Back from Outer Space

Forgive me bloggers, for I have sinned, it's been almost a year since my last confession.

Just doing a quick skim over my previous posts I'm amazed by how much has changed since I first blogged.

Just some quick updates.

I'm back in Australia, living in Newcastle, but mainly working in Sydney.

Is this full circle-ish or what? Or is that my guiding angels are just very environmentally conscious and I've been recycled? Perhaps somewhere in the very distant past, one of my ancesters was a homing pidgeon?

The weird thing this time is that I want to stay.

Or maybe not so weird.

Being in Qatar was an amazing experience. A full on, non stop, gravity defying experience, which I find now, I can hardly recall. It doesn't even seem real, more like a saw a postcard, than actually lived and worked there for 12 weeks.

But being there and then on to London for five weeks, I found myself continually thinking of my family. How much they meant to me. How much I missed them. And one day, wandering the streets of Paris, I just decided to come home. Just like that.

So now I have some stories to tell of adventures in ol' blighty and my little tripette to Paris. They'll come later.

But just now, I'm back....from outer space...

One night in Doha

Automatic gunfire, swooping helicopters and multivoiced screaming shattered the calm. It may have seemed dire, but the occasional orchestral hit with full reverb punctuated the cacophony.

It was this god awful noise that drew my attention as I was innocently shopping at the supermarket nearest to my compound.

On an elevated stage, above the heads of the audience and just inside and opposite the main doors was a clown and a chicken. Now, I've always thought clowns as being slightly sinister and this was even before I saw poltergeist, but this clown was truely creepy. I guess it was the cheerful expression indelibly molded to its plastic face while waving gaily at the kiddies to a sound track of death and mayhem. His friend, the chichken, seemed a little uncertain, standing off to one side, holding onto a microphone, with what looked liked grim determination. I suppose I could be mistaken as to what the chickhen was feeling, but the firm grip on the mike and the occasional swaying didn't seem to telegraph joy and hilarity. He was cute though, that chickhen.

The sound swelled, lights began stobbing and a smoke machine puffed little grey clouds of sweet smelling smoke. Something was imminent. An arrival. Who could it be?

Fast forward ten minutes. Automatic gunfire, swooping helicopters and multivoiced screaming, the occasional orchestral hit with full reverb and a clown and a chicken. Somehow the audience was still captive to the dynamic duo, and then finally and without warning, he appeared.

Michael Jackson.

Well, a very small, filipino version of Wacko Jacko, who then proceeded to dance though a remix compliation of his greatest hits. I'm not sure if the clown appreciated the appearance of such a megastar, he was determined not to share the limelight and insisted on waving to as many children as possible, his gestures becoming more exaggerated. Chickhen didn't want to offend his friend, Mr Clown, but couldn't help himself and was caught out occasionally bopping to the beat. He'd stop if Mr clown turned in his direction. He was a good chickhen and never let go of that mike once, not even when Mr Jackson wanted a go.

Then it was time for the quick change, which was heralded by Wacko Jacko throwing off his luxuriously studded jacket and ducking behind the black curtains. Mr Clown and Chickhen were then joined by a new friend. A large man in black commando gear wearing a deaths skull mask. The trio then waved, gaily, in unison at the gathered crowd.

Mr Commando Death Head then took his leave and Michael returned to rapturous applause (recorded of course). He recommenced his moonwalking, although I couldn't help but notice he was wearing exactly the same costume as before. And as sudden as his appearance,it was over. Wacko Jacko and Mr Clown left the stage.

And then there was Chickhen, all on his lonesome still glued to that microphone.

For some reason that performance sums up my experience in Qatar. Perplexing, amusing but mostly incomprehensible.

It was like seeing in a perfume souk male fragrances with the names, 'Love Scent','Deep In Men','Rupture' and 'Pain'. I was shopping that day with two other gay men from the crew and we all pissed ourselves laughing. It was literally one of those moments when everyone looks at each other, does a double take and all start laughing at once. The poor shop owner had no idea and probably thought we were just mad westerners. There was no disrespect intended, we just couldn't help ourselves.

Other odd moments I remember. Seeing women in abayas (full length black dress), hijab (head scarfs) and boqnoq (veil) shopping for g-strings and french lingerie in the same local supermarket later to be frequented by Michael Jackson and friends.

Watching the local young men doing bog laps in another supermarket carpark, in Ferraris, Lambourginis, Hummers, Rollers and sundry other vehicles more expensive then most houses.

And then there was the dust. The ever present dust. It clung to everthing. It was like that mysterious blue lint that you find in your navel when you go to bed at night. In Doha, there was still blue lint, but also a very fine pale beige dust.

Ah yes, beige. I was beginning to wonder if the inhabitants of Qatar were like the eskimo and had eighty words for beige. I've never seen so many variations of the same colour. Even the sky was a shade of beige.

But there were many wonders as well. I never tired of watching the landscape roll pass the windows on the morning bus trip to work. Each trip I'd spot something new. I loved the varied minarets of the many mosques, the tall slender towers always sorting themselves against the sky as the bus flew down the highway. And the call to prayer.

In my final hours in Doha, while waiting for the shuttle to the airport at 4.00am, the first call to prayer for the day unfurled. It was magical. The city was still and quiet and then one melodious heartfelt voice called into the morning, and it heralded a gentle rainfall of exqusite sound. A fluttering leaf light of many voices singing out from their lonely towers. Overlapping waves of beauty subtle in the dark fading, fading until one lone call, one last musical syllable, then the still morning again.

And the people. I've never experienced such hospitality or open friendliness as in Qatar. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to stop and have a chat. And the kids. On one hot evening I found a local swimming pool and went for a swim. I was mobbed by the local kids who wanted to know who I was, where I was from and why I could swim so well. I was startled by how unafraid of strangers these kids were, and somewhat unsettled by their instant affection. But it made me think. My nephews and nieces at home aren't like this. What is it about this place, that children have the confidence to talk to complete strangers and trust them? These people aren't naive. In Doha, I never once felt unsafe. I've never felt that anywhere before.

I think of all the things I'll remember most, it will be the people. That and the chickhen.

Finally having a chance to catch up with my emails, I checked my blog to realise that I hadn't posted in ages.

Doha, Qatar. Today is eleven weeks to the day since I arrived.

I've been working on the Opening and CLosing Ceremonies of the 15th Asian Games. In the costume department. And I've never worked so hard, under such gruelling circumstances in my life!

I sent an sms to a friend a few weeks ago explaining that I was taking notes, for Doha is place of many odd (from a westerners point of view) contrasts.

Too numerous to mention at this point. And I hope to get back to this when I have more time (taking a few minutes to hurriedly type this!)

Tomorrow night is the closing. And on Monday the 18th I fly to London.

And I just can't wait to leave.

The Power of Three

Think of three animals.


Now think of what you like about them.


For this exercise I responded thus:

A cat, because I like their independence.

A capabora (which I've spelt completely wrong and is a species of giant, semiaquatic, South American guinea pig), because it's weird.

A dolphin, because dolphins are joyful and exuberant.











The first animal is what you think of yourself.

The second is what others think of you.

And the third is who you are truely.



This was yet another silly game we were playing at work. I was quite pleased with the outcome though.


The game playing has sadly come to end. There are now only seven people, including myself, left in the whole building, whereas a few short weeks ago there were over two hundred. And tomorrow is my last day.

Next week I fly to Doha, Qatar and start working twelve hours a day, six days a week for the next eleven weeks.

It's going to be gruelling. It's going to be an adventure. And it's going to be great!

But wait there's more!

Last week my application for an Ancestry Visa to the UK was approved.

So after Qatar I'm moving to London. Maybe with a little stop in Paris.

You know, even after a frantic weekend yum cha-ing with friends, dining with other friends, shopping for travel acessories, returning travel acessories, and trying to find clothes that work in both 50 degree heat and freezing temperatures, I still cannot believe I'm going.


So as we've taken to saying at work when yet another chum departs for the Middle East - see you in the desert!

Security Blanket

It was a pastel tarten number, all soft baby blue, pink and yellow and cream. When I was anxious, I would rub the scratchy felted material against my top lip. The tickling was mildly erotic and very soothing. This was my security blanket and I loved it more than my teddy bear and cried and cried when my mother took it from me at four.

Many topics of conversation ebb and flow amongst my co-workers. The other day babies and in particular baby names were on the agenda. I can't remember who started this thread, but I joined in wholeheartedly, asking questions like, what names do you like? etc. It's a topic that I enjoy, having six nieces and five nephews, I've been surrounded by children all my adult life. Also very recently a dear friend gave birth to a beautiful boy that I held in my arms (rather nervously!) for the first time yesterday.

On this day, one of the other conversationalist, a kindly and very talented woman, a mother of an eighteen month old boy, leaned across to me and whispered "Perhaps, you should stop talking about this as there are people for which this topic is painful."

I was stunned and hurt. I try to be sensitive to people around me and to not offend. I also, these days especially, try to be sensitive to the flow of conversation, having been apallingly bad at this in the past and guilty of being one of those bores who lectures endlessly about some point in an argument. I felt I'd outgrown this and was confident in my ability to curb my tongue when needed. To know that I was causing someone discomfort made me feel small and stupid.

Needless to say, I shut my trap. In fact I sat there, numb and silent, a hurt little four year old.

I know this woman was being sensitive to feelings of a friend, and I can guess who it was, but I found my hurt disbelief quickly flared into anger.I didn't enjoy being collateral damage for someone else's sensitivity.

I mean, I have no idea who may or may not have issues about infertility. Most people don't talk about it openly. I've been sensitised to this issue recently having witnessed very close friends go through the struggle with infertility and the terribly physical and emotional ride they had to endure.

I think what hurt and made me angry, is that I do try to be sensitive to people in conversation, and at the same time, do not expect anyone to avoid topics that may be painful to me.

At work, people talk about their families all the time and constantly refer to their mothers and on occasion things will be said that cause a twang for me. The most frequent topic of conversation is relationships with people droning one endlessly about what they did on the weekend with their partners. For someone perpertually single and having pretty much given up on the whole thing, this can be trying. But you know, I'm not churlish, I smile and nod, and I'll show I'm listening and interested.

But I wasn't benumbed by the fact subjects that pain me can raised with impunity, it was the inference, in shushing me, that the topic of having children, couldn't be causing me any pain or that I was insensitive to it in others.

I can't have children. Not with out a great amount of assistance. Oh sure, I'm male and yeah, I can donate sperm. But that's being a sperm donor, not a Dad. And for some guys, gay or straight, that's fine. Not me. I would dearly love to be a Dad, but for that to happen so many things would have to fall into place to make that goal almost impossible and even if I did somehow manage this miracle, the best I could ever hope for is to be a part-time Dad and co-parent. And at this point, as a 38 year old man, I don't even know if I'm fertile and the whole baby making process will require medical intervention and probably IVF anyway.

Does this hurt? To know, in all likelyhood, the chance of being a Dad is pretty much nonexistent? YES and YES and YES. Mostly I don't think about it. I purposely make myself not daydream about what it would be like to hold my own child in my arms. And mostly it works.

Instead, I make a conscious effort to enjoy the contact with the children in my life, to love these kids as if they were my own. All my fathering insticts, my desire to nurture, to love unconditionally, all my joy in their being, I shower on these kids. I take joy in their being and I get so much joy in seeing the love and affection between all these children and their parents.

I love to talk about kids to remind me of all the things I love about them. I love to talk about kids because what joy I have in the children in my life goes a long way to filling that particular hole.

To be fair to the woman at that table on that day, yeah, I cannot know the particular feminine angst or know the depth and pain of an empty womb. But I do know what it is like to long for something that is out of reach and of a someone who you may never get to hold or to know. Perhaps that is nothing in comparison to her pain.

And should I say anything to the kindly shusher? Tell her, yes I have an idea, tell how I felt? You see, I know that if I do, she'll be terribly upset and hurt, that's the sort of person she is. So I won't say anything. Not to be big, but because being hurt by the way she cares for her friend is my issue. Perhaps having friends who shush others in protection is a social security blanket and I'm probably unaware when it's being extended for my benefit by caring friends. So I guess I can still be reassured by the scracthy felted feeling that at least I try, and sometimes I'll fail, to be sensitive in conversation.

Super Powered

Lady Mood's eyes flashed from determined steely blue to firey rage red. The Inhibitor was up to his usual tricks and lashed out with his power to dampen the fighting spirit of our heroes. Lady Mood riposted with her emotive blast of withering contempt. The Inhibitor cringed.

Meanwhile, Nimbus, flying over head, wrapped in an incongurously soft layer of curling mists, threw her arms forward and from her outstretched fingers hurtled a flight of stinging hailstones, showering the villians below.

The fray intensified. Battling teams of mutants, trying in desperation to harness their quixotic abilities to win the day.

And there was Vibrato with her voice power, having the ability to subtly persuade or blast down a wall.

Phaze who could be in more than one place at the same time and phase into different levels of reality.

Amnesia who could make you forget your whole life.

Marine Girl with the power to breathe under water, swim like a speeding torpedo, control the waves, talk to dolphins and was a hell surfer to boot.

VerdiGris, the plantwoman, able to communicate and control all plants and strangely understands all human languages.

These were just some of our intrepid heroes in an outfit called SuperTroopers (after the ABBA song of the same name!)

At work a few weeks ago, a conversation started about who had seen the latest instalment of the X-Men franchise. Most of us had. The conversation evolved into a game of "If you were a mutant..."

The rules were pretty simple. You had to define your power(s), your mutant name, your costume, your secret identity, and your nemesis. Everyone had imput which was just as well, because after awhile, people start to get greedy, and well, you can't just declare you're a god with everything power that does everything.

I ended up acting as a mediator in the game and when it came to my turn, my co-workers decided to give me my powers and history.

Could I fly? Er... no.

Could I bend metal with my bare hands? Definitely not.

Read minds? Walk through walls? Control something? Morph? No, no, no and no.

My super power, it was decided, was to make tea.

Granted it was SPECIAL tea, that soothed and healed. But that's it. Make tea. And I was the stay at home type too. No adventures for this Super Trolly Dolly. No I was at the secret headquaters, brewing up a cuppa, making the superbeds and keeping up with the housecleaning and oh, yeah, co-ordinating the itineries of the SuperTroopers in their never ending fight against evil. "Have a nice day saving the world? Here's a soothing and healing cup of tea. And I've just popped some muffins in the oven, should be ready soon. Apple and cinnamon ok?"

I guess I looked somewhat deflated by my underwheling superpowers because I was grudgingly granted the extra ability to "know things". What things? You know, just things.

And my name?

The Steeper.

Yeah, all the super villains are trembling in their boots at the sound of that name. Oh no, it's the Steeper! Look out he's death with a tea bag!

The funny thing is I named my blog 'The Adventures of Domestic Boy' because years and years ago, before I left Newcastle the first time, I once quipped, in a self deprecating moment, that if I was superhero, I'd definitely be a sidekick and my superpower would be to make the perfect cup of tea, everytime. I'd be called Domestic Boy.

This comment arose, as a result of friends at the time declaring that I was soothing to be around. And nice. Like the perfect cup of tea.

It seems that I haven't changed.

The nice and soothing thing is well and good. But it's something that sort of haunts me.

You see, gay men also have superpowers. Of course there's gaydar. That rather quirky ability, which sometimes is startlingly accurate, to know when someone's gay when they appear or say they're not. Of course, it always goes on the blink when you need it most. And then there's what I call, Social Invisibility In The Company of Heterosexuals. This is the strange ability to be completely ignored in conversation if you happen to be the only gay man in group of men, or be the fly on the wall when a group of straight women are talking.

(And for straight men who think otherwise - Size does matter!)

Under the cloak of SIITCOH I've heard a multitude of women declare that nice guys aren't sexy. Oh they're great to be around and sensitive men can be so soothing. But they make better friends.

And then suddenly the cloak lifts and one of the girls will turn to me and say -"And that's why we like you so much, you're so nice and sensitive. Soothing to be around" Like a good cup of tea.

All right, so I'm not that worried about coming off as sexy to women. But I can help thinking, is it the same thing for gay men? I mean, most hetero people seem, on one level, to assume that gay men are basically like women in many respects, certainly we're often cast in that role socially. And I would say, actually, this is crap, as gay men are men, well and truely before they're gay. But in this instance, it's a thought that I just can't dismiss. You know that nice and sensitive in a man is also not sexy to gay men.

I get plenty of guys, based on my looks and body, who tell me I'm sexy when we first meet. But when we get to know each other, I don't often get hear the sexy thing anymore. And quickly any ardour seems to die. And the 'let's be friends' line is trotted out. Because you're so nice and I don't want to loose your friendship. I'm very desirable as a friend.

Perhaps Domestic Boy has another superpower, aside from the Perfection of Tea. Perhaps he's in touch with his inner lesbian and has the power of Lesbian Bed Death. Because he's so nice.

Is that the whoot-woo of the whistle of sexy appreciation I hear? No, it's just the kettle boiling on the stove. Best be off and make another cup of tea.

Another Quickie

Just got word today that my work contract has been extended to the beginning of September and that I'm going to Doha, Qatar for 5 weeks from November on very good pay! Yippee!