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.