Boston Bound

During Christmas-time 2008, the extended "H" family gathered in New England. BlogMama, Hubster and TeenE boarded a plane at Heathrow (see previous entry). Son revved up the 1998 Chevy Venture minivan formerly owned by his mother, and sped northward from the Carolinas. After a brief stop in Belmont at the home of Dr. Erica, we all rendezvoused in Manchester, NH, at the home of my in-laws Nana and Granddad, in Hubster’s childhood home.

We were preceded by a gigantic ice storm, the likes of which New Hampshire had never seen before. Nana and Granddad themselves had had to evacuate to a hotel as they had neither heat nor hot water in the sub-freezing weather. I have subsequently heard reports that other people were without power for up to eleven days. Crews worked around the clock to restore power throughout the region. By the time we arrived, power had been restored and N and G were back in residence.

We awoke in the am to find that Santa had left a few things under the tree. He imported a few things from London, in the form of a magenta lambswool scarf-boa (me), a magenta cashmere vest (me), Roman roof tiles (Hubster, Son and Granddad), a hand-knit red beaded shawl (Nana), London, The Biography (Granddad) and a Beatles wallet (son). TeenE also received her requested Ugg-type boots and Son his requested electronic pre-amp for his bass guitar (cuts down on feedback, I’m told).

The plan for Christmas luncheon was for Hubster’s sister and her husband, aka NH-Sis and NH-Bro-i-L t, along with their girls cuzzins Nejjy and Sejjy, to host the clan at their spacious residence in nearby Bedford, NH. Other Brother UncaTom and his wife AuntTom were also to attend, along with NH-BroiL’s mother, bringing the total to thirteen. Before noon we piled into two vehicles and set out for Bedford, but not before Nana stayed behind with the dryer while it finished Son’s load of laundry. (See posting from Sept. to determine why she will not leave the house with dryer running).

As we entered the family room at the NH-Sis and NH-Broil’s lovely colonial home, we felt the warmth of a fire in the fireplace. As we removed our boots, we glanced into the open door of the attached garage, and were surprised to see two banquet tables all laid out with Christmas place-settings and wineglasses. The crowd of thirteen had been deemed too large to fit in the dining room, and with the youngest among us now 14, a “kid’s table” in the adjacent living room was deemed unseemly.
Please bear in mind that this is the cleanest garage you will ever see. Not a speck of dust or dirt was evident. It was as if NH-BroiL had sterilized it somehow. Beige area rugs covered the floor, the walls were a pristine white, not a shred of anything cluttered the walls. The only other furnishings were a folding table serving as a wine bar, and a seating area for two over in one corner. Two space heaters with fans kept us at room, or should I say, garage temperature.
After enjoying festive drinks and hors d-oevres in the living room, we lined up in the kitchen to fill our plates with roast crown of pork, potatoes, gravy, homemade applesauce, green beans, etc., and then repaired to the garage, er, banquet hall, to enjoy the feast. A dessert of pecan pie or pumpkin chiffon pie (or a sliver of each) topped off the meal. It almost took a forklift to get everyone back into the main house afterwards.

I was joined at the sink by NH-BroiL’s mother, who wiped as I washed. We put away the leftovers, loaded the dishwasher, and washed everything that didn’t fit . After that, still jet-lagged, we were ready to go back to our various beds/sofas at Nana and Granddad’s.

I hope that Christmas in the Garage continues as an “H” family tradition. It certainly made this year memorable!
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Sick Again (another Led Zep title for the uninitiated)

Hubster had been sick with the "Hucghhhhhk" (so named by comedian Billy Crystal), which is what we call the sore throat and cough virus that has been making the rounds here. He even stayed home from work for a whole day, which is almost unheard of. I warned TeenE that she had better get a flu shot well before the production week of the play, which she did. We found out a week later that the particlar germ involved in producing the "Hucghhhhhhk" was NOT, in fact, covered by this year's influenza vaccine, or last year's, even. On that Friday, there was no school due to a teacher's conference day. I went for my second-ever shift as a volunteer at the local hospice. When I left the flat at 10:30 am she had not yet been seen. When I arrived home at 1:45 pm there was no sign of life, so I knocked on her door. No answer, or was that a faint moan? I peeked in, and all I could see was a lump under the duvet. Dr. Mom was in the house. I brought tea. She had already taken Ibuprofen.

Sadly, the timing of the arrival of the "Hucghhhhhk" coincided with some important social plans TeenE had made. These plans had to be cancelled. She rallied miraculously on Saturday, however, just in time to sing at the concert the school was giving for area OAP's (Old Age Pensioners). Her miraculous healing also allowed her to attend a birthday party. I walked her and her friend TeenH up Finchley road about 1/4 mile in the pouring rain. "Do you HAVE to come? We know the way!" was the hue and cry that night. Yes, I did, I insisted. My job was to make sure that there was an adult home. I was assuaged when the Dad opened the door, and I made my way back to the flat in an extremely soggy condition.

On Sunday I was sorry. I now had the "Hucghhhhhk", despite having gone for my own flu shot the previous Wednesday. I slept until 2 pm. I realized that I was not going to be able to attend TeenE's choral concert that her school was presenting as a benefit for the soup kitchen affiliated with the American Church in London. And TeenE had a solo, too. I spent a very, very sorry afternoon and evening on the sofa, too tired to blog or even knit. Hubster reported that the concert was wonderful and that TeenE did a marvelous job with her solo. They were driven home by MomT from across the street. I think their trip was something like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. "Red Light!" Hubster is reported to have shouted at least once. I saw MomT a few days later and she asked if Hubster had told me about their ride home.

I was up and about again by Tuesday, rallying just in time for the festive Christmas Luncheon at the Landmark Hotel with 100 other members of the St. John's Wood Women's Club. The Landmark is a Victorian-era behemoth with high, conservatory-style glass ceiling in the heart of the Paddington neighborhood. The champagne reception started at 11:30, followed by a three-course lunch with wine. That crew sure likes to eat and drink. As long as they keep offering the walks, we'll be OK. I am happy to report that more than one scale (which may or may not be in need of recalibration) shows a net weight loss of ONE whole kilogram, (equal to 2.2 lbs.), several pairs of trousers no longer need to be unfastened to effect their removal. Hips and thighs have given way to massive quads and toned calves, or so I like to think. Perhaps some shopping will be in my future when we are in the US for Christmas. Door prizes were given at the lunch, and my name was called. I had to choose from two wrapped packages on my table. One was shaped exactly like a gift box for a bottle of wine, while the other was smaller and flatter. I went for the smaller one, hoping for chocolates. Instead, I was delighted to find a small hand-bound leather notebook, just the right size for jotting down blog-related notes. A perfect note on which to end a delightful afternoon. I tottered up the road and got onto the bus, arriving at A Flat on Abbey Road in under fifteen minutes.

A Muddy Heath Hike

The early December day dawned clear when the first light broke around 8 am. I got up early to seize the day, and to join some of the dedicated walking women of the St. John’s Wood Women’s Club. Our goal was to hike around the open heathland in the north of London known as Hampstead Heath for a few hours and then repair to a pub for lunch.

We were advised to wear sturdy walking shoes, and to bring plastic bags to put over our shoes when we entered the pub in the event of muddy conditions on the heath. It had not rained for a several days so I was confident that the going would be smooth. The morning mist had risen by the time I made my way down in the clankity antique gated elevator and hit Abbey Road running. I had taken a little too much time adjusting the insoles of the walking shoes and knew I’d have to run for the number 46 bus that would take me ten minutes up the road to Hampstead. Sure enough, as I rounded the corner onto Circus Road (my new favorite “back” way to the “Hi” Street) I could see a #46 bus charging across the intersection towards the nearest stop. I put on a burst of speed, ran to the stop, and flagged down the bus as I ran. The correct way of flagging down a bus is to wave one’s little plastic card-holder that holds the electronic bus pass. I must have been quite a sight flapping down the pavement. This was the last possible bus I could catch in order to make the rendezvous point in time.

I looked around and didn’t see any other riders that might fit the description of over-forty American walker. At the next stop, however, three chatty American moms boarded and I gave them a little wave. Phew! The group waiting up at the Hampstead Underground stop would certainly have to wait for the four of us.

There was a group of women standing outside of the Underground entrance. In fact, they were thoroughly blocking the entrance AND preventing passers-by from using the sidewalk (pavement). This is a well-known American thing to do (see previous post on London City Garden tour), so I knew I was in the right place. The parade marshall ticked off our names on her list as we waited for two women across the street to get the green light so they could cross. It was the other woman with the same surname as me, and her 70-ish mother, visiting from the Boston area. One of the ladies activated her GPS so we could track mileage, and we were herded around the corner onto Flask Walk. After a brief orientation to that corner of Hampstead, off we went at a brisk pace toward one of the paths that lead into the Heath.

Family members, especially TeenE and Hubster, know that I like to walk fast. They are always asking me to slow down, and saying things like “Why do you have to walk so fast?!” Answer: Because that’s the way I walk. I blame this on having grown up in the greater New York City area, where if you don’t walk aggressively fast you will never make it through the crowds. This crowd of middle-aged women, however, went markedly faster than my usual pace. I would have been consistently left in their dust had there been any dry soil in evidence. Despite the dry weather, there were patches of mud that ranged from slightly damp to boggy muck and on to a veritable quagmire. The leather walking shoes were taking a beating. I should have worn the new boots. Oh Wellies.

We crossed and re-crossed every possible path on the Heath. Starting at Downshire Hill, we went northeast to the Vale of Heath and the swans on the pond there, back toward the center, over to the northeast again, crossed Spaniard’s road, made our way through Sandy Heath. This is a lovely wood filled with chestnut and beech trees. The wet copper-gilt leaves carpeted the undulating terrain. Steep mounds of sand left by a melting glacier eons ago are now populated with mature trees in what could be a faerie wood. Yet on we marched, driven on by our relentless leader, who seemed bent on showing us every possible pub at every possible corner of the Heath. From Sandy Heath we crossed onto the East Heath Extension and then across North End Road. I realized that I was literally around the corner from my old 1978 address at 849 Finchley Road. We paused to look at a beautiful small building that used to be a school, then back into the Heath via Hogarth Way, or Drive, or House. Every house on that street claims to have been lived in by the artist Hogarth. I’m pretty sure we retraced our steps back through Sandy Heath, then we were off past another historic building INSIDE the Heath borders, and over to The Pergola, a huge trellised garden with autumn plants of every description still in bloom despite the mid-December date. Our pace was such that if one stopped to take even one photo you would become hopelessly left behind.

The old Girl Scout hiking adage “Slowpokes in the front” as voiced ad nauseum by older sister NYSis was to no avail. They were pressing on so determinedly that the slowpokes never had a chance to GET to the front. And right up there with them was the other Mrs. H. and her Mother.

And we’re off again, this time to Kenwood House at the northern edge of the main Heath. This is a white Georgian-fronted building currently housing an art museum. Fans of “Notting Hill” may remember that Julia Robert’s character was being filmed in a costume drama in front of this very façade. Finally, we stopped so that many of the middle-aged women could use the loo. Not me. I was so parched from the pace we had been keeping that all I could think about was finding a bottle of water, but I didn’t want to get separated from the group, so I prayed that we would come in for a landing at our destination pub soon.

Our next leg was over to the Highgate side of the Heath. Coming down a hill we ran into a patch where the frost on the grass had frozen solid over four inches of rutted mud. It was a good thing that this area had not yet thawed. Soon we were where the “bathing ponds” are. At least they are identified as such on every map. I always assumed that the names of the ponds were an anachronism. My previous trips through the Heath, both in 1978 and 2006 had never revealed the pond’s real nature to me. Yes, they really are still used as “bathing” ponds. The Women’s Bathing Pond is reserved for women and children. There are other bathing ponds for men and for mixed doubles, I assume. They have changing rooms, loos, lifeguards, a diving board, etc. A sign informed us that due to the fact that there was ice on the surface of the women’s bathing pond, swimmers should use the mens’ or general facilities for today. A lifeguard came out of the office to chat with us. She said that there are some people who come for a dip every day of the year. The water temp was shown on the chalkboard to be 3 degrees centigrade. Ducks and geese floated around the far perimeter of the pond. In a tree nearby, a flock of green parakeets (just like the ones in the film The Wild Parakeets of Telegraph Hill, set in San Francisco, CA) raised a racket.

After a brief stop to inspect the diving platform, we were urged onward. This time the path took us up and over Parliament Hill, the highest spot in the greater London area, where city-dwellers have retreated in times of trouble, such as the Great London Fire of 1666. The whole expanse of the London skyline lays to the south. Scenes in “Notes on a Scandal” with Judy Dench and Kate Winslet chatting on a bench were filmed here. On we pressed, finally crossing through a hundred yards of wet, gloppy mud. Some of us had repeated scuffed through wet grass to remove the mud which had accumulated on our shoes. All of this effort was for naught as we schlepped through that last morass of moistness. Even the caked on mud got a good coating. Fortunately, no one slipped, as we had slowed our pace considerably.

We FINALLY came to a halt at the side of a busy road. The civilization was once more in sight, although we had never been further than a mile or so from it at any time on our “walk”. It was precisely 12:30, our target arrival time for lunch. We had walked 7 miles, including several stops. Those who were going to lunch repaired to The FreeMason’s Arms, where we quaffed pint of tapwater in preparation for the beers we were about to imbibe. We had preordered the food, which arrived soon. Once I caught my breath and the kidneys were working again, I enjoyed country pate on toast with cornichon pickles, followed by gnocchi with a pumpkin cream sauce, and finally a decadent chocolate gooey something that I absolutely could not finish. All this was consumed in the company of my 12 newest best friends. The talk was the usual chit-chat; kids, flats, neighbors (one lady lives next door to a man who has a screamer for a girlfriend, she has trouble explaining that to her kids: “Mommy, what is that noise? Why is she making that noise?”) They spent a reported 15,000 pounds soundproofing the common wall. Then, kids again, kids' illnesses, and discussions of the health care system and providers in general. Two women told me how wonderful their doctor is. “Let me guess!” I said.

I finally pried myself out of there at about half past two, and took the #46 bus back to A Flat on Abbey Road. My plan was to rest up for the next outing that evening, which shall be described separately.

The Play's the Thing

TeenE has been spending most of her time in rehearsals for the American School in London’s high school theatre production. This year they are putting on “And Then They Came For Me: Remembering the Life of Anne Frank”. She is among the “company”, meaning she has a background part. We have had to purchase “character shoes”, fortunately on sale at Capezio in Soho, and a beige leotard. More on that later…

The play was written with the support of the Anne Frank foundation. Two Holocaust survivors who knew Anne were interviewed for the production. These interviews were presented as part of the production, projected on a backdrop. One of the survivors now lives in St. John’s Wood, London, and was involved heavily in this production. Eva Geiringer Schloss came to talk to the cast, giving background information for the actors’ portrayals of the main characters. After each performance, she took questions from the audience. As the director noted, our children’s generation will be the last to hear witness from those who lived through the Holocaust.

I wasn’t sure what to expect, but knew that the production would be emotionally challenging. I was right. I had purchased tickets for two of the performances, but was only able to sit through one. It was an extremely powerful presentation of how the lives of innocents were subsumed and annihilated by the evil of hatred. The play made clear the escalation of injustice and the scale of the atrocities inflicted on the Jews, gypsies, mentally ill, homosexuals, on a very personal level. Anne Franks’ friends Eva, whom we met, and Ed both had their families broken apart and spent time at Auschwitz. Eva was taken on her fifteenth birthday. This was made especially poignant as many of the cast members were that age. After the liberation of the camps, Eva was reunited with her mother, and with Anne Frank’s father Otto, who later became her stepfather. Eva, now 80, has, through the vehicle of this play, encouraged us to speak out against those who hate.

The most challenging scene in the play for me to watch was when the cast members, after being taken to Auschwitz by cattlecar, were led behind a backlit screen and made to strip by the Nazis. Only their silhouetted shadows could be seen as they stripped down to their beige leotards; it gave a very real illusion, and I could certainly recognize TeenE’s shape in the center of the screen. Later these same screens had images of the burning chimneys of the crematorium and the associated sounds of the ovens. I wound up huddled in a little ball in my seat, as if closing off my energy field could possibly protect me from the grief and horror of what was being depicted on stage. There was a horrified hush among the capacity crowd, and sounds of sniffles and sobs began.

At the end of the play, the playwright somehow brought us to the present, with Eva and Ed being shown on the screens as they neared age 80, and we felt hopeful for humanity again. But the fact that Anne Frank herself never left Auschwitz alive, never married, never had children or grandchildren, was made very clear.

Several cast members and their families are also cared for by the good Dr. D., so we invited him to the production as our guest. I was glad to have the additional moral support on Opening Night. Hubster had a “conference” with the guys after work so was unable to attend until Saturday night. After having witnessed this powerfully moving production, the parents and community were all impressed at the high quality of the production; it was not at all like the student production we were expecting. Kudos to the theatre department at ASL, especially Mr. Buck Heron, for putting on this important and moving production.

If you wish to find out more about the US-based organization Teaching Tolerance, which fights hate crimes and publishes a Teaching Tolerance curriculum for schools, visit http://www.tolerance.org/
Through them, I was able to support the Holocaust Memorial Museum when it was being built, and to dedicate a plaque in honor of my father, who along with hundreds of others in the army, was on hand to witness the liberation of one of the concentration camps.

Blessings to those who help us remember, and whose witnessing is a light shining in the darkness. Blessings also to those, who through their artistic talents, bring the message to the world.

Thanksgiving in London/TeenE sings at St. Paul's Cathedral

Thanksgiving: it is not just a verb about being in a grateful state of mind. To Americans, the word “Thanksgiving” conjures up thoughts of home, of time spent with family, of a “traditional” menu, and of course, of watching game after game of football.

Our first Thanksgiving in London had many traditional American elements, but was also endowed with a British accent. The three of us went to church, feasted on a traditional turkey dinner, watched TV, and took a walk. This description hardly does justice, however, to the Old World setting in which this all took place.

The grocery shopping for the Thanksgiving feast took a completely different form. In our hometown of Belmont, Massachusetts, the shopping would have started the week before the cooking got started. A large turkey would have been obtained. If frozen, it would be defrosted in the refrigerator starting on the Sunday before the holiday. A 14 to 20 pound bird takes at least three days to defrost. Wine would be obtained from the liquor store. Several trips to the supermarket would ensure that all the required elements were on hand. Undoubtedly, Hubster would make at least one last-minute run for whatever we had forgotten. All of this running around would be conducted in the ten-year-old red minivan. We would start cooking the night before. Wine would be chilled. The house would be cleaned for company. Pumpkin pies would be baked, if there would be room to store them overnight in the fridge. Perhaps the mashed potatoes or the sweet potato casserole would be prepared in advance. Even the “traditional” green bean casserole (made with cream-of-mushroom soup and festooned with crispy onion rings—did they Pilgrims have that on their menu?) could be prepared ahead. A last minute check would be made on the “cranberry sauce situation”. Some years we would have two kinds, both the jelly version that comes out in the shape of the can, and a chunky version that I make myself. I will never forget our first Thanksgiving as a married couple in 1986, when we hosted the meal in our tiny “married student apartment” at Dartmouth College in Hanover, NH. Hubster’s parents his sister (NHsis) and his youngest brother Tom drove up from their NH home 70 miles away, while my brother Bill took the Amtrak “Montrealer” train from NYC to White River Junction. That particular year I made a homemade cranberry-orange sauce, and it was utterly rejected by Tom. I’ve never made that mistake again. I also made a chestnut-based stuffing/dressing that was NOT a hit. Ever since, I’ve made the traditional Bahlke family Pepperidge Farm stuffing mix with crumbled sweet Italian sausage. Since Son became a vegetarian in 2005, I’ve made some stuffing with the sausage, and some without.
The family Thanksgiving also includes an appearance of the china and crystal we received as wedding gifts, one of the two or three times a year that our finery sees the light of day.
This year we had to reinvent Thanksgiving the “ex-pat” way. On Wednesday, I took the underground to High Street Kensington, to visit the Whole Foods grocery store. Yes, this is the same Whole Foods that is located in Cambridge, Mass, which Hubster likes to call “Whole Paycheck”. One can buy deliciously fresh, high quality produce, meats, cheese, grains, etc. for high quality prices. The food is delicious however, and the brand’s emphasis on wholesome freshness without additives or trans-fats makes it worth the extra coinage if one wants to play that game.

Whole Foods are no dummies, and cleverly arranged to be at the St. John’s Wood Women’s Club Member’s Marketplace in early November. That is where I picked up the brochure for a catered Thanksgiving dinner. Hubster and I were sure we didn’t want to spend the whole day in the kitchen cooking a turkey with all the traditional side dishes just to feed the three of us. The miniature size of our flat precludes inviting more than one or two other people, but we didn’t feel like entertaining anyway. Many of our American School friends had taken off for European or Middle Eastern destinations, so our favorite people weren’t even available to combine forces at some other house.

For “only” thirty-six pounds, we could get an already-prepared meal that we would just have to heat up. This is considerably less than we would have paid to eat out, even if we could have found a place that served a traditional roast turkey menu. (They seem to eat that on Christmas here). For our money, we received two already-cooked turkey breasts, cornbread stuffing, gravy, cranberry-orange relish, mashed potatoes, pureed butternut squash with nuts, green beans with shallots (not quite crispy onion rings, but…) and an apple crumble. This was advertised as meal “for two”. We figured it would feed the three of us easily, and we were not disappointed. There were enough leftovers for us to have them TWICE.

The meal had been ordered by telephone, but they were not taking credit card payments over the phone. One had to go to the store and pay for the order. Also, “free” delivery was only if the order was over 50 pounds, which ours was not. So while in the store I had to pad the order with additional items. Throwing a few things in the cart, including wine, brought the total to 72 pounds, about what it costs to feed the three of us for a week at Sainsbury’s.
I made my way back to the flat by underground, and the the food was delivered at 5 pm that night. Everything was cleverly allocated space in the tiny fridge.

We got up early (for a day off) on Thursday. TeenE was slated to sing at St. Paul’s Cathedral for the Tgiving day service there. She had been attending many choir rehearsals with her friend TeenA across the street, whose parents offered to get them there by taxi. She had just had the sole of her foot operated on the day before (see previous posting) and couldn’t walk easily. So out the door she went at 7:45 am. Hubster and BlogMama followed at around 9 by underground. Once at St. Paul’s, the famous steps were cordoned off by security barriers. We went through a bag-check. The gentleman was very thorough. We entered the sanctuary through the huge revolving doors and made our way down the aisle after being greeted by vergers or some such C of E personages.

The mother of another one of TeenE’s friends, MomS, had saved us seats waaaay up front. The church has concentric rings of chairs right underneath the dome, and we found ourselves in the fourth row of those, so were almost underneath the geometric center of the dome, with a great view of the narthex, the pulpit, and the choir stalls. We chatted with MomS, whose husband was in Mumbai at the time of the bombings there the night before. Thankfully he was safe, but the thoughts of everyone in the church were on that situation. The three rows ahead of us were reserved for members of the American Embassy, so that helped to explain the high security out front. We learned that the security dogs had come through before the choir arrived, and that the only way to get into the church as a choir member was to show your music as your security pass.

While we were waiting for the service to begin, Hubster spotted his former boss, BossD, among the thousands milling around. We said hello, found his wife in the crowd, and did the traditional mwanh/mwanh two-cheek kissy thing. They are originally from Zimbabwe, and due to the political situation there can never go back. They currently reside in London, and BossD is still a colleague of Hubster’s.

Here is the order of worship for St. Paul’s Thanksgiving Day service-Nov 27, 2008
The service began with music played by the “sub-organist” at St. Paul’s. The Magnificat Primi Toni by Buxtehude, and Prelude and Fugue in A minor by J.S. Bach resonated through the magnificent cathedral. The Dean and Chapter left the Dean’s Aisle and proceeded to the Great West Doors of the cathedral, where they received the Ambassador of the United States of America and his wife Mrs. Robert H. Tuttle.

Then, College of Minor Canons, the visiting Clergy, and the College of Canons left the Dean’s Aisle and proceeded to the places in the Quire. We all stood as the Ambassador and Mrs. Tuttle were escorted by the Dean and Chapter to their places under the Dome. The color Guard, made up of Marines who were Iraq war veterans, (3 men and 1 woman) presented the colors at the Dome Altar while the congregation sang the hymn Come, Ye Thankful People, Come.
This was followed by the Bidding, given by the Dean, the Right Reverend Graeme Knowles, and the Lord’s Prayer. Then, the combined choirs of the American Church in London and the International Community Church in Surrey (home church for BossD and his wife.) sang the anthem, consisting of words from Psalm 69, 9, 12, music by Charles Villiers Stanford. The first lesson, Isaiah 12, 1-6, was read by the Reverend Canon Lucy Winkett, Precenter and Canon in Residence. The second hymn to be sung by the 3,000-plus congregation was We Gather Together to Ask the Lord’s Blessing, which has its roots in an old Dutch hymn. The second lesson was from Colossians 3, 12-17, read by Vivian Hunt, a congregant of the American Church in London.

There followed the Explanation of Need, and the Offering, which was designated to be given to the Camden and City Churches Cold Weather Shelter. Once again the combined choirs of the two American Churches sang an anthem, Come Holy Ghost, words by John Cosin (1594-1672), music by Thomas Attwood (1765-1838). Then came President Bush’s Proclamation, read by the Honorable Robert H. Tuttle. Afterwards, there were prayers of thanksgiving and intercession led by two women ministers and three students, one of whom attends the American School in London with TeenE. Another hymn, this time Now Thank We All Our God, a German hymn by Martin Rinkart (1586-1649) to the tune Nun Danket (J. Cruger, 1598-1662).

This brought us to the sermon, given by the Reverend Dr. Barry Gaeddert of the International Community Church. After this, the congregation was “invited” to stand and sing America the Beautiful (words by Katherine Lee Bates—illustrious president of my alma mater Wellesley College), music “Materna” by Samuel A. Ward., during which the colors were retired by the color guard. Finally, the Dean gave the blessing, the Dean and Chapter escorted the Ambassador of the United States of America and Mrs. Robert H. Tuttle to the Great West Doors, and the College of Minor Canons, the visiting Clergy, and the College of Canons returned to the Dean’s Aisle. The organ voluntary Incantation pour un jour saint (Jean Langlais, 1907-91) played them out.

Being Congregationalists who sprang from the spiritual roots of our Pilgrim forebears, all of the pomp and ceremony that made up the service was new to me. I wondered what the Pilgrims, who left England for the freedom to worship in their plain, unadorned and NON-Church of England way, would think of this service. It did, of course, contain all the “traditional” hymns that we’ve all sung since grade school (even singing many of them IN school, before it became non-PC to sing about God in school).

Of course, the church service was not complete without the comment by Hubster that all the gilt and glory should be sold off and the proceeds donated to the poor. Cathedrals leave him cold.
We had some difficulty meeting up with TeenE afterward, as she was whisked down to the crypt and exited out a side door, while we were left milling around near the altar trying to get a message to her.As we were waiting outside on the West Front steps, our neighbors MomT and DadT were still inside, and were accosted for an interview by a reporter for the NYTimes, doing an article on how the changing economy was affecting Americans in London. See link for the article:

The best part of the whole gorgeous, ineffable experience was knowing that our beautiful TeenE’s voice was among those soaring to the great vault and inspiring us all to attain communion with something higher and better than ourselves, no matter what the state of our beliefs. Only the day before she had been in the hospital of St. John and St. Elizabeth sitting next to a photo of St. Paul's having her foot operated on by the good Dr. D., and the next she was part of the service within the great cathedral. We are grateful for all our blessings, no matter how far from our family and friends we may be.

We eat, drink, and see that musician guy

December 8th, 2008

It was twenty-eight years ago today that I had a call from my High School buddy Jason at around 10 pm. He told me that John Lennon had been shot and killed in New York City. I refused to believe it, saying "That's not funny". He finally convinced me that it was true. We talked and cried a bit and then I hung up and turned on the radio. The DJ on WZLX was crying, and asking people to call in requests. I called and got through right away, and requested George Harrison's "Isn't it a Pity". This made the DJ cry again.

It was so sad. I wore black to work for two weeks straight.

I was reminded of this as I passed the wrought iron fence in front of the Abbey Road Studios today on my way home from a long day out. There were two bunches of flowers, and a note of remembrance. I wondered what, if anything, Sir Paul might be doing today as he remembered his friend and colleague.

Hubster and I had formulated a plan to go up to a pub called the Clifton, on Clifton Hill in St. John's Wood, about seven streets north on Abbey Road. We enjoyed our two-for-the-price-of-one steaks and a glass of Erdinger white beer and headed out into the night.

As we walked along, Hubster announced "I want to cross the street, and so I shall". I dutifully followed him. After about ten seconds of walking, a man approached us out of the darkness. I had a quick look, and it was Sir Paul. He saw me looking his way, and looked out toward the street. That was my sign to look down as we passed and completely ignore him. I decided that he must have mastered the art of avoidance long ago, almost like the Jedi mind trick. "There is nothing to interest you here".

Hubster walked on in oblivion. I waited a good twenty seconds before I said "did you see who that was?" He didn't believe me, and still thinks I am making it up. I am reliably informed, however that Sir Paul's daughter lives on that street, and that he is often seen in the Clifton. Perhaps he was going there to lift a pint in memory of John. I hope so.

Trampled Underfoot (title of Led Zeppelin tune)

Oops. A few weeks ago I was awakened by the sound of glass breaking. I thought it was coming from the kitchen, and also thought I heard the sounds of someone throwing away large shards of glass. I rolled over and went back to sleep. This was the first mistake.

Later that morning, TeenE came to show me that her toe was bleeding. She mentioned that she had stepped on some broken glass In Her Room. That was my first clue that it hadn't been an accident in the kitchen. The radiator covers in each room are topped with granite slabs, so the glass of water she keeps at her bedside had somehow run afoul of the stone. The general slovenly state of her bedroom floor meant that she couldn't see all the tiny slivers that were now embedded in the berber-style carpet.

I told her to wash her foot, stick a bandage on her toe, and be on her way to school. I went into her room, removed the piles of clothes from the floor with a backhoe, and Hoovered the heck out of her rug.

Cut to two weeks later. She comes to tell me that her foot hurts. This time it is the ball of the foot, not the toe, and it looks slightly puffy and tender to the touch. She tells me that she "thinks" that during the intial incident, she "may" have had a second cut in that exact spot, but that she couldn't find anything there at the time.

It is now the Tuesday night before Thanksgiving, and I have visions of waiting in a hospital ER for hours while we are supposed to be in church or dining on turkey. Also, TeenE is supposed to sing in a choir for a special T-giving service (more on that later) and really shouldn't miss the last rehearsal on Wed. night.

Fortunately, during a bus trip to Blenheim Palace a week before, I sat with MomT. I remembered that I had recommended our fabulous Dr. D. to her a few months back. I enquired if she had followed up on that. Yes, she had, and was happy to report that the ubiquitous Dr. D. had done some minor surgery on her toe and was absolutely brilliant at both that, and in giving a painless flu shot. Aha!! Through the wonders of the internet, I was in touch with him within a few hours. He said it didn't sound too bad and that it might be able to wait. Phew.

The next day there was no school at ASL. By the time TeenE got up late and then showed me her foot, it was mid-day. The affected part was a little tender to the touch, but it looked fine. My intuition said "make the call", however, so a quick call to the secretary had us booked in for later that afternoon.

TeenE was scared and quite freaked out when Dr. D. said he might need to make a small incision in her foot and "poke around" (I believe that's the medical term he used) to find any "spicules" of glass. Now there's a word I've never heard before. He gloved up and wielded the local anesthetic. Within a few moments he declared that she had an abcess, and spent quite some time exploring. I was asked to assist, by opening a drawer and finding the right kind of swab, then opening the package and handing the swab to the gloved-up professional.

One stitch later (which really freaked her out, too) and she was ready to go. She couldn't get out of there fast enough. Of course I left the good doctor with a plate of pumpkin-nut "bikkies", short for biscuits, which are cookies.

I'm off now to retreive TeenE from school to go back and get her stitch taken out, as well as receive a "painless" flu jab.

Dig It (title of Beatles tune)

Monday morning held the promise of participating in an activity that might not appeal to everyone. With my love of ancient history, walking on the beach, and unusual adventures, the invitation to go “mudlarking” on the Thames was too intriguing to pass up. I’ve always wanted to join in on an archeological dig, and this was a good opportunity to practice what I call “archeology by intuition”, asking myself where I should look, dig, or scavenge based on my sixth sense of where things would be found.

Mudlarking is essentially scavenging or “beachcombing” along the banks of the Thames at low tide. I did not realize how extreme the tides were in the river. One can see from the bridges and embankments that the river’s flow sometimes slows down or stops altogether, but I never realized that large swatches of riverbank become exposed during the extreme low tides.

My mudlarking invitation was issued by StitcherJane, at whose home we meet on Thursdays for Stitchery Group. She has an avid interest in historical London, and informed us that we would find bits of artifacts from hundreds of years ago. We rendezvoused at Cannon Street station so that we would walk down the hill on Cousin’s Lane and wind up at the Thames between Southwark Bridge and London Bridge. There were some very slimy steps leading down to what she referred to as the “foreshore”.

I had been duly warned to dress warmly, as it can be quite windy at the level of the river. Indeed, when I woke up on Monday morning, it was overcast and 39 degrees F. I made sure I was wearing layers and a waterproof jacket for the inevitable rain. I had also donned my brand-new Wellies, which are waterproof boots. StitcherJane had also recommended bringing germ-proof latex gloves. In addition to those, my backpack also contained: plastic bags for storing the “haul”, germicidal hand-gel, a towel, in case anyone got wet, a warm wool hat, warm gloves to wear underneath the industrial-strength latex cleaning gloves, my camera, keys, and Oyster (travel) card.

Why all the Universal precautions, you may ask? StitcherJane had warned me that not only was the river water not necessarily clean, but we might encounter ground or objects which had been contaminated by rat urine. I know that there are rats near the river, having had a run-in with a large one while staying in the Globe View apartments last year, but I never really thought about their urine and the diseases it could spread. Apparantly there was just an unfortunate incident of a woman dying from Weil’s Disease after attempting to free a rat from her bird feeder. I made sure I was wearing old clothes that could be chucked out in case of contamination.
We descended the algae- and mud-slimed steps down from the embankment onto a thirty-foot wide strip of what appeared to be stones. It stretched for about a quarter-mile downstream from our entry point. It was immediately clear that the hat and gloves would be necessary to combat the cold wind down at river level.

I started picking my way along the “beach”. On closer inspection, many of the brown “stones” that littered the beach were actually animals’ bones. We were at the site of an abattoir, a slaughterhouse that had been in use for centuries. When they were done slaughtering the animals, they had just chucked the bones and other waste into the river. The area has not been used for that purpose for decades, so it was unbelievable to me that waste from that era had not been completely washed away. I could identify jawbones, ribs, bits of broken bone from both cattle and sheep.

The next item I recognized were chunks of flint in all shapes and sizes. Flint is the stone used by ancient people for sharp objects such as arrowheads, knives, and as a fire-starter stone. I had never seen in in situ in such a large quantity before. There were all kinds of twisted blobby shapes looking almost like black glass, with a chalky covering on them. Many of them were tiny bits, but there were large heavy ones with holes in them, holes caused by the softer chalk being worn away by the elements.

There were also a lot of fist-sized soft white lumps, which were actually chalk.
StitcherJane had told us that we might find bits of pottery from centuries ago, so I concentrated on finding these smaller pieces. I found that by bending a little at the waist, it was quite easy to spot these bits of pottery. Most were an inch or two in diameter, and clearly had been part of plates, bowls, mugs and pots. The easiest to spot were the blue-and-white porcelain transferware, embellished with floral and country motifs. Underneath the mud and algae, these showed an even crackled pattern that showed their age to be between a hundred and two hundred years old. There were also less pretty, but probably more valuable bits of “slipware”, hand-thrown earthenware with a slip-coat of thin mud applied to it. These were in earthenware colors, and some had been glazed with darker glaze. These were from the seventeenth century and beyond. Two pieces of earthenware with dark green glaze were later identified as being of Tudor origin by StitcherJane.

Also easy to spot were tiny white tubes about an inch or so in length. I was told these were pipe stems that dated back to when the New World crop of tobacco arrived in the British Isles. They were lying amongst the bones and stones in a very casual way, as if they had just been spat there by a smoking sailor.

Further picking amongst the rubble showed a couple of pieces of fluted limestone, which had probably ornamented a building, another piece of limestone carved “18xx” in inch-high letters, an iron ring, and broken bricks with part of the maker’s name stamped into them. Our fearless leader informed us that some of what we were finding showed evidence of charing. Whenever there was a fire, such as the “Great Fire” of 1666, the remaining rubble was just shoveled down to the edge of the river and tipped in. She then mentioned that all of the terra-cotta slightly-curved broken slabs containing one hole were actually Roman roof tiles. That’s right, Roman Roof Tiles. Tiles from 46 AD and up. That’s 46 AD, folks. Broken bits of Roman roof tiles just laying there today on the shores of the Thames. They have so many of them at the Museum of London that they don’t even care about those that are still there. I presume that new loads of antique rubbish get revealed with each low tide, but I will have to go back to confirm this. I was absolutely enchanted by the tiles. I am particularly interested in the era that includes the arrival of the Roman conquerors in England, and the clash of cultures and religious beliefs that must have occurred at the time. Holding the roof tiles in my gloved hands really gave me a thrill. I kept pouncing on the best ones and loading them into a flimsy plastic bag. Finally, my bags of loot filled the backpack and I knew I wouldn’t be able to carry any more.
How are regular people allowed to take this stuff, you may ask. Stitcher Jane informed me that one only needs to get a Mudlarking permit if one is going to either use a metal detector, or dig down more than 3 inches. I was just using a plastic picnic knife to turn over one object at a time, and wasn’t really digging at all. The knife was being used just to protect me from anything sharp that I might encounter, like a needle or cut glass. I didn’t run into anything of that sort at all.
We slowly picked our way down the “beach” of stones, bones, china, and roof tiles. Most of the ladies were concentrating their efforts down near the edge of the water, but I figured that the oldest items would be up closest to the embankment and near the steps, which would have been closest to the edges of the old Roman settlement. In the 19th or 20th century the Cannon Street railroad bridge had it’s foundation laid there, which probably stirred up several layers of previous cultures.

Further down we encountered a gush of fresh water coming out of a pipe which stretched 12 feet high up the embankment. It looked like pretty clean water, not like water from a sewer pipe or storm drain would. I “tuned in” with my super-powers, and got two bits of information. The first was “Minerva”, which told me that it probably was a spring used by the Romans (and had probably been a pagan spring before that). The second bit was that the water was the “Walbrook”, a small stream that is now underground (brook from the Roman Wall) whose source is near a church called St. Stephen, Walbrook. I think that church was an early Sir Christopher Wren practice run-up for St. Paul’s which is quite nearby. I’ll have to check in my books.
We noticed that the area around the pipe outlet was discolored a pale tan. All of the bricks, tiles and bones looked like they had mineral deposits on them. The water, although completely clear, had a faint smell of either sulphur or some other natural substance dissolved within it. Again, more research is needed. We were indeed directly downhill from the street on which St. Stephen, Walbrook church is located, so I’ll stick with that idea as the source of the water.
Around noon we were too tired and cold to continue, so we all tromped back up the slimy steps with our loot, de-gloved, and headed back to the Cannon Street Underground station. On the way up the hill, we noticed that signs on some of the buildings indicated the ancient homes of some of the guilds that would have sprung up near the slaughterhouse: The tanner's guild, the dyer's guild, and the chandler's guild (making candles from tallow, which is animal fat).

Once I got the loot home, I rinsed it in scalding hot water and then soaked it for hours in a strong bleach solution. It was then left on a rack to air-dry for several days. But what is it for? You may be asking. A large chunk of limestone and cement from the foundations of a building (bigger than a brick, smaller than a breadbox) will be our new doorstop for the French door in the reception room. The Roman roof tiles will make fine paperweight/pen stands and might be given as gifts to those who will appreciate them. The porcelain bits and pipe stems will make some nifty dada-ist “found art” installations and murals. Of course, anything not used otherwise will be used as ballast for the flat in case of a great flood or tsunami.

I can’t remember the last time I had so much free fun. I'm looking forward to the next conveniently-timed fair weather low tide.

Little Venice Tour

Last Sunday, already a full week ago, I headed out for a guided walking tour of the Little Venice area. This is a neighborhood contiguous with Maida Vale (postcode W9), just on the other side of St. John’s Wood, that we call home. The starting point for the walk was the Warwick Avenue Underground stop, about fifteen minutes from A Flat on Abbey Road.

A group of about twelve people had gathered for the guided tour, which took us into another one of the high-rent districts in north west London. The area had originally been owned by the Bishop of London. It is full of Georgian and Regency white stucco townhomes, previously occupied by the mistresses of both wealthy men of the City and higher-ups in the Church of England hierarchy. Now the neighborhood is occupied by wealthy professional bankers, lawyers, and several prominent members of the entertainment industry.

The defining feature of Little Venice is a waterway that connects the Grand Union canal to the Regent’s Canal. The canal itself is lined with canal boats, in which Londoners of all income levels reside. The guide had us give the “Royal Wave” to Dennis of Little Venice, who lives aboard his canal boat year-round. He is an older gentleman who used to serve as an entertainment director aboard a large cruise ship, and is now retired. Apparently he looks after the garden plantings that line his particular area of the canal. We were treated to a returned “royal wave” by Dennis, who was watching for us out of one of his windows. His boat had a "gondola" (i.e. converted canoe) decorating the roof, and was also be-decked in potted flowering plants.

Much of the area also has “villas” in an Italianate architectural style, complete with “campanile” –styled faux bell towers. These single-family homes are either multi-multi-million pound residences for the very very rich, or have been carved up into a number of individual flats for the plain old very rich.

Our informative walk was punctuated by witty commentary by our guide, including “mind the slippery bits” when we were walking on wet leaves in mud, and “mind the crap” when we were on pavement that had been “fouled” by dogs.

The weather was in the high forties with a fine mist falling for part of the walk. I discovered that removing my glasses, which are mostly for close-work anyway, allowed me to enjoy the experience without having to wipe them incessantly.

I returned to A Flat on Abbey Road after a good two hours’ brisk walk. I would estimate that we covered between three and four miles, much of it along or near the canal, and all of it very enjoyable. The jaunt was capped off by a cup of tea.

Movie Review: Ghost Town, Hollywood's version of how easy it is to convince people you've heard from their late loved ones

On Friday October 31 I went alone to a movie. TeenE was up at her friend TeenH's house on Finchley Rd, North of the 02 Center. I brought her there by bus, and decided that since I was not at all jet-lagged, having only been back for one day, that I'd stay up "late" and see a movie in which Hubster probably had no interest.

I figured that "Ghost Town" was probably a good candidate, as it was Halloween, after all. Walking south on Finchley Road I encounter a few little kids being taken around in costume by parents (Americans, presumably). There were a few adults in costume, mostly young ladies in extra-skimpy outfits, such as the two large gals in leggings, tutus, and T-shirts.

Once I got to the cinema at the O2 and purchased my ticket to "Ghost Town", I had quite a long wait for the theatre to open. They were still cleaning Number 6. Various patrons kept going through a door to ask the ticket-taker if they could go in yet. No--he kept sending them back out the door to wait. When Number 6 was finally ready (about five minutes before the film's start time) the manager wouldn't let those who were asking for the first time (those currently at the ticket-taker's stand) in until he had come out and retreived those who had asked every five minutes for a half hour (yours truly).

"Ghost Town", stars British comedian Ricky Gervais (writer of The Office) as misanthropic dentist Bertram Pincus, who goes in for a colonoscopy (with use of general anesthesia). After he is discharged from the hospital, he begins to see people that other people cannot, and these folks want him to help them. In a very funny scene with a doctor played by Kristin Wiig, who doesn't let him get a word in edgewise, he learns he had a reaction to the anesthesia, and his heart stopped for several minutes.

This then, is Hollywood's take on what happens to someone when they've had a near-death experience.

Bertram Pincus is asked by the ghost of a man (Greg Kinnear) whose wife (Tea Leoni) lives in his building to get a message through about the woman's new boyfriend is a gold-digger.
Dr. Pincus does NOT have the desire or the social skills to handle this assignment. When he refuses, the ghost man gives Dr. Pincus' address to ALL the other ghosts in Mid-town Manhatten (including Naked Guy--you apparantly wear as a ghost the outfit you were wearing when you died) and many others, who all show up in his bedroom.

He strikes a deal with Greg Kinnear's character to help ONLY him, so the other ghosts will all go away. Meanwhile, Dr. Pincus develops a crush on Tea Leoni's character, despite her ownership of an enormous Great Dane dog with halitosis.

Hilarity ensues as all the various plot lines get sewn up, and the viewer eventually develops a fondness for poor Dr. Pincus as he is transformed by his work with the ghosts. In fulfilling the requests of the dead to communicate with their loved ones he regains his essential humanity, and (spoiler alert!) gets the girl.

If only life were so easy for those who've had real near-death experiences or other mystical or transcendant experiences. I know quite a few, having co-led a discussion group for the purposes of their spiritual support. Many struggled with being taken seriously by those they know. Even though he initially has trouble convincing Tea Leoni that he really IS talking to her late husband, he eventually wins her over. It seems as if all the other "message from the deceased" recipients
just hear the message and their grief or lives are transformed! Some of the people I know who've had NDE's or mystical experiences of "going to the light" have been transformed into more loving beings, but struggle with the changes in themselves and how to present their new outlook on life and eternity to those they know and love. Some are so transformed by that light that you really just want to be near them so you can catch a few "rays" yourself. Some become emotionally or mentally unhinged and are then no longer able to cope with everyday life. None of the ones I know personally have been welcomed by the scientific or medical communities (with the exception of hospices) or have had a "gets the girl and lives happily-ever-after" ending.

So, as a comedic fiction about what "might" happen in this theoretical situation, this is a funny movie. I'd give it a 3 out of 5. I'd recommend it as light entertainment to anyone. But that's all it is, light entertainment (pun intended).

Cake redux, knitting, hospice update

Thursday found me waking at 6 am all refreshed, but deciding that getting up at that hour was really unnecessary, so I caught a few more zzzzz's before getting up to go to Stitchery group.
We were back at our usual location at J's on Maida Vale with Cassidy the dog and an unusually large group of stitchers.

I was able to report to them (and you, dear reader) that I had sold a few small items at Tuesday's St. John's Wood Women's Club Member's Marketplace (too much alliteration, but that's what it is). Two beaded wool brooches, the long purple shawl "Harvest Home" in autumnal shades, and I can't remember what else. None of the beaded shawls sold, too bad, but they are available for purchase by the devoted readership!!

Having over-knitted in the past week getting ready for the show, I decided to take it easy and work on the small needlepoint I purchased in NYC while I was there, called "home is where the heart is". I did miss my flat on Abbey Road containing Hubster and Teeny, and all my walks around the neighborhood while I was away from them, and thought that purchase was a good way to keep focused on the goal of returning to them with visa in hand.

After three pleasant hours of Stitchery, I took off on foot for the Home Base store up in West Hampstead near Finchley Road. I had a pleasant walk northward in the rainy mist. This is a kind of precipitation for which it is hard to dress. It's not really raining, so the raincoat is not necessary. The umbrella is useless, as the mist seems to come sideways at you while you are walking. So you just amble around in your hooded jacket, but with the hood up you can't look over your right shoulder properly to check for any buses that might be materializing just as you start to cross the side street. The only solution is to keep the hood down and let the mist gently frizz up your hair as well as spot up your glasses.

Operation Home Base included procuring lots of little light bulbs for various light fixtures in the flat. While there, I also bought a few other householdy-things. The store is a cross between a Home Depot and a store that sells small appliances and home decor items like candles and dried arrangements. I stayed out of the garden shop and avoided all the Xmas decorations. On my walk I had noticed that lots of potted, 4 foot tall evergreens had been placed outside of buildings. Around the pot rims were red cyclamens, as the hard frost has not hit here yet.
I resisted all the cheery pointsettias, and looked in vain for a package of "dishwasher salt" to reduce the lime deposits and general gunkiness in the dishwasher. There was nothing of the sort to be seen.

While at the checkout, I asked the helpful young man if they sold "dishwasher salt". They did, he said, down past the lumber. Did I need a large quantity? I had just figured it came in a box or jar or something. What was a large quantity? No sooner had these words left my lips than a woman approached with a cart ("trolley") FILLED with four BAGS of dishwasher salt. These bags were larger than the large sacks of ice-melting salt that we buy in New England. They must have weighed fifty pounds each. Either this gal does a LOT of dishes, was buying them for some industrial application, or has a water-softener system for the whole house (see Lunch at John Stuart Mill's House posted previously).

As it was nearing 3 pm by this time I set out from Home Base to catch a bus that deposited me right on Circus Road near Sir You-Know-Who's house and the Dangerous Hospital Driveway. I managed to make it the rest of the way home without incident, except for the realization that the annoying dry sensation in my mouth really was an oncoming migraine. I retired to bed with a pill for a short nap, and awoke to make us sweet and sour pork for dinner.

Tomorrow will be Tidy Friday and Baking Day.

Oooh!! Cake Update. Last week I went through the hospital corridors to get to the pharmacy (see migraine pill above) and saw the Famous Fabian, Blogstar. He had been looking for me to say how much he enjoyed the sour cream coffee cake that I had delivered to Reception before I left for the US. I don't think he realized that I had been away from London. He was so effusively enthusiastic about the cake, which he reported that he had NOT shared with Dr. D or anyone else except one other receptionist, that I was inspired to bring around another baked creation. This time, I tried a new recipe introduced to me over the summer by Brother-in-Law Tom, that of Texas Sheet Cake. I added a few extra ingredients and renamed it Mayan Sheet Cake. I kept one round pan for us, and brought the other around to the hospital around 4 pm.
Alas, Fabian had gone home for the night, but the receptionists on duty were only too happy to take it off my hands.

I went back on Monday to collect my pan and saw Fabian. He was disconsolate that he had missed the Mayan-inspired creation. His co-workers had called him at home to tell him about it, and he said he was almost tempted (on a Friday evening) to turn around and come back. It's probably a good thing he didn't, as I hear that the cake was inhaled by the other staff, once again NOT including the ubiquitious doctor. I guess he's not so ubiquitous after all, as he has not been in the right place at the right time for the past two cakes.

If I get my homework done on time, I shall attempt another caking. If not, I'll bring it around on Saturday morning, when I have to go over to the hospital for.... Hospice volunteer training. That's right, you heard it here first. My "CRB" (Criminal Record Check) form has made it through the system and I am in proud possession of an official-looking certificate which states that I do not have a criminal record!! Now I can be enrolled as a hospice volunteer, which is something I planned on doing here since the move was first formulated. The training will be about cultural sensitivity. The book the in-laws just sent us, called "The Anglo Files" by Sarah Lyall, will come in especially handy!

Sleep, Play, IKEA-fication, and gross gunk

I see it's been almost a week since I last wrote. The post-election-euphoria crash combined, I think, with the crash predicted by the American School psychologist during orientation. That is, November, with its early sunset, the sun not rising 30 degrees above the horizon even at noon, (if you can find it behind the buildings/cloud cover), and getting over the initial culture-shock and push of settling-in all conspire to produce a let-down that can trigger a huge energy slump. So I'm not surprised, just... tired. Add to this to the vestiges of jet lag from my recent trip to the east coast of the US, and the neighbor downstairs who wakes me at 1, 3 and 4 am with his shenanigans, and I'm not really getting up until 10 am. Fortunately, TeenE and Hubster sleep through the nighttime neighbor naughtiness.

TeenE continues to spend afternoons after school rehearsing for the play "And Then They Came for Me", about Ann Frank and her friend. The friend survived the holocaust, and lives in St. John's Wood, and is a consultant to the play. The parent meeting of Friends of the Arts at ASL
on Friday will give us more information about the show. TeenE tells me it's going to be very intense. She is in the "company", and needs "company shoes", whatever they are, and a leotard "for the concentration camp scenes".

Our IKEA order that we placed online in early October has finally been delivered. It arrived on Saturday. Every day since then I have weilded my trusty Phillips-head screwdriver and made good progress on a piece of furniture. So far, a bed-side table, a set of drawers for TeenE's desk, two shelf units to hold up our desk, and the desk-top with legs have been assembled. At some point I will tackle the garment rack and the two tall bookcases. Now we can see the top surface of our dining room table again.

Yesterday I had lunch with MomA at her flat on Maida Vale. She casually mentioned that with the hard water in this area, you are supposed to put dishwasher salt in the special dispenser in the dishwasher. I had never heard of this, and set out to find out if our unit had such a thing. Sure enough, it did. And it was really clogged with black, soapy, waxy, grimy, moldy GUNK. I decided to check out the other parts in the bottom of the dishwasher. I had already cleared out the screen that sifts out food particles (twice), but this time, after lifting it out, I decided to check on the lattice-work column upon which it sits. Ewwwww. I kept discovering that this mechanism came apart in more ways than one could imagine. And with each layer that I pried apart, there were more and more deposits of unspeakably disgusting GUNK. I whipped on the latex gloves and was finally grateful for the scalding-hot water that comes out of the tap. I poked through the hundreds of miniscule holes in the main column with a pin. I scrubbed all the outer surfaces with a scrubbie pad. I cleared out the crevices with cotton swabs. I soaked and re-soaked those suckers until there was no goo left. Now I just have to figure out how to put the (*&^% contraption back together again so we can use the dishwasher. Meanwhile, I am hand-washing everything. Just when there was a relative lull in the laundry...

Quiet day in NW8

It was a quiet day in NW8 today.

The leftover laundering proceeded apace in the am, then I went out to Stitchery Group. This is a subset of women from the St. John's Wood Women's Club. We met at stitcher Mary's house, which is just across the street from the driveway where I nearly got run over yesterday, and across and down the very same street as Sir You-Know-Who, who presumably is ensconced in the love nest with the latest love interest.

While at Mary's, about eight of us got caught up on the election coverage and topics of more personal interest. Every time someone came to the front door, her two wire-haired dachshunds would erupt in a cacophony of barking. I decided that I had had so much success at "dog whispering" Erica's huge black lab into submitting to me as alpha dog, that I'd go down to her lower level (the dogs cannot climb stairs) and tell a thing or two to Gus (a sweetie-pie) and Gracie (more cranky). Gus immediately recognized my alpha status and rolled over on his back to have his belly scratched. Gracie took about 30 seconds longer, then did the same thing. When a repairman came, he was able to run the gauntlet of the doggies while I kept them distracted with tummy rubs. I have two new canine friends in London! I told Mary I'd walk them any time, which I would do even if she didn't live on the same street as a certain musician.

When we left Cavendish Ave around 1:30 the day was so overcast that there was no telling in what direction the sun might have been located, or whether it had even cleared the tops of the buildings that day. The rest of the afternoon was taken up with sorting mail, paying bills, and, surprise! More laundry. I think that by tomorrow I may be all caught up from the backlog.

I'm hoping to hear from my readers; everyone's been very quiet this week. I think a lot of people stayed up late to watch the election returns...

Another Fine Day in London-town

I couldn't imagine that any day could have been better than yesterday, what with seeing a world-known celebrity on one corner of NW8 and a local celebrity on the next. No wonder I like that "back way" to the Hi Street that consists of Circus Road. It's certainly a celebrity circus!
I must say, however that today turned out to be even better. I wasn't sure the US was ready for the progressive energy of a non-republican, non-warrior president, but awakened to find out that the person for whom I had voted had actually won the election. This is only the third election since 1980 in which this has happened, and it's very gratifying. I empathize with those who are disappointed, having spent twenty-two of the last twenty-eight years (and all of my adult life but eight years) being disappointed, frustrated, and enraged in varying degrees with the policies and actions of my government. It is the "heartland's" turn to learn how to yield graciously without resorting to name-calling and other vituperative strategies. I pray we can all behave ourselves.
First up on the social calendar today was a coffee at the home of another American School/London parent. This coffee featured a speaker, a parent who works for the DEA (Drug Enforcement Agency), and who was there to speak to the other parents (all Moms) about the differences in the teen drug cultures in the US and the London area. I've always felt that any school that says there are no drugs on campus is either clueless or lying, so I was glad to see this issue addressed by the PTO.
We learned about the US drug user's "culture of stimulants" (cocaine, etc) vs the UK's "culture of depressants". One would think that those in the US are already over-stimulated enough, what with all the Starbucks, and that those in the UK are already depressed enough, what with all the pubs.

We learned that 35% of all 10th graders in the US have tried illegal drugs, and 75% of all US High School Seniors (including alcohol, which, in the US, is illegal until age 21).
We learned that teens drink openly earlier, as the age at which one can buy a beer or wine WITH a meal in the UK is 16. Whether this is earlier than US teens drink on the sly is open to debate. I think probably not.

We also learned that within a five-minute bus ride from the school, in a place where many of them congregate, a student can be exposed to people dealing all sorts of substances.
We learned that within a two-minute WALK from the school there is a known nexus of marijuana activity on a street called Abbey Road, (ever heard of it?) and that this spot is directly across from our flat. So much for the safe "leafy" neighborhood theory!! This area includes a row of stores where one can buy milk, get one's hair done, and get physical therapy. The one time I went down to buy milk there, there were some shady characters. Now I know why.

I had to leave that talk early in order to rendezvous with an old pal from my University College London days, Mr. A.S. We had kept in touch sporadically over the years, and he was one of the people that called to wish me Happy Birthday on the Big 5-Oh. We had known each other from our days in the UCL Drama Society, and Hubster and I visited with him and his girlfriend (now wife) on our honeymoon here in 1986.
We had much to catch up on: the move, the economy, turning 50, the election, how my idea for a documentary about Abbey Road might come about (he has connections in the TV world) etc.
I have to write up my "pitch" and he might be able to get it in front of the right people.
After lunch I strolled around the Regent St/Carnaby Street area, and found the bead shop that I had spotted while Son was here. This time it was open, but sadly does not carry the right beads for my knitted projects.
A quick ride home on the 139 bus and I was ready to work on some of the projects I am getting ready for the St. John's Wood Women's Club Annual Holiday Marketplace on 11/11. Time is running short...
TeenE is getting ready to catch a ride to the American Church in London (on Tottenham Court Road), whose choir will be singing at the Thanksgiving Day Service at St. Paul's Cathedral. Yes, you read that right. Naturally we will be attending that service!!

Episode IV: A New Hope

Yesterday's Perfect Day ended when we went to bed at 9 pm, (4 pm EST) knowing that the US election results would not be final until at least 4 am our time, what with the West Coast being an additional 3 hour's time difference.

I was cautiously optimistic that the results would reflect my voting preferences, but afraid of another Gore-like "tie" with weeks of uncertainty and another Supreme Court ruling. I didn't want to give voice to my fears, so refrained from making any predictions.

Hubster was up and out of the house before 6 am. The fact that he didn't wake me to give me news bothered me a bit. Did that mean that the news was good, or bad?

A quick check of the internet at 6:15 am showed me the results. Now I can truly sleep.

A Perfect Day so far

So far it has been a perfect day. I fear tomorrow's news; however, I'll address that in another posting if I feel like it.

My day started at 7:30 am, far too early for my still-jet-lagged brain and body. What could motivate me to get out of bed early and hit the street by 9:15? Rummage!! Rather, the high quality used goods at the St. John's Hospice Charity Shop on SJW Hi Street. Before I could leave A Flat on Abbey Road, there was a lull in the traffic sounds, so I rushed to the window to see the horses and ordnance pass by. I never get tired of it. I wonder if there is a schedule to their jaunts. For example, this is the first Tuesday of the month, we've been here three months, and I've seen them pass by three times. I'll have to check my other entries.

Laurie, the Hospice Charity Shop manager, was busy Hoovering when I arrived, and her associate Lloyd was organizing racks of clothing. I was assigned to tidying the shelves along half the store's walls. Shoes, videos, bric-a-brac, jewellry, ties, etc. all had to be organized and made to look extra-nice, as there would be VIP's in the shop later.

After a while, the shop opened and two volunteers arrived to be sales personnel for the first shift. After discovering the source of my accent, they were MOST eager to talk American politics. In fact, every one with whom I've chatted recently wants to find out if I've voted (I have), for whom I've voted (they don't make even a pretense of being polite about asking) and then spend ten minutes talking about US politics and the US's role in the world. I lingered for another fifteen minutes or so, then made my way up the Hi Street.

A quick peek into Starbucks as I passed revealed that no one I know was in there. I kept going, less alert than usual for spotting a familiar face. As I passed one cafe, there was a couple in a close embrace in the doorway under an awning. The man was in shadow facing the street, the woman had long dark hair which obscured both their faces. Their embrace went on for about ten of my paces. It seemed pretty long to me... Not wanting to gawk, I averted my gaze. JUST as I was about to pass, they broke apart, and the man looked a bit startled when he saw that I was there. The woman turned and shot a "thank you" to someone in the other direction. I glanced quickly at the man, and saw that it was YOU KNOW WHO, my first crush when I was 10, NW8's most famous citizen, standing there on the street engaged in an intimate embrace with another woman!! I hurried on toward Finchley Road. I resisted the urge to turn around for another look, (at least until a full minute had passed) and reflected on the pitfalls of fame.

Smiling and humming softly to myself, I waited at the lights for the "Green Man" to show that it was safe to cross. An elderly lady with a cane waited with me, and she took off ahead of the light change, which I am still not able to bring myself to do most of the time, never knowing from which direction a speeding bus may materialize. As I passed the back entrance to one of the local hospitals, I glanced to my right, and who should be approaching but the ubiquitous Dr. D, with MP3 player in hand and earbuds firmly placed. He popped out the earbuds when he saw me, so I took that as a signal that it was OK to stop and say hello. "Dr. D, my day is complete! First I saw "name of celebrity", now you!!" "Where was he? Maybe I'll see him, too!" he joked.
Pleasant chat ensued; we both needed to be on our way, so we parted with a comment by me about his tunes. "I won't tell you what I'm listening to, you'd probably publish it on your blog". "That is distinctly unfair!" I replied, (I put this part in just to find out if he's still a reader), while backing toward a driveway containing an oncoming car. He cautioned me to stop moving in a direction I was not looking, and saved me from being squashed. Of course, if I had been injured, at least my G.P. would have been on hand...

I note that Dr. D. is the first Brit to NOT wish to talk with me about today's election, or at least to be so polite as to not enquire about my politics.

PS Further research reveals that the woman seen with Sir You Know Who is New Yorker Nancy Shevill, age 47, (not that much younger than me!) and a multimillion dollar US heiress to New England Motor Freight, which she manages. Perhaps he's trying to "get back" some of the multi-millions that he lost to Heather... No wonder that her "Thank You" to someone over her shoulder "didn't have" an accent! Don't worry Hubster, (or church-ladies,) he seems to be taken!

Out on the Street

Mmmmph. Mrrrgggghhh! Ptuh! There!! I've finally dug myself out from underneath the avalanche of laundry that threatened to take out A Flat on Abbey Road.

Understandably, Hubster and TeenE gave the miniature washer/dryer a wide berth during my eleven-day absence. TeenE had two hampers-full, which I dumped into the empty bathtub, along with my post-trip washing and Hubster's usuals. I have now been back for four days, and am on the twelfth load. There is a colorful assortment of damp clothing draped artistically over the drying racks that grace several rooms. Opening the door to the flat releases an aroma of Fairy Liquid detergent and high humidity.

Having finally run out of the liquid laundry detergent that was purchased our first week here, I had to go out for a replacement on Friday. Who knew there were so many choices? The most puzzling choice of all was to decide whether to buy "biological" detergent, or "non-biological". What could it mean? I scoured the labels for a clue.

The ones marked "biological" stated "Do Not Use on Silk or Wool", which seemed counter-intuitive to me. Silk and Wool are both biological in origin, having been grown or extruded from a living creature. The non-biological had no such restrictions, but contained warnings of eye irritation. The biological formula also made vague statements about their formula being safe but that some individuals might experience skin irritation. There went my other hypothesis, that the biological formula was made from all-natural ingredients.

I looked around for someone I could ask. Several times I made up mind to just speak up to a total stranger, but they either avoided my gaze completely or just looked me in the eye and smiled. I couldn't bring myself to do it. Finally, after about ten minutes of re-checking labels, I turned to find someone right behind me. "Excuse me, do you know what the difference is between a biological and a non-biological laundry detergent?"

The attractive young woman laughed and said "Yes, and you've asked EXACTLY the right person!!!" I'm a nurse, so I do know the difference. The biological formula contains enzymes that digest the soil and bacteria on the clothes. If they don't get rinsed out completely, they can irritate your skin when they try to digest your skin cells." She went on to say that unless your clothing is REALLY soiled, for example if your son plays rugby (he has) or your Hubster, even (he hasn't) then you usually wouldn't need the biological formula. She exclaimed again about how I had asked exactly the right person, so I explained that I usually use the detergent made for sensitive skin without added dyes or fragrance. We decided together that the Fairy brand, good for baby clothes (they also make dish detergent, which I remembered from 1978) would make a good choice. I thanked her and went on to the checkout.

After leaving Tesco, I crossed two busy streets to get back to A Flat on Abbey Road. Just ahead of me in the intersection was the helpful nurse. I raised my jug of detergent to her and said "Cheers", which is a joke that I guess only Americans who do laundry would get. I'm afraid it was lost on her. She speeded up a little as she crossed the street so she would be well ahead of me.

Yesterday, after laundry load ten entered the machine, I decided to go out and do some errands. On my way past the Abbey Road Crossing, I passed a huge contingent of French-speaking teen girls. I actually had to step into the road to avoid ruining their photo opportunity in front of the Abbey Road Studio. Once across the street, I could hear an American couple planning their next move over a map. Should we have lunch now? I wonder where we could find a restaurant? I passed them, but something in their tone made me turn back and retrace my steps. "Do you need directions?" Yes, they wanted to know where they could find a restaurant nearby. I gave them detailed directions, and they asked me how long I'd been here. We had a nice chat. They were from Connecticut, etc. They wanted to know why we lived in London, was our daughter happy, did we like it, where did we live, etc. I told them that we lived in A Flat on Abbey Road, and that we thought that made us pretty cool. They agreed, it was cool.
Meanwhile, the gaggle of French geese passed by and they thanked the young couple for helping them. Apparantly they had been on a scavenger hunt, and the man had given them the answer to the question: What was the name of Paul McCartney's dog? Too easy, I said, and proceeded to provide the name and the breed of the dog immortalized on the White Album. The woman nudged the man and said "why don't you tell her why you're here?" , so he did. He was about to attend Rock Band Fantasy Camp, with tutelage provided by somebody from o the Rolling Stones, somebody from Pink Floyd, sorry, don't know any other living personnel's names that are NOT Roger Waters, and a visit to Pete Best in Liverpool. EXTREMELY COOL. I think he wins.

I told them I keep busy by writing a blog about living in A Flat on Abbey Road. I hope they remembered the address. So here's a shout out to Mr. and Ms. Cool from Connecticut: Cheers!

My Terminal 5 Experience

Jimi Hendrix said it best: "Have you ever been experienced?" Well, I have.
I have been Experienced in Terminal 5 at Heathrow Airport.

We left Boston on British Airways AHEAD of schedule. The passengers boarded, the catering arrived, the doors were closed, the paperwork was done, and we pushed back from the gate at 9:05 am, about ten minutes ahead of schedule.

Once in the air, our flight was to take about six hours. The video screen showed a tail wind of 129 mph, so we were making very good time as the coasts of Maine, Nova Scotia, and Labrador went scudding by below us.

I spent the time happily knitting away on a brown alpaca scarf, the perfect plane project, per the Head Kitten. She was right. I played Peek-a-boo with an infant while I waited for my turn in the queue for the toilet. I chatted with my seatmate, an American who was returning to her home in Marrakesh, Morrocco. I took a little snooze to escape the incessant wailing of a crying toddler, and before I knew it, we were over land again. Cornwall, Devon, and the Isle of Wight were all clearly visible as we made a slow descent. The Captain came over the PA to inform us that Air Traffic Control had asked him to slow down. There was too much traffic heading into Heathrow, and we would have to circle, which we did.

We finally landed, having lost all the time we'd made by leaving early and having a brisk tail-wind. Once on the ground, our Terminal 5 Experience began. There was no gate available for our incoming flight, so we waited near the terminal. Please bear in mind that the line for the toilet facilities had been quite long near the end of the flight, and all such activities had been curtailed by the arrival of turbulence and the subsequent lighting of the seat belt sign. I knew that I'd be able to make it until we landed, but once we were on the ground I was quite eager to deplane. We could almost reach out and touch Terminal 5, we were so close. Only 25 minutes later, and a plane pulled out and we finally approached a gate. Of course the disembarking process takes at least 20 minutes to get all the way back to row 31, so it was almost an additional hour before we were on the jetway.

I made a bee-line for the immigration area, (or was it a pee-line?) and proudly showed off my new visa. After answering a few perfunctory questions (did I have a job lined up yet? No, but Hubster does...) I was on my way out of that level via escalator. That escalator led to another one. And that one led to another one. We were clearly hamsters trapped in a Habitrail cage. Big glass windows, tubes from one level to the next to the next, it was all quite dizzying. And finally, we reached the Wheel. Well, it was a wheel for the luggage anyway, which came spinning out in due course. I decided that this was my chance for a quickie visit to the Ladies. There were several cleaners inside the facilities, but Four stalls in a row had no paper. Perhaps the hamsters had shredded it all. I was grateful to have the Fung Wah! ticket still in my bag.

After man-handling my heavy bags off the luggage wheel and strapping them together on the folding cart thingy I had purchased in New York's Chinatown, I was ready to board the Heathrow Express via a lift. A nice airline employee lady helped me figure out that you did not have to push any buttons in the elevator; it just went up, then down, all by itself.

At the down level, there was another escalator to the Heathrow/Paddington express train. Keep in mind that I have Four bags with me; a large rolling duffel bag, a computer bag and a large tote bag filled with things I picked up in Belmont (walking shoes, beads, yarn, peanut butter, corn meal for corn bread)--both of these bags are strapped to the rolling cart thingy with bungy cords, and a handbag that is so full that the magnetic clasps won't close.

I got onto the escalator just in time to hear this announcement over the PA: "Travelers with a large amount of luggage should use the lift". Too late! I dismounted the escalator relatively gracefully and came up against an obstacle: metal poles a small distance apart so one cannot abscond with the airport luggage cart. My 2-bags-on-the-folding-cart-thingy did not fit through the barrier. I had to stop and unstrap everything. Meanwhile, the Voice continued: "This train will leave in Three minutes". As I struggled to get everything through the barrier without leaving my handbag behind, the same nice airline employee lady came to my aid, and lifted the biggest bag onto the train and into the luggage area for me. Many blessings to her!!

A nice man saw me struggling to put my bungy-cord contraption back together and vacated his seat so that I could park the monstrosity next to me in the aisle.

Thus endeth my Terminal 5 Experience, as we pulled off into the tunnel to Terminal 4 and headed into central London. I wasn't quite sure which side of Paddington Station held the taxi queue, but finally noticed a black line on the floor with the words "Taxi" and an arrow pointing in the relevant direction. If only there was a clue!! There was only one party ahead of me in the taxi queue, so I was back at A Flat on Abbey Road in under five minutes. It felt good to be "home".

Surprise Party Guest--now it can be told

Well, we're going to back up about a week and a half.

The avid reader will know that I have been in the Boston and New York areas since the 19th of October.

I planned my arrival to coincide with a surprise party for the Head Cat at the Knitten Kitten, MaryAnn. She had been told by the other knitters that this was an Oktoberfest party, while they were secretly planning to surprise her. When she learned that I might be in town, she asked if I could change my arrival date and be a surprise guest at the party. Thinking that keeping our own secret might distract her from what the rest of the crew was up to, I agreed.
She picked me up at Logan airport in Boston on the afternoon of the party, dropped me off at my Hostess Dr. Erica's to freshen up, and collected me at 4 pm (9 pm body-clock time).

We hatched a plan to hide my presence in her vehicle. While still on the highway, I reclined the front seat in which I was located, and wound up almost completely supine. I was wearing a long, hooded raincoat, so turned my head to the side and pulled the hood completely over my face.
It was a good thing, because while we were nearing our final destination, we overtook EllenL, who was hopelessly lost. She got out of her car and approached ours, had a brief conversation with MaryAnn and her son Walter (there supposedly to help with folding chairs, but he was in on the surprise birthday aspect of it). EllenL was so distracted by her being lost that she didn't even notice the body-shaped raincoat "draped" across the front seat.

We arrived at our destination with me still hidden. MaryAnn and Walter unloaded the folding chairs, and headed into the house. I gave them a few minutes to get settled, then slunk out of the car, ducking down behind it to get the lay of the land. I didn't even know which house was the party house, but MaryAnn had wisely informed me that there was a balloon on its mailbox. As I was approaching the target house, I was ducking down behind the parked cars. A man came by and looked at me strangely. I asked for Susan's house, and he led me in. Apparently he was Susan's husband Ray, of the Running Elvises fame in the Las Vegas Marathon. I didn't recognize him, because he didn't look anything like Elvis. I was trying to tell him that I was a surprise guest and he shouldn't announce me, but I'm not sure he heard me.

I entered the house hellooooing and waving royally, and found that my presence was indeed a surprise.

Wine and munchies were much in evidence, and somebody handed me a bongo drum during the silly song honoring the Birthday Kitten. The accompanying pictures illustrate the dangers of combining wine, jet lag, and bongo drums.... A good time was had by all, even Toby the dog.

Blaise-ing HOT FLASH!!!

Hip-Hop Hooray!! I am told that my Tier 1 HSMP Partner Visa has been issued. Hubster called after being emailed by the New York lawyer, whose associate, Blaise, has retreived my visa-containing passport from the British Embassy in New York.

I am told that they are Fed-Ex-ing it as I write this, and I shall receive it by 9 am tomorrow.

Let's all hold our collective breaths, shall we?

I will be flying home to London on Wednesday or Thursday of this week.

Visa Limbo

Yes, I am still in visa limbo. No, I do not have my passport back from the British Embassy in New York. They are having difficulty "capturing" my biometric data (fingerprints, photos) although the application itself has been approved. In essence, I am waiting for my exit papers, as I cannot leave the US without my passport.

I shall be ensconced at Erica's for a few more days, and have made a tentative plan of exiting on Thursday Oct 30th. The NY lawyer seems to think my passport will be released today, but I've heard that before (Thursday, and Friday of last week). They will have to FedEx the passport to me, so that will take an extra day.

Hoping to be back in Great Britain by Halloween (which they do not celebrate).

Lack of Forward Motion on Visa

To whom it may concern:
I have left the Big Apple (report to ensue in seperate posting) and am now back in Massachusetts.
My passport is still at the British Embassy in New York. Apparantly their computer was having trouble "capturing" my biometric data, which had been so carefully done at an INS application support center in Brooklyn.
Rather than hang around NY and overstay my welcome with NYsis, I have returned to my old stomping ground of Belmont.
Yesterday's adventure included waking at 3:40 am, going back to sleep, oversleeping until 6:22 am, therefore missing the 7 am Lucky Star bus to Boston.
I left An Apartment on Third Avenue and 91st at 6:40 am, took the number 6 train to Canal Street/Chinatown, walked several blocks toward the Lucky Star bus terminal, and found that a Fung Wah! bus was leaving for Boston at 7:30 am. For those of you not familiar with the brand names, either of those buses will take you from one Chinatown to the other for a total of $15 US. If you should take a chance with the Fung Wah! bus, you run the risk of speeding up the highway going 80 mph with flames shooting out of the back of the bus while the passengers alternately implore the driver to get off his cell phone and pull the bus over, and dial 911 to report a bus fire.
We arrived in Boston in less than four hours, and that included a rest stop somewhere in Connecticut.
Once in Boston, I took the Red Line to Harvard Square, where I ran into a startled Dr. Klemens M. whilst waiting for a Belmont bus. We talked about London, the global economy, the state of the US election, and general politics. I give a shout out to his wife, Dr. Laura M., who is a Wellesley College Class of 1980 classmate of mine. "Hi, Laura!".
My bus came about 30 minutes after his left, and I was ensconced at the Knittin Kitten, the World's Best Yarn Shop, before 1 pm, where I passed a very happy afternoon knitting and chatting. MaryAnn served cheese and crackers, Marilyn brought sponge cake from Chinatown, Barbara B brought beads (being the bead pimp, she always has something shiny with which to tempt us), Claudia knitted, and Susan brought hugs and requests for recipes for the guests she was hosting in about an hour and a half.
Erica came to collect me at 5 pm, and I got cleaned up for our dinner with Elizabeth R. on Pleasant Street. As they prepared to build a fire in the fireplace after dinner, I excused myself and walked back to Erica's before the torrential rainstorm set in.

I don't know when I'll get my Visa, so I look forward to more days of visiting in Belmont.

Belmont to Big Apple update; Happy Birthday Carl and Erica!

Hello, dear readers, from the lands to the West of the sacred isle, the good ol' US of A.

Being back in the town where I've spent the last twenty years is pretty surreal. It feels familiar, yet I know it's no longer my "home".
There are other people living in our house, albeit with our permission.
The tenants welcomed me, but the cats shunned me when I visited 78 Oliver. Sunny, the eleven year old feline, was napping on the sofa. She heard our voices but didn't wake. I went over to talk to her and pet her, and she woke, bolted upright, and ran right to the front door. She didn't even let me touch her. I guess that's what I deserve after abandoning her. Mystery, whom we'd had for a little over a year before moving, took her sweet time arriving downstairs from her nap in the girl's bedroom. She allowed herself to sniff my fingers, but wouldn't let me touch her, either. Heartbreaking.

Yesterday's to-do list was: walk Erica's dog, go to the chiropractor, visit Leslie for coffee, visit the house, pick up forgotten items (such as my walking shoes--now I'll really be able to walk!) help the tenants get the steam radiators all balanced and delivering heat equally, pick up crafty items for sale at the St. John's Wood Women's Club Holiday Fair on 11/11, go to the bank, drop off my absentee ballot, (another vote for Obama/Biden in Massachusetts which, due to the electoral college, will have no impact on the outcome as Mass. is already heavily democratic) take Carl out for his birthday lunch at the Indian place we used to frequent on our bi-weekly lunches, shop in Macy's (nothing I liked fit or looked good on me), walk the dog again, and take my hostess Erica out to dinner to celebrate her birthday (actually today). I then collapsed into bed at 8:10 pm.

Now it's time to walk the dog again, before I head out to the Knittin' Kitten to press my nose against the glass and wait for it to open. Then it's off to The Big Apple via the Lucky Star Chinatown-to-Chinatown bus, for my rendezvous in Brooklyn with the Fingerprint People on Wednesday. NYSis has graciously invited me to stay with her while I wait for my visa to be processed by the British Embassy in New York.

Wish me luck!!

Cake Encore, Big Explore

Greetings to the devoted readership of A Flat on Abbey Road.
BlogMama is gearing up for her big trip across the pond to secure her Visa.
Here is an update on her latest activities.
We join her as of Thursday morning.

I got up early (7 am) and hit the kitchen to bake. The occasion was back-up baking for Stitchery Group. My friend MomA was hosting it at her flat due to the fact that the regular hostess was out of town. I had been researching a sour cream coffee-cake recipe, and wanted to give it a try.

The amount of batter looked like it would be too much for one round cake pan, so I decided to put half in one pan and half in another. There is a person at Stitchery with a nut allergy, so one pan went nutless while the other got a handful of chopped walnuts sprinkled in amongst the cinnamon-crumb topping. I was then hit with an epiphany. Who had indicated that he regretting letting that slice of chocolate cake get away? Why, Receptionist Extraordinaire Fabian, of course! Gateau numero deux would go over to the Hospital.

Meanwhile, slumbering Son awoke in his spacious guest accomodations on the sofa.
"Something smells good". I cut him a piece from Fabian's nut-cake, and rearranged the slices with a little space in between each one. Perhaps the guys over at the hospital wouldn't notice that the sum of the parts was less than the whole.

Other equipment was being trundled over to MomA's on Maida Vale, so I loaded up the stylin' shopping cart and hit the street via the rickety old lift. A brisk two-minute walk brought me to the front entrance of the Hospital. I am used to seeing Fabian posted at the rear reception area, so I charged in the automatic front doors (no "Shazzam!" needed) and breezed past the front desk. It was then that I heard the ubiquitous Dr. D's voice. I turned to wave hello, and who was he addressing, but Fabian, right there at the front lobby's reception area.

I stopped in my tracks and reversed my shopping cart. "Fabian! Just who I'm looking for!" I thrust the "aluminium" foil-wrapped cake, still warm from the oven, at the unsuspecting receptionist. "Fabian, you're a Blogstar, and you've been Caked!!" (I think I've invented a new TV show, a la "Punked", only much tastier. Anyone who appears on this blog will be randomly presented with a Cake.) The kind doctor made himself scarce while I chatted for a quick moment with the surprised Fabian. "I guess I have too much time on my hands, but I was baking for the Stitchery Ladies Group and decided to bring you a cake, too." I then whirled the funky shopping cart on a dime/ten pence and rolled off into the west toward Maida Vale.

The women who showed up at MomA's were a small but high-quality subset of the larger group. I enjoyed getting to know each of them a little better, and really enjoyed the tour of MomA's spacious, light-filled flat on the top floor of a building that was designed by the same architect who designed the iconic red phone boxes.

MomA's husband is the proud owner of an Espresso Machine. Neither MomA nor I had ever operated one. Once she showed me how to use it, I was hooked, and wound up being the barrista for the morning anytime anyone wanted another cup. Using the steam wand to froth up the hot milk was my favorite part. I won't be getting a machine like this anytime soon, as hitting the "Hi" street for a morning cuppa joe or an afternoon chai latte is a good excuse to get out of the house. What I'd like to know is how the Capuchin Monks, after whom the cappucino is named, managed to get the milk all hot and frothy without an electric espresso machine...

The time knitting passed too quickly, and before we knew it, it was 1 pm (13:00) and time to decamp. Upon returning to the flat, I convinced Son to hop a bus with me and we went down to Trafalgar Square to the National Gallery (free admission!). Here one can see what seems like thousands of medieval and renaissance paintings of Madonna and Child (including the "Madonna of the Rocks" as featured in The Da Vinci Code), the Holy Family, Jesus with Disciples, Holy Family with Saints, Patron ArchBishops, Popes, Virgin Martyrs, allegorical paintings of Christ's life, huge panoramas of renaissance market squares with a tiny figures in the background depicting Jesus' life and works, and countless scenes of crucifiction, etc etc. I enjoyed seeing all the expressions and realism in the paintings, but I think Son was overwhelmed with the fact that every single piece of art from 1250 through the seventeenth century was exclusively Christian.
"Isn't there any modern art in here?" he wanted to know. No, there was not. We hit the gift shop, where I bought three postcards, and then left to go across the road to St. Martin's In the Field church. I wanted to go to the crypt there and do a brass rubbing.

After accomplishing my mission there, (and doing a rubbing of a medieval-looking woman whose first name was the same as my own) we hopped back on the 139 bus and got off on Abbey Road just steps from the flat.

I have dubbed the last day of the week Tidy Friday. This is the day that I engage in all my domestic goddess rituals, such as kneeling in front of the porcelain pulpit with toilet brush, scrubbing the bathroom floors in near-prostration, using a "Hoover" to exorcise the demon dustballs, and waving the magical Method Floor Mop over the floors to sweeten the room with almond-scented floor cleaner. Once these ablutions were performed, I hit the streets with my Oyster card in hand. I was on the lookout for a fabric store where I could purchase some craft supplies.

My walk to the bus took me down the "Hi" Street. I popped into the Hospice Charity Shop to say hello to the manager and to ask if she knew of any fabric stores in the area. This is the shop where I had been team co-leader several weekends ago. My team spent two hours tidying the shop, organizing the glassware, etc (see previous posting). I guess we had done TOO GOOD a job, as the manager asked me if I would be willing to come in several mornings a week to help her do the same thing while she ran the hoover. I must have still smelled like almond-scented cleaner. We sat and talked about the shop, the hospice and Glastonbury Tor, which is a place in southwestern England to which we both feel connected. I set out on my way again.

I boarded the 274 bus to Islington and the Angel tube stop. I had done this once before when going to find a yarn store (Loop), but wanted to get a better look at the shops right near the terminus of the bus route. Unfortunately I had started out too late (2 pm) for a leisurely explore, but figured I'd just go with the flow and see what I could see. The bus ride was enjoyable, as people of all ages, nationalities and colours boarded, chatted on their phones, or adjusted their shopping. Several times a cane-wielding elder would board the bus, and someone always gave up one of the easily accessible seats and helped him or her get settled. The bus driver would always-always-always floor the accelerator pedal before the frail person was fully seated, so several pairs of hands would reach out to steady them so they wouldn't be flung to the floor.

I recognized many of the sights on this second trip on the route; two separate giant Sainsbury's Supermarkets in two neighborhoods, Her Majesty's Prison in Pentonville, playgrounds, and parks. My handy fold-up map ended just to the south of the neighborhoods through which we journied, but I had a vague idea of where we'd come out.

Once at the Angel tube stop, I thought I might get something to eat, as I hadn't had lunch yet. It's not like me to skip a meal, but I wasn't going to miss my Day Out. While looking down several side streets, I saw a poster marked "The Islington Arts and Crafts Show". Someone had told me about this, and I thought I had missed it, but there it was. This was the week for fiber arts and jewelry. If I had been looking for it I never would have found it, but there it was, right under my nose. Before I entered the gallery an unusual vehicle caught my eye. It was a pick-up truck with a huge sign that read "Bone's Breakers, 1610 Powerline Rd., Pompano Beach, Florida". I found this particulary amusing since my parents live in Pompano Beach, Florida. The next time I'm there I'll have to drive past 1610 Powerline Rd. (see photo).

I went into the Show and spent some time browsing around and talking to some of the artists and crafters. By now I was really hungry, so I thought I'd get some noodles from a noodle shop I had spotted from the bus window. "Good Karma" the sign said, so in I went and helped myself to the oriental buffet (country of origin unknown). Stepping back outside, I said to myself, OK, if that is Angel, and this is Islington High Street, then that must be.... Pentonville Road, which I knew from having been on it once thirty years before would take me towards Euston Station and eventually Baker Street or Gloucester Place, from which I could catch the 139 bus back to the flat. It was too cold and windy to be able to eat my noodles, meat, sauce and broccoli comfortably while waiting for the bus, so I had to wait until seated to get my lunch on board. I hate to eat on buses, as I consider it rude, but it was now almost 3 pm and I was really hungry, so I flung decorum to the wind.

It was a Friday afternoon and this particular stretch of road was packed. The bus had been labelled Baker Street, but when it took an unexpected turn to the south I decided to bail out. I was near Portland Place, and decided to hoof it. I went across Tottenham Court Road, which jogged some memories from my days at University College London thirty years ago. Soon I was on Grafton Way, near the University Health Centre, and University College Hospital, where I had encountered the rudest and most insensitive receptionist ever placed on the face of this earth "back in the day". It reminded me how lucky the patrons of the local hospital are to have Fabian and his compadres.

On I pressed. The sun was now completely down behind the buildings and the air grew chillier. I had my handy pocket map with me, but it was taking a while to go what looked like a hop, skip and a jump toward Gloucester Place. "Perhaps I'll stop in at the Theosophical Society there" I thought to myself. I had been meaning to do just that since I arrived, having given a few talks and workshops at Boston's Theosophical Society, located in Arlington Center just a mile from my house in Belmont. Finally, I crossed Old Marylebone Rd, took a dog-leg to the right-and-left, and thought I could spy my final street with 139 bus route. A quick glance up to my right showed a sign for the Baker Street underground stop. Why spend more time stuck in traffic when I could just hop the tube? TeenE had already phoned me to tell me she was home from school, and I had said I wouldn't be more than half an hour, so I impulsively made the right turn that would take me up to the underground stop. As I walked the one short block up towards the busy intersection, I saw a door on my right marked "Self-Realization Fellowship Founded by Paramahansa Yogananda". Once again, I had auto-piloted myself exactly to the perfect destination. This is an organization started in 1920 by one of my favorite spiritual authors, for the purposes of exploring scientific methods of meditation in the search for the fully-realized Self (i.e. the Self that knows it is connected to and part of the Source we call "God"). Yogananda taught that the historical Jesus was a fully-Realised (i.e. Christed) being, fully divine while in human form. One of his books, "Autobiography of a Yogi" is one of my top-ten books of all time, and was the inspiration for my Most Favorite Band of All Time, "YES"'s album Tales from Topographic Oceans. When I look at photos of Paramahansa Yogananda, I feel a deep love and a feeling of inner recognition of a wise and kindred soul. Serendipity? Coincidence that I should find myself on the doorstep of Yogananda's organization? I'll let you decide.

Within a moment of passing this door I was on my way into the Baker St. station, and was on a train toward St. John's Wood within two minutes. Still lost in my reverie about the afternoon, I almost missed my stop, but managed to get off the train and float up the escalator toward Grove End Road and A Flat on Abbey Road.

Once again, a simple walk, during which the cosmic auto-pilot had been in control. With the destination as Angel, and with a forkful of Good Karma, I had visited my Present, Past, and, I hope, Future, and had ultimately found parts of my Self.