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.
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.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
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.
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