Well, we're going to back up about a week and a half.
The avid reader will know that I have been in the Boston and New York areas since the 19th of October.
I planned my arrival to coincide with a surprise party for the Head Cat at the Knitten Kitten, MaryAnn. She had been told by the other knitters that this was an Oktoberfest party, while they were secretly planning to surprise her. When she learned that I might be in town, she asked if I could change my arrival date and be a surprise guest at the party. Thinking that keeping our own secret might distract her from what the rest of the crew was up to, I agreed.
She picked me up at Logan airport in Boston on the afternoon of the party, dropped me off at my Hostess Dr. Erica's to freshen up, and collected me at 4 pm (9 pm body-clock time).
We hatched a plan to hide my presence in her vehicle. While still on the highway, I reclined the front seat in which I was located, and wound up almost completely supine. I was wearing a long, hooded raincoat, so turned my head to the side and pulled the hood completely over my face.
It was a good thing, because while we were nearing our final destination, we overtook EllenL, who was hopelessly lost. She got out of her car and approached ours, had a brief conversation with MaryAnn and her son Walter (there supposedly to help with folding chairs, but he was in on the surprise birthday aspect of it). EllenL was so distracted by her being lost that she didn't even notice the body-shaped raincoat "draped" across the front seat.
We arrived at our destination with me still hidden. MaryAnn and Walter unloaded the folding chairs, and headed into the house. I gave them a few minutes to get settled, then slunk out of the car, ducking down behind it to get the lay of the land. I didn't even know which house was the party house, but MaryAnn had wisely informed me that there was a balloon on its mailbox. As I was approaching the target house, I was ducking down behind the parked cars. A man came by and looked at me strangely. I asked for Susan's house, and he led me in. Apparently he was Susan's husband Ray, of the Running Elvises fame in the Las Vegas Marathon. I didn't recognize him, because he didn't look anything like Elvis. I was trying to tell him that I was a surprise guest and he shouldn't announce me, but I'm not sure he heard me.
I entered the house hellooooing and waving royally, and found that my presence was indeed a surprise.
Wine and munchies were much in evidence, and somebody handed me a bongo drum during the silly song honoring the Birthday Kitten. The accompanying pictures illustrate the dangers of combining wine, jet lag, and bongo drums.... A good time was had by all, even Toby the dog.
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.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Blaise-ing HOT FLASH!!!
Hip-Hop Hooray!! I am told that my Tier 1 HSMP Partner Visa has been issued. Hubster called after being emailed by the New York lawyer, whose associate, Blaise, has retreived my visa-containing passport from the British Embassy in New York.
I am told that they are Fed-Ex-ing it as I write this, and I shall receive it by 9 am tomorrow.
Let's all hold our collective breaths, shall we?
I will be flying home to London on Wednesday or Thursday of this week.
I am told that they are Fed-Ex-ing it as I write this, and I shall receive it by 9 am tomorrow.
Let's all hold our collective breaths, shall we?
I will be flying home to London on Wednesday or Thursday of this week.
Visa Limbo
Yes, I am still in visa limbo. No, I do not have my passport back from the British Embassy in New York. They are having difficulty "capturing" my biometric data (fingerprints, photos) although the application itself has been approved. In essence, I am waiting for my exit papers, as I cannot leave the US without my passport.
I shall be ensconced at Erica's for a few more days, and have made a tentative plan of exiting on Thursday Oct 30th. The NY lawyer seems to think my passport will be released today, but I've heard that before (Thursday, and Friday of last week). They will have to FedEx the passport to me, so that will take an extra day.
Hoping to be back in Great Britain by Halloween (which they do not celebrate).
I shall be ensconced at Erica's for a few more days, and have made a tentative plan of exiting on Thursday Oct 30th. The NY lawyer seems to think my passport will be released today, but I've heard that before (Thursday, and Friday of last week). They will have to FedEx the passport to me, so that will take an extra day.
Hoping to be back in Great Britain by Halloween (which they do not celebrate).
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Lack of Forward Motion on Visa
To whom it may concern:
I have left the Big Apple (report to ensue in seperate posting) and am now back in Massachusetts.
My passport is still at the British Embassy in New York. Apparantly their computer was having trouble "capturing" my biometric data, which had been so carefully done at an INS application support center in Brooklyn.
Rather than hang around NY and overstay my welcome with NYsis, I have returned to my old stomping ground of Belmont.
Yesterday's adventure included waking at 3:40 am, going back to sleep, oversleeping until 6:22 am, therefore missing the 7 am Lucky Star bus to Boston.
I left An Apartment on Third Avenue and 91st at 6:40 am, took the number 6 train to Canal Street/Chinatown, walked several blocks toward the Lucky Star bus terminal, and found that a Fung Wah! bus was leaving for Boston at 7:30 am. For those of you not familiar with the brand names, either of those buses will take you from one Chinatown to the other for a total of $15 US. If you should take a chance with the Fung Wah! bus, you run the risk of speeding up the highway going 80 mph with flames shooting out of the back of the bus while the passengers alternately implore the driver to get off his cell phone and pull the bus over, and dial 911 to report a bus fire.
We arrived in Boston in less than four hours, and that included a rest stop somewhere in Connecticut.
Once in Boston, I took the Red Line to Harvard Square, where I ran into a startled Dr. Klemens M. whilst waiting for a Belmont bus. We talked about London, the global economy, the state of the US election, and general politics. I give a shout out to his wife, Dr. Laura M., who is a Wellesley College Class of 1980 classmate of mine. "Hi, Laura!".
My bus came about 30 minutes after his left, and I was ensconced at the Knittin Kitten, the World's Best Yarn Shop, before 1 pm, where I passed a very happy afternoon knitting and chatting. MaryAnn served cheese and crackers, Marilyn brought sponge cake from Chinatown, Barbara B brought beads (being the bead pimp, she always has something shiny with which to tempt us), Claudia knitted, and Susan brought hugs and requests for recipes for the guests she was hosting in about an hour and a half.
Erica came to collect me at 5 pm, and I got cleaned up for our dinner with Elizabeth R. on Pleasant Street. As they prepared to build a fire in the fireplace after dinner, I excused myself and walked back to Erica's before the torrential rainstorm set in.
I don't know when I'll get my Visa, so I look forward to more days of visiting in Belmont.
I have left the Big Apple (report to ensue in seperate posting) and am now back in Massachusetts.
My passport is still at the British Embassy in New York. Apparantly their computer was having trouble "capturing" my biometric data, which had been so carefully done at an INS application support center in Brooklyn.
Rather than hang around NY and overstay my welcome with NYsis, I have returned to my old stomping ground of Belmont.
Yesterday's adventure included waking at 3:40 am, going back to sleep, oversleeping until 6:22 am, therefore missing the 7 am Lucky Star bus to Boston.
I left An Apartment on Third Avenue and 91st at 6:40 am, took the number 6 train to Canal Street/Chinatown, walked several blocks toward the Lucky Star bus terminal, and found that a Fung Wah! bus was leaving for Boston at 7:30 am. For those of you not familiar with the brand names, either of those buses will take you from one Chinatown to the other for a total of $15 US. If you should take a chance with the Fung Wah! bus, you run the risk of speeding up the highway going 80 mph with flames shooting out of the back of the bus while the passengers alternately implore the driver to get off his cell phone and pull the bus over, and dial 911 to report a bus fire.
We arrived in Boston in less than four hours, and that included a rest stop somewhere in Connecticut.
Once in Boston, I took the Red Line to Harvard Square, where I ran into a startled Dr. Klemens M. whilst waiting for a Belmont bus. We talked about London, the global economy, the state of the US election, and general politics. I give a shout out to his wife, Dr. Laura M., who is a Wellesley College Class of 1980 classmate of mine. "Hi, Laura!".
My bus came about 30 minutes after his left, and I was ensconced at the Knittin Kitten, the World's Best Yarn Shop, before 1 pm, where I passed a very happy afternoon knitting and chatting. MaryAnn served cheese and crackers, Marilyn brought sponge cake from Chinatown, Barbara B brought beads (being the bead pimp, she always has something shiny with which to tempt us), Claudia knitted, and Susan brought hugs and requests for recipes for the guests she was hosting in about an hour and a half.
Erica came to collect me at 5 pm, and I got cleaned up for our dinner with Elizabeth R. on Pleasant Street. As they prepared to build a fire in the fireplace after dinner, I excused myself and walked back to Erica's before the torrential rainstorm set in.
I don't know when I'll get my Visa, so I look forward to more days of visiting in Belmont.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Belmont to Big Apple update; Happy Birthday Carl and Erica!
Hello, dear readers, from the lands to the West of the sacred isle, the good ol' US of A.
Being back in the town where I've spent the last twenty years is pretty surreal. It feels familiar, yet I know it's no longer my "home".
There are other people living in our house, albeit with our permission.
The tenants welcomed me, but the cats shunned me when I visited 78 Oliver. Sunny, the eleven year old feline, was napping on the sofa. She heard our voices but didn't wake. I went over to talk to her and pet her, and she woke, bolted upright, and ran right to the front door. She didn't even let me touch her. I guess that's what I deserve after abandoning her. Mystery, whom we'd had for a little over a year before moving, took her sweet time arriving downstairs from her nap in the girl's bedroom. She allowed herself to sniff my fingers, but wouldn't let me touch her, either. Heartbreaking.
Yesterday's to-do list was: walk Erica's dog, go to the chiropractor, visit Leslie for coffee, visit the house, pick up forgotten items (such as my walking shoes--now I'll really be able to walk!) help the tenants get the steam radiators all balanced and delivering heat equally, pick up crafty items for sale at the St. John's Wood Women's Club Holiday Fair on 11/11, go to the bank, drop off my absentee ballot, (another vote for Obama/Biden in Massachusetts which, due to the electoral college, will have no impact on the outcome as Mass. is already heavily democratic) take Carl out for his birthday lunch at the Indian place we used to frequent on our bi-weekly lunches, shop in Macy's (nothing I liked fit or looked good on me), walk the dog again, and take my hostess Erica out to dinner to celebrate her birthday (actually today). I then collapsed into bed at 8:10 pm.
Now it's time to walk the dog again, before I head out to the Knittin' Kitten to press my nose against the glass and wait for it to open. Then it's off to The Big Apple via the Lucky Star Chinatown-to-Chinatown bus, for my rendezvous in Brooklyn with the Fingerprint People on Wednesday. NYSis has graciously invited me to stay with her while I wait for my visa to be processed by the British Embassy in New York.
Wish me luck!!
Being back in the town where I've spent the last twenty years is pretty surreal. It feels familiar, yet I know it's no longer my "home".
There are other people living in our house, albeit with our permission.
The tenants welcomed me, but the cats shunned me when I visited 78 Oliver. Sunny, the eleven year old feline, was napping on the sofa. She heard our voices but didn't wake. I went over to talk to her and pet her, and she woke, bolted upright, and ran right to the front door. She didn't even let me touch her. I guess that's what I deserve after abandoning her. Mystery, whom we'd had for a little over a year before moving, took her sweet time arriving downstairs from her nap in the girl's bedroom. She allowed herself to sniff my fingers, but wouldn't let me touch her, either. Heartbreaking.
Yesterday's to-do list was: walk Erica's dog, go to the chiropractor, visit Leslie for coffee, visit the house, pick up forgotten items (such as my walking shoes--now I'll really be able to walk!) help the tenants get the steam radiators all balanced and delivering heat equally, pick up crafty items for sale at the St. John's Wood Women's Club Holiday Fair on 11/11, go to the bank, drop off my absentee ballot, (another vote for Obama/Biden in Massachusetts which, due to the electoral college, will have no impact on the outcome as Mass. is already heavily democratic) take Carl out for his birthday lunch at the Indian place we used to frequent on our bi-weekly lunches, shop in Macy's (nothing I liked fit or looked good on me), walk the dog again, and take my hostess Erica out to dinner to celebrate her birthday (actually today). I then collapsed into bed at 8:10 pm.
Now it's time to walk the dog again, before I head out to the Knittin' Kitten to press my nose against the glass and wait for it to open. Then it's off to The Big Apple via the Lucky Star Chinatown-to-Chinatown bus, for my rendezvous in Brooklyn with the Fingerprint People on Wednesday. NYSis has graciously invited me to stay with her while I wait for my visa to be processed by the British Embassy in New York.
Wish me luck!!
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Cake Encore, Big Explore
Greetings to the devoted readership of A Flat on Abbey Road.
BlogMama is gearing up for her big trip across the pond to secure her Visa.
Here is an update on her latest activities.
We join her as of Thursday morning.
I got up early (7 am) and hit the kitchen to bake. The occasion was back-up baking for Stitchery Group. My friend MomA was hosting it at her flat due to the fact that the regular hostess was out of town. I had been researching a sour cream coffee-cake recipe, and wanted to give it a try.
The amount of batter looked like it would be too much for one round cake pan, so I decided to put half in one pan and half in another. There is a person at Stitchery with a nut allergy, so one pan went nutless while the other got a handful of chopped walnuts sprinkled in amongst the cinnamon-crumb topping. I was then hit with an epiphany. Who had indicated that he regretting letting that slice of chocolate cake get away? Why, Receptionist Extraordinaire Fabian, of course! Gateau numero deux would go over to the Hospital.
Meanwhile, slumbering Son awoke in his spacious guest accomodations on the sofa.
"Something smells good". I cut him a piece from Fabian's nut-cake, and rearranged the slices with a little space in between each one. Perhaps the guys over at the hospital wouldn't notice that the sum of the parts was less than the whole.
Other equipment was being trundled over to MomA's on Maida Vale, so I loaded up the stylin' shopping cart and hit the street via the rickety old lift. A brisk two-minute walk brought me to the front entrance of the Hospital. I am used to seeing Fabian posted at the rear reception area, so I charged in the automatic front doors (no "Shazzam!" needed) and breezed past the front desk. It was then that I heard the ubiquitous Dr. D's voice. I turned to wave hello, and who was he addressing, but Fabian, right there at the front lobby's reception area.
I stopped in my tracks and reversed my shopping cart. "Fabian! Just who I'm looking for!" I thrust the "aluminium" foil-wrapped cake, still warm from the oven, at the unsuspecting receptionist. "Fabian, you're a Blogstar, and you've been Caked!!" (I think I've invented a new TV show, a la "Punked", only much tastier. Anyone who appears on this blog will be randomly presented with a Cake.) The kind doctor made himself scarce while I chatted for a quick moment with the surprised Fabian. "I guess I have too much time on my hands, but I was baking for the Stitchery Ladies Group and decided to bring you a cake, too." I then whirled the funky shopping cart on a dime/ten pence and rolled off into the west toward Maida Vale.
The women who showed up at MomA's were a small but high-quality subset of the larger group. I enjoyed getting to know each of them a little better, and really enjoyed the tour of MomA's spacious, light-filled flat on the top floor of a building that was designed by the same architect who designed the iconic red phone boxes.
MomA's husband is the proud owner of an Espresso Machine. Neither MomA nor I had ever operated one. Once she showed me how to use it, I was hooked, and wound up being the barrista for the morning anytime anyone wanted another cup. Using the steam wand to froth up the hot milk was my favorite part. I won't be getting a machine like this anytime soon, as hitting the "Hi" street for a morning cuppa joe or an afternoon chai latte is a good excuse to get out of the house. What I'd like to know is how the Capuchin Monks, after whom the cappucino is named, managed to get the milk all hot and frothy without an electric espresso machine...
The time knitting passed too quickly, and before we knew it, it was 1 pm (13:00) and time to decamp. Upon returning to the flat, I convinced Son to hop a bus with me and we went down to Trafalgar Square to the National Gallery (free admission!). Here one can see what seems like thousands of medieval and renaissance paintings of Madonna and Child (including the "Madonna of the Rocks" as featured in The Da Vinci Code), the Holy Family, Jesus with Disciples, Holy Family with Saints, Patron ArchBishops, Popes, Virgin Martyrs, allegorical paintings of Christ's life, huge panoramas of renaissance market squares with a tiny figures in the background depicting Jesus' life and works, and countless scenes of crucifiction, etc etc. I enjoyed seeing all the expressions and realism in the paintings, but I think Son was overwhelmed with the fact that every single piece of art from 1250 through the seventeenth century was exclusively Christian.
"Isn't there any modern art in here?" he wanted to know. No, there was not. We hit the gift shop, where I bought three postcards, and then left to go across the road to St. Martin's In the Field church. I wanted to go to the crypt there and do a brass rubbing.
After accomplishing my mission there, (and doing a rubbing of a medieval-looking woman whose first name was the same as my own) we hopped back on the 139 bus and got off on Abbey Road just steps from the flat.
I have dubbed the last day of the week Tidy Friday. This is the day that I engage in all my domestic goddess rituals, such as kneeling in front of the porcelain pulpit with toilet brush, scrubbing the bathroom floors in near-prostration, using a "Hoover" to exorcise the demon dustballs, and waving the magical Method Floor Mop over the floors to sweeten the room with almond-scented floor cleaner. Once these ablutions were performed, I hit the streets with my Oyster card in hand. I was on the lookout for a fabric store where I could purchase some craft supplies.
My walk to the bus took me down the "Hi" Street. I popped into the Hospice Charity Shop to say hello to the manager and to ask if she knew of any fabric stores in the area. This is the shop where I had been team co-leader several weekends ago. My team spent two hours tidying the shop, organizing the glassware, etc (see previous posting). I guess we had done TOO GOOD a job, as the manager asked me if I would be willing to come in several mornings a week to help her do the same thing while she ran the hoover. I must have still smelled like almond-scented cleaner. We sat and talked about the shop, the hospice and Glastonbury Tor, which is a place in southwestern England to which we both feel connected. I set out on my way again.
I boarded the 274 bus to Islington and the Angel tube stop. I had done this once before when going to find a yarn store (Loop), but wanted to get a better look at the shops right near the terminus of the bus route. Unfortunately I had started out too late (2 pm) for a leisurely explore, but figured I'd just go with the flow and see what I could see. The bus ride was enjoyable, as people of all ages, nationalities and colours boarded, chatted on their phones, or adjusted their shopping. Several times a cane-wielding elder would board the bus, and someone always gave up one of the easily accessible seats and helped him or her get settled. The bus driver would always-always-always floor the accelerator pedal before the frail person was fully seated, so several pairs of hands would reach out to steady them so they wouldn't be flung to the floor.
I recognized many of the sights on this second trip on the route; two separate giant Sainsbury's Supermarkets in two neighborhoods, Her Majesty's Prison in Pentonville, playgrounds, and parks. My handy fold-up map ended just to the south of the neighborhoods through which we journied, but I had a vague idea of where we'd come out.
Once at the Angel tube stop, I thought I might get something to eat, as I hadn't had lunch yet. It's not like me to skip a meal, but I wasn't going to miss my Day Out. While looking down several side streets, I saw a poster marked "The Islington Arts and Crafts Show". Someone had told me about this, and I thought I had missed it, but there it was. This was the week for fiber arts and jewelry. If I had been looking for it I never would have found it, but there it was, right under my nose. Before I entered the gallery an unusual vehicle caught my eye. It was a pick-up truck with a huge sign that read "Bone's Breakers, 1610 Powerline Rd., Pompano Beach, Florida". I found this particulary amusing since my parents live in Pompano Beach, Florida. The next time I'm there I'll have to drive past 1610 Powerline Rd. (see photo).
I went into the Show and spent some time browsing around and talking to some of the artists and crafters. By now I was really hungry, so I thought I'd get some noodles from a noodle shop I had spotted from the bus window. "Good Karma" the sign said, so in I went and helped myself to the oriental buffet (country of origin unknown). Stepping back outside, I said to myself, OK, if that is Angel, and this is Islington High Street, then that must be.... Pentonville Road, which I knew from having been on it once thirty years before would take me towards Euston Station and eventually Baker Street or Gloucester Place, from which I could catch the 139 bus back to the flat. It was too cold and windy to be able to eat my noodles, meat, sauce and broccoli comfortably while waiting for the bus, so I had to wait until seated to get my lunch on board. I hate to eat on buses, as I consider it rude, but it was now almost 3 pm and I was really hungry, so I flung decorum to the wind.
It was a Friday afternoon and this particular stretch of road was packed. The bus had been labelled Baker Street, but when it took an unexpected turn to the south I decided to bail out. I was near Portland Place, and decided to hoof it. I went across Tottenham Court Road, which jogged some memories from my days at University College London thirty years ago. Soon I was on Grafton Way, near the University Health Centre, and University College Hospital, where I had encountered the rudest and most insensitive receptionist ever placed on the face of this earth "back in the day". It reminded me how lucky the patrons of the local hospital are to have Fabian and his compadres.
On I pressed. The sun was now completely down behind the buildings and the air grew chillier. I had my handy pocket map with me, but it was taking a while to go what looked like a hop, skip and a jump toward Gloucester Place. "Perhaps I'll stop in at the Theosophical Society there" I thought to myself. I had been meaning to do just that since I arrived, having given a few talks and workshops at Boston's Theosophical Society, located in Arlington Center just a mile from my house in Belmont. Finally, I crossed Old Marylebone Rd, took a dog-leg to the right-and-left, and thought I could spy my final street with 139 bus route. A quick glance up to my right showed a sign for the Baker Street underground stop. Why spend more time stuck in traffic when I could just hop the tube? TeenE had already phoned me to tell me she was home from school, and I had said I wouldn't be more than half an hour, so I impulsively made the right turn that would take me up to the underground stop. As I walked the one short block up towards the busy intersection, I saw a door on my right marked "Self-Realization Fellowship Founded by Paramahansa Yogananda". Once again, I had auto-piloted myself exactly to the perfect destination. This is an organization started in 1920 by one of my favorite spiritual authors, for the purposes of exploring scientific methods of meditation in the search for the fully-realized Self (i.e. the Self that knows it is connected to and part of the Source we call "God"). Yogananda taught that the historical Jesus was a fully-Realised (i.e. Christed) being, fully divine while in human form. One of his books, "Autobiography of a Yogi" is one of my top-ten books of all time, and was the inspiration for my Most Favorite Band of All Time, "YES"'s album Tales from Topographic Oceans. When I look at photos of Paramahansa Yogananda, I feel a deep love and a feeling of inner recognition of a wise and kindred soul. Serendipity? Coincidence that I should find myself on the doorstep of Yogananda's organization? I'll let you decide.
Within a moment of passing this door I was on my way into the Baker St. station, and was on a train toward St. John's Wood within two minutes. Still lost in my reverie about the afternoon, I almost missed my stop, but managed to get off the train and float up the escalator toward Grove End Road and A Flat on Abbey Road.
Once again, a simple walk, during which the cosmic auto-pilot had been in control. With the destination as Angel, and with a forkful of Good Karma, I had visited my Present, Past, and, I hope, Future, and had ultimately found parts of my Self.
BlogMama is gearing up for her big trip across the pond to secure her Visa.
Here is an update on her latest activities.
We join her as of Thursday morning.
I got up early (7 am) and hit the kitchen to bake. The occasion was back-up baking for Stitchery Group. My friend MomA was hosting it at her flat due to the fact that the regular hostess was out of town. I had been researching a sour cream coffee-cake recipe, and wanted to give it a try.
The amount of batter looked like it would be too much for one round cake pan, so I decided to put half in one pan and half in another. There is a person at Stitchery with a nut allergy, so one pan went nutless while the other got a handful of chopped walnuts sprinkled in amongst the cinnamon-crumb topping. I was then hit with an epiphany. Who had indicated that he regretting letting that slice of chocolate cake get away? Why, Receptionist Extraordinaire Fabian, of course! Gateau numero deux would go over to the Hospital.
Meanwhile, slumbering Son awoke in his spacious guest accomodations on the sofa.
"Something smells good". I cut him a piece from Fabian's nut-cake, and rearranged the slices with a little space in between each one. Perhaps the guys over at the hospital wouldn't notice that the sum of the parts was less than the whole.
Other equipment was being trundled over to MomA's on Maida Vale, so I loaded up the stylin' shopping cart and hit the street via the rickety old lift. A brisk two-minute walk brought me to the front entrance of the Hospital. I am used to seeing Fabian posted at the rear reception area, so I charged in the automatic front doors (no "Shazzam!" needed) and breezed past the front desk. It was then that I heard the ubiquitous Dr. D's voice. I turned to wave hello, and who was he addressing, but Fabian, right there at the front lobby's reception area.
I stopped in my tracks and reversed my shopping cart. "Fabian! Just who I'm looking for!" I thrust the "aluminium" foil-wrapped cake, still warm from the oven, at the unsuspecting receptionist. "Fabian, you're a Blogstar, and you've been Caked!!" (I think I've invented a new TV show, a la "Punked", only much tastier. Anyone who appears on this blog will be randomly presented with a Cake.) The kind doctor made himself scarce while I chatted for a quick moment with the surprised Fabian. "I guess I have too much time on my hands, but I was baking for the Stitchery Ladies Group and decided to bring you a cake, too." I then whirled the funky shopping cart on a dime/ten pence and rolled off into the west toward Maida Vale.
The women who showed up at MomA's were a small but high-quality subset of the larger group. I enjoyed getting to know each of them a little better, and really enjoyed the tour of MomA's spacious, light-filled flat on the top floor of a building that was designed by the same architect who designed the iconic red phone boxes.
MomA's husband is the proud owner of an Espresso Machine. Neither MomA nor I had ever operated one. Once she showed me how to use it, I was hooked, and wound up being the barrista for the morning anytime anyone wanted another cup. Using the steam wand to froth up the hot milk was my favorite part. I won't be getting a machine like this anytime soon, as hitting the "Hi" street for a morning cuppa joe or an afternoon chai latte is a good excuse to get out of the house. What I'd like to know is how the Capuchin Monks, after whom the cappucino is named, managed to get the milk all hot and frothy without an electric espresso machine...
The time knitting passed too quickly, and before we knew it, it was 1 pm (13:00) and time to decamp. Upon returning to the flat, I convinced Son to hop a bus with me and we went down to Trafalgar Square to the National Gallery (free admission!). Here one can see what seems like thousands of medieval and renaissance paintings of Madonna and Child (including the "Madonna of the Rocks" as featured in The Da Vinci Code), the Holy Family, Jesus with Disciples, Holy Family with Saints, Patron ArchBishops, Popes, Virgin Martyrs, allegorical paintings of Christ's life, huge panoramas of renaissance market squares with a tiny figures in the background depicting Jesus' life and works, and countless scenes of crucifiction, etc etc. I enjoyed seeing all the expressions and realism in the paintings, but I think Son was overwhelmed with the fact that every single piece of art from 1250 through the seventeenth century was exclusively Christian.
"Isn't there any modern art in here?" he wanted to know. No, there was not. We hit the gift shop, where I bought three postcards, and then left to go across the road to St. Martin's In the Field church. I wanted to go to the crypt there and do a brass rubbing.
After accomplishing my mission there, (and doing a rubbing of a medieval-looking woman whose first name was the same as my own) we hopped back on the 139 bus and got off on Abbey Road just steps from the flat.
I have dubbed the last day of the week Tidy Friday. This is the day that I engage in all my domestic goddess rituals, such as kneeling in front of the porcelain pulpit with toilet brush, scrubbing the bathroom floors in near-prostration, using a "Hoover" to exorcise the demon dustballs, and waving the magical Method Floor Mop over the floors to sweeten the room with almond-scented floor cleaner. Once these ablutions were performed, I hit the streets with my Oyster card in hand. I was on the lookout for a fabric store where I could purchase some craft supplies.
My walk to the bus took me down the "Hi" Street. I popped into the Hospice Charity Shop to say hello to the manager and to ask if she knew of any fabric stores in the area. This is the shop where I had been team co-leader several weekends ago. My team spent two hours tidying the shop, organizing the glassware, etc (see previous posting). I guess we had done TOO GOOD a job, as the manager asked me if I would be willing to come in several mornings a week to help her do the same thing while she ran the hoover. I must have still smelled like almond-scented cleaner. We sat and talked about the shop, the hospice and Glastonbury Tor, which is a place in southwestern England to which we both feel connected. I set out on my way again.
I boarded the 274 bus to Islington and the Angel tube stop. I had done this once before when going to find a yarn store (Loop), but wanted to get a better look at the shops right near the terminus of the bus route. Unfortunately I had started out too late (2 pm) for a leisurely explore, but figured I'd just go with the flow and see what I could see. The bus ride was enjoyable, as people of all ages, nationalities and colours boarded, chatted on their phones, or adjusted their shopping. Several times a cane-wielding elder would board the bus, and someone always gave up one of the easily accessible seats and helped him or her get settled. The bus driver would always-always-always floor the accelerator pedal before the frail person was fully seated, so several pairs of hands would reach out to steady them so they wouldn't be flung to the floor.
I recognized many of the sights on this second trip on the route; two separate giant Sainsbury's Supermarkets in two neighborhoods, Her Majesty's Prison in Pentonville, playgrounds, and parks. My handy fold-up map ended just to the south of the neighborhoods through which we journied, but I had a vague idea of where we'd come out.
Once at the Angel tube stop, I thought I might get something to eat, as I hadn't had lunch yet. It's not like me to skip a meal, but I wasn't going to miss my Day Out. While looking down several side streets, I saw a poster marked "The Islington Arts and Crafts Show". Someone had told me about this, and I thought I had missed it, but there it was. This was the week for fiber arts and jewelry. If I had been looking for it I never would have found it, but there it was, right under my nose. Before I entered the gallery an unusual vehicle caught my eye. It was a pick-up truck with a huge sign that read "Bone's Breakers, 1610 Powerline Rd., Pompano Beach, Florida". I found this particulary amusing since my parents live in Pompano Beach, Florida. The next time I'm there I'll have to drive past 1610 Powerline Rd. (see photo).
I went into the Show and spent some time browsing around and talking to some of the artists and crafters. By now I was really hungry, so I thought I'd get some noodles from a noodle shop I had spotted from the bus window. "Good Karma" the sign said, so in I went and helped myself to the oriental buffet (country of origin unknown). Stepping back outside, I said to myself, OK, if that is Angel, and this is Islington High Street, then that must be.... Pentonville Road, which I knew from having been on it once thirty years before would take me towards Euston Station and eventually Baker Street or Gloucester Place, from which I could catch the 139 bus back to the flat. It was too cold and windy to be able to eat my noodles, meat, sauce and broccoli comfortably while waiting for the bus, so I had to wait until seated to get my lunch on board. I hate to eat on buses, as I consider it rude, but it was now almost 3 pm and I was really hungry, so I flung decorum to the wind.
It was a Friday afternoon and this particular stretch of road was packed. The bus had been labelled Baker Street, but when it took an unexpected turn to the south I decided to bail out. I was near Portland Place, and decided to hoof it. I went across Tottenham Court Road, which jogged some memories from my days at University College London thirty years ago. Soon I was on Grafton Way, near the University Health Centre, and University College Hospital, where I had encountered the rudest and most insensitive receptionist ever placed on the face of this earth "back in the day". It reminded me how lucky the patrons of the local hospital are to have Fabian and his compadres.
On I pressed. The sun was now completely down behind the buildings and the air grew chillier. I had my handy pocket map with me, but it was taking a while to go what looked like a hop, skip and a jump toward Gloucester Place. "Perhaps I'll stop in at the Theosophical Society there" I thought to myself. I had been meaning to do just that since I arrived, having given a few talks and workshops at Boston's Theosophical Society, located in Arlington Center just a mile from my house in Belmont. Finally, I crossed Old Marylebone Rd, took a dog-leg to the right-and-left, and thought I could spy my final street with 139 bus route. A quick glance up to my right showed a sign for the Baker Street underground stop. Why spend more time stuck in traffic when I could just hop the tube? TeenE had already phoned me to tell me she was home from school, and I had said I wouldn't be more than half an hour, so I impulsively made the right turn that would take me up to the underground stop. As I walked the one short block up towards the busy intersection, I saw a door on my right marked "Self-Realization Fellowship Founded by Paramahansa Yogananda". Once again, I had auto-piloted myself exactly to the perfect destination. This is an organization started in 1920 by one of my favorite spiritual authors, for the purposes of exploring scientific methods of meditation in the search for the fully-realized Self (i.e. the Self that knows it is connected to and part of the Source we call "God"). Yogananda taught that the historical Jesus was a fully-Realised (i.e. Christed) being, fully divine while in human form. One of his books, "Autobiography of a Yogi" is one of my top-ten books of all time, and was the inspiration for my Most Favorite Band of All Time, "YES"'s album Tales from Topographic Oceans. When I look at photos of Paramahansa Yogananda, I feel a deep love and a feeling of inner recognition of a wise and kindred soul. Serendipity? Coincidence that I should find myself on the doorstep of Yogananda's organization? I'll let you decide.
Within a moment of passing this door I was on my way into the Baker St. station, and was on a train toward St. John's Wood within two minutes. Still lost in my reverie about the afternoon, I almost missed my stop, but managed to get off the train and float up the escalator toward Grove End Road and A Flat on Abbey Road.
Once again, a simple walk, during which the cosmic auto-pilot had been in control. With the destination as Angel, and with a forkful of Good Karma, I had visited my Present, Past, and, I hope, Future, and had ultimately found parts of my Self.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Hospice Volunteer Interview and Fabian, BlogStar
Date: Tuesday the 14th of October Mission: Enter the world of Hospice Volunteer
Personnel: BlogMama, assisted by Fabian, and a cameo appearance by Dr. D.
At last the appointed time had arrived for my meeting with the Hospice's Volunteer Coordinator. Avid readers may recall that she had been unavailable for volunteer intake as she had been driving the ambulance that picks up the day centre clients.
Fabian was at his post at the rear reception desk. I was greeted warmly and he remembered me from our previous conversation. He expressed some regret at letting the cake go to the gang at Front Reception in the hands of Dr. D. I promised that I'd remedy the situation in the near future. I asked him if he was aware of his presence on this blog. He had not been informed of this by the other blogee, and was really pleased to hear of his near-fame. He asked to have his photo featured. I promised I'd do that, but was eager to be sent through the infamous double doors and into the inner sanctum.
As I charged through the doorway, I forgot to keep to the LEFT as is the usual pedestrian pattern, and nearly bowled over the unsuspecting Dr. D, who was busy disinfecting his hands with the anti-bacterial goo.
I was able to find the hospice reception desk, and while I waited for the VC, was asked by no less than four friendly helpful people if I needed assistance. The last person, a volunteer, offered to go get her for me.
The VC spent over an hour with me, explainining the hospice, it's history, mission, clientele, etc.
I was taken on the Grand Tour, and saw that many of the common rooms and patient rooms had a pleasant view out over the green lawn flanking Grove End Road. I was given a large packet of paperwork to fill out, and was on my way after about an hour and a half. I reappeared in the back lobby, and was disappointed to see that Fabian was not at his post. The helpful young lady who had replaced him suggested that he might be out at the front desk. Alas, he was not.
I left without having helped him to his paparazzi moment.
Today I did find him at his post, and he was ready for his close-up, so appears both posed and candid. Hooray, Fabian!
Personnel: BlogMama, assisted by Fabian, and a cameo appearance by Dr. D.
At last the appointed time had arrived for my meeting with the Hospice's Volunteer Coordinator. Avid readers may recall that she had been unavailable for volunteer intake as she had been driving the ambulance that picks up the day centre clients.
Fabian was at his post at the rear reception desk. I was greeted warmly and he remembered me from our previous conversation. He expressed some regret at letting the cake go to the gang at Front Reception in the hands of Dr. D. I promised that I'd remedy the situation in the near future. I asked him if he was aware of his presence on this blog. He had not been informed of this by the other blogee, and was really pleased to hear of his near-fame. He asked to have his photo featured. I promised I'd do that, but was eager to be sent through the infamous double doors and into the inner sanctum.
As I charged through the doorway, I forgot to keep to the LEFT as is the usual pedestrian pattern, and nearly bowled over the unsuspecting Dr. D, who was busy disinfecting his hands with the anti-bacterial goo.
I was able to find the hospice reception desk, and while I waited for the VC, was asked by no less than four friendly helpful people if I needed assistance. The last person, a volunteer, offered to go get her for me.
The VC spent over an hour with me, explainining the hospice, it's history, mission, clientele, etc.
I was taken on the Grand Tour, and saw that many of the common rooms and patient rooms had a pleasant view out over the green lawn flanking Grove End Road. I was given a large packet of paperwork to fill out, and was on my way after about an hour and a half. I reappeared in the back lobby, and was disappointed to see that Fabian was not at his post. The helpful young lady who had replaced him suggested that he might be out at the front desk. Alas, he was not.
I left without having helped him to his paparazzi moment.
Today I did find him at his post, and he was ready for his close-up, so appears both posed and candid. Hooray, Fabian!
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Son visits us
We were delighted to welcome Son to London on Sunday morning. His direct flight took off from Raleigh, NC at 5:55 pm EDT Saturday, and landed in London shortly after 6 am BST Sunday. He took the Express train to Paddington, where he was met by Hubster at around 7:45. They were back at A Flat on Abbey Road by 8:15.
Son had slept only a little on the flight, but was eager to go out and explore. I took him on the 15-minute tour of St. John's Wood. We walked past the American School, the SJW tube stop, the library, the post office, Tesco's, Starbucks (where we fueled up), walked down the Hi Street, through the SJW Church park and cemetary, past Lord's Cricket Ground, past you-know-who's house, and back to Abbey Road. He was still raring to go, so we hopped a 189 bus to Oxford Street, where we disembarked at the top of Regent's Street, walked down that to Piccadilly Circus, down past the Duke of York's column, saw a lot of white trailers parked near the column, which son correctly identified as film-making trailers, crossed the Mall JUST behind a Kenyan runner, who was the first of a dribble of runners which later turned into a torrent of half-marathoners (we unknowingly timed it just right). We paused at a sandwhich stand for his breakfast, then pressed on through St. James' Park towards Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. It was a bright and sunny day that had dawned in mist but was getting progressively clearer as the sun rose higher. At this point we called the other two family members and motivated them to join us at the London Eye.
Son and I went over Westminster Bridge and I got on line for tickets. Meanwhile, the duo of TeenE and Hubster took the underground to Westminster and planned to rendezvous with us. We got in the queue for the queue for the queue, and went to the front of that several times as we awaited their arrival. One could not get in the real queue for the queue until all members of one's party were present with ticket in hand.
Hubster and TeenE finally arrived around noon, aided by the skillful use of "mobile" phones which allowed us to spot each other more easily. We then had our tickets marked with the special orange marker, and got in the queue for the queue. We went past signs that said NO FOOD OR DRINK ALLOWED PAST THIS POINT. We snaked around the roped barriers, and finally were at the top of the queue for the queue. At this point, one broke from the ranks and dashed across an open space to get into the real queue. The people behind us thought they'd make a break for it, but they did not count on my sharpened elbows and finely honed instincts as a New Yorker, which prevented them from gaining an advantage on us. Son laughed openly at their brazen yet pathetically ineffectual attempt.
The wait from the back of the real queue was about another half an hour. TeenE and I knew the experience would be well worth the wait, as we had ridden on the Eye the previous November when we came to stake out the school and neighborhood. That trip had been at night. We were looking forward to seeing the daytime panorama of the Thames and the city stretched out in the glorious sunshine.
At last we boarded a pod with a dozen other people. I was glad that I had not paid 3 additional pounds for the "guide book", which illustrated many landmarks, as a mother with an eight-year-old son loudly narrated most of the guidebook for the "benefit" of anyone who had to listen. From it's location near Waterloo station and the Marriott County Hall, the huge loops and meanders of the Thames can be seen. For example, the Tower of London can NOT be seen from the Eye as it is obscured by a bend in the river.
After our 1/2 hour rotation on the giant hamster wheel was complete, we got some snacks, and I showed the troops how to get to the Waterloo bus station to board the 139 bus, which took us past Aldwych, through the Strand and Trafalgar Square, up Regents Street, onto Oxford Street, up Gloucester Place, past Baker Street, into Lisson Grove and finally St. John's Wood, where it deposits us right in front of the Abbey Road Studios, i.e. a short hop from our Flat.
The rest of the day was spent relaxing. I went for an afternoon walk over to Primrose Hill, which is at the northern-most point of Regent's Park. There were HUNDREDS of people grouped in clumps on the lawns and atop the hill. It was warm enough for me to take off my shoes and feel the late-summer grass between my toes. I rolled up my jacket into a pillow and had a little "quiet time" at the top of the hill, listening to the pleasant buzz of many conversations. At one point a six-year old boy challenged his younger sister to roll down the hill. "Noooooo" she shrieked. "I don't think I have the strength!!!" Hundreds of grownups smirked and wished that they could be her age and have the uninhibited joy of rolling down the grassy hill until dizzy and spent.
My quiet reverie was interupted by the arrival of a bunch of Kiwis who smelled like beer and regaled each other with tales of not remembering whom they were with last night or how they got home. I reluctantly put my shoes back on and trudged home, about a 20-minute walk. After all that exertion, I laid down for a nap and awoke to find that Hubster had made dinner. Hooray, Hubster!
I shall relate more of our Adventures with Son and TeenE tomorrow.
Son had slept only a little on the flight, but was eager to go out and explore. I took him on the 15-minute tour of St. John's Wood. We walked past the American School, the SJW tube stop, the library, the post office, Tesco's, Starbucks (where we fueled up), walked down the Hi Street, through the SJW Church park and cemetary, past Lord's Cricket Ground, past you-know-who's house, and back to Abbey Road. He was still raring to go, so we hopped a 189 bus to Oxford Street, where we disembarked at the top of Regent's Street, walked down that to Piccadilly Circus, down past the Duke of York's column, saw a lot of white trailers parked near the column, which son correctly identified as film-making trailers, crossed the Mall JUST behind a Kenyan runner, who was the first of a dribble of runners which later turned into a torrent of half-marathoners (we unknowingly timed it just right). We paused at a sandwhich stand for his breakfast, then pressed on through St. James' Park towards Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. It was a bright and sunny day that had dawned in mist but was getting progressively clearer as the sun rose higher. At this point we called the other two family members and motivated them to join us at the London Eye.
Son and I went over Westminster Bridge and I got on line for tickets. Meanwhile, the duo of TeenE and Hubster took the underground to Westminster and planned to rendezvous with us. We got in the queue for the queue for the queue, and went to the front of that several times as we awaited their arrival. One could not get in the real queue for the queue until all members of one's party were present with ticket in hand.
Hubster and TeenE finally arrived around noon, aided by the skillful use of "mobile" phones which allowed us to spot each other more easily. We then had our tickets marked with the special orange marker, and got in the queue for the queue. We went past signs that said NO FOOD OR DRINK ALLOWED PAST THIS POINT. We snaked around the roped barriers, and finally were at the top of the queue for the queue. At this point, one broke from the ranks and dashed across an open space to get into the real queue. The people behind us thought they'd make a break for it, but they did not count on my sharpened elbows and finely honed instincts as a New Yorker, which prevented them from gaining an advantage on us. Son laughed openly at their brazen yet pathetically ineffectual attempt.
The wait from the back of the real queue was about another half an hour. TeenE and I knew the experience would be well worth the wait, as we had ridden on the Eye the previous November when we came to stake out the school and neighborhood. That trip had been at night. We were looking forward to seeing the daytime panorama of the Thames and the city stretched out in the glorious sunshine.
At last we boarded a pod with a dozen other people. I was glad that I had not paid 3 additional pounds for the "guide book", which illustrated many landmarks, as a mother with an eight-year-old son loudly narrated most of the guidebook for the "benefit" of anyone who had to listen. From it's location near Waterloo station and the Marriott County Hall, the huge loops and meanders of the Thames can be seen. For example, the Tower of London can NOT be seen from the Eye as it is obscured by a bend in the river.
After our 1/2 hour rotation on the giant hamster wheel was complete, we got some snacks, and I showed the troops how to get to the Waterloo bus station to board the 139 bus, which took us past Aldwych, through the Strand and Trafalgar Square, up Regents Street, onto Oxford Street, up Gloucester Place, past Baker Street, into Lisson Grove and finally St. John's Wood, where it deposits us right in front of the Abbey Road Studios, i.e. a short hop from our Flat.
The rest of the day was spent relaxing. I went for an afternoon walk over to Primrose Hill, which is at the northern-most point of Regent's Park. There were HUNDREDS of people grouped in clumps on the lawns and atop the hill. It was warm enough for me to take off my shoes and feel the late-summer grass between my toes. I rolled up my jacket into a pillow and had a little "quiet time" at the top of the hill, listening to the pleasant buzz of many conversations. At one point a six-year old boy challenged his younger sister to roll down the hill. "Noooooo" she shrieked. "I don't think I have the strength!!!" Hundreds of grownups smirked and wished that they could be her age and have the uninhibited joy of rolling down the grassy hill until dizzy and spent.
My quiet reverie was interupted by the arrival of a bunch of Kiwis who smelled like beer and regaled each other with tales of not remembering whom they were with last night or how they got home. I reluctantly put my shoes back on and trudged home, about a 20-minute walk. After all that exertion, I laid down for a nap and awoke to find that Hubster had made dinner. Hooray, Hubster!
I shall relate more of our Adventures with Son and TeenE tomorrow.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Regent's Park Rendezvous
Today held some of the most gorgeous weather I have ever seen in my life. The sky was as blue as the giant antique porcelain vase in Paris' Musee d'Orsay. The trees on the leafy streets of NW8 were a tapestry of greens and golds. On a clear autumn day in the US, I would be suffering from ragweed-induced hay fever, at least until the first frost killed all the pollen. I have never been able to enjoy clear fall weather without nasty sniffles and itchy eyes. This is not true here in the UK. They do not have the kind of ragweed species that occurs in the US. This makes any kind of outdoor activity so much more enjoyable.
I had a visitor this morning: my first guest for tea. MomA has two kids at ASL, and is on leave from her faculty post at Dartmouth College. So not only do we have the Hanover, NH scene in common (we lived there for two years 1986-88 while Hubster got his MBA, and our Son was born there, too) but MomA randomly mentioned her friend Elizabeth G, who is a Wellesley College classmate of mine. MomA had plans for a book club lunch, so when she left, I procured the groceries. After they were all put away, the Regent's Park homing beacon pulled me out of the door and into the sunshine.
The neighborhood was full of families walking to Yom Kippur services at the four local synagogues. Moms and nannies were manuvering push-chairs with uniformed pre-schoolers home for their lunches and naps. Almost every dog in NW8 was out for air. The sun, although low in the sky at the noon hour due to this northern latitude, had managed to warm the air into the upper 60's F. The weather was truly a gift. I mean to re-wrap it and take it off the shelf again in the gray days of winter.
For the past seven weeks I have been trying to get Hubster and TeenE to walk with me to Queen Mary's Rose Garden at the center of Regent's Park. They always seem underwhelmed at the prospect, so we never got there. Today, I struck out on my own. I had a strong sense of anticipation, as if I were going out on purpose to meet someone on a planned rendezvous. Whom would I meet on this walk? There is always someone interesting to watch, or a dog to admire, or someone to say hi to on my walks when I am mindful to notice these things. I decided to walk with open eyes, mind, and heart. I took a different route than usual to the park, following my intuition, and thinking... whom will I meet today? Somebody important, or famous, or maybe a new friend? I couldn't wait to find out.
By now I know the quickest route to the Inner Circle of Regent's Park. I walked past the athletic fields where TeenE sometimes has her gym class. The grass was being mown, and I remembered all those fall days when we used to drive Son and his buddies in the red minivan to different towns to play soccer in the "travelling league".
I passed over the bridge that crosses the waterfowl lagoon. Colorful birds, some with orange beaks, some ducks with teal feathers, and some brown bufflehead ducks floated and splashed in their warm-weather ritual. A squirrel eyed me for quite a while, as if doing the old Jedi mind-trick: "You will feed me nuts now". I ignored him/her. Most of the trees and shrubbery near the lagoon are still green and flowering, but some species are just now becoming edged in scarlet or yellow ochre.
The path to the centre of the inner circle led me right past the cafe. Feathery white Pampas grass ten feet high sheltered the al fresco diners from the passers-by. I passed row upon row of labeled delphinium beds, the most vibrant blue in the plant kingdom. I had been this way before, on the way to see Gigi at the Open Air Theatre. Finally, I passed into Unknown Territory, or at least territory unseen by me for thirty years. My last visit to this garden had been in the fall of 1978.
American gardens have never held rose beds such as these. Each huge bed holds hundreds and hundreds of plants of the same species, and is marked by a sign giving the Name of the Rose. All rose colours are represented, from the deepest reds to the palest pinks, the sunniest yellows to the warmest sunset-peach. Each rose bed is separated from its neighbors by a tidy strip of perfectly-mowed lawn. Some of the rose plants have all lost their leaves, but the tops are still covered with masses of blooms. Some plants have both blooms and ripe rose hips drooping from them like scarlet baroque pearls. All the rose beds form a huge circle. On one side of the circle there is an ornate gilded iron gate. The huge circle is bisected by a straight path flanked with a scores of park benches on each side. Most benches were occupied; others had felt the magic pull of the park as I had. A pre-verbal toddler shreiked with delight and pointed at the giant leaf-sucking machine that disturbed the scene. A gaggle of adolescent girls in their school uniforms appeared, each with a sketch pad tucked under her arm. They were all laughing and sparkling, having been sprung from prison early. Couples sat on the benches, absorbed in each other's secrets and enjoying precious moments connecting. Younger men read philosophy books, families picnicked, and older men debated politics while strolling in clumps of two or three. Every tenth bench held a person stretched out for a snooze.
I followed the sound of water to discover a man-made waterfall cascading over huge chunks of granite into a pond. Giant fuschia shrubs were a riot color. People took pictures of each other among the plants. Willows weeped, larches draped, and the sun danced off the pond. Other minds and hearts were open there. Every race and culture from London's vast array was represented; people living and loving in peace.
I stopped to admire a particularly lovely orange tapestry of petals, named Typhoon. The name made me think of last weekends torrential rains, and I wondered how all those roses had managed to keep so many of their blooms intact. After about an hour and a half, I reluctantly turned toward the exit of the inner circle. All that walking and wondering had made me thirsty, and what better way to slake one's thirst in a rose garden than... an ice cream cone! A single scoop of mint chocolate chip was served up. A young couple, presumably American students, came to the ice cream stand to ask if anyone knew the way to the boathouse. Luckily for them, I did, and gave them the quickest way to get there. I guess they didn't really believe me, because they promptly went over to the map sign nearby, then took off in the opposite direction. My way northward out of the park took me right past them on the waterfowl bridge, where they were awkwardly attempting to take a picture of themselves with the camera pointing right into the sun, which, as it was now nearly 3 pm (15:00) was almost down behind the buildings at the edge of the park. I positioned them facing the other way and got a good shot of the two of them with their ice cream cone (blackcurrent cheesecake flavour). As we headed on our way off the bridge, the young man said to me "So, did you do a lot of boating back in the day?" I was aghast! "Back in the day??? What, do you think I'm old?" He laughed and tried to save himself. "I mean, back in the 1950's, or 60's or whenever?" "You mean in the LATE '70's, which was only thirty years ago, because I'm ONLY 50 years old?" The girl elbowed him to shut him up, but it was too late. The damage had been done. "No, I didn't do a lot of boating when I was here in college, I just know where the boats are because I want to take my daughter and her friends there some day" . The girl tried to save the situation. "Well, where are you going now?" I gestured off to the north. "I'm going to St. John's Wood, where I live. It is the neighborhood right next to that side of the park." She smiled. "We live on Abbey Road, which we think is cool, because we're OLD". They laughed and we parted ways.
My feet were ready for a rest by this point, but I dragged on, feeling my age. I took yet another back street toward home, and managed to pass a building flying the Tibetan flag. It was Tibet House. Not exactly an embassy, as Tibet is no longer its own country, but a cultural centre for the Tibetan community of London. Around the corner, but still a part of the same building, was the Oriental Medicine Center of London. I poked my head in and picked up a few brochures. Lots of acupuncturists, oriental herbal medicine, energy healers of every description, meditation facilitators, chi gung practitioners, you name it. If it is Oriental, and a healing modality, it was there, along with an invitation to hear the Dalai Lama speak this weekend in Basel, Switzerland, on the 37 paths of the Boddhisatva. I made a mental note to make a return visit, and sped up for the final stretch, arriving home after a total of two hours.
This walk was the single most satisfying experience of my time in London so far.
So, whom did I meet at the center of the Garden? I met my Self.
I had a visitor this morning: my first guest for tea. MomA has two kids at ASL, and is on leave from her faculty post at Dartmouth College. So not only do we have the Hanover, NH scene in common (we lived there for two years 1986-88 while Hubster got his MBA, and our Son was born there, too) but MomA randomly mentioned her friend Elizabeth G, who is a Wellesley College classmate of mine. MomA had plans for a book club lunch, so when she left, I procured the groceries. After they were all put away, the Regent's Park homing beacon pulled me out of the door and into the sunshine.
The neighborhood was full of families walking to Yom Kippur services at the four local synagogues. Moms and nannies were manuvering push-chairs with uniformed pre-schoolers home for their lunches and naps. Almost every dog in NW8 was out for air. The sun, although low in the sky at the noon hour due to this northern latitude, had managed to warm the air into the upper 60's F. The weather was truly a gift. I mean to re-wrap it and take it off the shelf again in the gray days of winter.
For the past seven weeks I have been trying to get Hubster and TeenE to walk with me to Queen Mary's Rose Garden at the center of Regent's Park. They always seem underwhelmed at the prospect, so we never got there. Today, I struck out on my own. I had a strong sense of anticipation, as if I were going out on purpose to meet someone on a planned rendezvous. Whom would I meet on this walk? There is always someone interesting to watch, or a dog to admire, or someone to say hi to on my walks when I am mindful to notice these things. I decided to walk with open eyes, mind, and heart. I took a different route than usual to the park, following my intuition, and thinking... whom will I meet today? Somebody important, or famous, or maybe a new friend? I couldn't wait to find out.
By now I know the quickest route to the Inner Circle of Regent's Park. I walked past the athletic fields where TeenE sometimes has her gym class. The grass was being mown, and I remembered all those fall days when we used to drive Son and his buddies in the red minivan to different towns to play soccer in the "travelling league".
I passed over the bridge that crosses the waterfowl lagoon. Colorful birds, some with orange beaks, some ducks with teal feathers, and some brown bufflehead ducks floated and splashed in their warm-weather ritual. A squirrel eyed me for quite a while, as if doing the old Jedi mind-trick: "You will feed me nuts now". I ignored him/her. Most of the trees and shrubbery near the lagoon are still green and flowering, but some species are just now becoming edged in scarlet or yellow ochre.
The path to the centre of the inner circle led me right past the cafe. Feathery white Pampas grass ten feet high sheltered the al fresco diners from the passers-by. I passed row upon row of labeled delphinium beds, the most vibrant blue in the plant kingdom. I had been this way before, on the way to see Gigi at the Open Air Theatre. Finally, I passed into Unknown Territory, or at least territory unseen by me for thirty years. My last visit to this garden had been in the fall of 1978.
American gardens have never held rose beds such as these. Each huge bed holds hundreds and hundreds of plants of the same species, and is marked by a sign giving the Name of the Rose. All rose colours are represented, from the deepest reds to the palest pinks, the sunniest yellows to the warmest sunset-peach. Each rose bed is separated from its neighbors by a tidy strip of perfectly-mowed lawn. Some of the rose plants have all lost their leaves, but the tops are still covered with masses of blooms. Some plants have both blooms and ripe rose hips drooping from them like scarlet baroque pearls. All the rose beds form a huge circle. On one side of the circle there is an ornate gilded iron gate. The huge circle is bisected by a straight path flanked with a scores of park benches on each side. Most benches were occupied; others had felt the magic pull of the park as I had. A pre-verbal toddler shreiked with delight and pointed at the giant leaf-sucking machine that disturbed the scene. A gaggle of adolescent girls in their school uniforms appeared, each with a sketch pad tucked under her arm. They were all laughing and sparkling, having been sprung from prison early. Couples sat on the benches, absorbed in each other's secrets and enjoying precious moments connecting. Younger men read philosophy books, families picnicked, and older men debated politics while strolling in clumps of two or three. Every tenth bench held a person stretched out for a snooze.
I followed the sound of water to discover a man-made waterfall cascading over huge chunks of granite into a pond. Giant fuschia shrubs were a riot color. People took pictures of each other among the plants. Willows weeped, larches draped, and the sun danced off the pond. Other minds and hearts were open there. Every race and culture from London's vast array was represented; people living and loving in peace.
I stopped to admire a particularly lovely orange tapestry of petals, named Typhoon. The name made me think of last weekends torrential rains, and I wondered how all those roses had managed to keep so many of their blooms intact. After about an hour and a half, I reluctantly turned toward the exit of the inner circle. All that walking and wondering had made me thirsty, and what better way to slake one's thirst in a rose garden than... an ice cream cone! A single scoop of mint chocolate chip was served up. A young couple, presumably American students, came to the ice cream stand to ask if anyone knew the way to the boathouse. Luckily for them, I did, and gave them the quickest way to get there. I guess they didn't really believe me, because they promptly went over to the map sign nearby, then took off in the opposite direction. My way northward out of the park took me right past them on the waterfowl bridge, where they were awkwardly attempting to take a picture of themselves with the camera pointing right into the sun, which, as it was now nearly 3 pm (15:00) was almost down behind the buildings at the edge of the park. I positioned them facing the other way and got a good shot of the two of them with their ice cream cone (blackcurrent cheesecake flavour). As we headed on our way off the bridge, the young man said to me "So, did you do a lot of boating back in the day?" I was aghast! "Back in the day??? What, do you think I'm old?" He laughed and tried to save himself. "I mean, back in the 1950's, or 60's or whenever?" "You mean in the LATE '70's, which was only thirty years ago, because I'm ONLY 50 years old?" The girl elbowed him to shut him up, but it was too late. The damage had been done. "No, I didn't do a lot of boating when I was here in college, I just know where the boats are because I want to take my daughter and her friends there some day" . The girl tried to save the situation. "Well, where are you going now?" I gestured off to the north. "I'm going to St. John's Wood, where I live. It is the neighborhood right next to that side of the park." She smiled. "We live on Abbey Road, which we think is cool, because we're OLD". They laughed and we parted ways.
My feet were ready for a rest by this point, but I dragged on, feeling my age. I took yet another back street toward home, and managed to pass a building flying the Tibetan flag. It was Tibet House. Not exactly an embassy, as Tibet is no longer its own country, but a cultural centre for the Tibetan community of London. Around the corner, but still a part of the same building, was the Oriental Medicine Center of London. I poked my head in and picked up a few brochures. Lots of acupuncturists, oriental herbal medicine, energy healers of every description, meditation facilitators, chi gung practitioners, you name it. If it is Oriental, and a healing modality, it was there, along with an invitation to hear the Dalai Lama speak this weekend in Basel, Switzerland, on the 37 paths of the Boddhisatva. I made a mental note to make a return visit, and sped up for the final stretch, arriving home after a total of two hours.
This walk was the single most satisfying experience of my time in London so far.
So, whom did I meet at the center of the Garden? I met my Self.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
ASL Community Service Day--Sunday Oct. 5th
It was a dark and stormy morning. A door slammed. The maid screamed. Suddenly, a shot rang out. Meanwhile, on the horizon, a pirate ship appeared...
Oops, apologies to both Bulwer-Lytton AND "Snoopy" of Peanuts fame, who is more directly quoted above.
It was a dark and stormy morning, however. A low-pressure system swirled in a circular pattern over the midsection of England. As Hubster and TeenE lay snug in their beds, BlogMama heeded the call of the alarm and pried herself out from under the duvet at 7:30 am.
This was because I had volunteered to be a team co-leader for the American School in London's semi-annual Community Service Day. The site I had chosen to lead a team of helpful volunteers reflects two of my passions, hospice care, and rummage sales. Yes, both are represented in one spot by the St. John's Hospice Charity Shop, situated on the "Hi" Street. This also had the added bonus of being a site we could walk to, which came in handy as our Jubilee Underground line was closed for "scheduled maintainance" and many other groups had to find other ways to get to their service sites.
This year, 341 people from the school volunteered. There were 61 high school students, many family groups, staff and teachers, and individual parents like me. There was a rah-rah kick-off meeting in the school's "Commons" (lunchroom) at 8:30 am, and then we all straggled out in the rain.
I was assigned a high school student as a co-leader. Mohammed had been a site leader at the Hospice Shop before, so he knew the manager there and what was expected of the team.
Our team had the two co-leaders, a family of four, a teacher, another high school student, and the shop manager's eleven year old son.
It was too rainy to get any planting of the back garden done, so we fanned out through the tiny shop, dusted and polished the bric-a-brac to within an inch of its life, color-coordinated the outfits, reorganized the displays, put price tags on shoes, etc. The manager had arranged hot chocolate from Harry Morgan's restaurant across the street, and a big box of Crispy Creme donuts, which they sell in the local mini-mart. After the sugar buzz wore off we were just about done anyway, so we left after about two hours so the shop could open at it usual Sunday noon time.
I told the manager that I will be back for a regular shift at the shop. That is how I will get my "rummage sale" fix while I am absent from the one at Plymouth Church in Belmont, Mass. Note to church rummagers: I tried to get the team to put on all the silly hats in the shop, but I am sad to say I failed to motivated them properly. Perhaps the presence of a high school photographer made them more self-conscious than usual..
Oops, apologies to both Bulwer-Lytton AND "Snoopy" of Peanuts fame, who is more directly quoted above.
It was a dark and stormy morning, however. A low-pressure system swirled in a circular pattern over the midsection of England. As Hubster and TeenE lay snug in their beds, BlogMama heeded the call of the alarm and pried herself out from under the duvet at 7:30 am.
This was because I had volunteered to be a team co-leader for the American School in London's semi-annual Community Service Day. The site I had chosen to lead a team of helpful volunteers reflects two of my passions, hospice care, and rummage sales. Yes, both are represented in one spot by the St. John's Hospice Charity Shop, situated on the "Hi" Street. This also had the added bonus of being a site we could walk to, which came in handy as our Jubilee Underground line was closed for "scheduled maintainance" and many other groups had to find other ways to get to their service sites.
This year, 341 people from the school volunteered. There were 61 high school students, many family groups, staff and teachers, and individual parents like me. There was a rah-rah kick-off meeting in the school's "Commons" (lunchroom) at 8:30 am, and then we all straggled out in the rain.
I was assigned a high school student as a co-leader. Mohammed had been a site leader at the Hospice Shop before, so he knew the manager there and what was expected of the team.
Our team had the two co-leaders, a family of four, a teacher, another high school student, and the shop manager's eleven year old son.
It was too rainy to get any planting of the back garden done, so we fanned out through the tiny shop, dusted and polished the bric-a-brac to within an inch of its life, color-coordinated the outfits, reorganized the displays, put price tags on shoes, etc. The manager had arranged hot chocolate from Harry Morgan's restaurant across the street, and a big box of Crispy Creme donuts, which they sell in the local mini-mart. After the sugar buzz wore off we were just about done anyway, so we left after about two hours so the shop could open at it usual Sunday noon time.
I told the manager that I will be back for a regular shift at the shop. That is how I will get my "rummage sale" fix while I am absent from the one at Plymouth Church in Belmont, Mass. Note to church rummagers: I tried to get the team to put on all the silly hats in the shop, but I am sad to say I failed to motivated them properly. Perhaps the presence of a high school photographer made them more self-conscious than usual..
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Mushroom Trip X 2, or you say tomato, I say mushroom
Yes, it was a Magical Mystery Tour through the streets of NW8 today in search of ... mushrooms.
The planned menu item of Coq au Vin required a quantity of mushrooms. Accordingly, I set out for Panzer's Delicatessan to score some of the white variety. They have a lovely selection of produce arrayed outside the shop. The white mushrooms were loose in a bin, with no price nearby, and no implement other than one's own hand with which to select them. I asked the clerk if I should select them myself, or have him help me. He joked "call the police if anybody tries to stop you". I chose a little brown paper sack in which to place them. They were duly weighed and I owed 2 pounds 49 (for two handfuls of mushrooms!) I'm still a little iffy with the change denominations, so it took some effort to count out the change I received back. After pocketing the change, I grabbed the little brown sack and made my way home.
A few hours later, Hubster said "what's in this bag?" He looked, and low and behold, there were several tomatoes in the bag.
I went back out again, this time to Tesco, the little chain grocery store on the "Hi Street".
My choice of shrink-wrapped white button mushrooms were 77 pence for the regular, or 88 pence for the organic. It was almost exactly the same amount of mushrooms as the cute little brown bag of loose ones from Panzers.
We did eventually enjoy the Coq au Vin, including the delicious ragout of mushrooms cooked in red wine.
The planned menu item of Coq au Vin required a quantity of mushrooms. Accordingly, I set out for Panzer's Delicatessan to score some of the white variety. They have a lovely selection of produce arrayed outside the shop. The white mushrooms were loose in a bin, with no price nearby, and no implement other than one's own hand with which to select them. I asked the clerk if I should select them myself, or have him help me. He joked "call the police if anybody tries to stop you". I chose a little brown paper sack in which to place them. They were duly weighed and I owed 2 pounds 49 (for two handfuls of mushrooms!) I'm still a little iffy with the change denominations, so it took some effort to count out the change I received back. After pocketing the change, I grabbed the little brown sack and made my way home.
A few hours later, Hubster said "what's in this bag?" He looked, and low and behold, there were several tomatoes in the bag.
I went back out again, this time to Tesco, the little chain grocery store on the "Hi Street".
My choice of shrink-wrapped white button mushrooms were 77 pence for the regular, or 88 pence for the organic. It was almost exactly the same amount of mushrooms as the cute little brown bag of loose ones from Panzers.
We did eventually enjoy the Coq au Vin, including the delicious ragout of mushrooms cooked in red wine.
HOT FLASHBACK!! Sewing machine redux
Before we left Boston, Barbara B of the Knittin' Kittens encouraged me to pack my sewing machine so I could be crafty here in London. We did just that.
I unpacked it today, and was reminded of the following incident that occurred only 18 months ago. Why the machine deserved to be transported over here after the way it behaved in Belmont is open for discussion.
I republish this classic blog entry for the edification of my newest readers.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday, April 02, 2007
WOMAN MAULED IN VICIOUS SEWING MACHINE ATTACK !!
At approximately 8 pm last night Eastern standard time, a Massachusetts woman was injured in what appears to be a vicious, unprovoked attack by her sewing machine. The woman, whose name was not immediately available, was placidly sewing on some costumes for a children's school musical production when her sewing apparatus attacked with no warning.
With scorpion-like swiftness, the machine reached out and pierced the innocent woman's left index finger with it's needle-sharp needle. The sound of snapping metal reverberated throughout the room and a searing pain overtook her. She immediately stood up and examined the finger, from which part of the needle was seen protruding, having gone in through the top of the fingernail and partially out the fingertip. The only other evidence of this random impalement was a single drop of blood oozing from the fingernail. She loudly called upstairs, alerting her family to the fact that she was in need of immediate medical attention. Her devoted husband drove her to the nearest hospital, using the exact route they had rehearsed only thirteen years earlier in readiness for the birth of their second child at that very hospital. In the waiting room, she ran into xxxxxxxx, who owns the local ice cream emporium and who remembers her from 19 years ago when, during the hottest summer on record, she used to wheel her first-born in his stroller up to the corner for ice cream and air-conditioning. Xxxxxxx was in the emergency room with his father, who had been in the industrial sewing machine business, and who insisted on finding out what brand and type of machine had gone so horribly wrong. Chatting with them was a good antidote to the searing pain now throbbing through the woman's hand. In between shouting her answers at the elderly partially-deaf man, they watched "Dancing with the Stars" and assessed their chances of being seen any time in the near future.
The woman soon received superior care at the hospital and was home in under three hours from the time of the accident. She received before-and-after x-rays, a local anesthetic injection into the affected finger, extraction of most of the needle, potent pain management medications, and a band-aid. She also had to endure the radiologist's story of how he had nailed two of his fingers together with a nail gun. She was prescribed potent painkillers, which she advised the medical professional would keep her up all night cleaning the house. No, no, they said. This will make you sleepy AND kill the pain, unlike a sedative. Whilst waiting for the taxi that would take her home, she decided she really did need to lessen the pain, as the local anesthetic began to wear off. Arriving home at 10:45 pm, she began to putter around the house, doing dishes, tidying up, and writing this memoir of the occasion while under the influence of the "narcotics", which had absolutely NO sleep-inducing effect.
Due to the fact that a fragment of metal remains in her fingertip, even though she is actually able to use it without pain to type this report, she will undergo medical follow-up by the hand specialist in a day or two, with an in-patient surgical procedure to remove the remaining fragment of steel in the days to follow.
The sewing machine could not be reached for comment. It may be quarantined and/or destroyed.
I unpacked it today, and was reminded of the following incident that occurred only 18 months ago. Why the machine deserved to be transported over here after the way it behaved in Belmont is open for discussion.
I republish this classic blog entry for the edification of my newest readers.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday, April 02, 2007
WOMAN MAULED IN VICIOUS SEWING MACHINE ATTACK !!
At approximately 8 pm last night Eastern standard time, a Massachusetts woman was injured in what appears to be a vicious, unprovoked attack by her sewing machine. The woman, whose name was not immediately available, was placidly sewing on some costumes for a children's school musical production when her sewing apparatus attacked with no warning.
With scorpion-like swiftness, the machine reached out and pierced the innocent woman's left index finger with it's needle-sharp needle. The sound of snapping metal reverberated throughout the room and a searing pain overtook her. She immediately stood up and examined the finger, from which part of the needle was seen protruding, having gone in through the top of the fingernail and partially out the fingertip. The only other evidence of this random impalement was a single drop of blood oozing from the fingernail. She loudly called upstairs, alerting her family to the fact that she was in need of immediate medical attention. Her devoted husband drove her to the nearest hospital, using the exact route they had rehearsed only thirteen years earlier in readiness for the birth of their second child at that very hospital. In the waiting room, she ran into xxxxxxxx, who owns the local ice cream emporium and who remembers her from 19 years ago when, during the hottest summer on record, she used to wheel her first-born in his stroller up to the corner for ice cream and air-conditioning. Xxxxxxx was in the emergency room with his father, who had been in the industrial sewing machine business, and who insisted on finding out what brand and type of machine had gone so horribly wrong. Chatting with them was a good antidote to the searing pain now throbbing through the woman's hand. In between shouting her answers at the elderly partially-deaf man, they watched "Dancing with the Stars" and assessed their chances of being seen any time in the near future.
The woman soon received superior care at the hospital and was home in under three hours from the time of the accident. She received before-and-after x-rays, a local anesthetic injection into the affected finger, extraction of most of the needle, potent pain management medications, and a band-aid. She also had to endure the radiologist's story of how he had nailed two of his fingers together with a nail gun. She was prescribed potent painkillers, which she advised the medical professional would keep her up all night cleaning the house. No, no, they said. This will make you sleepy AND kill the pain, unlike a sedative. Whilst waiting for the taxi that would take her home, she decided she really did need to lessen the pain, as the local anesthetic began to wear off. Arriving home at 10:45 pm, she began to putter around the house, doing dishes, tidying up, and writing this memoir of the occasion while under the influence of the "narcotics", which had absolutely NO sleep-inducing effect.
Due to the fact that a fragment of metal remains in her fingertip, even though she is actually able to use it without pain to type this report, she will undergo medical follow-up by the hand specialist in a day or two, with an in-patient surgical procedure to remove the remaining fragment of steel in the days to follow.
The sewing machine could not be reached for comment. It may be quarantined and/or destroyed.
HOT FLASH!! Travel to US booked
Hello Dear Readers
It's official! I will be gracing the skies over the Atlantic during my travel to and from the US to finalise my visa situation.
I shall arrive in Boston on Monday, October 20th, stay there for a few days, visit family, submit my electronic application and get fingerprints done, take the Lucky Star bus from Boston's Chinatown to NY's Chinatown, stay in NY while the lawyer there gets the marriage certificate and my passport to the British Embassy there, wait for the the visa to be issued (usually takes 1-2 days but no guarantee), return to Boston with Visa in hand, and fly out from there on Tuesday, Oct. 28th.
At that point, it should be all over but the shouting.
It's official! I will be gracing the skies over the Atlantic during my travel to and from the US to finalise my visa situation.
I shall arrive in Boston on Monday, October 20th, stay there for a few days, visit family, submit my electronic application and get fingerprints done, take the Lucky Star bus from Boston's Chinatown to NY's Chinatown, stay in NY while the lawyer there gets the marriage certificate and my passport to the British Embassy there, wait for the the visa to be issued (usually takes 1-2 days but no guarantee), return to Boston with Visa in hand, and fly out from there on Tuesday, Oct. 28th.
At that point, it should be all over but the shouting.
Friday, October 3, 2008
keeping a low profile
Hello Dear Blog Readers
There is not much new to report from the Mean Streets of NW8, except of course that Hubster arrived back from NYC this morning, with visa firmly attached to his passport. He starts work at an international financial consulting firm on Monday, 6 Oct. I shall play the "Hallelujah Chorus" during breakfast as a send-off.
He arrived home still suffering from the head-cold virus with which he left and promptly went to bed to sleep off jet lag.
Meanwhile, the virus that I thought I had beaten seemed to linger on. I attempted a brisk workout at The Gym, but was daunted by the sight of the rowing machine. I avoided it until the end of my work-out, and fortunately/unfortunately, it was occupied by a brawny male athlete. I was relieved that I would not have to compete with the electronic pace boat. I came back to A Flat on Abbey Road and crashed on the sofa until the bedroom was vacated, then slept until after dinner-time. I am hoping that the sore-throaty thing doesn't last too much longer.
We are looking forward to Son's visit on the 12th of October, and TeenE's 15th birthday on Tuesday 7 Oct. We will probably save the celebration until after her brother's arrival.
I am making plans for a visit to NYC and/or Belmont for the issuance of my own visa.
Cheers!
There is not much new to report from the Mean Streets of NW8, except of course that Hubster arrived back from NYC this morning, with visa firmly attached to his passport. He starts work at an international financial consulting firm on Monday, 6 Oct. I shall play the "Hallelujah Chorus" during breakfast as a send-off.
He arrived home still suffering from the head-cold virus with which he left and promptly went to bed to sleep off jet lag.
Meanwhile, the virus that I thought I had beaten seemed to linger on. I attempted a brisk workout at The Gym, but was daunted by the sight of the rowing machine. I avoided it until the end of my work-out, and fortunately/unfortunately, it was occupied by a brawny male athlete. I was relieved that I would not have to compete with the electronic pace boat. I came back to A Flat on Abbey Road and crashed on the sofa until the bedroom was vacated, then slept until after dinner-time. I am hoping that the sore-throaty thing doesn't last too much longer.
We are looking forward to Son's visit on the 12th of October, and TeenE's 15th birthday on Tuesday 7 Oct. We will probably save the celebration until after her brother's arrival.
I am making plans for a visit to NYC and/or Belmont for the issuance of my own visa.
Cheers!
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Kilo Conversion Conundrum
A miraculous healing of the tummy occured overnight, and I dressed for the gym this morning after doing my domestic goddess rites.
It was quite breezy and about 50 degrees F as I made my way to the gym at Lord's Cricket Ground. The curly brown chestnut leaves that have already fallen swirled around in the gusts of wind. The rest of the trees are still in full leaf, and most gardens are still blooming behind the high brick walls, with neat displays of impatience, fuschia, anemones, passionflower vines, and geranium competing with each other in a restrained, tidy, well-pruned way. Walking the "back way" down Circus Road presents a quieter, more residential feel than the Grove End Road way. Plus, it plants me right at the top of Sir You-Know-Who's street, which really IS on the way to the North Gate of Lords Cricket Ground. I keep remembering the dream I had a few months before we came over of hovering around the top of Sir YKW's kitchen on Cavendish Ave., watching his daughters cook.
Once at the gym, I filled out all the requisite paperwork for membership and hit the machines. A quick warm-up on the cross-trainer was followed by a series of crunches (woefully inadequate due to disuse) I will have to work back up to banging out 160 crunches again.
The weight/resistance machines are all lined up in a row, so I just started with the first one and worked my way down. I hadn't really been to the gym except once since March, when we heard about Hubster's job loss and my dad's stroke. Then all summer, I was busy cleaning, packing and repairing the house. It felt good to be kickin' A again. As I moved from machine to machine, I would pop the weight-selection pin into the numbered hole that I remembered from my SuperFitness days. Doing 12 reps times 3 with rests in between felt really good, if not just a little challenging.
Finally I got to a machine that I could not remember how to use. I had to get the trainer to come over and demonstrate the correct set-up. "How many kilos do you want?" he asked. Kilos? KILOS? I thought they were pounds, not kilos! So the leg press where I pounded out what I thought was 100 pounds was really 100 kilos, or rougly 220 pounds. I had more than doubled my muscle output on ALL of the machines. I fear that I will pay for this tomorrow. I guess I have forfeited the right to tease a certain doctor about being the Marquis of Kilo Mismeasurement. I shall annoint myself the Queen of Conversion Mismanagement.
I finished up with a cardio workout. My new favorite way to do this is the Concept2 rowing machine. You can set the digital display for however many meters you want (e.g. 2000), and it will keep track of your time, distance, and rate. You can also set it to display a little "pace boat" which will keep you motivated and allow you to save something for the final 150 meters. I asked the trainer to come over and beat the Roman slavedriver's drum to keep me moving for the last 500. Unfortunately, we started chatting, which has the effect of slowing one down. I requested that he put on some Led Zeppelin and "turn it up to eleven", but the TV was showing UK's version of survivor instead, with hungry, scantily-clad Brits whining about each other and the weather (what else is new?) I was able to shave 4.4 seconds off my previous attempt at 2,000 meters, and look forward to posting my continuing results on the Concept2 website. I now officially issue a challenge to any blog readers with access to a Concept2 machine to a row-off.
I am now fit and ready to tackle the mean streets of NW8!
It was quite breezy and about 50 degrees F as I made my way to the gym at Lord's Cricket Ground. The curly brown chestnut leaves that have already fallen swirled around in the gusts of wind. The rest of the trees are still in full leaf, and most gardens are still blooming behind the high brick walls, with neat displays of impatience, fuschia, anemones, passionflower vines, and geranium competing with each other in a restrained, tidy, well-pruned way. Walking the "back way" down Circus Road presents a quieter, more residential feel than the Grove End Road way. Plus, it plants me right at the top of Sir You-Know-Who's street, which really IS on the way to the North Gate of Lords Cricket Ground. I keep remembering the dream I had a few months before we came over of hovering around the top of Sir YKW's kitchen on Cavendish Ave., watching his daughters cook.
Once at the gym, I filled out all the requisite paperwork for membership and hit the machines. A quick warm-up on the cross-trainer was followed by a series of crunches (woefully inadequate due to disuse) I will have to work back up to banging out 160 crunches again.
The weight/resistance machines are all lined up in a row, so I just started with the first one and worked my way down. I hadn't really been to the gym except once since March, when we heard about Hubster's job loss and my dad's stroke. Then all summer, I was busy cleaning, packing and repairing the house. It felt good to be kickin' A again. As I moved from machine to machine, I would pop the weight-selection pin into the numbered hole that I remembered from my SuperFitness days. Doing 12 reps times 3 with rests in between felt really good, if not just a little challenging.
Finally I got to a machine that I could not remember how to use. I had to get the trainer to come over and demonstrate the correct set-up. "How many kilos do you want?" he asked. Kilos? KILOS? I thought they were pounds, not kilos! So the leg press where I pounded out what I thought was 100 pounds was really 100 kilos, or rougly 220 pounds. I had more than doubled my muscle output on ALL of the machines. I fear that I will pay for this tomorrow. I guess I have forfeited the right to tease a certain doctor about being the Marquis of Kilo Mismeasurement. I shall annoint myself the Queen of Conversion Mismanagement.
I finished up with a cardio workout. My new favorite way to do this is the Concept2 rowing machine. You can set the digital display for however many meters you want (e.g. 2000), and it will keep track of your time, distance, and rate. You can also set it to display a little "pace boat" which will keep you motivated and allow you to save something for the final 150 meters. I asked the trainer to come over and beat the Roman slavedriver's drum to keep me moving for the last 500. Unfortunately, we started chatting, which has the effect of slowing one down. I requested that he put on some Led Zeppelin and "turn it up to eleven", but the TV was showing UK's version of survivor instead, with hungry, scantily-clad Brits whining about each other and the weather (what else is new?) I was able to shave 4.4 seconds off my previous attempt at 2,000 meters, and look forward to posting my continuing results on the Concept2 website. I now officially issue a challenge to any blog readers with access to a Concept2 machine to a row-off.
I am now fit and ready to tackle the mean streets of NW8!
Dancing in the Streets!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Hello Dear Readers
If you go to the Abbey Road WebCam today, (http://www.abbeyroad.co.uk/, click on "webcam) you may just see me Dancing in the Streets!!
This is because Hubster HAS BEEN ISSUED HIS VISA. This is will enable him/us to work. No more house-hubstering for hubster!
Hip-Hop Hooray!!
Also, there was a reported Hubster-sighting by NYC-Sister yesterday afternoon. You'll remember her as the one who called me at the crack-of-dawn on my birthday to remind me that I was 50.
If you go to the Abbey Road WebCam today, (http://www.abbeyroad.co.uk/, click on "webcam) you may just see me Dancing in the Streets!!
This is because Hubster HAS BEEN ISSUED HIS VISA. This is will enable him/us to work. No more house-hubstering for hubster!
Hip-Hop Hooray!!
Also, there was a reported Hubster-sighting by NYC-Sister yesterday afternoon. You'll remember her as the one who called me at the crack-of-dawn on my birthday to remind me that I was 50.
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