Train in Vain

Wednesday, Feb. 25th. Destination: Llanfair Caereinion, Wales, near Welshpool, Powys, Wales, near Shrewsbury, Shropshire, Enland.

Mary Ann, Barbara and I rendezvoused at Marylebone Station for a 12:15 train to Shrewsbury. We arrived in a timely fashion after three hours on the train. We then had a two hour layover due to the fact that the next train to Welshpool (run by a different train company) had left Shrewsbury seven minutes prior to our arrival.

This allowed us to peruse the town of Shrewsbury at our leisure. We toted our heavy suitcases up the hill to the castle. On the way, we passed the public library with its statue that honors favored native son Charles Darwin (see previous posts for Darwin-Day festivities).

We took explored the castle forecourt and took pictures of the evocative architecture and early blooms. Then we passed a women's spiritual retreat center, that called to me. I popped in to their cafe for a spot of tea and a scone while Barbara and Mary Ann explored the town. I chatted with the proprietor, who told me that he had leased the former Methodist Church after the county tax council had abandonded their use of it. They had a small paperback library, a women's workout center, and treatment spaces for Reiki, etc. They were just about to set up for their monthly Psychic Reader event, which was sold out, but time didn't permit anyway as we needed to be on our way to Welshpool that very eve.

Note to reader: Have you noticed that none of the words in use in this missive contain the letter that follows "F" in the alphabet, since that key is not functional on the computer at this time?

Our train to Welshpool was delayed for about twenty minutes due to a "landslip" somewhere up the line. When Mary Ann asked the station master how much of a delay we could experience, he
"reassured" us that it would be any where between 20 minutes and 20 hours.

Some clever train router decided to split a train in two: the front half would travel to Welshpool while the back half would travel somewhere else. We were in luck!! We arrived in Welshpool just as dusk descended, and found that there was not a taxi to be had.

We cleverly called our hotel (Rhymes with "Boat", but has that letter that follows the letter "F"), and they kindly telephoned John, of Amber Taxi Cabs, who picked us up and delivered us safely to the hotel.

Our hotel stay was certainly an experience. The edifice must have been constructed in the 17th century, and the plaster and waterworks seemed to be from that era as well. Our "family" room with three beds was under the eaves and had floors that sloped as much as the eaves. The toilet in our "en suite" facilities was not firmly bolted to the floor, so that when one sat down, there was a thump that accompanied an abrupt movement of the entire commode. The tank (cistern) also appeared to have a pressure-assist mechanism that made a loud water-hammer type sound intermittently after the flush. Tiles and chunks of plaster were absent from the bathroom's decor, as well. We were fortunate to have, just down the hall, another bathroom (tub and toilet, no sink) which Barbara and I used in the darkness as we has consumed some yummy ale at fireside with our knit projects after dinner. We can report that the dinner itself was delicious, well-prepared, and inexpensive, tho' we were informed that the soup of the day was "Roasted Plum", not the yummy Roasted Plum Tomato that it turned out to be.

Our slumbers were punctuated by the church bells which pealed every fifteen minutes until dawn and beyond. Other than that, we enjoyed our stay at that Hotel.

After a hearty breakfast, (included) we meandered thru the little town of Llanfair Caereinion, across a wooden footpath that led us to the other side of the river, and entered into the sacred womb of Colinette Yarns.

We worshipped at the Colinette shrine, especially the sale room, where every skein of sale yarn was four pounds for 3 1/2 ounces. That's six dollars per skein for you Yankee-types! Several creative projects were planned, and Mary Ann seemed to buy one of each pattern book in the place.

John the taxi man collected our suitcases from the hotel and then came to pick us up at the Mill. He drove us back to the station via the scenic route. There were lambs in the verdant fields with their mothers, and the clouds occasionally parted to reveal a small patch of less-cloudy sky.
We stopped at the top of a hill at a scenic overlook to take some photos, but our visit was curtailed by the aroma of Sheep Manure which wafted across the hills.

Our journey continues, and will be chronicled at a later time.

The Knitters Are Coming, The Knitters Are Coming

Well, the Knitters are actually here. Barbara B and Mary Ann W have arrived in London for their ten-day holiday with BlogMama.

Last night I picked them up at Paddington Station, which they had reached on the Heathrow Express from Terminal 5. We visited the Bureau de Change and the Cash Machine, then went downstairs to the Underground station and purchased "Oyster Cards", on which is stored several days' worth of travel money.

We took the Underground to the Russell Square station (Piccadilly Line) and they checked into their hotel. The lobby, bar and reception area was teeming with teens. It seemed like every single school trip was staying at the same hotel as our knitters. There were also adult chaperones with clipboards going from room to room on the fifth floor making sure that they had accounted for their charges.

We visited a bit and they disbursed the surprise presents, inlcluding a beautiful Kumihimo and bead necklace by Marilyn and Barbara, and Linda's fabulous date/nut loaf. Thank you thank you, and also to all those who are with us in Spirit. This will be the maiden yarn mill tour, but it certainly won't be the last!

Today B and MA took the underground up to St. John's Wood, where they received the Official Tour. Our first stop was chatting with one Alan, one of my fellow hospice volunteers, on the street corner. Alan used to live on Brattle Street in Cambridge when he lived in the US, so he certainly knows the Fresh Pond and Belmont areas.

Our next stop was the hospital lobby. From the street, we could see that Fabian was in charge at the front reception desk, so we sauntered in and asked for his autograph. Mary Ann snapped his photo and it was then that he realized that his fame spans the Atlantic. We are sorry to report that there was no "Dr. D" sighting, but I'm sure he's not sorry at all.

Next we crossed Abbey Road at the famous pedestrian crossing, stopped for the obligatory pictures, and made our way up to the flat in the creaky Edwardian-era gated "lift" (elevator).
The ladies were given the two-cent (tuppence) tour of the flat, and Mary Ann was able to reach her daughter by phone to let her know that they had arrived safely the night before.

We went back out into the mist and toddled over to the "Hi Street", admiring the many blooms already peeking out in the gardens and window boxes. Crocus, snowdrops, viburnum shrubs, quince, a flowering plum trees are already in bloom. It was about 50 degrees F, although Mary Ann insisted it was colder, but I think she just wanted to wear her ear muffs.

We had lunch at the Duke of York, a pub in the center of the High Street area. After that, I went home for a rest and to sleep off the headache that had plagued me since I woke up. B. and MA went to the British Museum. We then met up in Sloane Square to have a drink with Barbara's friend Marjolein and her colleague Bev. The three knitters then went across the Square to a nice Brasserie-type restaurant for a yummy dinner.

Tomorrow we leave for Wales on a 12:15 train from Marylebone Station. I'm not sure that I will be able to get a wireless signal while we're on the road, so I haven't yet decided if the computer is coming with us.... Watch this space.

These Boots Are Made for Walking

February 14, V-day, 2009. It started out as a routine lunch date with Hubster up at the O2 center on Finchley Road in London’s NW3 neighborhood. We decided to go up to the cinema and pre-purchase tickets to the film we had chosen, knowing that if we left it until just before the showing on the biggest date night of the year, that we would not be able to get tickets.
The bus chugged up Finchley Road about ¾ of a mile, and we had lunch at a Chinese restaurant in the O2. The concept of dim sum is not new to me, but I had never actually gone for just those yummy morsels. We enjoyed the food but found the service slow. Then we took the escalator up one flight to the cinema and purchased our tickets from the machine.

With tickets in hand, we came back down the escalator and went to the Waterstone’s bookstore, where I purchased some non-fiction by the neurophysiologist Oliver Sacks called “Musicophilia” (US title: why we love music) and Hubster got some fiction. My book is by the same author of “The Man who Mistook His Wife for a Hat”, true tales of bizarre behavior by patients with unusual types of brain damage. His newest book is about how the brain processes music.

As we paid for our books, I innocently picked up a brochure for a photographic exhibition being held at Kenwood House, a large historic home located at the northern end of Hampstead Heath. Little did I know that it would send me out on more than one Heath-related adventure.

As it was still midday, and I was in the mood for a walk, I decided to head north and make my way to Kenwood House. Hubster is not a Heath Hiker, so elected to return to the flat with his new books. I hopped on a bus the rest of the way up Finchley Road to Golders Green, and approach the Heath on foot from the west. I knew that if I walked up North End Road past the Golders Green underground stop and bus station to a pub called the Bull and Bush, and banged a left at the pub, that I would be in a part of the Heath called Sandy Heath. I had made my acquaintance with this part of the Heath only recently, when I went on the Muddy Heath Hike with the women’s club group.

It was a good thing that I had chosen to wear my zip-up ankle boots upon leaving the flat, as these are particularly comfortable for walking and it doesn’t matter if they get muddy. There is a 100% chance of muddy boots on the Heath in the winter.

The initial approach to the pub was a lot longer and more hilly than I anticipated, but eventually I saw the sign for the Bull and Bush and turned left. Once inside the gate to the Heath, I marveled again at the carpet of oak and beech leaves that covered every inch of the ground. This area is chock full of ancient trees on top of little hillocks. Apparently, the area was used as a “mine” for sand in the old days, including for cement during the 19th century and for sandbags to protect buildings during the Blitz bombings of London in WWII. The workers dug around the trees, so when you are walking you go up and down these little “dips” , and at the top of each hill there is a tree. I noticed someone with a dirt bike enjoying going up and down the hillocks, and wondered if they had seen the sign at the gate that said “no cycling”. It was a perfect spot for pedaling up and down through the woods, however.

I marveled at the amount of green still in evidence after the winter’s snows of several weeks ago. Blackberry bramble bushes still had their leaves, although they were somewhat dessicated and black with either mold or frostbite. The deciduous trees were of course bare, but there were shrubs and evergreens that still held their color. I also noticed shoots of bulbs sprouting up through the carpet of leaves, mostly scilla Siberica (bluebells) and daffodils. No sign of any buds atop the stems, just several inches of leaves about to unfurl. It was a thrilling sight! I know that Spring cannot be far off when the bulbs show themselves to the waiting world.

Another source of green in this area is the moss on the trees. This area must be very shaded in the summer, and in the winter the sun never gets above about 30 degrees off the horizon, so the moss on the trees goes all the way around. There is no way to tell the north side of the tree by the location of the moss, as I am used to in New England. Perhaps the north side was a bit mossier, or a bit greener, or a bit moister, but as the sun was totally hidden by the overcast sky and random arrangement of hillocks it was impossible to tell direction from it, either.
I bent down to examine some rotted tree stumps. I took “portraits” of especially beautiful trees. I touched the bark of an oak that had to be at least four hundred years old. I found a six-inch puddle in the nook between two roots, and enjoyed taking photos of the reflection of the sky superimposed on the bottom of the puddle. Just call me the tree-whisperer. It was a magical interlude.

Somewhere in the midst of all this picture-snapping, moss-massaging and tree-whispering, I became totally disoriented and took off in a direction that was NOT toward the right road leading eventually to Kenwood House and the photography exhibition. I wound up going down a big hill, past some houses and to a road that was unfamiliar. I realized that I had gone Northeast towards a narrow strip of green known as the Heath Extension, the northern end of which abuts a residential neighborhood. So much for being on “auto-pilot”, and of always knowing what direction I was going in. After realizing my error, I re-entered Sandy Heath and managed to go in a straight line to the other side, not stopping to take any further pictures or talk to any trees.I did see a mounted policewoman riding a very handsome police horse into the woods. She hailed the cycler and I can only surmise that she told him to take his bike and go, as I was out of earshot by the time she reached him. Once through the woods and out on the right road, I made the decision that it was probably too late to properly enjoy the photo exhibition, as I would have had another ten or fifteen minutes of walking along the road to get there. I found a bus stop near The Spaniard Inn (circa 1450 or some unbelievable date like that) and headed back to Golder’s Green.

Kenwood House and its treasures would have to wait for another day. I guess that on this particular day, the journey was more important than the destination. Hubster and I did enjoy Vicky Christina Barcelona later that night, but the woodland adventure was even better.

Stamp of Approval

A quick Darwin-day postal update. After walking what seemed like miles to the post office in W9 and having an extended discussion there about getting a first-day cover of the new Darwin stamp (see "Please Mr. Postman" below), I am able to report some postal closure.

The envelope bearing the stamp with photo of Charles Darwin was indeed transferred from the W9 Post Office to the one on Baker Street for cancellation. It was then mailed to the addressee encased in a clear plastic bag, arriving about five days later. It DID NOT contain the cancellation stamp of the "walking fish" icon as had been described on some official website.

Magic Bus

About a week ago Miss TeenE took the 274 bus that runs over the top of Regent's Park to a friend's house. She spent the afternoon hanging out, and of course it was dark when it was time to return home for dinner. She called to tell us when she was leaving, and we arranged for Hubster to go down to the bottom of St. John's Wood High Street to meet her as she got off the bus. It really is a very safe neighborhood, but there is a park and church burying ground that runs along the bottom of the "Hi Street", so it could be a bit threatening for a young teen.

We were all concentrating so much on her safety and executing the plan properly that we didn't realize she had absent-mindedly left her "Oyster Card" bus pass behind when she exited the bus. Several days later, when she was looking for it (a common occurence), I decided that it probably had gone on a little adventure further into bus 274 territory.

That Friday afternoon, the telephone rang. It was a man who said he had found "my" Oyster Card (I had placed one of my business cards in the little plastic pocket). He would be around that afternoon if I wanted to go to Islington to pick it up. What a nice person!! He said he knew he should have called Transport For London, but worried that they wouldn't ever get it to us. He had no way of knowing it was an "unregistered" card and that they wouldn't have been able to trace it any other way than by using the business card. The nice man gave me some rather vague directions as to what stop to get out at, and I said I'd call him when I got close, after I had made an important international phone call to Arizona.

At the appointed time, I reassessed the situation. It was pouring out. Really really pouring hard. For me to add that much emphasis you know that it wasn't a run-of-the-mill London rain. Also, my tummy, which had been upset a few days before, seemed to be threatening again. I called the nice man back to give him the news: it was just too wet to come out during Friday afternoon rush hour. I told him that he was a good person and that he should enjoy his extra bus rides. My faith in the innate goodness of (most) people was buoyed up by his enthusiastic response to his fifteen pounds worth of transportation.

Please Mr. Postman

On the occasion of the 200th anniversary of the birth of Charles Darwin, I herewith present the Darwin Stamp and Natural History Museum Saga.

As neither TeenE nor Hubster want to go to the Darwin Exhibition at the London's Natural History Museum, I decided to go on a weekday when it would be less crowded, and the thought of being there on his actual B-day was too enticing to miss. Much of the UK is awash with commemorations, due to the 200th anniversary of Charles Darwin's birth, and the sesqui-centennial of the publication of On the Origin of Species. There have been color supplements in the newspapers, several documentaries on TV, and all kinds of books published about the illustrious native son who changed our view of life on earth.

I left Stitchery on Maida Vale too late to make the Museum's birthday cake celebration at half-past-twelve. As I had oodles of time to get to South Kensington, I decided to go to the W9 Post Office on my way out of Maida Vale. I had read that the Darwin Stamp first-day covers from the W9 PO would have the cancellation mark in the shape of the fish-symbol with legs, a take-off on the stylized Christian "icthus" fish symbol, the design of which has always cracked me up.

Discussion of the whereabouts of the W9 post office with knitters who live in that neighborhood produced the information that the nearby one had been closed. I ran into a postman making his rounds right outside the Stitchery house as I was leaving, and was informed that if I "popped up" Elgin Ave. to Harrow Road I'd find one that was open. So off I walked, and walked, and walked. I found the postman's use of the verb "pop" to have been overly optimistic. I walked for at least twenty minutes before reaching the Harrow Road intersection.

Once at the Harrow Road PO, I enquired about the franked first-day covers. I was told that although this was the first day of issue for the Stamps, the COVERS were all sold out as they had started selling them two days ago. They recommended checking with the Baker Street post office. I told them I had just walked to W9 from NW8 and wanted to know why they couldn't cancel my stamp with the special frank TODAY as it was actually Darwin's 200th birthday. The clueless lady, who was not sure who Darwin was, and after being told Twice that he had formulated the theory of evolution, still believed he was a physicist, told me to speak to the manager. After 20 minutes of waiting in another queue to speak with the manager, I was informed I could buy a single stamp and a single envelope and he would send it to Baker Street to be franked.

Once I escaped the PO, the southbound Bus 28 arrived eventually. Our "driver" seemed to have some difficulty with the concept of his job description. At Westbourne Park garage he got off the bus, leaving it running, and didn't return for ten minutes. Twice more he got off the bus at stops and left the bus with the doors open while he disappeared. At one of these stops he got on and off four times before putting the bus in gear. I will give him the benefit of the doubt and attribute his erratic behaviour to the tummy bug. Meanwhile, I had to transfer to another bus to get to South Ken but only knew of two locations where that could happen, so had to wait until we got there to transfer. Finally on the appropriate 70 bus, we went three stops before the driver told us he was not going any further although his sign had said South Kensington. We all transferred off that bus and got on the next 70.

I decided at this point that it was so late in the afternoon that I should do the Darwin exhibit another time. I DID, however, enjoy some of the free exhibits very much, especially the evolution of humans and the hall with the mineral specimens and gemstone vault, always my favorite spot in a Natural History Museum.

I took a photo of the marble statue of Darwin that occupies a place of honor in the main hall, and also visited the gift shop, where I managed to resist purchasing a silly stuffed toy effigy of the great thinker.

I shall definately return to the exhibit, although not in this coming week, as it is a school vacation week for all of London.

If I Were a Boy

I continue to meet and interact with many interesting people here in London. In NW8 and beyond, people seem genuinely interested in connecting with others and having friendly exchanges with perfect strangers. Of course, it may be because I am consciously walking around with my “radio wavelength” broadcasting the Open Heart station. This means that I am open and aware of sending my own distinctive vibe out into the world, while watching to see who responds to it. I will talk to anyone under many circumstances, but they usually have no clue as to what is going on energetically. Of course, if I don't have Women's Club, Stitchery, something at the school, or Hospice volunteering, I can spend the whole day in the flat (in bad weather) without talking to anyone all day. I try to avoid this for my sanity's sake.

"If I Were a Boy..." muses singer Beyonce, she wouldn't have to worry so much about how people see and judge her actions. I was thinking of this in the light of several conversations I had recently with perfect strangers in Starbucks. Would they react differently to the content of our casual conversations if I was not a woman? If I was not a middle-aged woman? I'm just talking to them as fellow humans, but I guess we cannot escape our "meat suits".

Several afternoons a week I can be found at the St. John’s Wood Starbucks, on the corner of Circus Road and St. John’s Wood High Street. My usual perch is on a stool at one of the counters that provides an excellent view of the street.

One day the only open seat was at the other window-view counter. It was raining out, as usual when I am there, and was so damp inside that the windows were almost completely fogged. I sat down and wiped a circle clear with my hand so I could watch the street scene, and went to pick up my order. As I returned to my stool, I noticed a youngish man with a sketchbook and colored pencils. He was executing an interesting swirly design involving a sinuous young woman with something that could have been a serpent’s tail. I was carrying my “mermaid bag” that I created over the summer, and laughed at how similar his design was to my half-clad mermaid at the bottom of the sea. I watched him out of the corner of my eye while sipping my tall vanilla latte. Some 11-year-old (American) boys were sitting nearby having their after-school snacks. They went over to him, looked over his shoulder, and proclaimed “that’s COOL—you’re really good!” He thanked them in an American accent, and told them that he admired the work of a particular artist named Hans something, and that they should look that guy up. The group was then collected by one of their moms and they were herded out into the rain.

Now that I knew he was American, and VERY much younger, I decided it was safe to strike up a conversation. He couldn't possibly think I was hitting on him. “This must be the seating area for the artists who use half-clad-women-as-motif”. He looked a little taken aback, and then laughed and said “yes, I noticed your mermaid”. He didn’t say “I notice your mermaid has bare breasts”. We then covered the weather, the relative merits of the Tate Britain (18th and 19th century British art, such as Wm. Blake, and the Pre-Raphaelites) versus Tate Modern. He asked if I lived in London, and I told him that not only did I live here, but was actually in residence on Abbey Road. He was staying with his cousin, and had been over to the Famous Pedestrian Crossing, but said it had never occurred to him to “re-enact” the crossing as I had just described it.

Next up for discussion was the possibility that I had somehow been subliminally affected by the Starbucks logo, which is a mermaid, in my choice of motif for the felted handbag. He mentioned that he didn’t even know the Starbucks logo IS a mermaid. I said “if you look at her carefully, it looks like she has one half of her tail in one hand and the other half in the other hand, like she actually has legs and has them split and is looking through them." He looked a little shocked at the fact that I was discussing this, but admitted that I was definitely right. Two young women at the nearest table who were listening to this whole exchange were visibly amused by the whole discussion. The conversation moved on to cities where we’d like to live. I managed to work Hubster in to the conversation, at which point the poor guy looked visibly relieved. At last he knew that I really wasn’t trying to hit on him. I left to go make dinner, and hope that he was able to strike up a discussion with the two attractive young things at the next table. I don’t care if they had a good laugh at my expense.

A couple of days later, there I was again, sipping my vanilla latte. A middle-aged stranger who was waiting for his caffeinated beverage managed to drop the beret he had tucked under his arm while ordering and paying. After waiting for a good count of ten for him to realize it was on the floor, I drew his attention to it. “Sir, is that your hat on the floor?” It was indeed. The only empty seat in the whole place was next to the ottoman on which I was perched, so in that very self-effacing British way he asked if he could sit there, adding in a comment about how poor the weather was that afternoon. He then thanked me again for calling his attention to his hat on the floor. I joked that “at first I thought perhaps you were throwing your hat into the ring”. He smiled and wondered where that phrase had originated. “Isn’t it a bull-fighting reference?” I asked. Yes, he thought so, although since his hat was a beret perhaps it needed a more French reference. “Frog-fighting” was all I could come up with. I was about to go on about waving a leaf of cress in front of the enraged Frog, but thought I should quit while I was ahead. I pulled my book out of my handbag, and he perused his paper, and thus endeth that day’s Starbucks Encounter.

Run-in at the NHS

There's not much new here to report. It has been a VERY quiet weekend at A Flat on Abbey Road. Unless, of course, you count the hustle and bustle caused by the frequent, fast-paced trips to "the loo" necessitated by my current condition.

This condition manifested itself with a day and half of extreme tiredness, followed by some very nasty symptoms. I am assuming it is the "noro-virus" whose presence has been posted at the hospice volunteer office. In fact, I may have picked it up at a routine medical appointment over at the local hospital, despite the meticulous hand-washing and use of anti-bacterial gel.

Yes, we finally completed the paperwork for our being covered by the National Health System. This the the socialized-medicine version of "managed care" which the UK government provides to citizens and all others who are considered "ordinarily resident". That latter category includes us, as we have visas which allow us to reside here.

My NHS number was the first of the family's to arrive. One is assigned to a doctor based on one's post code. You can petition to change doctors if you wish. I applied to a GP practice based at the hospital of St. John and St. Elizabeth right around the corner. There is a group of GPs newly affiliated with the hospital who have been featured in stories in the local newspaper a lot. These stories revolve around the fact that the GPs are beholden to provide the standard of care mandated by the national medical boards, which means that if patients request contraception or referral to "family-planning" facilities, the GPs must of course provide that care. Prominent local Catholic officials took exception to the Bishop of the Archidiocese of London allowing that to happen at a Catholic facility. I think that the hospital needs the income generated by the practitioners in its new wing, so the board of directors at the hospital OK'd the policy.

In addition to being the closest medical practice to our home, I very much wanted to support these GPs (all women) with the growth of their practice. The doctor to whom I was assigned is the only one taking new patients at this time, so I didn't have much choice in the matter anyway.

The prescriptions I got from the good Dr. D. were set to run out of refills, so a timely visit to the new practitioner was in order. The visit cost zero pounds. I checked in at the desk fifteen minutes early for my appointment, and scanned magazines in a pleasant waiting room. Several other people joined me there, and several others left in the time that I was there. No one ever came to fetch any patients, however. Then, I heard a dinging sound, and looked up. There was an electronic sign on the wall, very much like the one at the Registry of Motor Vehicles in Massachusetts. Public service-type announcements for flu "jabs" and health reminders scrolled by in red lights. Each time one of the doctors was ready for their next patient, the sign dinged, and the patient's full name (with MR. or MRS. in front of it) was displayed, along with the Doctor's name and the room number. This is what was causing the change of personnel in the waiting room! Luckily I had not missed my notification, which came about ten minutes after my scheduled appointment time.

The young doctor was seated when I entered her office, and greeted me with a handshake from the comfort of her chair. I established that I was new to the NHS, to St. John's Wood, and London, enquired how long the appointment was. As I was a new patient, twenty minutes was the answer, instead of the usual ten. I told her I was really only there for routine prescriptions. We discussed those, she took my blood pressure (still seated), asked me to get on the scale, believed me when I reported my weight (not getting up to check it for herself) and I was on my way after about ten minutes with two scripts which cost me seven pounds each to fill at the local pharmacy. Total cost: fourteen pounds (twenty-one dollars at current exchange rate). One of the prescriptions was for an expensive migraine medicine that Blue Cross/Blue Shield would no longer cover, preferring to give me another medicine by another manufacturer. This particular medicine (Maxalt) works the best of any, so if I wanted it in the US, I could pay cash for it at the price of $375 for six pills. I always elected to suffer through with the inferior (for me) medication. Here in the UK, the same medicine is formulated as minty melt-in-the-mouth tablets, which means they can be taken anywhere at any time with no need to purchase or procure a drink of water. Handy when one is on a bus to Hendon to procure keys to the front door of the flat (See posting from Sept. 08). At a cost of 45 GBP cash for a privately-prescribed six pills, I was willing to fork out the dough. Now, blessedly, each pill will only cost about one pound and change.

Knitters' note: I have finished Son's cranberry-colored sweater (jumper), washed and blocked it, and it is now drying on the cot in the living room. I should be able to mail it out early this week if I can get to the post office and back without incident.

This is probably where I ran-in to the noro-virus. Note to knitters: not to be confused with the NORO virus, which is an inability to stop stockpiling colorful Japanese yarn. I had one day of symptoms, followed by one day of reprieve in which I successfully fulfilled my hospice volunteer duties. Another day of symptoms, followed by a half-day of feeling all better, followed by an ill-advised attempt to take TeenE shopping on Oxford Street, followed by a visits to the underground public facilities at Oxford Circus. They are not well-marked, so its a good thing I had already made their acquaintance the last time I went to Top Shop. I guess I will stay close to home for the next 24.

Snow Patrol

Last night was London’s celebration of the Chinese New Year in Chinatown, Soho, and Trafalgar Square. I had planned to go, at least to see the lion dance parade through the theatre district, and the fireworks in Trafalgar Square. All the hype we had been hearing about an “extreme weather event” had me wary, however, and by mid-afternoon the wind was whipping the bare trees around and the temperature had dropped to negative 3 Centigrade. The predicted arctic cold snap had arrived! It was in the mid-twenties F, and our Flat on Abbey Road seemed much cozier than the streets of central London would be, even amongst a throng of people.

I decided to take a nap, and slept from 3-5:30 pm. Hubster made a Chinese-style chicken stir-fry, which we all enjoyed when I awoke. By that time, flakes were falling and a dusting of snow was everywhere. TeenE arrived back in NW8 on a Finchley Road bus, having hung out with her pal TeenH up in West Hampstead, which is a mile or so north of here. She usually calls us when she gets off the bus at our stop, and then we can watch for her on the Abbey Road (Studio) webcam. I had trouble identifying which pedestrian she was, as the signal on the webcam was all “snowy”. Then I realized that it was the ambient conditions, and not the signal, that was creating the snow-effect.

I read and knitted until about 11 pm when I heard TeenE come out of her room. I had thought that she was already asleep. She was looking for me to ask me a pressing question: “If they cancel school tomorrow, how will we know?” We are used to looking for the school cancellations on the TV in Boston. Do they do that kind of thing here? “Don’t worry, there’s no such thing as a “snow day” in London. They never get enough snow to cancel school.”

I went to sleep that night to fewer traffic sounds than normal, and was awakened by Hubster standing over me announcing that there was no school today. “How do you know?” I managed to croak. “The school sent out a text message” he replied. It was a good thing that he gets up at 5 am and was able to let us know the news before he left for work. I don’t keep my cell/mobile phone on all the time, so would not have received the message until after I got up and saw the five inches of snow on the ground.

Five inches of snow may not seem like much to us, the hardy weather-beaten NEW Englanders, but to the Brits, it is a rarity. They do not have any plows, sanding trucks, snow-blowers or shovels to move it around. Therefore, NONE of the buses were running, and few of the trains. This included the underground trains, because many of the lines that are underground in central London have over ground portions out in the suburbs.

We received an email from Hubster that it took him two and a half hours to get to work (should take 25 minutes). When he found out there were no trains, he tried to get a taxi. None were working, or were already carrying fares. He went to Starbucks to get a coffee. After that, he tried again for a cab. One finally took pity on him and some other guys and they rode as a group into the City. He would have gotten there faster if he had walked…

I went out to the gym around 10 am. Everything was all fresh and pretty in the new-fallen snow, with the exception of the main road (Finchley), on which I received a major splashing by the cars which were by now zipping along the untreated roads. Mounds of slush were building up along the edges, and there was no way to escape the sprays of muck being churned up by people who had undoubtedly already spent hours in traffic jams on the outer roads.
The people on the street all had their phone-cameras out and were snapping away at the unprecedented scenery.

My first stop was Starbucks. You don’t think I would attempt a workout without any caffeine, do you? I sat at my “usual spot”, a window seat, and took a photo of the street scene. After a while, I took off for the gym, a short five-minute walk away. I managed to avoid being splashed by slush again by going down the “back way”, the Cavendish Ave. short-cut which takes me past Sir You-Know-Who’s house. The gatekeeper at the North Gate at Lord’s Cricket Ground where my gym is located warned me that unless another staff person showed up Very Soon, he would be closing that gate and I would have to use another exit on the far side of the property.

Once inside the gym I was greeted by “my” trainer Matthew, who said it took him two hours to commute in from the 'burbs that morning. The TVs were playing an endless loop of traffic snarls, school closings, travel delays, etc. Heathrow had cancelled all the short-haul flights, and were delaying the long-haul flights until after 5 pm. Good luck to all the travelers.

My workout was quick yet productive. There were only two other people in the gym. As I left, I determined that the back gate was indeed now closed, so I went out the “Main Gate” way, stopping to take photos of the snow-covered cricket playing fields (including sign saying “keep off the grass” and the bronze sculpture of a “bowler” encrusted with snow. I trudged along St. John’s Wood Road. The sidewalk/pavement had just been salted and sanded by a contraption made up of a hopper of salt being pulled by what looked like a Honda All-Terrain Vehicle. Yes, that was the extent of the snow-removal equipment. Turning the corner onto Wellington Road, I was afraid of being sprayed with slush again, as there was no escape from it on the narrow pavement. The cars managed to go single file in the center of the two lanes, however, so the other brave walkers and I stayed dry. At one point I thought to myself “OK, pick up the pace now”, so I did.

As I approached the major intersection that leads to and from Starbucks off the main road, who should cruise on by off my starboard bow but the Ubiquitous Dr. D., looking incongruously tanned after his holiday in the sun. We chatted about the weather (of course!) and then I was off down Circus Road to have a nice cup of tea and file this report. See photos for extent of this “extreme weather event”.