Bridges, Bridges, Rickety Old Things.

Aren't bridges brilliant?  If I made a list of my very favouritest kind of architecture I would rank it right at the very top (Yes, even ahead of Victorian follies).  I suspect this is because they're public in the truest sense of the word. The London Shard may be the well be the biggest skyscraper in all of Europetown when it's finished, but only about 0.0000001 percent of the population are ever going to use it, in which case it becomes like a gigantic middle finger, forever reminding you that - hah, hah - you're poor and forever destined to remain so.  When I visited Rome, what I took away from the Vatican was that, yes, the built environment was spectacular, awe inspiring, insert-adjective-here-to-suggest mintitude, but it was of an arrogant, bullying, "what do you you mean you don't have faith, ain't you seen the size of this fucking statue" kind  Bridges, by contrast, are constructs that are used by the entire population; rich, poor, young, old, sharks, jets.  Both symbolically and practically they perform a linking function that I find appealing and even the most basic is enduring proof that, despite all evidence to the contrary, humanity can be capable of great things when it pulls its finger out of its bumhole.

Sydney, of course, has a hell of a bridge and it's my daily commute over it that has inspired the above meandering.  Disappointingly, you can't really see much of the harbour from the train line, but I get a great view of the structure of the bridge itself, which like it's diddy cousin in Newcastle stands as a monument to the busy ingenuity that came easy to the western world in the hundred years between 1850 and the second world war, which now seems to be lost.  The job that lies at the end of the commute (approx 12 miles from the hostel; Sydney sprawls like a Mackem lass after a night on the alcopops) is less gratifying, but I appear to be getting a hang of it and I reckon I'll be okay till Christmas.

The hostel in general has moved onto a work footing.  Bob continues to complain that he has to work, but was mollified that he is able to dine for free in the swanky canteen downstairs (his lunch on Monday was, and I quote: "three steaks, vindaloo and then ice cream).  The rest of the hostel all seem to be searching for work with varying levels of success.  One of the trio of Brum Lads we've got staying here, Tom, managed to secure a position as a butcher's counter assistant, but left after a day as his new employer was "a massive, massive wanker."  Somebody else took up the now vacant post and promptly left after a day because his new employer was "a massive, massive wanker."  Another of the brummies, Ollie, had an interview this morning, and although he turned up on time for it his potential employer didn't, as it's a bank holiday here at the mo.  The difficulty in finding work in Sydney is prompting a number of people to move on.  A lad named Niko (Finnish) is off to Perth Wednesday, despite having what I would have assumed was the exceptionally desirable skills of an electrician.  He may be followed shortly by a guy named Korbi (German), who is concerned that he's hemorrhaging money, Sydney not being exactly cheap.  Not everyone is having such difficulties though.  Aurore and Laury (both French) are holding down two and three positions respectively (at the hostel, a local restaurant, with Laury pulling weekend shifts at a chocolate factory), although listening to Aurore talk about her boss at the restaurant, it does sound like he might be a massive, massive wanker.

All this activity means that, despite being fairly full, the hostel's been much quieter recently.  There was an outing to a rather swish place called The Ivy in the CBD the other day in order to celebrate the long weekend.  The place had free drinks, free food and a plentitude of beautiful people living it up.  It was brilliant.  Apparently.  I wouldn't know.  Because I'm a daft twat I left my passport at the hostel and couldn't get in.  I instead went back and watched the Rugby.

It's mine and Bob's birthday this week.  I'm unsure whether I want to do anything to mark it.  I'll let you know what happens.  Sorry about the irrelevant rambling at the start.  It's what I do.

Love and Fishes

Dave

P.S The post title comes from a poem that a childhood friend wrote.  It went as follows:

Bridges, bridges

Rickety old things

I hate bridges

He was an odd child.