New Year's Revolution

What a difference a year makes.  This time last year I was updating my blog, glass of champagne in hand, in the secure knowledge that I was coming home to the UK after two frankly shit years in Canada.  Oh, am I repeating myself?   I'm sorry, but the strapline to this blog does say: because a girl likes to purge. 

And here I am a year later (champagne in hand - some things never change), almost in disbelief at the progress made and unmade.  I will leave the 'un-made' elements to a less auspicious day.  Today is New Year's Eve and today we get to feel all nostalgic about the past and inspired about the future when we will get to re-do things we've basically cocked up.  I have a whole list of things I'd like to press the reset button on.  I'm neither joking, nor being petulant.  Instead I'm picking things off the list as they come. 

Take the 'career'; for reasons so incredibly complex - I fear would send you reaching for the whisky -  let's just say I've accepted that I am not ever going to be a kept woman (actually I'm not cut out for this subservient role) or a completely fulfilled stay-at-home mum (despite my many interests), so it's best I get back to achieving (relatively speaking) and earning again.  This I have done by going back to work and it couldn't be more different than the turd of an opportunity I squeezed out in Toronto.  I have high hopes and even more compelling reasons to make a real success of this time round the block.  Wish me luck.

I'm keeping an open mind about everything else.  Let's just pretend I give a damn and leave it at that.

I've started chanting too.  It's not a conscious decision...it's just something that has inexplicably drawn me in.  It makes me feel hopeful and happy.  It's hard to explain but I find it relaxes and focuses the mind in a way nothing else has ever done.  This is a new journey for me.  I'm looking forward to it and while I'm way too cynical (and vain) to get all shaven headed about it, I must admit, there really is something very magical about it.  It also fills the emotional gap that would otherwise be plugged by wine and codeine.

In the words of Joey Ramone: I want to be sedated.

In other spiritual news, I may, just may... have become completely obsessed with Jesus after reading THE most intriging account of his life by Sylvia Browne.  Like I said, I've been sucked into a vibration of a very lofty kind and it has had a very comforting effect.  No, I have not become a bible-basher, in fact I say with utter conviction that the bible (all versions of it) is nothing more than an elaborate work of man-made propaganda.  Less said the better here before I get all the sandal wearing freaks demanding the termination of this most cathartic of outlets.

So, here's to a year of self-lovin'  (and I'm not talking about diamond covered dildo type love) I mean the other kind - the one that makes you want to be kind to yourself and others.  And it's with this woozy thought I leave you tonight.  I urge you all to follow your dreams however small and humble.

This is my hope for 2011.

It's all in the detail

Christmas Eve folks.  The house is temporarily quiet.  The in-laws were on the only flight to leave Canada heading for London, Heathrow on Monday night - after a day of one cancelled flight after another.  It's a Christmas miracle they made it here without so much as delay.  I'm humbled by that kind of luck. The house has been a hub of activity ever since except for right now.  A combination of wine, jet-lag and the realisation that work's out for for holidays has finally sunk in.  There isn't a soft furnishing in the house that doesn't have someone lounging on it.  It's lovely.

Later we will all engage in the global subterfuge that is Santa Claus and ferociously wrap presents once the Lish is sound asleep - and I mean sound - because this girl suspects something big is afoot.  She is not your average four year old and I know, as a mother, I would say this of my child, but seriously - she is like the girl out of poltergeist; exceptionally sensitive and she has a nose for BS like a sniffer dog.  So we have to be especially careful.

The other night she noticed the wrapping paper in a cupboard. 

 - Mummy?
- Yes, doll.
- Is that paper for Santa to use?
- What do you mean?
-What I mean is why do you need wrapping paper?
- Oh, honey that's just for birthday presents
- Well, it looks like Christmas paper to me.

So now we have to put out milk and cookies for Santa, carrots for Rudolf AND leave the paper out for Santa to use.  How silly of me to forget.

She's 4.

Well, Merry Christmas my dear friends.  Hope Santa is good to you and don't forget to leave the wrapping paper out for him.

Like the Corners of my Mind

I was out with a bunch of colleagues and clients from work on Tuesday - a very nice bunch actually.  We went to Zilli Fish in Soho.  It's been there a while, Aldo Zilli's first (I believe) eponymously named restaurant and in case you haven't guessed it does great fish and seafood dishes.  I had the pork belly - of course I would.  I like fish a lot but for some reason, I went for the pork.  I wasn't disappointed.  One of the people in our party ordered a plate of broccoli.  That's it.  Nothing else.  I've got nothing on her. 

No one said anything, it was the elephant in the room.  It's not like we'd gone to Pret A Manger and you decided you just fancied a pretzel.  It's like going to Le Caprice and asking for a bowl of boiled potatoes or in fact going to Zilli Fish and ordering the pork...or broccoli.  Hey, we fought two wars so that people could order a plate of broccoli if that is what they want.

Up until Tuesday, Zilli Fish was always that place an ex-boyfriend took a girl to when we were 'On a break' as 'Ross' would say...or was just two timing me, as 'Rachel' would agree (we were afterall still living together - you decide).  For this reason, I've never actually been able to walk past the place without a bristle of rancor running through me.  Going there almost 10 years after the fact felt weird but strangely manageable though, as you can see I couldn' t bring myself to order the fish. Odd how memories stay with you like that.

I recall the moment exactly when I confronted said naughty ex-boyfriend after finding a receipt for the meal. 

My exact words:

- So you can't even be bothered to come for a £2 drink with me but you can spend £90 on fish for some bint!! 

I have to say, I and indeed we (said naugthy ex) have since laughed about this line but I guess still waters run deep - especially the estuaries in my mind. 

I wonder what broccoli woman has against the fish in this place?

Red Carpet Capers

Another Sunday, another movie premiere.  No seriously, I've been writing reviews for Phase 9 again and this time I've been roped into reviewing childrens' films.  Last week it was Narnia.  They usually screen at 10:30, yes in the morning and the tickets usually stipulate you arrive at 9:30.  Now, if it wasn't for The Lish, there is no way on God's green earth you'd find me in Leicester Square on a Sunday at that time.  Ever.  But, let me tell ya - both times have turned out to be awesome experiences, though, a little word of warning, Walt Disney Productions are a little stingy with premiere audiences.  I guess not even Walt is immune to the effects of the credit crunch.

I went to see The Chronicles of Narnia last weekend.  It was my first film premiere since returning to London so I didn't really know what to expect but I wasn't expecting much over and above, a free film.  I was in for a real treat - or The Lish was - I should say.  The whole cinema has been made out to look like an enchanted winter forest.  There were face painters, photographers, caricature artists, food, food and more food!  I felt stupid with my £2.40 externally bought coffee when the exact same brand was being given out for free inside.  The Lish was catatonic; it was like a winter version of Willy Wonka's factory - candy everywhere.  The film wasn't bad either.

And today we went to see Tangled - a cheeky remake of Rapunzel - by the Disney Studios.  The film was amazing.  Honestly, I would recommend it even to people without kids.  It's a return to form for Disney without a doubt - though the freebies were a bit light on the ground.  This time coffee wasn't free.  Of course, this time I turned up without one.   Marvellous ennit.

Determined to scope out what there was up for grabs I muscled my way through a small throng to see what was on offer only to find a display of reptiles...FREAK knows why?  I mean, I know there is a little chameleon character in the film called Pascal - actually, a very clever little fella - my favourite character in the whole film but lizards and gheckos and ....I'm going to have to say this quickly and get the hell outta this page...snakes.

EUUGHHH!  Christ on a cracker - what were they thinking?  Well, I didn't hang about in the lobby after that. 

I had visions of a real-life 'Snakes in a Cinema' situation as I yanked The Lish towards the auditorium.

- But mummy, I want to get a butterfly on my face
- Butterflies are for stupid people...let's go babes - here's popcorn.  Careful!  mummy had to pay for that...

Beware of false Idols... and toy figurines

So 'The Fit Cobbler' has a name. Billy.  And dirty fingernails.  This is what happens when you get too close to your idols - an irreparable rip in the fantasy-reality continuum occurs and then the jig is up.  Still, better to find out now and not when his hang-nails accidentally catch on your best nylons.  And the name Billy conjures up snott- nosed simpletons with bandy knees, not matinee screen idols (no offence to any Billies out there who do not fit this sweeping generalisation).  No, it simply will not do.  I think a fantasy man needs a Man's name with no time for second syllables, something like Brad, Jake or Pat.  Ok, maybe not Pat, but you know what I mean?

Ah, what do I know?

On more festive notes, I have purchased a Christmas tree.  I'm told it's a no drop, premium spruce.  Of course I didn't fall for the marketing, I fully expect to be having arguments with The Silverback over who's turn it is to pick up the f-ing pine needles within days.  But for now, it emits a hypnotic, fresh, almost cleansing aroma of toilet cleaner that draws you to the front room with the pull of a basketful of freshly baked chocolate muffins (only with fewer calories).

It's lovely I must admit.

The Lish decorated it with baubles and her miniature dolls...so most of the action stops at about two feet from the top of the tree...but that's not the point.  The point is that this was a family activity.  The Silverback gave direction from his armchair, "It's wonkyyyy!" - that sort of thing, while mamanissimo lay flat on her back drinking coffee at 180 degree angles (not recommended what with gravity being what it is) and The Lish did a splendid job of bending the branches.

After rooting through all of her favourite toy figurines and carefully balancing them on the tree - she sat back to contemplate her work.  Chin in hand she said with real emotion: " I'm just a little bit sad I won't be able to play with my toys until after Christmas," her voice cracking at the very end.

"Do you want to take your toy figures back?" I ask, semi-serious.  Incredulous, actually.

"Yes, please mummy."

And we're back at square one. 

Here is a look at the tree before all the toy figures had to come off and YES, I know.   It's still wonky.

Titilating Times

You're dying to know aren't you?  Did 'the fit cobbler' live up to expectation?

Watching him fill out a receipt was almost too much to bear.  I do believe I may have dribbled just a little bit onto the slip of paper as he handed it to me.  I don't exactly remember much after that.  A chair, a table, some people in an office.  Something about a strike. Who needs public transport when you have 'the fit cobber'?

Sadly not all my clothes lend themselves to chemical solvent - so I will simply have to join the tussle to take other people's dry cleaning in.  I'm up against pros who have been at this game for a lot longer than me.  Wish me luck.

So, I'm having a hard time concentrating on work - I have to deliver a pitch to a journalist about technology in healthcare (yep, you should feel sorry) when my booth buddy turns to me and asks me whether I would like some Monkey Fudge. 

Don't ask.  Between the Fudge Monkey and The Fit Cobbler - it's going to be an interesting week.

The Fit Cobbler

Been a bona fide full-time working woman for a week and it’s all going so smoothly, I’m going to struggle to write about something interesting or at the very least controversial at this rate. What I do know is that when I exit the tube at Piccadilly every morning at about 10 to 9, I’m already smiling. A quick glance over my shoulder and there he is, Venus’s sweet cherubim son, Eros. And I smile some more. Then I turn into my street, in the very soul centre of Soho and frankly, I love the area so much, well I should really start carrying a change of underwear.

We had the office Christmas party this week…early I know but in a way a nice segue way into both December and my introduction to the company as a whole. And what a lovely bunch of people they are. Honestly. Yeah, boring I know.

Not so boring is the dry cleaners on Berwick Street…bear with me. I’d noticed a higher than average amount of dry cleaning being brought into the office and an unusually proactive willingness by some of the PR girls to either take or collect items to/from said establishment. I put it down to it being a disarmingly friendly place – my associate director makes me a tea every day. After the fifth day of girls coming round asking if anyone had any dry cleaning that needed picking up, I got curious.

What’s with this obsequiousness?

“Oh yeah”, says P, my booth buddy and a typical London wide-boy , “they all want an excuse to go see ‘the fit cobbler’.”

“The Fit Cobbler? That’s a neat name for a dry cleaners,” I say.

“Nah, that what the girls call the man who runs it. You should get involved mate. I don’t see it myself.”

I had to ask. “Who would play him in a film version?” That’s my way of picturing what someone really looks like.

“Ryan Phillippe, naked,” replied one of the Corporate PRs.  In case you're having trouble conjuring the image, here's a little 'aide memoire'.



Behave!

On Monday I’m taking two jackets in for a steam.

And one for luck:

Anatomy

Ok, so I fibbed a little bit about yesterday being like any other day despite it being my last Friday before the new job begins, because I did have a little, just a teeny tiny girls' night out. In Soho.   Literally a stone's throw away from where I'll be sitting in a couple of days for what I hope is a very long and successful time.

At about 4pm I developed a splitting headache while waiting for the number 328 bus to collect The Lish from daycare.  Of course I was sure it was the start of a brain aneurysm.  Having forgotten my good pain killers at home, and I do have a case full of the good stuff, I reluctantly popped a couple of shop's own brand ibuprofen (tic tacs really) and hoped for the best.  You want to catch pain before it hits the point of no return and I was skating on wafer thin ice. At this point, I wasn't exactly feeling the girls' night out.

Once at home I had to stop myself reaching for the jim jams.  Instead, with begrudging patience and the dedication of someone who knows they have a lot of ground to cover, the ritual of 'getting ready' began in earnest.  I'm sure conscript soldiers feel the same way about going to battle.

I started with the slap (employed every trick in the book), then the hair, the Spanks (body sculpting knickers - which feel like a tourniquet) and the heels - the metamorphosis was complete (or as The Silverback put it: you look like a cougar).

The headache continued to niggle so I popped one more pill, the good stuff this time and disappeared in a cloud of perfume. 

The girls were already at the meeting point by the time I arrived: a thai restaurant in St. Anne's Court, Soho.  It's a little alleyway where Marianne Faithful lived for 2 years as a homeless junkie.  Of course today it's so trendy, it's painful.   Watching us eat (I say 'eat') you'd be forgiven for thinking we'd just been released from a Japanese prisoner of war camp, we chit chatted about things that you really shouldn't talk about with your mouth full.

Next?  Why dancing of course!  What kind of a girls' night out doesn't involve dancing? not even a girls' night in skips the dancing. We headed to Freedom, one of Soho's oldest gay clubs.  Of course we went to a gay club.  When you've had to put on your make-up with a 4 year old velcroed to your lap, you don't need any more harassment.

I would like to thank Brazil at this point.  Soho's gay clubs salute you and your fine supply of the buffest gayest men on the planet.  Obscenely good movers too but I didn't see anyone covering their eyes.  This particular batch of harmless male tottie, we discovered, were air cabin crew for Air France.  BRAVO!

We knew it was midnight when the trannies arrived.  Huge in all the wrong places, they were. Still, 10 out of 10 for effort.  And then of course came the drunks who couldn't get in anywhere else.  Gay clubs are like the UK of Europe - they let anyone in.  And do you know what? I haven't laughed so hard in a long time.  You see, straight drunk men are terrible dancers except they all think they're in a boy band for the night.  In reality they look like they're spring cleaning.  All elbows and hyper-extension.  The pole dancing (oh yes, did I mention there were two dance poles in the middle of the dance floor...) the pole dancing was indescribable, we only hoped there was a doctor in the house ( a paramedic at least).

The rest is like a scene out of Desperately Seeking Susan. 

We found a cab relatively easy to say we were in Piccadilly Circus and it was 3 in the morning.  Slumped around the Statue of Eros in the famous glare of the electronic billboards that make Piccadilly so instantly recognisable, I noticed Eros looks more like a pigeon than a cherub. 

You know that headache? yeah, it's back.

What would you do if you only had one day?

I woke up this morning to the last weekday morning of a freelance lifestyle.  I'm not doing anything differently because that would feel a little over-dramatic.  I'm just starting a new job not dying.  And even if I were dying I still wouldn't do anything differently.  What exactly do you think would be achieved?  The pressure to fit into one day everything you think you now won't be able to do is a pointless waste of effort.  Stuff like this needs to be savoured, not crammed in.  That's what the afterlife is for.

Besides, I've done a lot of the stuff you might do if you were given 24 hours to live.  Really, I have.  I've visited every country I've ever wanted to visit. Bought outrageous stuff  (been outrageous) and generally treated myself (deservedly or not) and now all I want is a simple (and happy) life for me and those around me.  And let's face it, that isn't going to be achieved in a day.

So the best I can manage today is to go to the park with The Lish and then lunch at Mc D's.  That's what she wants - that is what she'll get - preceded by TV galore and her ice cream Play Doh factory which I have on more than one occasion pretended I couldn't find...it's THE messiest thing.  But today, no mess is too big...well that's not true but you get my drift.

I woke up this morning and thought about the first morning back in London back in March.  I remember exactly the mixture of elation, sadness and fear registering like a Hi-Fi's equalizer flashing green and red as the levels peaked with each emotion.  It seems like a lifetime ago; a lot has happened.  It did make me think about making sure lots of things continue to happen so that (keeping with the wistful subject of expiration) when I am on the proverbial 'deathbed' my life will feel like a proper sum total - none of this flashing past my eyes malarky. 

And so this afternoon, while The Lish enjoys a few hours at daycare with her lively gang of climbing frame war-mongers, I will be doing nothing more than reading the epic that is The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets' Nest with a regular skinny latte (on the comfy seats) and that will do nicely. 

I may even purchase a lottery ticket and if I win, everyday will feel like 'the last day'.

Looking after Number 1

It was as feared, 'A' had ulterior motives for inviting me out for a coffee and as flattering as it is to an old bird (with a kid) to be pursued so sincerely by a mere boy, I really can't entertain the notion of defecting to the flat next door.  One has to question the mental state of this unassuming young man.  At least he got the chance to get it off his chest and I got a free lunch.  I don't think rejection gets any more diplomatic than this and I get to keep custody of the kitchen.

If I were to allow myself the indulgence of a totally unrealistic fantasy, I could very well argue that I've become a sort of Patti Boyd in a George Harrison - Eric Clapton love sandwich.  Except instead of being driven to write beautiful rock ballads to make me stay, The Silverback (George in this scenario) would most likely put together an incentive plan to ensure a quick and problem-free handover before disappearing to The Tundra without so much as a forwarding address.

It's been a week for odd encounters.  Take last night for example: I was on my way to meet friends in Islington when out of nowhere a woman sobbing uncontrollably approached me as I stepped out of my building.  My immediate reaction was to go into Jodie Foster mode (as Clarisse in Silence of the Lambs).  I quickly surveille the area for signs of a set up and go all FBI on the poor woman.  More real than the tears was the raw agony etched on her face.  She was so upset, I couldn't make out what she was trying to tell me.  With my back against the wall (and in my mind a .22 calibre in my hand) I get her to calm down. 

Finally she was able to explain that she'd just been told she had breast cancer and on telling her long-time partner and father of her son, he had responded by confessing a 2 year affair which meant he would not be sticking around for the hard part.  This made me mad.  It doesn't take much when it comes to stories about men being shits and I stood in disbelief as she then went on to explain how she'd sacrificed many years of her life to help this man navigate through a drug and bi-polar problem. 

I gave the names of two cancer charities.  I really wish her well.  They say breast cancer is a martyr's disease - well in the case of this lady, tis true.

As I hurried along, now woefully late to meet my friends, I started to think about the whole 'martyr' thing especially with regards going back to work.  I could let myself feel really guilty about taking the office job which essentially means someone else will be doing the school runs for me going forward or I can just accept that the (right) office job makes me happy.  You can call this rationalisation but I believe that in following my heart, I'm teaching The Lish to be dependent on herself and herself alone in the pursuit of happiness and freedom because at the end of that day no-one can live your life for you.

But most of all, I'd hate my child to end up a martyr to anyone or anything.  No sir.

Everybody needs good neighbours

So 'A' from across the way - you remember The Silverback's kitchen window buddy?  Him? well, he has progressed the 'relationship' from scribbled notes pressed to the window pane with the urgency of someone communicating from their 'Panic Room', to something altogether more bold: he's asked me out for a coffee.  Me. Thanks.  Still, at least I'm not being asked UP for coffee or OVER for a coffee. 

OUT for coffee conjures up a more sincere motivation, right?  The Silverback generously concurs that it's the neighbourly thing to do.  Course he would, he doesn't have to go.

I have to say I deliberated,  knowing really that I had only one option.  And, of course, I blame The Silverback.  Who in their right mind plays imaginary cricket with a topless stranger leaning over a steaming sinkful of dishes?  Who then goes on to wave at this stranger, on a daily basis! with the enthusiasm of a child (with ADHD) who's just discovered his parent's secret stash of After Eight Mints.  Hint: It wasn't me.

And yet.

So, tomorrow I'm going OUT for coffee with A.  I have to or else it's bye bye to ever being to use the kitchen again.  And let's face it, eating is one of the few remaining untrimmed pleasures left to an old bird with a kid like me.

Unless....who do I know in the curtain-making business?

Apples

Do you like apples?

Well, after one of the most demoralising job-hunting experiences in which prospective employers went out of their way to make me feel like nothing more than an old bird with a kid, I have bagged a rather lovely role at a rather shit hot PR agency.

How do you like them apples?

I don't mean to brag, but I had to turn another role down in the interim. Ok,  I guess I am bragging. 

It's odd how quickly something happens when it's right. It took 4 days in which time I squeezed two interviews and a writing test in.  Some companies can't manage this in a month. This next role marks the start of a new professional phase for me.  One where I'm in the driving seat, going at the right speed, buckled in for a coast to coast road trip with all my hopes and dreams (career-wise) strapped into the passenger seat. 

Yoga remains part of this journey - the supporting role, the safety belt in fact but relegated to weekends and evenings.  It's lovely and wonderful and fluffy and life-affirming but my landlord prefers cash. Not to mention the sparkly stores on Oxford Street filled with fripperies that have The Lish's name on them.

In a moment of deluded festive vacuity, I decided to take The Lish into town today to see the Christmas Lights and yes, why not the Christmas Windows.  I have very fond memories of these as a child.  My mum would take me to see the Selfridges windows and I would delight in their magic. 

Oxford Street Christmas Lights 2010

The Lish came with a blank mental list on which she was to note down all the things we were to ask Santa for: everything - basically.

Just as well I'm working again.

Giggedy Giggedy BOO!

As you may or may not know, I couldn’t get out of Canada fast enough when the time finally came to leave. I have, as you most definitely know never looked back and in fact cannot imagine a time in the near future when I will find enough resolve to return even for a visit. I think it’s called post traumatic shock. Not all was wasted; I brought a couple of good things back – a certification in Yoga and a healthy disregard for all things cold. Halloween however is another exception. North Americans know Halloween and unbeknownst to me, the costume tsunami that it is, you can’t help but be affected by it. This year, my first Halloween back in London, I found myself missing the effort Canucks go to.

Londoners are too stressed, too frightened and too multi-cultural for a secularised scream fest like Halloween to flourish. If you’re lucky you can go spend stupid money at a club and if you are really lucky some generous and warm heart soul will have a little party in their kitchen.

Nor will you easily find any kitschy decoration adorning house fronts here. Not so much as a pumpkin on the door step, nothing. I tell a lie, The Lish and I saw a couple of pumpkins that looked like they’d been carved by the criminally insane precariously perched on impossibly narrow window ledges. The brave who go Trick or Treating usually find people, if they do deign to open the door to you will promptly slam it in your face annoyed at having forgotten what date it is.  Welcome to London.

I am one of those lucky people who knew a generous and kind-hearted soul having a party. I’ve learned never to shun the hand of friendship and of course, we all three of us went the extra mile for it – taking, if you will, a very Canadian approach to the whole thing; planning costumes and holding dress rehearsals.

At the party I noticed another cultural difference. Halloween in the UK is about the fear factor (however you want to slice it. Some make it funny, others need to be institutionalised) but to a Canuck, anything goes. So while my British friends came as witches and vampires, The Silverback went as Stewey (Family Guy) , The Lish went as a traditonal bride (and so it begins), while I went as Amy Winehouse. So I guess, there is one other Canadian thing I’ve retained. Everyone was baffled by our eclectic choices. It comes down to this I guess, the British like to play by the rules (for the most part) so who’s boring now?

Another thing about the Brits is that they are far more comfortable celebrating historical events. See, for us here more important than Halloween is Bonfire Night (5th November) which celebrates the foiling of Guy Fawkes's attempt to blow up the houses of Parliament – London’s first religious terrorist I suppose. And on the 5th of November, would you like to know what this nation of civilised bowler hat wearing, anti-extremist does? It burns an effigy of Guy after letting off hundreds of coloured explosives.

I rest my case.

Not Fade Away

I'm watching with autistic-like focus, the BBC documentary with 'Keef' Richards on his newly published autobiography 'Life'.  A bland title, even by the standards of the most toothless simpleton but in the case of Keith - life and the fact that he is still alive is an achievement of gravity defying proportions, so in that sense: well said K-dog. 

It's evident as the line of questioning becomes ever more convoluted that he is indeed a man of few succinct and slightly disjointed words; a man who appears to embody the meaning of 'less is more' in every aspect of his approach to life with the exception of music, drugs and women. In that order.

The most revelatory comment of all is when Keith describes 'Satisfaction' as a sketch he didn't get enough time to make into an oil-painting due to the pressure of touring in the early to mid 60s and the record company's insatiable appetite for singles - ready or not.  I can't imagine that song being any better than it is.  It's a mind blowing discovery.

Asked whether he realised the part he played in changing the consciousness of a generation (from the way he played guitar to his way of dressing) - he self-effacingly explains that all he was doing was trying to forget the war. 

So this mangled old hellraiser with his knobbly, deformed phalanges and curt, humble responses casts a long shadow in the world of music and pop culture; one from under which no contemporary artist will ever out-cast.

Baudelaire once said: "Anybody, providing he know how to be amusing has the right to talk about himself."  In the case of Keith - he doesn't even have to be funny.  Though he is, endearingly and alluringly so. 

It must be Sunday

This whole blog post owes its inspiration to condensation. Yes, the dew that forms on windows when hot air meets cold. Alarmingly the condensation on one window I'm looking at is on the OUTSIDE - which gives you an indication as to the quality of insulation in this flat - gorgeous as it it.

It's a sunshine flat that's for sure. Wonderful things happen to sunlight in this flat. I have to say though, that I do also love it when the winter nights start to draw in. It reminds me of being a kid, getting home from school at 4pm and it already being pitch black outside. Wil o' the Wisp cartoon would come on; set in a forest where the main character was a little ghost, there was no better programme to watch while outside the night grew darker, cold and clammy. Or watching a black & white movie with my mum - those are great to watch on bleak winter evenings.

On those nights there was always condensation on the windows (on the inside). I would sometimes stand at my bedroom window just before getting into bed, and draw pictures in the condensation while wistfully wishing on a star. I wasn't unhappy, I was just a kid who watched too much TV.   Or not.  I mean TV is often the one saving grace on dark, cold nights.

Reading too is another cosy activity, but I prefer doing that in a toasty bed with soft lighting.  Any minute now Bing Crosby will appear in his slippers, puffing on a pipe with a big book of fairytales. Don't worry, if he does I'll kick him in the brick.  Anyway, the point is that cold, seemingly boring nights - especially Sundays can also offer opportunities to get cosy and content with very little.

To wit - on the rare occasions the Silverback is not foraging for food, chest beating or practicing knuckle-walking he sometimes likes to ask blue sky questions like:
 - It's Sunday night, The Lish is in bed, it's 5 to 9 - you've slipped into your Jim Jams, have a bottle of room temperature water (sensitive teeth) to sip and flicked the TV on - what are you watching?

In other words, if you could watch any film tonight, which would it be?  My response is always the same:
- A psychological or suspense thriller.

One day I will surprise him and say:
- NHL Hockey, preferably a Leafs game. 

Of course I'd sooner stick needles in my eyes than watch hockey, but I might just say it, just to see the look on his banana eating face.

Can you tell it's Sunday?

Rules of Engagement

I went to our storage unit this week - a necessity given we brought Canada with us in the move here and there isn't enough room in the flat for it - to get my 'winter wardrobe'.
 
With the Silverback in Philly again, it was up to me to manage the manoeuvre with military precision as I was also taking The Lish and she has a boredom threshold of an L.A celebrity's kid.  So the night before, I made sure to charge up her portable DVD and packed four of her favourite films (are you getting the enormity of the operation?) 

Feeling very much like I do the night before an early flight, I tossed and turned in bed and woke up feeling like a pig had made itself at home in my head.  Having ripped the second largest piece of luggage out of the bottom of the wardrobe - an operation that resembled lambing season in New Zealand - we set off on the one and a half hour journey to East Finchley.  One long-assed tube ride later, we made it to bus stop A on the High Road for the last leg of the journey that would take us up to North Finchley.  A bunch of stops later - I was measuring the distance by eye (bit like my cooking), we made it to C.I.A headquarters. 

I had memorised the two sets of codes that would get us into the building and my locker.  Feeling like Jason Bourne punching in the number of his Swiss bank account I managed not to make any mistakes that would cause bars to fall from the ceiling and trap us like ferrets in a mink farm.  I was feeling proud as Punch (if only I were as good looking at that time in the morning).  I'd even managed to zone out the sound of The Lish whinging about how bored she was.  We hadn't even STARTED yet.

I approached the locker with dread.  The inside is like the storage area of an IKEA store without the labelling.  I had to find boots and coats in all of that to last me all winter (or until we buy a house - which may be soon - saw some cracking flats yesterday, but that's for another time).

Opening the door to the sound of an air vacuum sucking oxygen in from the outside and Lishy still whining - I decided to take out my first weapon of mass destruction - the DVD player - guaranteed to silence the witteriest of fish wives, only to find I'd left it charging at home.  I sank to my knees in prostrated frustration.  Instead I pulled out a packet of Wotsits and hoped it would take her an hour to eat.  Wishful thinking.

If having to unstack boxes that weighed as much as I did the day before going into labour wasn't enough, the lights in this place are on a timer, which required me to run up and down the corridors every 20 minutes in order to get the sods to turn on again (motion detector system).  Not fun at the best of times, less if you are stuck between a book shelf and a bedstead with your hands stuffed into the lurky depths of an unlabelled box.  Suffice to say, I don't plan on going back until it's actually time to move the boxes into a permanent home.

After that little escapade, I looked a right nonce pulling an overstuffed suitcase to bus stop A for the return journey home. I could have taken a cab, but that would have defeated the point since the whole exercise was to save money by not re-buying clothes and boots I already owned, I figured I'd stay true to that sentiment and rough it on public transport. Ridiculous really, I SO deserved a cab home.

After my tour of duty up in North London, I pretty much slept-walked through the rest of the week. Sorry about that. I did however try out the red velvet cupcake recipe I was blithering about in the last blogpost, to my credit, as it involved buying ingredients I've never even seen in real life, like food colouring, vanilla essence and butter (I'm a margarine girl).  And look! - but I preface the image below with the following caveat: I don't cook.

So there you have it. Don't say I didn't warn you. I'm told however that taste-wise - it's the business. Story of my life. Nice legs shame about the face.

Do you know the muffin man?

I've been watching a little show on The Food Network called Cupcake Wars recently.  Actually watching would be too passive a description - truth be told, I've been devouring the show like I would a bucketful of cupcakes after a week in a health farm.

The competitiveness between the bakers is ferocious in a way only Americans can get over pastry.  Mind you, they are terribly creative.  New to my virtual kitchen i.e. the one that exists only in thought, are red velvet, lime-key pie, tres leches and churro flavoured cupcakes - if only I could cook - but since I can't cook for toffee, I live vicariously through these shows.

The workmanship, the quality...it's dazzling.  From the 5 foot high displays to the organic vegan ingredients - it's quite amazing the life force energy these chefs and business owners put into the humble cupcake.  Last night for example, the theme was Seaworld.  They were tasked with including sea salt and seaweed into the recipes.  Disgusting as it sounds, I didn't see any regurgitating by the judges - the greedy little ferrets. 

That's the other thing:  everyone looks like a Yoga goddess -  like they've never eaten a whole cupcake in their lives. 

I got to thinking what that show would be like if it were done by the British.  First off it would have to be called Muffin Wars, which already feels like something you should not be doing in the kitchen. 
Innovative flavours would include rhubarb, marmite and if we're being really exotic - cucumber and the most impressive muffin tops would be the ones exposed by the chefs as they bent over to put the baking trays in the oven.  Themes would include public transport and hoodies.

I've just checked quickly and tonight's theme for Cupcake Wars is Aphrodisiacs.  Flippin' eck!  That's one I'll have to slip into something much more comfortable for.  I'm imagining red velvet, chocolate, honey, pomegranate and gold leaf.  

The Brits would struggle with that theme wouldn't they?  Is powered egg too saucy?

Oh behave!

Outrage and a little dairy obsession

I'm insatiable.  I always have been and let me be honest here, not always in a good way.  Currently I'm either obsessing and behaving like a whirling dervish (great for multi-tasking in the home and office) or I'm so unwound you need a mop to interact with me (ask The Lish).

It could be borderline personality, manic depression, bi-polarism (I'm a contender for any of those) or utterly normal for a woman living in London, raising a kid and ferociously pursuing a raison d'etre. Yoga helps to keep me grounded, because god knows I'd be pounding my breast and ululating at the moon, naked, from the kitchen window otherwise.  'A' would love that.  He's back to writing me notes...he must know the Silverback is away.

Let's take the current Government's re-structuring of the benefits system in this country.  I agree that for too long it's been a joke.  When people are better off not working - you have a problem.  However (and I speak as a woman who has had the audacity to live her life, go travelling, get married, have a kid and still keep her skills fresh) reforming benefits that affect children, families and women makes me a little furious when there are so many much more undeserving recipients out there that could be targeted.

I refer to the K.I.S.S theory behind where and why cuts are going to be made.  Like police officers who stop cyclists for running red lights instead of tackling real criminals, the govt. has decided to pick on families by cutting child benefit in households where one or other adult's earnings are in the higher tax bracket.  The cut off is somewhere around the £44,000 mark.  It means if both parents are each earning £43,999 pa (so almost £90k household) they get to keep child benefit.  Conversely if you have a stay at home parent where the other parent say earns £44,001 - you're up the brown creek.  It's basically saying...we didn't ask you to have children...

The message is...get married and stay married (whether you like it or not), work like dogs, don't have kids and give us 50% of everything you make so we can fund things like trips to Mars, pay for baby boomer pensions and benefits for couch potatoes.
 
Way to encourage achievement and independence.  And this from a Government trying to sell us on the Big Society idea.  It's all beginning to sound a little like 'Care in the Community' which of course was so very successful...in letting the mentals loose on us.  Libertarianism gone mashugannah.

I see a huge U-turn in less than 12 months.  I sense a revolt of Poll Tax, horse trampling proportions.  And the Tories would deserve it.  Not 12 hours later, it's already happening with the proposed introduction of the married couples' tax transfer reform which involves basically giving back the child benefit through a tax break and will probably cost more than the money they intended to save by axing the benefit in the first place.  If you are finding this complicated and ridiculous...join the queue.

It's a shambles.  Now everyone is talking about reforming the voting system...in other words people have had time to see the mess baby-faced Cameron has managed to make in less than 3 months and they're thinking: How did he get in?  Meanwhile Cameron is rocking in a corner asking for 'bitty' and his nanny.

What is the point of spending £500,000 on a private education when you can't handle the sophistication of a fair tax and benefits system - instead preferring to introduce truly STOOPID measures like this one.  The childrens' minister deserves to be left in a Cambodian Jesuit School run by the worst batty boys the cloth can find.

Meanwhile, I've developed an unhealthy obsession for a certain fruit cornered yogurt.  I've been in denial until I saw this in my fridge:

and

this in my bin:

Think it's time for Yoga.

Over-achievers anonymous

I had a friend over for dinner last night.  We've known eachother since school and once upon a time, we were thick as thieves until I left the Roman Catholic girls' adventure playground that passed for an educational establishment, to pursue a more earnest and foolproof route into university. 

After my fifth year at this secondary school, I managed to get accepted into the closest thing I'd ever get (or want) to a private education - this time a Roman Catholic Boys' spanking club.  Only 50 girls made it into its sixth form every year.  It must have been a real imposition for the boys.  Hurtling groin-first towards peak time of their rampant trouser jiggling years, they were suddenly and hellishly faced with the morphing and untouchable bodies of pubescent lady-girls.  Plain cruel if you ask me - what were the school boards thinking? 

Mind you, we girls were no better off surrounded as we were by a bunch of sexually crimped baboons at a time when we would rather have our new lumps and bumps go unnoticed.  And man oh man could they be BRUTAL especially once the anaesthetic of familiarity took hold.  We were outnumbered and out-hormoned.   Some of us got it worse than others, it was the law of the jungle and very possibly the best preparation for life on offer.  That said, I still know quite a few of those animals today (lovely boys all shackled to strong women in twinsets and pearls...Ha Ha) and got myself a great education along the way not that I've set the world alight with it...so far. 

Which brings me to the revelations of last night's conversation.  For all our achievements and despite needing both hands to count how many people I know with First Class degrees, very few of us can really be said to have truly excelled in life .  I know it's hard to qualify what makes excellence -  so we used the media measuring stick...in other words how TV and newspapers depict success. 

We came to the following conclusions (possibly):

1.) The effort of achieving so much so early in life effectively drained them of the last bit of drive they had; drive that was supposed to last a lifetime. 

2.) Our parents are to blame.  OF COURSE!  They worked too hard, gave us too much and in an attempt to instill in us a hard working ethic  - they exhausted us before we even got started.  Yes, it's their fault.

Astonished by our collective findings and after a sloppy mental audit of what friends were and were not doing, I thought about The Lish and the pushy parent syndrome...and decided two further things: 

1.) Lishy will never be scaremongered into 'getting an education' for the sake of it though she will be encouraged to do something she loves

2.) I'm leaving everything I have to charity all £17.53p of it

2-bed or not 2-bed

Bright and spacious 2-bedroom with terrific views of surrounding countryside.  In need of some renovation.

Though I shouldn't be, I am truly amazed at what some people think can pass for a bedroom in London, in particular a second bedroom. I went to view a so-called 2-bedroom apartment today in the heart of Maida Vale - which is genuinely a lovely area of London- only to find myself standing in an overpriced (okay that's all London real estate) studio that had been not so cunningly converted into a monstrosity; an architectural and interior design abomination.

The so called master bedroom was master of all things miniscule. Only if you stood absolutely still could you be in there at all. Moving was an extra not included in the purchase price. It appeared you would have to leave the room in order to open the wardrobe (which I assume you did with a hook from the hallway). To actually dress you'd have to move the whole operation to the front room.

The second bedroom - and by this, it is generally understood that it will (as if it were a legal requirement) be somewhat smaller than the 'master' - was indeed smaller (unbelievable but true). That there could actually be a smaller bedroom than the one we had all just stood on eachother's shoulders to view, was hard to believe but there it almost was... smaller.

It felt like peering into a room in a dollhouse except this one was not one you could find for £12.99 in Toys R Us. No. I would have laughed out loud but there wasn't enough room.

I was therefore very intrigued to see the roof terrace since they had been so absurdly liberal with the description of the flat in the first place, the viewing had now taken a fairground attraction tinge. Well, let's see. If putting chairs on a precariously balanced thickish piece of overhanging tarpaulin suspended by threadbare rope-type thingys (in flagrant breach of all the safety and building laws of the land) so close to the neighbours BBQ it was a wonder they hadn't singed off years ago - then yes - this was indeed a kooky little roof terrace worthy of a feature in ‘House and Garden’. Sorry, did I say House and Garden? I meant Viz.

I pulled The Lish in fearful that the whole structure would collapse from the strain of all 15 kilos of her. I literally covered my eyes when The Silverback gingerly stepped onto it relieved only that his fall would be somewhat broken by the neighbour's BBQ.

Well, now I was intrigued. They hadn't actually mentioned a kitchen in the instruction. It was immediately apparent why. See, technically there was no kitchen. Sticking a hob and fridge in the corner of the front room does not a kitchen make. I wouldn't mind but the appliances looked like something that had been salvaged from a skip during The Blitz. No but I needed to really take this all in because they wanted ....please brace yourselves: £475,000 for it. The lease was shorter than my inside leg measurement and the ground rent, well, let's just say that if I could save that much a year, we’d be buying the place with cash.

Of course, we’re not buying the place. We did have fun though. And to celebrate we went to THE most delicious South East Asian restaurant located next door to Maida Vale tube, called Street Hawker.

Finger lickin' good and truly (unlike the flat we had just viewed) money well spent.

A New Vibration

I started penning this entry last week, in longhand (old school style) which I don't usually do, prefering the stream of conciousness method which I then preen and fluff as I go.  Works for me.  I'm sure glad I didn't waste your precious breaktime by uploading too soon as I wouldn't have yet received a proposition for a threesome on Saturday to which, I'm happy to report, I resisted - it wasn't hard.  I won't be hitching a ride in anyone's motorbike sidecar ever.  100 % sure about that but it is interesting what you will entertain listening to when you've gone one Mojito too far. Sober, I may have burst out laughing. 

Nor would I have been able to report on an interview that I was initially unsure of, turning into the most fun I've had in a suit.  I surprised myself by giving a very grown-up, confidence-filled presentation last week and wasn't that fazed when I was asked what I thought was the most important quote in the English language. Yes, that was one of the set interview questions.  How do you like them apples?  I like 'em fine. Maybe (just maaaaaaybe) I was just the right side of hung over (I had gone to bid a dear new friend Godspeed - she's off to live in the Home Counties - the night before and sparkling wine was the guest of honour) or maybe I was experiencing that elusive but wonderful feeling of release you get when you KNOW THE ANSWER.  It helps that I collect quotes. I had many to choose from...nerd that I am.

It also helps if you accept that everything is open to interpretation.  To me the question is almost unanswerable because every day is a different vibration.  What is important today may not matter tomorrow.  So I gave him a quote that resonated with me at that moment.  It's by Kenneth Tynan (20th century's infamously harsh but genius theatre critic;  He described his job once as follows: "I mummify transcience".   Deep ennit? for such a short sentence.  I love it.

I'm also awash with personal, social and professional responsibilities this week from pre-school booster appointments, to second interviews to gigs with new friends leading to ever decreasing doses of crap TV (a blessing).  Frankly, I'm exhausted but I do feel there has been an irrevokable shift in this phase of my life - for the good. 

After all the recent upheaval of moving countries and oh so much more,  I'm feeling ready for my close-up .  Professionally and personally.

Table for More

I’ve been going through an insomniac phase, not the sort where you lie awake all night or manage only short fitful periods of rest, no this, in typical fashion is self-induced. I get into bed with my i-Pod and listen to Janice Long on Radio 2 until the wee hours. Of course on the nights were I go even later into the ’whoa! It’s time to get up’ hours, The Lish is particularly sparky making it impossible to steal more than a few extra minutes of sleep. I’ve been doing this all week and it was beginning to catch up with me manifesting with things like shoes in the fridge and plates in the bathroom (unless I have a poltergeist at home).


Anyway, last night at around 7pm I realised I was expected at dinner with friends. I was butt-arsed tired. I racked my brains to come up with a semi-realistic reason for not going but given I’d influenced the choice of restaurant and the fact that there is no excuse for self-inflicted handicaps – I dragged myself along managing somehow to be the first one to arrive.

In kamikaze fashion, I brazenly ordered a glass of Sangiovese red. Let there be dark. But then I realised that in all my life I have never been so engaged. The old me would not be sitting there with a glass of wine but at home with a glass of guilt and another bridge burnt. That perked me up a little. I substituted the wine for water…Jesus would not be happy. And then the girls arrived.

These are very new friends for me. They are mothers of The Lish’s friends at pre-school whom I met during the briefest of daily drop offs/pick ups which just goes to show how wonderful London people are. In 2 and a half years of drop offs/pick ups at daycare in Oakville, Ontario I didn’t make one single mum-chum. No judgement, just an observation. Anyway – this isn’t about that.

So a barrister, a child psychologist, a film producer and a slattern settled into what became one of the best nights in recent memory. I want to tell you the sort of things we talked about…but I fear you might blush. I can tell you that lesbianism was discussed and men of course were dissected with the reverence you would a frog in a biology class. It made a refreshing change from scrapbooking in The Tundra I can tell you.

The food was rather good too: I had the black taglionini with scallops in red pepper sauce.  Yumsters.

But best of all (in a way but not really), last night, I slept like a dead woman.

The Power of Now

Yep, that ‘Now’, the one Mr Tolle extols. I haven’t read his books but I do channel the sentiment when I say, I know the power of ‘Now’. See, I haven’t been the best company lately, wrapped up as I have been in big and small picture scenarios hasn’t made for the healthiest mindset. Add to that the world we currently live in and here, dearest friends is the recipe for inner turmoil and the bleakest emotional landscape.


But I’ve long been an alumni of the ‘pick up and dust off’ school of thought and while it sometimes takes me a little while to stand up again, depending on the force of the shove, (lately it has felt like the world’s weight on my shoulders) spoonful by spoonful, I've excavated an escape route worthy of The Shawshank Redemption. I’ve since covered the hole with a picture of Jake Gyllenhaal.

I have for a while been walking in the shadow of the moon but today (finally) I reconnected with the nurturer within and truly engaged with myself and those around me who matter. I was immediately filled with hope. In so doing, and almost by magic I appear to have willed a glut of reciprocal experiences. To begin with and most importantly I had a great morning with The Lish which must make a welcome change from the usual Wicked Witch act.

The long period of silence and introspection (painful as these tend to be) has brought with it the gift of revelation, which I’m sure The Silverback is most grateful for. And finally the phone rang off the hook with work related requests which I can tell you is an incredible development after the Australian Outback-like  drought in this area.

Of course now it's time to step up to the plate.  One interview requires a presentation.  I'll give 'em presentation.  In fact, I've had to turn some opportunities down; don't get me wrong, I'm not exactly in the position to do so but that doesn't mean I can't be discerning about what I decide to do next because whatever it is, it's got to keep me happy for a long time. 

That means choosing well now, not just in terms of work but life in general.  In man terms I'm fighting the urge to lease a Porche, get a piercing and bleach my hair.

A friend in need is a friend indeed

Christ, what a bummer of a mood.  I think I might be experiencing the beginning of a midlife crisis.  Yes, it has a lot to do with the fact that tomorrow...I'm 39.  The end of my 30s.  Look, I'm not upset with getting old (though I'm not exactly thrilled about aging) because with age comes wisdom and ultimately peace of mind.  With age comes the elixir of life experience which filters through to deliver a truth serum: the hindsight that enables you to see things as they are, to stick two fingers up to the small insignificant stuff and the courage to face and then walk way from the big stuff.

I'm at a crossroads in this sense.  I'm not sure which road to take but I have the feeling it will be one of the most important decisions of my life not least because of course it's not just about me any more.  I'm being cryptic I know but that's the trouble with mid-life crises.  Their very nature is rooted in a snakepit of twisted questions and slippery confusion. 

I'm not alone, for some reason much like the phenomenon that occurs when a bunch of women share the same office space where eventually their periods synchronise, I seems to have lots of friends who are going through the similar personal insecurities.  I have a friend in Spain for example who is fighting the demon drink; a friend in Germany who doesn't know what to do with himself once his kids start school (and he is really bricking it); a friend who just lost her husband to a brain tumour, another one fighting breast cancer.  And yet, here is the greatest thing about all of it -  the most enduring of all human traits:  All of us still have hope.

So while I do actually feel a little bit like crumpling, I'm instead taking a linear and commonsense approach to the basic stuff:  Job, mortgage and a 5 year plan.  How very Virgo of me.

The body and heart will need a little more magic and for these things I have yoga and friends. To wit: I've invited a group of my finest allies to dinner tomorrow. I will revel in their friendship and anecdote because if it's true that life begins at 40, I still have one long and arduous year ahead of me.

Here's to friends.

Cowpats from the Devil's own Satanic Herd

I've been AWOL for 10 days but you will be pleased to hear the court marshall found me guilty and has punished me accordingly.  We arrived in Gatwick late on Sunday after basically queuing from Faro, Portugal to the taxi rank in London's Victoria Station - no plane - we just zig-zagged on foot across Portugal to the north of Spain and across the English Channel along paths marked off by stretchy canvas separators - at least that is how it felt.  When we eventually arrive home it's well past midnight and we are met by the bizarre image of a vicar dancing in the street.  Ah, good to be back.

The wedding we were in Portugal for was a hazy, nostalgic event.  My oldest friend got her man at last and it was a truly soft focus affair.  Essentially a blessing - the paperwork having been completed in Australia (you have to love the romance of it all) - was held in the shade of a white awning overlooking the Marina in Portimao, Portugal.  Lovely.  I was reunited with friends and family some of whom I hadn't seen in over 16 years.  Wish I could say it ended well but alcohol combined with selfish behaviour spoiled it.  Still, that's not a story I wish to have overshadow my friend's special day.  I'm glad to say she will be in London for one day before she returns to Australia where she now lives.  Hooray for second chances.  I have much to talk to her about.

Feeling oddly jet-lagged (because there is no time difference between London and Portugal...did you know that? I didn't) Monday felt yukky.  I needed to shake the cotton wool from my head and decided nothing would provide a better jolt than a little meander down to The Notting Hill Carnival.  The meander turned into a bump and grind and then a quick march.  I remember the Carnival when it was all about music & community; a celebration for the people in the Westbourne Park area of London.  Then it got taken over by sponsors and the police and dare I say reggae (no offence to reggae).  See when I first went to the Carnival as a child in the 70s it was basically a street party for local children.  The addition of a steel band was down to chance availability.  Don't get me wrong, I grew to love the floats and the music.  Today however it's a regimented  march controlled by police.  In fact there are more police than punters in some areas.  Still, it did the job.  I was wide awake.

Trouble with winding yourself up like that is sleep becomes impossible.  So there I was at 1 in the morning watching The Life & Death of Peter Sellars feeling like I'd just experienced my own life & death. I guess this is what you call the 'post holiday blues'.  Tomorrow is another day.

Dipstick

The journey unexpectedly smooth having caught the luckiest break at Gatwick (by serendipitous chance we arrived 5 minutes before "the herd" to check in for our flights to Portugal) and then The Lish sleeping with Alice in Wonderland vigour the whole way right up until the undercarriage touched destination tarmac, can you blame me for thinking that this could well be the start of what is commonly known as a happy familiy holiday?

Still in shock on arriving at the hotel and settling in without so much as a bicker (well just a little one over who got the bed furthest away from The Lish) I was further amazed when The Silverback didn't have kittens over me watching TV in bed until the wee hours (well, we are on holiday afterall).  Not content with this, the next day decides to open with a resplendent sun hanging high in a cloudless sky with what I can only imagine were angels fanning just the right amount of breeze down onto our surprised and furrowed brows.

The breakfast buffet didn't disappoint though it did surprise, as if tantalising us out of a stupor with fizzy tomato juice and asparagus. Fizzy.

I hate to continue in this vein for it is totally out of character but the luck continued when the nearest beach turned out to be styled like a buddhist-type hidden gem in the Indian ocean.  Any minute now I will wake up with a council tax bill in my hand and a broken pipe in the toilet...no?  Apparently it is no, because the ride continued with the discovery of saltwater pools in the hotel.  OK - where are the cameras? this can't be right.

I'm fully expecting tragedy of Jacobean proportions to befall us.  In expectation, I've hidden passports, cameras, laptops and credit cards.  The Lish is under 24 hour surveillance and The Silverback is on tasting duties lest we be served some bad shellfish - though to be honest I never turn down a bout of diggy dye-dohs to help drop those last few stubborn pounds before a well attended party - in this case a friend's wedding.  Ah yes, the wedding for that is the only way a hot blooded Spaniard can justify a visit to Portugal - I will report back shortly in detail and full colour.

But for now, I'm waiting for the fall, the crack, the short-circuit, the one mosquito with malaria to bite.  In the meantime, I will have to make do with The Germans who so selflessly gave of themselves today to entertain.

Having obviously discovered, like us, that the hotel's pools were saltwater, they being the kings of efficiency felt it would be wise to confirm this outrageous claim by dipping a finger into the pool and tasting it - except they chose the one pool where the salt is likely to come from a far more organic source than the sea (or a shaker)...for they decided to taste, of all pools - the baby pool.  Yep. The. Baby. Pool.

Nevermind efficiency - here comes health and safety.

Laugh? I nearly peed myself.  Guess where?

I'm a Socialite Now

Like London buses, my socialising comes in short bursts and closely grouped together.  Before Friday, I couldn't remember the last time I went out.  I think it was to Electric House for a chi chi dinner - like months ago - with some very lovely PR friends.  Does that count?  At this rate, taking out the rubbish will start to count.

Given the above, last week has to count as a frenzy of activity.  I was out Friday and Sunday!  Gasp!  How does she do it?  Well, with great difficulty it turns out. 

Take Friday, I was looking forward to seeing some old (Oi! less of the old! I hear) friends at a pub in Angel - The George Lamb I believe it was called.  This is a pub hidden among the quiet leafy streets of the North London 'haves'.  It was full of your typical Islingtonian:  Designer jeans, graphic tees, i-Phone, a bit smug, very complacent with enormous egos outsized only by their sense of entitlement. No judgement!!  I fitted right in (for a West London cat). 

Rewind to a few days earlier, as Friday approached, I felt the world famous heaviness of lethargy tuck me in - like a well made hotel bed.  The Silverback coaxed me out of this mood rightly pointing out that I would love it once I got there.  And of course I did.  I love my friends.  I've done nothing but moan about how much I missed them in Canada so yes!  I bucked up my ideas and got myself in the mood.  I did better than that, I had 3 quarters of a bottle of red wine, a pint of house beer and two cocktails.

Many many hours later with i-Pod blaring - the earphones now stuck to my forehead - (having at some point in the night decided I needed to listen to Radio 4) I woke up:  In my own bed (check); appropriately dressed (check); hubby around somewhere (check); Lishy safe (check); handbag on usually hook (check, check-a-doodle-do).

Anyway, I think it was about 4pm Saturday that I actually managed to peel the i-Pod headphones off my forehead and lift my head off the pillow.  Bad idea.  By 6pm my heart rate had just about returned to normal. 

This does not bode well for someone who has decided to become more of a socialite.

If only it had stopped there but of course, when all I wanted to do was remain in a medically induced coma until the following Monday, committed to stirring only when the chores of motherhood dictated upright, homosapien behaviour - it struck me that I had in fact earlier agreed to attend a charity dance...yes...a DANCE (for crying out loud) on Sunday.   ZUMBA no less. 

Feeling like I'd spent Saturday night in the recovery room of St. Mary's Hospital, after a C-section, I dragged my carcass to Maida Vale tube the following evening with the gait used by Kevin Spacey's character in The Usual Suspects.  Nothing left to do but toss a breath fresherner into the woolly hole that passed for a mouth and put my best foot forward. 

And do you know what?  It was hilariously good fun. Thankfully having Googled Zumba I realised the flamenco dress I had selected was indeed a bad wardrobe choice.  With no embalming fluid to hand, I reached for Spandex instead figuring if this was going to be some kind of South American cock dance, I'd better wear something sweatproof, stretchy and easy for emergency services to cut off.  Lucky choice because it turned out to be aerobics on speed.

 It was immediately obvious that a few people hadn't done their research.  They had no doubt imagined something 'more party less perspiration' and were soon struggling to stop their jeans from cutting off circulation to the upper body as rivulets of sweat seeped into the fibres causing them to shrink.

One man in particular who looked like Ozzy Osbourne (as Ozzy would have looked had he not left Birmingham) would revert to a kind of Parkinson-esque, piano fingers, hand jiggle while hopping from one foot to the other (as if what he really needed was the toilet) when he couldn't make out what the steps were.

I was no better mind.  Last night I discovered that I might like music, I might be sort of flexible (for my age) but I dance like a white honky.  Still.  Got rid of the toxins and all for a good cause and now I'm ready to take on ...absolutely nothing for the next couple of weeks at least.

Gone but not Forgotten

Today I discovered that I make things disappear.  All I have to do is set off on a pilgrimage with the sole intention of visiting and POOF! - over at the destination end whatever it is, disappears.  The very thought of a London restaurant or bar or shop from my pre-Canada days appears to activate the self-destruct button the moment I think about it.  It's quite remarkable.  For instance, I decided I needed a pack of Tarot cards.  I learned how to read them in Canada - boredom and desperation drove me to it but then I discovered that I really rather loved reading them;  other people enjoyed having them read and I found the notion of seeing into the future and making sense of the past, strangely comforting.  Anyhoo, my personal pack is in storage along with just about everything useful that I own.

Example: I own some superb kitchen knives yet I chop onions with a butter knife.  I think the phrase is 'lazy-assed'. 

Anyway, Tarot cards.  I set off to a crusty type shop in Neal's Yard that sells crystals, incense and all things Woo Woo only to find that it had 'Gone Fishing'.   It joins a long list of things that have ceased to exist.  Having made the trip to the West End, I thought I might as well have a little walk around.  Casualties included:

• The 'chippie' on Old Compton Street that provided the only solid sustenance to goths, punks and rockers on a Friday night after the Intrepid Fox pub had kicked them (and me & my motley crew) out
• The Hole.  This is a sculpture outside of the Angus Steak House in Leicester Square where said motley crew would meet before jingle jangling into Soho for beer and chips
• The Swiss Centre also in Leicester Square that had a giant working cuckoo clock.  I remember bringing a boyfriend here to show him the wonder of it...yes, you may laugh- he did
• A really good BYO Italian restaurant in Cambridge Circus.  Gone
• CBGBs and The Astoria clubs on Charing Cross Road.  I said WHAT????

I could go on.  Some call it progress but to me it's only progress if it's replaced with something better.  In each case I cannot in all good faith say this has been the case.  So I consoled myself with a little visit to a bookshop on Piccadilly that has been there for eons and has, in the spirit of progress added a fifth floor bar that serves the best chips and view of central London. 

If I squint, I can still see these places just as I remember them.

The Small Print

Listlessly reading The Evening Standard last night after a blah-de-blah day, delaying the inescapable "bedtime routine" with the delightful Lisherlicious (secretly hoping daddy would oblige and bless him he does), I come across a report regarding a gi-normous pharma company that has had to pay out £877 million to patients in the US taking its schizophrenic drug, who now claim to have developed diabetes as a result.

Taking a moment to reflect I think: Well, that's unfortunate. I mean, bad enough you're mad as a box of frogs, now you've developed an appetite the size of a supermarket's snack aisle;  You already have an American-style capacity for eating to begin with, I mean, this is terrible news.

Worse still, the aforementionned pharma company had also, it was claimed been pushing the drug for unapproved uses including insomnia.  So not only can you now not sleep, you've got the sweet-tooth from hell, which if not satiated wouldn't just lead to grumpy exchanges with colleagues and family members, it could positively tip you over the edge - into a coma.

Imagine the police report:

Clinically obese male, caucasian apparently suffering the combined effects of exhaustion and 'severe munchies' has been found unconscious in his kitchen, his hand in a cookie jar.  His condition had been described as stable but ravenous and mad (figuratively speaking not literally, though as we've seen that too is not out of the question.)

Each claimant has received around USD11,000 (that's about £8,500).  Should buy a few chocolate bars.

Irreverent? believe me I know and I pay for it ALL THE TIME. 

School for Scoundrels

Like clockwork, every Friday night, in that time between shuffling home from work, taking a two Fs and an A* shower and repreening for a night on the tiles, the door buzzer goes.  I know from experience it's going to be a young nameless and breathless lady calling for 'John' who lives in the flat next door.  I direct them accordingly and then forget all about it until just after chucking out time when Johnny Boy and his latest prey return.

I'm usually watching the end of 'Lisa Williams: Life among the Dead' - a very talented medium with hair like Limahl - when I'm reminded by a tower-shaking slam of the door to the building...FOUR FLOORS DOWN that loves young dream is back.   A stampede not unlike that of a herd of elephants in the wild out-running humans with firearms completes the routine followed by the tell tale creaking of horizontal olympics.

All TWO minutes of it. 

Got to hand it to the boy.  He gets it every Friday and he never repeats. Put it this way, if you have a good eye for detail and a photographic memory - you'll be wasting your talents here cos you won't be coming back.

Now I don't know if he deliberately gives them the wrong flat number or whether he doesn't give them his address at all.  Perhaps he gives them just enough of his address to make sure they get the right door and then leaves the girls to guess the number of his flat using the 'Joey Tribiani' method of counting across and up.  An endurance test? A test of true love?  or perhaps he's just a little bit of a wanker. 

Or as The Silverback says: Legend or Devil?

*Face, fanny and armpits...Emily Bronte...I. Am. Not. (sadly)

Tickled Pink

Oh thank god.  I'm back in business.  After losing the laptop to the virus equivalent of Mordor (hence my absence from these here frivolous pages) - I decided to get myself a dinky, fit-for-purpose little Sony Vaio (pink, of course) which I intend to use for social media and social full-stop purposes PERIOD as they say in the States.  In addition, I invested in an external drive just in case I go into download overdrive or actually get around to finishing my 'magnus opus' and find that 250GBs isn't enough to store those precocious words. Given its tiny processor capacity (by comparison), the Vaio has the added benefit of letting me know if I've crossed the line byte-wise.  For instance, if it starts to huff and wheeze with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease gusto I know it's time to take it down a notch.  My kind of performance indicator.

Sadly along with the motherboard of my old laptop go 5 year's worth of memories and I don't recommend the feeling.  So like Carrie Bradshaw, I now back up.  It's a small outlay compared to the sentimental losses I may have just incurred.  I mean, you can invest in a back-up system or you can invest in a heart of glass and cultivate an enormous sense of entitlement.  Just make sure you bring a hearty list of obfuscating vocabulary to the customer services desk of whichever snake pit of electronic con merchants you were forced to buy from if you decide to take the aristocratic path.

Computer Boy will tell me soon whether there is more than a page of illegible script worth recovering.  I don't even want to think about it.

Still, a pink Sony Vaio...every cloud.

Must dash - the keyboard is spitting sawdust.

The More Things Change

I got back from France last night.  I took The Lish and The Silverback to meet an old friend and mentor who lives in a tiny village just outside of Perpignan, very close to the Spanish border and extremely close to my heart.  It had been 11 years since I'd last seen her and 19 years since I was a teaching assistant at the French Lycee in Andorra where she is the Head of English.  The car ride from the airport felt like a bleep of a heart monitor as I enthusiastically asked about everyone I knew and voraciously imbibed the resulting information.  The rest of our admittedly short stay however, soon became a continuous loop of sedate continental mornings, refreshing dips in the nearby lake seeping into effervescent evening strolls in the shadow of the Catalan Pyrenees.  Here is its crowning glory - le Canigou:

Though time has passed for us both in linear terms and 'stuff' has happened, nothing else has changed.  She remains a fragile and generous soul and I'm still that little girl in a big wide world (with a serious case of the mashuganahs) who arrived in 1992 in her Doc Martin boots, torn leggings and hennaed hair convinced that the local 'tabac' in a village of maybe 800 people (some of whom could still clearly remember the fascism of WWII)  would sell New Musical Express (NME) or Rolling Stone.  The village has doubled in size, the tabac still exists and continues to eschew english language music rags.  

While for me the trip has been a tonic, The Silverback got into all manner of clandestine talks with my friend about 'La Resistance' and the noble Maquis of the south, having long been into the politics of war. 

Meanwhile, I got into the politics of gender having spotted the autobiography of Baroness Shirley Williams, leader of the Social Democrat Party in the 80s (that later became the Liberal Democrat Party) on the bookshelves of the bedroom we were using.  And likewise I'm now on a mission to read Mrs William's mother's books on pacifism and gender.  I love it when I stumble on stuff like this.  I had no idea.

The Lish meanwhile discovered 'la baguette' and has 3 kilos around her midriff to show for it.  It's back on the scooter for her. 

Take your time summer, the job market sucks and Portugal signals.