. Twelve-hour days became the norm, bookended with hour long bus rides through the suburbs of London, crawling my way north over the Thames and back again, german audio courses filling my ears for the morning journey, and Alex’s voice filling them for the return trip home.

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I went in and out of a thousand patient’s homes, into apartments of squalor and into estates so grand they could have housed five families instead of the single rich elderly resident that they did. I took endless blood pressures, felt an infinity of pulses, and inserted blessedly few suppositories. Maybe around four. Not too bad, really.

It was a year that found me spending more time away from my loved ones than in any other period to date. I was away from Australia for thirteen months, and saw my partner for only three and a half days of every fortnight. I was either working or in my tiny bedroom in Tooting, where my primary activities were eating, skyping and sleeping.

It was a year where the news reports seemed determined to bend us and bow us, to convince us the world was a doomed place being run by morons and bigots. The endless stream of click-bait fed us a diet of hopelessness and negativity, and sapped already depleting reservoirs.

It was a taxing year, certainly, but don’t believe it all, because 2017 was also an exhilarating year.

It was a year that saw my brother, Damian, become engaged to his best friend, Holly. It was a year where, in an uncharacteristic display of twinliness, I also became engaged to my best friend.

My voice quavered and my hands shook, and I asked my lady a question and she gave me a lifetime of happiness by answering in the affirmative. This happiness commenced almost immediately when, at four o’clock in the morning, with both of us too juiced up with adrenaline to sleep, we sat in bed, watched TV, and ate potato chips. Perfect wife material, my friends.

It was a year that contained a visit from my parents who crossed oceans and continents to meet me, my new fiancée, and my new fiancée’s parents, in Greece. The six of us soaked in the sun and the sea of the Mediterranean, ate our body’s weight in delicious food, and shared in the excitement of the coming nuptials.

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We explored the city of Vienna, my second home, and I journeyed with my parents across the United Kingdom. My previously isolated existence was suddenly occupied, and places and streets and homes that had been segregated from my former life became infused with the flavour of family. Those lonely locations in London now carried memories of Mum and Dad, causing the loneliness to have a harder time taking hold.

The year contained adventuring as the three of us road-tripped, dipping into the wildness of the Scottish highlands and tracking the coastline of Northern Ireland. We explored the isle of Skye, trekking on foot into the beauty and fierceness of the land, standing at the crest of the Old Man of Storr and whooping into the wind that tried to uproot us from the rocky soil.

 

It was a year where I shared texts and photos and videos with my older brother, Matthew, and spoke to my sister, Angela, through computers and phones, and realised I wasn’t as cut off as I imagined myself to be.

It was an exhausting year, and an exhilarating one, and one that helped highlight the significance of each of these attributes. Because although the adventuring was eye-opening and inspiring, and it was for the adventuring that I originally stepped out of my house in Ardeer and trotted off to Europe, it was the more subdued moments that really made my year worthwhile.

It was weekends with Alex, chatting over coffee or making meals together, or doing nothing at all but sitting on the couch and watching TV, that made the hours of work slip from my shoulders.

It was sitting with Mum and Dad in an irish pub or an Airbnb kitchen and having a beer or a cup of tea, and talking as if the miles that had previously separated us and the months spent physically apart were a brief nuisance already evaporating from our memories.

It was seeing my family’s faces in my laptop and mobile, and laughing like we always do until I could have sworn they were in the room with me, our conversation creating a temporary bubble where the laws of time and space were suspended, that punctured my isolation and deflated it.

It was all these interactions, these small and intimate moments amongst the labour of work and the highs of adventuring, that made the external stressors of the rest of the world that usually hammered at my attention become nothing more than the sound of rain falling somewhere outside while I was tucked up warm indoors.

2017 exhausted me, but it also exhilarated me to learn that what I really want from my life is these quieter moments, moments with Alex, conversations with my siblings, tea with my parents. Because while the adventuring is great, and standing on a mountain in Scotland laughing and screaming into the wind will have your adrenaline racing, it’s the getting warm and dry at the bottom with someone you love that gives it significance.

So bring on 2018, a year where I will marry the woman I love and build a life with her. A year where, by the end of it, I will no longer be torn between two cities, but will finally have a home in Vienna. A year where I’ll celebrate two weddings with my family, and see my brother marry his best friend.

A year where I’ll work less, and probably adventure less, but instead make time for the quiet moments that make both things worthwhile.

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DIGITAL MEDIA SAID YES

Once again I am reaching out after a period of long silence, and once again I can only plead sheer exhaustion and lack of available time as my excuse. My ten day working week has continued, sometimes stretching out to a fourteen day working week, and once (and only once as I learnt it was a very bad idea) into a twenty-one day working week.

But, ladies and gentleman, I am now an engaged man, and have a wedding to pay for.

That is correct, since we spoke (or since last I wrote and you read) I have procured myself a fiancé. I dropped to one knee, offered up a ring, and she deemed my offering acceptable and agreed to sticking around for the rest of my life. I am now a very happy man.

But that is a whole other blog. Or, in reality, a whole other novel. Despite neglecting this blog and you dear readers like kids now neglect the fidget-spinners they desperately needed six months ago, I have not been idle. In fact, I wrote a book. It was with this (along with said ring) that secured me a future wife.

The book detailed the rather exotic and epic journey my relationship with Alex has been on over the past four and a half years, beginning in Vietnam, over to Austria, interweaving through various European countries, to Australia and the hoard of family and friends Alex met, and finishing up in Greece, where I read Alex the last page of the story, finishing with the line, “Alexandra, will you marry me?” whereupon she said yes.

She didn’t really have a choice, I’d written her a book after all. (Note to any prospective proposers: Trap your partner with an act so kind they’d look terrible to refuse. Guaranteed future happiness).

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(Book Cover: Designed by yours truly)

In addition to that book, I’ve also written a novella, which has gone through its alpha reader, Damian, and beta readers, Holly, Matt, and Alex, and is now almost ready for the public. I’m hoping to submit it to a publisher in the long-term, but more on that when it eventuates.

Because now we’ve reached the crux of this blog, and the reason I have revived, yet again, this faithful dog of a blog: I’ve also written another article. I metaphorically got down on one knee to the American Journal of Nursing and offering up a ring of my words, and they said yes. The article was published yesterday, not in their physical magazine as with my previous articles, but on their blog, which can be found here for your reading pleasure: https://ajnoffthecharts.com/unusual-privilege-patients-memorable-grace/

Thanks to all for reading, for also accepting my ring of words, you’re all fiancés to me. But just so we’re all clear, Alex is the actual fiance. That could have gotten messy.

More (hopefully) soon.

ALIVE AND WRITING, I SWEAR

Readers of this blog (if there are any left post my period of neglect) would have noted my long absence. This is not because London has swallowed me whole and I am lost wandering the tunnels of the Underground. Nor is it because I have given up writing and all modern forms of communication, and am now blogging solely through the art of cave drawings. (Although if I was lost in the tunnels of the Underground, this would be a great way to pass the time).

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(Proof I am alive and petting random wild animals)

Life has been busy. After an inexplicable pay decrease (thank you England, and the way you look after your nurses), I decided to increase my work hours to compensate. London is a greedy bitch and rent isn’t cheap, nor is flying to Vienna each fortnight, and so, given I was only clinging on financially by my fingernails, I needed to increase my income.

Luckily for me, working as an agency nurse, this option exists for me. I pick and choose the days I work, and previously I had used this to my advantage to have four-day weeks and long weekends. But it also goes the other way, and so my working weeks suddenly got a lot longer as I commenced working ten-day stretches, then heading to Vienna for four days. Technically, this is simply full-time work, ten days in a fortnight with my two weekends bunched at the end. But let me tell you, working all days back-to-back, it feels like a lot more.

Added to this is that I started a new line of work where I act as a sort-of community emergency nurse. Patients are recognised as deteriorating by their GPs and we are called in to do a full assessment and commence a plethora of interventions and tests to try and improve their worsening condition and avoid a hospital admission. This work is interesting and satisfying as you can see almost immediately the effect you have on a patient. The only downside (or upside given my desire to get some of that sweet, sweet green) is that the shifts are twelve hours long. My working week just got that little bit longer.

In the last ten-day stretch I managed to work one hundred hours. This is coupled with hour long bus rides at either end of my shift to get to and from work, and the sheer physical toll of walking through the streets of London, and I have little time or energy left for blog entry writing.

The brief time I do have left I spend with my beautiful girlfriend, recuperating under her administrations in Vienna, or trying to cram the German language into my head. Mein Deutsch wird immer besser, aber es gibt immer mehr zu lernen.

But, as stated, this does not mean I have stopped writing, which brings me to the reason for resurrecting this platform and reaching out to you, dear reader.

Just this month a reflective article of mine was published in the most recent edition of the American Journal of Nursing. It details the experience I had of verifying the death of a patient, and what actually goes into this process.

 

You can find it here and download a pdf version for free: Verification.36

Or if you’re super keen and want to part with some of your own sweet, sweet green, you can buy the whole journal here: http://journals.lww.com/ajnonline/Pages/currenttoc.aspx

 

Thanks for reading, and sticking with me through the long silences and random german sentences. That is true friendship.

P-DAY II

Years ago I wrote a post titled “P-Day” celebrating the face that I had been published for the first time (The P stands for published. Clever, right?). A short story of mine had been published in an Australian science-fiction and fantasy magazine, and I was pretty ecstatic about it. Someone had given me money just for writing some words down. And I like writing words down, it’s something I do even when I’m not getting paid for it.

At the time, the story was literally the first one I had ever submitted to a magazine. I had typed away during my off hours working as a nurse in my graduate year, and once it was done, I decided to try to get it published. First story sent off, and three months later they got back to me saying that they wanted to publish it. I thought this was pretty fantastic, that getting published wasn’t all that hard, and so after writing my cleverly titled post, I already anticipated the joy of writing the next post sharing with the world that another piece of writing had been published.

That day is today.

My first story was published four years ago.

In the intervening years I have submitted a plethora of stories to a plethora of magazines, and now have a plethora of rejection letters (I read through them when I’m in need of a good cry). It turns out that first one had been a fluke, and my presumption that published stories would come thick and fast was entirely incorrect.

Recently, I wrote a piece about the protection needed to work in the medical field, the process I had undergone in order to still function in an environment where you deal with sickness, disappointment, depression, and death. I thought it might be relevant enough to other nurses, and to really anyone who deals with stress in their job, and so submitted it to the American Journal of Nursing.

Four months ago they told me they wanted to publish it. A week ago they did just that.

If you’re interesting in reading it, you can find a link to the website here.

As the writer, I received a physical copy for free (swish), and am luxuriating in the first printed version of something I wrote (the first publication was an e-magazine, and so I never had the tactile pleasure of holding it in my hands. Or holding it tightly to my chest while I sleep. Leave me alone, I’m excited).

It took four years, and a lot of rejection, and even more persistence, but I am glad to finally share this post with you.

Thanks for sticking with me.

THE AUSTRALIAN GOOD-WILL MISSION – PART 2

Alex’s birthday took place in April, and I had been determined to give her a memorable gift. During my initial visit to Vienna, but far enough in that all the feelings had started to bud where Alex was concerned, Alex had mentioned that for her previous birthday her work colleagues had given her a huge helium balloon. The glee in her face indicated to me that balloon + Alex = happy, and I therefore decided to give her the biggest balloon anyone had ever given her.

This I accomplished in the form of a hot-air balloon ride.

Well, truth-be-told, this I accomplished in the much less climatic gift of a home-made voucher for a hot-air ballon ride. Part of the gift was that she could choose the location of the flight, and given that we frequently moved between London and Vienna, with the odd side trip to Greece and Prague, she had her choice of location. At the time of said gift-giving, we had already begun preparations for our Australian sojourn, and so she decided to vote for the city that had helped shaped the person she loved (me).

We both agreed that, given the fickle nature of Melbourne weather, we’d try and take the hot-air balloon ride as soon as possible to avoid the risk of missing out altogether, and so in the week leading up to our departure, I went about finalising the date of the flight. We landed on the Saturday and thought we should have recovered enough from the day-long ordeal by Monday in order to take to the air again.

Unfortunately, the day before leaving for the airport, the coordinators of the flight informed me that the weather for Monday didn’t look good, and that, in fact, the weather for the rest of the week wasn’t looking good either. There was one ray of sunlight, however (metaphorically and literally):  Sunday was clear. Even though we knew we’d be exhausted from our hemispherical commute, we thought fuck it, and booked it in.

So, after touching down at five pm Saturday, jet-lagged and generally fatigued from the energy it takes to cram yourself into airline chairs for twenty-three hours, we woke up at four am Sunday and drove into the fine city of Melbourne to see it from the air.

This was Alex’s first taste of Melbourne, and was rather anti-climatic given the sun was not yet up  and we were we just driving through dimly-lit suburbia. She was polite enough however to ohh and ahh as I pointed out landmarks from my life despite the fact that most of it couldn’t be seen at this time in the morning.

We wove into the heart of the CBD, parked, and walked the final stretch down Flinders Lane to the Grand Hyatt, the meeting point. There we met some of our fellow aviators, a young couple from Sydney, the male of the pair being kind enough to ask if we’d heard about the hot-air balloon crash that morning in Florida. Tactful. It kind of killed the conversation.

Once all had gathered, we were loaded into a van and driven to our take-off site — the park behind the Royal Children’s Hospital. We all assisted in dismounting the balloon and basket from the trailer and unrolling the expanse of nylon that was going to pull us up and above the city. The pilot set up a giant fan and directed air into the material, and quickly followed it with what we’d all come to see: fire.

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This was literally the combination of ingredients that would levitate us into the sky — air and fire — proving that the hot-air balloon truly lives up to its name.

The limp and flaccid stretch of nylon slowly engorged with air and fire, and eventually rose to stiff attention above us to blot out the sky. (If you found an erection metaphor in that previous sentence then that was your doing, not mine. I was just describing the process of inflating a balloon. Shame on you.)

We all piled into the basket, that, while big, felt cramped with the ten of us squeezed in to create the smallest mosh pit ever. The pilot also boarded, released a few eruptions of flame up into the cavernous balloon, and after a few bumps along the grass, the impossible happened and we floated off the ground.

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The first two minutes involved clinging as tightly to the basket edges as my fingers would allow, and trying desperately to keep every muscle in my body perfectly still and balanced in case any movement tipped the basket and had us all tumbling out. My brain avidly pointed out that the ground was going away, and that we liked the ground, and that maybe that was a safer place to be than suspended in wicker underneath gouts of fire and a thin nylon sheet.

Alex was a pro. Despite the near-panic attack induced by looking at photos on the company’s website a month earlier, she calmly pivoted around, capturing the miracle of drifting from the ground and lazily weaving between the tips of skyscrapers. A few “Oh boy!”s were whispered through pursed lips, and the odd chuckle tinged with just the tiniest hit of mania slipped out, but otherwise she was totally calm.

After five minutes of my brain alerting me again and again that the ground had gone, the lack of any actual harm and the apparent lack of threat despite the unusual location we found ourselves in soothed the flight-or-fight in me enough to for it to curl up in the back of my skull and enjoy the view.

And what a view. We headed straight over the heart of the city, and Melbourne was laid out like the most detailed of maps, complete with toy-trains shooting out across tiny rails, minute figures of people strolling the pencil thin footpaths, and the building stretching up to meet us, suspended there above it all. If you are impressed by the satellite feature on google maps, just know you haven’t seen anything yet.

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Eventually the fear disappeared so completely that we leaned over the basket’s edges, looking down on the patchwork of homes, pools, and footballs ovals that made up the suburbia as we drifted away from the city, taking the winds blowing South-East. Someone made the comment that we were lucky to have such a smooth flight, and the pilot remarked that all flights were smooth. We were never stationary, and so never offered resistance to the breeze, and we had no form of propellent of our own to drive us through the air currents and cause turbulence. We were a feather caught in the breeze, a leaf drifting down a river, and being part of the movement made it feel as if we were still while the world scrolled below us. It turns out there’s some perks to going with the flow — there’s probably a lesson in there somewhere.

Eventually we made our way to the Moorabbin airport where, upon descending, out pilot calmly informed us that we were going fast enough that our basket would tip on landing. We absorbed his words, fought down a bubble of panic, and giggled nervously, because what else do you do when someone tells you your hot-air balloon would crash land.

It turns out this is a rather normal occurrence and we adopted the brace position we had been taught, bending our knees and sandwiching ourselves between stands of wicker. The edge of the basket kissed the ground, trundled along for a while, then the whole thing slowly and elegantly tipped until we settled on our backs in the grass. It was nice to lay there next to Alex, grass blades tickling my cheek, safely back on solid ground. The strangers crammed around us I could have done without.

Euphoric from the spectacle we had just partaken in, we helped pack away the balloon, now once again shrivelled and flaccid, its work done for the day and all air ejaculated from its insides (keep it clean, people). We were then driven back to the Grand Hyatt, given glasses of sparkling wine as is customary, and gorged ourselves on the lavish buffet breakfast offered by the hotel.

As we retraced out steps down Flinders Land and back to the car, walking through the city that only an hour before we had floated above,we were greeted with one last sight. Alex, being without her glasses, squinted as we approached the edge of a street, emerging out of buildings to a small park on the opposite street, and asked, “What kind of dog is that?”

It was a ram. In Melbourne. Just chewing grass beside the skyscrapers.

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The worst part was nobody else was acting like it was a weird thing. I could envision Alex’s phone call back home, her family asking her impression of Melbourne and her response, “It’s nice and all, but they just have livestock roaming through the streets.”

I tried to assure her this was completely unusual, and she seemed convinced. Mostly.

So the birthday gift, and Alex’s first experience of Melbourne, had been a success, and we’d only be in the country for nineteen hours.

Luckily, there was plenty more to come.

JOURNAL EXTRACT #12 (A.K.A THE AUSTRALIAN GOOD-WILL MISSION – PART 1)

I am sitting alone in my London living room, feet sore from a long day of nursing on the streets of Westminster, stomach full of spicy pumpkin soup, and deciding it is long overdue that I wrote another blog entry. My time has been rather absorbed recently with my efforts at learning the German language, visiting my girlfriend in Vienna, and working to fund these two things. But I did take a break from this lifestyle to board another plane and skip across the planet, so it seems only fitting that I add another entry to my travel journal. The trip in question: A return to Australia. Only this time, I didn’t go alone.

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My most recent exploration was one back into my old life, and was prompted by my girlfriend, Alex, who suggested that rather than sun her summer away, relaxing by the absurdly white beaches and blue oceans of the Greek Islands as is her tradition (a perk of living in Austria), we head to the southern continent so that she could meet my family. Not only did she trade a European summer for an Australian winter (and I know what any Europeans reading this are thinking: “An Australian winter. How cute. It might get so cold you need a light jacket.” But screw your condescending tone, it gets cold, damn it!), she also gave up two weeks of perfect idleness so that she could rush around and do the Robb tour. Given that my dad is one of nine children, and that he and his eight siblings are ferocious breeders and averaged at least three offspring a piece, and often more, and that those children and now off making people of their own, it’s a pretty damn big tour. On top of all that, this was also her only break from her own strenuous routine of juggling work and a master’s degree.

If that isn’t true love, I don’t know what is.

Almost exactly a year ago, I headed to Vienna for the first time and caught up with my then-platonic friend Alex who gave me an amazing two-week tour of all that Vienna had to offer, drowning me in delectable foods, sights, and the pleasure of her company. These two weeks went incredibly well, and not just because I won a girlfriend out of it (although that didn’t hurt). She showed me the beauty of her home, and the pride she had in the city she’d grown up in. And here we were, twelve months later heading to my home, and I was desperate to return the favour.

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After months of planning, which mostly involved alerting my family that we’d be visiting, purchasing plane tickets, and then just sitting around getting excited about the whole thing (there’s definitely perks to still having a bedroom in your brother’s house filled with all your crap: instant accommodation), we boarded a plane and begun the twenty-three hour journey to Australia. Alex and  I were probably more excited about the prospect of spending a day cramped inside a metal tube thundering across the lower atmosphere than the average traveller. This was because, despite the fact that our relationship is largely composed of hopping on planes every few weeks to see each other, we had never actually flown together. We were like giddy school kids going away to camp, savouring every aspect of this novel experience. To further reinforce this image, let me confess that we packed plane snacks and travel scrabble. We were ready to tear it up.

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The first five hours went quickly, both of us high on the fact that, rather than the lucky-dip of people we normally sat next to, some with questionable hygiene habits and the impressive ability to encroach on personal space, we were able to enjoy having our favourite person in the chair beside us.

This euphoria dampened slightly when we landed in Doha, and the budding flu that had been invading Alex’s sinuses burst into full form, leaving her feeling drained. We purchased drugs at the airport pharmacy, and I was happy to note that the cold and flu tablets in the United Emirates were full of the good stuff. I told Alex they should dry her up, but that they might also make her a little drowsy. I was not wrong.

By the time we boarded the second and final plane bound for Melbourne, Alex was struggling to keep her eyes open, commenting in an adorably drowsy and mildly anxious voice that her legs felt weird. Once we were up in the air, she groggily commented that her hands felt squishy, concerned that she was unable to make a fist despite the fact that her fingers were curling in and out of fists as she spoke. I reassured her that it was normal, just the medication kicking in, and my soothing nurse-voice must have done the trick because approximately twenty-two seconds later she was deeply asleep. She didn’t wake again for the next eight hours. Thank you United Emirates for your excellent cold and flu drugs.

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We landed in Tullamarine Airport at five pm to be greeted by the majority of my immediate family, my mum and dad, my sister, Angela, and my twin brother, Damian and his girlfriend/my close friend, Holly. The only exception was my brother and sister-in-law, who were taking a well-earned family trip away with their two children. They sent us all pictures of their children being adorable while exploring beautiful bushland, and so were forgiven for this oversight.

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It was more than a little surreal to drive home, to my Australian home, in the back of my brother’s car, catching up with Damo and Holly while familiar streets flicked by, with Alex beside me. My relationship with her had taken place solely in Europe, and except for fleeting encounters with Damo and Holly, my Australian life and my European life had had little crossover, at least in the physical sense (Skype meant that the people who immediately swamped Alex in an avalanche of hugs upon landing were not complete strangers).

The sensation was only further reinforced once we returned to the always-homey Brunswick and I sat in a living room I’ve sat in countless times before with the gang, enjoying a meal of pulled-pork Holly had lovingly prepared. I looked around and saw Alex chatting comfortably with my parents and sister, chowing down on Twisties and agreeing with my mother that they were indeed a delicious chip, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

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(Photo credit: Susanne Robb a.k.a Mum a.k.a The nominated family paparazzi)

This dual-life vision made me supremely happy as the two halves of my world came into focus. I was sitting in a home with my favourite people around me, eating good food, and not having to achieve this combination through the compromise of Skype.

The trip to my old life was off to a good start.

LIFE IN LONDON #08

Shortly after moving to London, two friends of mine from the deep South-East (a.k.a Gippsland), also made the move to the cloudy city. When we lived in Australia, the three of us would routinely catch up and swap stories over dinner, and we saw no reason to change that habit now we had relocated in England. These friends happen to read my blog and subtly suggested that, given they were part of my life in London, they get a mention in a post. Over the weeks, this suggestion changed from soft promptings to an aggressive:

“So, I noticed we’re still not in the blog. What’s up with what?”

Their charming tact worked its magic and what follows in an extract from one of our exploits.

Quick aside: The two friends in question are Jess, who I recently learned stands at a little less than five feet, and Jen, who stands at a little more than five feet. Their height is in no way relevant, I just wanted to share how short Jess is.

After moving to London, Jess and Jen decided they were going to get the most out of their time overseas and downloaded an app called yplan that offers a random collection of things to do in the city (yplan = why plan? I know, the cleverness of the name wowed me too). They set up a system where each weekend one of them would scour yplan for an activity than ran for less than £20 a head, and as long as it fell below this price, they could go ahead and book it in for the both of them. This is how they discovered ice-hockey.

They knew nothing about the game, were not particularly fanatical about sports in general, but figured for less than £20, it could be a laugh.

They now love it. They went to almost every game for the rest of the season. They love it to the point that, when describing them to other friends, the first thing I say is, “They’re huge ice-hockey fans.”

Stunned by the passion with which they spoke about the game, I had to see what the fuss was about, so the three of us bused it out to Stratford for my first ice-hockey experience. I was not disappointed.

After making our way into the rink, we were met by two ladies sitting at a table and very officially were awarded wrist bands, proving we were paying supporters of the London Raiders. The London Raiders were Jess and Jen’s favourite team. They bleed blue and yellow, and after five minutes of watching the boys out on the ice, I did too.

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In addition to the very official wrist bands, we were also given a photocopy of the rules of the game, which I immediately digested (mentally, not physically), as, beyond knowing that the puck goes in the net, I had no real knowledge of the game’s particulars. Watching the Mighty Ducks film franchise can only get you so far, and I have a feeling that that rag-tag bunch of underdogs bent the rules on more than one occasion. (Despite all my reading, I found no mention of the famous “Hucklepuck” move as seen in D2: The Mighty Ducks.)

The photocopy of the rules was full of useful information such as the description of the puck being “a 3” disc of rubber which is kept below 0°C and is very hard!” and the warning to “keep an eye out for it because it can hurt if it hits you!” Beyond an over-enthusiasm for exclamation points, the writer of the piece was obviously very fond of pointing out the obvious.

The three of us made our way to the front row in the London Raiders fan club, obviously, because we are such huge fans, and we were soon joined by said fans. It was great to get some local colour, and one father of two quickly made himself known by spitting insults at the competition who were warming up on the ice. His allegiance to the London Raiders was inspirational.

The players disappeared from the ice and I felt a spiral of excitement unfurl in my gut as I realised the game was soon to start. There was commotion at one end of the rink, a gate opened, and I felt my pulse race. Then a giant machine trundled out and slowly and methodically drove over every inch of the ice. I learnt the vehicle was an ice-sweeper designed the clean the ice before each game. I also learnt that the machine moves at about 1km/hr and that the driver was very fastidious about his work.

They certainly know how to build the tension.

Finally, the moment came, and the players once again poured out onto the, now perfectly polished, ice. They lined up and were called out by name one-by-one so we could applaud those who would entertain us for the next hour. The father behind me went with a different tack and each time the announcer called out a player from the opposition, he gave a little “boo!”

Every. Time.

“Brandon Michaels.”

“Boo!”

“George William.”

“Boo!”

He was an excellent role model for his little boy and girl.

Game played started, there was the clack of hockey sticks, the swish of skates through ice, and the ping of the puck as it ricocheted off walls, poles, and helmets. The London Raiders burst into action, spreading out in formation, and, wow, let me tell you…they sucked. No, seriously, the other team was substantially better — the Raiders didn’t know what they were doing out there.

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But the poorness of the play didn’t reduce the enjoyment of the game, nor, judging by my favourite spectator’s comments, the ardour of the fans. Father-of-the-year had witty remarks such as:

“Hey, number 23, you wear your mother’s panties!”

And one time, when the opposition scored, just the simple and elegant:

“Knobhead!”

This explosion of emotion was followed about five minutes later by his five-year old daughter jumping up and down and our-favourite-fan turning to her and in all earnestness saying:

“You need to calm down. Hey, look at me. You need to calm down.”

He clearly led by example.

The timer counted down and before I knew it the siren blared, and my first hockey game had come to an end. Despite the Raiders’ rocky start, the final score was still a nail-biting…9 to 2. The Raiders had confidently lost.

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The three of us made our way from the rink with the crowd of departing spectators, and I had to admit to the girls that I could see now why they had fallen for the sport. The chill of the ice counted by the heat of the adrenaline, the thudding of players as they crushed each other against the rink walls, and the charm of the fans. And of course, the player’s children out on the ice, decked out in full gear. Did I not mention that? Oh man, it was fricken adorable.

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We left the light and glamour of the arena and into the dark and cold of a London night, crossing the road to wait at a bus-stop with a collection of other fans. But just when I thought the spectacle was over, I got one last little slice of entertainment as an intoxicated girl of around twenty-four scuttled into the trees running along side the road, and squatted to take a piss.

We had literally just let a place with toilets. We were standing about twenty meters from it. She could have easily headed back inside. Charming.

But in all seriousness, I had a brilliant time, and greatly enjoyed watching the game. If you’re in London and have a chance of catching the mighty London Raiders in action, I’d highly recommend it. Thanks, Jen and Jess, for sharing your world with me. This post’s for you.