Instant Weight Loss Plan A was last week's tummy symptoms. This occured after a visit to the zoo and was attributed to something that I must have eaten there. Then Hubster experienced it just before leaving for NYC, but he also had sniffles, so I decided it must have been a virus.
IWL Plan B appears to be a week-later revisitation of similar symptoms, and includes a nascent sore throat.
I thought I had been so virtuous yesterday in giving up the chocolate mousse cake. Perhaps my lack of appetite for the heavenly confection (chocolate contains theobromine, literally, "the food of the gods) was really due to a return of the viral symptoms. I hardly touched my dinner, went to bed early, and then was awakened by activity by downstairs neighbors at 1 am. Huge tummy rumbles were interpreted as a late-night "hunger attack". I assuaged them with chocolate "digestive biscuits" and milk. The "digestives", however, are certainly not living up to their name. (these are sweet wheat cookies with chocolate coating on one side). Today's "dinner" menu is limited to a can of store-bought chicken-noodle soup and crackers. Amazingly, yesterday afternoon I cooked up a huge pot of chicken soup, let it boil down to almost nothing, and promptly left it out overnight on the stove. I tossed it in "the bin" this morning. At least I know today's extravaganza isn't due to the ruined soup OR the chocolate mousse cake that I so selflessly donated to science.
Love and Light
- BlogMama
- London, NW8, United Kingdom
- A "recovering academic", I have left the world of research and teaching Psychology. My current focus is on offering hypnotherapy, Reiki, and spiritual support for clients and hospice residents. I like to express myself through the arts, especially drama (the quirky-comic relief part),stand-up comedy, painting, and the fiber arts.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
A Weighty Matter
Finally, another positive customer service experience (we have had fine experiences with grocery-delivery service) !
John Lewis, whom I'm informed will be my "new best friend" is a department store that offers free delivery. This way, one does not have to haul bulky items home on the bus from either the Brent Cross Shopping center, or the bustling Oxford Street shopping district, served directly by one of the Abbey Road buses.
New purchases fitting the description of Bulky (not Bahlke) are: 2 new bed pillows, and TA-DA, a bathroom scale. In a toe-to-toe fight, which do you think will win? Bing! In this corner, the cheapo mechanical scale from the department store, or, in the red corner, the fancy digital one belonging to the Marquis of Kilo Mismeasurement over at the hospital?
Bing! It's a knockout! The cheapo scale wins with an uppercut to the left cheek!
It wins by 2.5 kilos (LOWER than the hospital scale). You'll have to do the conversion yourself. I actually have no idea, but probably in the range of 6-7 pounds, as this scale also weighs one in "stone", which equals 14 pounds, and I can do THAT math.
I had a restless night being bothered by the downstairs neighbors, so I'm going to go test-drive the pillows now.... z z z z z z z z
John Lewis, whom I'm informed will be my "new best friend" is a department store that offers free delivery. This way, one does not have to haul bulky items home on the bus from either the Brent Cross Shopping center, or the bustling Oxford Street shopping district, served directly by one of the Abbey Road buses.
New purchases fitting the description of Bulky (not Bahlke) are: 2 new bed pillows, and TA-DA, a bathroom scale. In a toe-to-toe fight, which do you think will win? Bing! In this corner, the cheapo mechanical scale from the department store, or, in the red corner, the fancy digital one belonging to the Marquis of Kilo Mismeasurement over at the hospital?
Bing! It's a knockout! The cheapo scale wins with an uppercut to the left cheek!
It wins by 2.5 kilos (LOWER than the hospital scale). You'll have to do the conversion yourself. I actually have no idea, but probably in the range of 6-7 pounds, as this scale also weighs one in "stone", which equals 14 pounds, and I can do THAT math.
I had a restless night being bothered by the downstairs neighbors, so I'm going to go test-drive the pillows now.... z z z z z z z z
Monday, September 29, 2008
Rush Hour on Abbey Road
HOT FLASH!!
At 7:13 am today, British Summer Time, there was a lull in the traffic noises below our fourth-story window, followed by the rhythmic clopping sounds of... could it be.... Horses?
A dash to the window provided me with a fine view of a troop of horses moving quickly up Abbey Road. The horses passed in groups of three, with a raincoated officer on the middle one, flanked by one on each side. They were going by at a pretty good clip, and there must have been at least 50 of them. They stretched from the beginning of our window-view to the end. They took up a whole lane. The traffic in the southbound lane was stopped completely.
There is a horse barracks here in St. John's Wood, over on Ordnance Hill near the "Hi" Street.
I walked passed it once. The gate was guarded by a guy in army camo fatigues with a rifle in his hands. It's good to know the horses are safe.
At 7:13 am today, British Summer Time, there was a lull in the traffic noises below our fourth-story window, followed by the rhythmic clopping sounds of... could it be.... Horses?
A dash to the window provided me with a fine view of a troop of horses moving quickly up Abbey Road. The horses passed in groups of three, with a raincoated officer on the middle one, flanked by one on each side. They were going by at a pretty good clip, and there must have been at least 50 of them. They stretched from the beginning of our window-view to the end. They took up a whole lane. The traffic in the southbound lane was stopped completely.
There is a horse barracks here in St. John's Wood, over on Ordnance Hill near the "Hi" Street.
I walked passed it once. The gate was guarded by a guy in army camo fatigues with a rifle in his hands. It's good to know the horses are safe.
Shout-out to my anagram peeps, and "let them eat cake"
First to weigh in with the correct solution to the anagram "up my lacerant C" et al is John Bates of Gloucester, Mass, followed closely by Devon Frye of Phoenix, Arizona, and, in third place,
Rosemary Carter of Waltham, Mass, all of the USA. Now we know who is up late on Sunday nights wasting their time reading this ridiculous blog!! Cheers. I will not publish the correct answer so that the rest of you can wrangle with it.
Ran into a local erstwhile blog reader today, but said individual has either not been diligent in keeping up with the latest entries requiring anagram-solving, or chose not to expose Blogmama's identity in public. I'll give the individual the benefit of the doubt and go with the latter--you know who you are.
This encounter happened after I had "tea" (read, coffee) with some of the St. John's Women's Club ladies at Cafe Richoux near the "hi" street. There were seven of us there, and I had a chance to chat with the two who were closest to me. Despite being a known celebrity hang-out (you-know-who has been personally seen there by one of the women) the service was terribly slow. It took two hours to get served tea, a platter of finger sandwiches (cucumber & butter, salmon and ?, chicken and mayo, egg salad, all on soft bread with the crusts cut off) and a platter of scones, fresh butter, and jam/marmalade. As school-release time approached, the moms became restless. It turned out that our prix-fixe tea included a slice of cake each, and not one of us had the time or room to spare for the crowning confection. We got seven slices of chocolate mousse cake individually boxed and each went on our way.
On the way home, I stopped by the reception desk at the Hospital to see if I could track down the volunteer coordinator, who has been putting me off since I got here about coming in to volunteer. I had carefully laid my plans last May, and was told that all I needed to do when I got here was pop by for her to inspect my passport and to apply for a criminal background check. I've been phoning and emailing her to no avail, to set up an appointment to do just that. One day I even went over in person, but the receptionist sent me through the door and shouldn't have, as I wound up right in the middle of the lunch-time tray service in the hospice itself and was escorted out the door by a frazzled Volunteer Coordinatrix. She told me that she was swamped, as their ambulance driver had gone on holiday, and the replacement drivers that had been sent were not working out. She wound up having to drive the ambulance herself, and put me off until she was done with that. I knew that the backgound check would take weeks or months before I could actually begin volunteering, and I knew that once I had my work visa I'd be doing more than just volunteering, and wanted to get the hospice on my weekly schedule before it got full of other commitments (knitting group, anyone?)
I went to the reception area, still carrying the box of cake, and decided I would give it to the VC if she seemed even remotely friendly. ("let them eat cake" not-withstanding, a little chocolate mousse cake might have been able to sweeten her). Fabian, the friendly young gentleman receptionist suggested that I go right on through the double doors to find her, but I knew better than to pull that stunt twice. He was then happy to phone VC for me. She'd be out in five minutes, I was told.
As I waited in the reception area, a lot of drama unfolded. Fabian was distracted from his phone-answering and his Sudoku-puzzling by the need to give patients directions to various offices, obtain a porter for a shouting elderly woman who needed a wheelchair, chat with staff dropping by to talk about football, discuss the need for a consistent set of judging rules on questionable football calls by the line judge, help someone for whom the automatic doors would not open by saying "shazzam!" (at which point they opened on their own), tell other staff members what celebrities they looked like, etc. I was so engrossed by his performance that I didn't notice that a full twenty minutes had elapsed. "Fabian, do you reckon that she's forgotten me?" I asked. He reckoned that she had, and got on the phone again. He reported that she'd gotten waylaid, and would be right out.
That was when I decided that the offering of chocolate mousse cake would probably not go over too well. There had to be another option for it besides it coming home to reside in my fridge, from whence it would call my name in the night until I subdued it with a fork and a glass of milk.
Aha! Perhaps Fabian would do me the favor of taking it home. "Oh Fabian... do you like chocolate mousse cake?" He brightened visibly, then shook his head. "No, I'm trying to keep the weight down, I really mustn't, thank you, though, I'd love it really, but I need to say no, thanks, I'm trying to, you know, ...." He looked like a fine specimen to me, but I wasn't going to press any further. I told him why I was trying to give it away.
"I've just moved here", I said, "and although I do a lot of walking now, Dr. D's scales tell me that I am gaining weight. I told him that they are in serious need of re-calibration, but I'm afraid it's the chocolate cake, the beer, and the Stilton and Wensleydale cheeses that are influencing them." Fabian smiled a twinkly smile that let me know he was sympathetic to my plight. "I just love a mature cheddar cheese myself" he said. I was just about to go into a reverie about English cheeses when who should enter the lobby but the Marquis of Kilo-Mismeasurement himself.
"Hello!" he said, although I'm not sure if it was to Fabian, or to both of us, if indeed he even recognized me. "Ah, Dr. D., we were just talking about how your scales are in serious need of re-calibration. "Yes, I know" he began to joke. I received a doctorly handshake. "Are you here for the hospice?" He had been previously informed of my interest in volunteering. "Yes, I'm waiting to talk to VC". Without thinking, I thrust the gilded box of cake towards him. "Here, I think YOU should have this piece of chocolate mousse cake, since your scales tell me that I really shouldn't eat it, and Fabian here won't take it." The kind doctor gamely tried to offer it to Fabian, who continued in his steadfast refusal. A struggle of wills ensued, with the end result of Dr. D. taking the chocolate mousse cake with the intention of sharing it with the guys "out front", presumably in the main hospital reception area. Better the cake should be in their hands (and ultimately, cells) than on my hips and less-than flat abs. All the more carbohydrate fuel for them to convert into lactic acid, which in the presence of oxygen should enable their cells to metabolize stored energy into electrical signals, creating muscle contractions and therefore, work, and heat. (Oops, sorry, lapsing into a past-life experience involving frog dissection.)
This calorie-filled cake exchange was interrupted by the entrance of VC, who did not recognize me at ALL, and who was underwhelmed to see me, to say the least. I was able to get onto her calendar in a few weeks' time to start the criminal record background-check process. I sincerely hope that the illegal U-turn that I was caught doing in 1992 by Belmont's Finest doesn't come back to haunt me. Don't hold your collective breaths, dear readers. I'm more likely to have tea with Busta Rhymes, P. Diddy, and Snoop Dogg combined (all apparently clients of our solicitor) AND to do Reiki on HRH the Queen before I am allowed to volunteer at the hospice.
This was entirely too much excitement, so I left to go rest up on the bench at the famous road crossing, to wait for TeenE's exit from her voice lesson nearby. I waved toward the web-cam in case any of you were watching, and directed a couple of Japanese tourists to the correct "zebra crossing" (there is another one perpendicular to the correct one).
After all that excitement, TeenE and I retired to A Flat on Abbey Road, to make and consume fresh pesto on angelhair pasta and do our respective homework.
Rosemary Carter of Waltham, Mass, all of the USA. Now we know who is up late on Sunday nights wasting their time reading this ridiculous blog!! Cheers. I will not publish the correct answer so that the rest of you can wrangle with it.
Ran into a local erstwhile blog reader today, but said individual has either not been diligent in keeping up with the latest entries requiring anagram-solving, or chose not to expose Blogmama's identity in public. I'll give the individual the benefit of the doubt and go with the latter--you know who you are.
This encounter happened after I had "tea" (read, coffee) with some of the St. John's Women's Club ladies at Cafe Richoux near the "hi" street. There were seven of us there, and I had a chance to chat with the two who were closest to me. Despite being a known celebrity hang-out (you-know-who has been personally seen there by one of the women) the service was terribly slow. It took two hours to get served tea, a platter of finger sandwiches (cucumber & butter, salmon and ?, chicken and mayo, egg salad, all on soft bread with the crusts cut off) and a platter of scones, fresh butter, and jam/marmalade. As school-release time approached, the moms became restless. It turned out that our prix-fixe tea included a slice of cake each, and not one of us had the time or room to spare for the crowning confection. We got seven slices of chocolate mousse cake individually boxed and each went on our way.
On the way home, I stopped by the reception desk at the Hospital to see if I could track down the volunteer coordinator, who has been putting me off since I got here about coming in to volunteer. I had carefully laid my plans last May, and was told that all I needed to do when I got here was pop by for her to inspect my passport and to apply for a criminal background check. I've been phoning and emailing her to no avail, to set up an appointment to do just that. One day I even went over in person, but the receptionist sent me through the door and shouldn't have, as I wound up right in the middle of the lunch-time tray service in the hospice itself and was escorted out the door by a frazzled Volunteer Coordinatrix. She told me that she was swamped, as their ambulance driver had gone on holiday, and the replacement drivers that had been sent were not working out. She wound up having to drive the ambulance herself, and put me off until she was done with that. I knew that the backgound check would take weeks or months before I could actually begin volunteering, and I knew that once I had my work visa I'd be doing more than just volunteering, and wanted to get the hospice on my weekly schedule before it got full of other commitments (knitting group, anyone?)
I went to the reception area, still carrying the box of cake, and decided I would give it to the VC if she seemed even remotely friendly. ("let them eat cake" not-withstanding, a little chocolate mousse cake might have been able to sweeten her). Fabian, the friendly young gentleman receptionist suggested that I go right on through the double doors to find her, but I knew better than to pull that stunt twice. He was then happy to phone VC for me. She'd be out in five minutes, I was told.
As I waited in the reception area, a lot of drama unfolded. Fabian was distracted from his phone-answering and his Sudoku-puzzling by the need to give patients directions to various offices, obtain a porter for a shouting elderly woman who needed a wheelchair, chat with staff dropping by to talk about football, discuss the need for a consistent set of judging rules on questionable football calls by the line judge, help someone for whom the automatic doors would not open by saying "shazzam!" (at which point they opened on their own), tell other staff members what celebrities they looked like, etc. I was so engrossed by his performance that I didn't notice that a full twenty minutes had elapsed. "Fabian, do you reckon that she's forgotten me?" I asked. He reckoned that she had, and got on the phone again. He reported that she'd gotten waylaid, and would be right out.
That was when I decided that the offering of chocolate mousse cake would probably not go over too well. There had to be another option for it besides it coming home to reside in my fridge, from whence it would call my name in the night until I subdued it with a fork and a glass of milk.
Aha! Perhaps Fabian would do me the favor of taking it home. "Oh Fabian... do you like chocolate mousse cake?" He brightened visibly, then shook his head. "No, I'm trying to keep the weight down, I really mustn't, thank you, though, I'd love it really, but I need to say no, thanks, I'm trying to, you know, ...." He looked like a fine specimen to me, but I wasn't going to press any further. I told him why I was trying to give it away.
"I've just moved here", I said, "and although I do a lot of walking now, Dr. D's scales tell me that I am gaining weight. I told him that they are in serious need of re-calibration, but I'm afraid it's the chocolate cake, the beer, and the Stilton and Wensleydale cheeses that are influencing them." Fabian smiled a twinkly smile that let me know he was sympathetic to my plight. "I just love a mature cheddar cheese myself" he said. I was just about to go into a reverie about English cheeses when who should enter the lobby but the Marquis of Kilo-Mismeasurement himself.
"Hello!" he said, although I'm not sure if it was to Fabian, or to both of us, if indeed he even recognized me. "Ah, Dr. D., we were just talking about how your scales are in serious need of re-calibration. "Yes, I know" he began to joke. I received a doctorly handshake. "Are you here for the hospice?" He had been previously informed of my interest in volunteering. "Yes, I'm waiting to talk to VC". Without thinking, I thrust the gilded box of cake towards him. "Here, I think YOU should have this piece of chocolate mousse cake, since your scales tell me that I really shouldn't eat it, and Fabian here won't take it." The kind doctor gamely tried to offer it to Fabian, who continued in his steadfast refusal. A struggle of wills ensued, with the end result of Dr. D. taking the chocolate mousse cake with the intention of sharing it with the guys "out front", presumably in the main hospital reception area. Better the cake should be in their hands (and ultimately, cells) than on my hips and less-than flat abs. All the more carbohydrate fuel for them to convert into lactic acid, which in the presence of oxygen should enable their cells to metabolize stored energy into electrical signals, creating muscle contractions and therefore, work, and heat. (Oops, sorry, lapsing into a past-life experience involving frog dissection.)
This calorie-filled cake exchange was interrupted by the entrance of VC, who did not recognize me at ALL, and who was underwhelmed to see me, to say the least. I was able to get onto her calendar in a few weeks' time to start the criminal record background-check process. I sincerely hope that the illegal U-turn that I was caught doing in 1992 by Belmont's Finest doesn't come back to haunt me. Don't hold your collective breaths, dear readers. I'm more likely to have tea with Busta Rhymes, P. Diddy, and Snoop Dogg combined (all apparently clients of our solicitor) AND to do Reiki on HRH the Queen before I am allowed to volunteer at the hospice.
This was entirely too much excitement, so I left to go rest up on the bench at the famous road crossing, to wait for TeenE's exit from her voice lesson nearby. I waved toward the web-cam in case any of you were watching, and directed a couple of Japanese tourists to the correct "zebra crossing" (there is another one perpendicular to the correct one).
After all that excitement, TeenE and I retired to A Flat on Abbey Road, to make and consume fresh pesto on angelhair pasta and do our respective homework.
Immigration Hip-Hop
News flash: Hubster is in NYC applying for the visa which will allow him/us to work in the UK. He has been in recent contact with our UK solicitor whom we have retained for advice.
It turns out the solicitor had an emergency case on his hands last Friday. His client Busta Rhymes was denied entry to the UK for the performance at a concert, despite having held a valid work permit and two previous entries this year since pleading guilty to assault last January in NYC. Smiling face of solicitor outside the Court is available to view by googling "Busta Rhymes London". I'm glad we have such high-profile representation.
Hubster should be back here on Thursday. Let's hope he does not forget the Skippy peanut butter, and is able to navigate the green "nothing to declare" line at Heathrow without incident.
It turns out the solicitor had an emergency case on his hands last Friday. His client Busta Rhymes was denied entry to the UK for the performance at a concert, despite having held a valid work permit and two previous entries this year since pleading guilty to assault last January in NYC. Smiling face of solicitor outside the Court is available to view by googling "Busta Rhymes London". I'm glad we have such high-profile representation.
Hubster should be back here on Thursday. Let's hope he does not forget the Skippy peanut butter, and is able to navigate the green "nothing to declare" line at Heathrow without incident.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Anagram silliness
This is clearly evidence of a case of "too much time on my hands" while waiting at the computer for email messages to come in.
Can you identify the celebrity whose name appears in the following list of anagrams?
First person to correctly identify him/her will get a shout-out in a following posting, possibly in the form of their name in anagrams.
I think I'm going to have to summarily disqualify Hubster as he is a notorious anagramist.
You may enter the competition by sending an email to me. Do not leave it as a comment, as this may spoil the fun for the slower amongst us.
Cruel panty-cam
My! A crapulent C
Put "cancel", Mary!
clam up, cry neat
up my lacerant C
manly, cuter CPA
Treacly UN camp
my cruel catnap
can map cutlery
calmer, puny cat
can lay crumpet
Did you get it yet? Good luck
Can you identify the celebrity whose name appears in the following list of anagrams?
First person to correctly identify him/her will get a shout-out in a following posting, possibly in the form of their name in anagrams.
I think I'm going to have to summarily disqualify Hubster as he is a notorious anagramist.
You may enter the competition by sending an email to me. Do not leave it as a comment, as this may spoil the fun for the slower amongst us.
Cruel panty-cam
My! A crapulent C
Put "cancel", Mary!
clam up, cry neat
up my lacerant C
manly, cuter CPA
Treacly UN camp
my cruel catnap
can map cutlery
calmer, puny cat
can lay crumpet
Did you get it yet? Good luck
Ornithological correction
In a posting regarding what I did on the Big 5-0, I referenced a field of what I called "crows" who were grazing en masse on a grassy knoll in Hendon. I would like to clarify this, if possible.
Amazon.co.uk just sent me my copy of "Birds of Britain and Europe" by Jim Flegg, illustrated by Martin Woodcock. Now isn't that a good name for a person who paints bird illustrations, or perhaps that is his porn-star name? (Aside: One way of determining one's porn-star name is to use the name of your first pet, along with the name of the street on which you grew up. If more than one street, pick the one that sounds the best with the pet's name. My porn-star name would be Abi Roxbury, who in a perfect porn-bod world, would have amazingly flat abs. But I digress)
The illustrations under "Crows" inform me that the large Carrion Crow Corvus corone, (Corona-drinking crow) as seen at the Tower of London, inhabits open countryside, has a widespread range, but is rarely very numerous. On the other hand the Rook Corvus frugilegus (Frug-dancing crow) is colonial when breeding and gregarious when feeding, with a widespread range and is often common. Another candidate is one of the smaller crows, the Jackdaw Corvus monedula (Monedula-doing crow), which is gregarious, often in large flocks with Rooks, inhabiting open woodland, parkland, farmland and urban areas, nesting colonially, with a widespread range and often common. 'Ere, 'oo you callin' common? they cry moneduliciously. I would bet that that was what I saw doing exercises near the football club in Hendon: a highly trained drill-team of jackdaws.
Amazon.co.uk just sent me my copy of "Birds of Britain and Europe" by Jim Flegg, illustrated by Martin Woodcock. Now isn't that a good name for a person who paints bird illustrations, or perhaps that is his porn-star name? (Aside: One way of determining one's porn-star name is to use the name of your first pet, along with the name of the street on which you grew up. If more than one street, pick the one that sounds the best with the pet's name. My porn-star name would be Abi Roxbury, who in a perfect porn-bod world, would have amazingly flat abs. But I digress)
The illustrations under "Crows" inform me that the large Carrion Crow Corvus corone, (Corona-drinking crow) as seen at the Tower of London, inhabits open countryside, has a widespread range, but is rarely very numerous. On the other hand the Rook Corvus frugilegus (Frug-dancing crow) is colonial when breeding and gregarious when feeding, with a widespread range and is often common. Another candidate is one of the smaller crows, the Jackdaw Corvus monedula (Monedula-doing crow), which is gregarious, often in large flocks with Rooks, inhabiting open woodland, parkland, farmland and urban areas, nesting colonially, with a widespread range and often common. 'Ere, 'oo you callin' common? they cry moneduliciously. I would bet that that was what I saw doing exercises near the football club in Hendon: a highly trained drill-team of jackdaws.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Free Will Lunch at John Stuart Mill's House
Yesterday I had the absolutely delightful experience of lunching with a friend of home-town soul-sister JoryJ. Her friend Cathey L. is a Wellesley College classmate, '69, who has had two long stints of living in london with her husband and kids, one of whom graduated from the American School in London a few years back.
Cathey has been diligent in emailing and phoning me until we could come up with a mutually agreeable date. Yesterday she was slated to be at home all day, waiting for a repairman. It was a good opportunity for me to drop in, she said.
A tube ride to Kensington High Street delivered me right to the area where the Whole Foods Market is located. I had heard rumours of its existence, but did not quite know where it was located. Now we will be able to order our Thanksgiving turkey! Wandering through a few streets did not produce the desired result of arrival at my destination, so I asked directions of one of my two favorite categories of People Who Actually Might Know How to Get One Un-Lost: a Westminster Council Street-sweeper. These are usually older men with a broom and a wheelbarrow, invariably with iPod earphones on. Once you get their attention, they are happy to attempt to help you. (the second category of helpful direction-givers are Postmen, if one can get over the shock of seeming them in a New York Yankees baseball cap).
I was on Kensington Court, and needed Kensington Square. The helpful sweeper knew just how to direct me with the minimal number of turns. As I approached the target address, I passed the Malta High Commission, and then arrived at a house with a Blue Plaque. These are historical markers affixed to the outsides of builidings, and designate which famous author, scientist, artist, statesperson, etc. lived their, their birth and death dates, and the dates of residence, if known.
This particular blue plaque stated that "John Stuart Mill" lived here. There was a lovely garden full of blue lobelia. (see photo)
Lunching with Cathey and her visiting 87-year-old mother, a former computer-science teacher, was delightful. I also had a chance to meet Matilda the black cat, and to offer my services as a cat-sitter. The humans talked politics (not hard to do in this US election season) the economy, the American School, kids and colleges, Wellesley dorms and classmates, customer-"service" horror stories, etc.
Some time in 2007 her water-softener unit had broken, leaving a small flood in the downstairs flat. Two previous "service" calls over the past year yielded 1) diagnosing the problem, 2) having someone come months later with the wrong part, 3) being told they would order the part from the factory, 4) being told months later that the factory in Germany had burned down, and now 5) almost a year later, this appointment. Her "service" man rang the bell at 1:30, complained that there was no place to park, refused her offer to pay for his parking at the local covered garage ("it's not in my contract to park in a public garage") went away, (she tried to hold his tools and parts as collateral for his return, but he was too clever for her) and rang the bell again at 3:00pm, after he had finally found an on-street parking place. I left before it had been determined whether or not the part had been installed and the unit repaired, or whether "service" man left at 3:30 for his tea break. I think that Cathey wins the Customer Service Horror Story of the Year award (Long-Suffering American category).
Thank you Cathey, for your gracious hospitality!
In honor of the day, I now share with you some of the lyrics to The Philosopher's Drinking Song, as presented by the Department of Philosophy at the University of Wallamalloo, Australia (really by Monty Python)
"Oh.... John Stuart Mill of his own free will with a half a pint of shandy was particularly ill;
Plato they say could stick it away, half a crate of whiskey every day;
Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle;
Hobbes was fond of his dram;
and Rene Descartes was a drunken fart: "I drink therefore I am".
There's nothing Nietzsche couldn't teach ye 'bout the raising of the wrist;
A lovely little thinker but a bugger when he's pissed!"
It's sad, I know, that I still remember this much of the song (there is another verse). I used to have a poster in my Wellesley dorm room with a cartoon of John Cleese as an Australian Outback-er and all of the lyrics.
Cheers!
Cathey has been diligent in emailing and phoning me until we could come up with a mutually agreeable date. Yesterday she was slated to be at home all day, waiting for a repairman. It was a good opportunity for me to drop in, she said.
A tube ride to Kensington High Street delivered me right to the area where the Whole Foods Market is located. I had heard rumours of its existence, but did not quite know where it was located. Now we will be able to order our Thanksgiving turkey! Wandering through a few streets did not produce the desired result of arrival at my destination, so I asked directions of one of my two favorite categories of People Who Actually Might Know How to Get One Un-Lost: a Westminster Council Street-sweeper. These are usually older men with a broom and a wheelbarrow, invariably with iPod earphones on. Once you get their attention, they are happy to attempt to help you. (the second category of helpful direction-givers are Postmen, if one can get over the shock of seeming them in a New York Yankees baseball cap).
I was on Kensington Court, and needed Kensington Square. The helpful sweeper knew just how to direct me with the minimal number of turns. As I approached the target address, I passed the Malta High Commission, and then arrived at a house with a Blue Plaque. These are historical markers affixed to the outsides of builidings, and designate which famous author, scientist, artist, statesperson, etc. lived their, their birth and death dates, and the dates of residence, if known.
This particular blue plaque stated that "John Stuart Mill" lived here. There was a lovely garden full of blue lobelia. (see photo)
Lunching with Cathey and her visiting 87-year-old mother, a former computer-science teacher, was delightful. I also had a chance to meet Matilda the black cat, and to offer my services as a cat-sitter. The humans talked politics (not hard to do in this US election season) the economy, the American School, kids and colleges, Wellesley dorms and classmates, customer-"service" horror stories, etc.
Some time in 2007 her water-softener unit had broken, leaving a small flood in the downstairs flat. Two previous "service" calls over the past year yielded 1) diagnosing the problem, 2) having someone come months later with the wrong part, 3) being told they would order the part from the factory, 4) being told months later that the factory in Germany had burned down, and now 5) almost a year later, this appointment. Her "service" man rang the bell at 1:30, complained that there was no place to park, refused her offer to pay for his parking at the local covered garage ("it's not in my contract to park in a public garage") went away, (she tried to hold his tools and parts as collateral for his return, but he was too clever for her) and rang the bell again at 3:00pm, after he had finally found an on-street parking place. I left before it had been determined whether or not the part had been installed and the unit repaired, or whether "service" man left at 3:30 for his tea break. I think that Cathey wins the Customer Service Horror Story of the Year award (Long-Suffering American category).
Thank you Cathey, for your gracious hospitality!
In honor of the day, I now share with you some of the lyrics to The Philosopher's Drinking Song, as presented by the Department of Philosophy at the University of Wallamalloo, Australia (really by Monty Python)
"Oh.... John Stuart Mill of his own free will with a half a pint of shandy was particularly ill;
Plato they say could stick it away, half a crate of whiskey every day;
Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle;
Hobbes was fond of his dram;
and Rene Descartes was a drunken fart: "I drink therefore I am".
There's nothing Nietzsche couldn't teach ye 'bout the raising of the wrist;
A lovely little thinker but a bugger when he's pissed!"
It's sad, I know, that I still remember this much of the song (there is another verse). I used to have a poster in my Wellesley dorm room with a cartoon of John Cleese as an Australian Outback-er and all of the lyrics.
Cheers!
Americans in London--some observations
I'm not an anthropologist, but I could play one on TV. Perhaps my interest in people-watching had an effect on my choice of academic career (research psychologist). I became good at observing behaviour in a dispassionate, systematic way.
What follows is a brief report on the behavior of Ex-Pat American women in London. These observations were done on a non-random sample of people who send their children to the American School (i.e. skewed extremely to the upper-upper middle class)
NOTE to Readers. The item on hairstyles that used to follow below has been deemed "inappropriate for the general public" by Hubster and has been removed.
What follows is a brief report on the behavior of Ex-Pat American women in London. These observations were done on a non-random sample of people who send their children to the American School (i.e. skewed extremely to the upper-upper middle class)
NOTE to Readers. The item on hairstyles that used to follow below has been deemed "inappropriate for the general public" by Hubster and has been removed.
When gathering for a planned group expedition that involves meeting at tube stop, groups of these highlighted women will congregate in a place of maximum blockage for those who are trying to enter the station. They are so busy chatting amongst themselves while waiting for the stragglers to arrive that they do not notice that they are COMPLETELY blocking the entrance to the tube station. Once they have arrived at the destination tube station, they will position themselves in a group at the top of the escalators in such a way as to deny access to the exits to anyone else coming up the escalator. This is in the spirit of waiting for any stragglers, but it annoys those who are not in the Group.
Many of these women also engage in walking and running groups in the local neighborhoods. The meeting place for such activities is the SJW Starbucks. The really fit ones can be seen in their running gear, stretching their quads and hammies next to the tables of bean-sippers. Due to my knee, I will never be a runner, so am actually secretly envious of this display of lycra.
The American women are also quick to tell you their sagas of waiting for customer "service".
They will also offer useful advice about how to work appliances, get a UK driver's license (which you have to do before you've been here 12 months), how hard it is to actually pass the driving test, where to shop that offers free delivery, which doctors are wonderful (see homage to our doctor below), how to avoid getting ripped off, etc. As Americans are wont to do, compared to some other groups, they are friendly and assume you'll both want to talk to them AND hear what they have to offer. As this is the main group to which I have been exposed so far, it is easy to chat with strangers and find some common ground in the midst of a strange city.
I am not the only one feeling like a "newbie". One of the women I met last week at the neighborhood coffee is feeling similarly estranged. I was walking near the High Street several days ago, and I heard my name being called. WOW! I looked around, and there was NiceMomH, disguised in large sunglasses. I never would have recognized her. I'm glad she spotted me. It made me feel like I was settling in to the neighborhood a little more to have had a shout-out on the street. I will now call this area of St. John's Wood "the Hi street".
Monday, September 22, 2008
REALLY HOT FLASH--stuff has arrived
21 boxes and one suitcase of things we couldn't possibly live without arrived this morning. They had been held for ransom by ______ Relocations (rhymes with Smeagol). It turns out the price we were quoted on the US side did not include customs costs and storage fees on this side. For only 372 additional pounds sterling, we were able to ransom our personal possessions.
Of course, we had been given erroneous contact information by the clowns in Florida, so we spent a week trying to contact Louise@Smeagol.co.uk until several phone calls revealed that she did not work there any more. That is the week for which we are being charged.
Hubster had a few choice words of wisdom for Smeagol. Now we have our Preciousssssssss things, I can't remember what is in most of the boxes. I did open the one with the crafty supplies.
Of course, we had been given erroneous contact information by the clowns in Florida, so we spent a week trying to contact Louise@Smeagol.co.uk until several phone calls revealed that she did not work there any more. That is the week for which we are being charged.
Hubster had a few choice words of wisdom for Smeagol. Now we have our Preciousssssssss things, I can't remember what is in most of the boxes. I did open the one with the crafty supplies.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
The Key to getting Keys
At long last (one month, or four months, depending who's counting) we have more than one key to the front door of the building.
Back in May, when Hubster initially rented the flat from a "lettings agent" who shall remain nameless (but rhymes with Pox-Shuns) we were issued a set of keys. "No Problemo, Caped Crusader", he thought. "I'll just take them back to Boston and get a few more sets made".
So I took them down to Vinny, the local Hardward Store Man, (Ironmonger), who has cut keys for us for the past twenty years. None of the keys could be duplicated. The key blanks were completely different from any he had seen, and the skeleton key brought a few raised eyebrows.
Fast-forward to the days since August 16th. There are three of us who have the capability to come and go at will, and only one key to the front door of the building. This means that before anyone leaves the premises the whole days' worth of comings and goings must be orchestrated. "You are going out to do the shopping. I am going out for a walk. Who will be home first?" Whoever it is will be the Keeper of the Key for the morning, or the day, if everyone else will be out longer. It's a bit like an algebra problem. "If Train A leaves the station without the keys, and the engineer goes shopping, when will Train B arrive at its destination and be locked out?" Toot Toot!
Then if person (train) A has arrived home ahead of person (train) B or C, and decides to take a nap or is overcome by the sight of the sofa due to jet lag, when person (train) B or C finally does return home, they will need to ring the doorbell, which will produce a jarring effect on the consciousness of Train A.
The first weekday after our arrival, Hubster tried to get the front door key copied. It turned out it was a Security Key and no one would copy it without the proper documentation. I visited the Lettings Agent. There HAD been another set of keys, but Pox-Shuns had given them to the Landlord's Daughter. "We're very sorry, Mrs. Blogmama, but we don't seem to have any other keys." They said it like that was the end of the story. Of course, we were of a different opinion. They produced the name of someone at the management office (her name rhymes with "Elegy"). Two weeks of calling several times a week produced zero contact with "Elegy". We'd leave home numbers, cell numbers, and a plea for a call back even if there was no news, just to know she'd received our messages.
I finally took to hanging about the Lettings Agent office. They serve bottled water, soda, tea or coffee, whatever you want. I would bring my knitting and make myself comfortable while the "nice young man" from whom we leased the flat would try to make me think that they were addressing the Key Situation. The had corresponded with the company that manages the building itself, rather than their own rental-management office. They needed to get the top-secret key code from the landlord's solicitor. It being the end of August, all the solicitors in the world were on "holiday".
Meanwhile, we finally met the porter of our building. What a porter does is still a bit of a mystery to me, but it appears to include sweeping up the outside and taking the trash and recycling from the bins on the fire escape and putting them down in the giant rubbish bins near the side gate of the building for the twice-a-week collection by the Borough of Westminster sanitation trucks. We chatted with her for a bit, and explained our Key Conundrum. "Oh, you have to go all the way up to a locksmith in Hendon (two bus lines away) to get those keys. I'll let you know on Friday whether I can get them for you so you don't have to go all the way to Hendon when you get the key code". We have not seen nor heard of her since then. That was two Fridays ago.
The next time I went to Pox-Shuns with my knitting, I spent a little longer there. The other staff were beginning to recognize me. The receptionist knew that I'd take a bottled water rather than any other kind of beverage. I decided to keep her on her toes and ordered it Sparkling this time. I asked for the Nice Young Man. She enquired as to what it might be regarding. "Oh, he'll know..." I assured her. He was on the phone at the mo', and took at least fifteen minutes to come out to greet me, and looked very sheepish indeed. "Mrs. Blogmama! I am Sooooooo Sorrrrrrrry. Hasn't "Elegy" gotten those keys for you yet?" I assured him that we could not provide any evidence that Elegy actually existed.
He got on the phone and tried to raise Elegy. He tried five times. She would not pick up his call. I suspected that she was screening her calls, as was being as successful at avoiding his as she had been with ours. He decided on another tactic. He called her from his own Manager's phone. Still no connection with the elusive Elegy. Nice Young Man's final strategy worked. He called Her manager from His manager's line. At last!! The manager put Elegy on to speak with NYM. "Mrs. Blogmama!! I have Elegy on the line for you!!" I was so peeved at this point that I was afraid I'd be rude on the phone, so I let NYM do all the talking. The upshot of that conversation (on a Friday afternoon) was that Elegy would be sure to call us with the key code as soon as she had it. I had decided that in the interest of moving the process along more quickly, I would not wait for the Lettings Agent or Elegy be in charge of actually going to get the keys made; I'd do it myself. After all, I might as well see Hendon! (and find out where those bus lines go).
Finally, on Friday, the 19th of September, almost five weeks to the day since our arrival, I came home at 3:30 pm to find a message from Elegy on the answering machine. She had the code!! She would send it to me in an email. Of course, I could not get an internet signal at that moment (the broadband connections here are only occasional, after all, even though we pay the premium rate for the most bandwidth). When I finally opened the email, I had the name of the locksmith and the secret code. I had to search on-line for the locksmith's address and phone number. A quick call to them indicated that even if I left Right Now I wouldn't get there before they closed. They would, however, be open on Saturday from 9 to 1.
I had spent all day Friday walking around on a warm and sunny day, and was exhausted from all the effort. I didn't wake up until 9 am on Saturday, and attempted to get out of the house quickly. It took an hour. I was on my way up Finchley Road on the bus shortly after 10:15. Those of you who knew me in 1978 may recall that I lived on Finchley Road in Golder's Green that year, but this bus took a left before we got to my old neighborhood. I was counting on the driver to let me know where the Hendon War Memorial stop was. The Transport For London website gives good directions on multiple ways one can get from one's home to one's destination, and exiting the bus at the Hendon War Memorial was crucial to this plan. Unfortunately, English was not this bus driver's first language, and this route was not "his route", so he had no idea. Fortunately, the automated disembodied voice was working that day, and she announced "Hendon War Memorial", so I was all set.
After alighting I had to cross under the road via underpass, and there were four or five decision-points at which I had to decide, this turning, or that one? This ramp, or that staircase? It was like searching for the Minotaur in ancient Crete. Everybody repeat after me, a la Prof. Miranda Marvin: "The palace of Mynos, Knossos, Crete!"
A few more false starts, two stints of asking for directions, and I was on my way to Church Street. There were two fellows inside the locksmith's shop, a chatty one with a completely shaved head, and the other "silent partner", who could have been Jeremy Iron's younger, skinnier brother. Perhaps it was Jeremy himself. The chatty one informed me that I DID NOT NEED THE KEY CODE as a tenant, just the original key, and proof of address. I produced both, and had four copies made in a jiff. The silent one sprung to life when David Bowie's song Let's Dance came on the radio. "Guess we knew they'd play some Bowie sooner rather than later". The bald one tried to swipe my debit card in his little machine, and failed. There was no juice to the machine. Oh, so close........ After he tried in vain to replug all the connections, I was forced to leave the premises Without My Keys and go to the nearest bank machine. I finally ransomed the keys, making sure to keep the receipt, as I will taunt the Lettings Agent with the fourth key until I get reimbursed.
Thus endeth this reading of the Brit's take on Customer Service and Satisfaction. Their motto: "Let 'em sweat. We're busy making Tea."
Back in May, when Hubster initially rented the flat from a "lettings agent" who shall remain nameless (but rhymes with Pox-Shuns) we were issued a set of keys. "No Problemo, Caped Crusader", he thought. "I'll just take them back to Boston and get a few more sets made".
So I took them down to Vinny, the local Hardward Store Man, (Ironmonger), who has cut keys for us for the past twenty years. None of the keys could be duplicated. The key blanks were completely different from any he had seen, and the skeleton key brought a few raised eyebrows.
Fast-forward to the days since August 16th. There are three of us who have the capability to come and go at will, and only one key to the front door of the building. This means that before anyone leaves the premises the whole days' worth of comings and goings must be orchestrated. "You are going out to do the shopping. I am going out for a walk. Who will be home first?" Whoever it is will be the Keeper of the Key for the morning, or the day, if everyone else will be out longer. It's a bit like an algebra problem. "If Train A leaves the station without the keys, and the engineer goes shopping, when will Train B arrive at its destination and be locked out?" Toot Toot!
Then if person (train) A has arrived home ahead of person (train) B or C, and decides to take a nap or is overcome by the sight of the sofa due to jet lag, when person (train) B or C finally does return home, they will need to ring the doorbell, which will produce a jarring effect on the consciousness of Train A.
The first weekday after our arrival, Hubster tried to get the front door key copied. It turned out it was a Security Key and no one would copy it without the proper documentation. I visited the Lettings Agent. There HAD been another set of keys, but Pox-Shuns had given them to the Landlord's Daughter. "We're very sorry, Mrs. Blogmama, but we don't seem to have any other keys." They said it like that was the end of the story. Of course, we were of a different opinion. They produced the name of someone at the management office (her name rhymes with "Elegy"). Two weeks of calling several times a week produced zero contact with "Elegy". We'd leave home numbers, cell numbers, and a plea for a call back even if there was no news, just to know she'd received our messages.
I finally took to hanging about the Lettings Agent office. They serve bottled water, soda, tea or coffee, whatever you want. I would bring my knitting and make myself comfortable while the "nice young man" from whom we leased the flat would try to make me think that they were addressing the Key Situation. The had corresponded with the company that manages the building itself, rather than their own rental-management office. They needed to get the top-secret key code from the landlord's solicitor. It being the end of August, all the solicitors in the world were on "holiday".
Meanwhile, we finally met the porter of our building. What a porter does is still a bit of a mystery to me, but it appears to include sweeping up the outside and taking the trash and recycling from the bins on the fire escape and putting them down in the giant rubbish bins near the side gate of the building for the twice-a-week collection by the Borough of Westminster sanitation trucks. We chatted with her for a bit, and explained our Key Conundrum. "Oh, you have to go all the way up to a locksmith in Hendon (two bus lines away) to get those keys. I'll let you know on Friday whether I can get them for you so you don't have to go all the way to Hendon when you get the key code". We have not seen nor heard of her since then. That was two Fridays ago.
The next time I went to Pox-Shuns with my knitting, I spent a little longer there. The other staff were beginning to recognize me. The receptionist knew that I'd take a bottled water rather than any other kind of beverage. I decided to keep her on her toes and ordered it Sparkling this time. I asked for the Nice Young Man. She enquired as to what it might be regarding. "Oh, he'll know..." I assured her. He was on the phone at the mo', and took at least fifteen minutes to come out to greet me, and looked very sheepish indeed. "Mrs. Blogmama! I am Sooooooo Sorrrrrrrry. Hasn't "Elegy" gotten those keys for you yet?" I assured him that we could not provide any evidence that Elegy actually existed.
He got on the phone and tried to raise Elegy. He tried five times. She would not pick up his call. I suspected that she was screening her calls, as was being as successful at avoiding his as she had been with ours. He decided on another tactic. He called her from his own Manager's phone. Still no connection with the elusive Elegy. Nice Young Man's final strategy worked. He called Her manager from His manager's line. At last!! The manager put Elegy on to speak with NYM. "Mrs. Blogmama!! I have Elegy on the line for you!!" I was so peeved at this point that I was afraid I'd be rude on the phone, so I let NYM do all the talking. The upshot of that conversation (on a Friday afternoon) was that Elegy would be sure to call us with the key code as soon as she had it. I had decided that in the interest of moving the process along more quickly, I would not wait for the Lettings Agent or Elegy be in charge of actually going to get the keys made; I'd do it myself. After all, I might as well see Hendon! (and find out where those bus lines go).
Finally, on Friday, the 19th of September, almost five weeks to the day since our arrival, I came home at 3:30 pm to find a message from Elegy on the answering machine. She had the code!! She would send it to me in an email. Of course, I could not get an internet signal at that moment (the broadband connections here are only occasional, after all, even though we pay the premium rate for the most bandwidth). When I finally opened the email, I had the name of the locksmith and the secret code. I had to search on-line for the locksmith's address and phone number. A quick call to them indicated that even if I left Right Now I wouldn't get there before they closed. They would, however, be open on Saturday from 9 to 1.
I had spent all day Friday walking around on a warm and sunny day, and was exhausted from all the effort. I didn't wake up until 9 am on Saturday, and attempted to get out of the house quickly. It took an hour. I was on my way up Finchley Road on the bus shortly after 10:15. Those of you who knew me in 1978 may recall that I lived on Finchley Road in Golder's Green that year, but this bus took a left before we got to my old neighborhood. I was counting on the driver to let me know where the Hendon War Memorial stop was. The Transport For London website gives good directions on multiple ways one can get from one's home to one's destination, and exiting the bus at the Hendon War Memorial was crucial to this plan. Unfortunately, English was not this bus driver's first language, and this route was not "his route", so he had no idea. Fortunately, the automated disembodied voice was working that day, and she announced "Hendon War Memorial", so I was all set.
After alighting I had to cross under the road via underpass, and there were four or five decision-points at which I had to decide, this turning, or that one? This ramp, or that staircase? It was like searching for the Minotaur in ancient Crete. Everybody repeat after me, a la Prof. Miranda Marvin: "The palace of Mynos, Knossos, Crete!"
A few more false starts, two stints of asking for directions, and I was on my way to Church Street. There were two fellows inside the locksmith's shop, a chatty one with a completely shaved head, and the other "silent partner", who could have been Jeremy Iron's younger, skinnier brother. Perhaps it was Jeremy himself. The chatty one informed me that I DID NOT NEED THE KEY CODE as a tenant, just the original key, and proof of address. I produced both, and had four copies made in a jiff. The silent one sprung to life when David Bowie's song Let's Dance came on the radio. "Guess we knew they'd play some Bowie sooner rather than later". The bald one tried to swipe my debit card in his little machine, and failed. There was no juice to the machine. Oh, so close........ After he tried in vain to replug all the connections, I was forced to leave the premises Without My Keys and go to the nearest bank machine. I finally ransomed the keys, making sure to keep the receipt, as I will taunt the Lettings Agent with the fourth key until I get reimbursed.
Thus endeth this reading of the Brit's take on Customer Service and Satisfaction. Their motto: "Let 'em sweat. We're busy making Tea."
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
HOT FLASH!! Hot workout
From now on, some blog posts will be in the form of a HOT FLASH! This will be a very brief description of a finite event without any purple prose or ironic juxtaposition. So there!
This morning I attending a "neighborhood coffee" with about 10 other American School moms all from about a 1/4 mile radius in the neighborhood. Many of these women are also brand-new to London and I had not yet met them at school functions as our children are different ages.
Everyone was very nice, with different backgrounds, ages, experiences and expectations from their time here. There was much talk of the market meltdowns here and in the US, as many of the spouses/fathers are in the banking industry and quite a few are in fear of their jobs. People who just got here may be yanked back to the US by their employers, or worse, fired. This is why it is extra-good that our family has applied for visa status that does not depend on employment by one particular employer. With the other kind of visa, if the job ends, the family has six weeks to pack it up, and move back to the US.
ASL is a very coffee-oriented culture. I have three ASL parent-coffees on my calendar this week. This is great, but each coffee features one or more of the following: chocolate croissants, iced blueberry cake, chocolate chip muffins. (Not a scone in sight...) It is hard to walk off all of those calories.
Accordingly, we are on a hunt for a suitable gym/workout club. Last week I discovered "London's best kept secret", a private gym at the Marylebone Cricket Club, aka Lord's Cricket Ground, a 10-minute walk from A Flat on Abbey Road.
I went down there today to get the "orientation to the machines" tour on a free pass.
If I wish to avoid the heavy traffic going by on Wellington Road, I can go south on Abbey Rd through and past the crosswalk, turn left onto Circus Road, and take a shortcut to the gym that takes me right past You-Know-Who's house (hint: my first crush at age 12). Popping through the north gate of Lord's brings me past the Nursery Pavillion. Today there was a crowd of wine-swilling adults, perhaps at at tasting event, AND a game of cricket being played on the "Practice Pitch".
I wound up doing a mini-workout on the rowing machine and feeling capable of kicking some a** when I was done, despite not having been to the gym since March.
I am informed by one of the Moms I met last week that You-Know-Who works out at this gym. A mom that I met this week has been on the treadmill next to him and told me what time of day he's usually there. She said he is very nice and chatted with her. I live in hope.
This morning I attending a "neighborhood coffee" with about 10 other American School moms all from about a 1/4 mile radius in the neighborhood. Many of these women are also brand-new to London and I had not yet met them at school functions as our children are different ages.
Everyone was very nice, with different backgrounds, ages, experiences and expectations from their time here. There was much talk of the market meltdowns here and in the US, as many of the spouses/fathers are in the banking industry and quite a few are in fear of their jobs. People who just got here may be yanked back to the US by their employers, or worse, fired. This is why it is extra-good that our family has applied for visa status that does not depend on employment by one particular employer. With the other kind of visa, if the job ends, the family has six weeks to pack it up, and move back to the US.
ASL is a very coffee-oriented culture. I have three ASL parent-coffees on my calendar this week. This is great, but each coffee features one or more of the following: chocolate croissants, iced blueberry cake, chocolate chip muffins. (Not a scone in sight...) It is hard to walk off all of those calories.
Accordingly, we are on a hunt for a suitable gym/workout club. Last week I discovered "London's best kept secret", a private gym at the Marylebone Cricket Club, aka Lord's Cricket Ground, a 10-minute walk from A Flat on Abbey Road.
I went down there today to get the "orientation to the machines" tour on a free pass.
If I wish to avoid the heavy traffic going by on Wellington Road, I can go south on Abbey Rd through and past the crosswalk, turn left onto Circus Road, and take a shortcut to the gym that takes me right past You-Know-Who's house (hint: my first crush at age 12). Popping through the north gate of Lord's brings me past the Nursery Pavillion. Today there was a crowd of wine-swilling adults, perhaps at at tasting event, AND a game of cricket being played on the "Practice Pitch".
I wound up doing a mini-workout on the rowing machine and feeling capable of kicking some a** when I was done, despite not having been to the gym since March.
I am informed by one of the Moms I met last week that You-Know-Who works out at this gym. A mom that I met this week has been on the treadmill next to him and told me what time of day he's usually there. She said he is very nice and chatted with her. I live in hope.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
HOT FLASH! Puttin' on the Ritz!
Today we rendezvoused with our first "friends from home". Joyce and Chet are vacationing in London and Edinburgh, and graciously invited us to join them for tea at the venerable Ritz Hotel.
We waited for our hosts in the lobby of the Ritz. The hotel no longer uses the main entrance on Piccadilly, instead opting for a small lobby with two chairs that is accessed by a side street. Our invitation was to meet Joyce and Chet at 1:15 for a 1:30 seating. I guess they wanted to make sure that we'd be on time, and didn't realize that this particular family usually allows so much extra time for travel glitches, etc. that we wind up being ridiculously early. We arrived at our destination at 12:30. We got to watch the gatekeeper to the tea room area turn away a woman who made the mistake of wearing "trainers" (athletic shoes), in violation of the dress code policy, which also prohibits jeans, and stipulates coat and tie for gentlemen. Chet said he presumed that trousers were also mandatory.
Chet and Joyce made an elegant entrance down a mirrored circular stairway, and we paused for this photo op before entering the Tea Room. I didn't mean to be obscured in the photo, which was taken by a generous man with a Kiwi accent, but I guess it serves to further protect my blogging anonymity...
The gilded ceiling was enough to make one giddy, complete with latticework, cherubs festooned with garlands of roses, elegant round tables, and a harpist (more on him later).
Joyce and I enjoyed a pot of Jasmine tea, while Chet, Hubster and TeenE drank Earl Grey.
There was an anxious moment when I neglected to use the silver tea strainer on the first pour, but I assured Joyce that I would sift the tea leaves with my teeth without making any noise.
An array of lovely sandwiches-with-the-crusts-cut-off included chicken, cucumber, smoked salmon, cheddar on sun-dried tomato bread, and ham. It was difficult to not sample them all. The waiter informed us that the scones were being kept back until we finished our sandwiches so because he was keeping them warm for us. How thoughtful!
The scones arrived in due course, along with a pot of jam and another of clotted cream. They were savored/inhaled by all.
The top rack of the triple-tiered silver server contained luscious pastries. It was hard to decide which ones to sample. We did an excellent job on those, too, all the while chatting about Belmont, our transition to London and TeenE's to her school, the airline bankruptcies, and so on.
It was so delightful to be able to spend time with Joyce and Chet, and I know they enjoyed it too. I promised them I'd post this picture before the day was out, so here goes.
We waited for our hosts in the lobby of the Ritz. The hotel no longer uses the main entrance on Piccadilly, instead opting for a small lobby with two chairs that is accessed by a side street. Our invitation was to meet Joyce and Chet at 1:15 for a 1:30 seating. I guess they wanted to make sure that we'd be on time, and didn't realize that this particular family usually allows so much extra time for travel glitches, etc. that we wind up being ridiculously early. We arrived at our destination at 12:30. We got to watch the gatekeeper to the tea room area turn away a woman who made the mistake of wearing "trainers" (athletic shoes), in violation of the dress code policy, which also prohibits jeans, and stipulates coat and tie for gentlemen. Chet said he presumed that trousers were also mandatory.
Chet and Joyce made an elegant entrance down a mirrored circular stairway, and we paused for this photo op before entering the Tea Room. I didn't mean to be obscured in the photo, which was taken by a generous man with a Kiwi accent, but I guess it serves to further protect my blogging anonymity...
The gilded ceiling was enough to make one giddy, complete with latticework, cherubs festooned with garlands of roses, elegant round tables, and a harpist (more on him later).
Joyce and I enjoyed a pot of Jasmine tea, while Chet, Hubster and TeenE drank Earl Grey.
There was an anxious moment when I neglected to use the silver tea strainer on the first pour, but I assured Joyce that I would sift the tea leaves with my teeth without making any noise.
An array of lovely sandwiches-with-the-crusts-cut-off included chicken, cucumber, smoked salmon, cheddar on sun-dried tomato bread, and ham. It was difficult to not sample them all. The waiter informed us that the scones were being kept back until we finished our sandwiches so because he was keeping them warm for us. How thoughtful!
The scones arrived in due course, along with a pot of jam and another of clotted cream. They were savored/inhaled by all.
The top rack of the triple-tiered silver server contained luscious pastries. It was hard to decide which ones to sample. We did an excellent job on those, too, all the while chatting about Belmont, our transition to London and TeenE's to her school, the airline bankruptcies, and so on.
And the harpist played on. At one point the unmistakable notes of the prelude toStairway to Heaven were strummed. I thought perhaps I was imagining it until Hubster said: Is that Stairway to Heaven I hear? I was too busy talking and eating to notice if the harpest ever got to the really rockin' section, but I did notice some other popular tunes, including Fields of Gold by Sting, 'Till There Was You, which I know from the Beatles but I suspect is from a musical (Music Man? Sung by Shirley Jones? Somebody help me out with this). I kept waiting to here some Clash or Culture Club.
It was so delightful to be able to spend time with Joyce and Chet, and I know they enjoyed it too. I promised them I'd post this picture before the day was out, so here goes.
Friday, September 12, 2008
I Knit London Report
Date: Saturday, 6 September
Location: Royal Horticultural Hall, Westminster, London
Occasion: A small trade show and festival of fiber (fibre) arts.
I headed out from the Flat on Abbey Road to the St. John's Wood Underground Station, and rode the Tube to Westminster. I could have gone to Victoria Station, which was closer to the venue, but I knew 2/3 of the neighborhood trek from Westminster. This is because on my first trip to London (in this lifetime) in 1978 as a student, I stayed in a hostel not far from the Palace of Westminster (aka the Houses of Parliament building). I could hear the tolling of Big Ben from my shared hostel bedroom. The street that the Knit exhibition was on was an extension of the one I was used to taking to get to the hostel. Also, I liked the idea of walking past the Houses of Parliament AND Westminster Abbey on my way to knitting.
Alas, for once I LEFT THE FLAT WITHOUT AN UMBRELLA. It's a good thing that that Exit 5 from the station was closed due to refurbishment, because by going the long way around, I passed many souvenir and umbrella vendors. I ducked into a shop to get out of the rain, and there was an umbrella containing a design of the silhouttes of the Fab Four crossing Abbey Road. Score!
It was a cool and dreary day. I wasn't quite sure which end of Greycoat Place/Road/Street (there WERE three options on the map) to approach to get to the entrance of the Royal Horticultural Hall, but decided to just press on. Soon I could see a stream of happy, excited (middle-aged) women crossing street, so decide to go in that direction. I was correct.
The RHH is a brick and stone building from the Victorian era. I entered a large, high-ceilinged hall which was a hive of commerce and creativity. There were dozens of booths. Some were stocked with hand-dyed yarns, some with hand-spun, some with single-breed undyed natural yarn and roving. There was a book store, many already-knitted garments to purchase, patterns, and other exhibits.
The following activities were highlights for me:
Location: Royal Horticultural Hall, Westminster, London
Occasion: A small trade show and festival of fiber (fibre) arts.
I headed out from the Flat on Abbey Road to the St. John's Wood Underground Station, and rode the Tube to Westminster. I could have gone to Victoria Station, which was closer to the venue, but I knew 2/3 of the neighborhood trek from Westminster. This is because on my first trip to London (in this lifetime) in 1978 as a student, I stayed in a hostel not far from the Palace of Westminster (aka the Houses of Parliament building). I could hear the tolling of Big Ben from my shared hostel bedroom. The street that the Knit exhibition was on was an extension of the one I was used to taking to get to the hostel. Also, I liked the idea of walking past the Houses of Parliament AND Westminster Abbey on my way to knitting.
Alas, for once I LEFT THE FLAT WITHOUT AN UMBRELLA. It's a good thing that that Exit 5 from the station was closed due to refurbishment, because by going the long way around, I passed many souvenir and umbrella vendors. I ducked into a shop to get out of the rain, and there was an umbrella containing a design of the silhouttes of the Fab Four crossing Abbey Road. Score!
It was a cool and dreary day. I wasn't quite sure which end of Greycoat Place/Road/Street (there WERE three options on the map) to approach to get to the entrance of the Royal Horticultural Hall, but decided to just press on. Soon I could see a stream of happy, excited (middle-aged) women crossing street, so decide to go in that direction. I was correct.
The RHH is a brick and stone building from the Victorian era. I entered a large, high-ceilinged hall which was a hive of commerce and creativity. There were dozens of booths. Some were stocked with hand-dyed yarns, some with hand-spun, some with single-breed undyed natural yarn and roving. There was a book store, many already-knitted garments to purchase, patterns, and other exhibits.
The following activities were highlights for me:
- Browsing around all the booths without buying anything... I was saving myself for later.
- Talking to the very creative and slightly kooky lady who knits "art" sweaters. These are brightly-colored intarsia pieces with well-known iconic images on them, such as Marilyn, Che Gueverra, Ganesha the Hindu elephant-god, Geisha, etc. She mentioned that someone had asked her to be in an exhibit at the Victoria and Albert Museum. Obviously someone Good To Know.
- Chatting with the ladies at the Wensleydale wool booth. Although my nickname was once "Wensleydale", I only knew about the cheese, not the breed of sheep. They have really long shaggy coats with a perfect crimp to the fleece, like tiny marcels. I spoke to a lady who runs a Wensleydale sheep farm in Sussex (a county on the south coast of England, easy to access from London). I told her I had access to a busload of American knitters who might like to come over for a tour. She pointed me toward the direction of a lady in the next booth, who owns a "retreat center" and will give sheep-to-shawl demonstrations. She also mentioned that 2009 will be the Year of the Native Fiber or some such designation, so we should get moving on the trip planning.
- I made a pompom for peace. As mentioned in the Fall 2008 issue of VOGUEknitting, which I bought in the US for airplane reading, Amy Lame's Pom Pom International project was created to "travel to areas of conflict around the glob. Together, we create whimsical, non-political, creative balls of fluffy yarn in a gesture of peace and reconciliation". Pom-pommers label their colorful creations. A railing in the hall was festooned with many that had been made recently in Northern Ireland. It was heartening to read the messages invoking world peace that ordinary citizens had written on their labels. All the pom poms will eventually be linked to make the world's biggest pom pom. For mailing information, pompom instructions, etc., visit pompominternational.com
- I visited the booth of local yarn shop Loop, and found out the number of a bus that runs through St. John's Wood to Islington, where the shop is located.
Finally, I made three purchases:
- One skein of "light weight" oatmeal-colored Wensleydale wool, 350 metres, approx. fingering weight. It is enough for a pair of gloves or other small project.
- One book: A Gathering of Lace edited by Meg Swansen.
- One small cluster of wavy-crimped Wensleydale roving with which to embellish a project or use for felting.
There was also a fashion show of "vintage" knits presented in the style of a fashion show from the 1940's. They were all modelled by tall thin girls with dark wavy hair and very red lipstick.
After about 2 1/2 hours, my feet were tired and I headed home. This time I did go to Victoria Station, and found the spot from which all the buses leave. I found one that would take me up to St. John's Wood, and went home to clean up for the evening at the outdoor theatre (see previous post).
Monday, September 8, 2008
Friday's rainy day activities incl Open Air Theatre
"Rain, rain rain", as the Beatles sang. What else is new? It rained in Boston for most of the summer, and I guess it rained a lot here in London, too. It's still raining. The Brits are still grumbling about the rain. There is nothing new under the sun (from Psalm X, a reading at our wedding) Actually, there is nothing at all under the sun; it's all under a heavy cloud cover.
This was conducive to giving the flat a good cleaning. "Hoovering" (they use the brand name for both the appliance (noun) and vacuuming activity (verb), scrubbing the bathrooms, doing the ubiquitous laundry, and a coat of non-slip floor polish on the hardwood floors were among the activities I enjoyed. The whole picture can be completed by your imagining me in my purple pajamas with the monkees and bananas motif. This all brought me to about 2:30 (oops, 14:40), just in time to shower and dress so the returning family members would think I'd been dressed all day.
We had been planning to attend the theatre Friday evening. A theatre in nearby Regent's park was putting on the Lerner & Lowe musical "Gigi". Master Thespian "Topol" (i.e. he's so famous he only needs one name) and some other notables would star. I had scored the tickets the week earlier on a beautiful, sunny-day stroll through Regents Park.
There was just one catch. The theatre is called the Open Air Theatre. As in We Have No Roof.
Not Even Over the Stage. There "weather policy" stated that they get through 94% of their performances, although the sign on which this was posted had gotten a little damp and the statistic was somewhat blurry. Even if they have to stop the action due to a shower, they wait until it's over and resume the play.
That particular day's weather did not bode well for the Open Air Theatre-goer. The forecast called for rain, heavy at times, and strong winds. This is a pretty graphic forecast for the Brits. Their penchant for understatement extends even to their weather reports. American "Partly cloudy with clearing later" is "cloudy, with bright spots breaking out in the afternoon". It was coming down in torrents all day long, and the radar map did not look like any bright spots would be making an appearance.
I had little hope that the production would go on as planned, so rang the box office so I could confirm that the show was off. Wrong. There policy is to get everyone there, and then call off the performance if within a half hour or so of start time it will not clear up at any time during the evening. The reason why this is their policy became clear later.
I figured we'd go down to the park by bus, catch some dinner at the nearby Garden Cafe, go over to the theatre, and be told to go home. We walked into the park as the clouds ceased their deluge, and did enjoy a very tasty meal. As we finished paying, TeenE said "Look outside". The floor-to-ceiling windows were starting to stream with raindrops. We walked two minutes to the theatre, and were admitted. We then milled around the covered bar area for about twenty minutes. Aha! The reason for the delayed cancellation policy became apparant. At one point the lady on the PA said " Ladies and Gentlemen. We are still assessing the weather situation, and will make another announcement in fifteen minutes. Please stay in the bar area." Everyone laughed at management's transparent motives. Meanwhile, the rain increased to the hardest of the day. I thought to myself "there is no way this production can go on". Another announcement of delay, and then the rain ceased. The bells rang, and the voice announced "Ladies and Gentlemen, please take your seats. The performance is about to begin.
We entered the theatre. We had seats in Row R, in a raised area three rows from the back.
The very wet stage was set out before us. The orchestra arrived, and spent a few moments clearing the water off their seats. I had cleverly packed plastic carry-bags (sacks) to place on our seats. Unfortunately, what I thought was a bundle of three bags turned out to only be two, so TeenE and I ripped one in half and shared it. The cushy seats were completely soaked, and when we sat down water squeezed out onto the cement floor below.
I decided to take a few photos of the stage (old set decorator's habit). As I was putting my camera away, a stagehand came out and actually started squeegee-ing water across the stage!
Very shortly, it began to rain. Umbrellas opened. Official policy states that umbrellas may not be used during the performance. It rained very hard. The really hardy souls had plastic ponchos on. I regretted not packing the $12 Icelandic ponchos from several summers ago.
People began to grumble, then to complain outright. "Be patient" I told Hubster. There is absolutely no way this show can go on. We'll be able to go home and make an early night of it.
They made us sit there for another five minutes in the rain, and then announced:
"Ladies and Gentlemen: Metro Weather informs us that this rain will be continuing throughout the evening" (this was news to them?) We must therefore cancel this evening's performance. As per our cancellation policy, you may apply your ticket purchase to any performance for the rest of the season or next year. Please note, you MUST exit to the sides, not through the rear entrance through which you came in. Thank you".
The band did NOT play on; they folded up and left the stage, and we all filed out in an orderly queue. A ten-minute walk back through the park in the dark brought us to the Baker Street area where I led TeenE and Hubster to the nearest bus stop of the 189, having reconnoitered the various options the previous week.
"Gigi" is only on through this weekend, and the weekend calls for rain. If I can't score exchange tickets for THIS Wednesday night, we'll see something else next summer. And pray for good weather.
This was conducive to giving the flat a good cleaning. "Hoovering" (they use the brand name for both the appliance (noun) and vacuuming activity (verb), scrubbing the bathrooms, doing the ubiquitous laundry, and a coat of non-slip floor polish on the hardwood floors were among the activities I enjoyed. The whole picture can be completed by your imagining me in my purple pajamas with the monkees and bananas motif. This all brought me to about 2:30 (oops, 14:40), just in time to shower and dress so the returning family members would think I'd been dressed all day.
We had been planning to attend the theatre Friday evening. A theatre in nearby Regent's park was putting on the Lerner & Lowe musical "Gigi". Master Thespian "Topol" (i.e. he's so famous he only needs one name) and some other notables would star. I had scored the tickets the week earlier on a beautiful, sunny-day stroll through Regents Park.
There was just one catch. The theatre is called the Open Air Theatre. As in We Have No Roof.
Not Even Over the Stage. There "weather policy" stated that they get through 94% of their performances, although the sign on which this was posted had gotten a little damp and the statistic was somewhat blurry. Even if they have to stop the action due to a shower, they wait until it's over and resume the play.
That particular day's weather did not bode well for the Open Air Theatre-goer. The forecast called for rain, heavy at times, and strong winds. This is a pretty graphic forecast for the Brits. Their penchant for understatement extends even to their weather reports. American "Partly cloudy with clearing later" is "cloudy, with bright spots breaking out in the afternoon". It was coming down in torrents all day long, and the radar map did not look like any bright spots would be making an appearance.
I had little hope that the production would go on as planned, so rang the box office so I could confirm that the show was off. Wrong. There policy is to get everyone there, and then call off the performance if within a half hour or so of start time it will not clear up at any time during the evening. The reason why this is their policy became clear later.
I figured we'd go down to the park by bus, catch some dinner at the nearby Garden Cafe, go over to the theatre, and be told to go home. We walked into the park as the clouds ceased their deluge, and did enjoy a very tasty meal. As we finished paying, TeenE said "Look outside". The floor-to-ceiling windows were starting to stream with raindrops. We walked two minutes to the theatre, and were admitted. We then milled around the covered bar area for about twenty minutes. Aha! The reason for the delayed cancellation policy became apparant. At one point the lady on the PA said " Ladies and Gentlemen. We are still assessing the weather situation, and will make another announcement in fifteen minutes. Please stay in the bar area." Everyone laughed at management's transparent motives. Meanwhile, the rain increased to the hardest of the day. I thought to myself "there is no way this production can go on". Another announcement of delay, and then the rain ceased. The bells rang, and the voice announced "Ladies and Gentlemen, please take your seats. The performance is about to begin.
We entered the theatre. We had seats in Row R, in a raised area three rows from the back.
The very wet stage was set out before us. The orchestra arrived, and spent a few moments clearing the water off their seats. I had cleverly packed plastic carry-bags (sacks) to place on our seats. Unfortunately, what I thought was a bundle of three bags turned out to only be two, so TeenE and I ripped one in half and shared it. The cushy seats were completely soaked, and when we sat down water squeezed out onto the cement floor below.
I decided to take a few photos of the stage (old set decorator's habit). As I was putting my camera away, a stagehand came out and actually started squeegee-ing water across the stage!
Very shortly, it began to rain. Umbrellas opened. Official policy states that umbrellas may not be used during the performance. It rained very hard. The really hardy souls had plastic ponchos on. I regretted not packing the $12 Icelandic ponchos from several summers ago.
People began to grumble, then to complain outright. "Be patient" I told Hubster. There is absolutely no way this show can go on. We'll be able to go home and make an early night of it.
They made us sit there for another five minutes in the rain, and then announced:
"Ladies and Gentlemen: Metro Weather informs us that this rain will be continuing throughout the evening" (this was news to them?) We must therefore cancel this evening's performance. As per our cancellation policy, you may apply your ticket purchase to any performance for the rest of the season or next year. Please note, you MUST exit to the sides, not through the rear entrance through which you came in. Thank you".
The band did NOT play on; they folded up and left the stage, and we all filed out in an orderly queue. A ten-minute walk back through the park in the dark brought us to the Baker Street area where I led TeenE and Hubster to the nearest bus stop of the 189, having reconnoitered the various options the previous week.
"Gigi" is only on through this weekend, and the weekend calls for rain. If I can't score exchange tickets for THIS Wednesday night, we'll see something else next summer. And pray for good weather.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
The actual London Five-Oh
Don Ho of Hawaii Five-Oh, eat your heart out. This is what BlogMom did for her big London Five-Oh.
The day started dreamily with Hubster getting up to "supervise" Teen's morning rituals, leaving me to laze in bed. At one point he came in and asked if I ever thought I'd be living in London on my 50th birthday. I said "YES"!!! I guess he forgot he was married to a semi-professional intutive.
Enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, and received the first congratulatory phone call of the day from New York Sister. I told you she would not let me forget the magnitude of the occasion. She was calling at what was her 5 am!
I had planned to take a long walk on Hampstead Heath (my favorite haunt from my year here in 1978) but the weather did not cooperate. The forecast was calling for heavy rain, and although I NEVER leave home without my umbrella, I knew better than to slog through Hill and Heath and Wood in that kind of weather. I turned to Plan B: Taking the bus up Abbey Road to The End of the Line.
I know what you're thinking--"whoa, she's really living large over there! All the way to the End of the Line! Whatever could she be thinking?" Well, I happen to know that the End of the Line is the Brent Cross shopping mall. I also wanted to see what was at the upper end of Abbey Road, as I hadn't been more than 1/2 mile up, and that was on foot.
So I took the clankety old brass-gated "lift" down to the lobby and went to the bus shelter right near the famous pedestrian crossing. Pretty soon the 189 chugged into sight and I whipped out my Oyster Card. This is the plastic card with stored value that one needs to ride the buses and underground trains in London. I went up to the upper deck of the double-decker red bus and snagged the prime seat right in the front.
The 189 goes straight up Abbey Road until the boundary of St. John's Wood and South Hampstead. Shortly thereafter, it makes a left turn (heading West), leaving the rustle of leafy suburban atmosphere behind for the bustle of Kilburn High Road and the downright hustle of Cricklewood Broadway. Just before the turn a sign advised that there were "Humps for 340 Yards" (insert snicker here). I saw stores with unusual names juxtaposed with shops with even more unusual names.
Our Oliver Road neighbors Leslie and Tom, plus their TeenY will be thrilled to hear of a shop called ShaSha.com. (see photo) That is their name, only spelled differently. It appears to carry really inexpensive clothes for teens. We will have to go there when they come to visit.
A grocery store is called "Iceland.co.uk" and sells "food you can trust". It's a good thing, I wouldn't want any untrustworthy food in my fridge!
A store called "Bathrooms 4 You" has above it a store called "Good 4 You", which sells discounted toys, household goods, and cosmetics. Across the street, The African Food Centre sells fresh vegetables and African magazines and vegetables. B & Q Warehouse has orange lettering and must be a cousin of Home Depot. The housing that is supported with public funds is euphemistically called a "council estate", while the people who pay for their own housing live in buildings called "courts", "lodges", and "gardens".
The bus chugged on. We passed a little park marked "Millenium Breathing Space". I'm not sure if that was somebody's idea of a joke, or the real name of a very weedy spot. The signs did look somewhat official. Just as we passed the Hendon Football Club, an announcement came over the bus's public address system saying that "This bus is being held here for a few minutes in order to help regulate the service." In other words, we had been early! We were making too good time. We needed to delay ourselves to get back on schedule. We paused next to a large green hilly field. Off in the distance, evenly spaced about 50 feet apart from each other, grazed a flock of ....crows. This is not a typo. About three dozen big black ravens were in the field, all walking in the same direction, taking a few steps, then pecking the ground, and moving to a new spot. They were grazing just like cows! I know some birds can be good mimics, but these crows think they are cows!
After pausing for three minutes, our journey bus northward resumed as we crossed a "Humped Zebra Crossing". Perhaps this refers to a striped dromedary? If not, it must mean a raised pedestrian crossing.
Pretty soon the Brent Cross Shopping Centre hove into view. On one side of the highway that we crossed, there was a Borders bookstore, and a T K Maxx (also NOT a typo). The bus terminus was at a mall containing hundreds of stores, including Marks & Spencer, H & M, John Lewis, and (gasp) Claire's accessories, the staple of every US mall, selling cheapy costume jewelry and hair accessories to bored teens.
I spent a good hour poking around the home goods section of John Lewis, looking casually at all their rolls of upholstery fabric, and more seriously at their duvet (down quilt) covers. The flat came fully furnished with double-sized sheets and duvet, but no cover. I was challenged to find one that would co-ordinate with the rust red curtains also provided, without going wacko-wild with eye-popping oranges, reds and purples, as well as without breaking the bank. See photo to decide for yourself if the results are modern yet tasteful, trendy yet retro.
During the hour I was in the mall it must have poured torrents of rain. When I returned outside there were soggy masses of potential bus passengers spilling out from under the bus shelters. There were at least ten different alighting points, each with a letter, and I had to visit six of them before I found the appropriate bus stop for the 189 southbound.
The return trip provided me with even more delightful shop-name juxtapositions. There was the Bosnia and Herzegovena Community Centre & Charity Bookshop, right near the Chinese Medicine Centre of London. Across the street a sign advertised "Polski Sklep", near the King's Head (Dive Bar and Music Joint), not to be confused with the Soho Beach House Bar & Chill Out Club. The aptly-named Blanks Music Store was empty and the anti-theft grills were down and locked. Bellview Airlines advertised discount flights. I do not know to what destinations they fly, I just hope it's not Bell(e)view Hospital (sorry, a joke only NYers will get). Nayong Pilipino was near both a Kebab House AND Sam's Chicken (great tasting, great price!) Rose's Bistro Cafe had as her neighbors Speedy Noodle and Ahmad Zai's "Superstore", whose storefront was all of 12 feet wide.
Buka , (name of a former boss), a business of an indeterminate nature, was near Fase 2 bar and Restaurant AND the Citizens's Advice Bureau. Do they give advice on avoiding Buka's? Subway and KFC (complete with Colonel Sanders and his goatee, an advertising icon no longer used in the US) were juxtaposed with Spicy Basil--Authentic Thai food. Close by was Oakham, Your Local Money Store. No Cash, No Credit, No Problem. We will loan you money at an exhorbitant rate of interest so you can spend it on bad fast food.
We finally turned off Kilburn High Road and passed Sha-Sha.com, the signal that we were once again entering our own neighborhood.
I returned to the flat around 14:00 and was greeted by Hubster, who asked me if I had gotten caught in the rain. It turned out his trip to the St. John's Wood library was marred by precipitation. I do not think that he has learned the rule about never going out without your brolly.
Another B-day call came in shortly thereafter. It was a friend from my University College London days, someone with whom I had hung out in the Drama Society there in 1978. Hubster and I visited with him and his wife-to-be while we were on our honeymoon here in 1986. We've gotten together with them and their kids a few times since then when we've been in London. I was touched to have received a card from them and even more surprised by the telephone call.
TeenE came home from school about 15:15.
The birthday festivities got underway when I received my much-anticipated gift, a trendy rolling grocery cart. No old-lady type for this 50-and-up. I'll be stylin' on the High Street with my collapsible black-and-pink swirly-mod design waterproof shopping trolley. Yowza!
Around 16:00, the three of us then went to the Abbey Cafe for "tea". Cappucinos, tea, tuna melts, and a piece of celebratory pecan pie were thoroughly enjoyed.
We repaired back to the flat, but not before I had a pleasant interlude sitting in the little park nearby. It was the hour at which all the little tykes begin to melt down and their mummies or nannies take them home for "tea" (which is a light evening meal).
The approaching low pressure system then worked its usual magic, triggering a mild migraine. I took a pill and went to bed early, listening to the sound of the heavy rain on the leaves of the London Plane Tree outside our bedroom window.
Historical Note: If you look at the photo on the cover of the Beatles' Abbey Road album, on the left side of the road there is a white Volkswagen bug/beetle. Down past that there is a group of trees, and past that there is a red mail/post box. The big tree out our window can clearly be seen in this photo!
The day started dreamily with Hubster getting up to "supervise" Teen's morning rituals, leaving me to laze in bed. At one point he came in and asked if I ever thought I'd be living in London on my 50th birthday. I said "YES"!!! I guess he forgot he was married to a semi-professional intutive.
Enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, and received the first congratulatory phone call of the day from New York Sister. I told you she would not let me forget the magnitude of the occasion. She was calling at what was her 5 am!
I had planned to take a long walk on Hampstead Heath (my favorite haunt from my year here in 1978) but the weather did not cooperate. The forecast was calling for heavy rain, and although I NEVER leave home without my umbrella, I knew better than to slog through Hill and Heath and Wood in that kind of weather. I turned to Plan B: Taking the bus up Abbey Road to The End of the Line.
I know what you're thinking--"whoa, she's really living large over there! All the way to the End of the Line! Whatever could she be thinking?" Well, I happen to know that the End of the Line is the Brent Cross shopping mall. I also wanted to see what was at the upper end of Abbey Road, as I hadn't been more than 1/2 mile up, and that was on foot.
So I took the clankety old brass-gated "lift" down to the lobby and went to the bus shelter right near the famous pedestrian crossing. Pretty soon the 189 chugged into sight and I whipped out my Oyster Card. This is the plastic card with stored value that one needs to ride the buses and underground trains in London. I went up to the upper deck of the double-decker red bus and snagged the prime seat right in the front.
The 189 goes straight up Abbey Road until the boundary of St. John's Wood and South Hampstead. Shortly thereafter, it makes a left turn (heading West), leaving the rustle of leafy suburban atmosphere behind for the bustle of Kilburn High Road and the downright hustle of Cricklewood Broadway. Just before the turn a sign advised that there were "Humps for 340 Yards" (insert snicker here). I saw stores with unusual names juxtaposed with shops with even more unusual names.
Our Oliver Road neighbors Leslie and Tom, plus their TeenY will be thrilled to hear of a shop called ShaSha.com. (see photo) That is their name, only spelled differently. It appears to carry really inexpensive clothes for teens. We will have to go there when they come to visit.
A grocery store is called "Iceland.co.uk" and sells "food you can trust". It's a good thing, I wouldn't want any untrustworthy food in my fridge!
A store called "Bathrooms 4 You" has above it a store called "Good 4 You", which sells discounted toys, household goods, and cosmetics. Across the street, The African Food Centre sells fresh vegetables and African magazines and vegetables. B & Q Warehouse has orange lettering and must be a cousin of Home Depot. The housing that is supported with public funds is euphemistically called a "council estate", while the people who pay for their own housing live in buildings called "courts", "lodges", and "gardens".
The bus chugged on. We passed a little park marked "Millenium Breathing Space". I'm not sure if that was somebody's idea of a joke, or the real name of a very weedy spot. The signs did look somewhat official. Just as we passed the Hendon Football Club, an announcement came over the bus's public address system saying that "This bus is being held here for a few minutes in order to help regulate the service." In other words, we had been early! We were making too good time. We needed to delay ourselves to get back on schedule. We paused next to a large green hilly field. Off in the distance, evenly spaced about 50 feet apart from each other, grazed a flock of ....crows. This is not a typo. About three dozen big black ravens were in the field, all walking in the same direction, taking a few steps, then pecking the ground, and moving to a new spot. They were grazing just like cows! I know some birds can be good mimics, but these crows think they are cows!
After pausing for three minutes, our journey bus northward resumed as we crossed a "Humped Zebra Crossing". Perhaps this refers to a striped dromedary? If not, it must mean a raised pedestrian crossing.
Pretty soon the Brent Cross Shopping Centre hove into view. On one side of the highway that we crossed, there was a Borders bookstore, and a T K Maxx (also NOT a typo). The bus terminus was at a mall containing hundreds of stores, including Marks & Spencer, H & M, John Lewis, and (gasp) Claire's accessories, the staple of every US mall, selling cheapy costume jewelry and hair accessories to bored teens.
I spent a good hour poking around the home goods section of John Lewis, looking casually at all their rolls of upholstery fabric, and more seriously at their duvet (down quilt) covers. The flat came fully furnished with double-sized sheets and duvet, but no cover. I was challenged to find one that would co-ordinate with the rust red curtains also provided, without going wacko-wild with eye-popping oranges, reds and purples, as well as without breaking the bank. See photo to decide for yourself if the results are modern yet tasteful, trendy yet retro.
During the hour I was in the mall it must have poured torrents of rain. When I returned outside there were soggy masses of potential bus passengers spilling out from under the bus shelters. There were at least ten different alighting points, each with a letter, and I had to visit six of them before I found the appropriate bus stop for the 189 southbound.
The return trip provided me with even more delightful shop-name juxtapositions. There was the Bosnia and Herzegovena Community Centre & Charity Bookshop, right near the Chinese Medicine Centre of London. Across the street a sign advertised "Polski Sklep", near the King's Head (Dive Bar and Music Joint), not to be confused with the Soho Beach House Bar & Chill Out Club. The aptly-named Blanks Music Store was empty and the anti-theft grills were down and locked. Bellview Airlines advertised discount flights. I do not know to what destinations they fly, I just hope it's not Bell(e)view Hospital (sorry, a joke only NYers will get). Nayong Pilipino was near both a Kebab House AND Sam's Chicken (great tasting, great price!) Rose's Bistro Cafe had as her neighbors Speedy Noodle and Ahmad Zai's "Superstore", whose storefront was all of 12 feet wide.
Buka , (name of a former boss), a business of an indeterminate nature, was near Fase 2 bar and Restaurant AND the Citizens's Advice Bureau. Do they give advice on avoiding Buka's? Subway and KFC (complete with Colonel Sanders and his goatee, an advertising icon no longer used in the US) were juxtaposed with Spicy Basil--Authentic Thai food. Close by was Oakham, Your Local Money Store. No Cash, No Credit, No Problem. We will loan you money at an exhorbitant rate of interest so you can spend it on bad fast food.
We finally turned off Kilburn High Road and passed Sha-Sha.com, the signal that we were once again entering our own neighborhood.
I returned to the flat around 14:00 and was greeted by Hubster, who asked me if I had gotten caught in the rain. It turned out his trip to the St. John's Wood library was marred by precipitation. I do not think that he has learned the rule about never going out without your brolly.
Another B-day call came in shortly thereafter. It was a friend from my University College London days, someone with whom I had hung out in the Drama Society there in 1978. Hubster and I visited with him and his wife-to-be while we were on our honeymoon here in 1986. We've gotten together with them and their kids a few times since then when we've been in London. I was touched to have received a card from them and even more surprised by the telephone call.
TeenE came home from school about 15:15.
The birthday festivities got underway when I received my much-anticipated gift, a trendy rolling grocery cart. No old-lady type for this 50-and-up. I'll be stylin' on the High Street with my collapsible black-and-pink swirly-mod design waterproof shopping trolley. Yowza!
Around 16:00, the three of us then went to the Abbey Cafe for "tea". Cappucinos, tea, tuna melts, and a piece of celebratory pecan pie were thoroughly enjoyed.
We repaired back to the flat, but not before I had a pleasant interlude sitting in the little park nearby. It was the hour at which all the little tykes begin to melt down and their mummies or nannies take them home for "tea" (which is a light evening meal).
The approaching low pressure system then worked its usual magic, triggering a mild migraine. I took a pill and went to bed early, listening to the sound of the heavy rain on the leaves of the London Plane Tree outside our bedroom window.
Historical Note: If you look at the photo on the cover of the Beatles' Abbey Road album, on the left side of the road there is a white Volkswagen bug/beetle. Down past that there is a group of trees, and past that there is a red mail/post box. The big tree out our window can clearly be seen in this photo!
Friday, September 5, 2008
How to launder, UK-style
File under Things To Know About Living in the UK:
In order to do your laundry at home, not in My Beautiful Launderette with Daniel Day Lewis, find the washing machine in your kitchen. It will be disguised behind a cabinet door.
In order to do your laundry at home, not in My Beautiful Launderette with Daniel Day Lewis, find the washing machine in your kitchen. It will be disguised behind a cabinet door.
- At the end of every day, sort all your dirty laundry by the type of fabric weight AND the type of wash it requires (regular/permanent press/knits/delicates).
- Place seven or eight (7 or 8) garments OR two (2) sheets OR four (4) towels into the front-loading combination washer/dryer.
- Choose your wash temperature from the options listed only in centigrade, from 40 to 90 C.
- Choose a number from 1 to 9 that will determine the length and amount of washing, and type of drying. Note that these things are not independent of each other.
- Figure out where the laundry detergent goes. Use about two tablespoons, as this is the size of the jug's cap, and you don't have that much laundry in there anyway.
- Choose your drying level. You can have 40, 60, 100, or 150 minutes.
- Alternatively, you can choose one of three picture icons for your drying cycle. These include a shirt with the sun shining on it, a shirt going out a door, or an ironing board.
- Choose one of two settings on four additional push-buttons: one has an iron with an X through it, one says 1200 over 600, one has an icon with a shirt dipping into a puddle, and one is on/off.
- Once you have made all your choices and added the liquid detergent, push ON and close the cabinet door. This locks the machine so that no last-minute item of that wash/dry type can be added, meaning it could be a week before you get to that wash/dry combination again.
- Wait approximately four hours. The machine is purported to wash AND dry your load in approximately this amount of time.
- While you are waiting, wonder several times why it takes so long. Also, listen to the dry cycle's whirring sound that makes it seem like an aircraft is revving its jet engines in your kitchen.
- If your bedroom is next to the kitchen, learn that you may not want to start a load before you go to bed.
- If you are a person who cannot leave the home while the dryer is running due to a prior experience with a dryer fire where you and Essie carried the flaming machine out the basement bulkhead door, (as a beloved family member did many years ago) then you will never be able to leave the flat.
- When the machine finally unlocks, find your still damp laundry inside. You then have several choices. Set the dryer timer to an additional number of minutes (100 recommended) and override the wash settings so the machine just dries. Do this several more times.
- Attend a Welcome New Parents Coffee at your child's school, where one of the parents has humorous vignettes about living in the UK as part of her welcome talk. Learn that there is a little tray of water at the bottom of the machine that has to be emptied out after every load, or else more water will not be able to be spun out of your laundry during the pre-dry spin cycle and garments will remain damp ad nauseum.
- Attempt to find the little tray at the bottom of the machine, which is blocked off by cabinetry. Discover the little tray of water RIGHT THERE next to the slot where the liquid detergent is added, and marvel that you never noticed that it was full of water before.
- After several weeks, discover the instructions for the washing machine in the back of the hall closet.
- Finally decode the icons: The drying icons are said to be "based on the damp level of the dry clothes", which I guess means how damp you want your clothes to be when they come out of the dryer, not a concept with which I am familiar. My US dryer would sense how damp the load was and keep running until it was dry. The ironing board icon means your clothes will come out slightly damp so they will be easier to iron; the shirt-going-out-a-door icon is called "wardrobe", and is the setting to use if you want your clothes dry enough to put away; and the shirt with the sun on it is NOT the one to use if you are going to dry your clothes on a line in the sun, but IS to be used to get "very dry clothes, recommended for towelling and bathrobes". Grammar note: I think that "towelling" is a verb, e.g. an action that you do with a towel (noun) to dry off something. "She used chose a warm, fluffy towel for towelling off the dog before he could drip all over the house."
- Discover that the four buttons that toggle on/off control an "easy iron" function, allowing "your washing to come out of the machine without creases, making it much easier to iron. You can use it with programmes 3-4 (cotton), 5-6-7 (synthetics) and 9-10 (delicates).. Press this button in programmes 5-6-7-8-9 and the wash cycle will come to a stop on the icon showing a tub of water (not sure if this is soak, or rinse). You can complete it by pressing the "easy iron" button again. Notes--"this function should not be used when button G "stain removal" has been pressed--If you also want to run the drying cycle, this button is enabled only if combined with level "iron icon". " Got that?
- Learn that the 1200 over 600 icon is the "slow spin" button. "Use this button to reduce the spinning speed from 1200 to 600 rpm for the cotton and linen programmes and from 850 to 600 rpm for the synthetic fabric programmes." Oh, okay!
- The third icon button of a shirt dipping into a puddle means "stain removal". The instruction book informs me that "thanks to this command, the washer-dryer will carry out a more intensive wash that optimises the effectiveness of the liquid additives, thus allowing more resistant stains to be removed. When you press the stain removal button, you cannot activate the pre-wash." DUH! and Thanks to this command!
- Finally, the 0= out, 1=in button indicates that it is an on/off switch, as previously suspected. I am again informed by the instructions in bold that "Turning the appliance off does not cancel the selected programme." !!!!?????
- Now that I know to empty the little puddle of water out of the machine before each use, each load "only" takes between three and four hours.
- Repeat this process twice a day (thereby cleaning up to 15 garments per day). If you forget to do two loads a day, you will have more dirty laundry to process than is humanly possible.
- Find an ex-pat Canadian who is moving back home on Gumtree.com, the UK's version of Craig's list. Arrange to buy his three (3) laundry drying racks, so that you can install one in the bath tub (it does not contain the shower and is never used) and one for each bedroom. This will mean you can choose less than 100 minutes drying time and perhaps compress more loads into your waking hours.
- Learn that a new friend had the foresight to talk her landlord into installing an additional dryer in a utility closet in the hall before she moved in. Remember the eleventh commandment: Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's dryer.
- Launder. Rinse. Dry. Repeat
Monday, September 1, 2008
Hats Off !
So what do UK postmen wear when delivering the mail? Who knows about the rest of them, but ours wears a baseball-style cap with the name of a famous team.
Is it a famous football (soccer) team like Arsenal, or West Ham, or Man City? No.
Is it a cricket team? (England just played South Africa yesterday at Lord's cricket ground 1/2 mile from here) No.
It is a US baseball team, the New York Yankees, by name.
No kidding!! See photo for proof.
I asked him if he was a Yankees fan, and he said no.
I asked him if I could take his photo, as my sister Betty in New York (a Yankees fan) would never believe me. He said yes.
Is it a famous football (soccer) team like Arsenal, or West Ham, or Man City? No.
Is it a cricket team? (England just played South Africa yesterday at Lord's cricket ground 1/2 mile from here) No.
It is a US baseball team, the New York Yankees, by name.
No kidding!! See photo for proof.
I asked him if he was a Yankees fan, and he said no.
I asked him if I could take his photo, as my sister Betty in New York (a Yankees fan) would never believe me. He said yes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
Posts
.JPG)
