fourth floor feminism | sociable speculation

A friend reckons I am one of the scary people on the Tube. I like to watch people, to try and plumb the depth of their character by observing the minute of their faces and bodies as they wait in the introverted suspended animation that the Tube requires of you. This friend tells me that when I watch people I get an intense look on my face that reminds her of a Dali painting that she once saw. When she imitates my look, she looks crazy, and I hope she is exaggerating because I do not want to make my fascinating subjects uncomfortable as they entertain me on my journey through the bowels of London, swerving around plague pits and hurtling past deserted stations. To Her Door One of the most haunting passengers of my travels got on at Morden with me with a large polystyrene box, carefully taped, something that you would transport a fragile object in. He sat in the corner of the carriage, his entire being concentrated completely on the box in his lap. The importance of this container w

Since I started travelling, I have begun to treasure the more unusual of Australian national traits, including our unique outlook on defeat. The fact that tens of thousands of young Australians travel to ANZAC Cove each year to commemorate months of slaughter ending in inevitable defeat is indicative of our appreciation for hard work, whether it ends in wealth or death. Young Australians travel to the Gallipoli Peninsula in tour groups, spend almost 24 hours on the site visiting memorials, waiting for the Dawn Service and standing on the soil that birthed the Australian sense of country and identity. Yet we are people of life and spirit, who work hard and try to empathise with others, in a place of sorrow and death, created by incompetence and intolerance. My first trip to ANZAC Cove was made in the company of the victors of those hideous killing fields - the Turks. A friend of mine with ties to the young people of the Turkish town of Gelibulu, after which the Gallipoli Peninsula is

The BBC Proms is the biggest musical festival in Britain. It was started by Queen Victoria, and the Last Night at the Proms, broadcast live and screened in parks around London, is an event that allows the British to really display their national pride. I decided to go and see the Lincoln Centre Jazz Orchestra this year, the only non-classical performance in the programme. Four pound standing room only tickets go on sale before the start of the concert and Lizzie and I lined up for three hours for our tickets. Thankfully the night was gorgeous – clear, warm and balmy – perfect conditions for perching on stone steps for hours keeping an eagle eye out for queue jumpers. Even better was that we were right by the huge BMW people mover with tinted windows when it disgorged the orchestra itself - the American jazz musicians alighted, grinned at the crowd, eyed a few girls and sauntered into the Hall. We had lined up for the Gallery, the very top tier of the Royal Albert Hall, and we sat on th