Monday morning held the promise of participating in an activity that might not appeal to everyone. With my love of ancient history, walking on the beach, and unusual adventures, the invitation to go “mudlarking” on the Thames was too intriguing to pass up. I’ve always wanted to join in on an archeological dig, and this was a good opportunity to practice what I call “archeology by intuition”, asking myself where I should look, dig, or scavenge based on my sixth sense of where things would be found.
Mudlarking is essentially scavenging or “beachcombing” along the banks of the Thames at low tide. I did not realize how extreme the tides were in the river. One can see from the bridges and embankments that the river’s flow sometimes slows down or stops altogether, but I never realized that large swatches of riverbank become exposed during the extreme low tides.
My mudlarking invitation was issued by StitcherJane, at whose home we meet on Thursdays for Stitchery Group. She has an avid interest in historical London, and informed us that we would find bits of artifacts from hundreds of years ago. We rendezvoused at Cannon Street station so that we would walk down the hill on Cousin’s Lane and wind up at the Thames between Southwark Bridge and London Bridge. There were some very slimy steps leading down to what she referred to as the “foreshore”.
I had been duly warned to dress warmly, as it can be quite windy at the level of the river. Indeed, when I woke up on Monday morning, it was overcast and 39 degrees F. I made sure I was wearing layers and a waterproof jacket for the inevitable rain. I had also donned my brand-new Wellies, which are waterproof boots. StitcherJane had also recommended bringing germ-proof latex gloves. In addition to those, my backpack also contained: plastic bags for storing the “haul”, germicidal hand-gel, a towel, in case anyone got wet, a warm wool hat, warm gloves to wear underneath the industrial-strength latex cleaning gloves, my camera, keys, and Oyster (travel) card.
Why all the Universal precautions, you may ask? StitcherJane had warned me that not only was the river water not necessarily clean, but we might encounter ground or objects which had been contaminated by rat urine. I know that there are rats near the river, having had a run-in with a large one while staying in the Globe View apartments last year, but I never really thought about their urine and the diseases it could spread. Apparantly there was just an unfortunate incident of a woman dying from Weil’s Disease after attempting to free a rat from her bird feeder. I made sure I was wearing old clothes that could be chucked out in case of contamination.
We descended the algae- and mud-slimed steps down from the embankment onto a thirty-foot wide strip of what appeared to be stones. It stretched for about a quarter-mile downstream from our entry point. It was immediately clear that the hat and gloves would be necessary to combat the cold wind down at river level.
I started picking my way along the “beach”. On closer inspection, many of the brown “stones” that littered the beach were actually animals’ bones. We were at the site of an abattoir, a slaughterhouse that had been in use for centuries. When they were done slaughtering the animals, they had just chucked the bones and other waste into the river. The area has not been used for that purpose for decades, so it was unbelievable to me that waste from that era had not been completely washed away. I could identify jawbones, ribs, bits of broken bone from both cattle and sheep.
The next item I recognized were chunks of flint in all shapes and sizes. Flint is the stone used by ancient people for sharp objects such as arrowheads, knives, and as a fire-starter stone. I had never seen in in situ in such a large quantity before. There were all kinds of twisted blobby shapes looking almost like black glass, with a chalky covering on them. Many of them were tiny bits, but there were large heavy ones with holes in them, holes caused by the softer chalk being worn away by the elements.
There were also a lot of fist-sized soft white lumps, which were actually chalk.
StitcherJane had told us that we might find bits of pottery from centuries ago, so I concentrated on finding these smaller pieces. I found that by bending a little at the waist, it was quite easy to spot these bits of pottery. Most were an inch or two in diameter, and clearly had been part of plates, bowls, mugs and pots. The easiest to spot were the blue-and-white porcelain transferware, embellished with floral and country motifs. Underneath the mud and algae, these showed an even crackled pattern that showed their age to be between a hundred and two hundred years old. There were also less pretty, but probably more valuable bits of “slipware”, hand-thrown earthenware with a slip-coat of thin mud applied to it. These were in earthenware colors, and some had been glazed with darker glaze. These were from the seventeenth century and beyond. Two pieces of earthenware with dark green glaze were later identified as being of Tudor origin by StitcherJane.
Also easy to spot were tiny white tubes about an inch or so in length. I was told these were pipe stems that dated back to when the New World crop of tobacco arrived in the British Isles. They were lying amongst the bones and stones in a very casual way, as if they had just been spat there by a smoking sailor.
Further picking amongst the rubble showed a couple of pieces of fluted limestone, which had probably ornamented a building, another piece of limestone carved “18xx” in inch-high letters, an iron ring, and broken bricks with part of the maker’s name stamped into them. Our fearless leader informed us that some of what we were finding showed evidence of charing. Whenever there was a fire, such as the “Great Fire” of 1666, the remaining rubble was just shoveled down to the edge of the river and tipped in. She then mentioned that all of the terra-cotta slightly-curved broken slabs containing one hole were actually Roman roof tiles. That’s right, Roman Roof Tiles. Tiles from 46 AD and up. That’s 46 AD, folks. Broken bits of Roman roof tiles just laying there today on the shores of the Thames. They have so many of them at the Museum of London that they don’t even care about those that are still there. I presume that new loads of antique rubbish get revealed with each low tide, but I will have to go back to confirm this. I was absolutely enchanted by the tiles. I am particularly interested in the era that includes the arrival of the Roman conquerors in England, and the clash of cultures and religious beliefs that must have occurred at the time. Holding the roof tiles in my gloved hands really gave me a thrill. I kept pouncing on the best ones and loading them into a flimsy plastic bag. Finally, my bags of loot filled the backpack and I knew I wouldn’t be able to carry any more.
How are regular people allowed to take this stuff, you may ask. Stitcher Jane informed me that one only needs to get a Mudlarking permit if one is going to either use a metal detector, or dig down more than 3 inches. I was just using a plastic picnic knife to turn over one object at a time, and wasn’t really digging at all. The knife was being used just to protect me from anything sharp that I might encounter, like a needle or cut glass. I didn’t run into anything of that sort at all.
We slowly picked our way down the “beach” of stones, bones, china, and roof tiles. Most of the ladies were concentrating their efforts down near the edge of the water, but I figured that the oldest items would be up closest to the embankment and near the steps, which would have been closest to the edges of the old Roman settlement. In the 19th or 20th century the Cannon Street railroad bridge had it’s foundation laid there, which probably stirred up several layers of previous cultures.
Further down we encountered a gush of fresh water coming out of a pipe which stretched 12 feet high up the embankment. It looked like pretty clean water, not like water from a sewer pipe or storm drain would. I “tuned in” with my super-powers, and got two bits of information. The first was “Minerva”, which told me that it probably was a spring used by the Romans (and had probably been a pagan spring before that). The second bit was that the water was the “Walbrook”, a small stream that is now underground (brook from the Roman Wall) whose source is near a church called St. Stephen, Walbrook. I think that church was an early Sir Christopher Wren practice run-up for St. Paul’s which is quite nearby. I’ll have to check in my books.
We noticed that the area around the pipe outlet was discolored a pale tan. All of the bricks, tiles and bones looked like they had mineral deposits on them. The water, although completely clear, had a faint smell of either sulphur or some other natural substance dissolved within it. Again, more research is needed. We were indeed directly downhill from the street on which St. Stephen, Walbrook church is located, so I’ll stick with that idea as the source of the water.
Around noon we were too tired and cold to continue, so we all tromped back up the slimy steps with our loot, de-gloved, and headed back to the Cannon Street Underground station. On the way up the hill, we noticed that signs on some of the buildings indicated the ancient homes of some of the guilds that would have sprung up near the slaughterhouse: The tanner's guild, the dyer's guild, and the chandler's guild (making candles from tallow, which is animal fat).
Once I got the loot home, I rinsed it in scalding hot water and then soaked it for hours in a strong bleach solution. It was then left on a rack to air-dry for several days. But what is it for? You may be asking. A large chunk of limestone and cement from the foundations of a building (bigger than a brick, smaller than a breadbox) will be our new doorstop for the French door in the reception room. The Roman roof tiles will make fine paperweight/pen stands and might be given as gifts to those who will appreciate them. The porcelain bits and pipe stems will make some nifty dada-ist “found art” installations and murals. Of course, anything not used otherwise will be used as ballast for the flat in case of a great flood or tsunami.
I can’t remember the last time I had so much free fun. I'm looking forward to the next conveniently-timed fair weather low tide.
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.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Little Venice Tour
Last Sunday, already a full week ago, I headed out for a guided walking tour of the Little Venice area. This is a neighborhood contiguous with Maida Vale (postcode W9), just on the other side of St. John’s Wood, that we call home. The starting point for the walk was the Warwick Avenue Underground stop, about fifteen minutes from A Flat on Abbey Road.
A group of about twelve people had gathered for the guided tour, which took us into another one of the high-rent districts in north west London. The area had originally been owned by the Bishop of London. It is full of Georgian and Regency white stucco townhomes, previously occupied by the mistresses of both wealthy men of the City and higher-ups in the Church of England hierarchy. Now the neighborhood is occupied by wealthy professional bankers, lawyers, and several prominent members of the entertainment industry.
The defining feature of Little Venice is a waterway that connects the Grand Union canal to the Regent’s Canal. The canal itself is lined with canal boats, in which Londoners of all income levels reside. The guide had us give the “Royal Wave” to Dennis of Little Venice, who lives aboard his canal boat year-round. He is an older gentleman who used to serve as an entertainment director aboard a large cruise ship, and is now retired. Apparently he looks after the garden plantings that line his particular area of the canal. We were treated to a returned “royal wave” by Dennis, who was watching for us out of one of his windows. His boat had a "gondola" (i.e. converted canoe) decorating the roof, and was also be-decked in potted flowering plants.
Much of the area also has “villas” in an Italianate architectural style, complete with “campanile” –styled faux bell towers. These single-family homes are either multi-multi-million pound residences for the very very rich, or have been carved up into a number of individual flats for the plain old very rich.
Our informative walk was punctuated by witty commentary by our guide, including “mind the slippery bits” when we were walking on wet leaves in mud, and “mind the crap” when we were on pavement that had been “fouled” by dogs.
The weather was in the high forties with a fine mist falling for part of the walk. I discovered that removing my glasses, which are mostly for close-work anyway, allowed me to enjoy the experience without having to wipe them incessantly.
I returned to A Flat on Abbey Road after a good two hours’ brisk walk. I would estimate that we covered between three and four miles, much of it along or near the canal, and all of it very enjoyable. The jaunt was capped off by a cup of tea.
A group of about twelve people had gathered for the guided tour, which took us into another one of the high-rent districts in north west London. The area had originally been owned by the Bishop of London. It is full of Georgian and Regency white stucco townhomes, previously occupied by the mistresses of both wealthy men of the City and higher-ups in the Church of England hierarchy. Now the neighborhood is occupied by wealthy professional bankers, lawyers, and several prominent members of the entertainment industry.
The defining feature of Little Venice is a waterway that connects the Grand Union canal to the Regent’s Canal. The canal itself is lined with canal boats, in which Londoners of all income levels reside. The guide had us give the “Royal Wave” to Dennis of Little Venice, who lives aboard his canal boat year-round. He is an older gentleman who used to serve as an entertainment director aboard a large cruise ship, and is now retired. Apparently he looks after the garden plantings that line his particular area of the canal. We were treated to a returned “royal wave” by Dennis, who was watching for us out of one of his windows. His boat had a "gondola" (i.e. converted canoe) decorating the roof, and was also be-decked in potted flowering plants.
Much of the area also has “villas” in an Italianate architectural style, complete with “campanile” –styled faux bell towers. These single-family homes are either multi-multi-million pound residences for the very very rich, or have been carved up into a number of individual flats for the plain old very rich.
Our informative walk was punctuated by witty commentary by our guide, including “mind the slippery bits” when we were walking on wet leaves in mud, and “mind the crap” when we were on pavement that had been “fouled” by dogs.
The weather was in the high forties with a fine mist falling for part of the walk. I discovered that removing my glasses, which are mostly for close-work anyway, allowed me to enjoy the experience without having to wipe them incessantly.
I returned to A Flat on Abbey Road after a good two hours’ brisk walk. I would estimate that we covered between three and four miles, much of it along or near the canal, and all of it very enjoyable. The jaunt was capped off by a cup of tea.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Movie Review: Ghost Town, Hollywood's version of how easy it is to convince people you've heard from their late loved ones
On Friday October 31 I went alone to a movie. TeenE was up at her friend TeenH's house on Finchley Rd, North of the 02 Center. I brought her there by bus, and decided that since I was not at all jet-lagged, having only been back for one day, that I'd stay up "late" and see a movie in which Hubster probably had no interest.
I figured that "Ghost Town" was probably a good candidate, as it was Halloween, after all. Walking south on Finchley Road I encounter a few little kids being taken around in costume by parents (Americans, presumably). There were a few adults in costume, mostly young ladies in extra-skimpy outfits, such as the two large gals in leggings, tutus, and T-shirts.
Once I got to the cinema at the O2 and purchased my ticket to "Ghost Town", I had quite a long wait for the theatre to open. They were still cleaning Number 6. Various patrons kept going through a door to ask the ticket-taker if they could go in yet. No--he kept sending them back out the door to wait. When Number 6 was finally ready (about five minutes before the film's start time) the manager wouldn't let those who were asking for the first time (those currently at the ticket-taker's stand) in until he had come out and retreived those who had asked every five minutes for a half hour (yours truly).
"Ghost Town", stars British comedian Ricky Gervais (writer of The Office) as misanthropic dentist Bertram Pincus, who goes in for a colonoscopy (with use of general anesthesia). After he is discharged from the hospital, he begins to see people that other people cannot, and these folks want him to help them. In a very funny scene with a doctor played by Kristin Wiig, who doesn't let him get a word in edgewise, he learns he had a reaction to the anesthesia, and his heart stopped for several minutes.
This then, is Hollywood's take on what happens to someone when they've had a near-death experience.
Bertram Pincus is asked by the ghost of a man (Greg Kinnear) whose wife (Tea Leoni) lives in his building to get a message through about the woman's new boyfriend is a gold-digger.
Dr. Pincus does NOT have the desire or the social skills to handle this assignment. When he refuses, the ghost man gives Dr. Pincus' address to ALL the other ghosts in Mid-town Manhatten (including Naked Guy--you apparantly wear as a ghost the outfit you were wearing when you died) and many others, who all show up in his bedroom.
He strikes a deal with Greg Kinnear's character to help ONLY him, so the other ghosts will all go away. Meanwhile, Dr. Pincus develops a crush on Tea Leoni's character, despite her ownership of an enormous Great Dane dog with halitosis.
Hilarity ensues as all the various plot lines get sewn up, and the viewer eventually develops a fondness for poor Dr. Pincus as he is transformed by his work with the ghosts. In fulfilling the requests of the dead to communicate with their loved ones he regains his essential humanity, and (spoiler alert!) gets the girl.
If only life were so easy for those who've had real near-death experiences or other mystical or transcendant experiences. I know quite a few, having co-led a discussion group for the purposes of their spiritual support. Many struggled with being taken seriously by those they know. Even though he initially has trouble convincing Tea Leoni that he really IS talking to her late husband, he eventually wins her over. It seems as if all the other "message from the deceased" recipients
just hear the message and their grief or lives are transformed! Some of the people I know who've had NDE's or mystical experiences of "going to the light" have been transformed into more loving beings, but struggle with the changes in themselves and how to present their new outlook on life and eternity to those they know and love. Some are so transformed by that light that you really just want to be near them so you can catch a few "rays" yourself. Some become emotionally or mentally unhinged and are then no longer able to cope with everyday life. None of the ones I know personally have been welcomed by the scientific or medical communities (with the exception of hospices) or have had a "gets the girl and lives happily-ever-after" ending.
So, as a comedic fiction about what "might" happen in this theoretical situation, this is a funny movie. I'd give it a 3 out of 5. I'd recommend it as light entertainment to anyone. But that's all it is, light entertainment (pun intended).
I figured that "Ghost Town" was probably a good candidate, as it was Halloween, after all. Walking south on Finchley Road I encounter a few little kids being taken around in costume by parents (Americans, presumably). There were a few adults in costume, mostly young ladies in extra-skimpy outfits, such as the two large gals in leggings, tutus, and T-shirts.
Once I got to the cinema at the O2 and purchased my ticket to "Ghost Town", I had quite a long wait for the theatre to open. They were still cleaning Number 6. Various patrons kept going through a door to ask the ticket-taker if they could go in yet. No--he kept sending them back out the door to wait. When Number 6 was finally ready (about five minutes before the film's start time) the manager wouldn't let those who were asking for the first time (those currently at the ticket-taker's stand) in until he had come out and retreived those who had asked every five minutes for a half hour (yours truly).
"Ghost Town", stars British comedian Ricky Gervais (writer of The Office) as misanthropic dentist Bertram Pincus, who goes in for a colonoscopy (with use of general anesthesia). After he is discharged from the hospital, he begins to see people that other people cannot, and these folks want him to help them. In a very funny scene with a doctor played by Kristin Wiig, who doesn't let him get a word in edgewise, he learns he had a reaction to the anesthesia, and his heart stopped for several minutes.
This then, is Hollywood's take on what happens to someone when they've had a near-death experience.
Bertram Pincus is asked by the ghost of a man (Greg Kinnear) whose wife (Tea Leoni) lives in his building to get a message through about the woman's new boyfriend is a gold-digger.
Dr. Pincus does NOT have the desire or the social skills to handle this assignment. When he refuses, the ghost man gives Dr. Pincus' address to ALL the other ghosts in Mid-town Manhatten (including Naked Guy--you apparantly wear as a ghost the outfit you were wearing when you died) and many others, who all show up in his bedroom.
He strikes a deal with Greg Kinnear's character to help ONLY him, so the other ghosts will all go away. Meanwhile, Dr. Pincus develops a crush on Tea Leoni's character, despite her ownership of an enormous Great Dane dog with halitosis.
Hilarity ensues as all the various plot lines get sewn up, and the viewer eventually develops a fondness for poor Dr. Pincus as he is transformed by his work with the ghosts. In fulfilling the requests of the dead to communicate with their loved ones he regains his essential humanity, and (spoiler alert!) gets the girl.
If only life were so easy for those who've had real near-death experiences or other mystical or transcendant experiences. I know quite a few, having co-led a discussion group for the purposes of their spiritual support. Many struggled with being taken seriously by those they know. Even though he initially has trouble convincing Tea Leoni that he really IS talking to her late husband, he eventually wins her over. It seems as if all the other "message from the deceased" recipients
just hear the message and their grief or lives are transformed! Some of the people I know who've had NDE's or mystical experiences of "going to the light" have been transformed into more loving beings, but struggle with the changes in themselves and how to present their new outlook on life and eternity to those they know and love. Some are so transformed by that light that you really just want to be near them so you can catch a few "rays" yourself. Some become emotionally or mentally unhinged and are then no longer able to cope with everyday life. None of the ones I know personally have been welcomed by the scientific or medical communities (with the exception of hospices) or have had a "gets the girl and lives happily-ever-after" ending.
So, as a comedic fiction about what "might" happen in this theoretical situation, this is a funny movie. I'd give it a 3 out of 5. I'd recommend it as light entertainment to anyone. But that's all it is, light entertainment (pun intended).
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Cake redux, knitting, hospice update
Thursday found me waking at 6 am all refreshed, but deciding that getting up at that hour was really unnecessary, so I caught a few more zzzzz's before getting up to go to Stitchery group.
We were back at our usual location at J's on Maida Vale with Cassidy the dog and an unusually large group of stitchers.
I was able to report to them (and you, dear reader) that I had sold a few small items at Tuesday's St. John's Wood Women's Club Member's Marketplace (too much alliteration, but that's what it is). Two beaded wool brooches, the long purple shawl "Harvest Home" in autumnal shades, and I can't remember what else. None of the beaded shawls sold, too bad, but they are available for purchase by the devoted readership!!
Having over-knitted in the past week getting ready for the show, I decided to take it easy and work on the small needlepoint I purchased in NYC while I was there, called "home is where the heart is". I did miss my flat on Abbey Road containing Hubster and Teeny, and all my walks around the neighborhood while I was away from them, and thought that purchase was a good way to keep focused on the goal of returning to them with visa in hand.
After three pleasant hours of Stitchery, I took off on foot for the Home Base store up in West Hampstead near Finchley Road. I had a pleasant walk northward in the rainy mist. This is a kind of precipitation for which it is hard to dress. It's not really raining, so the raincoat is not necessary. The umbrella is useless, as the mist seems to come sideways at you while you are walking. So you just amble around in your hooded jacket, but with the hood up you can't look over your right shoulder properly to check for any buses that might be materializing just as you start to cross the side street. The only solution is to keep the hood down and let the mist gently frizz up your hair as well as spot up your glasses.
Operation Home Base included procuring lots of little light bulbs for various light fixtures in the flat. While there, I also bought a few other householdy-things. The store is a cross between a Home Depot and a store that sells small appliances and home decor items like candles and dried arrangements. I stayed out of the garden shop and avoided all the Xmas decorations. On my walk I had noticed that lots of potted, 4 foot tall evergreens had been placed outside of buildings. Around the pot rims were red cyclamens, as the hard frost has not hit here yet.
I resisted all the cheery pointsettias, and looked in vain for a package of "dishwasher salt" to reduce the lime deposits and general gunkiness in the dishwasher. There was nothing of the sort to be seen.
While at the checkout, I asked the helpful young man if they sold "dishwasher salt". They did, he said, down past the lumber. Did I need a large quantity? I had just figured it came in a box or jar or something. What was a large quantity? No sooner had these words left my lips than a woman approached with a cart ("trolley") FILLED with four BAGS of dishwasher salt. These bags were larger than the large sacks of ice-melting salt that we buy in New England. They must have weighed fifty pounds each. Either this gal does a LOT of dishes, was buying them for some industrial application, or has a water-softener system for the whole house (see Lunch at John Stuart Mill's House posted previously).
As it was nearing 3 pm by this time I set out from Home Base to catch a bus that deposited me right on Circus Road near Sir You-Know-Who's house and the Dangerous Hospital Driveway. I managed to make it the rest of the way home without incident, except for the realization that the annoying dry sensation in my mouth really was an oncoming migraine. I retired to bed with a pill for a short nap, and awoke to make us sweet and sour pork for dinner.
Tomorrow will be Tidy Friday and Baking Day.
Oooh!! Cake Update. Last week I went through the hospital corridors to get to the pharmacy (see migraine pill above) and saw the Famous Fabian, Blogstar. He had been looking for me to say how much he enjoyed the sour cream coffee cake that I had delivered to Reception before I left for the US. I don't think he realized that I had been away from London. He was so effusively enthusiastic about the cake, which he reported that he had NOT shared with Dr. D or anyone else except one other receptionist, that I was inspired to bring around another baked creation. This time, I tried a new recipe introduced to me over the summer by Brother-in-Law Tom, that of Texas Sheet Cake. I added a few extra ingredients and renamed it Mayan Sheet Cake. I kept one round pan for us, and brought the other around to the hospital around 4 pm.
Alas, Fabian had gone home for the night, but the receptionists on duty were only too happy to take it off my hands.
I went back on Monday to collect my pan and saw Fabian. He was disconsolate that he had missed the Mayan-inspired creation. His co-workers had called him at home to tell him about it, and he said he was almost tempted (on a Friday evening) to turn around and come back. It's probably a good thing he didn't, as I hear that the cake was inhaled by the other staff, once again NOT including the ubiquitious doctor. I guess he's not so ubiquitous after all, as he has not been in the right place at the right time for the past two cakes.
If I get my homework done on time, I shall attempt another caking. If not, I'll bring it around on Saturday morning, when I have to go over to the hospital for.... Hospice volunteer training. That's right, you heard it here first. My "CRB" (Criminal Record Check) form has made it through the system and I am in proud possession of an official-looking certificate which states that I do not have a criminal record!! Now I can be enrolled as a hospice volunteer, which is something I planned on doing here since the move was first formulated. The training will be about cultural sensitivity. The book the in-laws just sent us, called "The Anglo Files" by Sarah Lyall, will come in especially handy!
We were back at our usual location at J's on Maida Vale with Cassidy the dog and an unusually large group of stitchers.
I was able to report to them (and you, dear reader) that I had sold a few small items at Tuesday's St. John's Wood Women's Club Member's Marketplace (too much alliteration, but that's what it is). Two beaded wool brooches, the long purple shawl "Harvest Home" in autumnal shades, and I can't remember what else. None of the beaded shawls sold, too bad, but they are available for purchase by the devoted readership!!
Having over-knitted in the past week getting ready for the show, I decided to take it easy and work on the small needlepoint I purchased in NYC while I was there, called "home is where the heart is". I did miss my flat on Abbey Road containing Hubster and Teeny, and all my walks around the neighborhood while I was away from them, and thought that purchase was a good way to keep focused on the goal of returning to them with visa in hand.
After three pleasant hours of Stitchery, I took off on foot for the Home Base store up in West Hampstead near Finchley Road. I had a pleasant walk northward in the rainy mist. This is a kind of precipitation for which it is hard to dress. It's not really raining, so the raincoat is not necessary. The umbrella is useless, as the mist seems to come sideways at you while you are walking. So you just amble around in your hooded jacket, but with the hood up you can't look over your right shoulder properly to check for any buses that might be materializing just as you start to cross the side street. The only solution is to keep the hood down and let the mist gently frizz up your hair as well as spot up your glasses.
Operation Home Base included procuring lots of little light bulbs for various light fixtures in the flat. While there, I also bought a few other householdy-things. The store is a cross between a Home Depot and a store that sells small appliances and home decor items like candles and dried arrangements. I stayed out of the garden shop and avoided all the Xmas decorations. On my walk I had noticed that lots of potted, 4 foot tall evergreens had been placed outside of buildings. Around the pot rims were red cyclamens, as the hard frost has not hit here yet.
I resisted all the cheery pointsettias, and looked in vain for a package of "dishwasher salt" to reduce the lime deposits and general gunkiness in the dishwasher. There was nothing of the sort to be seen.
While at the checkout, I asked the helpful young man if they sold "dishwasher salt". They did, he said, down past the lumber. Did I need a large quantity? I had just figured it came in a box or jar or something. What was a large quantity? No sooner had these words left my lips than a woman approached with a cart ("trolley") FILLED with four BAGS of dishwasher salt. These bags were larger than the large sacks of ice-melting salt that we buy in New England. They must have weighed fifty pounds each. Either this gal does a LOT of dishes, was buying them for some industrial application, or has a water-softener system for the whole house (see Lunch at John Stuart Mill's House posted previously).
As it was nearing 3 pm by this time I set out from Home Base to catch a bus that deposited me right on Circus Road near Sir You-Know-Who's house and the Dangerous Hospital Driveway. I managed to make it the rest of the way home without incident, except for the realization that the annoying dry sensation in my mouth really was an oncoming migraine. I retired to bed with a pill for a short nap, and awoke to make us sweet and sour pork for dinner.
Tomorrow will be Tidy Friday and Baking Day.
Oooh!! Cake Update. Last week I went through the hospital corridors to get to the pharmacy (see migraine pill above) and saw the Famous Fabian, Blogstar. He had been looking for me to say how much he enjoyed the sour cream coffee cake that I had delivered to Reception before I left for the US. I don't think he realized that I had been away from London. He was so effusively enthusiastic about the cake, which he reported that he had NOT shared with Dr. D or anyone else except one other receptionist, that I was inspired to bring around another baked creation. This time, I tried a new recipe introduced to me over the summer by Brother-in-Law Tom, that of Texas Sheet Cake. I added a few extra ingredients and renamed it Mayan Sheet Cake. I kept one round pan for us, and brought the other around to the hospital around 4 pm.
Alas, Fabian had gone home for the night, but the receptionists on duty were only too happy to take it off my hands.
I went back on Monday to collect my pan and saw Fabian. He was disconsolate that he had missed the Mayan-inspired creation. His co-workers had called him at home to tell him about it, and he said he was almost tempted (on a Friday evening) to turn around and come back. It's probably a good thing he didn't, as I hear that the cake was inhaled by the other staff, once again NOT including the ubiquitious doctor. I guess he's not so ubiquitous after all, as he has not been in the right place at the right time for the past two cakes.
If I get my homework done on time, I shall attempt another caking. If not, I'll bring it around on Saturday morning, when I have to go over to the hospital for.... Hospice volunteer training. That's right, you heard it here first. My "CRB" (Criminal Record Check) form has made it through the system and I am in proud possession of an official-looking certificate which states that I do not have a criminal record!! Now I can be enrolled as a hospice volunteer, which is something I planned on doing here since the move was first formulated. The training will be about cultural sensitivity. The book the in-laws just sent us, called "The Anglo Files" by Sarah Lyall, will come in especially handy!
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Sleep, Play, IKEA-fication, and gross gunk
I see it's been almost a week since I last wrote. The post-election-euphoria crash combined, I think, with the crash predicted by the American School psychologist during orientation. That is, November, with its early sunset, the sun not rising 30 degrees above the horizon even at noon, (if you can find it behind the buildings/cloud cover), and getting over the initial culture-shock and push of settling-in all conspire to produce a let-down that can trigger a huge energy slump. So I'm not surprised, just... tired. Add to this to the vestiges of jet lag from my recent trip to the east coast of the US, and the neighbor downstairs who wakes me at 1, 3 and 4 am with his shenanigans, and I'm not really getting up until 10 am. Fortunately, TeenE and Hubster sleep through the nighttime neighbor naughtiness.
TeenE continues to spend afternoons after school rehearsing for the play "And Then They Came for Me", about Ann Frank and her friend. The friend survived the holocaust, and lives in St. John's Wood, and is a consultant to the play. The parent meeting of Friends of the Arts at ASL
on Friday will give us more information about the show. TeenE tells me it's going to be very intense. She is in the "company", and needs "company shoes", whatever they are, and a leotard "for the concentration camp scenes".
Our IKEA order that we placed online in early October has finally been delivered. It arrived on Saturday. Every day since then I have weilded my trusty Phillips-head screwdriver and made good progress on a piece of furniture. So far, a bed-side table, a set of drawers for TeenE's desk, two shelf units to hold up our desk, and the desk-top with legs have been assembled. At some point I will tackle the garment rack and the two tall bookcases. Now we can see the top surface of our dining room table again.
Yesterday I had lunch with MomA at her flat on Maida Vale. She casually mentioned that with the hard water in this area, you are supposed to put dishwasher salt in the special dispenser in the dishwasher. I had never heard of this, and set out to find out if our unit had such a thing. Sure enough, it did. And it was really clogged with black, soapy, waxy, grimy, moldy GUNK. I decided to check out the other parts in the bottom of the dishwasher. I had already cleared out the screen that sifts out food particles (twice), but this time, after lifting it out, I decided to check on the lattice-work column upon which it sits. Ewwwww. I kept discovering that this mechanism came apart in more ways than one could imagine. And with each layer that I pried apart, there were more and more deposits of unspeakably disgusting GUNK. I whipped on the latex gloves and was finally grateful for the scalding-hot water that comes out of the tap. I poked through the hundreds of miniscule holes in the main column with a pin. I scrubbed all the outer surfaces with a scrubbie pad. I cleared out the crevices with cotton swabs. I soaked and re-soaked those suckers until there was no goo left. Now I just have to figure out how to put the (*&^% contraption back together again so we can use the dishwasher. Meanwhile, I am hand-washing everything. Just when there was a relative lull in the laundry...
TeenE continues to spend afternoons after school rehearsing for the play "And Then They Came for Me", about Ann Frank and her friend. The friend survived the holocaust, and lives in St. John's Wood, and is a consultant to the play. The parent meeting of Friends of the Arts at ASL
on Friday will give us more information about the show. TeenE tells me it's going to be very intense. She is in the "company", and needs "company shoes", whatever they are, and a leotard "for the concentration camp scenes".
Our IKEA order that we placed online in early October has finally been delivered. It arrived on Saturday. Every day since then I have weilded my trusty Phillips-head screwdriver and made good progress on a piece of furniture. So far, a bed-side table, a set of drawers for TeenE's desk, two shelf units to hold up our desk, and the desk-top with legs have been assembled. At some point I will tackle the garment rack and the two tall bookcases. Now we can see the top surface of our dining room table again.
Yesterday I had lunch with MomA at her flat on Maida Vale. She casually mentioned that with the hard water in this area, you are supposed to put dishwasher salt in the special dispenser in the dishwasher. I had never heard of this, and set out to find out if our unit had such a thing. Sure enough, it did. And it was really clogged with black, soapy, waxy, grimy, moldy GUNK. I decided to check out the other parts in the bottom of the dishwasher. I had already cleared out the screen that sifts out food particles (twice), but this time, after lifting it out, I decided to check on the lattice-work column upon which it sits. Ewwwww. I kept discovering that this mechanism came apart in more ways than one could imagine. And with each layer that I pried apart, there were more and more deposits of unspeakably disgusting GUNK. I whipped on the latex gloves and was finally grateful for the scalding-hot water that comes out of the tap. I poked through the hundreds of miniscule holes in the main column with a pin. I scrubbed all the outer surfaces with a scrubbie pad. I cleared out the crevices with cotton swabs. I soaked and re-soaked those suckers until there was no goo left. Now I just have to figure out how to put the (*&^% contraption back together again so we can use the dishwasher. Meanwhile, I am hand-washing everything. Just when there was a relative lull in the laundry...
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Quiet day in NW8
It was a quiet day in NW8 today.
The leftover laundering proceeded apace in the am, then I went out to Stitchery Group. This is a subset of women from the St. John's Wood Women's Club. We met at stitcher Mary's house, which is just across the street from the driveway where I nearly got run over yesterday, and across and down the very same street as Sir You-Know-Who, who presumably is ensconced in the love nest with the latest love interest.
While at Mary's, about eight of us got caught up on the election coverage and topics of more personal interest. Every time someone came to the front door, her two wire-haired dachshunds would erupt in a cacophony of barking. I decided that I had had so much success at "dog whispering" Erica's huge black lab into submitting to me as alpha dog, that I'd go down to her lower level (the dogs cannot climb stairs) and tell a thing or two to Gus (a sweetie-pie) and Gracie (more cranky). Gus immediately recognized my alpha status and rolled over on his back to have his belly scratched. Gracie took about 30 seconds longer, then did the same thing. When a repairman came, he was able to run the gauntlet of the doggies while I kept them distracted with tummy rubs. I have two new canine friends in London! I told Mary I'd walk them any time, which I would do even if she didn't live on the same street as a certain musician.
When we left Cavendish Ave around 1:30 the day was so overcast that there was no telling in what direction the sun might have been located, or whether it had even cleared the tops of the buildings that day. The rest of the afternoon was taken up with sorting mail, paying bills, and, surprise! More laundry. I think that by tomorrow I may be all caught up from the backlog.
I'm hoping to hear from my readers; everyone's been very quiet this week. I think a lot of people stayed up late to watch the election returns...
The leftover laundering proceeded apace in the am, then I went out to Stitchery Group. This is a subset of women from the St. John's Wood Women's Club. We met at stitcher Mary's house, which is just across the street from the driveway where I nearly got run over yesterday, and across and down the very same street as Sir You-Know-Who, who presumably is ensconced in the love nest with the latest love interest.
While at Mary's, about eight of us got caught up on the election coverage and topics of more personal interest. Every time someone came to the front door, her two wire-haired dachshunds would erupt in a cacophony of barking. I decided that I had had so much success at "dog whispering" Erica's huge black lab into submitting to me as alpha dog, that I'd go down to her lower level (the dogs cannot climb stairs) and tell a thing or two to Gus (a sweetie-pie) and Gracie (more cranky). Gus immediately recognized my alpha status and rolled over on his back to have his belly scratched. Gracie took about 30 seconds longer, then did the same thing. When a repairman came, he was able to run the gauntlet of the doggies while I kept them distracted with tummy rubs. I have two new canine friends in London! I told Mary I'd walk them any time, which I would do even if she didn't live on the same street as a certain musician.
When we left Cavendish Ave around 1:30 the day was so overcast that there was no telling in what direction the sun might have been located, or whether it had even cleared the tops of the buildings that day. The rest of the afternoon was taken up with sorting mail, paying bills, and, surprise! More laundry. I think that by tomorrow I may be all caught up from the backlog.
I'm hoping to hear from my readers; everyone's been very quiet this week. I think a lot of people stayed up late to watch the election returns...
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Another Fine Day in London-town
I couldn't imagine that any day could have been better than yesterday, what with seeing a world-known celebrity on one corner of NW8 and a local celebrity on the next. No wonder I like that "back way" to the Hi Street that consists of Circus Road. It's certainly a celebrity circus!
I must say, however that today turned out to be even better. I wasn't sure the US was ready for the progressive energy of a non-republican, non-warrior president, but awakened to find out that the person for whom I had voted had actually won the election. This is only the third election since 1980 in which this has happened, and it's very gratifying. I empathize with those who are disappointed, having spent twenty-two of the last twenty-eight years (and all of my adult life but eight years) being disappointed, frustrated, and enraged in varying degrees with the policies and actions of my government. It is the "heartland's" turn to learn how to yield graciously without resorting to name-calling and other vituperative strategies. I pray we can all behave ourselves.
First up on the social calendar today was a coffee at the home of another American School/London parent. This coffee featured a speaker, a parent who works for the DEA (Drug Enforcement Agency), and who was there to speak to the other parents (all Moms) about the differences in the teen drug cultures in the US and the London area. I've always felt that any school that says there are no drugs on campus is either clueless or lying, so I was glad to see this issue addressed by the PTO.
We learned about the US drug user's "culture of stimulants" (cocaine, etc) vs the UK's "culture of depressants". One would think that those in the US are already over-stimulated enough, what with all the Starbucks, and that those in the UK are already depressed enough, what with all the pubs.
We learned that 35% of all 10th graders in the US have tried illegal drugs, and 75% of all US High School Seniors (including alcohol, which, in the US, is illegal until age 21).
We learned that teens drink openly earlier, as the age at which one can buy a beer or wine WITH a meal in the UK is 16. Whether this is earlier than US teens drink on the sly is open to debate. I think probably not.
We also learned that within a five-minute bus ride from the school, in a place where many of them congregate, a student can be exposed to people dealing all sorts of substances.
We learned that within a two-minute WALK from the school there is a known nexus of marijuana activity on a street called Abbey Road, (ever heard of it?) and that this spot is directly across from our flat. So much for the safe "leafy" neighborhood theory!! This area includes a row of stores where one can buy milk, get one's hair done, and get physical therapy. The one time I went down to buy milk there, there were some shady characters. Now I know why.
I had to leave that talk early in order to rendezvous with an old pal from my University College London days, Mr. A.S. We had kept in touch sporadically over the years, and he was one of the people that called to wish me Happy Birthday on the Big 5-Oh. We had known each other from our days in the UCL Drama Society, and Hubster and I visited with him and his girlfriend (now wife) on our honeymoon here in 1986.
We had much to catch up on: the move, the economy, turning 50, the election, how my idea for a documentary about Abbey Road might come about (he has connections in the TV world) etc.
I have to write up my "pitch" and he might be able to get it in front of the right people.
After lunch I strolled around the Regent St/Carnaby Street area, and found the bead shop that I had spotted while Son was here. This time it was open, but sadly does not carry the right beads for my knitted projects.
A quick ride home on the 139 bus and I was ready to work on some of the projects I am getting ready for the St. John's Wood Women's Club Annual Holiday Marketplace on 11/11. Time is running short...
TeenE is getting ready to catch a ride to the American Church in London (on Tottenham Court Road), whose choir will be singing at the Thanksgiving Day Service at St. Paul's Cathedral. Yes, you read that right. Naturally we will be attending that service!!
I must say, however that today turned out to be even better. I wasn't sure the US was ready for the progressive energy of a non-republican, non-warrior president, but awakened to find out that the person for whom I had voted had actually won the election. This is only the third election since 1980 in which this has happened, and it's very gratifying. I empathize with those who are disappointed, having spent twenty-two of the last twenty-eight years (and all of my adult life but eight years) being disappointed, frustrated, and enraged in varying degrees with the policies and actions of my government. It is the "heartland's" turn to learn how to yield graciously without resorting to name-calling and other vituperative strategies. I pray we can all behave ourselves.
First up on the social calendar today was a coffee at the home of another American School/London parent. This coffee featured a speaker, a parent who works for the DEA (Drug Enforcement Agency), and who was there to speak to the other parents (all Moms) about the differences in the teen drug cultures in the US and the London area. I've always felt that any school that says there are no drugs on campus is either clueless or lying, so I was glad to see this issue addressed by the PTO.
We learned about the US drug user's "culture of stimulants" (cocaine, etc) vs the UK's "culture of depressants". One would think that those in the US are already over-stimulated enough, what with all the Starbucks, and that those in the UK are already depressed enough, what with all the pubs.
We learned that 35% of all 10th graders in the US have tried illegal drugs, and 75% of all US High School Seniors (including alcohol, which, in the US, is illegal until age 21).
We learned that teens drink openly earlier, as the age at which one can buy a beer or wine WITH a meal in the UK is 16. Whether this is earlier than US teens drink on the sly is open to debate. I think probably not.
We also learned that within a five-minute bus ride from the school, in a place where many of them congregate, a student can be exposed to people dealing all sorts of substances.
We learned that within a two-minute WALK from the school there is a known nexus of marijuana activity on a street called Abbey Road, (ever heard of it?) and that this spot is directly across from our flat. So much for the safe "leafy" neighborhood theory!! This area includes a row of stores where one can buy milk, get one's hair done, and get physical therapy. The one time I went down to buy milk there, there were some shady characters. Now I know why.
I had to leave that talk early in order to rendezvous with an old pal from my University College London days, Mr. A.S. We had kept in touch sporadically over the years, and he was one of the people that called to wish me Happy Birthday on the Big 5-Oh. We had known each other from our days in the UCL Drama Society, and Hubster and I visited with him and his girlfriend (now wife) on our honeymoon here in 1986.
We had much to catch up on: the move, the economy, turning 50, the election, how my idea for a documentary about Abbey Road might come about (he has connections in the TV world) etc.
I have to write up my "pitch" and he might be able to get it in front of the right people.
After lunch I strolled around the Regent St/Carnaby Street area, and found the bead shop that I had spotted while Son was here. This time it was open, but sadly does not carry the right beads for my knitted projects.
A quick ride home on the 139 bus and I was ready to work on some of the projects I am getting ready for the St. John's Wood Women's Club Annual Holiday Marketplace on 11/11. Time is running short...
TeenE is getting ready to catch a ride to the American Church in London (on Tottenham Court Road), whose choir will be singing at the Thanksgiving Day Service at St. Paul's Cathedral. Yes, you read that right. Naturally we will be attending that service!!
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Episode IV: A New Hope
Yesterday's Perfect Day ended when we went to bed at 9 pm, (4 pm EST) knowing that the US election results would not be final until at least 4 am our time, what with the West Coast being an additional 3 hour's time difference.
I was cautiously optimistic that the results would reflect my voting preferences, but afraid of another Gore-like "tie" with weeks of uncertainty and another Supreme Court ruling. I didn't want to give voice to my fears, so refrained from making any predictions.
Hubster was up and out of the house before 6 am. The fact that he didn't wake me to give me news bothered me a bit. Did that mean that the news was good, or bad?
A quick check of the internet at 6:15 am showed me the results. Now I can truly sleep.
I was cautiously optimistic that the results would reflect my voting preferences, but afraid of another Gore-like "tie" with weeks of uncertainty and another Supreme Court ruling. I didn't want to give voice to my fears, so refrained from making any predictions.
Hubster was up and out of the house before 6 am. The fact that he didn't wake me to give me news bothered me a bit. Did that mean that the news was good, or bad?
A quick check of the internet at 6:15 am showed me the results. Now I can truly sleep.
A Perfect Day so far
So far it has been a perfect day. I fear tomorrow's news; however, I'll address that in another posting if I feel like it.
My day started at 7:30 am, far too early for my still-jet-lagged brain and body. What could motivate me to get out of bed early and hit the street by 9:15? Rummage!! Rather, the high quality used goods at the St. John's Hospice Charity Shop on SJW Hi Street. Before I could leave A Flat on Abbey Road, there was a lull in the traffic sounds, so I rushed to the window to see the horses and ordnance pass by. I never get tired of it. I wonder if there is a schedule to their jaunts. For example, this is the first Tuesday of the month, we've been here three months, and I've seen them pass by three times. I'll have to check my other entries.
Laurie, the Hospice Charity Shop manager, was busy Hoovering when I arrived, and her associate Lloyd was organizing racks of clothing. I was assigned to tidying the shelves along half the store's walls. Shoes, videos, bric-a-brac, jewellry, ties, etc. all had to be organized and made to look extra-nice, as there would be VIP's in the shop later.
After a while, the shop opened and two volunteers arrived to be sales personnel for the first shift. After discovering the source of my accent, they were MOST eager to talk American politics. In fact, every one with whom I've chatted recently wants to find out if I've voted (I have), for whom I've voted (they don't make even a pretense of being polite about asking) and then spend ten minutes talking about US politics and the US's role in the world. I lingered for another fifteen minutes or so, then made my way up the Hi Street.
A quick peek into Starbucks as I passed revealed that no one I know was in there. I kept going, less alert than usual for spotting a familiar face. As I passed one cafe, there was a couple in a close embrace in the doorway under an awning. The man was in shadow facing the street, the woman had long dark hair which obscured both their faces. Their embrace went on for about ten of my paces. It seemed pretty long to me... Not wanting to gawk, I averted my gaze. JUST as I was about to pass, they broke apart, and the man looked a bit startled when he saw that I was there. The woman turned and shot a "thank you" to someone in the other direction. I glanced quickly at the man, and saw that it was YOU KNOW WHO, my first crush when I was 10, NW8's most famous citizen, standing there on the street engaged in an intimate embrace with another woman!! I hurried on toward Finchley Road. I resisted the urge to turn around for another look, (at least until a full minute had passed) and reflected on the pitfalls of fame.
Smiling and humming softly to myself, I waited at the lights for the "Green Man" to show that it was safe to cross. An elderly lady with a cane waited with me, and she took off ahead of the light change, which I am still not able to bring myself to do most of the time, never knowing from which direction a speeding bus may materialize. As I passed the back entrance to one of the local hospitals, I glanced to my right, and who should be approaching but the ubiquitous Dr. D, with MP3 player in hand and earbuds firmly placed. He popped out the earbuds when he saw me, so I took that as a signal that it was OK to stop and say hello. "Dr. D, my day is complete! First I saw "name of celebrity", now you!!" "Where was he? Maybe I'll see him, too!" he joked.
Pleasant chat ensued; we both needed to be on our way, so we parted with a comment by me about his tunes. "I won't tell you what I'm listening to, you'd probably publish it on your blog". "That is distinctly unfair!" I replied, (I put this part in just to find out if he's still a reader), while backing toward a driveway containing an oncoming car. He cautioned me to stop moving in a direction I was not looking, and saved me from being squashed. Of course, if I had been injured, at least my G.P. would have been on hand...
I note that Dr. D. is the first Brit to NOT wish to talk with me about today's election, or at least to be so polite as to not enquire about my politics.
PS Further research reveals that the woman seen with Sir You Know Who is New Yorker Nancy Shevill, age 47, (not that much younger than me!) and a multimillion dollar US heiress to New England Motor Freight, which she manages. Perhaps he's trying to "get back" some of the multi-millions that he lost to Heather... No wonder that her "Thank You" to someone over her shoulder "didn't have" an accent! Don't worry Hubster, (or church-ladies,) he seems to be taken!
My day started at 7:30 am, far too early for my still-jet-lagged brain and body. What could motivate me to get out of bed early and hit the street by 9:15? Rummage!! Rather, the high quality used goods at the St. John's Hospice Charity Shop on SJW Hi Street. Before I could leave A Flat on Abbey Road, there was a lull in the traffic sounds, so I rushed to the window to see the horses and ordnance pass by. I never get tired of it. I wonder if there is a schedule to their jaunts. For example, this is the first Tuesday of the month, we've been here three months, and I've seen them pass by three times. I'll have to check my other entries.
Laurie, the Hospice Charity Shop manager, was busy Hoovering when I arrived, and her associate Lloyd was organizing racks of clothing. I was assigned to tidying the shelves along half the store's walls. Shoes, videos, bric-a-brac, jewellry, ties, etc. all had to be organized and made to look extra-nice, as there would be VIP's in the shop later.
After a while, the shop opened and two volunteers arrived to be sales personnel for the first shift. After discovering the source of my accent, they were MOST eager to talk American politics. In fact, every one with whom I've chatted recently wants to find out if I've voted (I have), for whom I've voted (they don't make even a pretense of being polite about asking) and then spend ten minutes talking about US politics and the US's role in the world. I lingered for another fifteen minutes or so, then made my way up the Hi Street.
A quick peek into Starbucks as I passed revealed that no one I know was in there. I kept going, less alert than usual for spotting a familiar face. As I passed one cafe, there was a couple in a close embrace in the doorway under an awning. The man was in shadow facing the street, the woman had long dark hair which obscured both their faces. Their embrace went on for about ten of my paces. It seemed pretty long to me... Not wanting to gawk, I averted my gaze. JUST as I was about to pass, they broke apart, and the man looked a bit startled when he saw that I was there. The woman turned and shot a "thank you" to someone in the other direction. I glanced quickly at the man, and saw that it was YOU KNOW WHO, my first crush when I was 10, NW8's most famous citizen, standing there on the street engaged in an intimate embrace with another woman!! I hurried on toward Finchley Road. I resisted the urge to turn around for another look, (at least until a full minute had passed) and reflected on the pitfalls of fame.
Smiling and humming softly to myself, I waited at the lights for the "Green Man" to show that it was safe to cross. An elderly lady with a cane waited with me, and she took off ahead of the light change, which I am still not able to bring myself to do most of the time, never knowing from which direction a speeding bus may materialize. As I passed the back entrance to one of the local hospitals, I glanced to my right, and who should be approaching but the ubiquitous Dr. D, with MP3 player in hand and earbuds firmly placed. He popped out the earbuds when he saw me, so I took that as a signal that it was OK to stop and say hello. "Dr. D, my day is complete! First I saw "name of celebrity", now you!!" "Where was he? Maybe I'll see him, too!" he joked.
Pleasant chat ensued; we both needed to be on our way, so we parted with a comment by me about his tunes. "I won't tell you what I'm listening to, you'd probably publish it on your blog". "That is distinctly unfair!" I replied, (I put this part in just to find out if he's still a reader), while backing toward a driveway containing an oncoming car. He cautioned me to stop moving in a direction I was not looking, and saved me from being squashed. Of course, if I had been injured, at least my G.P. would have been on hand...
I note that Dr. D. is the first Brit to NOT wish to talk with me about today's election, or at least to be so polite as to not enquire about my politics.
PS Further research reveals that the woman seen with Sir You Know Who is New Yorker Nancy Shevill, age 47, (not that much younger than me!) and a multimillion dollar US heiress to New England Motor Freight, which she manages. Perhaps he's trying to "get back" some of the multi-millions that he lost to Heather... No wonder that her "Thank You" to someone over her shoulder "didn't have" an accent! Don't worry Hubster, (or church-ladies,) he seems to be taken!
Out on the Street
Mmmmph. Mrrrgggghhh! Ptuh! There!! I've finally dug myself out from underneath the avalanche of laundry that threatened to take out A Flat on Abbey Road.
Understandably, Hubster and TeenE gave the miniature washer/dryer a wide berth during my eleven-day absence. TeenE had two hampers-full, which I dumped into the empty bathtub, along with my post-trip washing and Hubster's usuals. I have now been back for four days, and am on the twelfth load. There is a colorful assortment of damp clothing draped artistically over the drying racks that grace several rooms. Opening the door to the flat releases an aroma of Fairy Liquid detergent and high humidity.
Having finally run out of the liquid laundry detergent that was purchased our first week here, I had to go out for a replacement on Friday. Who knew there were so many choices? The most puzzling choice of all was to decide whether to buy "biological" detergent, or "non-biological". What could it mean? I scoured the labels for a clue.
The ones marked "biological" stated "Do Not Use on Silk or Wool", which seemed counter-intuitive to me. Silk and Wool are both biological in origin, having been grown or extruded from a living creature. The non-biological had no such restrictions, but contained warnings of eye irritation. The biological formula also made vague statements about their formula being safe but that some individuals might experience skin irritation. There went my other hypothesis, that the biological formula was made from all-natural ingredients.
I looked around for someone I could ask. Several times I made up mind to just speak up to a total stranger, but they either avoided my gaze completely or just looked me in the eye and smiled. I couldn't bring myself to do it. Finally, after about ten minutes of re-checking labels, I turned to find someone right behind me. "Excuse me, do you know what the difference is between a biological and a non-biological laundry detergent?"
The attractive young woman laughed and said "Yes, and you've asked EXACTLY the right person!!!" I'm a nurse, so I do know the difference. The biological formula contains enzymes that digest the soil and bacteria on the clothes. If they don't get rinsed out completely, they can irritate your skin when they try to digest your skin cells." She went on to say that unless your clothing is REALLY soiled, for example if your son plays rugby (he has) or your Hubster, even (he hasn't) then you usually wouldn't need the biological formula. She exclaimed again about how I had asked exactly the right person, so I explained that I usually use the detergent made for sensitive skin without added dyes or fragrance. We decided together that the Fairy brand, good for baby clothes (they also make dish detergent, which I remembered from 1978) would make a good choice. I thanked her and went on to the checkout.
After leaving Tesco, I crossed two busy streets to get back to A Flat on Abbey Road. Just ahead of me in the intersection was the helpful nurse. I raised my jug of detergent to her and said "Cheers", which is a joke that I guess only Americans who do laundry would get. I'm afraid it was lost on her. She speeded up a little as she crossed the street so she would be well ahead of me.
Yesterday, after laundry load ten entered the machine, I decided to go out and do some errands. On my way past the Abbey Road Crossing, I passed a huge contingent of French-speaking teen girls. I actually had to step into the road to avoid ruining their photo opportunity in front of the Abbey Road Studio. Once across the street, I could hear an American couple planning their next move over a map. Should we have lunch now? I wonder where we could find a restaurant? I passed them, but something in their tone made me turn back and retrace my steps. "Do you need directions?" Yes, they wanted to know where they could find a restaurant nearby. I gave them detailed directions, and they asked me how long I'd been here. We had a nice chat. They were from Connecticut, etc. They wanted to know why we lived in London, was our daughter happy, did we like it, where did we live, etc. I told them that we lived in A Flat on Abbey Road, and that we thought that made us pretty cool. They agreed, it was cool.
Meanwhile, the gaggle of French geese passed by and they thanked the young couple for helping them. Apparantly they had been on a scavenger hunt, and the man had given them the answer to the question: What was the name of Paul McCartney's dog? Too easy, I said, and proceeded to provide the name and the breed of the dog immortalized on the White Album. The woman nudged the man and said "why don't you tell her why you're here?" , so he did. He was about to attend Rock Band Fantasy Camp, with tutelage provided by somebody from o the Rolling Stones, somebody from Pink Floyd, sorry, don't know any other living personnel's names that are NOT Roger Waters, and a visit to Pete Best in Liverpool. EXTREMELY COOL. I think he wins.
I told them I keep busy by writing a blog about living in A Flat on Abbey Road. I hope they remembered the address. So here's a shout out to Mr. and Ms. Cool from Connecticut: Cheers!
Understandably, Hubster and TeenE gave the miniature washer/dryer a wide berth during my eleven-day absence. TeenE had two hampers-full, which I dumped into the empty bathtub, along with my post-trip washing and Hubster's usuals. I have now been back for four days, and am on the twelfth load. There is a colorful assortment of damp clothing draped artistically over the drying racks that grace several rooms. Opening the door to the flat releases an aroma of Fairy Liquid detergent and high humidity.
Having finally run out of the liquid laundry detergent that was purchased our first week here, I had to go out for a replacement on Friday. Who knew there were so many choices? The most puzzling choice of all was to decide whether to buy "biological" detergent, or "non-biological". What could it mean? I scoured the labels for a clue.
The ones marked "biological" stated "Do Not Use on Silk or Wool", which seemed counter-intuitive to me. Silk and Wool are both biological in origin, having been grown or extruded from a living creature. The non-biological had no such restrictions, but contained warnings of eye irritation. The biological formula also made vague statements about their formula being safe but that some individuals might experience skin irritation. There went my other hypothesis, that the biological formula was made from all-natural ingredients.
I looked around for someone I could ask. Several times I made up mind to just speak up to a total stranger, but they either avoided my gaze completely or just looked me in the eye and smiled. I couldn't bring myself to do it. Finally, after about ten minutes of re-checking labels, I turned to find someone right behind me. "Excuse me, do you know what the difference is between a biological and a non-biological laundry detergent?"
The attractive young woman laughed and said "Yes, and you've asked EXACTLY the right person!!!" I'm a nurse, so I do know the difference. The biological formula contains enzymes that digest the soil and bacteria on the clothes. If they don't get rinsed out completely, they can irritate your skin when they try to digest your skin cells." She went on to say that unless your clothing is REALLY soiled, for example if your son plays rugby (he has) or your Hubster, even (he hasn't) then you usually wouldn't need the biological formula. She exclaimed again about how I had asked exactly the right person, so I explained that I usually use the detergent made for sensitive skin without added dyes or fragrance. We decided together that the Fairy brand, good for baby clothes (they also make dish detergent, which I remembered from 1978) would make a good choice. I thanked her and went on to the checkout.
After leaving Tesco, I crossed two busy streets to get back to A Flat on Abbey Road. Just ahead of me in the intersection was the helpful nurse. I raised my jug of detergent to her and said "Cheers", which is a joke that I guess only Americans who do laundry would get. I'm afraid it was lost on her. She speeded up a little as she crossed the street so she would be well ahead of me.
Yesterday, after laundry load ten entered the machine, I decided to go out and do some errands. On my way past the Abbey Road Crossing, I passed a huge contingent of French-speaking teen girls. I actually had to step into the road to avoid ruining their photo opportunity in front of the Abbey Road Studio. Once across the street, I could hear an American couple planning their next move over a map. Should we have lunch now? I wonder where we could find a restaurant? I passed them, but something in their tone made me turn back and retrace my steps. "Do you need directions?" Yes, they wanted to know where they could find a restaurant nearby. I gave them detailed directions, and they asked me how long I'd been here. We had a nice chat. They were from Connecticut, etc. They wanted to know why we lived in London, was our daughter happy, did we like it, where did we live, etc. I told them that we lived in A Flat on Abbey Road, and that we thought that made us pretty cool. They agreed, it was cool.
Meanwhile, the gaggle of French geese passed by and they thanked the young couple for helping them. Apparantly they had been on a scavenger hunt, and the man had given them the answer to the question: What was the name of Paul McCartney's dog? Too easy, I said, and proceeded to provide the name and the breed of the dog immortalized on the White Album. The woman nudged the man and said "why don't you tell her why you're here?" , so he did. He was about to attend Rock Band Fantasy Camp, with tutelage provided by somebody from o the Rolling Stones, somebody from Pink Floyd, sorry, don't know any other living personnel's names that are NOT Roger Waters, and a visit to Pete Best in Liverpool. EXTREMELY COOL. I think he wins.
I told them I keep busy by writing a blog about living in A Flat on Abbey Road. I hope they remembered the address. So here's a shout out to Mr. and Ms. Cool from Connecticut: Cheers!
Monday, November 3, 2008
My Terminal 5 Experience
Jimi Hendrix said it best: "Have you ever been experienced?" Well, I have.
I have been Experienced in Terminal 5 at Heathrow Airport.
We left Boston on British Airways AHEAD of schedule. The passengers boarded, the catering arrived, the doors were closed, the paperwork was done, and we pushed back from the gate at 9:05 am, about ten minutes ahead of schedule.
Once in the air, our flight was to take about six hours. The video screen showed a tail wind of 129 mph, so we were making very good time as the coasts of Maine, Nova Scotia, and Labrador went scudding by below us.
I spent the time happily knitting away on a brown alpaca scarf, the perfect plane project, per the Head Kitten. She was right. I played Peek-a-boo with an infant while I waited for my turn in the queue for the toilet. I chatted with my seatmate, an American who was returning to her home in Marrakesh, Morrocco. I took a little snooze to escape the incessant wailing of a crying toddler, and before I knew it, we were over land again. Cornwall, Devon, and the Isle of Wight were all clearly visible as we made a slow descent. The Captain came over the PA to inform us that Air Traffic Control had asked him to slow down. There was too much traffic heading into Heathrow, and we would have to circle, which we did.
We finally landed, having lost all the time we'd made by leaving early and having a brisk tail-wind. Once on the ground, our Terminal 5 Experience began. There was no gate available for our incoming flight, so we waited near the terminal. Please bear in mind that the line for the toilet facilities had been quite long near the end of the flight, and all such activities had been curtailed by the arrival of turbulence and the subsequent lighting of the seat belt sign. I knew that I'd be able to make it until we landed, but once we were on the ground I was quite eager to deplane. We could almost reach out and touch Terminal 5, we were so close. Only 25 minutes later, and a plane pulled out and we finally approached a gate. Of course the disembarking process takes at least 20 minutes to get all the way back to row 31, so it was almost an additional hour before we were on the jetway.
I made a bee-line for the immigration area, (or was it a pee-line?) and proudly showed off my new visa. After answering a few perfunctory questions (did I have a job lined up yet? No, but Hubster does...) I was on my way out of that level via escalator. That escalator led to another one. And that one led to another one. We were clearly hamsters trapped in a Habitrail cage. Big glass windows, tubes from one level to the next to the next, it was all quite dizzying. And finally, we reached the Wheel. Well, it was a wheel for the luggage anyway, which came spinning out in due course. I decided that this was my chance for a quickie visit to the Ladies. There were several cleaners inside the facilities, but Four stalls in a row had no paper. Perhaps the hamsters had shredded it all. I was grateful to have the Fung Wah! ticket still in my bag.
After man-handling my heavy bags off the luggage wheel and strapping them together on the folding cart thingy I had purchased in New York's Chinatown, I was ready to board the Heathrow Express via a lift. A nice airline employee lady helped me figure out that you did not have to push any buttons in the elevator; it just went up, then down, all by itself.
At the down level, there was another escalator to the Heathrow/Paddington express train. Keep in mind that I have Four bags with me; a large rolling duffel bag, a computer bag and a large tote bag filled with things I picked up in Belmont (walking shoes, beads, yarn, peanut butter, corn meal for corn bread)--both of these bags are strapped to the rolling cart thingy with bungy cords, and a handbag that is so full that the magnetic clasps won't close.
I got onto the escalator just in time to hear this announcement over the PA: "Travelers with a large amount of luggage should use the lift". Too late! I dismounted the escalator relatively gracefully and came up against an obstacle: metal poles a small distance apart so one cannot abscond with the airport luggage cart. My 2-bags-on-the-folding-cart-thingy did not fit through the barrier. I had to stop and unstrap everything. Meanwhile, the Voice continued: "This train will leave in Three minutes". As I struggled to get everything through the barrier without leaving my handbag behind, the same nice airline employee lady came to my aid, and lifted the biggest bag onto the train and into the luggage area for me. Many blessings to her!!
A nice man saw me struggling to put my bungy-cord contraption back together and vacated his seat so that I could park the monstrosity next to me in the aisle.
Thus endeth my Terminal 5 Experience, as we pulled off into the tunnel to Terminal 4 and headed into central London. I wasn't quite sure which side of Paddington Station held the taxi queue, but finally noticed a black line on the floor with the words "Taxi" and an arrow pointing in the relevant direction. If only there was a clue!! There was only one party ahead of me in the taxi queue, so I was back at A Flat on Abbey Road in under five minutes. It felt good to be "home".
I have been Experienced in Terminal 5 at Heathrow Airport.
We left Boston on British Airways AHEAD of schedule. The passengers boarded, the catering arrived, the doors were closed, the paperwork was done, and we pushed back from the gate at 9:05 am, about ten minutes ahead of schedule.
Once in the air, our flight was to take about six hours. The video screen showed a tail wind of 129 mph, so we were making very good time as the coasts of Maine, Nova Scotia, and Labrador went scudding by below us.
I spent the time happily knitting away on a brown alpaca scarf, the perfect plane project, per the Head Kitten. She was right. I played Peek-a-boo with an infant while I waited for my turn in the queue for the toilet. I chatted with my seatmate, an American who was returning to her home in Marrakesh, Morrocco. I took a little snooze to escape the incessant wailing of a crying toddler, and before I knew it, we were over land again. Cornwall, Devon, and the Isle of Wight were all clearly visible as we made a slow descent. The Captain came over the PA to inform us that Air Traffic Control had asked him to slow down. There was too much traffic heading into Heathrow, and we would have to circle, which we did.
We finally landed, having lost all the time we'd made by leaving early and having a brisk tail-wind. Once on the ground, our Terminal 5 Experience began. There was no gate available for our incoming flight, so we waited near the terminal. Please bear in mind that the line for the toilet facilities had been quite long near the end of the flight, and all such activities had been curtailed by the arrival of turbulence and the subsequent lighting of the seat belt sign. I knew that I'd be able to make it until we landed, but once we were on the ground I was quite eager to deplane. We could almost reach out and touch Terminal 5, we were so close. Only 25 minutes later, and a plane pulled out and we finally approached a gate. Of course the disembarking process takes at least 20 minutes to get all the way back to row 31, so it was almost an additional hour before we were on the jetway.
I made a bee-line for the immigration area, (or was it a pee-line?) and proudly showed off my new visa. After answering a few perfunctory questions (did I have a job lined up yet? No, but Hubster does...) I was on my way out of that level via escalator. That escalator led to another one. And that one led to another one. We were clearly hamsters trapped in a Habitrail cage. Big glass windows, tubes from one level to the next to the next, it was all quite dizzying. And finally, we reached the Wheel. Well, it was a wheel for the luggage anyway, which came spinning out in due course. I decided that this was my chance for a quickie visit to the Ladies. There were several cleaners inside the facilities, but Four stalls in a row had no paper. Perhaps the hamsters had shredded it all. I was grateful to have the Fung Wah! ticket still in my bag.
After man-handling my heavy bags off the luggage wheel and strapping them together on the folding cart thingy I had purchased in New York's Chinatown, I was ready to board the Heathrow Express via a lift. A nice airline employee lady helped me figure out that you did not have to push any buttons in the elevator; it just went up, then down, all by itself.
At the down level, there was another escalator to the Heathrow/Paddington express train. Keep in mind that I have Four bags with me; a large rolling duffel bag, a computer bag and a large tote bag filled with things I picked up in Belmont (walking shoes, beads, yarn, peanut butter, corn meal for corn bread)--both of these bags are strapped to the rolling cart thingy with bungy cords, and a handbag that is so full that the magnetic clasps won't close.
I got onto the escalator just in time to hear this announcement over the PA: "Travelers with a large amount of luggage should use the lift". Too late! I dismounted the escalator relatively gracefully and came up against an obstacle: metal poles a small distance apart so one cannot abscond with the airport luggage cart. My 2-bags-on-the-folding-cart-thingy did not fit through the barrier. I had to stop and unstrap everything. Meanwhile, the Voice continued: "This train will leave in Three minutes". As I struggled to get everything through the barrier without leaving my handbag behind, the same nice airline employee lady came to my aid, and lifted the biggest bag onto the train and into the luggage area for me. Many blessings to her!!
A nice man saw me struggling to put my bungy-cord contraption back together and vacated his seat so that I could park the monstrosity next to me in the aisle.
Thus endeth my Terminal 5 Experience, as we pulled off into the tunnel to Terminal 4 and headed into central London. I wasn't quite sure which side of Paddington Station held the taxi queue, but finally noticed a black line on the floor with the words "Taxi" and an arrow pointing in the relevant direction. If only there was a clue!! There was only one party ahead of me in the taxi queue, so I was back at A Flat on Abbey Road in under five minutes. It felt good to be "home".
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