July 29th, 2009.
I reported to the second floor of the outpatient wing of the hospital for my laser varicose-vein surgery. I was the third patient of the day; the highly efficient Dr. G. had us stacked up like airplanes in a holding pattern over the Thames on the way to Heathrow.
First stop: an interview with a man named Massoud who took my blood pressure (I WILLED it down to 100/65), my temp and the information about my next of kin, which is always a reassuring thing to be talking about before a surgical procedure. I was issued my white ID bracelet and my red allergy bracelet, although the only thing that happens when I take sulfa drugs is I get a headache. I had been informed by the highly efficient doctor’s highly efficient secretary (administrator?) that I’d be talking to the anesthesiologist, so in an incredibly sexist move on my part, I asked Massoud if that is who he was. No, he is a nurse, he informed me. Oops.
Next stop, a bay with a gurney and a curtain where I donned the attractive blue Johnny gown, the weird space-slippers from 2001: A Space Odyssey, and the highly crunchy disposable non-woven fiber “pants” which are undies in Brit-speak. I donned my iPod and settled in to wait while Dr G. and team worked on patient number two. A long spell of Hildegard von Bingen’s 12th century Canticles of Ecstasy put me in the properly meditative pre-surgical mood.
Perhaps here is where I should mention that I elected to have this procedure done unsedated. As a self-respecting hypnotherapist, I felt that a few needle jabs of lidocaine, which would numb the appropriate areas of my leg, would be sufficient to get the job done. As a former needle-phobe, I am proud of my ability to focus “Down and In” in order to transcend the fear of potential pain. After all, this is the woman who went through six hours of un-drugged pushing in a vain attempt to get that first baby out, courtesy of the birthing hypnotherapy she learned from the head of the Harvard University Counseling Services. Hubster and several friends shuddered at the thought of undergoing any procedure involving needlesunsedated, but I had just had a double-cyst aspiration with lidocaine only (they don’t even OFFER chill-out drugs for that procedure) and the time I had the sewing-machine needle removed from my finger they didn’t drug me either, just gave a jab of numbing lidocaine in my hand while the surgeon “poked around” (which is the technical term) in my fingertip for the sliver of steel that lingered after the rest of the needle was removed.
So when Dr. G. came in, I was resting comfortably wearing the headphones, deep in a past-life reverie about having been a nun in 12th century Germany. When I opened my eyes and raised my head, I think he was a little startled. Massoud had made it clear that most patients elected to be sedated, and HE certainly seemed skeptical of my wish to skip the drug cocktail. Dr G. said “Oh, you’re relaxing!”. We had some homework to do before he could begin the procedure. The all-important Statement of Risk and Legal Waiver had to be signed. I made sure it would be him performing the procedure, and not some team of eager medical students. He assured me that was the case. Then he sat on the floor and asked me to stand in front of him so he could draw on my leg. Whipping out his Sharpie permanent marker, he marked my right leg with his initials, then drew a line down the presumed location of the greater sapehnous vein. This work of art was embellished with squiggles across the shin, above the places where the “varicosities” bulged out in all of their pulsing, painful blue glory. These were the areas of vein to be tied off and extracted in the procedure known as a Phlebectomy. I imagined that he would be going in there with a medical version of a crochet hook, and making fancy knots with sutures, and embellishing the whole thing with a fringe.
While I was standing there being decorated, I remembered the last time I’d had an “ablation” procedure, which was back in 2006. That summer, I had my uterus “zapped” (that is the technical term) by radio waves, from the inside, in order to stop the ridiculously heavy monthly periods that kept me trapped in the house for five days out of every month. The doctor who had done that procedure had been my gynecologist for about ten years, and I knew him well enough to play a little joke on him before the surgery.
How many times have we read about people waking up from surgery having had the wrong kidney removed, or the wrong leg amputated.? Yes, I know that we only have one uterus each, but I decided to identify the proper orifice with marker before that particular procedure, during which I sure as hell would be sedated. So, the morning of my “endometrial ablation”, I took a blue Sharpie marker, and drew an arrow on one thigh. The arrow pointed to the correct opening to the uterus, and was marked “Here”. The other thigh got an arrow pointing to my rear end, with the statement “NOT here”. I got dressed and went off for the day surgery laughing to myself at the joke I was playing on the unsuspecting doctor. When the anesthesiologist resident came around to start my sedation drip, I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. I told her “I left a message for the doctor”. “Umm hmm” she replied, probably thinking that I was off on my sleepy-time trip already. The next thing I remember about that surgery was being transferred from the rolling gurney to the operating table. I tried to talk. “She’s awake” said the doctor. I tried to mumble “I left you a message”. I’ll never know if they figured out what I was trying to say, as once I was on the table I was completely out, and I was too embarrassed to ask the next time I was propped up on the table for the annual smear job.
So, for the current situation, I let Dr. G. do all the scribbling. He then went to check to see if the operating room was ready, and I took a detour to the loo. When I came out there was no one around, and I had to wander back out to the area near the changing bays with the back of the gown a-flap to find someone to direct me to the operating room, which I entered under my own steam. The staff were not used to the patient arriving on her own, and had already “marked” the surgery time as starting when the doctor went in, until they noticed the table was empty.
The medically-squeamish have my permission to skip this part. Dr. G. explained everything he was about to do, and then did it. From my point of view, it involved injections of lidocaine into the ankle, and then the thigh. I could feel something or other going around down at my ankle, and was told that they were inserting the catheter containing the laser into the greater saphenous vein. More injections up at the thigh area numbed the first area to be “zapped”. The doctor warned me that “some people experience a taste” as the lasering gets started. Almost immediately, I noticed an intense burning smell, and realized that my flesh was on fire from the inside. I wanted to shout “OH MY GOD CAN’T YOU SMELL THAT?” but settled for having one of the nurses hold my hand. I switched my iPod from soothing medieval chanting to the Beatles. As I did not have my glasses on, I couldn’t see the tiny print on the iPod, so had to settle for letting the nurse choose a Beatles album randomly. Unfortunately she did NOT pick “I Wanna Hold Your Hand”, but chose the album Revolver instead.
I figured the more distracted I was the better off I’d be, so I chose the imagery of Dr. G as a little boy, playing with a light saber from Star Wars. This made me laugh, and the nurses looked at me a little oddly. I decided to keep my imagery to myself so as not to embarrass the doctor, just in case he had been a childhood Jedi Knight.
Sooner or later the laser got a tad ahead of the lidocaine, and there was an intense burning sensation in my ankle. At least they were already down in that area, having started up top at my inner thigh. Next, several more injections in the front of my shin, and over the outside ankle bone allowed the doctor to perform the “phlebectomy” procedures, which entails tiny incisions and removals of the painfully bulging veins created by the venous backflow. After about 40 minutes they wrapped up my leg in a huge swath of gauze covered by stretchy tape. My right leg looked like a mummy. I was wheeled back out to the recovery (changing bay) area, where a nurse took my vitals and kept an eye on me. As I had not been sedated, I was allowed to have water immediately. Someone sent down to the kitchen for a tray of sandwiches, and I was served tea right there in recovery, and then was allowed to hobble out to some chairs to consume the sandwiches. Take that, Mt. Auburn Hospital of Cambridge, Massachusetts, and your measly post-surgical packaged crackers! Another half hour of being watched, and I was allowed to leave the scene under my own power.
Meanwhile, Hubster was busy at work. He is not too fond of hospitals or procedures involving needles, (understatement of the century—the astute reader will remember me having to babysit him after his sedated visits to the dentist) so was given permission by me to be far, far away. And far away he was, having planned on being in Croyden for the morning, and Leatherhead for the afternoon. I had been asked several times who was collecting me, and I had to keep telling various personnel that Iwas getting home on my own. Was I taking a cab, they enquired. No, I told them, I live just around the corner and I am planning to walk home. Eyebrows were raised. I figured it was easier not to explain. I reminded them that I had not been sedated during the procedure, then they’d ask again why no one was coming to collect me. I almost had to do a little jig to prove that I was OK to go, but it’s hard to do a jig on a painful leg that is wrapped so tightly that it cannot bend.
I had cleverly purchased an LL Bean collapsible walking stick while in Boston, so used that to assist myself in getting to the elevator (lift). I was sad to see that Fabian was not at his post at the rear reception desk, and took my time meandering through the twists and turns of the hospital’s ground floor. Once I rounded the bend outside the pharmacy, I had a clear view all the way down the corridor to the front reception desk. When they saw me coming, both Kumar (the cashier) and Fabian (receptionist extraordinaire) both came out from behind their desks to cheer me on. I felt like an Olympic athlete as their encouraging cries pulled me closer to the front doors of the hospital. Just when I had been starting to feel very sorry for myself for having to go home alone, Fabian turned around so his back was facing me and said “Marj!! Climb on!! I’ll carry you home!” I declined, as it not only would have been unseemly, but physically impossible with the painful mummified leg. I told Fabian that if he wanted to be my “arm candy” he could walk me home, but he couldn’t really leave his post after all. I had to explain to them that the distance I had to travel was only twice the distance from the hospital’s front door to the nearest corner, which placated them. Off I hobbled into the afternoon sun.
The surgeon had allowed me to go home even though I didn’t have the required thigh-high surgical stocking. I was advised to get them at a pharmacy down on Wigmore Street. On a whim, I hobbled PAST the front door to A Flat on Abbey Road to the bottom of Hill Road, and turned the corner onto Nugent Terrace. A small independent “chemist” (pharmacy) is located there. I picked up a package of NuRofen PLUS (the over-the-counter Ibuprofen plus Codeine, if you can believe that) and enquired about the grade-2 compression stockings. AHA! The pharmacist, who USED to work down at the Big Chemist’s on Wigmore Street, knew EXACTLY what I needed, and had some in the back room! He said he didn’t even think that Big Chemist even had them in stock any more. My good leg was duly measured as to circumference at ankle, knee and thigh, and Voila! A pair of Size Medium Sand-coloured Grade 2 compression thigh-high open-toe stockings were mine for only seventeen pounds. The kindly chemist even threw in a pair of Grade 2 closed-toe panty-hose for good measure, for free, because they didn’t have a use-by date on them and he knew they were fairly old and couldn’t really sell them and I needed them, after all.
Thus endeth my excitement for the day. I hobbled back to the flat, took two NuRofen PLUS, and stretched out on the sofa for the duration. Hubster had arranged to be home in time to make dinner. The rest of the day is a blur.
Epilogue: It is now three weeks later. The surgeon had suggested that the recovery period could be anywhere from a couple of days to a couple of weeks. He reported that one patient had been back out on the golf course after two days. I think that would have been impossible in my case. For one thing, I would have had to have take a golf lesson. For another, I could not straighten the leg without pain. Walking was helpful, as it stretched out the scar-tissue that was my former vein, but after a period of having the leg bent, as in overnight, stretching it out the next day was a big challenge. After two days I did hike up to Swiss Cottage, the neighborhood a half-mile to the north, to purchase small appliances for the new flat. I was able to haul a toaster, a coffee maker, an iron, and something else back in my Turbo Cart while using the cane, but that amount of effort on Friday morning wiped me out for the rest of the day. Every day around 3 pm I had to put my feet up. The blood in my right leg had to find a new way to leave my leg (via the deep veins instead of the peripheral ones) and it seemed a little confused in the beginning. There would be twinges of pain and odd bubbling sensations mixed in with the general achiness.
I used the cane for two weeks. It was most helpful in letting the car drivers know that one would be going through the zebra crossings s-l-o-w-l-y. It also got me a seat on the bus on more than one occasion. My walking mechanics were off for two weeks, also, with a shortened stride on the right side and the left leg taking the brunt of the work, resulting in LEFT leg pain, and hip and knee pain in both legs. Walking was both good for stretching the scarred vein, but not so good for the rest of my lower half.
Today’s follow-up visit with Dr. G. has revealed two things: One, the leg is healing well. Two, The second floor, where I had my surgery, has been closed due to the fact that the floor has been found to be "sloping". This is in a building that was completely renovated only eighteen months ago. All the consultants have had to time-share space on the lower floor. I guess I got onto the surgical schedule just in time. Third: When I told Dr. G about moving my belongings through the Famous Zebra Crossing on the 40th Anniversary of the Crossing of Abbey Road, he told me that his birthday is August 8th, the very day I was out there being interviewed. I think that was a good omen.
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.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Saturday, August 8, 2009
HOT FLASH!! BLOGMAMA Interviewed on SKY NEWS!
Yes, the quote I gave to Sky News was one of four featured interviews shown on the Live at Five program. The snippet aired at 6:30 pm; we have it recorded on the box but don't know how to get it onto this blog.
"It's become a shrine, I think. They come and sign the wall; they don't realize that it gets painted over every two months. People are celebrating the music, and what it has meant to their lives."
Of course, I said a lot more, but that was the sound bite that made the news!!
"It's become a shrine, I think. They come and sign the wall; they don't realize that it gets painted over every two months. People are celebrating the music, and what it has meant to their lives."
Of course, I said a lot more, but that was the sound bite that made the news!!
Come Together
It was forty years ago today that the cover photograph for the Beatles' album Abbey Road was shot by Iain Macmillan. It was also almost seventy years since the beginning of the London "Blitz". Oh No! "Don't mention the war!" as Basil Fawlty would say. But here, the bombings of WWII in 1939 and the innocuous crossing of Abbey Road by four talented musicians in 1969 have given way to the celebration of both the musicians themselves, and the era of peace and love to which they gave voice. The intersection of Abbey Road and Grove End Road has become a focal point for hundreds of tourist photographs every week, as Beatles fans re-enact the crossing, with one member of their party shoeless and another holding a cigarette. It has also become a nexus for the very Universal Peace and Love referred to in many Beatles songs. If a geographic place could be said to have energy or emotion, this place would be Love, Love, Love.
Today on Abbey Road, NW8, London, thousands of people of all ages and from all over the globe gathered to commemorate what may just be the most famous pedestrian crossing of all time.
The zebra crossing at the corner of Abbey and Grove End Roads became the scene of a street party. Musicians with guitars, music fans, gawking tourists, and locals all gathered. The sheer numbers of people clogged the roads, stopping traffic for approximately an hour. The riders of two particular buses, the 139 from Waterloo and the 189 from West Hampstead were treated to an upper-deck view of all the shenanigans.
At exactly 11:35 am, the time the original photo was shot, several re-enactors dressed as John and Paul (have we seen these guys on youtube.com pretending they ARE John and Paul?) actually crossed the road. The throngs were so close that only a few got to actually SEE this auspicious moment. Everyone else just enjoyed the party atmosphere, singing along with a rotating list of guitar players who were set up near the benches outside of Neville Court.
In an attempt to chronicle the moment, intrepid BlogMama took time out from moving house to be on the scene. Hubster and I had already run several loads of clothing and personal belongings over to the new flat on the other side of Abbey Road. We passed through the famous pedestrian crossing several times with our rolling luggage, full on the way over, and empty on the way back. By half past ten in the morning, the crowd, which has started out at 9 am in the dozens, had swelled to hundreds if not several thousands. It would no longer be possible to get rolling luggage through the throngs.
I went out with the idea of getting everyone there to sign my “guest list”, attempting to chronicle for posterity who attended the morning’s festivities. The first family I approached was American. Americans are known to be friendly, right? This particular middle-aged lady looked like she was a deer in the headlights. WHY was I doing this? WHAT purpose did it serve? WHY was I asking such personal questions? WHY did I require her age? I guess she didn’t realize that she would be part of a moment in history, or perhaps she did! She was a bit rude in her refusal to answer my questions. Not to be denied, I pressed on. I made a point to ask people of all ages and nationalities to sign. There was no particular pattern to my asking, but also no perceivable pattern to who turned down my request to be listed on this blog. People of all ages and nationalities were happy to be a part of aflatonabbeyroad.blogspot.com’s chronicle of the event.
It took about an hour for me to collect 37 signatures. Some of these folks were happy to provide their email addresses, others chose not to do so. Here they are, in the order in which they were collected. Please note: anyone under the age of 18 had express permission from a parent to have their name included on this list:
Name age Hometown
Richell Perry 22 Kingscliff, Australia
Melissa Heffernan 21 Australia, now London
Dave Neustrom 28 America
Sue Neustrom 58 Chicago, USA
Stela Sty… (illegible) 40+ London
Cathy Heikurinen 51 Oakville, Toronto, Canada
David Stark 56 London
Maxim Pokrovsky 40 Moscow
Dorothy McCuller “mature” Gallup, New Mexico, USA
Nichola Stephenson 35 Leicester, UK
Paul Williams 57 London
Daniele Merlani 27 Milan, Italy
Samantha Acquaviva 21 Milano, Italy
Jupiter John 109 (?) London
Richard Rigby 57 London
George Carter 15 London
Margaret Baker 71 London
Gloria & Mark Frankel 76, 66 London
Anthony Cooper 44.4 London
Eddie Rack 48 Germany
Rolf Seemann 48 Germany
Daniel Godoy 23 Zaragoza, Spain
Lidia Palanos 27 Madrid, Spain
Allen Miller 57 Vancouver, BC, Canada
Carlo Ritchi 43 Milan, Italy
Al___ Moguar? 27 Milan, Italy
Karen Purvis 47 London
Lou/Lore? Go…? 14 Belgium
Abby Dees 43 Los Angeles, CA, USA
Lori Catellier 44 Chicago, USA
Taylor Blumenberg 24 Charleston, SC
Bert Tolhamp 47 Amersterdam
Tom Cleaver 23 London
The Leon Family Guadalajara, Mexico
The White Family Denmark
Adrian Main 49 London
Juan 11 Xativa, Spain
Paco Codina 55 Xativa, Spain
At this point, the policeman (a regular “Bobby”, not the gentleman in the “Incident Response” vest) cleared us all out of the road. I wound up on the corner where the musicians were playing to the sing-along crowd. After a rousing round of Hey Jude and I Wanna Hold Your Hand, I was approached by a reporter and cameraman from Sky News.
After a series of questions, I summarized my woman-on-the-street point of view by saying that I thought the Abbey Road zebra crossing had become a sort of shrine, where people came to celebrate the music of the Beatles and the impact it has had on their lives.
I guess I’ll have to watch the news tonight to see if they include me in their report! Of course I put a plug in for the blog….
Thanks to everyone who participated in today's Love-Fest on Abbey Road!
Today on Abbey Road, NW8, London, thousands of people of all ages and from all over the globe gathered to commemorate what may just be the most famous pedestrian crossing of all time.
The zebra crossing at the corner of Abbey and Grove End Roads became the scene of a street party. Musicians with guitars, music fans, gawking tourists, and locals all gathered. The sheer numbers of people clogged the roads, stopping traffic for approximately an hour. The riders of two particular buses, the 139 from Waterloo and the 189 from West Hampstead were treated to an upper-deck view of all the shenanigans.
At exactly 11:35 am, the time the original photo was shot, several re-enactors dressed as John and Paul (have we seen these guys on youtube.com pretending they ARE John and Paul?) actually crossed the road. The throngs were so close that only a few got to actually SEE this auspicious moment. Everyone else just enjoyed the party atmosphere, singing along with a rotating list of guitar players who were set up near the benches outside of Neville Court.
In an attempt to chronicle the moment, intrepid BlogMama took time out from moving house to be on the scene. Hubster and I had already run several loads of clothing and personal belongings over to the new flat on the other side of Abbey Road. We passed through the famous pedestrian crossing several times with our rolling luggage, full on the way over, and empty on the way back. By half past ten in the morning, the crowd, which has started out at 9 am in the dozens, had swelled to hundreds if not several thousands. It would no longer be possible to get rolling luggage through the throngs.
I went out with the idea of getting everyone there to sign my “guest list”, attempting to chronicle for posterity who attended the morning’s festivities. The first family I approached was American. Americans are known to be friendly, right? This particular middle-aged lady looked like she was a deer in the headlights. WHY was I doing this? WHAT purpose did it serve? WHY was I asking such personal questions? WHY did I require her age? I guess she didn’t realize that she would be part of a moment in history, or perhaps she did! She was a bit rude in her refusal to answer my questions. Not to be denied, I pressed on. I made a point to ask people of all ages and nationalities to sign. There was no particular pattern to my asking, but also no perceivable pattern to who turned down my request to be listed on this blog. People of all ages and nationalities were happy to be a part of aflatonabbeyroad.blogspot.com’s chronicle of the event.
It took about an hour for me to collect 37 signatures. Some of these folks were happy to provide their email addresses, others chose not to do so. Here they are, in the order in which they were collected. Please note: anyone under the age of 18 had express permission from a parent to have their name included on this list:
Name age Hometown
Richell Perry 22 Kingscliff, Australia
Melissa Heffernan 21 Australia, now London
Dave Neustrom 28 America
Sue Neustrom 58 Chicago, USA
Stela Sty… (illegible) 40+ London
Cathy Heikurinen 51 Oakville, Toronto, Canada
David Stark 56 London
Maxim Pokrovsky 40 Moscow
Dorothy McCuller “mature” Gallup, New Mexico, USA
Nichola Stephenson 35 Leicester, UK
Paul Williams 57 London
Daniele Merlani 27 Milan, Italy
Samantha Acquaviva 21 Milano, Italy
Jupiter John 109 (?) London
Richard Rigby 57 London
George Carter 15 London
Margaret Baker 71 London
Gloria & Mark Frankel 76, 66 London
Anthony Cooper 44.4 London
Eddie Rack 48 Germany
Rolf Seemann 48 Germany
Daniel Godoy 23 Zaragoza, Spain
Lidia Palanos 27 Madrid, Spain
Allen Miller 57 Vancouver, BC, Canada
Carlo Ritchi 43 Milan, Italy
Al___ Moguar? 27 Milan, Italy
Karen Purvis 47 London
Lou/Lore? Go…? 14 Belgium
Abby Dees 43 Los Angeles, CA, USA
Lori Catellier 44 Chicago, USA
Taylor Blumenberg 24 Charleston, SC
Bert Tolhamp 47 Amersterdam
Tom Cleaver 23 London
The Leon Family Guadalajara, Mexico
The White Family Denmark
Adrian Main 49 London
Juan 11 Xativa, Spain
Paco Codina 55 Xativa, Spain
At this point, the policeman (a regular “Bobby”, not the gentleman in the “Incident Response” vest) cleared us all out of the road. I wound up on the corner where the musicians were playing to the sing-along crowd. After a rousing round of Hey Jude and I Wanna Hold Your Hand, I was approached by a reporter and cameraman from Sky News.
After a series of questions, I summarized my woman-on-the-street point of view by saying that I thought the Abbey Road zebra crossing had become a sort of shrine, where people came to celebrate the music of the Beatles and the impact it has had on their lives.
I guess I’ll have to watch the news tonight to see if they include me in their report! Of course I put a plug in for the blog….
Thanks to everyone who participated in today's Love-Fest on Abbey Road!
Thursday, August 6, 2009
She’s Got Legs… (ZZ Top)
Astute readers may recall that during a long-haul flight to the US in the spring, I developed severe pain in both shins and ankles that curtailed my physical activities for some weeks.
After about a month, I self-diagnosed the pain as having been caused by venous valve “blow-out” on the flight, resulting in varicose veins of the shins.
Before leaving London for Boston in June, I contacted the office of a vascular surgeon recommended to me by my NHS GP. She said that waiting for treatment on the NHS would take years, and that I should be evaluated right away since the pain was affecting my ability to be mobile. This particular specialist is so in demand that there was a 6-week waiting period. The doctor’s wonderful secretary booked me in for a consultation on a Monday, andfor a procedure on the Wednesday of that same week. If the surgeon found something that needed surgical attention, it would be able to be taken care of right away.
So, off I went to the hospital around the corner to consult with “Dr. G”, who unfortunately for me was a tad late for his previous appointment. I was ready to create a fuss, so it was a good thing I had brought my knitting to the waiting room as it helped to calm me. Once in his office, he took notes as I described the saga of my veins, and then he conducted an ultra-sound scan of the veins in my legs. The Doppler technology clearly showed reflux (the valves not closing all the way when they are supposed to, resulting in backflow into the superficial leg veins) in the greater Saphenous vein. In the leg with the greater pain, it was occurring just below the knee as well as higher up in the thigh near the groin. So that explains the intermittent fluttery sensations there! The other leg has “just” the faulty valve below the knee, but also something called a “Boyd’s perforator”, which is the vein bulging out looking for someplace for the backed up blood to flow.
It was interesting to learn that the painful shin veins were not the entire problem, and that the foundation for the symptoms was much higher up in a large vein, near the knee and groin, and it was especially interesting to see it all displayed in glorious color on the Doppler scan. I felt like I had a weather map of my circulatory system on display, and that instead of the movement of clouds towards and away from the scanner showing an impending thunderstorm or tornado, it was showing a backflow of blood going the wrong way in my veins. I clearly remembered being taught about the Doppler effect on sound waves in one of my high school science classes, with the sound of a train horn’s pitch rising as the source of the sound gets nearer to the listener, and the pitch sounding lower as the train moves away. The movement of the stars in space (reddish stars moving towards earth, with the light wavelength shortening, and stars appearing to be blue moving away from earth, their visible light wavelengths appearing to lengthen) and now, even blood flow, can be illustrated by a computer program that red and blue colors to blood moving through the circulatory system. Hooray for Herr Doppler (Austria, 1842) !
The treatment of choice for the vascular reflux is laser surgery, where a catheter containing a tiny laser is inserted in the greater saphenous vein from ankle to upper thigh, and the valves and vein tissue are ablated (I believe “zapped” is the technical term) under local anesthesia. The protruding vein portions are then removed surgically through tiny incisions “the size of a freckle”. Recovery time is a week or two, although Dr. G. said he had one patient back on the golf course within two days of the surgery.
I was glad to be already booked in to the surgery schedule by the highly efficient Veron Williams, so only had two nights and one day to worry about the actual surgery. Although I had already done my internet research homework and knew what to expect IF I had the diagnosis, and was fairly certain that I had diagnosed myself correctly, it was a relief to learn from the surgeon that he considered the procedure to be warranted in my individual case, and that it was a pretty routine procedure from his point of view.
I will describe my day of surgery and the week that followed it in a separate entry.
After about a month, I self-diagnosed the pain as having been caused by venous valve “blow-out” on the flight, resulting in varicose veins of the shins.
Before leaving London for Boston in June, I contacted the office of a vascular surgeon recommended to me by my NHS GP. She said that waiting for treatment on the NHS would take years, and that I should be evaluated right away since the pain was affecting my ability to be mobile. This particular specialist is so in demand that there was a 6-week waiting period. The doctor’s wonderful secretary booked me in for a consultation on a Monday, andfor a procedure on the Wednesday of that same week. If the surgeon found something that needed surgical attention, it would be able to be taken care of right away.
So, off I went to the hospital around the corner to consult with “Dr. G”, who unfortunately for me was a tad late for his previous appointment. I was ready to create a fuss, so it was a good thing I had brought my knitting to the waiting room as it helped to calm me. Once in his office, he took notes as I described the saga of my veins, and then he conducted an ultra-sound scan of the veins in my legs. The Doppler technology clearly showed reflux (the valves not closing all the way when they are supposed to, resulting in backflow into the superficial leg veins) in the greater Saphenous vein. In the leg with the greater pain, it was occurring just below the knee as well as higher up in the thigh near the groin. So that explains the intermittent fluttery sensations there! The other leg has “just” the faulty valve below the knee, but also something called a “Boyd’s perforator”, which is the vein bulging out looking for someplace for the backed up blood to flow.
It was interesting to learn that the painful shin veins were not the entire problem, and that the foundation for the symptoms was much higher up in a large vein, near the knee and groin, and it was especially interesting to see it all displayed in glorious color on the Doppler scan. I felt like I had a weather map of my circulatory system on display, and that instead of the movement of clouds towards and away from the scanner showing an impending thunderstorm or tornado, it was showing a backflow of blood going the wrong way in my veins. I clearly remembered being taught about the Doppler effect on sound waves in one of my high school science classes, with the sound of a train horn’s pitch rising as the source of the sound gets nearer to the listener, and the pitch sounding lower as the train moves away. The movement of the stars in space (reddish stars moving towards earth, with the light wavelength shortening, and stars appearing to be blue moving away from earth, their visible light wavelengths appearing to lengthen) and now, even blood flow, can be illustrated by a computer program that red and blue colors to blood moving through the circulatory system. Hooray for Herr Doppler (Austria, 1842) !
The treatment of choice for the vascular reflux is laser surgery, where a catheter containing a tiny laser is inserted in the greater saphenous vein from ankle to upper thigh, and the valves and vein tissue are ablated (I believe “zapped” is the technical term) under local anesthesia. The protruding vein portions are then removed surgically through tiny incisions “the size of a freckle”. Recovery time is a week or two, although Dr. G. said he had one patient back on the golf course within two days of the surgery.
I was glad to be already booked in to the surgery schedule by the highly efficient Veron Williams, so only had two nights and one day to worry about the actual surgery. Although I had already done my internet research homework and knew what to expect IF I had the diagnosis, and was fairly certain that I had diagnosed myself correctly, it was a relief to learn from the surgeon that he considered the procedure to be warranted in my individual case, and that it was a pretty routine procedure from his point of view.
I will describe my day of surgery and the week that followed it in a separate entry.
Friday, July 31, 2009
The Wall
I need to go home. To London, that is. When I return there, I will be getting things ready to move from our old flat on Abbey Road to our new one just a few streets away. This process seems daunting, although when compared to our move of last year, from Belmont to London, it should technically be a piece of cake.
It should also be a walk in the park compared to the construction project that has been going on in the basement of our Belmont home, where I have been residing for the past month.
We arrived in Boston on June 15th, shortly after TeenE’s school year ended in London. Since then she has been visiting with friends and preparing for her four weeks at adventure camp in New Hampshire. I have been visiting friends and spending a lot of time in our basement.
The first two weeks we were here, it rained almost every day. Monsoon-like conditions soaked the ground and raised the water table enough that the basement walls were damp enough to grow plants suitable for the forest floor. This has been a problem for this house since before we moved in, and the former owners installed a French drain and a drywell in the backyard. The barn-board paneling, installed perhaps in the 1960’s, as well as the wood lathing holding it out from the wall had been slowly rotting and molding since then.
Last summer, as reported on this blog, with the help of many friends, I took down the paneling in the north corner of the basement, waterproofed that area of the wall, and installed ceramic tiles. This summer, the entire northeastern walls were rehabilitated. Using a crowbar, I removed the punky paneling from the floor to about three feet above, including molding strips between four and ten feet long. I scraped the wall down, removing decades of loose paint and plaster. I used a chisel to loosen areas of failing cement and discovered that some of the wooden molding had been placed directly on top of a row of cinder blocks. The holes of the blocks were just sitting open, inviting incursion by rodents and snakes. No wonder the cats always liked the basement!
The next step was using hydraulic cement to waterproof the wall’s surface. For those of you not “in the know”, hydraulic cement is a quick-drying product which uses what I presume to be a chemical reaction producing heat to transform the cement powder and water mixture into a rock-hard, impermeable surface in about three minutes. One has about thirty seconds to stir one scoop of water into three scoops of cement powder, producing a goo the consistency of cake icing. Application to the intended surface has to happen within the next two minutes. If this does not happen, the entire batch hardens into a rock in the bottom of the plastic pail and must be discarded. Note: do not attempt to answer the doorbell when working with hydraulic cement, especially if it is the UPS delivery truck with a package you have ordered on Son’s behalf as a birthday gift to the woman you are not allowed to refer to as his “girlfriend”. You will certainly have to knock the now-hardened magma out of the bucket and begin again.
After what will seem like thirty separate trips to the laundry sink to mix up the cement, step back and watch your wall be transformed into a less damp, more leak-proof surface.
The next step in Wall Rehab is to make several trips to the store which sells home maintenance and repair supplies. On the first trip, purchase enough supplies to cover the square footage of the wall so you can avoid a second trip. If you are using ceramic tiles and acrylic tile adhesive, buy just enough tiles to cover the surface, but twice as much adhesive as you think you’ll need. Also purchase pre-colored, pre-mixed grout, some trowels, tile spacers, and a “grout float” which helps you push the grout into to spaces between the tiles.
Now, once the weather clears and the basement is less damp, spend all the sunny days of your "vacation" in the basement. It will help to make a big pot of coffee at the beginning of each day so that you can provide yourself with endless refills of iced coffee. It will also help to bring a radio or other music-broadcasting device into the basement with you. A live radio broadcast will help you know what time of day it is, as the conditions in the basement will not be conducive to knowing the hour of the day or the day of the week. Playing your favorite genre of “music for home repair”, in my case, Classic Rock, will help to energize you and imbue your work with the “vibes” of the music. Turn the music UP when the vibes are good for you, for example, Pink Floyd’s THE WALL, any Led Zeppelin, or Beatles. Turn the music OFF when the vibes are not good for your project, such as anything by Black Sabbath or “Don’t Fear the Reaper” by Blue Oyster Cult. (Although I do like the message of this song, it was a little too… evocative of a grim mood… for me to be fully operational.)
Once the proper musical mood has been achieved, carefully place the ceramic tiles in a pleasing and efficient pattern using the tile spacers and acrylic adhesive. Use a level to make sure your horizontal lines stay horizontal, and that your vertical stacks don’t go off-center. This last step may mean you’re your tile-gluing job takes several days. Once you have achieved your tile results, take one day off while you allow the adhesive to cure. Next, using a trowel and the grout float, press the grout (in this example, colored the Renoir-esque “Haystack” beige) onto the tiles and into the channels between the tiles. If you have used your spacers correctly, the channels will all be of similar width.
Now you’re almost done! All you have to do is use a damp sponge (proper size available on the tile aisle of the home goods store) to remove excess grout, and then spend half a day cleaning up after yourself.
Before I left, someone in London wished me a good “holiday”. I made sure they realized it was not a “vacation” per se, but a trip in which skilled manual labor would be performed on an almost-daily basis. If you are a Boston-based friend and you were wondering why you didn’t get a chance to see me during my five weeks in residence, it is probably because I was in the basement working on THE WALL.
It should also be a walk in the park compared to the construction project that has been going on in the basement of our Belmont home, where I have been residing for the past month.
We arrived in Boston on June 15th, shortly after TeenE’s school year ended in London. Since then she has been visiting with friends and preparing for her four weeks at adventure camp in New Hampshire. I have been visiting friends and spending a lot of time in our basement.
The first two weeks we were here, it rained almost every day. Monsoon-like conditions soaked the ground and raised the water table enough that the basement walls were damp enough to grow plants suitable for the forest floor. This has been a problem for this house since before we moved in, and the former owners installed a French drain and a drywell in the backyard. The barn-board paneling, installed perhaps in the 1960’s, as well as the wood lathing holding it out from the wall had been slowly rotting and molding since then.
Last summer, as reported on this blog, with the help of many friends, I took down the paneling in the north corner of the basement, waterproofed that area of the wall, and installed ceramic tiles. This summer, the entire northeastern walls were rehabilitated. Using a crowbar, I removed the punky paneling from the floor to about three feet above, including molding strips between four and ten feet long. I scraped the wall down, removing decades of loose paint and plaster. I used a chisel to loosen areas of failing cement and discovered that some of the wooden molding had been placed directly on top of a row of cinder blocks. The holes of the blocks were just sitting open, inviting incursion by rodents and snakes. No wonder the cats always liked the basement!
The next step was using hydraulic cement to waterproof the wall’s surface. For those of you not “in the know”, hydraulic cement is a quick-drying product which uses what I presume to be a chemical reaction producing heat to transform the cement powder and water mixture into a rock-hard, impermeable surface in about three minutes. One has about thirty seconds to stir one scoop of water into three scoops of cement powder, producing a goo the consistency of cake icing. Application to the intended surface has to happen within the next two minutes. If this does not happen, the entire batch hardens into a rock in the bottom of the plastic pail and must be discarded. Note: do not attempt to answer the doorbell when working with hydraulic cement, especially if it is the UPS delivery truck with a package you have ordered on Son’s behalf as a birthday gift to the woman you are not allowed to refer to as his “girlfriend”. You will certainly have to knock the now-hardened magma out of the bucket and begin again.
After what will seem like thirty separate trips to the laundry sink to mix up the cement, step back and watch your wall be transformed into a less damp, more leak-proof surface.
The next step in Wall Rehab is to make several trips to the store which sells home maintenance and repair supplies. On the first trip, purchase enough supplies to cover the square footage of the wall so you can avoid a second trip. If you are using ceramic tiles and acrylic tile adhesive, buy just enough tiles to cover the surface, but twice as much adhesive as you think you’ll need. Also purchase pre-colored, pre-mixed grout, some trowels, tile spacers, and a “grout float” which helps you push the grout into to spaces between the tiles.
Now, once the weather clears and the basement is less damp, spend all the sunny days of your "vacation" in the basement. It will help to make a big pot of coffee at the beginning of each day so that you can provide yourself with endless refills of iced coffee. It will also help to bring a radio or other music-broadcasting device into the basement with you. A live radio broadcast will help you know what time of day it is, as the conditions in the basement will not be conducive to knowing the hour of the day or the day of the week. Playing your favorite genre of “music for home repair”, in my case, Classic Rock, will help to energize you and imbue your work with the “vibes” of the music. Turn the music UP when the vibes are good for you, for example, Pink Floyd’s THE WALL, any Led Zeppelin, or Beatles. Turn the music OFF when the vibes are not good for your project, such as anything by Black Sabbath or “Don’t Fear the Reaper” by Blue Oyster Cult. (Although I do like the message of this song, it was a little too… evocative of a grim mood… for me to be fully operational.)
Once the proper musical mood has been achieved, carefully place the ceramic tiles in a pleasing and efficient pattern using the tile spacers and acrylic adhesive. Use a level to make sure your horizontal lines stay horizontal, and that your vertical stacks don’t go off-center. This last step may mean you’re your tile-gluing job takes several days. Once you have achieved your tile results, take one day off while you allow the adhesive to cure. Next, using a trowel and the grout float, press the grout (in this example, colored the Renoir-esque “Haystack” beige) onto the tiles and into the channels between the tiles. If you have used your spacers correctly, the channels will all be of similar width.
Now you’re almost done! All you have to do is use a damp sponge (proper size available on the tile aisle of the home goods store) to remove excess grout, and then spend half a day cleaning up after yourself.
Before I left, someone in London wished me a good “holiday”. I made sure they realized it was not a “vacation” per se, but a trip in which skilled manual labor would be performed on an almost-daily basis. If you are a Boston-based friend and you were wondering why you didn’t get a chance to see me during my five weeks in residence, it is probably because I was in the basement working on THE WALL.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Mystery Achievement
Mystery the cat is pleased to announce that she has been adopted by the Knittin’ Kitten!
Mary Ann came to visit her and evaluate her suitability to join the pride already in progress at her home. Mystery was at her most charming, due in part to the presence of a large quantity of catnip and Greenies treats. Despite the absence of any purring (is this the result of growing up with a dog?) Mystery was inquisitive, friendly, and even performed the treat-producing “head-butt” that cats have perfected somewhere along the evolutionary ladder.
After Mystery passed muster, it took two grown women to wrangle her into the cat-carrier, and then she was on her way to her new home in Arlington, to join Amber and the infamous Mr. Lucky.
An early morning report from Mary Ann, provided while she was driving me to Logan airport, was that Mystery was ensconced in her “safe room”, where she had spent the night hissing through the door at Mr. Lucky. At one point, she tried to hiss and yawn at the same time, and wound up choking herself.
Let us now praise famous knitters for their kind and compassionate and kitty-lovin’ hearts.
Mary Ann came to visit her and evaluate her suitability to join the pride already in progress at her home. Mystery was at her most charming, due in part to the presence of a large quantity of catnip and Greenies treats. Despite the absence of any purring (is this the result of growing up with a dog?) Mystery was inquisitive, friendly, and even performed the treat-producing “head-butt” that cats have perfected somewhere along the evolutionary ladder.
After Mystery passed muster, it took two grown women to wrangle her into the cat-carrier, and then she was on her way to her new home in Arlington, to join Amber and the infamous Mr. Lucky.
An early morning report from Mary Ann, provided while she was driving me to Logan airport, was that Mystery was ensconced in her “safe room”, where she had spent the night hissing through the door at Mr. Lucky. At one point, she tried to hiss and yawn at the same time, and wound up choking herself.
Let us now praise famous knitters for their kind and compassionate and kitty-lovin’ hearts.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
It's 8 am. Do you know where your cysts are?
I had to set the alarm in order to wake up in time for the radiology appointment. Approximately every two years, I go through the same routine. The ultrasound-plus-cyst-aspiration appointments are doled out only to those who are early risers. They are only on certain days of the week, and only at 8:15.
My alarm setting is called "Cathedral Chime" and it sounds vaguely like Big Ben, which is especially confusing at this early hour because I've been dreaming that I'm in London, but I'm actually back in Boston. We are out of coffee, so I have to get behind the wheel of the mini-van in an impaired, i.e. caffeine-free, condition. A short ten-minute ride has me at the health center in Somerville, where for the second time in a week I get to don the johnny-top. The ultra-sound technician, who has done this with me at least three times before, ushers me into a cold office. I get settled in on the table, and she says she'll be back in a few minutes. I ask for a blanket or something to keep me warm, and she brings me another half-johnny and puts it over my legs. It is supposed to be summer, so I have worn a skirt, which was not a particularly smart move.
The technician comes back with the doctor, who introduces herself. I remind her that she's done this with me several times before. They want to know if I found the cysts myself or if they only showed up on the mammogram. I tell them yes, I found them myself, that it is particularly hard to miss something the size of a grape that gets hard as a rock for a week each month and causes pressure, discomfort, and finally, pain, and that I have four of them, two on each side.
The doctor readies the needle with lidocaine and shields it from my view with her body as she does so. This is fine with me, as I really don't like looking at or thinking about needles. The amount of relief I get from this particular procedure is the only reason I am here. I practice my relaxation breathing, and she gets to work with the lidocaine as the technician pours on the cold goo and presses her ultrasound wand up against me. Even though the surface of the skin has been numbed by the lidocaine, the interior of the affected area is not numb as the doctor uses a syringe to suck the living daylights out of each cyst, and then, with a sweeping motion, sucks up the membrane. I wind up writhing on the table with a cramp in my lower back as I am unable to stay relaxed. Somehow, the combination of hearing the following statements is interfering with my bliss:
"Your cysts are very well organized". Oh good.
"This needle is so bendy, I can't control it very well".
"I'm going to need a larger bore needle".
After about ten minutes of this tooth-gritting fun I get a couple of bandaids stuck on each side, am told to avoid aspirin for another day or so, and am free to go.
My alarm setting is called "Cathedral Chime" and it sounds vaguely like Big Ben, which is especially confusing at this early hour because I've been dreaming that I'm in London, but I'm actually back in Boston. We are out of coffee, so I have to get behind the wheel of the mini-van in an impaired, i.e. caffeine-free, condition. A short ten-minute ride has me at the health center in Somerville, where for the second time in a week I get to don the johnny-top. The ultra-sound technician, who has done this with me at least three times before, ushers me into a cold office. I get settled in on the table, and she says she'll be back in a few minutes. I ask for a blanket or something to keep me warm, and she brings me another half-johnny and puts it over my legs. It is supposed to be summer, so I have worn a skirt, which was not a particularly smart move.
The technician comes back with the doctor, who introduces herself. I remind her that she's done this with me several times before. They want to know if I found the cysts myself or if they only showed up on the mammogram. I tell them yes, I found them myself, that it is particularly hard to miss something the size of a grape that gets hard as a rock for a week each month and causes pressure, discomfort, and finally, pain, and that I have four of them, two on each side.
The doctor readies the needle with lidocaine and shields it from my view with her body as she does so. This is fine with me, as I really don't like looking at or thinking about needles. The amount of relief I get from this particular procedure is the only reason I am here. I practice my relaxation breathing, and she gets to work with the lidocaine as the technician pours on the cold goo and presses her ultrasound wand up against me. Even though the surface of the skin has been numbed by the lidocaine, the interior of the affected area is not numb as the doctor uses a syringe to suck the living daylights out of each cyst, and then, with a sweeping motion, sucks up the membrane. I wind up writhing on the table with a cramp in my lower back as I am unable to stay relaxed. Somehow, the combination of hearing the following statements is interfering with my bliss:
"Your cysts are very well organized". Oh good.
"This needle is so bendy, I can't control it very well".
"I'm going to need a larger bore needle".
After about ten minutes of this tooth-gritting fun I get a couple of bandaids stuck on each side, am told to avoid aspirin for another day or so, and am free to go.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
A House is Not a Home.... HOT FLASH!
We have found tenants for our house in Belmont, taking a major worry off our plates.
Both TeenE and I are homesick for London and our friends there. I can't wait to return and get back to my normal London routines.
Both TeenE and I are homesick for London and our friends there. I can't wait to return and get back to my normal London routines.
Honey Pie
If it's two am, then three am, and you can't sleep, I recommend a piece of homemade rhubarb pie and a glass of milk.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Hallelujah Chorus and Hot Flash.
Follow-up note to Vis a Vis a Visa: TeenE's two passports and her original birth certificate (with the word "Masachusetts" (sic) mis-spelled on it thanks to the Belmont Town Hall) were returned to us via Federal Express. The NEW passport contains the NEW Tier 1 Dependent Visa which expires on the last day of September, 2011. We sincerely hope that will be the last of the visa-fication for quite some time.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
A Smash'n'Grab Session
Yesterday I survived the medically-sanctioned "smash-n-grab" session known as The Annual Mammogram.
I got onto the annual schedule after the Tiny Calcified Spot showed up on the films a few years back. Now everything is digital and, one assumes, in High Def if not 3-D or Surround-Sound.
For those of you who've never had the experience, you're in for a real treat.
First, you get ushered into the special waiting area for Radiology after checking in with NO CO-PAY. I've never figured out why. Then you get taken into a row of waiting rooms that all feed in to the room with the mammogram equipment. Next, you change into the attractive top-johnny, and sit and read a year-old magazine while the woman whose turn is currently happening has her mammogram. You get to listen to all of the patter between the technician and the other patient, such as "turn to the front a little more" and "hold your breath now". You get to hear the other woman go "Owwww" as the machine smashes her tender bits into a mush. The smaller the breasts, the more they have to be smashed between the cold metal plates. Please note: the plates are cold even though the powers-that-be have been thoughtful enough to train a hot-air blower on them.
Finally the previous patient is told to go wait in the cubicle next to yours, and the technician comes to get you. It's your turn to get little metal pasties marked Left and Right stuck on your pointy bits. Next you get to stand at the machine and be pressed like a lemon into lemonade. If you're really lucky, your hormone cycle is at its peak and your cysts will be good and sore as the technician uses her hand to stuff you more efficiently in between the plates. She tightens the plates as firmly as possible, and as you wince with pain, she steps behind her shielded area. Then, she presses a button and the vice in which your breast is being pressed tightens EVEN MORE. As soon as the x-rays have been beamed into your flesh, the plates automatically open up.
If you "don't have a lot of tissue to work with", as my friend K does, you might wind up with the technician's hand mushed between the plates along with your breast, as she struggles to reach the foot pedal machine-release that is now just out of reach.
Finally, you return to your dressing-cubicle and wait there in your half-johnny until the technician tells you that she doesn't need any more shots and that everything looks good and you may go. Or that you get to go down the hall and have an ultra-sound scan of the aforementioned cysts so that you can come back in a week and get them aspirated.
While on that table with cold goo being squeezed onto you, daydream about getting a copy of the ultra-sound pix of your cysts to post on the blog like people do with their fetal ultra-sound scans.
All kidding aside, this is a reminder to you all you gal-readers out there to remember to schedule your mammogram now. And if you're a guy, ask your special gal/mom/sis if she's up to date with her scans. And ask really nicely, in case she's hormonal.
I got onto the annual schedule after the Tiny Calcified Spot showed up on the films a few years back. Now everything is digital and, one assumes, in High Def if not 3-D or Surround-Sound.
For those of you who've never had the experience, you're in for a real treat.
First, you get ushered into the special waiting area for Radiology after checking in with NO CO-PAY. I've never figured out why. Then you get taken into a row of waiting rooms that all feed in to the room with the mammogram equipment. Next, you change into the attractive top-johnny, and sit and read a year-old magazine while the woman whose turn is currently happening has her mammogram. You get to listen to all of the patter between the technician and the other patient, such as "turn to the front a little more" and "hold your breath now". You get to hear the other woman go "Owwww" as the machine smashes her tender bits into a mush. The smaller the breasts, the more they have to be smashed between the cold metal plates. Please note: the plates are cold even though the powers-that-be have been thoughtful enough to train a hot-air blower on them.
Finally the previous patient is told to go wait in the cubicle next to yours, and the technician comes to get you. It's your turn to get little metal pasties marked Left and Right stuck on your pointy bits. Next you get to stand at the machine and be pressed like a lemon into lemonade. If you're really lucky, your hormone cycle is at its peak and your cysts will be good and sore as the technician uses her hand to stuff you more efficiently in between the plates. She tightens the plates as firmly as possible, and as you wince with pain, she steps behind her shielded area. Then, she presses a button and the vice in which your breast is being pressed tightens EVEN MORE. As soon as the x-rays have been beamed into your flesh, the plates automatically open up.
If you "don't have a lot of tissue to work with", as my friend K does, you might wind up with the technician's hand mushed between the plates along with your breast, as she struggles to reach the foot pedal machine-release that is now just out of reach.
Finally, you return to your dressing-cubicle and wait there in your half-johnny until the technician tells you that she doesn't need any more shots and that everything looks good and you may go. Or that you get to go down the hall and have an ultra-sound scan of the aforementioned cysts so that you can come back in a week and get them aspirated.
While on that table with cold goo being squeezed onto you, daydream about getting a copy of the ultra-sound pix of your cysts to post on the blog like people do with their fetal ultra-sound scans.
All kidding aside, this is a reminder to you all you gal-readers out there to remember to schedule your mammogram now. And if you're a guy, ask your special gal/mom/sis if she's up to date with her scans. And ask really nicely, in case she's hormonal.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
HOT FLASH!! shooting in NW8 restaurant
A story reported by MSN states that there was a double-shooting at a restaurant in NW8 on Friday night. Harry Morgan's, a "Kosher-style" deli on the Hi Street, just moments from the NW8 Starbucks where I hang out, and directly across the street from the Hospice Charity Shop, was hit by a gunman at 9 pm on Friday. He fired shots inside the restaurant, and two people waiting to pick up their take-out orders were struck by bullets A 31-year old man and a 15 year old boy were hit. Both have non-life-threatening injuries.
No arrests have been made. The report indicates that former celebrity Rachel Stevens of S Club 7 and her family were unharmed. Thank the Force for that!
Our thoughts, however, go out to the wounded victims and their families and all the diners, shoppers and residents who were traumatized by the senseless violence. Blogmama wonders if TeenE knows the younger victim, who is the same age as she.
UPDATE: TeenE has confirmed the identity of the younger victim as PM, a "friend" she does not know well, but someone who is in her grade at ASL.
No arrests have been made. The report indicates that former celebrity Rachel Stevens of S Club 7 and her family were unharmed. Thank the Force for that!
Our thoughts, however, go out to the wounded victims and their families and all the diners, shoppers and residents who were traumatized by the senseless violence. Blogmama wonders if TeenE knows the younger victim, who is the same age as she.
UPDATE: TeenE has confirmed the identity of the younger victim as PM, a "friend" she does not know well, but someone who is in her grade at ASL.
vis a vis a visa
Sorry to disappoint all of his fans, but this blog is not going to have any further mention of Michael Jackson, his music, his passing, or his pedophilia, although he was only a week older than I am. I am sorry that he struggled with an addiction to painkillers and I'm sure we'll hear in the media circus in the coming weeks that it contributed to his demise.
Instead, I am reporting in on a subject much closer to home: the Visa situation. As many of you know from previous episodes last summer and fall, obtaining special migrant worker status from the UK Home Office and visas from the British Embassy in New York can be a difficult task, mostly due to human error. Last summer Hubster mailed an application to the Home Office in London where he charged the fee to a US credit card. The application and all its supporting materials were returned unprocessed and we were informed that the credit card number did not have the right number of digits. It turns out that UK and US credit cards have different numbering systems, but how can one fill in an application with a UK credit card number if one has not moved there yet due to a lack of visa?
The situation was rectified by us paying the UK solicitor and the UK solicitor paying the Highly Skilled Migrant Worker Scheme application fee. The application materials, including original college diplomas, certified letters from banks detailing our assets, etc. were resubmitted. We were told that in the interim (five days?) the number of applications had gone up enormously and that we now might have to wait up to fourteen weeks for a reply. So we hunkered down for a long wait.
Half the summer went by and I was using my phenomenal psychic superpowers to check on the status of the application. I came up with a mental picture of the application materials slipped down the back of someone's desk and wedged up against a wall. "Shall we call and enquire?" I asked Hubster. "No" he replied, "it says right on the application that you MAY NOT call to enquire about the status of your application." Several more weeks went by. Finally, he decided to follow up with a phone call. The Home Office had no record of our application. It turned out that the application with supporting materials had been "misfiled", i.e., was probably down the back of someone's desk.
In the interim, we were advised to get TeenE a student visa so that she would be able to enter the country and participate in school field trips that might require a passport.
Several months later (in October, AFTER we had moved to London for TeenE to start school, but before David started to work), his Migrant Status was approved and he and I had to make separate trips to New York to obtain the actual visa. When an application was filed on my behalf, somehow the wrong form got used, and we wound up over-paying for a separate HSMP visa rather than the dependent spouse visa that I was to obtain. It all worked out in the end, however, and my visa was issued during a nail-biting several days in Manhatten, and we were eventually refunded our overpayment.
Fast-forward to June 2009. It was time to add TeenE as a dependent to Hubster's main visa.
All new letters from the banks certifying our now-income were obtained, as well as original birth certificate, etc. TeenE had to go back to the "application support center" in Boston to get her fingerprints redone (so they can ensure that it is actually the right person applying, rather than ensuring you have not had a fingerprint-transplant). The application was readied by Hubster after consultation with both the UK and US lawyers. I made a quick scan of it, and was struck by the amount of money being charged. It seemed like the high, overpayment number, rather than the lower, correct dependent number. "Are you sure you are using the right form?" I asked Hubster. "YES" he declared. So we made the appointment for TeenE in Boston and submitted the form electronically to the British Embassy with a cc. to the NY lawyers.
tick tock tick. Some time passes. I do not remember how much, an overnight, maybe, or a day or two. Then I get a phone call from Hubster, who is back in London by this time. Oops, the wrong form was used. IF ONLY THERE WAS A CLUE! Like someone who senses something is not right, and brings it to the attention of those in charge, only to be assured by her Hubster via three lawyers that all is well and correct. Hey, what do I know, right? It is almost "as if" Hubster really doesn't want us to have those visas...
So I was instructed to go to the Belmont public library to print out the NEW biometrics appointment slip for a week hence, although I was told to keep the appointment for this week, and have the fingerprints associated with the NEW appointment number, although we would be cancelling or not using the NEW appointment. I cleverly also printed out the NEW correct visa form. Of course, the street in Boston where the fingerprint place is located was entirely under construction, so I had to send TeenE in to the Application Support Center unattended while I circled around looking for a place to park. I decided to park illegally in a Commercial Vehicles Only zone right under the nose of al the policemen standing around watching the construction. When I got inside the Center, TeenE's fingertips were already being processed and I had to explain to the non-native English-speaker what the situation was with the NEW (next week) vs. OLD (right now today) appointment numbers. We made it out alive in under ten minutes and escaped from the Commercial Vehicles Only zone without a parking ticket.
I guess here is the place to mention that I left the house without TeenE's passport. I had taken it out of the stack of paperwork in order to staple a new passport-style photo to the NEW correct visa form. While just about to get onto the highway to Boston, my cell phone rang. It was Hubster, calling from London. "Do you have the passport?" "YES, I HAVE THE PASSPORT" I snipped, thinking to myself "He must think I'm an idiot". Stopped in a jam at the entrance to Storrow Drive, I had TeenE check the stack of papers just in case. The passport was NOT there. So we high-tailed it back to the house and retraced our route back to Storrow Drive, arriving on the dot of 2 pm for her appointment.
The next portion of the saga involves me attempting to send the completed packet of paperwork (with Passport, correct application form with photo stapled, bothe OLD and NEW biometrics appointment slips as duly stamped by the Application Support Center, etc.) to the lawyer in New York.
Son had taken the car to Needham that morning, as NeedhamSis had hired him to paint their back steps and it was the first day that week with no rain. I hoofed it down towards the knitting store, as FedEx informed me their were several FedEx collection boxes in that area.
FedEx Boxes, yes, FedEx envelopes, no. So I wound up walking to the Post Office (checking every FedEx box I passed, all of which were labelled FedEx Express ONLY (no FedEx Ground). I really didn't care if the application flew or drove to New York, but there were no envelopes anywhere. I filled out the paperwork and was soon at the counter talking with postal employee Thom, who is a Rock fan and who has checked out the Abbey Road webcam. I pulled out my wallet to pay the $20 and 90 cent postage fee, and.... no wallet. Thom graciously allowed me to come back the next day (with cash!) and got the Express Overnight Delivery Before Noon the Next Day package into the outgoing bin for me.
So despite the attempts at self-sabotage from all fronts, the application apparently left Belmont. No word has been received from the lawyer as to its arrival, although perhaps a summer Friday afternoon in Manhatten slows things down a bit.
Keep your fingers and toes crossed for more developments.
Instead, I am reporting in on a subject much closer to home: the Visa situation. As many of you know from previous episodes last summer and fall, obtaining special migrant worker status from the UK Home Office and visas from the British Embassy in New York can be a difficult task, mostly due to human error. Last summer Hubster mailed an application to the Home Office in London where he charged the fee to a US credit card. The application and all its supporting materials were returned unprocessed and we were informed that the credit card number did not have the right number of digits. It turns out that UK and US credit cards have different numbering systems, but how can one fill in an application with a UK credit card number if one has not moved there yet due to a lack of visa?
The situation was rectified by us paying the UK solicitor and the UK solicitor paying the Highly Skilled Migrant Worker Scheme application fee. The application materials, including original college diplomas, certified letters from banks detailing our assets, etc. were resubmitted. We were told that in the interim (five days?) the number of applications had gone up enormously and that we now might have to wait up to fourteen weeks for a reply. So we hunkered down for a long wait.
Half the summer went by and I was using my phenomenal psychic superpowers to check on the status of the application. I came up with a mental picture of the application materials slipped down the back of someone's desk and wedged up against a wall. "Shall we call and enquire?" I asked Hubster. "No" he replied, "it says right on the application that you MAY NOT call to enquire about the status of your application." Several more weeks went by. Finally, he decided to follow up with a phone call. The Home Office had no record of our application. It turned out that the application with supporting materials had been "misfiled", i.e., was probably down the back of someone's desk.
In the interim, we were advised to get TeenE a student visa so that she would be able to enter the country and participate in school field trips that might require a passport.
Several months later (in October, AFTER we had moved to London for TeenE to start school, but before David started to work), his Migrant Status was approved and he and I had to make separate trips to New York to obtain the actual visa. When an application was filed on my behalf, somehow the wrong form got used, and we wound up over-paying for a separate HSMP visa rather than the dependent spouse visa that I was to obtain. It all worked out in the end, however, and my visa was issued during a nail-biting several days in Manhatten, and we were eventually refunded our overpayment.
Fast-forward to June 2009. It was time to add TeenE as a dependent to Hubster's main visa.
All new letters from the banks certifying our now-income were obtained, as well as original birth certificate, etc. TeenE had to go back to the "application support center" in Boston to get her fingerprints redone (so they can ensure that it is actually the right person applying, rather than ensuring you have not had a fingerprint-transplant). The application was readied by Hubster after consultation with both the UK and US lawyers. I made a quick scan of it, and was struck by the amount of money being charged. It seemed like the high, overpayment number, rather than the lower, correct dependent number. "Are you sure you are using the right form?" I asked Hubster. "YES" he declared. So we made the appointment for TeenE in Boston and submitted the form electronically to the British Embassy with a cc. to the NY lawyers.
tick tock tick. Some time passes. I do not remember how much, an overnight, maybe, or a day or two. Then I get a phone call from Hubster, who is back in London by this time. Oops, the wrong form was used. IF ONLY THERE WAS A CLUE! Like someone who senses something is not right, and brings it to the attention of those in charge, only to be assured by her Hubster via three lawyers that all is well and correct. Hey, what do I know, right? It is almost "as if" Hubster really doesn't want us to have those visas...
So I was instructed to go to the Belmont public library to print out the NEW biometrics appointment slip for a week hence, although I was told to keep the appointment for this week, and have the fingerprints associated with the NEW appointment number, although we would be cancelling or not using the NEW appointment. I cleverly also printed out the NEW correct visa form. Of course, the street in Boston where the fingerprint place is located was entirely under construction, so I had to send TeenE in to the Application Support Center unattended while I circled around looking for a place to park. I decided to park illegally in a Commercial Vehicles Only zone right under the nose of al the policemen standing around watching the construction. When I got inside the Center, TeenE's fingertips were already being processed and I had to explain to the non-native English-speaker what the situation was with the NEW (next week) vs. OLD (right now today) appointment numbers. We made it out alive in under ten minutes and escaped from the Commercial Vehicles Only zone without a parking ticket.
I guess here is the place to mention that I left the house without TeenE's passport. I had taken it out of the stack of paperwork in order to staple a new passport-style photo to the NEW correct visa form. While just about to get onto the highway to Boston, my cell phone rang. It was Hubster, calling from London. "Do you have the passport?" "YES, I HAVE THE PASSPORT" I snipped, thinking to myself "He must think I'm an idiot". Stopped in a jam at the entrance to Storrow Drive, I had TeenE check the stack of papers just in case. The passport was NOT there. So we high-tailed it back to the house and retraced our route back to Storrow Drive, arriving on the dot of 2 pm for her appointment.
The next portion of the saga involves me attempting to send the completed packet of paperwork (with Passport, correct application form with photo stapled, bothe OLD and NEW biometrics appointment slips as duly stamped by the Application Support Center, etc.) to the lawyer in New York.
Son had taken the car to Needham that morning, as NeedhamSis had hired him to paint their back steps and it was the first day that week with no rain. I hoofed it down towards the knitting store, as FedEx informed me their were several FedEx collection boxes in that area.
FedEx Boxes, yes, FedEx envelopes, no. So I wound up walking to the Post Office (checking every FedEx box I passed, all of which were labelled FedEx Express ONLY (no FedEx Ground). I really didn't care if the application flew or drove to New York, but there were no envelopes anywhere. I filled out the paperwork and was soon at the counter talking with postal employee Thom, who is a Rock fan and who has checked out the Abbey Road webcam. I pulled out my wallet to pay the $20 and 90 cent postage fee, and.... no wallet. Thom graciously allowed me to come back the next day (with cash!) and got the Express Overnight Delivery Before Noon the Next Day package into the outgoing bin for me.
So despite the attempts at self-sabotage from all fronts, the application apparently left Belmont. No word has been received from the lawyer as to its arrival, although perhaps a summer Friday afternoon in Manhatten slows things down a bit.
Keep your fingers and toes crossed for more developments.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Get Back
Well, here in the land where it all began, I have finished the magenta vest that I started in London. As Paul sang in Get Back, I'm wearing my "high-heeled shoes, and a low-necked sweater".
The following is a list of items and places necessary for the construction of said vest/sweater:
A patient teacher (thank you, Mary Ann of the Knittin' Kitten, Cambridge, Massachusetts); a copy of Vogue Knitting Summer 2009 lace edition, with instructions for the project pictured on the cover; 8 balls of magenta cotton from John Lewis' sale bin in January 2009 (Louisa Harding Nautical Cotton); the Saint John's Wood Women's Club Stitchery group and our main hostess Jane; park benches in Violet Hill Park, NW8 and the St. John's Wood Church Garden across from Lord's Cricket Ground, many evenings of watching Britain's Got Talent, a trip to Killarney, Ireland including a six-hour bus ride through the rain around the Ring of Kerry. Add to this the lessons of patience learned by ripping out the first six inches of the work FOUR TIMES, and custom-made crocheted bobbles (nicknamed "the cojones") by Mary Ann, and you get the project as pictured.
The following is a list of items and places necessary for the construction of said vest/sweater:
A patient teacher (thank you, Mary Ann of the Knittin' Kitten, Cambridge, Massachusetts); a copy of Vogue Knitting Summer 2009 lace edition, with instructions for the project pictured on the cover; 8 balls of magenta cotton from John Lewis' sale bin in January 2009 (Louisa Harding Nautical Cotton); the Saint John's Wood Women's Club Stitchery group and our main hostess Jane; park benches in Violet Hill Park, NW8 and the St. John's Wood Church Garden across from Lord's Cricket Ground, many evenings of watching Britain's Got Talent, a trip to Killarney, Ireland including a six-hour bus ride through the rain around the Ring of Kerry. Add to this the lessons of patience learned by ripping out the first six inches of the work FOUR TIMES, and custom-made crocheted bobbles (nicknamed "the cojones") by Mary Ann, and you get the project as pictured.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Sea and Sand
It's been raining here in Boston for what seems like the entire week since we landed.
It feels really bizarre to be back in the house where we lived for ten years before decamping for London.
Last Saturday, we drove an hour and a quarter up the coast to Rye Beach, NH. This is the town where Hubster's parents had a summer home for the past 25 years. In fact, they had just purchased the house when I met the man who would eventually be known as "Hubster". My sister (eventually to be known as "NeedhamSis" and I would joke that we weren't gold-diggers, but sand-diggers, as we each married a man whose parents had a summer house at the beach. We both had fond beachy memories from our childhoods, when we would float around on our parents' boat "Aquila" on the south shore of Long Island, NY, and further north to the Islands of New England, including Block Island, RI, Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket.
Our trip to the house in Rye Beach last weekend was to provide assistance to Nana and NH Sis as they accomplished the final clear-out of the the personal belongings, since the house has been sold. Seeing the house devoid of its contents was emotionally challenging for me, and in addition, I kept expecting to hear Grandad's laugh as he came into a room. Sadly, Grandad is gone, and the era of happy family gatherings around the dining room table with a boatload of lobsters and drawn butter is over as well. Last week was his and Nana's wedding anniversary, and Sunday was Father's Day, so going through those special days for the first time since his passing in April was challenging as well.
While Hubster, Son and Nana made a run to the "Swap Shop" at the dump, er, "transfer station", I had the chance for a walk on the beach. This is the beach where Hubster and I would spend at least a week of vacation each summer when we were first married, and vacations consisted of visiting one set of parents or the other. Our children were babies and toddlers on that beach, and Son made his debut as Grandchild Numero Uno, giving Nana and Grandad their respective nicknames. As the kids grew, so did there love for the beach and their tolerance for the 59 degree waters of coastal New Hampshire. I spent many happy hours picking blackberries in the front yard while it was still the "Captain's garden" from the Victorian-era house next door. The "Cable" referred to in the address of Cable Road was the Trans-Atlantic Cable that allowed the transmission of Morse Code signals from Europe to the US.
On this particular day, the fog had lifted and as it was dead low tide, the Isles of Shoals were clearly outlined offshore. There were families playing ball and frisbee games, toddlers running to the four-inch high foam with glee, with Moms and Dads chasing after them. I walked down to the northern end of the beach where the tide pools are, and spent a moment remembering the times we would find snails, crabs and other creatures among the granite boulders, barnacles, and kelp. It was 65 degrees back at the house, but no more than 55 down at the shore, with a brisk wind. Clearly, summer would be late arriving, although the calendar said it would be the next day. At least there was a break in the rain, so I could get in my walk.
Following the last trip to the dump, we went to Ray's for seafood. Fried clams, now there is one of nature's perfect foods. Four of us split a quart of them, along with assorted lobster rolls, onion rings, a hot dog, and whatever Hubster had (he won't eat clams).
The seafood feast marked the end of a quarter-century era. I am truly thankful to have been part of such a wonderful extended family who were generous in sharing their lives and their home with their kids, in-laws, and grandchildren.
It feels really bizarre to be back in the house where we lived for ten years before decamping for London.
Last Saturday, we drove an hour and a quarter up the coast to Rye Beach, NH. This is the town where Hubster's parents had a summer home for the past 25 years. In fact, they had just purchased the house when I met the man who would eventually be known as "Hubster". My sister (eventually to be known as "NeedhamSis" and I would joke that we weren't gold-diggers, but sand-diggers, as we each married a man whose parents had a summer house at the beach. We both had fond beachy memories from our childhoods, when we would float around on our parents' boat "Aquila" on the south shore of Long Island, NY, and further north to the Islands of New England, including Block Island, RI, Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket.
Our trip to the house in Rye Beach last weekend was to provide assistance to Nana and NH Sis as they accomplished the final clear-out of the the personal belongings, since the house has been sold. Seeing the house devoid of its contents was emotionally challenging for me, and in addition, I kept expecting to hear Grandad's laugh as he came into a room. Sadly, Grandad is gone, and the era of happy family gatherings around the dining room table with a boatload of lobsters and drawn butter is over as well. Last week was his and Nana's wedding anniversary, and Sunday was Father's Day, so going through those special days for the first time since his passing in April was challenging as well.
While Hubster, Son and Nana made a run to the "Swap Shop" at the dump, er, "transfer station", I had the chance for a walk on the beach. This is the beach where Hubster and I would spend at least a week of vacation each summer when we were first married, and vacations consisted of visiting one set of parents or the other. Our children were babies and toddlers on that beach, and Son made his debut as Grandchild Numero Uno, giving Nana and Grandad their respective nicknames. As the kids grew, so did there love for the beach and their tolerance for the 59 degree waters of coastal New Hampshire. I spent many happy hours picking blackberries in the front yard while it was still the "Captain's garden" from the Victorian-era house next door. The "Cable" referred to in the address of Cable Road was the Trans-Atlantic Cable that allowed the transmission of Morse Code signals from Europe to the US.
On this particular day, the fog had lifted and as it was dead low tide, the Isles of Shoals were clearly outlined offshore. There were families playing ball and frisbee games, toddlers running to the four-inch high foam with glee, with Moms and Dads chasing after them. I walked down to the northern end of the beach where the tide pools are, and spent a moment remembering the times we would find snails, crabs and other creatures among the granite boulders, barnacles, and kelp. It was 65 degrees back at the house, but no more than 55 down at the shore, with a brisk wind. Clearly, summer would be late arriving, although the calendar said it would be the next day. At least there was a break in the rain, so I could get in my walk.
Following the last trip to the dump, we went to Ray's for seafood. Fried clams, now there is one of nature's perfect foods. Four of us split a quart of them, along with assorted lobster rolls, onion rings, a hot dog, and whatever Hubster had (he won't eat clams).
The seafood feast marked the end of a quarter-century era. I am truly thankful to have been part of such a wonderful extended family who were generous in sharing their lives and their home with their kids, in-laws, and grandchildren.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Apologize (It's Too Late to...) Guest blog by the Cats
Today's blog entry has been dictated by our cats, Sunny and Mystery, who are shunning us upon our return to the house we used to all share.
Just who do you think we are, some bottomless pits of patience and forgiveness?
You think you can leave us (albeit with nice people who fed us and cleaned out our box) for nine months (which is about six years in Human Time) and then waltz back into our lives and everything will be the same, as if you never left?
All the time you were gone we missed you. We tried to contact you, but couldn't reach you. It was like you were in some far-off land where we could not follow. Sure, your journey was important to you, but we lost our connection.
And now, you expect us to be happy to see you? To come when you call, and sleep with you, and sit on your lap and let you pet us? We were so so lonely for you when you weren't here, and all the hurt and emotional pain you caused by the way you treated us are just too much for us to overcome.
So do not be surprised that we spurn your efforts at reconnecting. You think you can put out fancy treats and make that kissy noise we used to like. But you have changed, and we don't know you any more.
So, as the song goes, you can say you're sorry, and you can try and pay attention to us, but "its too late to apologize, its too late." We have to protect ourselves from the pain of the inevitable rejection, and we shun you. Hmph! We flick our ears and twitch our tails at you, and then show your our backsides as we leave you to ponder your cat-less fate.
Just who do you think we are, some bottomless pits of patience and forgiveness?
You think you can leave us (albeit with nice people who fed us and cleaned out our box) for nine months (which is about six years in Human Time) and then waltz back into our lives and everything will be the same, as if you never left?
All the time you were gone we missed you. We tried to contact you, but couldn't reach you. It was like you were in some far-off land where we could not follow. Sure, your journey was important to you, but we lost our connection.
And now, you expect us to be happy to see you? To come when you call, and sleep with you, and sit on your lap and let you pet us? We were so so lonely for you when you weren't here, and all the hurt and emotional pain you caused by the way you treated us are just too much for us to overcome.
So do not be surprised that we spurn your efforts at reconnecting. You think you can put out fancy treats and make that kissy noise we used to like. But you have changed, and we don't know you any more.
So, as the song goes, you can say you're sorry, and you can try and pay attention to us, but "its too late to apologize, its too late." We have to protect ourselves from the pain of the inevitable rejection, and we shun you. Hmph! We flick our ears and twitch our tails at you, and then show your our backsides as we leave you to ponder your cat-less fate.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Suitcase saga
Ah, the vagaries of international air travel.
The pre-arranged cab came to A Flat on Abbey Road early. They tend to do that in London, whereas in Belmont we tend to wind up looking out the window and getting agitated. The cab service knew enough to send a station wagon. We each had two bags, a carry-on, and a computer bag, so we were riding pretty low to the ground on our way to Heathrow.
Check-in was a breeze. Actually, it was quick bag drop, as we had checked in on line the day before. We were sent to the shorted security line, which was unfortunate, as they chose one of Hubster’s bags to go through. He wound up waiting an extra twenty minutes for them to hand-screen it. I never learned what the issue was, as TeenE and I were busy trying to get into the Executive Club lounge. Of course, that didn’t work either, as the membership is Hubster’s and he wasn’t with us. When he finally did join us, they wouldn’t let all three of us in as the member can only bring in one guest. So, he was left with Hobson’s choice: He could bring in his wife, OR his minor teenage daughter. You can guess who wound up sitting out in the main terminal with the hoi polloi. Of course, the other options, that of letting Wife AND Daughter into the exclusive lounge, and sitting in the terminal himself, was not considered, nor was having all three of us reject their stupid policy and sit in the terminal in mute protest. It’s OK, I didn’t want to sit in their stinking Executive Club lounge anyway. As it was, when the gate was announced I got there fifteen minutes ahead of them anyway.
Our aircraft was a 747. I haven’t flown on one of those in a long time. That is a big bird that takes quite a thrust to get it off the ground. As soon as our ascent started, and within a moment of the landing gear being retracted, we were into major turbulence. I have never had turbulence that strong, and never ever upon taking off. We were bouncing so hard that a seat nearby was squeaking like we were in a ’72 Chevy on a country road. It was grip-the-armrest time, and I know that I was not the only one whose mind turned to those poor people on the Air France flight from Brazil whose plane broke up over the ocean and whose clothes were sucked off their bodies when the cabin depressurized. The three of us were all sitting in separate areas of the plane so there wasn’t even a chance to grab for a familiar hand. I was just about to check for the whereabouts of the barf bag when it stopped after about two minutes.
Upon our arrival, we heard Hubster’s name being called over the intercom for “a message”. One of his bags, the one with his medications, no less, had not left London. It would be on a later flight and would be delivered to our home at BA’s expense.
Son picked us up in the minivan, and we were delivered to 78 Oliver by our awesome firstborn. We arrived to find that NeedhamSis had made sure we had cooked chicken in our fridge, along with a large chunk of cake with our nephew’s face on it. He just graduated from Needham High, in time to allow his High School principal to move to London to be TeenE’s High School principal at ASL next year.
It is VERY VERY strange to be back in our house. It took so much physical and emotional effort to get out of here last summer that think I overcompensated, as I have never felt homesick for the house.
The cats are shunning me, the garden needs weeding, and I am looking forward to seeing friends and family during the next month.
The pre-arranged cab came to A Flat on Abbey Road early. They tend to do that in London, whereas in Belmont we tend to wind up looking out the window and getting agitated. The cab service knew enough to send a station wagon. We each had two bags, a carry-on, and a computer bag, so we were riding pretty low to the ground on our way to Heathrow.
Check-in was a breeze. Actually, it was quick bag drop, as we had checked in on line the day before. We were sent to the shorted security line, which was unfortunate, as they chose one of Hubster’s bags to go through. He wound up waiting an extra twenty minutes for them to hand-screen it. I never learned what the issue was, as TeenE and I were busy trying to get into the Executive Club lounge. Of course, that didn’t work either, as the membership is Hubster’s and he wasn’t with us. When he finally did join us, they wouldn’t let all three of us in as the member can only bring in one guest. So, he was left with Hobson’s choice: He could bring in his wife, OR his minor teenage daughter. You can guess who wound up sitting out in the main terminal with the hoi polloi. Of course, the other options, that of letting Wife AND Daughter into the exclusive lounge, and sitting in the terminal himself, was not considered, nor was having all three of us reject their stupid policy and sit in the terminal in mute protest. It’s OK, I didn’t want to sit in their stinking Executive Club lounge anyway. As it was, when the gate was announced I got there fifteen minutes ahead of them anyway.
Our aircraft was a 747. I haven’t flown on one of those in a long time. That is a big bird that takes quite a thrust to get it off the ground. As soon as our ascent started, and within a moment of the landing gear being retracted, we were into major turbulence. I have never had turbulence that strong, and never ever upon taking off. We were bouncing so hard that a seat nearby was squeaking like we were in a ’72 Chevy on a country road. It was grip-the-armrest time, and I know that I was not the only one whose mind turned to those poor people on the Air France flight from Brazil whose plane broke up over the ocean and whose clothes were sucked off their bodies when the cabin depressurized. The three of us were all sitting in separate areas of the plane so there wasn’t even a chance to grab for a familiar hand. I was just about to check for the whereabouts of the barf bag when it stopped after about two minutes.
Upon our arrival, we heard Hubster’s name being called over the intercom for “a message”. One of his bags, the one with his medications, no less, had not left London. It would be on a later flight and would be delivered to our home at BA’s expense.
Son picked us up in the minivan, and we were delivered to 78 Oliver by our awesome firstborn. We arrived to find that NeedhamSis had made sure we had cooked chicken in our fridge, along with a large chunk of cake with our nephew’s face on it. He just graduated from Needham High, in time to allow his High School principal to move to London to be TeenE’s High School principal at ASL next year.
It is VERY VERY strange to be back in our house. It took so much physical and emotional effort to get out of here last summer that think I overcompensated, as I have never felt homesick for the house.
The cats are shunning me, the garden needs weeding, and I am looking forward to seeing friends and family during the next month.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
The Walrus was Paul
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Massachusetts arrival minus 2 days.
We must get the Flat on Abbey Road ready for viewing by possible new tenants while we are away. So what do I decide to do once up and dressed on Saturday morning? "Hoovering? Dusting? Scrubbing the shower stall? No! Taking Hubster's shirts to the cleaners, of course!
I thought I'd combine this trip with the purchase of a Grande Iced Vanilla Latte at Starbucks, drop off an overdue library book, and donate some too-tight shoes to the Hospice Charity Shop.
I hit the library and the shop, then strolled on up the Hi street, stopping in both Boots (the Chemist) and a small independent pharmacy in search of hair-do combs for keeping the hair off the face. I had no luck in either shop, so I dropped off and picked up shirts and prepared to quench my thirst. Alas, the queue at Starbucks at 11:30 am on a Saturday was out the door and I was carrying a heavy bundle of shirts, so I had no patience for the wait. Off I trundled toward Circus Road. I figured that I'd stop by the street the new flat is on and take a photo of the front of the building. As I was about to cross the top of Cavendish Ave, who should appear there but it's most famous resident, Sir Paul You-Know-Who. He was wearing HUGE dark glasses and had his "don't bother me" mask on. I decided that this time, the FOURTH sighting, I would not cast my eyes to the ground in response to his Jedi Mind Trick, so looked right at him and allowed a slight smile to curl one lip. His hair was a bit shaggier but the dye job still a bit obvious. I hope mine is not that bad... He could see my bundle of shirts that I had slung over my back, so I hope that he realizes I belong in the neighborhood, if I even register at all on his "faces in the crowd" radar. He was being tailed by two "traffic warden" types in yellow vests, who were in the neighborhood due to the REALLY BIG CRICKET GAME being played at Lord's Cricket Ground at the end of Sir Paul's street. I don't know if they were tailing him on purpose or just happened to be there. Of course I will always respect his wish to be left alone, but it still gives me a big boost to pass him on the street.
I went to Elm Tree Road and took the requisite photos, then slogged back across Circus Road to the Hospital of St. John and St. Elizabeth. Their pharmacy is open until 1 pm on Saturdays, and I needed to score another pair of travel/support socks for my painful leg veins. As I entered, I saw the World's Most Popular Pediatrician, who, despite my hoping to duck in undetected, said "Is that Mrs. BlogMama?" Yes, it is. I managed to see the neighbourhood's two highest-status celebrities within 100 yards and five minutes of each other. I had to wait in the queue until the patient in front of me had finished their business with the pharmacist. She remembered me from the day I bought my first pair of support socks as I was leaving for my vein scan, so we chatted for a bit while we transacted business.
Upon leaving the pharmacy and heading out toward Grove End Road, there was that ubiquitous doctor again, chatting with Cashier Extraordinaire K, who is another one of my weekly cake-recipients.
I mentioned my brush with the world's most famous dyed mop of hair, and the doctor wanted to know if I had taken his picture. "No, I am MUCH too cool to take his picture!" I replied, glad that I hadn't whipped out my camera and taken a shot of Sir Paul's retreating back. We all discussed the upcoming move from Abbey Road to Elm Tree Court, and I assured them both that I would still be in prime cake-delivery territory, as well as being able to hear the cries of "Well hit, Sir, Very Well Hit" from Lord's Cricket Ground while there is a match in play (most of May and June, it seems, which also means that the gym is closed). I learned that the doctor's secretary used to live in the building to which we are moving, AND that there was an armed robbery recently of patrons of an upscale restaurant up Abbey Road while Sir Paul was eating there. Hubster and I had just been there last weekend with MomA and her husband. It's a good thing we eat early; we were the first table to be seated and the first to vacate...
There's always something happening on Abbey Road! I returned to the flat in triumph with Hubster's shirts and few tales to tell...
Massachusetts arrival minus 2 days.
We must get the Flat on Abbey Road ready for viewing by possible new tenants while we are away. So what do I decide to do once up and dressed on Saturday morning? "Hoovering? Dusting? Scrubbing the shower stall? No! Taking Hubster's shirts to the cleaners, of course!
I thought I'd combine this trip with the purchase of a Grande Iced Vanilla Latte at Starbucks, drop off an overdue library book, and donate some too-tight shoes to the Hospice Charity Shop.
I hit the library and the shop, then strolled on up the Hi street, stopping in both Boots (the Chemist) and a small independent pharmacy in search of hair-do combs for keeping the hair off the face. I had no luck in either shop, so I dropped off and picked up shirts and prepared to quench my thirst. Alas, the queue at Starbucks at 11:30 am on a Saturday was out the door and I was carrying a heavy bundle of shirts, so I had no patience for the wait. Off I trundled toward Circus Road. I figured that I'd stop by the street the new flat is on and take a photo of the front of the building. As I was about to cross the top of Cavendish Ave, who should appear there but it's most famous resident, Sir Paul You-Know-Who. He was wearing HUGE dark glasses and had his "don't bother me" mask on. I decided that this time, the FOURTH sighting, I would not cast my eyes to the ground in response to his Jedi Mind Trick, so looked right at him and allowed a slight smile to curl one lip. His hair was a bit shaggier but the dye job still a bit obvious. I hope mine is not that bad... He could see my bundle of shirts that I had slung over my back, so I hope that he realizes I belong in the neighborhood, if I even register at all on his "faces in the crowd" radar. He was being tailed by two "traffic warden" types in yellow vests, who were in the neighborhood due to the REALLY BIG CRICKET GAME being played at Lord's Cricket Ground at the end of Sir Paul's street. I don't know if they were tailing him on purpose or just happened to be there. Of course I will always respect his wish to be left alone, but it still gives me a big boost to pass him on the street.
I went to Elm Tree Road and took the requisite photos, then slogged back across Circus Road to the Hospital of St. John and St. Elizabeth. Their pharmacy is open until 1 pm on Saturdays, and I needed to score another pair of travel/support socks for my painful leg veins. As I entered, I saw the World's Most Popular Pediatrician, who, despite my hoping to duck in undetected, said "Is that Mrs. BlogMama?" Yes, it is. I managed to see the neighbourhood's two highest-status celebrities within 100 yards and five minutes of each other. I had to wait in the queue until the patient in front of me had finished their business with the pharmacist. She remembered me from the day I bought my first pair of support socks as I was leaving for my vein scan, so we chatted for a bit while we transacted business.
Upon leaving the pharmacy and heading out toward Grove End Road, there was that ubiquitous doctor again, chatting with Cashier Extraordinaire K, who is another one of my weekly cake-recipients.
I mentioned my brush with the world's most famous dyed mop of hair, and the doctor wanted to know if I had taken his picture. "No, I am MUCH too cool to take his picture!" I replied, glad that I hadn't whipped out my camera and taken a shot of Sir Paul's retreating back. We all discussed the upcoming move from Abbey Road to Elm Tree Court, and I assured them both that I would still be in prime cake-delivery territory, as well as being able to hear the cries of "Well hit, Sir, Very Well Hit" from Lord's Cricket Ground while there is a match in play (most of May and June, it seems, which also means that the gym is closed). I learned that the doctor's secretary used to live in the building to which we are moving, AND that there was an armed robbery recently of patrons of an upscale restaurant up Abbey Road while Sir Paul was eating there. Hubster and I had just been there last weekend with MomA and her husband. It's a good thing we eat early; we were the first table to be seated and the first to vacate...
There's always something happening on Abbey Road! I returned to the flat in triumph with Hubster's shirts and few tales to tell...
Hello Old Friend
Hello Old Friend.
“As I am strolling down the garden park I saw a flower glowing in the dark.
It looked so pretty and it was unique, I had to bend down just to have a peek.
Hello Old Friend, It’s really good to see you once again.” By Eric Clapton
I'm still on a Clapton theme here, despite living on Abbey Road, which is more appropriately affiliated with the Beatles. Oh well.
We are preparing to go back to our hometown in Massachusetts for a while. Hubster will take a week from work. TeenE and I will be there for a month, after which I will take her to camp, and then fly back to London to get the household ready for our next move to a quieter location a few streets from here.
Although I am looking forward to seeing friends and family, I am preparing myself to miss A Flat on Abbey Road and all my favorite parts of London. When we have gone to the US for even just a week or two, I have found myself “homesick” for London, and for my friends and life here. I know TeenE has felt the same way. Perhaps we tried so hard to steel ourselves for not being too homesick for Belmont that we overcompensated, or perhaps we just really feel “at home” here now. I do know I am somewhat reluctant to leave my routines and my environs at this time of year when the weather and gardens are so glorious. Ben Johnson wrote "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life." Blogmama writes "When a woman is tired of London it's just because her feet hurt."
In order to fill up my psyche with enough of London’s gardens to get me through the next month, I went out for an explore on Wednesday. The weather was in the mid-60’s F, with bright sunny patches punctuated with rolling clouds. I wasn’t sure how my problematic shin and ankle would hold up. Usually walking is good for moving the blood back up the leg through the deep veins, but sometimes things back up and with no warning my foot and ankle will be on fire. I wanted to make sure I was never too far from a bus that could get me back to the flat, so I eschewed the relative wilderness of Hampstead Heath for the refinements of the city parks.
A quick run past Starbucks took me down St. John’s Wood High Street and along Prince Albert Road into Regent’s Park. I noticed that the Mock Orange (Philadelphus) was in bloom, all along the road, and the fragrance was heavenly. I took the shortest route possible towards Queen Mary’s Rose Garden, pausing briefly to admire the Waterfowl Collection floating around in a brackish pool. Perhaps the pool was more cack-ish than brackish. I regretted not bringing along any sunscreen and was glad that I had remembered a bottle of water.
I made my way into the circular Rose Garden and was stunned to see a wall of blue delphinium in every color clear blue; shading from royal blue through to ice blue and lavender. I have a special spot in my heart for delphinium, and had them as boutonnieres for the groom and groomsmen in our wedding. I stopped to take some photos, then made myself comfortable on a bench and took out my knitting. I am STILL working on the “magenta doily vest” project that got so much attention on the bus in Kerry, Ireland. I am 5/6ths of the way around the center medallion with the border piece, so it won’t be too much longer. Just as I got settled, the sun was obscured by clouds, which played chase for the next half hour or so. As the wind got stronger, so did the scent of the 10,000 roses in the immediate vicinity. I hope to remember that scent every time I wear my magenta doily-vest.
I had to rip out about 16 rows of knitting from the night before, so once that was all re-knitted I packed up the “doily” and went over to the little island that is accessed by a gate. A photo op ensued as a pair of black swans did there “necks into hearts” mating dance with swan calls as soundtrack. Of course I couldn’t get the camera ready in time so only have a photo of the male swimming away in a huff.
I wasn’t quite done with my nature time so decided to take a route out of the park that I had never seen before (in this lifetime, at least J) so I headed north up the Broad Walk and came out on Prince Albert Road near the zoo and the base of Primrose Hill. The legs and feet still felt great, so I puffed my way up to the top of the hill and took in the panoramic view of the city. The green grass, the wind, and the strong sun cast a sleeping spell on me, so I took off my shoes and (support) socks and stretched out. I was not the only person in full communion with the grass of Primrose Hill that day.
My reverie was interrupted briefly by a fluffy golden Shi-tzu named Sunshine, who was off-lead and befriending everyone with a rucksack in hopes of scoring a snack. S/he had no luck with me so went on to the next admirer.
The hum of voices speaking in a dozen different languages was punctuated by the sound of a mower growing ever closer, so I decided to get out while I was still relatively relaxed. My head was fuzzy from all the sun and wind and I picked my way back to St. John’s Wood gingerly so as to keep the feet in good form. I had the feeling that I was homesick for London and I hadn’t even left it yet!
“As I am strolling down the garden park I saw a flower glowing in the dark.
It looked so pretty and it was unique, I had to bend down just to have a peek.
Hello Old Friend, It’s really good to see you once again.” By Eric Clapton
I'm still on a Clapton theme here, despite living on Abbey Road, which is more appropriately affiliated with the Beatles. Oh well.
We are preparing to go back to our hometown in Massachusetts for a while. Hubster will take a week from work. TeenE and I will be there for a month, after which I will take her to camp, and then fly back to London to get the household ready for our next move to a quieter location a few streets from here.
Although I am looking forward to seeing friends and family, I am preparing myself to miss A Flat on Abbey Road and all my favorite parts of London. When we have gone to the US for even just a week or two, I have found myself “homesick” for London, and for my friends and life here. I know TeenE has felt the same way. Perhaps we tried so hard to steel ourselves for not being too homesick for Belmont that we overcompensated, or perhaps we just really feel “at home” here now. I do know I am somewhat reluctant to leave my routines and my environs at this time of year when the weather and gardens are so glorious. Ben Johnson wrote "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life." Blogmama writes "When a woman is tired of London it's just because her feet hurt."
In order to fill up my psyche with enough of London’s gardens to get me through the next month, I went out for an explore on Wednesday. The weather was in the mid-60’s F, with bright sunny patches punctuated with rolling clouds. I wasn’t sure how my problematic shin and ankle would hold up. Usually walking is good for moving the blood back up the leg through the deep veins, but sometimes things back up and with no warning my foot and ankle will be on fire. I wanted to make sure I was never too far from a bus that could get me back to the flat, so I eschewed the relative wilderness of Hampstead Heath for the refinements of the city parks.
A quick run past Starbucks took me down St. John’s Wood High Street and along Prince Albert Road into Regent’s Park. I noticed that the Mock Orange (Philadelphus) was in bloom, all along the road, and the fragrance was heavenly. I took the shortest route possible towards Queen Mary’s Rose Garden, pausing briefly to admire the Waterfowl Collection floating around in a brackish pool. Perhaps the pool was more cack-ish than brackish. I regretted not bringing along any sunscreen and was glad that I had remembered a bottle of water.
I made my way into the circular Rose Garden and was stunned to see a wall of blue delphinium in every color clear blue; shading from royal blue through to ice blue and lavender. I have a special spot in my heart for delphinium, and had them as boutonnieres for the groom and groomsmen in our wedding. I stopped to take some photos, then made myself comfortable on a bench and took out my knitting. I am STILL working on the “magenta doily vest” project that got so much attention on the bus in Kerry, Ireland. I am 5/6ths of the way around the center medallion with the border piece, so it won’t be too much longer. Just as I got settled, the sun was obscured by clouds, which played chase for the next half hour or so. As the wind got stronger, so did the scent of the 10,000 roses in the immediate vicinity. I hope to remember that scent every time I wear my magenta doily-vest.
I had to rip out about 16 rows of knitting from the night before, so once that was all re-knitted I packed up the “doily” and went over to the little island that is accessed by a gate. A photo op ensued as a pair of black swans did there “necks into hearts” mating dance with swan calls as soundtrack. Of course I couldn’t get the camera ready in time so only have a photo of the male swimming away in a huff.
I wasn’t quite done with my nature time so decided to take a route out of the park that I had never seen before (in this lifetime, at least J) so I headed north up the Broad Walk and came out on Prince Albert Road near the zoo and the base of Primrose Hill. The legs and feet still felt great, so I puffed my way up to the top of the hill and took in the panoramic view of the city. The green grass, the wind, and the strong sun cast a sleeping spell on me, so I took off my shoes and (support) socks and stretched out. I was not the only person in full communion with the grass of Primrose Hill that day.
My reverie was interrupted briefly by a fluffy golden Shi-tzu named Sunshine, who was off-lead and befriending everyone with a rucksack in hopes of scoring a snack. S/he had no luck with me so went on to the next admirer.
The hum of voices speaking in a dozen different languages was punctuated by the sound of a mower growing ever closer, so I decided to get out while I was still relatively relaxed. My head was fuzzy from all the sun and wind and I picked my way back to St. John’s Wood gingerly so as to keep the feet in good form. I had the feeling that I was homesick for London and I hadn’t even left it yet!
Saturday, June 6, 2009
HOT FLASH!! new flat located!
The news doesn't get any hotter than this!!
We have put a deposit on a flat.
Our current lease expires at the end of August.
We require a third bedroom, a quieter location, and quiet neighbors.
We had been afraid that to achieve all of this at about the same price as we are paying now, we would have to decamp to a location farther north than our present one a stone's throw from the American School.
One day last week I was sitting at the Abbey Cafe having a cappucino with MomA. A "lettings agent" drove up and got out of his lettings-mobile to get a coffee from the cafe. MomA recognized him as someone who had been involved with her search for an accessible ground-floor flat. He introduced himself to me and gave me his card. He was in a rush to go take some photos of a property nearby, but would be back in his office within a half hour. I was told to stop in anytime.
Half an hour later, there I was in his office. We chatted a bit. I learned that the property of which he had just take the photos was a unit in my building, and in fact was the one right next door to mine, which was just vacated by a 92-year old woman whose daughter had finally found her a spot in a Polish-speaking care home. The agent then told me what his original career was, and it was as an actor in musical theatre. He mentioned the name of an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, "Starlight Express".
My jaw dropped open. At the urging of Hubster's mom and dad, he and I had seen Starlight Express on our honeymoon here in London in the summer of 1986. We had wanted to see CATS, but couldn't get tickets for the night we wanted, so "settled" for this other show. It was FANTASTIC! I didn't think a musical about singing train-cars could be good, but this one was! It had been partially based on the original Thomas the Tank Engine books by Rev Audry. Each actor, on roller skates, no less, personifies an engine or a coach. The engines are Greaseball, an Elvis-type Diesel engine, Papa, and Rusty, who are steam engines, AC/DC, an androgenous electric engine, etc. Some of the coaches are Dinah the dining car, Ashley the smoking car, Belle the sleeping car, Dustin the hopper who is filled with aggregates ("Aggregates are really great-- Aggregates never complain!") and CB the caboose. Each car has a story and song that moves the plot along, and the show is punctuated by races between the different types of engines, each of whom is paired with a coach. Poor Rusty the outdated steam engine dreams of a Higher Power to help give him the strength he needs to win the race. He finally has a vision of the Starlight Express, the Midnight Train who gives strength to all who call on it.
We bought the soundtrack (on cassette tape!) and listened to it ad nauseum. It was another one of the selections that we always played on road trips, especially after our Son was born. Son was into trains anyway, so a musical about them was just the thing to entertain us on long car rides.
When a travelling version of the show came to Boston, Hubster and I went to see it. It wasn't nearly as good as the original, as they producers had taken away the ramps that went around and through the audience, on which the races took place, for insurance reasons. In 1999 when we were here in London on holiday with both Son (then aged 11) and TeenE (then aged 6) we went again. And now, here I was ten years after that, face-to-face with an actor from the original production!
With in a week, Mr. Starlight Express had found a property for us which had not even been entered into their computerized system. It "ticked all our boxes", so we had a look at it this morning, and gave him a deposit check directly.
If all goes well, our new location will be around two corners from the American School, a stone's throw from the Starbucks on St. John's Wood High Street, within spitting distance of the hospice at "John & Lizzies" hospital, three properties from Sir Paul's back garden, around one block from the gym at Lord's Cricket Ground, super-close to the 139 and 189 buses on Abbey Road without having them going by under the windows all night long, and one minute from Bus stop E from which we board the #46 to Paddington Station when we go off to Heathrow Airport. Lets hope that all the assorted paperwork goes through and we are able to be in residence in our new home by mid-August!
We have put a deposit on a flat.
Our current lease expires at the end of August.
We require a third bedroom, a quieter location, and quiet neighbors.
We had been afraid that to achieve all of this at about the same price as we are paying now, we would have to decamp to a location farther north than our present one a stone's throw from the American School.
One day last week I was sitting at the Abbey Cafe having a cappucino with MomA. A "lettings agent" drove up and got out of his lettings-mobile to get a coffee from the cafe. MomA recognized him as someone who had been involved with her search for an accessible ground-floor flat. He introduced himself to me and gave me his card. He was in a rush to go take some photos of a property nearby, but would be back in his office within a half hour. I was told to stop in anytime.
Half an hour later, there I was in his office. We chatted a bit. I learned that the property of which he had just take the photos was a unit in my building, and in fact was the one right next door to mine, which was just vacated by a 92-year old woman whose daughter had finally found her a spot in a Polish-speaking care home. The agent then told me what his original career was, and it was as an actor in musical theatre. He mentioned the name of an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, "Starlight Express".
My jaw dropped open. At the urging of Hubster's mom and dad, he and I had seen Starlight Express on our honeymoon here in London in the summer of 1986. We had wanted to see CATS, but couldn't get tickets for the night we wanted, so "settled" for this other show. It was FANTASTIC! I didn't think a musical about singing train-cars could be good, but this one was! It had been partially based on the original Thomas the Tank Engine books by Rev Audry. Each actor, on roller skates, no less, personifies an engine or a coach. The engines are Greaseball, an Elvis-type Diesel engine, Papa, and Rusty, who are steam engines, AC/DC, an androgenous electric engine, etc. Some of the coaches are Dinah the dining car, Ashley the smoking car, Belle the sleeping car, Dustin the hopper who is filled with aggregates ("Aggregates are really great-- Aggregates never complain!") and CB the caboose. Each car has a story and song that moves the plot along, and the show is punctuated by races between the different types of engines, each of whom is paired with a coach. Poor Rusty the outdated steam engine dreams of a Higher Power to help give him the strength he needs to win the race. He finally has a vision of the Starlight Express, the Midnight Train who gives strength to all who call on it.
We bought the soundtrack (on cassette tape!) and listened to it ad nauseum. It was another one of the selections that we always played on road trips, especially after our Son was born. Son was into trains anyway, so a musical about them was just the thing to entertain us on long car rides.
When a travelling version of the show came to Boston, Hubster and I went to see it. It wasn't nearly as good as the original, as they producers had taken away the ramps that went around and through the audience, on which the races took place, for insurance reasons. In 1999 when we were here in London on holiday with both Son (then aged 11) and TeenE (then aged 6) we went again. And now, here I was ten years after that, face-to-face with an actor from the original production!
With in a week, Mr. Starlight Express had found a property for us which had not even been entered into their computerized system. It "ticked all our boxes", so we had a look at it this morning, and gave him a deposit check directly.
If all goes well, our new location will be around two corners from the American School, a stone's throw from the Starbucks on St. John's Wood High Street, within spitting distance of the hospice at "John & Lizzies" hospital, three properties from Sir Paul's back garden, around one block from the gym at Lord's Cricket Ground, super-close to the 139 and 189 buses on Abbey Road without having them going by under the windows all night long, and one minute from Bus stop E from which we board the #46 to Paddington Station when we go off to Heathrow Airport. Lets hope that all the assorted paperwork goes through and we are able to be in residence in our new home by mid-August!
Monday, June 1, 2009
I See GOD, preceded by ARC Angels
Monday, May 25, 2009.
Unlike the family in South Wales who recently saw Jesus in the goo left on the cap of a bottle of Marmite, I had a more personal encounter with the divine last week, and it occurred at the Royal Albert Hall.
The Allen family of Ystrad, Rhondda, Wales, UK, whose mother/grandmother is seriously ill, were comforted recently by the appearance of a face-like blob of brown yeasty goo which manifested itself as they were making sandwiches . "People might think I'm nuts, but I like to think it's Jesus looking out for us” said Claire Allen, daughter of the ill woman, the South Wales Echo reported, after she and her husband and children agreed that the blob of goo WAS a sign from God.
My own encounter with a manifestation of the divine took place several days earlier at a concert by blues and rock guitarist Eric Clapton. Readers of a certain age may remember the graffiti that used to pepper London in the mid-1960’s, which famously declared that “Clapton is God”. The graffiti is said to have appeared in the underground station in Islington, north London, and soon was spotted in other areas of the city and the world.
I married into Clapton fandom. Before that, I had been aware of EC’s music and loved both it and his contributions to songs by George Harrison and the Beatles, especially “While My Guitar Gently Weeps”. I didn’t really own any of his recordings, however, until I bought the “Crossroads” boxed-set compilation for Hubster, on tape cassette, no less, for his very first “Father’s Day” gift in 1988. That was when my true appreciation for Clapton’s guitar genius really began to grow, and I’d like to think that all the hours we spent listening to that music with baby and toddler “Son” in the back seat of the 1988 Chevy Nova might have had some influence on his own musical talent.
When Clapton announced last winter that there would be two weeks of concert dates at the Royal Albert Hall in May, I was ecstatic. Son might be visiting us then, I was informed, so I tried to score some tickets for the guys to go. Unfortunately, the tickets I could find were about 200 GBP apiece, roughly 350 dollars each at the time. As we had only recently left the rolls of those “between jobs”, I decided to let it go.
The dream of scoring Clapton tickets awoke again in April. Several weeks before, Hubster’s dad had passed away after a long illness. I thought that an evening out at the Royal Albert Hall listening to one of our favorite musicians of all time and space would be just the thing to cheer us up. A brief stint trolling the listings on “Gumtree”, London’s answer to CraigsList, showed me that someone had spare tickets in the 4th Row!! I wrote to the person, and received a price quoted at 120 GBP per ticket. After running it by Hubster, he was still of the mind that it was too much money to spend. I reluctantly told the gentleman to release the tickets to whoever was next in the queue. I was secretly afraid that the tickets would be fakes, and Googled the guy who was selling them. He was listed on a professional development website as an employee of L’Oreal. Was I worth it? Evidently not.
A few weeks later, Hubster was watching a Clapton documentary on telly. “Clapton is coming!” he said in a reverential tone. “Yeah, and we could have been there, in the FOURTH ROW”. I was not happy. I guessed it was just not meant to be.
On the Thursday before the 3-day “late May Bank Holiday Weekend” (which kicks off the summer season here as Memorial Day does in the US) I received an email from an address that looked familiar. It was from my “new best friend”, Nir Malka, of L’Oreal employment fame. It turned out that he didn’t trust the guy who wanted to buy the tickets not to just turn around and sell them at a huge profit. His friends were all busy due to the bank holiday weekend, and he and his wife were going the night after the long weekend. He wanted the tickets to be used by REAL Clapton fans, and would sell them to me at FACE VALUE, which was 75 GBP each. He wrote that I seemed to be a nice person. Did I want the tickets? I didn’t hesitate long. YES!! If Hubster still felt HE wasn’t worth it, I’d sell his ticket (at face value to a real fan). I made a plan to meet Mr. Malka at the South Hampstead Tube station, a few bus stops up Abbey Road. It was if there was some kind of force orchestrating the whole thing.
As I waited at the station I checked out every guy that exited from the Tube. My Googling had revealed that Mr. Malka was Israeli and a Clapton fan. How old would he be? He could have been any of the scores of middle-aged men emerging from the stairway. After a 10-minute wait, someone approached me. He turned out to be a lot younger than I expected. I asked him if he worked for L’Oreal, and indeed he did. He and his wife had just moved to London within the last year. He told me that when he had Googled me, my participation in a Spiritual Art Show had turned up, along with a photo of me, TeenE, and a paintings I did of a mountain in Scotland and of Glastonbury Tor. We did “the deal”, knowing all the while that our tickets-for-cash exchange was being captured by security camera. (You have to have a street-vendor’s license in order to sell tickets on the street in London—this is to prevent scalpers.)
I re-boarded the 139 bus and sailed down Abbey Road in utter triumph. I was afraid to tell Hubster what I had done, as I sensed that in his current mood he would not be amenable to spending the money that way. I was correct. After a heated “discussion”, I decided to sell his ticket by posting a sign in Starbucks. Surely SOMEONE in NW8 would want to spend 75 pounds on a ticket to hear Eric Clapton FROM THE FOURTH ROW! I made up the sign, and then heard Hubster say resignedly “Oh I’ll go……….” Now don’t trouble yourself too much there, Sir!
So we went. On Bank Holiday Monday afternoon I got decked out in floral dress. “You’re NOT going to a garden party!” TeenE announced. She convinced me to let her be my stylist for the evening. She picked out a black short skirt and a white short-sleeved silk top embellished with some black silk roses around the neckline. Necklace and earrings of silver and topaz were added, the full makeup (with “rock-chick” eyeliner) was applied, my hair was teased and put up with combs, I removed my support hose, put on black tights and my and my extra-cool black pointy flat shoes and I was ready to Rock and Roll!
Off we went on the Jubilee Line and the Number 9 bus. I found “our seats” in the Section A, row 4, seats 9 and 10. We were early enough to have time to grab a bite and a beer in the bar before the opening act. When we returned to our seats, our coats and brollies had been moved across the aisle to an EVEN BETTER LOCATION. It turned out seats 9 and 10 of Section A, Row 4 were at the corner of the stage, angled in such a way as to have a completely unobstructed view, being in the second row of a diagonal set of 3 seats. Hubster even had space to stick his feet out in the aisle, and there were NO HEADS in front of either of us!!! Thank you again, Nir Malka! He had tried to describe to me the magnitude of the awesomeness of the seats, but I just hadn’t comprehended it!
The opening act was called “The ARC Angels”. They were a very good blues-rock group from Austin, Texas. You could tell that they “hadn’t just fallen off the turnip truck”, as Grandad used to say. They even played an old McCartney tune from the RAM album, called “Too Many People”. I marveled at the fact that even though they were very, very good, the audience seemed so laid back as to appear uninterested. Oh well. Even after the lead singer wished us all a Happy Bank Holiday there was hardly a “woo!” to be heard.
After the Arcangels left the stage there was a short “interval” where the roadies set up the stage for Clapton. Finally, as the guitar god took the stage, the audience erupted into a smiling mass of applause and ovation. Then, it quickly re-seated itself and settled politely into a quiet listening attitude. It turned out that the audience behavior I had witnessed before was due to cultural mores. Most members of the audience refrained from tapping their feet, nodding their heads, or “chair-dancing”. They listened almost stock-still. I couldn’t do it. You could tell who the Americans and other non-British were: we were tapping, and nodding away, albeit no less raptly. Dancing in the aisles was strictly forbidden by the ushers.
The different levels of the Royal Albert Hall are arranged almost like reverse tiers of a wedding cake. The floor in front of the stage is divided into four sections of chair seating, surrounded by what I would call a sloped “loge” section. Above that, the lower boxes, and multiple tiers of boxes and sloped loges rising above that. Finally, up at the top, a gallery of Standing Room Only. THOSE folks were allowed to dance. We were treated to over two house of blues and rock that transported us into another realm. I had tears rolling down my face during “Wonderful Tonight”, which is about how much a husband loves and adores his wife.
One thing that I had remembered to bring with me when getting ready was “protection” of the aural variety, and I was certainly glad of it. Our seats, being there in the angle between the stage and the side of our section, were approximately eight feet from an enormous set of amplifiers. I used the earplugs in both ears for the Arcangels, but decided that I would be sacrificing sound quality for decreased decibels. During Clapton’s performance, I kept IN the left earplug, which faced not only the stack of speakers, but certain permanent hearing damage had I not used “protection”. The right ear was angle back toward the rear of the hall and did not require any prophylaxis. It was a little odd to leave the hall after the concert with only ONE ear ringing.
So, “GOD?” you say? Does she really think he’s GOD? “A” god, yes, a “guitar god”. One who has mastered his craft in such a way that the hand of “God” seems to be present, spark of the divine that exists in all of us, but that only a few kindle and stoke until we are able to present our true lights to the world. An article in Christianity Today claims that Clapton’s favorite hymn while growing up was "Jesus Bids Us Shine":
Jesus bids us shine with a clear, pure light,
Like a little candle burning in the night;
In this world of darkness, we must shine,
You in your small corner, and I in mine.
Throughout his life, Eric has succumbed to addictions to both heroin and alcohol, and has overcome them. He has faced the unimaginable tragedy of the death of his young son, yet still had faith enough to remarry at over 50 and to start a young family. To sum it up his own spirituality I’ll quote Clapton himself from the song “Presence of the Lord”:
I have finally found a place to live
Just like I never could before
And I know I don't have much to give
But soon I'll open any door.
Everybody knows the secret,
Everybody knows the score.
I have finally found a place to live
In the presence of the Lord.
May his music continue to inspire us to connect with something greater than ourselves for many, many generations.
Unlike the family in South Wales who recently saw Jesus in the goo left on the cap of a bottle of Marmite, I had a more personal encounter with the divine last week, and it occurred at the Royal Albert Hall.
The Allen family of Ystrad, Rhondda, Wales, UK, whose mother/grandmother is seriously ill, were comforted recently by the appearance of a face-like blob of brown yeasty goo which manifested itself as they were making sandwiches . "People might think I'm nuts, but I like to think it's Jesus looking out for us” said Claire Allen, daughter of the ill woman, the South Wales Echo reported, after she and her husband and children agreed that the blob of goo WAS a sign from God.
My own encounter with a manifestation of the divine took place several days earlier at a concert by blues and rock guitarist Eric Clapton. Readers of a certain age may remember the graffiti that used to pepper London in the mid-1960’s, which famously declared that “Clapton is God”. The graffiti is said to have appeared in the underground station in Islington, north London, and soon was spotted in other areas of the city and the world.
I married into Clapton fandom. Before that, I had been aware of EC’s music and loved both it and his contributions to songs by George Harrison and the Beatles, especially “While My Guitar Gently Weeps”. I didn’t really own any of his recordings, however, until I bought the “Crossroads” boxed-set compilation for Hubster, on tape cassette, no less, for his very first “Father’s Day” gift in 1988. That was when my true appreciation for Clapton’s guitar genius really began to grow, and I’d like to think that all the hours we spent listening to that music with baby and toddler “Son” in the back seat of the 1988 Chevy Nova might have had some influence on his own musical talent.
When Clapton announced last winter that there would be two weeks of concert dates at the Royal Albert Hall in May, I was ecstatic. Son might be visiting us then, I was informed, so I tried to score some tickets for the guys to go. Unfortunately, the tickets I could find were about 200 GBP apiece, roughly 350 dollars each at the time. As we had only recently left the rolls of those “between jobs”, I decided to let it go.
The dream of scoring Clapton tickets awoke again in April. Several weeks before, Hubster’s dad had passed away after a long illness. I thought that an evening out at the Royal Albert Hall listening to one of our favorite musicians of all time and space would be just the thing to cheer us up. A brief stint trolling the listings on “Gumtree”, London’s answer to CraigsList, showed me that someone had spare tickets in the 4th Row!! I wrote to the person, and received a price quoted at 120 GBP per ticket. After running it by Hubster, he was still of the mind that it was too much money to spend. I reluctantly told the gentleman to release the tickets to whoever was next in the queue. I was secretly afraid that the tickets would be fakes, and Googled the guy who was selling them. He was listed on a professional development website as an employee of L’Oreal. Was I worth it? Evidently not.
A few weeks later, Hubster was watching a Clapton documentary on telly. “Clapton is coming!” he said in a reverential tone. “Yeah, and we could have been there, in the FOURTH ROW”. I was not happy. I guessed it was just not meant to be.
On the Thursday before the 3-day “late May Bank Holiday Weekend” (which kicks off the summer season here as Memorial Day does in the US) I received an email from an address that looked familiar. It was from my “new best friend”, Nir Malka, of L’Oreal employment fame. It turned out that he didn’t trust the guy who wanted to buy the tickets not to just turn around and sell them at a huge profit. His friends were all busy due to the bank holiday weekend, and he and his wife were going the night after the long weekend. He wanted the tickets to be used by REAL Clapton fans, and would sell them to me at FACE VALUE, which was 75 GBP each. He wrote that I seemed to be a nice person. Did I want the tickets? I didn’t hesitate long. YES!! If Hubster still felt HE wasn’t worth it, I’d sell his ticket (at face value to a real fan). I made a plan to meet Mr. Malka at the South Hampstead Tube station, a few bus stops up Abbey Road. It was if there was some kind of force orchestrating the whole thing.
As I waited at the station I checked out every guy that exited from the Tube. My Googling had revealed that Mr. Malka was Israeli and a Clapton fan. How old would he be? He could have been any of the scores of middle-aged men emerging from the stairway. After a 10-minute wait, someone approached me. He turned out to be a lot younger than I expected. I asked him if he worked for L’Oreal, and indeed he did. He and his wife had just moved to London within the last year. He told me that when he had Googled me, my participation in a Spiritual Art Show had turned up, along with a photo of me, TeenE, and a paintings I did of a mountain in Scotland and of Glastonbury Tor. We did “the deal”, knowing all the while that our tickets-for-cash exchange was being captured by security camera. (You have to have a street-vendor’s license in order to sell tickets on the street in London—this is to prevent scalpers.)
I re-boarded the 139 bus and sailed down Abbey Road in utter triumph. I was afraid to tell Hubster what I had done, as I sensed that in his current mood he would not be amenable to spending the money that way. I was correct. After a heated “discussion”, I decided to sell his ticket by posting a sign in Starbucks. Surely SOMEONE in NW8 would want to spend 75 pounds on a ticket to hear Eric Clapton FROM THE FOURTH ROW! I made up the sign, and then heard Hubster say resignedly “Oh I’ll go……….” Now don’t trouble yourself too much there, Sir!
So we went. On Bank Holiday Monday afternoon I got decked out in floral dress. “You’re NOT going to a garden party!” TeenE announced. She convinced me to let her be my stylist for the evening. She picked out a black short skirt and a white short-sleeved silk top embellished with some black silk roses around the neckline. Necklace and earrings of silver and topaz were added, the full makeup (with “rock-chick” eyeliner) was applied, my hair was teased and put up with combs, I removed my support hose, put on black tights and my and my extra-cool black pointy flat shoes and I was ready to Rock and Roll!
Off we went on the Jubilee Line and the Number 9 bus. I found “our seats” in the Section A, row 4, seats 9 and 10. We were early enough to have time to grab a bite and a beer in the bar before the opening act. When we returned to our seats, our coats and brollies had been moved across the aisle to an EVEN BETTER LOCATION. It turned out seats 9 and 10 of Section A, Row 4 were at the corner of the stage, angled in such a way as to have a completely unobstructed view, being in the second row of a diagonal set of 3 seats. Hubster even had space to stick his feet out in the aisle, and there were NO HEADS in front of either of us!!! Thank you again, Nir Malka! He had tried to describe to me the magnitude of the awesomeness of the seats, but I just hadn’t comprehended it!
The opening act was called “The ARC Angels”. They were a very good blues-rock group from Austin, Texas. You could tell that they “hadn’t just fallen off the turnip truck”, as Grandad used to say. They even played an old McCartney tune from the RAM album, called “Too Many People”. I marveled at the fact that even though they were very, very good, the audience seemed so laid back as to appear uninterested. Oh well. Even after the lead singer wished us all a Happy Bank Holiday there was hardly a “woo!” to be heard.
After the Arcangels left the stage there was a short “interval” where the roadies set up the stage for Clapton. Finally, as the guitar god took the stage, the audience erupted into a smiling mass of applause and ovation. Then, it quickly re-seated itself and settled politely into a quiet listening attitude. It turned out that the audience behavior I had witnessed before was due to cultural mores. Most members of the audience refrained from tapping their feet, nodding their heads, or “chair-dancing”. They listened almost stock-still. I couldn’t do it. You could tell who the Americans and other non-British were: we were tapping, and nodding away, albeit no less raptly. Dancing in the aisles was strictly forbidden by the ushers.
The different levels of the Royal Albert Hall are arranged almost like reverse tiers of a wedding cake. The floor in front of the stage is divided into four sections of chair seating, surrounded by what I would call a sloped “loge” section. Above that, the lower boxes, and multiple tiers of boxes and sloped loges rising above that. Finally, up at the top, a gallery of Standing Room Only. THOSE folks were allowed to dance. We were treated to over two house of blues and rock that transported us into another realm. I had tears rolling down my face during “Wonderful Tonight”, which is about how much a husband loves and adores his wife.
One thing that I had remembered to bring with me when getting ready was “protection” of the aural variety, and I was certainly glad of it. Our seats, being there in the angle between the stage and the side of our section, were approximately eight feet from an enormous set of amplifiers. I used the earplugs in both ears for the Arcangels, but decided that I would be sacrificing sound quality for decreased decibels. During Clapton’s performance, I kept IN the left earplug, which faced not only the stack of speakers, but certain permanent hearing damage had I not used “protection”. The right ear was angle back toward the rear of the hall and did not require any prophylaxis. It was a little odd to leave the hall after the concert with only ONE ear ringing.
So, “GOD?” you say? Does she really think he’s GOD? “A” god, yes, a “guitar god”. One who has mastered his craft in such a way that the hand of “God” seems to be present, spark of the divine that exists in all of us, but that only a few kindle and stoke until we are able to present our true lights to the world. An article in Christianity Today claims that Clapton’s favorite hymn while growing up was "Jesus Bids Us Shine":
Jesus bids us shine with a clear, pure light,
Like a little candle burning in the night;
In this world of darkness, we must shine,
You in your small corner, and I in mine.
Throughout his life, Eric has succumbed to addictions to both heroin and alcohol, and has overcome them. He has faced the unimaginable tragedy of the death of his young son, yet still had faith enough to remarry at over 50 and to start a young family. To sum it up his own spirituality I’ll quote Clapton himself from the song “Presence of the Lord”:
I have finally found a place to live
Just like I never could before
And I know I don't have much to give
But soon I'll open any door.
Everybody knows the secret,
Everybody knows the score.
I have finally found a place to live
In the presence of the Lord.
May his music continue to inspire us to connect with something greater than ourselves for many, many generations.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
It's Not Easy Being Green
Day One: In which I travel to Ireland, do a “bit o' pinning”, meet many Murphys, and rendezvous with Son in Killarney.
After the fifth call from Son asking me if I’m planning to rendezvous with the Guilford College Choir’s concert tour of Ireland, it begins to dawn on me: he really does want me to come. I held off making any definitive plans, however. My procrastination turned out to be a good thing; half of the choir group was delayed in the US by Delta Airline’s admission that the plane they were supposed to be on had a flat tire. They were flown from Raleigh, NC, to Atlanta, GA, to await the next day’s flight to Dublin. I learned of this late Sunday night, at a time when I was assuming they were in the air over the Atlantic. When the phone ring and it was Son, I became a little alarmed until I heard the whole story.
Son told me the entire itinerary wouldl be pushed back by a day. I was skeptical of this because of the hotel logistics, but after consultation with Hubster, I decided to make flight arrangements. It cost only 39 Euros to fly from London’s Heathrow to Cork. At this point, I was assuming that I would rendezvous with the group at Blarney Castle on the following Sunday, after they toured and perform in Dublin and Waterford. If I were to fly to Cork on Saturday, and then back from Shannon in western Ireland on Tuesday, my return fare will be zero Euros. Yes, that’s right, Zero. This does not include taxes and fees, which come to about thirty Euros. If I wanted to check a bag, that would be another twenty Euros. Seat assignments cost two Euros if you choose to sit in the middle of the plane, seven Euros if you want one of the seats in the front, or in an exit row. I decided to travel light and sit in steerage, which is what I imagine my great-grandmother Katherine Kirwan (Bahlke) did when she fled the Irish Potato Famine and arrived in the US with her brother at the age of 16.
In planning my itinerary, I allowed only a short transfer time between landing at Cork airport and departing Cork by train on my way to Killarney. In the interim between buying the plane ticket and actually leaving for Ireland, I have discovered that the group will be at Blarney Castle on Saturday instead of Sunday, and that there probably will be no time for me to meet them there. I figure it’s OK if I don’t kiss the Blarney Stone, as I already have the gift of gab, perhaps thanks to “Nana” Katherine Kirwan Bahlke. Fortunately, everything went according to plan. I left A Flat on Abbey Road at about 9 am, and headed out to Circus Road and the #46 bus to Paddington. The Heathrow Express train that was boarding at the platform closed its doors just as I passed through the barrier; so I got to take my time getting on the train across the platform and stowing my luggage. Fifteen minutes after departing Paddington Station I arrived at the connection to Terminal One at Heathrow, home of Aer Lingus.
Once at the Heathrow stop, I ran like a rat in a maze as I made my way down a very long tunnel in the general direction of Terminal 1. I passed through security, at which there was NO LINE, and had so much extra time that I decide to sign up for IRIS, the eyeball identification system that is supposed to help speed one through Immigration on the way back into the UK from international destinations. The last time I tried to sign up on my way out of Heathrow, I was told that even though I am a resident of the UK, I did not have enough qualifying flights in my passport to be allowed to use the system, and anyway, that TeenE would not be able to use the service. They didn’t seem to believe me at that time that I don’t always travel with TeenE, but this did not deter me from trying again This time it worked! They took digital images of my irises both without and with my glasses on, gave me a piece of paper, and I was off. Once again, there was no wait. I now had over an hour to kill in the departure lounge before my 12:15 pm flight.
In the Heathrow system, everyone for all the flights congregates in a general waiting area replete with duty-free shops and snack and coffee emporia. Never one to assume that there will be food on a flight, I loaded up with provisions: I figured a sandwich, a bottle of water, and a grande latte would tide me over on the one-hour flight into the unknown. Of course, I had already packed granola bars and chocolate bars in my bag, so there was no danger of starvation. I suspected that I would not have time in Cork to get lunch as I tried to make a 2:25 pm train. After stocking up, I then repaired to the seats to await the posting of my gate. Departure gates are not announced until about a half hour before boarding is to begin. Once I was informed of my departure gate by both the monitor and the disembodied voice, I went on the most amazing journey. I was upgraded from a rat in a maze to a hamster in a HabiTrail cage. Moving walkways helped shorten the travel time on the straight-aways, but it took at least fifteen minutes to navigate the semicircular glass tunnels that connected the different “pods” of gates. It was a mixed crowd of tourists, business people, and Irish returning home at the gate.
The Aer Lingus flight was efficient and non-eventful. All announcements were made first in Gaelic, then in English. I hadn’t expected that; I just never even gave it a thought. I had scored a window seat so that I could watch the takeoff and landing, but the cloud cover obscured everything. All I saw was the wing.
The Cork airport was tiny, on a par with Tri-City airport in Johnson, Tennessee, or Asheville, North Carolina. There were two immigration agents, one for European Union passport holders (including the Irish) and one for Non-EU. I was third in the queue for the Non-EU, and was chomping at the bit to get through, given my tight train connection. It was now 45 minutes to train departure. Unfortunately, the couple at the head of the queue had not secured whatever paperwork they needed to enter, so they took ten minutes of processing. Meanwhile, the majority of our flight were EU, and they ALL passed through the other line by simply waving their passports at the man. When they were all through, that nice man beckoned to those of us in the sluggish queue to come on over. Two questions and an entry stamp later, I was in.
There was no queue at the taxi rank, and the kind Irish gentleman driver told me that he’d have me at the train station in under ten minutes, which was correct. He explained to me that all of the election posters that plastered the town (complete with larger-than life photos of the candidates) were for the upcoming European Union parliamentary elections. I don’t know much about EU politics, but I know that immigration to the UK is easier if one holds a passport from an EU country than one from the US of A. Just after I entered the train station, the skies opened and the rain began to fall.
My destination by train was Killarney, on Ireland’s west coast, in the county of Kerry. I had purchased the train ticket online, at a cost of twenty Euros, and just had to wave the ID number of my transaction at Miss Murphy behind the counter and I was presented with a full page itinerary with a peel-off ticket emblazoned with a holographic security strip. I was impressed by the high-tech ticket. Of course, the train on which I rode was just an ordinary train, but the scrolling LED announcement board presented the information first in Gaelic, then in English. The announcer did the same. I learned that “Corkaigh” is Cork and “Malla” is Mallow.
We passed through beautiful spring-time countryside. I have decided that the Irish invented the color green. There were so many shades of it interlocking and blending in the landscape that it was hard to tell where “mossy green” ended and “grassy green” began. I sat at a table and drank in the landscape, which consisted of undulating green hills, grey cloud-laden skies, small cream colored homes dotting the hills, and bright spots of mustard yellow provided by the blooms of the gorse bushes. Once in a while a grey stone wall would hem in some ecru sheep
We passed by Blarney Castle on our way to Mallow, where I had to change trains. Just in case the Guilford College Choir was out there somewhere, I waved.
At Mallow, two young fellows entered the train and decided to sit at my table, which was surrounded by four seats. The one nearest to me had breath heavy with whiskey (the “water of life”, in Gaelic). They were sports fans going to Killarney to watch a football match on TV as they must have been in a “Blackout” area for the match. Perhaps they were Scottish. I’ll never know. They kept complaining that “after all, they’re playing in our country” and seemed very bitter about the necessity of their journey. Whiskey-breath had an accent so heavy that even if I discounted the fact that he was slurring his speech, I could not understand him at all. I had pulled out my knitting and the complicated pattern for a drop-stitch scarf that required a lot of counting, so I hoped they wouldn’t try and engage me in conversation.
I’m sorry to report that this ploy failed. Whiskey-breath, who fancied himself a comedian, turned right to me and asked me a question. “Blah blah blah blah pinnin”. I ignored him. He came back with it again. This time I looked at him. He could have been Quentin Tarantino’s love child. I’m sure the look on my face must have been “Are you talking to me?” He tried to communicate with me two more times. Aha! He was making a comment about my knitting. He had been saying “I can see that this one likes a bit of pinning”. I guess that is what they call knitting in Ireland or wherever he was from. I tried to make it clear that I could not understand what he was saying. His friend, Stripe-Shirt, translated for him “She doesn’t understand what you are saying”. I told them that I was working on a complicated pattern, and that if they noticed that my lips were moving as I knitted, they’d know that I was counting and couldn’t really talk. After another stop or two they moved across the aisle, to my great relief.
I took another cab from the Killarney train station to the Best Western Eviston House Hotel, centrally located on “New” Street in the shopping district. The Guilford College Choir had not yet arrived, but their guide had phone from the coach and they were expected shortly. After being checked in to my room by a Ms. Murphy, I decided to go over to the Tourist Office around the corner and pick up some area information and maps. By the time I got back, the coach was parked and a horde of fresh young faces was disembarking. Son glimpsed me through the lobby window and I was greeted with a big bear hug.
The choir had an hour and a half before they had to reboard the coach in concert dress for their Saturday evening performance. Sunday’s “gig” was to be at an Alzheimer’s unit of a “Care Home” affiliated with a church just outside of Killarney. When the parish priest heard that this was happening, he invited the choir to sing a Saturday night Mass. I asked the tour guide if it would be OK for me to ride with them to the service, and she introduced herself to me. Her name was Odile Murphy, and she is one of the nicest people ever. She said not only would it be all right on Saturday night, but that if I wanted to join them on their morning trip to a local scenic spot the next day, that would be fine, too.
Son and I scarfed down some sandwiches from the Subway across the street, and then sat in the lobby chatting before he had to go upstairs to change into his tux. All 60 of us boarded the coach and then the mist turned back to rain as we headed out of town toward Killcommon. Ms. Murphy came over the PA system with an announcement: “We’d like to welcome Doug’s Mom to the tour bus”. This was answered by a resounding chorus of “Hi, Doug’s Mom”. I stood and waved, and told them, my name. They all laughed and I replied with some witty banter. Son poked me with his elbow to get me to shut up so I did. Meanwhile, Ms. Murphy reminded us that “Kill” means “stream”, and I thought of the instances in New York State where it is used in the same way “Fishkill”, “Peekskill”, etc.
Killcommon was an uncommonly beautiful spot. It was now half past seven in the evening, and the sun was nowhere near setting. The rain stopped as we disembarked the coach. We entered a modern church built in the round, with the part behind the altar made of bentwood staves like the inside of a prow of a ship. Between the staves there was a gorgeous patchwork of colorful stained glass illustrating animals, people, and natural motifs from the Bible and from Ireland. Mass was packed; either a show of support for the choir (who had been added on with very short notice) or that is just what one does in Ireland on a Saturday night.
The choir sang with no instrumental accompaniment. Their sound was breathtaking in the perfect acoustics of that church, and I was moved to tears by the beauty of the whole experience. I remarked to someone later that it was the first time I had ever been to a mass that was not a wedding or a funeral. They sang about four selections during the service, and one could tell that the congregation was not used to such…lengthy… musical offerings. They were eager to be on their way after the hour was up.
I was wondering if they would all disappear, or if there would be a “coffee hour” at 8 pm. Fortunately for the choir, most of whom had not eaten anything, there was a generous spread of “tea” at the Rectory across the street. Several generous women stood by to refill our tea cups and pass around the plates of sandwiches and homemade sweets. We all felt warmly welcomed. At about half past eight I was ready to return to the coach and walked outside to take in the evening. It was chilly, so I boarded just as the mist returned.
We returned to the hotel and Son changed out of his tux. We found the last two seats in the pub just as the musical act was warming up. The pub, called Danny Mann’s, bills itself as Ireland’s Most Famous Pub. I’m not sure if it’s true, but they do offer live music most nights, and Saturday night’s group was The Molly Maguires. They played an entertaining mix of traditional Irish vocal music. Son and I enjoyed some Carlsburg (I know, it’s not Irish, but I hadn’t developed a taste for Guinness yet) and I chased it with a shot of Jameson whiskey, served neat, with water on the side, in honor of my Dad. God forbid that a bartender or waiter should pour the water into the whiskey glass! I decided to carry on the tradition, sans ice.
By a quarter to eleven pm, I was well and truly ready for bed. I knew that the “young people” would be up much later, so said my goodbyes. Son walked me to my room, and we agreed to meet up in the breakfast room the next day. I slept well, and was only awakened once by the sound of some merrymakers singing their way down the street. You could hear the sound getting fainter and fainter as they made their way out of town.
What a happy day!
After the fifth call from Son asking me if I’m planning to rendezvous with the Guilford College Choir’s concert tour of Ireland, it begins to dawn on me: he really does want me to come. I held off making any definitive plans, however. My procrastination turned out to be a good thing; half of the choir group was delayed in the US by Delta Airline’s admission that the plane they were supposed to be on had a flat tire. They were flown from Raleigh, NC, to Atlanta, GA, to await the next day’s flight to Dublin. I learned of this late Sunday night, at a time when I was assuming they were in the air over the Atlantic. When the phone ring and it was Son, I became a little alarmed until I heard the whole story.
Son told me the entire itinerary wouldl be pushed back by a day. I was skeptical of this because of the hotel logistics, but after consultation with Hubster, I decided to make flight arrangements. It cost only 39 Euros to fly from London’s Heathrow to Cork. At this point, I was assuming that I would rendezvous with the group at Blarney Castle on the following Sunday, after they toured and perform in Dublin and Waterford. If I were to fly to Cork on Saturday, and then back from Shannon in western Ireland on Tuesday, my return fare will be zero Euros. Yes, that’s right, Zero. This does not include taxes and fees, which come to about thirty Euros. If I wanted to check a bag, that would be another twenty Euros. Seat assignments cost two Euros if you choose to sit in the middle of the plane, seven Euros if you want one of the seats in the front, or in an exit row. I decided to travel light and sit in steerage, which is what I imagine my great-grandmother Katherine Kirwan (Bahlke) did when she fled the Irish Potato Famine and arrived in the US with her brother at the age of 16.
In planning my itinerary, I allowed only a short transfer time between landing at Cork airport and departing Cork by train on my way to Killarney. In the interim between buying the plane ticket and actually leaving for Ireland, I have discovered that the group will be at Blarney Castle on Saturday instead of Sunday, and that there probably will be no time for me to meet them there. I figure it’s OK if I don’t kiss the Blarney Stone, as I already have the gift of gab, perhaps thanks to “Nana” Katherine Kirwan Bahlke. Fortunately, everything went according to plan. I left A Flat on Abbey Road at about 9 am, and headed out to Circus Road and the #46 bus to Paddington. The Heathrow Express train that was boarding at the platform closed its doors just as I passed through the barrier; so I got to take my time getting on the train across the platform and stowing my luggage. Fifteen minutes after departing Paddington Station I arrived at the connection to Terminal One at Heathrow, home of Aer Lingus.
Once at the Heathrow stop, I ran like a rat in a maze as I made my way down a very long tunnel in the general direction of Terminal 1. I passed through security, at which there was NO LINE, and had so much extra time that I decide to sign up for IRIS, the eyeball identification system that is supposed to help speed one through Immigration on the way back into the UK from international destinations. The last time I tried to sign up on my way out of Heathrow, I was told that even though I am a resident of the UK, I did not have enough qualifying flights in my passport to be allowed to use the system, and anyway, that TeenE would not be able to use the service. They didn’t seem to believe me at that time that I don’t always travel with TeenE, but this did not deter me from trying again This time it worked! They took digital images of my irises both without and with my glasses on, gave me a piece of paper, and I was off. Once again, there was no wait. I now had over an hour to kill in the departure lounge before my 12:15 pm flight.
In the Heathrow system, everyone for all the flights congregates in a general waiting area replete with duty-free shops and snack and coffee emporia. Never one to assume that there will be food on a flight, I loaded up with provisions: I figured a sandwich, a bottle of water, and a grande latte would tide me over on the one-hour flight into the unknown. Of course, I had already packed granola bars and chocolate bars in my bag, so there was no danger of starvation. I suspected that I would not have time in Cork to get lunch as I tried to make a 2:25 pm train. After stocking up, I then repaired to the seats to await the posting of my gate. Departure gates are not announced until about a half hour before boarding is to begin. Once I was informed of my departure gate by both the monitor and the disembodied voice, I went on the most amazing journey. I was upgraded from a rat in a maze to a hamster in a HabiTrail cage. Moving walkways helped shorten the travel time on the straight-aways, but it took at least fifteen minutes to navigate the semicircular glass tunnels that connected the different “pods” of gates. It was a mixed crowd of tourists, business people, and Irish returning home at the gate.
The Aer Lingus flight was efficient and non-eventful. All announcements were made first in Gaelic, then in English. I hadn’t expected that; I just never even gave it a thought. I had scored a window seat so that I could watch the takeoff and landing, but the cloud cover obscured everything. All I saw was the wing.
The Cork airport was tiny, on a par with Tri-City airport in Johnson, Tennessee, or Asheville, North Carolina. There were two immigration agents, one for European Union passport holders (including the Irish) and one for Non-EU. I was third in the queue for the Non-EU, and was chomping at the bit to get through, given my tight train connection. It was now 45 minutes to train departure. Unfortunately, the couple at the head of the queue had not secured whatever paperwork they needed to enter, so they took ten minutes of processing. Meanwhile, the majority of our flight were EU, and they ALL passed through the other line by simply waving their passports at the man. When they were all through, that nice man beckoned to those of us in the sluggish queue to come on over. Two questions and an entry stamp later, I was in.
There was no queue at the taxi rank, and the kind Irish gentleman driver told me that he’d have me at the train station in under ten minutes, which was correct. He explained to me that all of the election posters that plastered the town (complete with larger-than life photos of the candidates) were for the upcoming European Union parliamentary elections. I don’t know much about EU politics, but I know that immigration to the UK is easier if one holds a passport from an EU country than one from the US of A. Just after I entered the train station, the skies opened and the rain began to fall.
My destination by train was Killarney, on Ireland’s west coast, in the county of Kerry. I had purchased the train ticket online, at a cost of twenty Euros, and just had to wave the ID number of my transaction at Miss Murphy behind the counter and I was presented with a full page itinerary with a peel-off ticket emblazoned with a holographic security strip. I was impressed by the high-tech ticket. Of course, the train on which I rode was just an ordinary train, but the scrolling LED announcement board presented the information first in Gaelic, then in English. The announcer did the same. I learned that “Corkaigh” is Cork and “Malla” is Mallow.
We passed through beautiful spring-time countryside. I have decided that the Irish invented the color green. There were so many shades of it interlocking and blending in the landscape that it was hard to tell where “mossy green” ended and “grassy green” began. I sat at a table and drank in the landscape, which consisted of undulating green hills, grey cloud-laden skies, small cream colored homes dotting the hills, and bright spots of mustard yellow provided by the blooms of the gorse bushes. Once in a while a grey stone wall would hem in some ecru sheep
We passed by Blarney Castle on our way to Mallow, where I had to change trains. Just in case the Guilford College Choir was out there somewhere, I waved.
At Mallow, two young fellows entered the train and decided to sit at my table, which was surrounded by four seats. The one nearest to me had breath heavy with whiskey (the “water of life”, in Gaelic). They were sports fans going to Killarney to watch a football match on TV as they must have been in a “Blackout” area for the match. Perhaps they were Scottish. I’ll never know. They kept complaining that “after all, they’re playing in our country” and seemed very bitter about the necessity of their journey. Whiskey-breath had an accent so heavy that even if I discounted the fact that he was slurring his speech, I could not understand him at all. I had pulled out my knitting and the complicated pattern for a drop-stitch scarf that required a lot of counting, so I hoped they wouldn’t try and engage me in conversation.
I’m sorry to report that this ploy failed. Whiskey-breath, who fancied himself a comedian, turned right to me and asked me a question. “Blah blah blah blah pinnin”. I ignored him. He came back with it again. This time I looked at him. He could have been Quentin Tarantino’s love child. I’m sure the look on my face must have been “Are you talking to me?” He tried to communicate with me two more times. Aha! He was making a comment about my knitting. He had been saying “I can see that this one likes a bit of pinning”. I guess that is what they call knitting in Ireland or wherever he was from. I tried to make it clear that I could not understand what he was saying. His friend, Stripe-Shirt, translated for him “She doesn’t understand what you are saying”. I told them that I was working on a complicated pattern, and that if they noticed that my lips were moving as I knitted, they’d know that I was counting and couldn’t really talk. After another stop or two they moved across the aisle, to my great relief.
I took another cab from the Killarney train station to the Best Western Eviston House Hotel, centrally located on “New” Street in the shopping district. The Guilford College Choir had not yet arrived, but their guide had phone from the coach and they were expected shortly. After being checked in to my room by a Ms. Murphy, I decided to go over to the Tourist Office around the corner and pick up some area information and maps. By the time I got back, the coach was parked and a horde of fresh young faces was disembarking. Son glimpsed me through the lobby window and I was greeted with a big bear hug.
The choir had an hour and a half before they had to reboard the coach in concert dress for their Saturday evening performance. Sunday’s “gig” was to be at an Alzheimer’s unit of a “Care Home” affiliated with a church just outside of Killarney. When the parish priest heard that this was happening, he invited the choir to sing a Saturday night Mass. I asked the tour guide if it would be OK for me to ride with them to the service, and she introduced herself to me. Her name was Odile Murphy, and she is one of the nicest people ever. She said not only would it be all right on Saturday night, but that if I wanted to join them on their morning trip to a local scenic spot the next day, that would be fine, too.
Son and I scarfed down some sandwiches from the Subway across the street, and then sat in the lobby chatting before he had to go upstairs to change into his tux. All 60 of us boarded the coach and then the mist turned back to rain as we headed out of town toward Killcommon. Ms. Murphy came over the PA system with an announcement: “We’d like to welcome Doug’s Mom to the tour bus”. This was answered by a resounding chorus of “Hi, Doug’s Mom”. I stood and waved, and told them, my name. They all laughed and I replied with some witty banter. Son poked me with his elbow to get me to shut up so I did. Meanwhile, Ms. Murphy reminded us that “Kill” means “stream”, and I thought of the instances in New York State where it is used in the same way “Fishkill”, “Peekskill”, etc.
Killcommon was an uncommonly beautiful spot. It was now half past seven in the evening, and the sun was nowhere near setting. The rain stopped as we disembarked the coach. We entered a modern church built in the round, with the part behind the altar made of bentwood staves like the inside of a prow of a ship. Between the staves there was a gorgeous patchwork of colorful stained glass illustrating animals, people, and natural motifs from the Bible and from Ireland. Mass was packed; either a show of support for the choir (who had been added on with very short notice) or that is just what one does in Ireland on a Saturday night.
The choir sang with no instrumental accompaniment. Their sound was breathtaking in the perfect acoustics of that church, and I was moved to tears by the beauty of the whole experience. I remarked to someone later that it was the first time I had ever been to a mass that was not a wedding or a funeral. They sang about four selections during the service, and one could tell that the congregation was not used to such…lengthy… musical offerings. They were eager to be on their way after the hour was up.
I was wondering if they would all disappear, or if there would be a “coffee hour” at 8 pm. Fortunately for the choir, most of whom had not eaten anything, there was a generous spread of “tea” at the Rectory across the street. Several generous women stood by to refill our tea cups and pass around the plates of sandwiches and homemade sweets. We all felt warmly welcomed. At about half past eight I was ready to return to the coach and walked outside to take in the evening. It was chilly, so I boarded just as the mist returned.
We returned to the hotel and Son changed out of his tux. We found the last two seats in the pub just as the musical act was warming up. The pub, called Danny Mann’s, bills itself as Ireland’s Most Famous Pub. I’m not sure if it’s true, but they do offer live music most nights, and Saturday night’s group was The Molly Maguires. They played an entertaining mix of traditional Irish vocal music. Son and I enjoyed some Carlsburg (I know, it’s not Irish, but I hadn’t developed a taste for Guinness yet) and I chased it with a shot of Jameson whiskey, served neat, with water on the side, in honor of my Dad. God forbid that a bartender or waiter should pour the water into the whiskey glass! I decided to carry on the tradition, sans ice.
By a quarter to eleven pm, I was well and truly ready for bed. I knew that the “young people” would be up much later, so said my goodbyes. Son walked me to my room, and we agreed to meet up in the breakfast room the next day. I slept well, and was only awakened once by the sound of some merrymakers singing their way down the street. You could hear the sound getting fainter and fainter as they made their way out of town.
What a happy day!
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