A Flat on Abbey Road

I Wanna Hold Your Hand

2009-08-19T15:36:00.000-07:00

July 29th, 2009.

I reported to the second floor of the outpatient wing of the hospital for my laser varicose-vein surgery. I was the third patient of the day; the highly efficient Dr. G. had us stacked up like airplanes in a holding pattern over the Thames on the way to Heathrow.

First stop: an interview with a man named Massoud who took my blood pressure (I WILLED it down to 100/65), my temp and the information about my next of kin, which is always a reassuring thing to be talking about before a surgical procedure. I was issued my white ID bracelet and my red allergy bracelet, although the only thing that happens when I take sulfa drugs is I get a headache. I had been informed by the highly efficient doctor’s highly efficient secretary (administrator?) that I’d be talking to the anesthesiologist, so in an incredibly sexist move on my part, I asked Massoud if that is who he was. No, he is a nurse, he informed me. Oops.

Next stop, a bay with a gurney and a curtain where I donned the attractive blue Johnny gown, the weird space-slippers from 2001: A Space Odyssey, and the highly crunchy disposable non-woven fiber “pants” which are undies in Brit-speak. I donned my iPod and settled in to wait while Dr G. and team worked on patient number two. A long spell of Hildegard von Bingen’s 12th century Canticles of Ecstasy put me in the properly meditative pre-surgical mood.
Perhaps here is where I should mention that I elected to have this procedure done unsedated. As a self-respecting hypnotherapist, I felt that a few needle jabs of lidocaine, which would numb the appropriate areas of my leg, would be sufficient to get the job done. As a former needle-phobe, I am proud of my ability to focus “Down and In” in order to transcend the fear of potential pain. After all, this is the woman who went through six hours of un-drugged pushing in a vain attempt to get that first baby out, courtesy of the birthing hypnotherapy she learned from the head of the Harvard University Counseling Services. Hubster and several friends shuddered at the thought of undergoing any procedure involving needlesunsedated, but I had just had a double-cyst aspiration with lidocaine only (they don’t even OFFER chill-out drugs for that procedure) and the time I had the sewing-machine needle removed from my finger they didn’t drug me either, just gave a jab of numbing lidocaine in my hand while the surgeon “poked around” (which is the technical term) in my fingertip for the sliver of steel that lingered after the rest of the needle was removed.

So when Dr. G. came in, I was resting comfortably wearing the headphones, deep in a past-life reverie about having been a nun in 12th century Germany. When I opened my eyes and raised my head, I think he was a little startled. Massoud had made it clear that most patients elected to be sedated, and HE certainly seemed skeptical of my wish to skip the drug cocktail. Dr G. said “Oh, you’re relaxing!”. We had some homework to do before he could begin the procedure. The all-important Statement of Risk and Legal Waiver had to be signed. I made sure it would be him performing the procedure, and not some team of eager medical students. He assured me that was the case. Then he sat on the floor and asked me to stand in front of him so he could draw on my leg. Whipping out his Sharpie permanent marker, he marked my right leg with his initials, then drew a line down the presumed location of the greater sapehnous vein. This work of art was embellished with squiggles across the shin, above the places where the “varicosities” bulged out in all of their pulsing, painful blue glory. These were the areas of vein to be tied off and extracted in the procedure known as a Phlebectomy. I imagined that he would be going in there with a medical version of a crochet hook, and making fancy knots with sutures, and embellishing the whole thing with a fringe.

While I was standing there being decorated, I remembered the last time I’d had an “ablation” procedure, which was back in 2006. That summer, I had my uterus “zapped” (that is the technical term) by radio waves, from the inside, in order to stop the ridiculously heavy monthly periods that kept me trapped in the house for five days out of every month. The doctor who had done that procedure had been my gynecologist for about ten years, and I knew him well enough to play a little joke on him before the surgery.

How many times have we read about people waking up from surgery having had the wrong kidney removed, or the wrong leg amputated.? Yes, I know that we only have one uterus each, but I decided to identify the proper orifice with marker before that particular procedure, during which I sure as hell would be sedated. So, the morning of my “endometrial ablation”, I took a blue Sharpie marker, and drew an arrow on one thigh. The arrow pointed to the correct opening to the uterus, and was marked “Here”. The other thigh got an arrow pointing to my rear end, with the statement “NOT here”. I got dressed and went off for the day surgery laughing to myself at the joke I was playing on the unsuspecting doctor. When the anesthesiologist resident came around to start my sedation drip, I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. I told her “I left a message for the doctor”. “Umm hmm” she replied, probably thinking that I was off on my sleepy-time trip already. The next thing I remember about that surgery was being transferred from the rolling gurney to the operating table. I tried to talk. “She’s awake” said the doctor. I tried to mumble “I left you a message”. I’ll never know if they figured out what I was trying to say, as once I was on the table I was completely out, and I was too embarrassed to ask the next time I was propped up on the table for the annual smear job.

So, for the current situation, I let Dr. G. do all the scribbling. He then went to check to see if the operating room was ready, and I took a detour to the loo. When I came out there was no one around, and I had to wander back out to the area near the changing bays with the back of the gown a-flap to find someone to direct me to the operating room, which I entered under my own steam. The staff were not used to the patient arriving on her own, and had already “marked” the surgery time as starting when the doctor went in, until they noticed the table was empty.
The medically-squeamish have my permission to skip this part. Dr. G. explained everything he was about to do, and then did it. From my point of view, it involved injections of lidocaine into the ankle, and then the thigh. I could feel something or other going around down at my ankle, and was told that they were inserting the catheter containing the laser into the greater saphenous vein. More injections up at the thigh area numbed the first area to be “zapped”. The doctor warned me that “some people experience a taste” as the lasering gets started. Almost immediately, I noticed an intense burning smell, and realized that my flesh was on fire from the inside. I wanted to shout “OH MY GOD CAN’T YOU SMELL THAT?” but settled for having one of the nurses hold my hand. I switched my iPod from soothing medieval chanting to the Beatles. As I did not have my glasses on, I couldn’t see the tiny print on the iPod, so had to settle for letting the nurse choose a Beatles album randomly. Unfortunately she did NOT pick “I Wanna Hold Your Hand”, but chose the album Revolver instead.

I figured the more distracted I was the better off I’d be, so I chose the imagery of Dr. G as a little boy, playing with a light saber from Star Wars. This made me laugh, and the nurses looked at me a little oddly. I decided to keep my imagery to myself so as not to embarrass the doctor, just in case he had been a childhood Jedi Knight.

Sooner or later the laser got a tad ahead of the lidocaine, and there was an intense burning sensation in my ankle. At least they were already down in that area, having started up top at my inner thigh. Next, several more injections in the front of my shin, and over the outside ankle bone allowed the doctor to perform the “phlebectomy” procedures, which entails tiny incisions and removals of the painfully bulging veins created by the venous backflow. After about 40 minutes they wrapped up my leg in a huge swath of gauze covered by stretchy tape. My right leg looked like a mummy. I was wheeled back out to the recovery (changing bay) area, where a nurse took my vitals and kept an eye on me. As I had not been sedated, I was allowed to have water immediately. Someone sent down to the kitchen for a tray of sandwiches, and I was served tea right there in recovery, and then was allowed to hobble out to some chairs to consume the sandwiches. Take that, Mt. Auburn Hospital of Cambridge, Massachusetts, and your measly post-surgical packaged crackers! Another half hour of being watched, and I was allowed to leave the scene under my own power.

Meanwhile, Hubster was busy at work. He is not too fond of hospitals or procedures involving needles, (understatement of the century—the astute reader will remember me having to babysit him after his sedated visits to the dentist) so was given permission by me to be far, far away. And far away he was, having planned on being in Croyden for the morning, and Leatherhead for the afternoon. I had been asked several times who was collecting me, and I had to keep telling various personnel that Iwas getting home on my own. Was I taking a cab, they enquired. No, I told them, I live just around the corner and I am planning to walk home. Eyebrows were raised. I figured it was easier not to explain. I reminded them that I had not been sedated during the procedure, then they’d ask again why no one was coming to collect me. I almost had to do a little jig to prove that I was OK to go, but it’s hard to do a jig on a painful leg that is wrapped so tightly that it cannot bend.

I had cleverly purchased an LL Bean collapsible walking stick while in Boston, so used that to assist myself in getting to the elevator (lift). I was sad to see that Fabian was not at his post at the rear reception desk, and took my time meandering through the twists and turns of the hospital’s ground floor. Once I rounded the bend outside the pharmacy, I had a clear view all the way down the corridor to the front reception desk. When they saw me coming, both Kumar (the cashier) and Fabian (receptionist extraordinaire) both came out from behind their desks to cheer me on. I felt like an Olympic athlete as their encouraging cries pulled me closer to the front doors of the hospital. Just when I had been starting to feel very sorry for myself for having to go home alone, Fabian turned around so his back was facing me and said “Marj!! Climb on!! I’ll carry you home!” I declined, as it not only would have been unseemly, but physically impossible with the painful mummified leg. I told Fabian that if he wanted to be my “arm candy” he could walk me home, but he couldn’t really leave his post after all. I had to explain to them that the distance I had to travel was only twice the distance from the hospital’s front door to the nearest corner, which placated them. Off I hobbled into the afternoon sun.

The surgeon had allowed me to go home even though I didn’t have the required thigh-high surgical stocking. I was advised to get them at a pharmacy down on Wigmore Street. On a whim, I hobbled PAST the front door to A Flat on Abbey Road to the bottom of Hill Road, and turned the corner onto Nugent Terrace. A small independent “chemist” (pharmacy) is located there. I picked up a package of NuRofen PLUS (the over-the-counter Ibuprofen plus Codeine, if you can believe that) and enquired about the grade-2 compression stockings. AHA! The pharmacist, who USED to work down at the Big Chemist’s on Wigmore Street, knew EXACTLY what I needed, and had some in the back room! He said he didn’t even think that Big Chemist even had them in stock any more. My good leg was duly measured as to circumference at ankle, knee and thigh, and Voila! A pair of Size Medium Sand-coloured Grade 2 compression thigh-high open-toe stockings were mine for only seventeen pounds. The kindly chemist even threw in a pair of Grade 2 closed-toe panty-hose for good measure, for free, because they didn’t have a use-by date on them and he knew they were fairly old and couldn’t really sell them and I needed them, after all.

Thus endeth my excitement for the day. I hobbled back to the flat, took two NuRofen PLUS, and stretched out on the sofa for the duration. Hubster had arranged to be home in time to make dinner. The rest of the day is a blur.

Epilogue: It is now three weeks later. The surgeon had suggested that the recovery period could be anywhere from a couple of days to a couple of weeks. He reported that one patient had been back out on the golf course after two days. I think that would have been impossible in my case. For one thing, I would have had to have take a golf lesson. For another, I could not straighten the leg without pain. Walking was helpful, as it stretched out the scar-tissue that was my former vein, but after a period of having the leg bent, as in overnight, stretching it out the next day was a big challenge. After two days I did hike up to Swiss Cottage, the neighborhood a half-mile to the north, to purchase small appliances for the new flat. I was able to haul a toaster, a coffee maker, an iron, and something else back in my Turbo Cart while using the cane, but that amount of effort on Friday morning wiped me out for the rest of the day. Every day around 3 pm I had to put my feet up. The blood in my right leg had to find a new way to leave my leg (via the deep veins instead of the peripheral ones) and it seemed a little confused in the beginning. There would be twinges of pain and odd bubbling sensations mixed in with the general achiness.
I used the cane for two weeks. It was most helpful in letting the car drivers know that one would be going through the zebra crossings s-l-o-w-l-y. It also got me a seat on the bus on more than one occasion. My walking mechanics were off for two weeks, also, with a shortened stride on the right side and the left leg taking the brunt of the work, resulting in LEFT leg pain, and hip and knee pain in both legs. Walking was both good for stretching the scarred vein, but not so good for the rest of my lower half.

Today’s follow-up visit with Dr. G. has revealed two things: One, the leg is healing well. Two, The second floor, where I had my surgery, has been closed due to the fact that the floor has been found to be "sloping". This is in a building that was completely renovated only eighteen months ago. All the consultants have had to time-share space on the lower floor. I guess I got onto the surgical schedule just in time. Third: When I told Dr. G about moving my belongings through the Famous Zebra Crossing on the 40th Anniversary of the Crossing of Abbey Road, he told me that his birthday is August 8th, the very day I was out there being interviewed. I think that was a good omen.

HOT FLASH!! BLOGMAMA Interviewed on SKY NEWS!

2009-08-08T10:30:00.000-07:00

Yes, the quote I gave to Sky News was one of four featured interviews shown on the Live at Five program. The snippet aired at 6:30 pm; we have it recorded on the box but don't know how to get it onto this blog.
"It's become a shrine, I think. They come and sign the wall; they don't realize that it gets painted over every two months. People are celebrating the music, and what it has meant to their lives."
Of course, I said a lot more, but that was the sound bite that made the news!!

Come Together

2009-08-08T05:21:00.000-07:00

It was forty years ago today that the cover photograph for the Beatles' album Abbey Road was shot by Iain Macmillan. It was also almost seventy years since the beginning of the London "Blitz". Oh No! "Don't mention the war!" as Basil Fawlty would say. But here, the bombings of WWII in 1939 and the innocuous crossing of Abbey Road by four talented musicians in 1969 have given way to the celebration of both the musicians themselves, and the era of peace and love to which they gave voice. The intersection of Abbey Road and Grove End Road has become a focal point for hundreds of tourist photographs every week, as Beatles fans re-enact the crossing, with one member of their party shoeless and another holding a cigarette. It has also become a nexus for the very Universal Peace and Love referred to in many Beatles songs. If a geographic place could be said to have energy or emotion, this place would be Love, Love, Love.

Today on Abbey Road, NW8, London, thousands of people of all ages and from all over the globe gathered to commemorate what may just be the most famous pedestrian crossing of all time.
The zebra crossing at the corner of Abbey and Grove End Roads became the scene of a street party. Musicians with guitars, music fans, gawking tourists, and locals all gathered. The sheer numbers of people clogged the roads, stopping traffic for approximately an hour. The riders of two particular buses, the 139 from Waterloo and the 189 from West Hampstead were treated to an upper-deck view of all the shenanigans.

At exactly 11:35 am, the time the original photo was shot, several re-enactors dressed as John and Paul (have we seen these guys on youtube.com pretending they ARE John and Paul?) actually crossed the road. The throngs were so close that only a few got to actually SEE this auspicious moment. Everyone else just enjoyed the party atmosphere, singing along with a rotating list of guitar players who were set up near the benches outside of Neville Court.
In an attempt to chronicle the moment, intrepid BlogMama took time out from moving house to be on the scene. Hubster and I had already run several loads of clothing and personal belongings over to the new flat on the other side of Abbey Road. We passed through the famous pedestrian crossing several times with our rolling luggage, full on the way over, and empty on the way back. By half past ten in the morning, the crowd, which has started out at 9 am in the dozens, had swelled to hundreds if not several thousands. It would no longer be possible to get rolling luggage through the throngs.

I went out with the idea of getting everyone there to sign my “guest list”, attempting to chronicle for posterity who attended the morning’s festivities. The first family I approached was American. Americans are known to be friendly, right? This particular middle-aged lady looked like she was a deer in the headlights. WHY was I doing this? WHAT purpose did it serve? WHY was I asking such personal questions? WHY did I require her age? I guess she didn’t realize that she would be part of a moment in history, or perhaps she did! She was a bit rude in her refusal to answer my questions. Not to be denied, I pressed on. I made a point to ask people of all ages and nationalities to sign. There was no particular pattern to my asking, but also no perceivable pattern to who turned down my request to be listed on this blog. People of all ages and nationalities were happy to be a part of aflatonabbeyroad.blogspot.com’s chronicle of the event.

It took about an hour for me to collect 37 signatures. Some of these folks were happy to provide their email addresses, others chose not to do so. Here they are, in the order in which they were collected. Please note: anyone under the age of 18 had express permission from a parent to have their name included on this list:

Name age Hometown
Richell Perry 22 Kingscliff, Australia
Melissa Heffernan 21 Australia, now London
Dave Neustrom 28 America
Sue Neustrom 58 Chicago, USA
Stela Sty… (illegible) 40+ London
Cathy Heikurinen 51 Oakville, Toronto, Canada
David Stark 56 London
Maxim Pokrovsky 40 Moscow
Dorothy McCuller “mature” Gallup, New Mexico, USA
Nichola Stephenson 35 Leicester, UK
Paul Williams 57 London
Daniele Merlani 27 Milan, Italy
Samantha Acquaviva 21 Milano, Italy
Jupiter John 109 (?) London
Richard Rigby 57 London
George Carter 15 London
Margaret Baker 71 London
Gloria & Mark Frankel 76, 66 London
Anthony Cooper 44.4 London
Eddie Rack 48 Germany
Rolf Seemann 48 Germany
Daniel Godoy 23 Zaragoza, Spain
Lidia Palanos 27 Madrid, Spain
Allen Miller 57 Vancouver, BC, Canada
Carlo Ritchi 43 Milan, Italy
Al___ Moguar? 27 Milan, Italy
Karen Purvis 47 London
Lou/Lore? Go…? 14 Belgium
Abby Dees 43 Los Angeles, CA, USA
Lori Catellier 44 Chicago, USA
Taylor Blumenberg 24 Charleston, SC
Bert Tolhamp 47 Amersterdam
Tom Cleaver 23 London
The Leon Family Guadalajara, Mexico
The White Family Denmark
Adrian Main 49 London
Juan 11 Xativa, Spain
Paco Codina 55 Xativa, Spain

At this point, the policeman (a regular “Bobby”, not the gentleman in the “Incident Response” vest) cleared us all out of the road. I wound up on the corner where the musicians were playing to the sing-along crowd. After a rousing round of Hey Jude and I Wanna Hold Your Hand, I was approached by a reporter and cameraman from Sky News.
After a series of questions, I summarized my woman-on-the-street point of view by saying that I thought the Abbey Road zebra crossing had become a sort of shrine, where people came to celebrate the music of the Beatles and the impact it has had on their lives.

I guess I’ll have to watch the news tonight to see if they include me in their report! Of course I put a plug in for the blog….

Thanks to everyone who participated in today's Love-Fest on Abbey Road!

She’s Got Legs… (ZZ Top)

2009-08-06T14:47:00.000-07:00

Astute readers may recall that during a long-haul flight to the US in the spring, I developed severe pain in both shins and ankles that curtailed my physical activities for some weeks.
After about a month, I self-diagnosed the pain as having been caused by venous valve “blow-out” on the flight, resulting in varicose veins of the shins.

Before leaving London for Boston in June, I contacted the office of a vascular surgeon recommended to me by my NHS GP. She said that waiting for treatment on the NHS would take years, and that I should be evaluated right away since the pain was affecting my ability to be mobile. This particular specialist is so in demand that there was a 6-week waiting period. The doctor’s wonderful secretary booked me in for a consultation on a Monday, andfor a procedure on the Wednesday of that same week. If the surgeon found something that needed surgical attention, it would be able to be taken care of right away.

So, off I went to the hospital around the corner to consult with “Dr. G”, who unfortunately for me was a tad late for his previous appointment. I was ready to create a fuss, so it was a good thing I had brought my knitting to the waiting room as it helped to calm me. Once in his office, he took notes as I described the saga of my veins, and then he conducted an ultra-sound scan of the veins in my legs. The Doppler technology clearly showed reflux (the valves not closing all the way when they are supposed to, resulting in backflow into the superficial leg veins) in the greater Saphenous vein. In the leg with the greater pain, it was occurring just below the knee as well as higher up in the thigh near the groin. So that explains the intermittent fluttery sensations there! The other leg has “just” the faulty valve below the knee, but also something called a “Boyd’s perforator”, which is the vein bulging out looking for someplace for the backed up blood to flow.

It was interesting to learn that the painful shin veins were not the entire problem, and that the foundation for the symptoms was much higher up in a large vein, near the knee and groin, and it was especially interesting to see it all displayed in glorious color on the Doppler scan. I felt like I had a weather map of my circulatory system on display, and that instead of the movement of clouds towards and away from the scanner showing an impending thunderstorm or tornado, it was showing a backflow of blood going the wrong way in my veins. I clearly remembered being taught about the Doppler effect on sound waves in one of my high school science classes, with the sound of a train horn’s pitch rising as the source of the sound gets nearer to the listener, and the pitch sounding lower as the train moves away. The movement of the stars in space (reddish stars moving towards earth, with the light wavelength shortening, and stars appearing to be blue moving away from earth, their visible light wavelengths appearing to lengthen) and now, even blood flow, can be illustrated by a computer program that red and blue colors to blood moving through the circulatory system. Hooray for Herr Doppler (Austria, 1842) !

The treatment of choice for the vascular reflux is laser surgery, where a catheter containing a tiny laser is inserted in the greater saphenous vein from ankle to upper thigh, and the valves and vein tissue are ablated (I believe “zapped” is the technical term) under local anesthesia. The protruding vein portions are then removed surgically through tiny incisions “the size of a freckle”. Recovery time is a week or two, although Dr. G. said he had one patient back on the golf course within two days of the surgery.

I was glad to be already booked in to the surgery schedule by the highly efficient Veron Williams, so only had two nights and one day to worry about the actual surgery. Although I had already done my internet research homework and knew what to expect IF I had the diagnosis, and was fairly certain that I had diagnosed myself correctly, it was a relief to learn from the surgeon that he considered the procedure to be warranted in my individual case, and that it was a pretty routine procedure from his point of view.

I will describe my day of surgery and the week that followed it in a separate entry.

The Wall

2009-07-31T01:26:00.000-07:00

I need to go home. To London, that is. When I return there, I will be getting things ready to move from our old flat on Abbey Road to our new one just a few streets away. This process seems daunting, although when compared to our move of last year, from Belmont to London, it should technically be a piece of cake.

It should also be a walk in the park compared to the construction project that has been going on in the basement of our Belmont home, where I have been residing for the past month.
We arrived in Boston on June 15th, shortly after TeenE’s school year ended in London. Since then she has been visiting with friends and preparing for her four weeks at adventure camp in New Hampshire. I have been visiting friends and spending a lot of time in our basement.
The first two weeks we were here, it rained almost every day. Monsoon-like conditions soaked the ground and raised the water table enough that the basement walls were damp enough to grow plants suitable for the forest floor. This has been a problem for this house since before we moved in, and the former owners installed a French drain and a drywell in the backyard. The barn-board paneling, installed perhaps in the 1960’s, as well as the wood lathing holding it out from the wall had been slowly rotting and molding since then.

Last summer, as reported on this blog, with the help of many friends, I took down the paneling in the north corner of the basement, waterproofed that area of the wall, and installed ceramic tiles. This summer, the entire northeastern walls were rehabilitated. Using a crowbar, I removed the punky paneling from the floor to about three feet above, including molding strips between four and ten feet long. I scraped the wall down, removing decades of loose paint and plaster. I used a chisel to loosen areas of failing cement and discovered that some of the wooden molding had been placed directly on top of a row of cinder blocks. The holes of the blocks were just sitting open, inviting incursion by rodents and snakes. No wonder the cats always liked the basement!

The next step was using hydraulic cement to waterproof the wall’s surface. For those of you not “in the know”, hydraulic cement is a quick-drying product which uses what I presume to be a chemical reaction producing heat to transform the cement powder and water mixture into a rock-hard, impermeable surface in about three minutes. One has about thirty seconds to stir one scoop of water into three scoops of cement powder, producing a goo the consistency of cake icing. Application to the intended surface has to happen within the next two minutes. If this does not happen, the entire batch hardens into a rock in the bottom of the plastic pail and must be discarded. Note: do not attempt to answer the doorbell when working with hydraulic cement, especially if it is the UPS delivery truck with a package you have ordered on Son’s behalf as a birthday gift to the woman you are not allowed to refer to as his “girlfriend”. You will certainly have to knock the now-hardened magma out of the bucket and begin again.
After what will seem like thirty separate trips to the laundry sink to mix up the cement, step back and watch your wall be transformed into a less damp, more leak-proof surface.

The next step in Wall Rehab is to make several trips to the store which sells home maintenance and repair supplies. On the first trip, purchase enough supplies to cover the square footage of the wall so you can avoid a second trip. If you are using ceramic tiles and acrylic tile adhesive, buy just enough tiles to cover the surface, but twice as much adhesive as you think you’ll need. Also purchase pre-colored, pre-mixed grout, some trowels, tile spacers, and a “grout float” which helps you push the grout into to spaces between the tiles.

Now, once the weather clears and the basement is less damp, spend all the sunny days of your "vacation" in the basement. It will help to make a big pot of coffee at the beginning of each day so that you can provide yourself with endless refills of iced coffee. It will also help to bring a radio or other music-broadcasting device into the basement with you. A live radio broadcast will help you know what time of day it is, as the conditions in the basement will not be conducive to knowing the hour of the day or the day of the week. Playing your favorite genre of “music for home repair”, in my case, Classic Rock, will help to energize you and imbue your work with the “vibes” of the music. Turn the music UP when the vibes are good for you, for example, Pink Floyd’s THE WALL, any Led Zeppelin, or Beatles. Turn the music OFF when the vibes are not good for your project, such as anything by Black Sabbath or “Don’t Fear the Reaper” by Blue Oyster Cult. (Although I do like the message of this song, it was a little too… evocative of a grim mood… for me to be fully operational.)

Once the proper musical mood has been achieved, carefully place the ceramic tiles in a pleasing and efficient pattern using the tile spacers and acrylic adhesive. Use a level to make sure your horizontal lines stay horizontal, and that your vertical stacks don’t go off-center. This last step may mean you’re your tile-gluing job takes several days. Once you have achieved your tile results, take one day off while you allow the adhesive to cure. Next, using a trowel and the grout float, press the grout (in this example, colored the Renoir-esque “Haystack” beige) onto the tiles and into the channels between the tiles. If you have used your spacers correctly, the channels will all be of similar width.

Now you’re almost done! All you have to do is use a damp sponge (proper size available on the tile aisle of the home goods store) to remove excess grout, and then spend half a day cleaning up after yourself.

Before I left, someone in London wished me a good “holiday”. I made sure they realized it was not a “vacation” per se, but a trip in which skilled manual labor would be performed on an almost-daily basis. If you are a Boston-based friend and you were wondering why you didn’t get a chance to see me during my five weeks in residence, it is probably because I was in the basement working on THE WALL.

Mystery Achievement

2009-07-21T04:01:00.000-07:00

Mystery the cat is pleased to announce that she has been adopted by the Knittin’ Kitten!
Mary Ann came to visit her and evaluate her suitability to join the pride already in progress at her home. Mystery was at her most charming, due in part to the presence of a large quantity of catnip and Greenies treats. Despite the absence of any purring (is this the result of growing up with a dog?) Mystery was inquisitive, friendly, and even performed the treat-producing “head-butt” that cats have perfected somewhere along the evolutionary ladder.
After Mystery passed muster, it took two grown women to wrangle her into the cat-carrier, and then she was on her way to her new home in Arlington, to join Amber and the infamous Mr. Lucky.
An early morning report from Mary Ann, provided while she was driving me to Logan airport, was that Mystery was ensconced in her “safe room”, where she had spent the night hissing through the door at Mr. Lucky. At one point, she tried to hiss and yawn at the same time, and wound up choking herself.
Let us now praise famous knitters for their kind and compassionate and kitty-lovin’ hearts.

It's 8 am. Do you know where your cysts are?

2009-07-11T19:10:00.001-07:00

I had to set the alarm in order to wake up in time for the radiology appointment. Approximately every two years, I go through the same routine. The ultrasound-plus-cyst-aspiration appointments are doled out only to those who are early risers. They are only on certain days of the week, and only at 8:15.

My alarm setting is called "Cathedral Chime" and it sounds vaguely like Big Ben, which is especially confusing at this early hour because I've been dreaming that I'm in London, but I'm actually back in Boston. We are out of coffee, so I have to get behind the wheel of the mini-van in an impaired, i.e. caffeine-free, condition. A short ten-minute ride has me at the health center in Somerville, where for the second time in a week I get to don the johnny-top. The ultra-sound technician, who has done this with me at least three times before, ushers me into a cold office. I get settled in on the table, and she says she'll be back in a few minutes. I ask for a blanket or something to keep me warm, and she brings me another half-johnny and puts it over my legs. It is supposed to be summer, so I have worn a skirt, which was not a particularly smart move.

The technician comes back with the doctor, who introduces herself. I remind her that she's done this with me several times before. They want to know if I found the cysts myself or if they only showed up on the mammogram. I tell them yes, I found them myself, that it is particularly hard to miss something the size of a grape that gets hard as a rock for a week each month and causes pressure, discomfort, and finally, pain, and that I have four of them, two on each side.

The doctor readies the needle with lidocaine and shields it from my view with her body as she does so. This is fine with me, as I really don't like looking at or thinking about needles. The amount of relief I get from this particular procedure is the only reason I am here. I practice my relaxation breathing, and she gets to work with the lidocaine as the technician pours on the cold goo and presses her ultrasound wand up against me. Even though the surface of the skin has been numbed by the lidocaine, the interior of the affected area is not numb as the doctor uses a syringe to suck the living daylights out of each cyst, and then, with a sweeping motion, sucks up the membrane. I wind up writhing on the table with a cramp in my lower back as I am unable to stay relaxed. Somehow, the combination of hearing the following statements is interfering with my bliss:

"Your cysts are very well organized". Oh good.
"This needle is so bendy, I can't control it very well".
"I'm going to need a larger bore needle".

After about ten minutes of this tooth-gritting fun I get a couple of bandaids stuck on each side, am told to avoid aspirin for another day or so, and am free to go.

A House is Not a Home.... HOT FLASH!

2009-07-07T13:57:00.000-07:00

We have found tenants for our house in Belmont, taking a major worry off our plates.

Both TeenE and I are homesick for London and our friends there. I can't wait to return and get back to my normal London routines.

Honey Pie

2009-07-07T01:18:00.000-07:00

If it's two am, then three am, and you can't sleep, I recommend a piece of homemade rhubarb pie and a glass of milk.

Hallelujah Chorus and Hot Flash.

2009-07-06T17:23:00.000-07:00

Follow-up note to Vis a Vis a Visa: TeenE's two passports and her original birth certificate (with the word "Masachusetts" (sic) mis-spelled on it thanks to the Belmont Town Hall) were returned to us via Federal Express. The NEW passport contains the NEW Tier 1 Dependent Visa which expires on the last day of September, 2011. We sincerely hope that will be the last of the visa-fication for quite some time.

A Smash'n'Grab Session

2009-07-01T17:44:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I survived the medically-sanctioned "smash-n-grab" session known as The Annual Mammogram.
I got onto the annual schedule after the Tiny Calcified Spot showed up on the films a few years back. Now everything is digital and, one assumes, in High Def if not 3-D or Surround-Sound.
For those of you who've never had the experience, you're in for a real treat.

First, you get ushered into the special waiting area for Radiology after checking in with NO CO-PAY. I've never figured out why. Then you get taken into a row of waiting rooms that all feed in to the room with the mammogram equipment. Next, you change into the attractive top-johnny, and sit and read a year-old magazine while the woman whose turn is currently happening has her mammogram. You get to listen to all of the patter between the technician and the other patient, such as "turn to the front a little more" and "hold your breath now". You get to hear the other woman go "Owwww" as the machine smashes her tender bits into a mush. The smaller the breasts, the more they have to be smashed between the cold metal plates. Please note: the plates are cold even though the powers-that-be have been thoughtful enough to train a hot-air blower on them.

Finally the previous patient is told to go wait in the cubicle next to yours, and the technician comes to get you. It's your turn to get little metal pasties marked Left and Right stuck on your pointy bits. Next you get to stand at the machine and be pressed like a lemon into lemonade. If you're really lucky, your hormone cycle is at its peak and your cysts will be good and sore as the technician uses her hand to stuff you more efficiently in between the plates. She tightens the plates as firmly as possible, and as you wince with pain, she steps behind her shielded area. Then, she presses a button and the vice in which your breast is being pressed tightens EVEN MORE. As soon as the x-rays have been beamed into your flesh, the plates automatically open up.

If you "don't have a lot of tissue to work with", as my friend K does, you might wind up with the technician's hand mushed between the plates along with your breast, as she struggles to reach the foot pedal machine-release that is now just out of reach.

Finally, you return to your dressing-cubicle and wait there in your half-johnny until the technician tells you that she doesn't need any more shots and that everything looks good and you may go. Or that you get to go down the hall and have an ultra-sound scan of the aforementioned cysts so that you can come back in a week and get them aspirated.

While on that table with cold goo being squeezed onto you, daydream about getting a copy of the ultra-sound pix of your cysts to post on the blog like people do with their fetal ultra-sound scans.

All kidding aside, this is a reminder to you all you gal-readers out there to remember to schedule your mammogram now. And if you're a guy, ask your special gal/mom/sis if she's up to date with her scans. And ask really nicely, in case she's hormonal.

HOT FLASH!! shooting in NW8 restaurant

2009-06-27T11:42:00.000-07:00

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.

vis a vis a visa

2009-06-27T10:53:00.000-07:00

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.

Get Back

2009-06-26T19:59:00.000-07:00

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.

Sea and Sand

2009-06-23T18:22:00.000-07:00

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.

Apologize (It's Too Late to...) Guest blog by the Cats

2009-06-16T14:05:00.000-07:00

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.

Suitcase saga

2009-06-15T21:45:00.001-07:00

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 Walrus was Paul

2009-06-13T14:50:00.000-07:00

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...

Hello Old Friend

2009-06-13T14:39:00.000-07:00

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!

HOT FLASH!! new flat located!

2009-06-06T09:15:00.001-07:00

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!

I See GOD, preceded by ARC Angels

2009-06-01T08:37:00.000-07:00

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.

It's Not Easy Being Green

2009-05-27T05:21:00.000-07:00

Day One: In which I travel to Ireland, do a “bit o' pinning”, meet many Murphys, and rendezvous with Son in Killarney.

After the fifth call from Son asking me if I’m planning to rendezvous with the Guilford College Choir’s concert tour of Ireland, it begins to dawn on me: he really does want me to come. I held off making any definitive plans, however. My procrastination turned out to be a good thing; half of the choir group was delayed in the US by Delta Airline’s admission that the plane they were supposed to be on had a flat tire. They were flown from Raleigh, NC, to Atlanta, GA, to await the next day’s flight to Dublin. I learned of this late Sunday night, at a time when I was assuming they were in the air over the Atlantic. When the phone ring and it was Son, I became a little alarmed until I heard the whole story.

Son told me the entire itinerary wouldl be pushed back by a day. I was skeptical of this because of the hotel logistics, but after consultation with Hubster, I decided to make flight arrangements. It cost only 39 Euros to fly from London’s Heathrow to Cork. At this point, I was assuming that I would rendezvous with the group at Blarney Castle on the following Sunday, after they toured and perform in Dublin and Waterford. If I were to fly to Cork on Saturday, and then back from Shannon in western Ireland on Tuesday, my return fare will be zero Euros. Yes, that’s right, Zero. This does not include taxes and fees, which come to about thirty Euros. If I wanted to check a bag, that would be another twenty Euros. Seat assignments cost two Euros if you choose to sit in the middle of the plane, seven Euros if you want one of the seats in the front, or in an exit row. I decided to travel light and sit in steerage, which is what I imagine my great-grandmother Katherine Kirwan (Bahlke) did when she fled the Irish Potato Famine and arrived in the US with her brother at the age of 16.

In planning my itinerary, I allowed only a short transfer time between landing at Cork airport and departing Cork by train on my way to Killarney. In the interim between buying the plane ticket and actually leaving for Ireland, I have discovered that the group will be at Blarney Castle on Saturday instead of Sunday, and that there probably will be no time for me to meet them there. I figure it’s OK if I don’t kiss the Blarney Stone, as I already have the gift of gab, perhaps thanks to “Nana” Katherine Kirwan Bahlke. Fortunately, everything went according to plan. I left A Flat on Abbey Road at about 9 am, and headed out to Circus Road and the #46 bus to Paddington. The Heathrow Express train that was boarding at the platform closed its doors just as I passed through the barrier; so I got to take my time getting on the train across the platform and stowing my luggage. Fifteen minutes after departing Paddington Station I arrived at the connection to Terminal One at Heathrow, home of Aer Lingus.

Once at the Heathrow stop, I ran like a rat in a maze as I made my way down a very long tunnel in the general direction of Terminal 1. I passed through security, at which there was NO LINE, and had so much extra time that I decide to sign up for IRIS, the eyeball identification system that is supposed to help speed one through Immigration on the way back into the UK from international destinations. The last time I tried to sign up on my way out of Heathrow, I was told that even though I am a resident of the UK, I did not have enough qualifying flights in my passport to be allowed to use the system, and anyway, that TeenE would not be able to use the service. They didn’t seem to believe me at that time that I don’t always travel with TeenE, but this did not deter me from trying again This time it worked! They took digital images of my irises both without and with my glasses on, gave me a piece of paper, and I was off. Once again, there was no wait. I now had over an hour to kill in the departure lounge before my 12:15 pm flight.

In the Heathrow system, everyone for all the flights congregates in a general waiting area replete with duty-free shops and snack and coffee emporia. Never one to assume that there will be food on a flight, I loaded up with provisions: I figured a sandwich, a bottle of water, and a grande latte would tide me over on the one-hour flight into the unknown. Of course, I had already packed granola bars and chocolate bars in my bag, so there was no danger of starvation. I suspected that I would not have time in Cork to get lunch as I tried to make a 2:25 pm train. After stocking up, I then repaired to the seats to await the posting of my gate. Departure gates are not announced until about a half hour before boarding is to begin. Once I was informed of my departure gate by both the monitor and the disembodied voice, I went on the most amazing journey. I was upgraded from a rat in a maze to a hamster in a HabiTrail cage. Moving walkways helped shorten the travel time on the straight-aways, but it took at least fifteen minutes to navigate the semicircular glass tunnels that connected the different “pods” of gates. It was a mixed crowd of tourists, business people, and Irish returning home at the gate.
The Aer Lingus flight was efficient and non-eventful. All announcements were made first in Gaelic, then in English. I hadn’t expected that; I just never even gave it a thought. I had scored a window seat so that I could watch the takeoff and landing, but the cloud cover obscured everything. All I saw was the wing.

The Cork airport was tiny, on a par with Tri-City airport in Johnson, Tennessee, or Asheville, North Carolina. There were two immigration agents, one for European Union passport holders (including the Irish) and one for Non-EU. I was third in the queue for the Non-EU, and was chomping at the bit to get through, given my tight train connection. It was now 45 minutes to train departure. Unfortunately, the couple at the head of the queue had not secured whatever paperwork they needed to enter, so they took ten minutes of processing. Meanwhile, the majority of our flight were EU, and they ALL passed through the other line by simply waving their passports at the man. When they were all through, that nice man beckoned to those of us in the sluggish queue to come on over. Two questions and an entry stamp later, I was in.
There was no queue at the taxi rank, and the kind Irish gentleman driver told me that he’d have me at the train station in under ten minutes, which was correct. He explained to me that all of the election posters that plastered the town (complete with larger-than life photos of the candidates) were for the upcoming European Union parliamentary elections. I don’t know much about EU politics, but I know that immigration to the UK is easier if one holds a passport from an EU country than one from the US of A. Just after I entered the train station, the skies opened and the rain began to fall.

My destination by train was Killarney, on Ireland’s west coast, in the county of Kerry. I had purchased the train ticket online, at a cost of twenty Euros, and just had to wave the ID number of my transaction at Miss Murphy behind the counter and I was presented with a full page itinerary with a peel-off ticket emblazoned with a holographic security strip. I was impressed by the high-tech ticket. Of course, the train on which I rode was just an ordinary train, but the scrolling LED announcement board presented the information first in Gaelic, then in English. The announcer did the same. I learned that “Corkaigh” is Cork and “Malla” is Mallow.
We passed through beautiful spring-time countryside. I have decided that the Irish invented the color green. There were so many shades of it interlocking and blending in the landscape that it was hard to tell where “mossy green” ended and “grassy green” began. I sat at a table and drank in the landscape, which consisted of undulating green hills, grey cloud-laden skies, small cream colored homes dotting the hills, and bright spots of mustard yellow provided by the blooms of the gorse bushes. Once in a while a grey stone wall would hem in some ecru sheep
We passed by Blarney Castle on our way to Mallow, where I had to change trains. Just in case the Guilford College Choir was out there somewhere, I waved.

At Mallow, two young fellows entered the train and decided to sit at my table, which was surrounded by four seats. The one nearest to me had breath heavy with whiskey (the “water of life”, in Gaelic). They were sports fans going to Killarney to watch a football match on TV as they must have been in a “Blackout” area for the match. Perhaps they were Scottish. I’ll never know. They kept complaining that “after all, they’re playing in our country” and seemed very bitter about the necessity of their journey. Whiskey-breath had an accent so heavy that even if I discounted the fact that he was slurring his speech, I could not understand him at all. I had pulled out my knitting and the complicated pattern for a drop-stitch scarf that required a lot of counting, so I hoped they wouldn’t try and engage me in conversation.

I’m sorry to report that this ploy failed. Whiskey-breath, who fancied himself a comedian, turned right to me and asked me a question. “Blah blah blah blah pinnin”. I ignored him. He came back with it again. This time I looked at him. He could have been Quentin Tarantino’s love child. I’m sure the look on my face must have been “Are you talking to me?” He tried to communicate with me two more times. Aha! He was making a comment about my knitting. He had been saying “I can see that this one likes a bit of pinning”. I guess that is what they call knitting in Ireland or wherever he was from. I tried to make it clear that I could not understand what he was saying. His friend, Stripe-Shirt, translated for him “She doesn’t understand what you are saying”. I told them that I was working on a complicated pattern, and that if they noticed that my lips were moving as I knitted, they’d know that I was counting and couldn’t really talk. After another stop or two they moved across the aisle, to my great relief.
I took another cab from the Killarney train station to the Best Western Eviston House Hotel, centrally located on “New” Street in the shopping district. The Guilford College Choir had not yet arrived, but their guide had phone from the coach and they were expected shortly. After being checked in to my room by a Ms. Murphy, I decided to go over to the Tourist Office around the corner and pick up some area information and maps. By the time I got back, the coach was parked and a horde of fresh young faces was disembarking. Son glimpsed me through the lobby window and I was greeted with a big bear hug.

The choir had an hour and a half before they had to reboard the coach in concert dress for their Saturday evening performance. Sunday’s “gig” was to be at an Alzheimer’s unit of a “Care Home” affiliated with a church just outside of Killarney. When the parish priest heard that this was happening, he invited the choir to sing a Saturday night Mass. I asked the tour guide if it would be OK for me to ride with them to the service, and she introduced herself to me. Her name was Odile Murphy, and she is one of the nicest people ever. She said not only would it be all right on Saturday night, but that if I wanted to join them on their morning trip to a local scenic spot the next day, that would be fine, too.

Son and I scarfed down some sandwiches from the Subway across the street, and then sat in the lobby chatting before he had to go upstairs to change into his tux. All 60 of us boarded the coach and then the mist turned back to rain as we headed out of town toward Killcommon. Ms. Murphy came over the PA system with an announcement: “We’d like to welcome Doug’s Mom to the tour bus”. This was answered by a resounding chorus of “Hi, Doug’s Mom”. I stood and waved, and told them, my name. They all laughed and I replied with some witty banter. Son poked me with his elbow to get me to shut up so I did. Meanwhile, Ms. Murphy reminded us that “Kill” means “stream”, and I thought of the instances in New York State where it is used in the same way “Fishkill”, “Peekskill”, etc.

Killcommon was an uncommonly beautiful spot. It was now half past seven in the evening, and the sun was nowhere near setting. The rain stopped as we disembarked the coach. We entered a modern church built in the round, with the part behind the altar made of bentwood staves like the inside of a prow of a ship. Between the staves there was a gorgeous patchwork of colorful stained glass illustrating animals, people, and natural motifs from the Bible and from Ireland. Mass was packed; either a show of support for the choir (who had been added on with very short notice) or that is just what one does in Ireland on a Saturday night.

The choir sang with no instrumental accompaniment. Their sound was breathtaking in the perfect acoustics of that church, and I was moved to tears by the beauty of the whole experience. I remarked to someone later that it was the first time I had ever been to a mass that was not a wedding or a funeral. They sang about four selections during the service, and one could tell that the congregation was not used to such…lengthy… musical offerings. They were eager to be on their way after the hour was up.

I was wondering if they would all disappear, or if there would be a “coffee hour” at 8 pm. Fortunately for the choir, most of whom had not eaten anything, there was a generous spread of “tea” at the Rectory across the street. Several generous women stood by to refill our tea cups and pass around the plates of sandwiches and homemade sweets. We all felt warmly welcomed. At about half past eight I was ready to return to the coach and walked outside to take in the evening. It was chilly, so I boarded just as the mist returned.

We returned to the hotel and Son changed out of his tux. We found the last two seats in the pub just as the musical act was warming up. The pub, called Danny Mann’s, bills itself as Ireland’s Most Famous Pub. I’m not sure if it’s true, but they do offer live music most nights, and Saturday night’s group was The Molly Maguires. They played an entertaining mix of traditional Irish vocal music. Son and I enjoyed some Carlsburg (I know, it’s not Irish, but I hadn’t developed a taste for Guinness yet) and I chased it with a shot of Jameson whiskey, served neat, with water on the side, in honor of my Dad. God forbid that a bartender or waiter should pour the water into the whiskey glass! I decided to carry on the tradition, sans ice.
By a quarter to eleven pm, I was well and truly ready for bed. I knew that the “young people” would be up much later, so said my goodbyes. Son walked me to my room, and we agreed to meet up in the breakfast room the next day. I slept well, and was only awakened once by the sound of some merrymakers singing their way down the street. You could hear the sound getting fainter and fainter as they made their way out of town.

What a happy day!

Row, Row, Row your Boat? 100th posting!

2009-05-20T07:27:00.000-07:00

Hello again dear readers. Herewith is the 100th blog posting, in which I am run over by a kayak (on dry land).

Please pardon the blogger’s hiatus: I was so busy living my life that I ran out of energy to chronicle it.
Here is a list of things I could have been writing about in the past month:

--Hearing the news that my father was admitted to the hospital for treatment of a clot in his leg (DVT) on his 85th birthday.
--Going away for an overnight in the Cotswolds and taking a hike through a pasture filled with horses, over a stile, and into another pasture filled with sheep and lambs. Having the shoe sucked off my right foot by a rogue mud patch. Having to wash my shoes and socks in the sink at the hotel.
--Taking a break in the hotel’s Jacuzzi spa, and having the same shin and ankle pain that I experienced after my last transatlantic flight, complete with swollen ankle and bulging blue veins.
--Trying to reach a private doctor through email about said problem, and getting no response (he was away). Trying to get an urgent care appointment through the NHS. (I was told to call the next day and get a same-day emergency appointment).
--Carrying on with my social plans. The St. John’s Wood Women’s Club annual Spring Luncheon was to be held in a restaurant in Camden. The plan was to take a canal boat from the Little Venice area of London (near Maida Vale in W9) along the Regent’s Canal to Camden.
--Becoming the only woman on the face of the earth to be run over by a kayak on dry land. Now I have your attention!

As I and 50 of my new best friends were walking down the towpath on the way to the canal boat, I was walking carefully as the veins in my shins were swollen and throbbing. I had the canal to my left, and I noticed a man passing me to my right, along the wall. He was carrying a lilac kayak. For some reason, he couldn’t have waited for the group of us to pass his put-in point. He had to walk up from behind us and insert himself into the middle of the group. Then, instead of waiting for us all to pass, he either lost control of (giving him the benefit of the doubt) or unwisely, decided to swing the boat around and put in perpendicular to the water’s edge. There was no warning that this was about to happen, and no time to react. I was broadsided in the front of the shins by the boat. This knocked me off balance, and I took a step forward to avoid falling backwards on my ass/hip/head. As I stepped forward, the boat came back at my shins for another bite. This time, I “decided” to fall forward INTO the boat, and wound up smashing down on my rear end into the molded plastic seat of the kayak.
At least eight women leapt towards me with cries of “are you all right”? I sat dazed in the seat of the kayak which now rested on the asphalt towpath. The Australian young man said “You walked into my boat!!” The women asked if I was hurt. “Just my ass, and my pride”, I answered. They couldn’t believe I hadn’t broken anything. The Aussie kept on trying to blame me for falling into his kayak. After about five attempts, to which I said nothing and wouldn't even LOOK at him, he finally said it was completely his fault, but he never apologized. Of course, the story of my shins was just too long to try and describe the pre-existing condition, but now they REALLY hurt. After a minute or two I got up and hobbled over to the boat and boarded it gingerly. The two glasses of wine I enjoyed at lunch at the restaurant Gilgamesh that afternoon certainly helped to soothe my wounded ego, if not my throbbing shins.

The next day I was able to see one of the GPs in the NHS practice to which I belong. She thought, given the conditions of the initial pain (an airplane flight—my legs were fine when I got on at Heathrow, and in agony when I got off in Boston for my father-in-law’s funeral) that an immediate assessment for DVT was in order. I was pretty sure that was not what was causing the swollen veins in my shins and feet, but I wasn’t going to tell her how to do her job.
I was referred to the Rapid Assessment Unit at St. Mary’s Hospital Paddington. This unit seems to exist solely to assess for DVT. There were two other patients there that afternoon, both with swollen ankles and calf pain, both in their 80’s. It turned out none of us had DVT. The nurses told me that what I was doing to treat the painful veins was correct, and to keep doing it (I have entered the land of Support Hose). I am keeping systematic track of changes in barometric pressure (airplane cabins), heat (Jacuzzi baths) and monthly hormone status, as the swelling and pain in my shins is brought on by the same conditions as most of my migraine headaches. I tried to get the private GP, who works with the dive chamber in a nearby hospital, interested in studying my shins and re-creating the symptoms with systematic manipulation of the experimental conditions, but I was not taken seriously.
So I came home with a second pair of support hose (trendy black!), some Ibuprofen with codeine, and a new appreciation for the National Health Service.

Other news includes the fact that we are looking for a bigger flat or house, and that I have been to Ireland for the first time. Details of that trip shall follow when I get the pictures uploaded. I thought I’d spare you a gory photo of my shins…

CLOSE TO THE EDGE (I get up, I get down)

2009-04-19T16:03:00.000-07:00

Anybody who was invited along on today’s walk and chose not to go missed a real doozy.

I left the flat at noon and boarded a number 13 bus north up Finchley Road. Destination: Golder’s Green, London, NW11 location of my old 1978 flat and a particularly fine park that is connected to Hampstead Heath. The weather forecasters had predicted a fine, sunny day, with temperatures slated to reach all the way to 19! I don’t know what that is in Fahrenheit, but suspect it is pretty warm.

A looooong hike was planned, in order to get me into shape for a scheduled, guided walk through the scenic bluebell woods of Buckinghamshire on May 6th. As I have been having foot and ankle problems ever since I fell flat on my face on the pavement in Feb, and then again after my flight over to the US created a severe case of shin splints, I thought I had better test out the old pins and see if I could really attempt a nine mile hike. The Heath is a good place to hike, and besides, if I had to bail out at any point, there is easy bus access back to NW8 from several locations around its perimeter.

I headed out-of-doors in my new hiking cropped-trousers, a long-sleeve cotton shirt, and a fleece. My backpack contained wallet, phone, water bottle, “oyster card” for bus fare, umbrella (although there was not a cloud in the sky, I’ve learned not to trust that particular sign) mp3-player, Proust’s Swann’s Way (see previous posting) a guide to walking tours of Hampstead Heath, my knitting, and my new sketchbook and charcoals.

As soon as I was on the bus I realized that I had forgotten to move my orthopedic arch-supporting insoles from the new sneakers into the old walking shoes. “No problem!” I thought. “I’ll just pop into the Boots the Chemist (think CVS) up in Golder’s Green and buy another pair of insoles. After about twelve minutes, we rolled into NW11 and I was disappointed to see that the interior of Boots was pretty dark. “Oh well,” I said to myself. I’ll just walk until the feet start to hurt and then sit and sketch/read/knit for a while.”

I went back “down” Finchley Road a few cross-streets, popping into the local Sainsbury’s Supermarket to see if they had the required foot-gear. They had a full complement of hosiery, but no insoles. I went up to West Heath Ave. and walked up the long drive into Golder’s Hill Park. After a minute, I saw a tantalizing wooden gate. Aha!! The secret back entrance I have been looking for since I moved to London a few months ago. I had remembered that there was a short-cut from my old flat which took me down a tiny path and into the park, and there it was. The path was bordered by a riot of Forget-me-Nots, looking up at me with their clear blue eyes, and lined with the fallen blooms of a red camellia-bush. Spring is in full force here!
I walked back out to the main road so I could find my way in next time, then retraced my steps into the Park. It was now 1 pm, and I started “the clock” on my walk.

The Park was teeming with hundreds of people, and thousands of blooms. Purple azalea, pink camellias, orange azalea, pink rhododendrons with white throats and crimson rims, beds of unknown purple flowers, and the first bees of the season were being admired by people and dogs alike. The tea café was absolutely loaded with people. I decided to make a preventive visit to the loo, and it was a good thing I did, as it allowed me to walk further than I ever have before.
Before taking off again, however, I decided to rest up on the grass. The sun felt so good warming the earth. I could feel its warmth on my skin, but it wasn’t too hot. It was just right for taking off the fleece and watching the tots for a few minutes. Then—onward and upward.

A helpful sign pointed the way out of Golder’s Hill Park and into the Heath proper. Another one pointed me in the direction of the Hill Garden and Pergola. I had seen this area in December when the St. John’s Wood Women’s Club did our walk of the Heath, when nothing was in bloom. I was looking forward to seeing it in its late April clothing. This is a garden that used to belong to the grand house nearby: a HUGE pergola with multiple terraces, steps, and hidden garden knots. It may be the most beautiful garden in London. Back in “the day” (1978) it was derelict and closed and one was advised to avoid the area. The corporation of the City of London renovated it in the 90’s and it was reopened in 1995, I was informed by a sign.

I had deliberately left my camera at home so that I would not waste precious walking time taking close-up photos of colorful blooms. Why then, you may ask, did I bring my sketchbook? There is no good answer to that question. A nice bench near a reflecting pool beckoned and I decided to sketch for a bit. I haven’t drawn in several decades and felt more than a little rusty, but enjoyed it thoroughly. My sketch of the area around the reflecting pool does not show the clumps of children who were attempting to scoop out tadpoles with their nets, and the toddlers who were vigorously whacking the surface of the water with long sticks. These activities held their attention for at least half an hour, so who can blame the parents for wanting a little down time? The pool was only four inches deep so no one was in any danger of much in case they fell in, unless it was a coating of green algae.

After a while, I decided to press on. I passed into some more familiar territory, recognizing the path I used to take to skirt around the formerly dangerous pergola area. Soon I was crossing North End Road near Jack Straw’s Castle (a pub) and stopping at an ice cream truck on Spaniard’s Road, where I learned that the proper name for sprinkles (i.e. “jimmies”) here is Hundreds and Thousands. My soft-serve vanilla cone (the only option) was pierced with a Cadbury’s Flake candy, dipped in the multicolored sprinkles, and drizzled with chocolate syrup. The only thing that could push me into a more fully ecstatic state would be my favorite music, so I whipped out my iPod and cranked up the Yes. (More on my musical ecstasy later)
Duly fortified, I entered the main part of Hampstead Heath on the bikeway. This is part of the route I used to take between Golder’s Green and Highgate back in the day. A brisk pace for about ten minutes, which I matched with brisk licks to my melting ice cream cone, brought me to the highest point in London, where a lovely view of the village of Highgate stretches out. The grass on that lawn was about eight inches high, and will not be mown all summer. I went to the fenced-in area that is apocryphally known as the burying place of Boudicca, ancient Queen of the Icenii in pre-Roman times. It now contains a grove of relatively young cypress trees. The entire fence is encircled by benches, and I was able to sit for a few minutes and “tune in” to the energy of the place. “A sacred grove” is what came to me, although evidence of recently charred wood in a fireplace means that my impression may have come from some modern-day Druids.

I continued down the hill through an allee of beech trees, and over to Parliament Hill, from which a lovely panorama of the London skyline can be seen. There were about a dozen para-sail type kites being flown by children and adults, and the area teemed with hundreds of people and dozens of dogs. The Heath is certainly THE place to be on a fine Sunday afternoon.
By this time it was about half past three, and I decided to descend back into civilization via the Hampstead side of the open space. From there it would be easy to hop aboard the number 46 bus and be back at the flat in relatively short order. The music, however was communicating directly to my feet, and instead of going down Well Walk (NW3) toward Rosslyn Hill Road and a certain rendezvous with the number 46 bus, I kept on going.

Google Earth informs me that I took the following route:
South on Parliament Hill, passing Nassington Road, which jogged something in my memory bank, but I could not figure out why. Now I remember it is where NH-Sis-in-Law lived for a few weeks after her own Junior Year Abroad adventure at the University of Warwick in the year _____ please provide via a comment, Beth.
The next portion of the walk was designed to connect the dots in my mind between the locations I knew on EAST Heath Road with those on WEST Heath Road (not to be confused with West Heath AVE as traversed at the beginning of my hike.) I headed Northwest on EAST Heath Road, crossing Well Walk, Well Road, Squire’s Mount, and Heath Street. Next, west past Branch Hill, passing Hermitage Lane, Elm Walk, Westover Hill and Eden Close. At “the T” in the road, I turned South on WEST Heath Road, and followed it along until I got to Finchley Road. I figured I’d walk south on Finchley Road until my iPod ran out of juice or my feet gave out, whichever came first. I passed the Scuba-Diving store (really! In London, of all places!!) passed Burgess Hill, and decided to cut over to the 139 bus to Abbey Road via Fortune Green Road. I passed the Hampstead Cemetary (I never knew it was there) and shortly found myself on West End Lane, where I waited ten minutes for a bus the rest of the way.
The Google Earth “ruler” application allowed me to plot all these twists and turns in detail. From stepping off the 13 bus in NW11 to getting on the 139 in West Hampstead, I clocked 5.89 miles. From the throbbing in my right knee and foot, I’d have put it closer to 8 miles, but computers apparently don’t lie.

Why was I able to keep going after thinking I’d give in after about four miles? I’ll give the credit to the music of YES, my favorite music of all time and space (in this lifetime, at least, in addition to the Beethoven, Schuman, and Hildegard music on which I grooved in other lifetimes) Several years ago, I was interviewed by my mentor and friend Kurt Leland for his 2005 book Music and the Soul: A Listener’s Guide to Achieving Transcendent Musical Experiences. Kurt’s interest and experience was mostly in the realm of classical music and jazz, not the rock’n’roll that has been the soundtrack to much of my life, although he and I are about the same age. My goal was to expose him to music that I use deliberately to change my level of consciousness. He was able to describe in esoteric and energetic terms exactly how my favorite music moves through the levels of the energy centers. During today’s walk, I listened to Close to the Edge, which I have always used for “energetic smudging”, i.e. clearing out stale or stagnant “vibes” and moving up and down through wakefulness into transcendence, in which one feels connected to a higher state of consciousness than one’s own individual mind. Also on today’s playlist: “Awaken”, from Going for the One, which Kurt Leland describes as “beginning in the visionary realm…and soon cross(ing) over into the sublime realm. Most of the fifteen-and-a-half-minute song is a luminous macrorhythmic wave that gently undulated through each of the levels of the seventh (expanded consciousness) center, providing one of the longest periods of exposure to the expanded consciousness of this center that I’ve heard in rock music. In the yoga of listening, “Awaken” provides an excellent object of meditation to open the seventh center for those who are more attracted to the sounds of rock than classical music.”
The third piece of YES music that was propelling me forward on the final stretch was “The Gates of Delirium” from their 1974 album Relayer. Kurt Leland reports that “The remarkable thing about this song is that it not only moves through the crisis zone of irrationality, but eventually achieves the grace” of the energy center he refers to as “cosmic consciousness”, “one of the few examples…that I’ve so far encountered in nonclassical music.
So, I was in an altered state, you might say, of expanded consciousness, feeling both at one with the world and apart from my body, while feeling connected to my soul and the wisdom and energy of the universe. Kurt quotes me in his book as saying the following about the music of YES:

Marjie “ tells me that some Yes fans use drugs while listening to their music, but she has never done so. She emphasizes that the consciousness-altering aspects of Yes’s songs are in the music. Drugs are not required to become aware of or be affected by them.” (p. 251) Who needs drugs when you have musical ecstasy combined with movement through a mystical place on a sunny day?
And you thought I just went for a walk!! I was really attending a service in honor of the Divine Source while moving across that portion of the world we call “Hampstead Heath”.

You can read more about Kurt Leland's ideas about how music affects us at his Music and the Soul blog: www.musicandthesoul.blogspot.com

I'm So Tired/Golden Slumbers

2009-04-17T17:38:00.001-07:00

Hunh? What time is it? What day is it? On which continent am I located? Is there a Starbucks nearby?

Answers: 1:35 am, Saturday April 18th, Western Europe, Yes.

TeenE and I left Boston at 9 am on Wednesday, which necessitated getting up at 5:45 am. Although I was only in the US for ten days, I had completely adjusted to Eastern Daylight Time and had gone a bit overboard with it, staying up past midnight and sleeping until 9 am towards the end of the trip. The beginning of the trip was filled with tossing and turning produced by excruciating leg pain, so I guess the sleep deprivation and jet lag would catch up with me sooner or later.

Wednesday night, after a 12 hour trip door-to-door, I slept from 2 am to about 10 am. It is much easier to sleep without hot pain shooting up and down your shins and ankles. Thankfully, I did not have a repeat experience of the high altitude-induced shin splints, so was able to walk off the plane and hike the two miles to the immigration desk without having every step produce agonizing pain.

Thursday night I tried to go to sleep on the sofa at 12 midnight, but was unable to turn off the brain. I got up and wandered to the kitchen, found a snack, and tried again. It was 2 am by the time I was finally lulled into dreamland by the number 139 Night Bus chugging past the window at regular intervals. I vaguely remember waking up and seeing it was light out, and registering that Hubster was leaving the flat. "Have a good one!" I managed to mumble perkily from my perch on the sofa.

The next thing I knew I was lying there thinking "It must be around 10 or 11; I should probably get up." I wandered back into the kitchen, where I found to my surprise that it was one o'clock, as in the afternoon. I had been stretched out for almost eleven hours. The last thing I dreamed about before I woke up was that I was on a bus tour to Ipswich. In my dream, I remembered having been on that same tour several years back, but this time, they didn't have my name on the list, so I wasn't supposed to be there. "But I remember it; it's IPSWICH, like the clams." I'm pretty sure it was a tour to Ipswich, England, not Massachusetts (where the clams are from). Maybe that was my port-of-entry back from the dream world.

It surely wasn't Ipswich, but St. John's Wood. I tried in vain to wake TeenE for about a half an hour, then had success. After having lunch and puttering around, I headed out into the drizzly day.

First stop, the pharmacy in the hospital to pick up a prescription. The pharmacist, whom I call by his first name, told me what the price was "after your discount". "What discount would that be?" I asked him. "Don't you work here?" he asked, and was surprised that I didn't. I reminded him that I Volunteered at the hospice, but that they could pay me AND give me the discount if he wanted to... I guess that's what happens when you have your volunteer gig in the same place as your NHS doc, you therapist, and your front-desk reception buddies for whom you bake and with whom you stop by to chat as its on the way to everywhere else you need to go.

Next stop, Starbucks, for my first and only cup of coffee of the day at 2:30 pm. I was happily reading Proust (an assignment from the therapist) and copying down inspiring quotations on the nature of novel-writing when I spotted that ubiquitious medic making a cameo appearance. He came and went with alacrity, having things to do and patients to see.

When the hard rain that was falling drifted back into drizzles, I wandered back to the flat, where I made the Irish beef stew I had planned for dinner, and turned it down to simmer for a few hours. Then, a quick call to a friend in Massachusetts, and was so exhausted that I decided to stretch out for a bit. The bit turned into almost three hours. It was 8:15 and still light out when I got up. Hubster had come home somewhere in the interim, so I knew the stew hadn't burned.

I sent TeenE to bed at around 11pm, but I know she is still up as she just passed me in the hallway at 1:30 am. A quiet evening of TV,Facebook and knitting brings me back full circle to 2
am.

Facebook, you ask? Yes, one of life's pleasant time-wasters. Is it any worse than endless hours of computer solitaire? No, it's probably better, as you can actually connect with real people who are your friends and relatives. What a kick to be "chatting" with Annie, one of the inner circle from Wellesley College days! I also managed to use one of the applications that randomly generates different alter-ego names for you.

For example, my Italian name is : Marietta Ferrari.
I like being named after a fast car!
My Super-hero name is: The Invincible Enigma, or,
as Annie called me, IE Woman!
My Barbie name is: Bad-Taste Barbie. Enough said!
My Drag Queen name is: Leslie Licorice. Lick this!
My Witch name is: Jairia the Not-so-Ugly Witch. cackle cackle!
My Angel name is: Harachel the Angel of Knowledge.

And... for the piece de resistance, my Stripper Name is...
wait for it...
Ginger CherryDeep. SPICY!

It's 2 am. On that note, I'm going to sleep.

Leaving on Jet Plane

2009-04-15T15:28:00.000-07:00

Hello dear readers. I am back at the flat on Abbey Road, after having been away for almost two weeks. As you can read below, my father-in-law passed away on April 2nd and all of the family gathered in New Hampshire.

It was a difficult time of greiving but it was heartening to see the three generations of Hubster's family sharing the loss together.

I was able to deliver "Nana's sweater" in person to my mother-in-law. It is also known as Shiri Mor's raglan-shaped swing cardigan knitted with multi-colored short rows, pattern #19 from page 86 of the winter 2007/2008 issue of VOGUEknitting (US). I substituted a silk/wool/cotton blend for the wool in the pattern, and made it in shades of larkspur blue.

My trip also included a trip to see my sister "NeedhamSis", who is staying upbeat during her post-surgery radiation treatments. We had a wonderful visit in the springtime sun and I got to hear all about her son's acceptance at Villanova in the class of 2014.

I also visited my dear friend Melissa, who is receiving chemotherapy for Lymphoma. In her care-coordination blog, she wrote that she was developing a super-hero alter-ego to enable her to better deal with her journey. She calls her alternate-self the "Pred-a-nate-Her", due to the massive amounts of Prednisone she must take along with the other chemo drugs.

Never one to sit idly by when I could be creating something, I took her journal entry as a personal challenge. A length of hospital-green tencel cloth had been left by me in my in-laws' garage since last summer, and Nana was eager to move it on out. I brought it to Mary Ann at the Knittin' Kitten in Cambridge, MA, and we discussed possible ways of embellishing it and turning it into the Pred-a-Nate-Her's Cape. Two days later, we had a completed cape, which contained a green batik heart being supported by magenta people, and rows of circles containing cats, who of course are Reiki Masters in their own right. What else would they be doing when they sit all over us humans and purr? They are sharing their healing vibes...

Here is a photo of Melissa aka The Pred-a-Nate-Her. Please send healing wishes and prayers to her and to NeedhamSis. Thank you.

FEELING HOT, HOT, HOT

2009-04-11T20:39:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago, I had the privilege to visit Istanbul. TeenE’s high school music group was doing their spring “music tour” there, and some of the parents decided to tag along.
I made my own air and hotel arrangements. I wound up paying more for the air fare on BA, rather than Turkish Air. TA had just had an “incident” with a plane down, and I felt more comfortable flying BA. My hotel room wound up costing considerably less than the ones that the kids and chaperones were in, so I more than made up for the difference in air fare. I stayed at the Hotel Ibrahim Pasha, and although my room was small, it was just me in it so it really didn’t matter (see photos).
The location of the hotel was about as good as it gets: on a hill overlooking the Blue Mosque and the Hippodrome. The hotel’s roof deck was a great place to sit in the sun and take photos of the Blue Mosque. A huge “Turkish breakfast” buffet was served every morning. The choices included fantastic coffee, a baked spinach pastry, a potato pastry, plain yoghurt, several flavors of preserves, white and brown “French” bread, four kinds of cheese, some kind of pinkish cold cut, probably “head cheese”, olives, dried apricots and dates, muesli, fresh squeezed orange juice,
Highlights of my trip were visiting the 6th century AD Roman underground “cistern” or reservoir, having dinner with the other parents at the Restaurant Beyti (thank you, Hassan and Farrah), and having a Turkish Bath at the Cemberlitas Hamam, a 16th century bathhouse. This was in addition to visiting the Big 3 Historic sites of the Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia, and Topkapi palace.
You can find photos of these sites here and in many other places on the web. What you cannot find anywhere else is a description of my two hours in the Turkish bath.
WARNING: The following passage contains descriptions of female nudity and should be avoided by anyone who might be easily offended or who knows the writer personally and who cannot stand the thought of nudity happening, such as the writer’s children or brothers-in-law.
My guidebook mentioned the Cemberlitas Hamam as one of the Top 10 things to do in Istanbul. I would concur.
The bathhouse was constructed in the 16th century by the wife of a Sultan as an investment vehicle. Of course, she got a wonderful place to bathe, as well, in the days when no one had indoor plumbing.
The facilities for men and women were separate, but equal. I bought a token for the bath part, and another for the oil massage. I figured I may only be in Istanbul once, so I’d better get the real deal.
After paying and buying a chilled bottle of water, I was ushered upstairs to a modern spa-like locker and changing facility. The guidebook had said that after renovations, the women’s area lost space so that women now changed in a corridor. I did not find this to be the case. There were small private areas of lockers where one could change out of street clothes and into the flimsy cotton sarong that was issued. The biggest decision I had to make that day was whether to go commando or not. What is the point, I thought, of going to a Turkish bath to get all steamy and scrubbed clean if you’re going to wear your underwear? In a very un-American move, I chose to go with just the sarong. (I note that American women, for all their obsessing about their bodies, are not as comfortable with their own nudity as European and especially Scandinavian women. I learned this in the Blue Lagoon changing room in Reykjavik, Iceland. )
“Crocs” were also issued, and were mandatory, although they created a hazard for those of us with narrow feet. Half of my feet stuck out of the toe area of the Croc sandal. It made going down the spiral staircase quite difficult. One passed through the “Cool Room”, where a cool marble slab was surrounded by seating areas. Women sat in small groups, sipping their freshly-squeezed pomegranate juice out of clear glass tumblers.
I couldn’t wait to get into the steamy part, so I skipped the “Cool Room” entirely. I made my way boldly into the “Hot Room”, which was octagonal in shape, vaguely steamy, and contained a large raised octagonal slab of marble in the center. Arrayed around this slab like the petals of a flower were women of all ages, shapes and sizes, in various phases of undress and in various “trim types”. The ones that had been there for a while upon my arrival looked well and truly sweaty. One could tell, because in order to lay on the hot hot marble slab, one had to remove the flimsy cotton sarong and spread it out underneath. The stone would have been too hot without that thin layer of cloth between it and skin, and so modesty was sacrificed for safety’s sake.
Most women would rather reveal their backside to total strangers than their front side, so new arrivals would eventually peel off the sarong, and depending on how brave or oblivious they were feeling, spread it out and lay face down upon it, without revealing so much as a glimpse of anything below the bustline. Surreptitious peeks around revealed that most of the women who were there when I arrived were either American or Scandanavian. Some women, like me, had come alone, but most were in pairs and their chit-chat revealed their nationality. Later on in the proceedings small knots of Turkish women arrived, and would be addressed in Turkish by the Bath Attendants.
Around the rim of the room there were marble “sinks” on pedestals that were fed by spigots. There were also several more private gated “niches” where one had a choice of three sinks, containing cold, warm or hot water. Each sink held a silver bowl. You could pick up the bowl and pour its contents over you to adjust your body temperature.
After a while of laying on the stomach-side, I got just too hot. Even sitting up and sipping my cool water in a modest pose would not allow sufficient cooling, so eventually each of us had to come to grips with the idea of turning over and laying there frontally exposed on the slab. And you know what? It was so much more comfortable than propping your head on your hand while laying face-down. I wondered why I had thought it would be so psychologically uncomfortable. At some point you just get so hot that you forget you don’t have anything covering you, or if you do remember, you are glad of it. You also cease to care who may or may not notice your six-inch scar from gall-bladder surgery.
Being an observant person, I could tell who had come into the Hot Room before me, and who had arrived after me. There was the opportunity to check out the other bods and do a few comparisons. This one is older, that one weighs more, this one weighs less, that one is hairier, that one surely needs to eat more, and why the heck does she still have her bra on? Surely most of us are never going to see each other again. I’m also a bit of Type-A, and started to become indignant when the Washer Women would take someone ahead of me who had CLEARLY come into the room after me. I decided that it was just time to “Chill” and let them do the choosing.
When it was my turn to be washed by an attendant, one beckoned me over and showed me how to lay out my sarong along one of the edges of the octagon. Good, I got the one who was wearing a bra in addition to her panties. I had been taking mental notes during their previous washings, so knew that if I had been assigned to the other one, her pendulous Earth Mother breasts would be swinging about me as I was washed. One less distraction to have to attend to. First, my Lingerie Lady poured a bowl of cold water over me. Waaah! Then she unwrapped my personal bath mitt and proceeded to scrub the living daylights out of my skin with the rough side. I could feel streamers of dead skin being exfoliated off of my upper arms and legs and, well, you get the picture.
I was led to a side niche and rinsed with several bowls of warmish-hot water, my sarong was rinsed, and the slab where I had been so thoroughly exfoliated was rinsed off, too. I was then led back to the same spot and spread out on my sarong face down while the bather used the mitt to work up a huge ball of lather. I don’t know how she did it, but within about a minute she had formed a foamy lemon-scented mass twice the size of a basketball, and then distributed the lather over my entire back side. I was completely engulfed in bubbles, and had to clear a space near my nostrils in order to breathe comfortably. The heavenly-scented lather was then massaged into my skin. Normally I can take a foot massage without feeling tickled, but somehow the addition of slippery bubbles made it unbearable. The poor woman had to skip my feet as I was writhing with tickles. A few bowlfuls of really hot water rinsed the suds off the back side and got me ready for the front. Boy, did that front get really clean. That’s all I’ll say in that regard.
My washer then asked “Shampoo”? Yes, of course. So, she stood in front of me and pulled my head forward until my forehead was resting on her ample bosom, thankfully encased in white polyester, and I received a shampoo and rinse. One more trip over to the niche for more bowlfuls of hot water, and I was released back to the slab. My washer pointed out the deep baths for soaking: one warm, and one hot. I read the sign which proclaimed “Bathing nude is prohibited”, and guessed that was why some of the women still had on their panties, so they could take a dip in the deep bath. Without the use of any English on her part or Turkish on mine, my washer and I had the following conversation:
“Do you have your panties with you?” “No, I left them upstairs in the locker”. “Well, you can just wrap your sarong around you and go in anyway.” “No, thank you, I’d rather not if stuff is going to be floating around in there…”
So I laid back down on the slab (face up, in case you were wondering) and waited my turn to be called for my…. oil massage. The masseuse eventually arrived and beckoned me into a separate room. There were four massage tables lined up assembly-line style. Three of them held glistening women with towels draped strategically over them. I was invited up on the fourth massage table, and was soon in the capable hands of “Anna”, who worked every last kink out of my tourist-weary frame. Pure bliss.
Getting back into the Hot Room in oily Crocs was a feat in itself. By now two thirds of my feet were sticking out the front of the plastic sandal, the toe area of which was eating into my arches. But is was forbidden to remove them!!
I had to soap up three times and re-shampoo once to remove even a tiny portion of the oil slick that I had now become. I repaired to a private niche and took my time, as I knew I wouldn’t have time before the parent-group dinner to go back to the hotel and shower. Who would want to shower off a Turkish Bath, anyway? So I slithered my way back up the spiral staircase in the wide Crocs, laughing at almost certain death. I was relieved of my damp and clingy sarong and issued a towel. The changing facility even had hair dryers, so I attempted to fluff and buff the hair, although the roots still had a bit of oil there. A quick stop in the gift shop (of course, there had to be one, right?) allowed me to score a couple of bars of scented olive oil soap, and I drifted back up to the street level in cloud of lemon fragrance.
That night on the bus to dinner, I described my experience to the other mothers who were riding near me. The cry was universal: “Oh honey, did you hear that? We have to do that tomorrow!!!” I’ll never know whether the husbands were embarrassed by, or grateful for their wives visitation to the Cemberlitas Hamam the next day.

In memory of Bob Harrison, 1931-2009

2009-04-04T11:01:00.000-07:00

To my loyal readers: I have had to fly from London to the US to be with my husband and his family following the death of my dear father-in-law.

I am posting this in remembrance of Robert J. Harrison, whom I knew for two years as "Bob", two as "Dad", and twenty-one as "Grandad".

He was born in St. Charles, Missouri on June 21, 1931. He grew up in Muskogee, Oklahoma, and earned a bachelor's degree from the University of Oklahoma in 1957, after serving in the US Air Force from 1951 to 1955. He lived in Manchester, New Hampshire for over 50 years with his wife Monique (Gilbert) Harrison, to whom he was married for 54 years.

He retired in 1988 as Chief Executive Officer of Public Service Company of New Hampshire, the state's largest electrical utility. Previous to that he had served PSNH as assistant to the president, vice president, treasurer, financial vice president, and, penultimately, as Chief Operating Officer and President.

Bob served as member of the board of directors for PSHN, Maine Yankee Atomic Power Company, Vermont Yankee Nuclear Power Corp and Yankee Atomic Electric Company. He also served as a director of Numerica Financial Corp, Numerica Savings Bank, American Heart Association, Easter Seals Foundation of New Hampshire and Vermont, and Federated Art of Manchester, as well as the United Way of Greater Manchester.

He was a communicant at St. Catherine of Siena Roman Catholic Church in Manchester, NH.

In addition to his wife Monique, he leaves his four children, David Harrison and his wife Marjorie of London, England; Gregory Harrison and his wife Kathleen of Okemos, Michigan; Elizabeth Cutliffe and her husband Laurence of Bedford, New Hampshire; and Thomas Harrison and his wife Christen of Andover, Massachusetts, as well as six grandchildren, Douglas and Elizabeth Harrison, William and Noel Harrison, and Jessica and Jennifer Cutliffe, as well as many dear friends.

I will remember "Grandad" as a loving patriarch who was devoted to his family and who was beloved by all. He had a quick wit and an exquisite sense of comedic timing. Many family occasions were punctuated by the laughter and banter of all present. He developed a love of travel during his business years, and especially enjoyed travelling with his wife Monique then, and during his two decades of retirement.

The family spent many happy summer days with Grandad and Nana at their second home in Rye Beach, New Hampshire. Beach outings, family dinners, visits with cousins and out-of-town relatives and friends were a big part of these happy days. When his oldest grandchild was working at a summer camp in New Hampshire, he would sometimes arrive with a group of young adults who were all enjoying their day off by travelling to the beach. Grandad was always there to welcome the crowd and engage them in lively banter.

A quick study on any topic, his statistical training and memory for detail came into play when he memorized the probability table for a 5-deck Blackjack shoe, enabling him to beat the house on a regular basis. This resulted in a level of profits that more than paid for his visits to casinos in Las Vegas and Foxwoods, Connecticut with his wife and friends.

Although he had many professional achievements during his many years in business, in my opinion his Lifetime Achievement Award would be granted in the category of Loving Family Man. His wife, children, children-in-law, and grandchildren would testify that the blessings of love that they received from him will be carried forward into the generations. We love you, Grandad. Thanks for all the love and wonderful memories.

I help welcome Obama to London

2009-03-31T14:56:00.000-07:00

Scooping the London Times by Marjorie B. Harrison
St. John’s Wood, London 31 March, 2009

Hundreds of ex-pat Americans lined Grove End Road this evening to welcome their president to London for the G20 Summit. They were joined by curious passers-by and other members of the American School in London community in a throng of happy well-wishers who cheered and waved at the presidential motorcade.
A well-kept secret around the school was that Obama would be making an appearance there on the night of his arrival in London for the economic summit with other world leaders. Staff and students who knew of the visit several days in advance kept the news from leaking, even to their own parents.
I first became aware that something unusual was going on at the school when I arrived for a 3 pm meeting with my 15 year old daughter’s dean. I went to the school a bit early, and as I walked up the road I noticed signs that nearby resident parking had been suspended for “an event”. A silver minivan whooshed by, parked near the school, and many dark-suited, serious-looking men emerged as if from an overcrowded circus car. I noticed that some of the vehicles parked nearby had signs indicating they were canine police units. Clumps of metropolitan police offers milled near their vehicles, and as I glanced through the fence toward the playground, I noticed officers and bomb-sniffing dogs there, as well. I searched through my handbag for my school ID, and found that I did not have it with me. I phoned my daughter, who had not yet left our flat for the meeting, and asked her if she could dig it out of my other handbag. “There is something going on at school today” I reported. “I don’t think I’ll be able to get into school without my ID. There are an awful lot of security people around.” Although we had been away on a school trip all weekend, she had checked her email upon arriving home and knew what was afoot. “Oh yeah, it’s the Obama thing” she casually mentioned. I was stunned. It made perfect sense.
She couldn’t find my other handbag, so I decided to run home and get the ID myself. I also decided to change out of my exercise clothes into something a little more appropriate for a presidential visit. I returned with my daughter to the school, which was now crawling with security people on the inside. We had our meeting with the dean and left. There were a lot more people in the vicinity of the school.
Eventually the knots of onlookers coalesced into a queue. By half past six there must have been hundreds of people waiting patiently. The queue stretched up one side of the playground, around the corner, and around another corner and down that street. I recognized some of the parents who were walking in the vicinity. Everybody knew somebody who knew somebody who knew what was happening. The report was that Obama wouldn’t be arriving until 9 pm. I waited around for a while in front of the Hospital of St. John and St. Elizabeth, near St. John’s Hospice where I volunteer on Friday mornings. There were hospital and hospital visitors milling about, but the only crowd was in the queue for ticket-holders to the Obama event. I decided to go home for supper .
Around 8:40 I headed out again. As I crossed the famous pedestrian crossing on Abbey Road to get to the school, I could hear the choppers overhead. In the darkness it was still clear that they were military helicopters and not TV news or traffic choppers. I had heard that there are always multiple helicopters that act as decoys, so knew that Mr. Obama was on his way to the US Ambassador’s residence in Regent’s Park.
Upon arriving back in front of the hospital, I noticed that the queue of ticket-holders had all been processed through security and had entered the school. The police presence appeared to be much smaller. There were now several hundred people lining both sides of Grove End Road. People talked excitedly to perfect strangers. Families had brought their children. The accents were predominantly American, but there were also Canadians and many other nationalities in evidence, as is usual in the American School community and in St. John’s Wood as a whole. There was much discussion as to the route the motorcade would take, or whether Mr. Obama would arrive by helicopter and touch down in the playground, as Med-Evac helicopters have been known to do in the past.
The police presence became more visible. Bobbies began moving people back behind the rows of parked cars. Our nearest policeman was chatty and friendly, saying he wouldn’t be told exactly when the motorcade would be coming. One of the other policemen asked members of the crowd “if it would be possible” for us to move back a little further. I decided not to get snarky with him and say that it would be possible, but not probable. Our nearest policeman asked us to move back “so that we would not get hurt” by the cars that were trying to make their way down Grove End Road, as they had not yet cut off the flow of traffic.
Several cars went by with people headed toward the nearby synagogue for evening services. One car stopped and a man asked me where to park. “For what event?” I asked. He seemed as confused by my question as I was by his. I finally guessed that he was looking for synagogue parking, and directed him further down. Other drivers slowed and wanted to know what was happening. A middle-aged, graying man in a gray, middle-aged man’s open-topped convertible drove past slowly, looking confused. “We are waiting for Obama, not for you!” I chided.
Finally, we heard the tweet-tweet of multiple police whistles. “Here he comes now” our Bobby informed us “you can tell by the whistles”. Within two seconds, a succession of motorcycles with blinding blue strobe lights whizzed past at an enormous rate of speed. Our Bobby was right; we would have gotten hurt if he hadn’t be there to block our access to the road. They appeared out of nowhere. Next, several large black vehicles appeared. The crowd began to cheer. There must have been five or six cars, also travelling very very fast, and just on the other side of our nice police officer. We were only three or four feet from the motorcade. It was travelling so fast, and our policeman was so near, that it was hard to see much. I held out my American flag with peace symbol in the blue field. I shipped here in August as part of my 21 boxes of personal effects that I could not live in London without. I never dreamed I would wave it at the Presidential motorcade.
It was all over in a flash, perhaps twenty seconds. One of the cars, I’m not sure which, contained my President. It is probably the closest I will ever get to him or any other world leader. The dark glass combined with the flashing strobes and the night arrival meant that I could not see any of the occupants of the vehicles except for the men sitting facing rearward in the opened back hatch of a vehicle. They must have been in the car immediately preceding the President’s. They all turned the corner and disappeared from view as a large police van blocked that road off again.
It took longer for the excited onlookers to discuss and dissect the experience than it did for the motorcade to drive up from Regent’s Park. Finally we all began to drift off, but not after discussing with each other which route the motorcade was likely to take when it left the school in about twenty minutes. I chatted with a family who had been standing next to me, and made some new friends. It turned out that their daughter knows mine, and that their lockers are directly adjacent.
As I passed the hospital driveway, I noticed another couple chatting with a woman. She was asking a lot of questions about why Obama was coming to the school, and without realizing who she was I began chat with her and answer some of her questions. After a few minutes, I noticed she was writing on a steno pad in shorthand. “Are you from the media?” I asked. Yes, she was a writer with the London Times. She kept asking questions phrased in a way that made me realize that she thought that Obama was still on his way. I told her that the motorcade had already come and gone and that she had missed the whole thing.
So, if you read an article in tomorrow’s London Times that makes it seem like Laura Dixon was there when Obama's motorcade went by, it’s not really true. And if she recounts “eyewitness reports”, you’ll know where some of that information came from. I fervently hope that I am not mis-quoted!

I am proud to be an American abroad as my president strives to reach concensus with the 19 other summit members to rebuild our economic infrastructure. As someone who is married to an experienced auditor and risk manager who deals with these issues on a daily basis, I hope that proper regulation of the existing market system AND a restructuring where necessary will be the solutions that help us rebuild our economies and provide economic security and political stability for all the citizens of the world. Welcome to London and your first G-20 summit, Mr. President!

Top Ten signs you're in Istanbul

2009-03-31T03:50:00.000-07:00

Having learned to take pictures of unique signs from the master Mary Ann on our knitter's trip with Barbara, I thought I'd post a few that I took while in Istanbul.

The top ten signs you're in Istanbul:

Number 10: Pizza Hut is delivered by a Turkish guy on a motorcycle

Number 9: There is a Presidency of Religious Affairs to tell you how to behave in the mosque.
Sign reads:
TO THE VISITORS ATTENTION:
1. Please remove your shoes and place them in the shelf or put them in a bag.
2. The ladies should wear a scarf and a long skirt.
3. The gentlemen should be in trousers not in shorts
4. Should not speak aloud inside the mosque
5. Photograph should not be taken diring the prayers
6. Should wait at the rear until the prayers end
7. Should not go beyond the area allocated for visitors
8. For any information contact to the mosque personel
Thank you
The Presidency of Religious Affairs

Number 8: The underground reservoir was built in the 6th century AD and is considered a "vitalized example of universal cultural heritage".

Number 7: Domino's will deliver your pizza in a mailbox driven by a Turkish guy on a motorcycle.

Number 6: Bras are displayed in bags on the street, no on mannequins in the store.

Number 5: Restaurant specialties include "Ottoman Roasting" and "Shepherd Roasting"

Number 4: Street vendors sell roasted chestnuts and corn on the cob

Number 3: The only people in the El Torito on the main street are Turkish guys.

Number 2: The graffiti is unintelligible in two languages. Cartoon donkey says " I carry books since years but could not stop to be a donkey."

Number 1: Obama's image is used to sell guaranteed-interest-rate financial products. Oh, wait...

After Midnight

2009-03-08T04:04:00.000-07:00

Our full day in Bradford was a Friday. We figured out via map that we were only about a mile from the Texere warehouse, and it was all downhill. Despite this, it took us about two hours to get there.

We did not count on Barbara's being sucked into a jewelry store to do her "Christmas Shopping" (in Feb) for her daughters. Beautiful silver and amber jewelry caught her eye in the window of a shop, and in we all went, and stayed for at least 45 minutes. Mary Ann warned me that this might be the beginning of a pattern.

Our next stop was Bradford Cathedral. We had to circumnavigate a large hole in the ground in the center of the city, which is their version of Boston's Big Dig. A large complex of shops and offices will be built and is intended to revitalize/transform the city. Good luck in this economy!

Once we were in the Cathedral, it took us some time to locate the object of our quest, which was stained glass designed by William Morris. Once located, we sat on a bench and gazed at the glaze. I much preferred all of the other stained glass panels, NOT by Mr. Morris, and took many photos.

We each bought some cards at the church "bookshop". Purchases were made on the honour system, with coins being dropped into one of various slots ("cards and books", "candles", "restoration" etc.) No one was on hand to sell the goods or guard the take.

We made our way back out to the main street and up a little hill, and soon saw the Texere Warehouse. We were welcomed by the various workers, and shown the "retail" section, which had a small assortment of fancy yarns and walls of spools of silk threads, cords, gimp, etc. as well as a wall of books. Mary Ann and Barbara got waylaid there, whilst I set out to explore the two floors of the warehouse. This contained aisles and aisles of yarn skeins and cones of every fibre, thickness and colour. Cotton, silk, wool, mohair, chenille, and more filled the ground floor, with the floor above containing more of the same, plus spools of fine embroidery and needlepoint threads in cotton, silk, viscose, and more. In addition, there was rug yarn, rug canvas, needlepoint canvas, and thread. Paradise for the fiber artiste! I purchased a few "locker-hooks" for rug hooking, and frame for needlework, which can be used for needlepoint or rug hooking. It will make my self-designed hooked rug of a botanical print of "muskat-nusse" (nutmeg) much easier to construct.

We tried to visit "Little Germany", a neighborhood well-marked on the historical maps, but found no evidence of anything other than buildings that looked a lot like all the other Victorian- and Edwardian-era buildings. As it was a "brisk" day, we stopped in a little place called "Yo-Yo" for a hot lunch. The woman who served us came over to see our haul and projects, and was amazed to hear that the place they had been purchased was just up the hill one street.

On our way back we stopped at the Marks and Spencer food hall for wine and cheese, and Barbara also herded us into a shoe and luggage store, where she scored a fine rolling carry-on sized suitcase to hold all her purchases.

By the time we climbed the hill back to the New Beehive Inn, we were exhausted. We tried to blog from the wireless connection in the pub, but were unsuccessful. Therefore, we repaired to our family room, flushed once, and settled in for the evening with our wine, cheese, crackers, and fruit. Mary Ann conked out at about eight pm, while B. and I watched the telly for a while. At some point around ten, I turned out the light. If only there had been a clue as to the ruckus that would ensue, I would have slept right after "dinner".

We estimated that our room was above the billiards room. We knew it was a Friday night, and that there would be people in the pub and playing "snooker". I was counting on the fact that most pubs close around eleven pm, and we'd be able to slumber in peace after that. The sound of the piped-in music just below us, and the laughter of the party-goers was really not that annoying. I had seen a "Boots-the Chemist" shop across the street from M & S, but didn't think I'd need to purchase ear plugs. I regretted that decision.

Some time after eleven pm, the live music started. I'm not sure if it was right below us, or in the "music room", which was next to the pub on the other side of the ground floor. The THUMP THUMP of the bass and the screeching of the female vocalist became increasingly annoying. They MUST be stopping at midnight, I thought. Now, I like a live rock band more than most people from the 70's, but I couldn't believe that the proprietor of the New Beehive Inn had neglected to mention to us that Friday night was LIVE MUSIC night and that we'd be right over the band. I somehow managed to doze off, but dreamed a bizarre dream about moving into an old house and finding that the previous tenants had left behind a sub-woofer in the walls THAT COULDN'T BE TURNED OFF. Hubster and I had to open closet after closet to find the secret panel that held the giant bass speakers. I awakened again after this dream, and tossed and turned until about 2 am, when the band finally stopped playing. What a nightmare!

Our trip to York on the train the next day is a complete blur. I think I made the trip with Mary Ann and Barbara, as we all checked into the next hotel together. The Galtres Lodge on Low Petergate in York was to be our home for the next two nights. We each had our own separate room; MA and B had their own en suite toilet facilities, whilst mine was just down the hall. Bliss!

Super-Freak Accident

2009-03-03T14:57:00.000-08:00

There I was, walking down Hall Road, minding my own business, when I tripped.
Actually, what happened was that I stubbed my toe on an infinitisimal, imperceptable difference in height between two pavement sections.

I was returning to my home from MomA's house after a pleasant mid-day interlude of knitting and chatting over tea. I had just phoned TeenE to let her know I was on my way home and was still holding my phone in one hand. I passed two women who were having what appeared to be a heated discussion, with gestures and arm-waving and slightly raised voices that are unusual in this part of town. Some of my attention was on them after I passed, i.e. slightly to the back of me. Another part of my attention was in front of me, as there was some roadwork being done just ahead and the sidewalk (pavement) was blocked off. I was in the middle of trying to decide what route I would take to cross the street when BAM! I stubbed my toe, flew forward face down, and reflexively put my arms out to break my fall. I wound up face down on the pavement, sprawled out and feeling very foolish. The nearby road workers exclaimed with surprise as I went down, and the two women were at my side immediately.

It is a good thing that I have been working out at the gym, doing all those press-ups, I must say. If I hadn't built up my arm strength, I think that I would have been seriously injured. As it was, the most painful parts of my body at the time were the palms of my hands. Although they burned with pain, there was no scraping of the skin. The women both cried "Are you alright?" in unison. I assured them I was fine, pushed myself up into a sitting position, and decided to sit there for a moment to gather my wits. They were perturbed that I was not springing up immediately. I told them that the only painful thing was my hands, and one of them said "You can't even sue the Council, as there is no crack in the pavement". I told them I had just stubbed my toe on a seam, even though I was wearing flat sensible shoes. I eventually got up, shook myself off, and was handed my mobile phone by lady #2, who had found and replaced the battery that had popped out when it landed nearby.

My pride was the most injured thing at the moment. I decided to go to Starbucks to pick up a coffee for me and a chai latte for TeenE. After I returned to the flat with the beverages, I discovered that one knee was skinned, although the tights I was wearing under my skirt were completely intact although blood-stained. When Hubster got home, I got him to massage my left bicep, which hurt so much that I couldn't knit.

I felt a little sore later that day and took some Ibuprofen, thinking that would be the last of it.
The next morning I woke up with a stiff neck, back, arms, hands and knees. By that evening, I realized that I had honest-to-goodness whiplash, which lasted over a week and kept me from sleeping comfortably on the whole Knitter's Roadtrip. Being away from home, I did not have access to a microwaveable heat pack for the neck and back. Today, just over a week later, I woke up for the first time and was able to move my neck and upper back without pain.

I wish I had moral to this story or some sort of witty remark, but as NYSis says, "It is what it is".

The One After 9:09

2009-03-03T08:57:00.000-08:00

Which train will we be on? The title above attempts to convey our confused answer to that question.

Our trip from Llanfair Caereinion, Welshpool, Powys, Wales, to Bradford, Yorkshire, England, took us four hours and four train changes. Just keeping track of the various tickets and seat reservation coupons was a challenge.

We did a little shopping in the stores at the train station in Welshpool. I scored two packages of hosiery ("tights" in the UK), three pairs of tights in each package for 3 pounds. 1 pound per pair of tights was a price that one would never see in London. Just doing our bit to keep the local economy going...

We waited on a chilly platform in Welshpool for about twenty minutes, after having hauled our heavy rolling bags up a looooong ramp and over a foot bridge across to the correct side of the train tracks. Our train ride was only a minute or two longer than our wait on the platform. Barbara thought perhaps since we were crossing a border, she might need her passport, but Mary Ann and I knew otherwise.

Once back in Shrewsbury, back over the border with England, we had about twenty minutes before our next train arrived. This took us to Manchester, England, where we had another twenty minute layover. This amount of time allowed us to use the public toilets (30p to pee), buy some pastries, and watch the local police force being photographed for their outstanding something or other. As the government just passed a law that makes it illegal to photograph the police or army when they are doing their duty, I thought that Mary Ann might be arrested by her very subjects, but they left us alone. Of course, we're on every CCTV security camera in the station, so if they really want to find us, they can.

The third leg of the trip took us from Manchester to Leeds. Once again we enjoyed reserved seating at a table, so that we could face each other and put our knitting supplies out on the table. Mary Ann finished her Glitter Wristlets, Barbara worked on her Wormy Apple scarf, and I made some good progress on Nana's Sweater.

Once in Leeds we were supposed to have fifteen minutes until the next train to Bradford, but they leave every twenty minutes so there was one waiting right on the other side of the platform, so we hopped on board. No reserved seats were available as it it is a "commuter" type train, so Barbara and I stood with the luggage while Mary Ann scored the last seat. Once in Bradford, we quickly found the taxi "rank". The first turbaned taxi driver said he couldn't take us as his "boot" was not big enough and our luggage was too large. The next driver in the queue was happy to help us. His headgear consisted of a crocheted cap. He was very concerned about us when he heard that our destination was The New Beehive Inn. Why weren't we staying in a "real" hotel, he wanted to know?

The New Beehive Inn was a Victorian-era pub with working gas-lights in the ground floor rooms, which consisted of a breakfast room, a billiards room, a pub, and a "music room". There was a cozy fire in the fireplace in the pub, so we had a half-pint before retiring upstairs to our "family" style room, which consisted of a double bed and two single beds, and an en-suite bathroom with shower. Each room had a placque on the door labelling it with a yarn or spinning term. Our room was "Weaving". There were also "Carding", "Dyeing", "Slubbing", "Warping" and "Wefting". Our room was clean and lovely. Our room was comfortably warm, and enjoyed a fine view of the mosque.

The astute reader will realize that we were in the location that spawned the home-grown terrorists who were behind the London bus bombings of July 2007. Why on earth were we there, another set of guests wanted to know? They only came because they had been invited to a wedding. We were there to visit the Texere yarn Warehouse, home of Freedom Spirit yarn, and two floors of yarn of every description. See their website at www.texere.com for the complete listing.

In this hotel, the plumbing only dated back about a hundred years. We were challenged by the workings of our toilet, which took so long for the tank to refill that one could only flush it once an hour. Flushings had to be pre-discussed and pre-planned, as in "I'm going to use the toilet but I'm not going to flush, so beware". We would flush it before leaving the room, whether it needed it or not.

We enjoyed a "supper" of wine, cheese, crackers and fruit in our room, before knitting, watching telly, and retiring for the night.

Train in Vain

2009-02-26T09:46:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-24T13:57:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-22T16:26:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-22T05:05:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-18T04:03:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-14T14:56:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-13T16:35:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-08T10:20:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-02T08:14:00.000-08:00

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”.

Niece's timely arrival

2009-01-24T12:49:00.000-08:00

Our niece "C" arrived early on a Thursday morning a week ago. Her flight was on time and she had an easy time at Terminal 5. She called at 6:15 am to say that she was on the Heathrow to Paddington Express.

I had promised to meet her there, so I had slept in my clothes in order to get out the door more quickly. I ran out of the flat and over to Hall Road to get the 187 bus that goes right to Paddington. As I approached the corner, I saw a #46 running along the route, so was heartened that the bus was running. Then I waited about 5 minutes for a 187. A taxi went past and looked at me enquiringly. No, I nodded my head, I did not need him. Then, I thought, I'd better look at the bus schedule posted near the bus shelter. Sure enough, the 187 didn't start until 7 am. I ran back over to Abbey Road and immediately caught a cab over to Paddington, a short 5 minute ride away.

Niece-C's train was not yet at the station, so I hung around a bit. There was not much action near the Heathrow Express area, but lots of commuters arriving from the suburban hinterlands served by Paddington. I went back to the taxi area, and there was Niece-C waiting for me underneath a HUGE backpack. I hardly recognized her.

We hopped into a cab and were back at the flat shortly after 7 am. I put her to bed in the guest accomodations (a cot in the living room) and went out to my "Stitchery" group that meets every Thursday. When I got back at 1 pm, I woke her and we went out for a stroll around the neighborhood, then down to Oxford Street so she could get the lay of the land.

Every day I get her up a little earlier so she can get on the right time while she is here. She is on her way to a semester in Jordan (studying International Relations). She was supposed to go via Jerusalem, but decided along with her parents that this was not a great time to visit that area.

We have been having a great time. She motivates me to get out to the gym more often than I would normally, and the other day we took the guided tour of Westminster together. She went down to Brighton to see some Univ. friends last week, then came back for a night before going off to Paris for a long weekend. Then, on Son's 21st birthday, she'll be off to Jordan and we won't see her until our trip to Massachusetts next June.

Purple Haze

2009-01-12T15:02:00.001-08:00

Some of you may be wondering: What's with the purple background and new font colors?

Blogmama received several requests from people who found the white type on black background too difficult to read.

As I am going through a magenta phase (I now sport a magenta patent leather handbag) I thought this might work as a replacement. Let me know.

Sunrise, Sunset

2009-01-12T06:02:00.000-08:00

The song "Sunrise, Sunset" from A Fiddler on the Roof is about the feelings parents have when they see their daughter has grown up and is ready for a new stage of life. When someone writes Assisted Living: The Musical and it makes its Broadway debut, there should be a song or two about what it feels like to see your parents' health and well-being decline to the point that they need full-time care of their bodies and minds.

This, then, would be the soundtrack for my recent visit to Florida. "Oh, you went to Florida. How nice!" people say, perhaps a little envious that I traded the frozen north of New England or the gray dampness of London for the sub-tropical splendor of South Florida. "Yes, I went to see my parents." I reply. "Oh, how nice!" comes the next conversational gambit. There is really no way to describe seeing your mother with the short-term memory of a three-year old, although her body remains vigorous, or your father, the WWII Warrior and Man of Action, now confined to a wheelchair and dependent on the kindness of aides for his every movement, including those of the bowel.

Their 2 bedroom apartment is kept at 79 degrees F, with the A/C on auto, so in the winter, when the outside air temperature is lower than that, the air conditioning will not come on, and the house becomes stifling hot. Being someone who is now prone to night sweats, this is not a good scene. Also, the bedrooms are first on the air duct route, and the sunporch area, which contains the "guest" daybed, is last. Convincing them to allow one to switch the A/C to constant fan at night is a feat reserved for only the most hardened debator.

Dad has developed a way of coping with the feeling of helplessness. As his aide wheels him to the breakfast table, he announces "A Descendent of the Roman Emperor Arriving In His Chariot". I took to adding a little trumpet flourish bleated through my cupped hand each time he arrived. The various aides were variously amused.

One day I took Mom over to the supermarket for a little food shopping. Another morning I cleaned out the fridge of all expired or suspicious-looking food. One afternoon I rifled through the pantry, consolidating all nine of the unopened bottles of salad dressing, for example, on one shelf (the same thing gets bought whether it is on the list or not), the boxes of teabags, etc.

I arrived on New Year's Day, so that there were football games on television. Luckily I had brought lots of knitting projects with me. Other programs watched were FOX news and the weather channel. Each and every time a commercial comes on, the TV is muted so that "we don't have to hear that stupid thing". Most times, the program resumes before the remote-control person realizes it and so the first 30 seconds of each watchable segment is aired without its audio. Sometimes, the person gets it right away, other times, the wrong button is pushed and the channel is changed or the scrolling menu is brought up. It is best not to get too invested in the outcome of any program as there is no guarantee that even a half hour show will be seen in its entirety without changing to check the weather or the stock market or the FOXy news.

When Israel decided to change its tactics from air to ground forces, we were then subjected to All-Gaza All The Time. Normally the sight of war machines rolling and countries attacking and retaliating and bombing and killing each other's citizens is something I cannot stand to watch. There was really no alternative, since I had inadvertantly killed their computer, so I continued to sit and knit. I decided it's much easier to be an armchair bourgeois pacifist if it is NOT your own country that is being attacked.

Another day I took Mom to Macy's so she could buy a new outfit. She decided on a shirt. It had to meet certain specifications, such as button-front (over-the-head too difficult), short sleeves of a certain length (to hide crepe-y arm flab - her words, not mine) and only certain colors and styles. While she decided on the shirt I tried on seven things and bought three of them.

One morning I wheeled Dad in his wheelchair "around the lake", which takes about fifteen minutes, and then over to the rose garden. Even though it was only 9:30 in the morning, the heat was enough to get me winded after only one lap. Dad enjoyed pointing out the more garish Christmas decorations, which reminded me of when I was younger. We would drive around the neighborhood and "tut-tut" at the houses which were "lit up like a bar-and-grill". Once they moved to Florida thirty years ago we would drive around and look at the palm trees festooned with lights and the pink or turquoise fake trees inside people's houses.

On our rolling tour Dad wanted to share his particular favorite holiday decoration. It was a giant inflatable pirate ship being piloted by Santa which he called "Sailbad the Sinner". This was one of those contraptions which is made of parachute nylon and uses a hair-dryer motor to inflate itself. This particular specimen was about six feet tall and eight feet long. The pirate ship is crewed by a bunch of reindeer: one has an eye patch, one is fishing off the bow, and another pops up from the crow's nest intermittantly and peers through binoculars at the passers-by. This crazy show totally eclipsed the next-door neighbor's rooftop display, which was of Santa arriving by inflatable helicopter, with actual spinning inflatable rotors.

All of this ticky-tacky, including fake evergreen wreaths on every other front door, was set amidst gorgeous tropical gardens with flowering shrubs, flowering trees, and beds of annual and perrenial plants. Bougainvillea, impatiens and roses in fuschia and magenta blossoms jockeyed for position with banana trees hanging with unripe fruit, rampant crimson coleus, hibiscus, and gardenia bushes the size of a volkswagen. Over all of this reigned the floss-silk tree, (Ceibia speciosa) whose bark looks like a wrinkly elephant covered with a pox of thorns on steroids. Some of this tree's flowers were still clinging to the bare-of-leaves branches, while others had fallen on to the short-shorn lawn like discarded tissues. Close examination of the blossoms revealed silken white petals with one white stamen tipped a gorgeous fuschia, as if it had somehow brushed up against the bougainvillea and been permanently stained for its sin of lust.

Our perambulation took us past the exotic waterfowl pond, where we saw Mama Asian Goose sitting on her nest with Papa Asian Goose standing watchfully by. No activity emanated from the nest, although Mama preened and repositioned herself among the invisible eggs. It was a poignent reminder of the circle of life, as Dad and Mom have reached the sunset of their own lives at on Lakeside Circle.

I flew back to Boston on January 5th and returned to the bosom of the knitting group for one more day...

Boston Bound

2008-12-28T18:27:00.000-08:00

During Christmas-time 2008, the extended "H" family gathered in New England. BlogMama, Hubster and TeenE boarded a plane at Heathrow (see previous entry). Son revved up the 1998 Chevy Venture minivan formerly owned by his mother, and sped northward from the Carolinas. After a brief stop in Belmont at the home of Dr. Erica, we all rendezvoused in Manchester, NH, at the home of my in-laws Nana and Granddad, in Hubster’s childhood home.

We were preceded by a gigantic ice storm, the likes of which New Hampshire had never seen before. Nana and Granddad themselves had had to evacuate to a hotel as they had neither heat nor hot water in the sub-freezing weather. I have subsequently heard reports that other people were without power for up to eleven days. Crews worked around the clock to restore power throughout the region. By the time we arrived, power had been restored and N and G were back in residence.

We awoke in the am to find that Santa had left a few things under the tree. He imported a few things from London, in the form of a magenta lambswool scarf-boa (me), a magenta cashmere vest (me), Roman roof tiles (Hubster, Son and Granddad), a hand-knit red beaded shawl (Nana), London, The Biography (Granddad) and a Beatles wallet (son). TeenE also received her requested Ugg-type boots and Son his requested electronic pre-amp for his bass guitar (cuts down on feedback, I’m told).

The plan for Christmas luncheon was for Hubster’s sister and her husband, aka NH-Sis and NH-Bro-i-L t, along with their girls cuzzins Nejjy and Sejjy, to host the clan at their spacious residence in nearby Bedford, NH. Other Brother UncaTom and his wife AuntTom were also to attend, along with NH-BroiL’s mother, bringing the total to thirteen. Before noon we piled into two vehicles and set out for Bedford, but not before Nana stayed behind with the dryer while it finished Son’s load of laundry. (See posting from Sept. to determine why she will not leave the house with dryer running).

As we entered the family room at the NH-Sis and NH-Broil’s lovely colonial home, we felt the warmth of a fire in the fireplace. As we removed our boots, we glanced into the open door of the attached garage, and were surprised to see two banquet tables all laid out with Christmas place-settings and wineglasses. The crowd of thirteen had been deemed too large to fit in the dining room, and with the youngest among us now 14, a “kid’s table” in the adjacent living room was deemed unseemly.
Please bear in mind that this is the cleanest garage you will ever see. Not a speck of dust or dirt was evident. It was as if NH-BroiL had sterilized it somehow. Beige area rugs covered the floor, the walls were a pristine white, not a shred of anything cluttered the walls. The only other furnishings were a folding table serving as a wine bar, and a seating area for two over in one corner. Two space heaters with fans kept us at room, or should I say, garage temperature.
After enjoying festive drinks and hors d-oevres in the living room, we lined up in the kitchen to fill our plates with roast crown of pork, potatoes, gravy, homemade applesauce, green beans, etc., and then repaired to the garage, er, banquet hall, to enjoy the feast. A dessert of pecan pie or pumpkin chiffon pie (or a sliver of each) topped off the meal. It almost took a forklift to get everyone back into the main house afterwards.

I was joined at the sink by NH-BroiL’s mother, who wiped as I washed. We put away the leftovers, loaded the dishwasher, and washed everything that didn’t fit . After that, still jet-lagged, we were ready to go back to our various beds/sofas at Nana and Granddad’s.

I hope that Christmas in the Garage continues as an “H” family tradition. It certainly made this year memorable!
.

Sick Again (another Led Zep title for the uninitiated)

2008-12-18T15:37:00.000-08:00

Hubster had been sick with the "Hucghhhhhk" (so named by comedian Billy Crystal), which is what we call the sore throat and cough virus that has been making the rounds here. He even stayed home from work for a whole day, which is almost unheard of. I warned TeenE that she had better get a flu shot well before the production week of the play, which she did. We found out a week later that the particlar germ involved in producing the "Hucghhhhhhk" was NOT, in fact, covered by this year's influenza vaccine, or last year's, even. On that Friday, there was no school due to a teacher's conference day. I went for my second-ever shift as a volunteer at the local hospice. When I left the flat at 10:30 am she had not yet been seen. When I arrived home at 1:45 pm there was no sign of life, so I knocked on her door. No answer, or was that a faint moan? I peeked in, and all I could see was a lump under the duvet. Dr. Mom was in the house. I brought tea. She had already taken Ibuprofen.

Sadly, the timing of the arrival of the "Hucghhhhhk" coincided with some important social plans TeenE had made. These plans had to be cancelled. She rallied miraculously on Saturday, however, just in time to sing at the concert the school was giving for area OAP's (Old Age Pensioners). Her miraculous healing also allowed her to attend a birthday party. I walked her and her friend TeenH up Finchley road about 1/4 mile in the pouring rain. "Do you HAVE to come? We know the way!" was the hue and cry that night. Yes, I did, I insisted. My job was to make sure that there was an adult home. I was assuaged when the Dad opened the door, and I made my way back to the flat in an extremely soggy condition.

On Sunday I was sorry. I now had the "Hucghhhhhk", despite having gone for my own flu shot the previous Wednesday. I slept until 2 pm. I realized that I was not going to be able to attend TeenE's choral concert that her school was presenting as a benefit for the soup kitchen affiliated with the American Church in London. And TeenE had a solo, too. I spent a very, very sorry afternoon and evening on the sofa, too tired to blog or even knit. Hubster reported that the concert was wonderful and that TeenE did a marvelous job with her solo. They were driven home by MomT from across the street. I think their trip was something like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. "Red Light!" Hubster is reported to have shouted at least once. I saw MomT a few days later and she asked if Hubster had told me about their ride home.

I was up and about again by Tuesday, rallying just in time for the festive Christmas Luncheon at the Landmark Hotel with 100 other members of the St. John's Wood Women's Club. The Landmark is a Victorian-era behemoth with high, conservatory-style glass ceiling in the heart of the Paddington neighborhood. The champagne reception started at 11:30, followed by a three-course lunch with wine. That crew sure likes to eat and drink. As long as they keep offering the walks, we'll be OK. I am happy to report that more than one scale (which may or may not be in need of recalibration) shows a net weight loss of ONE whole kilogram, (equal to 2.2 lbs.), several pairs of trousers no longer need to be unfastened to effect their removal. Hips and thighs have given way to massive quads and toned calves, or so I like to think. Perhaps some shopping will be in my future when we are in the US for Christmas. Door prizes were given at the lunch, and my name was called. I had to choose from two wrapped packages on my table. One was shaped exactly like a gift box for a bottle of wine, while the other was smaller and flatter. I went for the smaller one, hoping for chocolates. Instead, I was delighted to find a small hand-bound leather notebook, just the right size for jotting down blog-related notes. A perfect note on which to end a delightful afternoon. I tottered up the road and got onto the bus, arriving at A Flat on Abbey Road in under fifteen minutes.

A Muddy Heath Hike

2008-12-18T15:20:00.000-08:00

The early December day dawned clear when the first light broke around 8 am. I got up early to seize the day, and to join some of the dedicated walking women of the St. John’s Wood Women’s Club. Our goal was to hike around the open heathland in the north of London known as Hampstead Heath for a few hours and then repair to a pub for lunch.

We were advised to wear sturdy walking shoes, and to bring plastic bags to put over our shoes when we entered the pub in the event of muddy conditions on the heath. It had not rained for a several days so I was confident that the going would be smooth. The morning mist had risen by the time I made my way down in the clankity antique gated elevator and hit Abbey Road running. I had taken a little too much time adjusting the insoles of the walking shoes and knew I’d have to run for the number 46 bus that would take me ten minutes up the road to Hampstead. Sure enough, as I rounded the corner onto Circus Road (my new favorite “back” way to the “Hi” Street) I could see a #46 bus charging across the intersection towards the nearest stop. I put on a burst of speed, ran to the stop, and flagged down the bus as I ran. The correct way of flagging down a bus is to wave one’s little plastic card-holder that holds the electronic bus pass. I must have been quite a sight flapping down the pavement. This was the last possible bus I could catch in order to make the rendezvous point in time.

I looked around and didn’t see any other riders that might fit the description of over-forty American walker. At the next stop, however, three chatty American moms boarded and I gave them a little wave. Phew! The group waiting up at the Hampstead Underground stop would certainly have to wait for the four of us.

There was a group of women standing outside of the Underground entrance. In fact, they were thoroughly blocking the entrance AND preventing passers-by from using the sidewalk (pavement). This is a well-known American thing to do (see previous post on London City Garden tour), so I knew I was in the right place. The parade marshall ticked off our names on her list as we waited for two women across the street to get the green light so they could cross. It was the other woman with the same surname as me, and her 70-ish mother, visiting from the Boston area. One of the ladies activated her GPS so we could track mileage, and we were herded around the corner onto Flask Walk. After a brief orientation to that corner of Hampstead, off we went at a brisk pace toward one of the paths that lead into the Heath.

Family members, especially TeenE and Hubster, know that I like to walk fast. They are always asking me to slow down, and saying things like “Why do you have to walk so fast?!” Answer: Because that’s the way I walk. I blame this on having grown up in the greater New York City area, where if you don’t walk aggressively fast you will never make it through the crowds. This crowd of middle-aged women, however, went markedly faster than my usual pace. I would have been consistently left in their dust had there been any dry soil in evidence. Despite the dry weather, there were patches of mud that ranged from slightly damp to boggy muck and on to a veritable quagmire. The leather walking shoes were taking a beating. I should have worn the new boots. Oh Wellies.

We crossed and re-crossed every possible path on the Heath. Starting at Downshire Hill, we went northeast to the Vale of Heath and the swans on the pond there, back toward the center, over to the northeast again, crossed Spaniard’s road, made our way through Sandy Heath. This is a lovely wood filled with chestnut and beech trees. The wet copper-gilt leaves carpeted the undulating terrain. Steep mounds of sand left by a melting glacier eons ago are now populated with mature trees in what could be a faerie wood. Yet on we marched, driven on by our relentless leader, who seemed bent on showing us every possible pub at every possible corner of the Heath. From Sandy Heath we crossed onto the East Heath Extension and then across North End Road. I realized that I was literally around the corner from my old 1978 address at 849 Finchley Road. We paused to look at a beautiful small building that used to be a school, then back into the Heath via Hogarth Way, or Drive, or House. Every house on that street claims to have been lived in by the artist Hogarth. I’m pretty sure we retraced our steps back through Sandy Heath, then we were off past another historic building INSIDE the Heath borders, and over to The Pergola, a huge trellised garden with autumn plants of every description still in bloom despite the mid-December date. Our pace was such that if one stopped to take even one photo you would become hopelessly left behind.

The old Girl Scout hiking adage “Slowpokes in the front” as voiced ad nauseum by older sister NYSis was to no avail. They were pressing on so determinedly that the slowpokes never had a chance to GET to the front. And right up there with them was the other Mrs. H. and her Mother.

And we’re off again, this time to Kenwood House at the northern edge of the main Heath. This is a white Georgian-fronted building currently housing an art museum. Fans of “Notting Hill” may remember that Julia Robert’s character was being filmed in a costume drama in front of this very façade. Finally, we stopped so that many of the middle-aged women could use the loo. Not me. I was so parched from the pace we had been keeping that all I could think about was finding a bottle of water, but I didn’t want to get separated from the group, so I prayed that we would come in for a landing at our destination pub soon.

Our next leg was over to the Highgate side of the Heath. Coming down a hill we ran into a patch where the frost on the grass had frozen solid over four inches of rutted mud. It was a good thing that this area had not yet thawed. Soon we were where the “bathing ponds” are. At least they are identified as such on every map. I always assumed that the names of the ponds were an anachronism. My previous trips through the Heath, both in 1978 and 2006 had never revealed the pond’s real nature to me. Yes, they really are still used as “bathing” ponds. The Women’s Bathing Pond is reserved for women and children. There are other bathing ponds for men and for mixed doubles, I assume. They have changing rooms, loos, lifeguards, a diving board, etc. A sign informed us that due to the fact that there was ice on the surface of the women’s bathing pond, swimmers should use the mens’ or general facilities for today. A lifeguard came out of the office to chat with us. She said that there are some people who come for a dip every day of the year. The water temp was shown on the chalkboard to be 3 degrees centigrade. Ducks and geese floated around the far perimeter of the pond. In a tree nearby, a flock of green parakeets (just like the ones in the film The Wild Parakeets of Telegraph Hill, set in San Francisco, CA) raised a racket.

After a brief stop to inspect the diving platform, we were urged onward. This time the path took us up and over Parliament Hill, the highest spot in the greater London area, where city-dwellers have retreated in times of trouble, such as the Great London Fire of 1666. The whole expanse of the London skyline lays to the south. Scenes in “Notes on a Scandal” with Judy Dench and Kate Winslet chatting on a bench were filmed here. On we pressed, finally crossing through a hundred yards of wet, gloppy mud. Some of us had repeated scuffed through wet grass to remove the mud which had accumulated on our shoes. All of this effort was for naught as we schlepped through that last morass of moistness. Even the caked on mud got a good coating. Fortunately, no one slipped, as we had slowed our pace considerably.

We FINALLY came to a halt at the side of a busy road. The civilization was once more in sight, although we had never been further than a mile or so from it at any time on our “walk”. It was precisely 12:30, our target arrival time for lunch. We had walked 7 miles, including several stops. Those who were going to lunch repaired to The FreeMason’s Arms, where we quaffed pint of tapwater in preparation for the beers we were about to imbibe. We had preordered the food, which arrived soon. Once I caught my breath and the kidneys were working again, I enjoyed country pate on toast with cornichon pickles, followed by gnocchi with a pumpkin cream sauce, and finally a decadent chocolate gooey something that I absolutely could not finish. All this was consumed in the company of my 12 newest best friends. The talk was the usual chit-chat; kids, flats, neighbors (one lady lives next door to a man who has a screamer for a girlfriend, she has trouble explaining that to her kids: “Mommy, what is that noise? Why is she making that noise?”) They spent a reported 15,000 pounds soundproofing the common wall. Then, kids again, kids' illnesses, and discussions of the health care system and providers in general. Two women told me how wonderful their doctor is. “Let me guess!” I said.

I finally pried myself out of there at about half past two, and took the #46 bus back to A Flat on Abbey Road. My plan was to rest up for the next outing that evening, which shall be described separately.

The Play's the Thing

2008-12-15T05:16:00.000-08:00

TeenE has been spending most of her time in rehearsals for the American School in London’s high school theatre production. This year they are putting on “And Then They Came For Me: Remembering the Life of Anne Frank”. She is among the “company”, meaning she has a background part. We have had to purchase “character shoes”, fortunately on sale at Capezio in Soho, and a beige leotard. More on that later…

The play was written with the support of the Anne Frank foundation. Two Holocaust survivors who knew Anne were interviewed for the production. These interviews were presented as part of the production, projected on a backdrop. One of the survivors now lives in St. John’s Wood, London, and was involved heavily in this production. Eva Geiringer Schloss came to talk to the cast, giving background information for the actors’ portrayals of the main characters. After each performance, she took questions from the audience. As the director noted, our children’s generation will be the last to hear witness from those who lived through the Holocaust.

I wasn’t sure what to expect, but knew that the production would be emotionally challenging. I was right. I had purchased tickets for two of the performances, but was only able to sit through one. It was an extremely powerful presentation of how the lives of innocents were subsumed and annihilated by the evil of hatred. The play made clear the escalation of injustice and the scale of the atrocities inflicted on the Jews, gypsies, mentally ill, homosexuals, on a very personal level. Anne Franks’ friends Eva, whom we met, and Ed both had their families broken apart and spent time at Auschwitz. Eva was taken on her fifteenth birthday. This was made especially poignant as many of the cast members were that age. After the liberation of the camps, Eva was reunited with her mother, and with Anne Frank’s father Otto, who later became her stepfather. Eva, now 80, has, through the vehicle of this play, encouraged us to speak out against those who hate.

The most challenging scene in the play for me to watch was when the cast members, after being taken to Auschwitz by cattlecar, were led behind a backlit screen and made to strip by the Nazis. Only their silhouetted shadows could be seen as they stripped down to their beige leotards; it gave a very real illusion, and I could certainly recognize TeenE’s shape in the center of the screen. Later these same screens had images of the burning chimneys of the crematorium and the associated sounds of the ovens. I wound up huddled in a little ball in my seat, as if closing off my energy field could possibly protect me from the grief and horror of what was being depicted on stage. There was a horrified hush among the capacity crowd, and sounds of sniffles and sobs began.

At the end of the play, the playwright somehow brought us to the present, with Eva and Ed being shown on the screens as they neared age 80, and we felt hopeful for humanity again. But the fact that Anne Frank herself never left Auschwitz alive, never married, never had children or grandchildren, was made very clear.

Several cast members and their families are also cared for by the good Dr. D., so we invited him to the production as our guest. I was glad to have the additional moral support on Opening Night. Hubster had a “conference” with the guys after work so was unable to attend until Saturday night. After having witnessed this powerfully moving production, the parents and community were all impressed at the high quality of the production; it was not at all like the student production we were expecting. Kudos to the theatre department at ASL, especially Mr. Buck Heron, for putting on this important and moving production.

If you wish to find out more about the US-based organization Teaching Tolerance, which fights hate crimes and publishes a Teaching Tolerance curriculum for schools, visit http://www.tolerance.org/
Through them, I was able to support the Holocaust Memorial Museum when it was being built, and to dedicate a plaque in honor of my father, who along with hundreds of others in the army, was on hand to witness the liberation of one of the concentration camps.

Blessings to those who help us remember, and whose witnessing is a light shining in the darkness. Blessings also to those, who through their artistic talents, bring the message to the world.

Thanksgiving in London/TeenE sings at St. Paul's Cathedral

2008-12-13T08:25:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving: it is not just a verb about being in a grateful state of mind. To Americans, the word “Thanksgiving” conjures up thoughts of home, of time spent with family, of a “traditional” menu, and of course, of watching game after game of football.

Our first Thanksgiving in London had many traditional American elements, but was also endowed with a British accent. The three of us went to church, feasted on a traditional turkey dinner, watched TV, and took a walk. This description hardly does justice, however, to the Old World setting in which this all took place.

The grocery shopping for the Thanksgiving feast took a completely different form. In our hometown of Belmont, Massachusetts, the shopping would have started the week before the cooking got started. A large turkey would have been obtained. If frozen, it would be defrosted in the refrigerator starting on the Sunday before the holiday. A 14 to 20 pound bird takes at least three days to defrost. Wine would be obtained from the liquor store. Several trips to the supermarket would ensure that all the required elements were on hand. Undoubtedly, Hubster would make at least one last-minute run for whatever we had forgotten. All of this running around would be conducted in the ten-year-old red minivan. We would start cooking the night before. Wine would be chilled. The house would be cleaned for company. Pumpkin pies would be baked, if there would be room to store them overnight in the fridge. Perhaps the mashed potatoes or the sweet potato casserole would be prepared in advance. Even the “traditional” green bean casserole (made with cream-of-mushroom soup and festooned with crispy onion rings—did they Pilgrims have that on their menu?) could be prepared ahead. A last minute check would be made on the “cranberry sauce situation”. Some years we would have two kinds, both the jelly version that comes out in the shape of the can, and a chunky version that I make myself. I will never forget our first Thanksgiving as a married couple in 1986, when we hosted the meal in our tiny “married student apartment” at Dartmouth College in Hanover, NH. Hubster’s parents his sister (NHsis) and his youngest brother Tom drove up from their NH home 70 miles away, while my brother Bill took the Amtrak “Montrealer” train from NYC to White River Junction. That particular year I made a homemade cranberry-orange sauce, and it was utterly rejected by Tom. I’ve never made that mistake again. I also made a chestnut-based stuffing/dressing that was NOT a hit. Ever since, I’ve made the traditional Bahlke family Pepperidge Farm stuffing mix with crumbled sweet Italian sausage. Since Son became a vegetarian in 2005, I’ve made some stuffing with the sausage, and some without.
The family Thanksgiving also includes an appearance of the china and crystal we received as wedding gifts, one of the two or three times a year that our finery sees the light of day.
This year we had to reinvent Thanksgiving the “ex-pat” way. On Wednesday, I took the underground to High Street Kensington, to visit the Whole Foods grocery store. Yes, this is the same Whole Foods that is located in Cambridge, Mass, which Hubster likes to call “Whole Paycheck”. One can buy deliciously fresh, high quality produce, meats, cheese, grains, etc. for high quality prices. The food is delicious however, and the brand’s emphasis on wholesome freshness without additives or trans-fats makes it worth the extra coinage if one wants to play that game.

Whole Foods are no dummies, and cleverly arranged to be at the St. John’s Wood Women’s Club Member’s Marketplace in early November. That is where I picked up the brochure for a catered Thanksgiving dinner. Hubster and I were sure we didn’t want to spend the whole day in the kitchen cooking a turkey with all the traditional side dishes just to feed the three of us. The miniature size of our flat precludes inviting more than one or two other people, but we didn’t feel like entertaining anyway. Many of our American School friends had taken off for European or Middle Eastern destinations, so our favorite people weren’t even available to combine forces at some other house.

For “only” thirty-six pounds, we could get an already-prepared meal that we would just have to heat up. This is considerably less than we would have paid to eat out, even if we could have found a place that served a traditional roast turkey menu. (They seem to eat that on Christmas here). For our money, we received two already-cooked turkey breasts, cornbread stuffing, gravy, cranberry-orange relish, mashed potatoes, pureed butternut squash with nuts, green beans with shallots (not quite crispy onion rings, but…) and an apple crumble. This was advertised as meal “for two”. We figured it would feed the three of us easily, and we were not disappointed. There were enough leftovers for us to have them TWICE.

The meal had been ordered by telephone, but they were not taking credit card payments over the phone. One had to go to the store and pay for the order. Also, “free” delivery was only if the order was over 50 pounds, which ours was not. So while in the store I had to pad the order with additional items. Throwing a few things in the cart, including wine, brought the total to 72 pounds, about what it costs to feed the three of us for a week at Sainsbury’s.
I made my way back to the flat by underground, and the the food was delivered at 5 pm that night. Everything was cleverly allocated space in the tiny fridge.

We got up early (for a day off) on Thursday. TeenE was slated to sing at St. Paul’s Cathedral for the Tgiving day service there. She had been attending many choir rehearsals with her friend TeenA across the street, whose parents offered to get them there by taxi. She had just had the sole of her foot operated on the day before (see previous posting) and couldn’t walk easily. So out the door she went at 7:45 am. Hubster and BlogMama followed at around 9 by underground. Once at St. Paul’s, the famous steps were cordoned off by security barriers. We went through a bag-check. The gentleman was very thorough. We entered the sanctuary through the huge revolving doors and made our way down the aisle after being greeted by vergers or some such C of E personages.

The mother of another one of TeenE’s friends, MomS, had saved us seats waaaay up front. The church has concentric rings of chairs right underneath the dome, and we found ourselves in the fourth row of those, so were almost underneath the geometric center of the dome, with a great view of the narthex, the pulpit, and the choir stalls. We chatted with MomS, whose husband was in Mumbai at the time of the bombings there the night before. Thankfully he was safe, but the thoughts of everyone in the church were on that situation. The three rows ahead of us were reserved for members of the American Embassy, so that helped to explain the high security out front. We learned that the security dogs had come through before the choir arrived, and that the only way to get into the church as a choir member was to show your music as your security pass.

While we were waiting for the service to begin, Hubster spotted his former boss, BossD, among the thousands milling around. We said hello, found his wife in the crowd, and did the traditional mwanh/mwanh two-cheek kissy thing. They are originally from Zimbabwe, and due to the political situation there can never go back. They currently reside in London, and BossD is still a colleague of Hubster’s.

Here is the order of worship for St. Paul’s Thanksgiving Day service-Nov 27, 2008
The service began with music played by the “sub-organist” at St. Paul’s. The Magnificat Primi Toni by Buxtehude, and Prelude and Fugue in A minor by J.S. Bach resonated through the magnificent cathedral. The Dean and Chapter left the Dean’s Aisle and proceeded to the Great West Doors of the cathedral, where they received the Ambassador of the United States of America and his wife Mrs. Robert H. Tuttle.

Then, College of Minor Canons, the visiting Clergy, and the College of Canons left the Dean’s Aisle and proceeded to the places in the Quire. We all stood as the Ambassador and Mrs. Tuttle were escorted by the Dean and Chapter to their places under the Dome. The color Guard, made up of Marines who were Iraq war veterans, (3 men and 1 woman) presented the colors at the Dome Altar while the congregation sang the hymn Come, Ye Thankful People, Come.
This was followed by the Bidding, given by the Dean, the Right Reverend Graeme Knowles, and the Lord’s Prayer. Then, the combined choirs of the American Church in London and the International Community Church in Surrey (home church for BossD and his wife.) sang the anthem, consisting of words from Psalm 69, 9, 12, music by Charles Villiers Stanford. The first lesson, Isaiah 12, 1-6, was read by the Reverend Canon Lucy Winkett, Precenter and Canon in Residence. The second hymn to be sung by the 3,000-plus congregation was We Gather Together to Ask the Lord’s Blessing, which has its roots in an old Dutch hymn. The second lesson was from Colossians 3, 12-17, read by Vivian Hunt, a congregant of the American Church in London.

There followed the Explanation of Need, and the Offering, which was designated to be given to the Camden and City Churches Cold Weather Shelter. Once again the combined choirs of the two American Churches sang an anthem, Come Holy Ghost, words by John Cosin (1594-1672), music by Thomas Attwood (1765-1838). Then came President Bush’s Proclamation, read by the Honorable Robert H. Tuttle. Afterwards, there were prayers of thanksgiving and intercession led by two women ministers and three students, one of whom attends the American School in London with TeenE. Another hymn, this time Now Thank We All Our God, a German hymn by Martin Rinkart (1586-1649) to the tune Nun Danket (J. Cruger, 1598-1662).

This brought us to the sermon, given by the Reverend Dr. Barry Gaeddert of the International Community Church. After this, the congregation was “invited” to stand and sing America the Beautiful (words by Katherine Lee Bates—illustrious president of my alma mater Wellesley College), music “Materna” by Samuel A. Ward., during which the colors were retired by the color guard. Finally, the Dean gave the blessing, the Dean and Chapter escorted the Ambassador of the United States of America and Mrs. Robert H. Tuttle to the Great West Doors, and the College of Minor Canons, the visiting Clergy, and the College of Canons returned to the Dean’s Aisle. The organ voluntary Incantation pour un jour saint (Jean Langlais, 1907-91) played them out.

Being Congregationalists who sprang from the spiritual roots of our Pilgrim forebears, all of the pomp and ceremony that made up the service was new to me. I wondered what the Pilgrims, who left England for the freedom to worship in their plain, unadorned and NON-Church of England way, would think of this service. It did, of course, contain all the “traditional” hymns that we’ve all sung since grade school (even singing many of them IN school, before it became non-PC to sing about God in school).

Of course, the church service was not complete without the comment by Hubster that all the gilt and glory should be sold off and the proceeds donated to the poor. Cathedrals leave him cold.
We had some difficulty meeting up with TeenE afterward, as she was whisked down to the crypt and exited out a side door, while we were left milling around near the altar trying to get a message to her.As we were waiting outside on the West Front steps, our neighbors MomT and DadT were still inside, and were accosted for an interview by a reporter for the NYTimes, doing an article on how the changing economy was affecting Americans in London. See link for the article:

The best part of the whole gorgeous, ineffable experience was knowing that our beautiful TeenE’s voice was among those soaring to the great vault and inspiring us all to attain communion with something higher and better than ourselves, no matter what the state of our beliefs. Only the day before she had been in the hospital of St. John and St. Elizabeth sitting next to a photo of St. Paul's having her foot operated on by the good Dr. D., and the next she was part of the service within the great cathedral. We are grateful for all our blessings, no matter how far from our family and friends we may be.

We eat, drink, and see that musician guy

2008-12-08T13:10:00.000-08:00

December 8th, 2008

It was twenty-eight years ago today that I had a call from my High School buddy Jason at around 10 pm. He told me that John Lennon had been shot and killed in New York City. I refused to believe it, saying "That's not funny". He finally convinced me that it was true. We talked and cried a bit and then I hung up and turned on the radio. The DJ on WZLX was crying, and asking people to call in requests. I called and got through right away, and requested George Harrison's "Isn't it a Pity". This made the DJ cry again.

It was so sad. I wore black to work for two weeks straight.

I was reminded of this as I passed the wrought iron fence in front of the Abbey Road Studios today on my way home from a long day out. There were two bunches of flowers, and a note of remembrance. I wondered what, if anything, Sir Paul might be doing today as he remembered his friend and colleague.

Hubster and I had formulated a plan to go up to a pub called the Clifton, on Clifton Hill in St. John's Wood, about seven streets north on Abbey Road. We enjoyed our two-for-the-price-of-one steaks and a glass of Erdinger white beer and headed out into the night.

As we walked along, Hubster announced "I want to cross the street, and so I shall". I dutifully followed him. After about ten seconds of walking, a man approached us out of the darkness. I had a quick look, and it was Sir Paul. He saw me looking his way, and looked out toward the street. That was my sign to look down as we passed and completely ignore him. I decided that he must have mastered the art of avoidance long ago, almost like the Jedi mind trick. "There is nothing to interest you here".

Hubster walked on in oblivion. I waited a good twenty seconds before I said "did you see who that was?" He didn't believe me, and still thinks I am making it up. I am reliably informed, however that Sir Paul's daughter lives on that street, and that he is often seen in the Clifton. Perhaps he was going there to lift a pint in memory of John. I hope so.

Trampled Underfoot (title of Led Zeppelin tune)

2008-12-01T05:44:00.001-08:00

Oops. A few weeks ago I was awakened by the sound of glass breaking. I thought it was coming from the kitchen, and also thought I heard the sounds of someone throwing away large shards of glass. I rolled over and went back to sleep. This was the first mistake.

Later that morning, TeenE came to show me that her toe was bleeding. She mentioned that she had stepped on some broken glass In Her Room. That was my first clue that it hadn't been an accident in the kitchen. The radiator covers in each room are topped with granite slabs, so the glass of water she keeps at her bedside had somehow run afoul of the stone. The general slovenly state of her bedroom floor meant that she couldn't see all the tiny slivers that were now embedded in the berber-style carpet.

I told her to wash her foot, stick a bandage on her toe, and be on her way to school. I went into her room, removed the piles of clothes from the floor with a backhoe, and Hoovered the heck out of her rug.

Cut to two weeks later. She comes to tell me that her foot hurts. This time it is the ball of the foot, not the toe, and it looks slightly puffy and tender to the touch. She tells me that she "thinks" that during the intial incident, she "may" have had a second cut in that exact spot, but that she couldn't find anything there at the time.

It is now the Tuesday night before Thanksgiving, and I have visions of waiting in a hospital ER for hours while we are supposed to be in church or dining on turkey. Also, TeenE is supposed to sing in a choir for a special T-giving service (more on that later) and really shouldn't miss the last rehearsal on Wed. night.

Fortunately, during a bus trip to Blenheim Palace a week before, I sat with MomT. I remembered that I had recommended our fabulous Dr. D. to her a few months back. I enquired if she had followed up on that. Yes, she had, and was happy to report that the ubiquitous Dr. D. had done some minor surgery on her toe and was absolutely brilliant at both that, and in giving a painless flu shot. Aha!! Through the wonders of the internet, I was in touch with him within a few hours. He said it didn't sound too bad and that it might be able to wait. Phew.

The next day there was no school at ASL. By the time TeenE got up late and then showed me her foot, it was mid-day. The affected part was a little tender to the touch, but it looked fine. My intuition said "make the call", however, so a quick call to the secretary had us booked in for later that afternoon.

TeenE was scared and quite freaked out when Dr. D. said he might need to make a small incision in her foot and "poke around" (I believe that's the medical term he used) to find any "spicules" of glass. Now there's a word I've never heard before. He gloved up and wielded the local anesthetic. Within a few moments he declared that she had an abcess, and spent quite some time exploring. I was asked to assist, by opening a drawer and finding the right kind of swab, then opening the package and handing the swab to the gloved-up professional.

One stitch later (which really freaked her out, too) and she was ready to go. She couldn't get out of there fast enough. Of course I left the good doctor with a plate of pumpkin-nut "bikkies", short for biscuits, which are cookies.

I'm off now to retreive TeenE from school to go back and get her stitch taken out, as well as receive a "painless" flu jab.

Dig It (title of Beatles tune)

2008-11-23T14:08:00.000-08:00

Monday morning held the promise of participating in an activity that might not appeal to everyone. With my love of ancient history, walking on the beach, and unusual adventures, the invitation to go “mudlarking” on the Thames was too intriguing to pass up. I’ve always wanted to join in on an archeological dig, and this was a good opportunity to practice what I call “archeology by intuition”, asking myself where I should look, dig, or scavenge based on my sixth sense of where things would be found.

Mudlarking is essentially scavenging or “beachcombing” along the banks of the Thames at low tide. I did not realize how extreme the tides were in the river. One can see from the bridges and embankments that the river’s flow sometimes slows down or stops altogether, but I never realized that large swatches of riverbank become exposed during the extreme low tides.

My mudlarking invitation was issued by StitcherJane, at whose home we meet on Thursdays for Stitchery Group. She has an avid interest in historical London, and informed us that we would find bits of artifacts from hundreds of years ago. We rendezvoused at Cannon Street station so that we would walk down the hill on Cousin’s Lane and wind up at the Thames between Southwark Bridge and London Bridge. There were some very slimy steps leading down to what she referred to as the “foreshore”.

I had been duly warned to dress warmly, as it can be quite windy at the level of the river. Indeed, when I woke up on Monday morning, it was overcast and 39 degrees F. I made sure I was wearing layers and a waterproof jacket for the inevitable rain. I had also donned my brand-new Wellies, which are waterproof boots. StitcherJane had also recommended bringing germ-proof latex gloves. In addition to those, my backpack also contained: plastic bags for storing the “haul”, germicidal hand-gel, a towel, in case anyone got wet, a warm wool hat, warm gloves to wear underneath the industrial-strength latex cleaning gloves, my camera, keys, and Oyster (travel) card.

Why all the Universal precautions, you may ask? StitcherJane had warned me that not only was the river water not necessarily clean, but we might encounter ground or objects which had been contaminated by rat urine. I know that there are rats near the river, having had a run-in with a large one while staying in the Globe View apartments last year, but I never really thought about their urine and the diseases it could spread. Apparantly there was just an unfortunate incident of a woman dying from Weil’s Disease after attempting to free a rat from her bird feeder. I made sure I was wearing old clothes that could be chucked out in case of contamination.
We descended the algae- and mud-slimed steps down from the embankment onto a thirty-foot wide strip of what appeared to be stones. It stretched for about a quarter-mile downstream from our entry point. It was immediately clear that the hat and gloves would be necessary to combat the cold wind down at river level.

I started picking my way along the “beach”. On closer inspection, many of the brown “stones” that littered the beach were actually animals’ bones. We were at the site of an abattoir, a slaughterhouse that had been in use for centuries. When they were done slaughtering the animals, they had just chucked the bones and other waste into the river. The area has not been used for that purpose for decades, so it was unbelievable to me that waste from that era had not been completely washed away. I could identify jawbones, ribs, bits of broken bone from both cattle and sheep.

The next item I recognized were chunks of flint in all shapes and sizes. Flint is the stone used by ancient people for sharp objects such as arrowheads, knives, and as a fire-starter stone. I had never seen in in situ in such a large quantity before. There were all kinds of twisted blobby shapes looking almost like black glass, with a chalky covering on them. Many of them were tiny bits, but there were large heavy ones with holes in them, holes caused by the softer chalk being worn away by the elements.

There were also a lot of fist-sized soft white lumps, which were actually chalk.
StitcherJane had told us that we might find bits of pottery from centuries ago, so I concentrated on finding these smaller pieces. I found that by bending a little at the waist, it was quite easy to spot these bits of pottery. Most were an inch or two in diameter, and clearly had been part of plates, bowls, mugs and pots. The easiest to spot were the blue-and-white porcelain transferware, embellished with floral and country motifs. Underneath the mud and algae, these showed an even crackled pattern that showed their age to be between a hundred and two hundred years old. There were also less pretty, but probably more valuable bits of “slipware”, hand-thrown earthenware with a slip-coat of thin mud applied to it. These were in earthenware colors, and some had been glazed with darker glaze. These were from the seventeenth century and beyond. Two pieces of earthenware with dark green glaze were later identified as being of Tudor origin by StitcherJane.

Also easy to spot were tiny white tubes about an inch or so in length. I was told these were pipe stems that dated back to when the New World crop of tobacco arrived in the British Isles. They were lying amongst the bones and stones in a very casual way, as if they had just been spat there by a smoking sailor.

Further picking amongst the rubble showed a couple of pieces of fluted limestone, which had probably ornamented a building, another piece of limestone carved “18xx” in inch-high letters, an iron ring, and broken bricks with part of the maker’s name stamped into them. Our fearless leader informed us that some of what we were finding showed evidence of charing. Whenever there was a fire, such as the “Great Fire” of 1666, the remaining rubble was just shoveled down to the edge of the river and tipped in. She then mentioned that all of the terra-cotta slightly-curved broken slabs containing one hole were actually Roman roof tiles. That’s right, Roman Roof Tiles. Tiles from 46 AD and up. That’s 46 AD, folks. Broken bits of Roman roof tiles just laying there today on the shores of the Thames. They have so many of them at the Museum of London that they don’t even care about those that are still there. I presume that new loads of antique rubbish get revealed with each low tide, but I will have to go back to confirm this. I was absolutely enchanted by the tiles. I am particularly interested in the era that includes the arrival of the Roman conquerors in England, and the clash of cultures and religious beliefs that must have occurred at the time. Holding the roof tiles in my gloved hands really gave me a thrill. I kept pouncing on the best ones and loading them into a flimsy plastic bag. Finally, my bags of loot filled the backpack and I knew I wouldn’t be able to carry any more.
How are regular people allowed to take this stuff, you may ask. Stitcher Jane informed me that one only needs to get a Mudlarking permit if one is going to either use a metal detector, or dig down more than 3 inches. I was just using a plastic picnic knife to turn over one object at a time, and wasn’t really digging at all. The knife was being used just to protect me from anything sharp that I might encounter, like a needle or cut glass. I didn’t run into anything of that sort at all.
We slowly picked our way down the “beach” of stones, bones, china, and roof tiles. Most of the ladies were concentrating their efforts down near the edge of the water, but I figured that the oldest items would be up closest to the embankment and near the steps, which would have been closest to the edges of the old Roman settlement. In the 19th or 20th century the Cannon Street railroad bridge had it’s foundation laid there, which probably stirred up several layers of previous cultures.

Further down we encountered a gush of fresh water coming out of a pipe which stretched 12 feet high up the embankment. It looked like pretty clean water, not like water from a sewer pipe or storm drain would. I “tuned in” with my super-powers, and got two bits of information. The first was “Minerva”, which told me that it probably was a spring used by the Romans (and had probably been a pagan spring before that). The second bit was that the water was the “Walbrook”, a small stream that is now underground (brook from the Roman Wall) whose source is near a church called St. Stephen, Walbrook. I think that church was an early Sir Christopher Wren practice run-up for St. Paul’s which is quite nearby. I’ll have to check in my books.
We noticed that the area around the pipe outlet was discolored a pale tan. All of the bricks, tiles and bones looked like they had mineral deposits on them. The water, although completely clear, had a faint smell of either sulphur or some other natural substance dissolved within it. Again, more research is needed. We were indeed directly downhill from the street on which St. Stephen, Walbrook church is located, so I’ll stick with that idea as the source of the water.
Around noon we were too tired and cold to continue, so we all tromped back up the slimy steps with our loot, de-gloved, and headed back to the Cannon Street Underground station. On the way up the hill, we noticed that signs on some of the buildings indicated the ancient homes of some of the guilds that would have sprung up near the slaughterhouse: The tanner's guild, the dyer's guild, and the chandler's guild (making candles from tallow, which is animal fat).

Once I got the loot home, I rinsed it in scalding hot water and then soaked it for hours in a strong bleach solution. It was then left on a rack to air-dry for several days. But what is it for? You may be asking. A large chunk of limestone and cement from the foundations of a building (bigger than a brick, smaller than a breadbox) will be our new doorstop for the French door in the reception room. The Roman roof tiles will make fine paperweight/pen stands and might be given as gifts to those who will appreciate them. The porcelain bits and pipe stems will make some nifty dada-ist “found art” installations and murals. Of course, anything not used otherwise will be used as ballast for the flat in case of a great flood or tsunami.

I can’t remember the last time I had so much free fun. I'm looking forward to the next conveniently-timed fair weather low tide.

Little Venice Tour

2008-11-23T13:32:00.000-08:00

Last Sunday, already a full week ago, I headed out for a guided walking tour of the Little Venice area. This is a neighborhood contiguous with Maida Vale (postcode W9), just on the other side of St. John’s Wood, that we call home. The starting point for the walk was the Warwick Avenue Underground stop, about fifteen minutes from A Flat on Abbey Road.

A group of about twelve people had gathered for the guided tour, which took us into another one of the high-rent districts in north west London. The area had originally been owned by the Bishop of London. It is full of Georgian and Regency white stucco townhomes, previously occupied by the mistresses of both wealthy men of the City and higher-ups in the Church of England hierarchy. Now the neighborhood is occupied by wealthy professional bankers, lawyers, and several prominent members of the entertainment industry.

The defining feature of Little Venice is a waterway that connects the Grand Union canal to the Regent’s Canal. The canal itself is lined with canal boats, in which Londoners of all income levels reside. The guide had us give the “Royal Wave” to Dennis of Little Venice, who lives aboard his canal boat year-round. He is an older gentleman who used to serve as an entertainment director aboard a large cruise ship, and is now retired. Apparently he looks after the garden plantings that line his particular area of the canal. We were treated to a returned “royal wave” by Dennis, who was watching for us out of one of his windows. His boat had a "gondola" (i.e. converted canoe) decorating the roof, and was also be-decked in potted flowering plants.

Much of the area also has “villas” in an Italianate architectural style, complete with “campanile” –styled faux bell towers. These single-family homes are either multi-multi-million pound residences for the very very rich, or have been carved up into a number of individual flats for the plain old very rich.

Our informative walk was punctuated by witty commentary by our guide, including “mind the slippery bits” when we were walking on wet leaves in mud, and “mind the crap” when we were on pavement that had been “fouled” by dogs.

The weather was in the high forties with a fine mist falling for part of the walk. I discovered that removing my glasses, which are mostly for close-work anyway, allowed me to enjoy the experience without having to wipe them incessantly.

I returned to A Flat on Abbey Road after a good two hours’ brisk walk. I would estimate that we covered between three and four miles, much of it along or near the canal, and all of it very enjoyable. The jaunt was capped off by a cup of tea.

Movie Review: Ghost Town, Hollywood's version of how easy it is to convince people you've heard from their late loved ones

2008-11-16T12:33:00.000-08:00

On Friday October 31 I went alone to a movie. TeenE was up at her friend TeenH's house on Finchley Rd, North of the 02 Center. I brought her there by bus, and decided that since I was not at all jet-lagged, having only been back for one day, that I'd stay up "late" and see a movie in which Hubster probably had no interest.

I figured that "Ghost Town" was probably a good candidate, as it was Halloween, after all. Walking south on Finchley Road I encounter a few little kids being taken around in costume by parents (Americans, presumably). There were a few adults in costume, mostly young ladies in extra-skimpy outfits, such as the two large gals in leggings, tutus, and T-shirts.

Once I got to the cinema at the O2 and purchased my ticket to "Ghost Town", I had quite a long wait for the theatre to open. They were still cleaning Number 6. Various patrons kept going through a door to ask the ticket-taker if they could go in yet. No--he kept sending them back out the door to wait. When Number 6 was finally ready (about five minutes before the film's start time) the manager wouldn't let those who were asking for the first time (those currently at the ticket-taker's stand) in until he had come out and retreived those who had asked every five minutes for a half hour (yours truly).

"Ghost Town", stars British comedian Ricky Gervais (writer of The Office) as misanthropic dentist Bertram Pincus, who goes in for a colonoscopy (with use of general anesthesia). After he is discharged from the hospital, he begins to see people that other people cannot, and these folks want him to help them. In a very funny scene with a doctor played by Kristin Wiig, who doesn't let him get a word in edgewise, he learns he had a reaction to the anesthesia, and his heart stopped for several minutes.

This then, is Hollywood's take on what happens to someone when they've had a near-death experience.

Bertram Pincus is asked by the ghost of a man (Greg Kinnear) whose wife (Tea Leoni) lives in his building to get a message through about the woman's new boyfriend is a gold-digger.
Dr. Pincus does NOT have the desire or the social skills to handle this assignment. When he refuses, the ghost man gives Dr. Pincus' address to ALL the other ghosts in Mid-town Manhatten (including Naked Guy--you apparantly wear as a ghost the outfit you were wearing when you died) and many others, who all show up in his bedroom.

He strikes a deal with Greg Kinnear's character to help ONLY him, so the other ghosts will all go away. Meanwhile, Dr. Pincus develops a crush on Tea Leoni's character, despite her ownership of an enormous Great Dane dog with halitosis.

Hilarity ensues as all the various plot lines get sewn up, and the viewer eventually develops a fondness for poor Dr. Pincus as he is transformed by his work with the ghosts. In fulfilling the requests of the dead to communicate with their loved ones he regains his essential humanity, and (spoiler alert!) gets the girl.

If only life were so easy for those who've had real near-death experiences or other mystical or transcendant experiences. I know quite a few, having co-led a discussion group for the purposes of their spiritual support. Many struggled with being taken seriously by those they know. Even though he initially has trouble convincing Tea Leoni that he really IS talking to her late husband, he eventually wins her over. It seems as if all the other "message from the deceased" recipients
just hear the message and their grief or lives are transformed! Some of the people I know who've had NDE's or mystical experiences of "going to the light" have been transformed into more loving beings, but struggle with the changes in themselves and how to present their new outlook on life and eternity to those they know and love. Some are so transformed by that light that you really just want to be near them so you can catch a few "rays" yourself. Some become emotionally or mentally unhinged and are then no longer able to cope with everyday life. None of the ones I know personally have been welcomed by the scientific or medical communities (with the exception of hospices) or have had a "gets the girl and lives happily-ever-after" ending.

So, as a comedic fiction about what "might" happen in this theoretical situation, this is a funny movie. I'd give it a 3 out of 5. I'd recommend it as light entertainment to anyone. But that's all it is, light entertainment (pun intended).

Cake redux, knitting, hospice update

2008-11-13T15:00:00.001-08:00

Thursday found me waking at 6 am all refreshed, but deciding that getting up at that hour was really unnecessary, so I caught a few more zzzzz's before getting up to go to Stitchery group.
We were back at our usual location at J's on Maida Vale with Cassidy the dog and an unusually large group of stitchers.

I was able to report to them (and you, dear reader) that I had sold a few small items at Tuesday's St. John's Wood Women's Club Member's Marketplace (too much alliteration, but that's what it is). Two beaded wool brooches, the long purple shawl "Harvest Home" in autumnal shades, and I can't remember what else. None of the beaded shawls sold, too bad, but they are available for purchase by the devoted readership!!

Having over-knitted in the past week getting ready for the show, I decided to take it easy and work on the small needlepoint I purchased in NYC while I was there, called "home is where the heart is". I did miss my flat on Abbey Road containing Hubster and Teeny, and all my walks around the neighborhood while I was away from them, and thought that purchase was a good way to keep focused on the goal of returning to them with visa in hand.

After three pleasant hours of Stitchery, I took off on foot for the Home Base store up in West Hampstead near Finchley Road. I had a pleasant walk northward in the rainy mist. This is a kind of precipitation for which it is hard to dress. It's not really raining, so the raincoat is not necessary. The umbrella is useless, as the mist seems to come sideways at you while you are walking. So you just amble around in your hooded jacket, but with the hood up you can't look over your right shoulder properly to check for any buses that might be materializing just as you start to cross the side street. The only solution is to keep the hood down and let the mist gently frizz up your hair as well as spot up your glasses.

Operation Home Base included procuring lots of little light bulbs for various light fixtures in the flat. While there, I also bought a few other householdy-things. The store is a cross between a Home Depot and a store that sells small appliances and home decor items like candles and dried arrangements. I stayed out of the garden shop and avoided all the Xmas decorations. On my walk I had noticed that lots of potted, 4 foot tall evergreens had been placed outside of buildings. Around the pot rims were red cyclamens, as the hard frost has not hit here yet.
I resisted all the cheery pointsettias, and looked in vain for a package of "dishwasher salt" to reduce the lime deposits and general gunkiness in the dishwasher. There was nothing of the sort to be seen.

While at the checkout, I asked the helpful young man if they sold "dishwasher salt". They did, he said, down past the lumber. Did I need a large quantity? I had just figured it came in a box or jar or something. What was a large quantity? No sooner had these words left my lips than a woman approached with a cart ("trolley") FILLED with four BAGS of dishwasher salt. These bags were larger than the large sacks of ice-melting salt that we buy in New England. They must have weighed fifty pounds each. Either this gal does a LOT of dishes, was buying them for some industrial application, or has a water-softener system for the whole house (see Lunch at John Stuart Mill's House posted previously).

As it was nearing 3 pm by this time I set out from Home Base to catch a bus that deposited me right on Circus Road near Sir You-Know-Who's house and the Dangerous Hospital Driveway. I managed to make it the rest of the way home without incident, except for the realization that the annoying dry sensation in my mouth really was an oncoming migraine. I retired to bed with a pill for a short nap, and awoke to make us sweet and sour pork for dinner.

Tomorrow will be Tidy Friday and Baking Day.

Oooh!! Cake Update. Last week I went through the hospital corridors to get to the pharmacy (see migraine pill above) and saw the Famous Fabian, Blogstar. He had been looking for me to say how much he enjoyed the sour cream coffee cake that I had delivered to Reception before I left for the US. I don't think he realized that I had been away from London. He was so effusively enthusiastic about the cake, which he reported that he had NOT shared with Dr. D or anyone else except one other receptionist, that I was inspired to bring around another baked creation. This time, I tried a new recipe introduced to me over the summer by Brother-in-Law Tom, that of Texas Sheet Cake. I added a few extra ingredients and renamed it Mayan Sheet Cake. I kept one round pan for us, and brought the other around to the hospital around 4 pm.
Alas, Fabian had gone home for the night, but the receptionists on duty were only too happy to take it off my hands.

I went back on Monday to collect my pan and saw Fabian. He was disconsolate that he had missed the Mayan-inspired creation. His co-workers had called him at home to tell him about it, and he said he was almost tempted (on a Friday evening) to turn around and come back. It's probably a good thing he didn't, as I hear that the cake was inhaled by the other staff, once again NOT including the ubiquitious doctor. I guess he's not so ubiquitous after all, as he has not been in the right place at the right time for the past two cakes.

If I get my homework done on time, I shall attempt another caking. If not, I'll bring it around on Saturday morning, when I have to go over to the hospital for.... Hospice volunteer training. That's right, you heard it here first. My "CRB" (Criminal Record Check) form has made it through the system and I am in proud possession of an official-looking certificate which states that I do not have a criminal record!! Now I can be enrolled as a hospice volunteer, which is something I planned on doing here since the move was first formulated. The training will be about cultural sensitivity. The book the in-laws just sent us, called "The Anglo Files" by Sarah Lyall, will come in especially handy!

Sleep, Play, IKEA-fication, and gross gunk

2008-11-12T14:15:00.000-08:00

I see it's been almost a week since I last wrote. The post-election-euphoria crash combined, I think, with the crash predicted by the American School psychologist during orientation. That is, November, with its early sunset, the sun not rising 30 degrees above the horizon even at noon, (if you can find it behind the buildings/cloud cover), and getting over the initial culture-shock and push of settling-in all conspire to produce a let-down that can trigger a huge energy slump. So I'm not surprised, just... tired. Add to this to the vestiges of jet lag from my recent trip to the east coast of the US, and the neighbor downstairs who wakes me at 1, 3 and 4 am with his shenanigans, and I'm not really getting up until 10 am. Fortunately, TeenE and Hubster sleep through the nighttime neighbor naughtiness.

TeenE continues to spend afternoons after school rehearsing for the play "And Then They Came for Me", about Ann Frank and her friend. The friend survived the holocaust, and lives in St. John's Wood, and is a consultant to the play. The parent meeting of Friends of the Arts at ASL
on Friday will give us more information about the show. TeenE tells me it's going to be very intense. She is in the "company", and needs "company shoes", whatever they are, and a leotard "for the concentration camp scenes".

Our IKEA order that we placed online in early October has finally been delivered. It arrived on Saturday. Every day since then I have weilded my trusty Phillips-head screwdriver and made good progress on a piece of furniture. So far, a bed-side table, a set of drawers for TeenE's desk, two shelf units to hold up our desk, and the desk-top with legs have been assembled. At some point I will tackle the garment rack and the two tall bookcases. Now we can see the top surface of our dining room table again.

Yesterday I had lunch with MomA at her flat on Maida Vale. She casually mentioned that with the hard water in this area, you are supposed to put dishwasher salt in the special dispenser in the dishwasher. I had never heard of this, and set out to find out if our unit had such a thing. Sure enough, it did. And it was really clogged with black, soapy, waxy, grimy, moldy GUNK. I decided to check out the other parts in the bottom of the dishwasher. I had already cleared out the screen that sifts out food particles (twice), but this time, after lifting it out, I decided to check on the lattice-work column upon which it sits. Ewwwww. I kept discovering that this mechanism came apart in more ways than one could imagine. And with each layer that I pried apart, there were more and more deposits of unspeakably disgusting GUNK. I whipped on the latex gloves and was finally grateful for the scalding-hot water that comes out of the tap. I poked through the hundreds of miniscule holes in the main column with a pin. I scrubbed all the outer surfaces with a scrubbie pad. I cleared out the crevices with cotton swabs. I soaked and re-soaked those suckers until there was no goo left. Now I just have to figure out how to put the (*&^% contraption back together again so we can use the dishwasher. Meanwhile, I am hand-washing everything. Just when there was a relative lull in the laundry...

Quiet day in NW8

2008-11-06T15:38:00.000-08:00

It was a quiet day in NW8 today.

The leftover laundering proceeded apace in the am, then I went out to Stitchery Group. This is a subset of women from the St. John's Wood Women's Club. We met at stitcher Mary's house, which is just across the street from the driveway where I nearly got run over yesterday, and across and down the very same street as Sir You-Know-Who, who presumably is ensconced in the love nest with the latest love interest.

While at Mary's, about eight of us got caught up on the election coverage and topics of more personal interest. Every time someone came to the front door, her two wire-haired dachshunds would erupt in a cacophony of barking. I decided that I had had so much success at "dog whispering" Erica's huge black lab into submitting to me as alpha dog, that I'd go down to her lower level (the dogs cannot climb stairs) and tell a thing or two to Gus (a sweetie-pie) and Gracie (more cranky). Gus immediately recognized my alpha status and rolled over on his back to have his belly scratched. Gracie took about 30 seconds longer, then did the same thing. When a repairman came, he was able to run the gauntlet of the doggies while I kept them distracted with tummy rubs. I have two new canine friends in London! I told Mary I'd walk them any time, which I would do even if she didn't live on the same street as a certain musician.

When we left Cavendish Ave around 1:30 the day was so overcast that there was no telling in what direction the sun might have been located, or whether it had even cleared the tops of the buildings that day. The rest of the afternoon was taken up with sorting mail, paying bills, and, surprise! More laundry. I think that by tomorrow I may be all caught up from the backlog.

I'm hoping to hear from my readers; everyone's been very quiet this week. I think a lot of people stayed up late to watch the election returns...

Another Fine Day in London-town

2008-11-05T10:16:00.000-08:00

I couldn't imagine that any day could have been better than yesterday, what with seeing a world-known celebrity on one corner of NW8 and a local celebrity on the next. No wonder I like that "back way" to the Hi Street that consists of Circus Road. It's certainly a celebrity circus!
I must say, however that today turned out to be even better. I wasn't sure the US was ready for the progressive energy of a non-republican, non-warrior president, but awakened to find out that the person for whom I had voted had actually won the election. This is only the third election since 1980 in which this has happened, and it's very gratifying. I empathize with those who are disappointed, having spent twenty-two of the last twenty-eight years (and all of my adult life but eight years) being disappointed, frustrated, and enraged in varying degrees with the policies and actions of my government. It is the "heartland's" turn to learn how to yield graciously without resorting to name-calling and other vituperative strategies. I pray we can all behave ourselves.
First up on the social calendar today was a coffee at the home of another American School/London parent. This coffee featured a speaker, a parent who works for the DEA (Drug Enforcement Agency), and who was there to speak to the other parents (all Moms) about the differences in the teen drug cultures in the US and the London area. I've always felt that any school that says there are no drugs on campus is either clueless or lying, so I was glad to see this issue addressed by the PTO.
We learned about the US drug user's "culture of stimulants" (cocaine, etc) vs the UK's "culture of depressants". One would think that those in the US are already over-stimulated enough, what with all the Starbucks, and that those in the UK are already depressed enough, what with all the pubs.

We learned that 35% of all 10th graders in the US have tried illegal drugs, and 75% of all US High School Seniors (including alcohol, which, in the US, is illegal until age 21).
We learned that teens drink openly earlier, as the age at which one can buy a beer or wine WITH a meal in the UK is 16. Whether this is earlier than US teens drink on the sly is open to debate. I think probably not.

We also learned that within a five-minute bus ride from the school, in a place where many of them congregate, a student can be exposed to people dealing all sorts of substances.
We learned that within a two-minute WALK from the school there is a known nexus of marijuana activity on a street called Abbey Road, (ever heard of it?) and that this spot is directly across from our flat. So much for the safe "leafy" neighborhood theory!! This area includes a row of stores where one can buy milk, get one's hair done, and get physical therapy. The one time I went down to buy milk there, there were some shady characters. Now I know why.

I had to leave that talk early in order to rendezvous with an old pal from my University College London days, Mr. A.S. We had kept in touch sporadically over the years, and he was one of the people that called to wish me Happy Birthday on the Big 5-Oh. We had known each other from our days in the UCL Drama Society, and Hubster and I visited with him and his girlfriend (now wife) on our honeymoon here in 1986.
We had much to catch up on: the move, the economy, turning 50, the election, how my idea for a documentary about Abbey Road might come about (he has connections in the TV world) etc.
I have to write up my "pitch" and he might be able to get it in front of the right people.
After lunch I strolled around the Regent St/Carnaby Street area, and found the bead shop that I had spotted while Son was here. This time it was open, but sadly does not carry the right beads for my knitted projects.
A quick ride home on the 139 bus and I was ready to work on some of the projects I am getting ready for the St. John's Wood Women's Club Annual Holiday Marketplace on 11/11. Time is running short...
TeenE is getting ready to catch a ride to the American Church in London (on Tottenham Court Road), whose choir will be singing at the Thanksgiving Day Service at St. Paul's Cathedral. Yes, you read that right. Naturally we will be attending that service!!

Episode IV: A New Hope

2008-11-04T22:33:00.000-08:00

Yesterday's Perfect Day ended when we went to bed at 9 pm, (4 pm EST) knowing that the US election results would not be final until at least 4 am our time, what with the West Coast being an additional 3 hour's time difference.

I was cautiously optimistic that the results would reflect my voting preferences, but afraid of another Gore-like "tie" with weeks of uncertainty and another Supreme Court ruling. I didn't want to give voice to my fears, so refrained from making any predictions.

Hubster was up and out of the house before 6 am. The fact that he didn't wake me to give me news bothered me a bit. Did that mean that the news was good, or bad?

A quick check of the internet at 6:15 am showed me the results. Now I can truly sleep.

A Perfect Day so far

2008-11-04T04:55:00.000-08:00

So far it has been a perfect day. I fear tomorrow's news; however, I'll address that in another posting if I feel like it.

My day started at 7:30 am, far too early for my still-jet-lagged brain and body. What could motivate me to get out of bed early and hit the street by 9:15? Rummage!! Rather, the high quality used goods at the St. John's Hospice Charity Shop on SJW Hi Street. Before I could leave A Flat on Abbey Road, there was a lull in the traffic sounds, so I rushed to the window to see the horses and ordnance pass by. I never get tired of it. I wonder if there is a schedule to their jaunts. For example, this is the first Tuesday of the month, we've been here three months, and I've seen them pass by three times. I'll have to check my other entries.

Laurie, the Hospice Charity Shop manager, was busy Hoovering when I arrived, and her associate Lloyd was organizing racks of clothing. I was assigned to tidying the shelves along half the store's walls. Shoes, videos, bric-a-brac, jewellry, ties, etc. all had to be organized and made to look extra-nice, as there would be VIP's in the shop later.

After a while, the shop opened and two volunteers arrived to be sales personnel for the first shift. After discovering the source of my accent, they were MOST eager to talk American politics. In fact, every one with whom I've chatted recently wants to find out if I've voted (I have), for whom I've voted (they don't make even a pretense of being polite about asking) and then spend ten minutes talking about US politics and the US's role in the world. I lingered for another fifteen minutes or so, then made my way up the Hi Street.

A quick peek into Starbucks as I passed revealed that no one I know was in there. I kept going, less alert than usual for spotting a familiar face. As I passed one cafe, there was a couple in a close embrace in the doorway under an awning. The man was in shadow facing the street, the woman had long dark hair which obscured both their faces. Their embrace went on for about ten of my paces. It seemed pretty long to me... Not wanting to gawk, I averted my gaze. JUST as I was about to pass, they broke apart, and the man looked a bit startled when he saw that I was there. The woman turned and shot a "thank you" to someone in the other direction. I glanced quickly at the man, and saw that it was YOU KNOW WHO, my first crush when I was 10, NW8's most famous citizen, standing there on the street engaged in an intimate embrace with another woman!! I hurried on toward Finchley Road. I resisted the urge to turn around for another look, (at least until a full minute had passed) and reflected on the pitfalls of fame.

Smiling and humming softly to myself, I waited at the lights for the "Green Man" to show that it was safe to cross. An elderly lady with a cane waited with me, and she took off ahead of the light change, which I am still not able to bring myself to do most of the time, never knowing from which direction a speeding bus may materialize. As I passed the back entrance to one of the local hospitals, I glanced to my right, and who should be approaching but the ubiquitous Dr. D, with MP3 player in hand and earbuds firmly placed. He popped out the earbuds when he saw me, so I took that as a signal that it was OK to stop and say hello. "Dr. D, my day is complete! First I saw "name of celebrity", now you!!" "Where was he? Maybe I'll see him, too!" he joked.
Pleasant chat ensued; we both needed to be on our way, so we parted with a comment by me about his tunes. "I won't tell you what I'm listening to, you'd probably publish it on your blog". "That is distinctly unfair!" I replied, (I put this part in just to find out if he's still a reader), while backing toward a driveway containing an oncoming car. He cautioned me to stop moving in a direction I was not looking, and saved me from being squashed. Of course, if I had been injured, at least my G.P. would have been on hand...

I note that Dr. D. is the first Brit to NOT wish to talk with me about today's election, or at least to be so polite as to not enquire about my politics.

PS Further research reveals that the woman seen with Sir You Know Who is New Yorker Nancy Shevill, age 47, (not that much younger than me!) and a multimillion dollar US heiress to New England Motor Freight, which she manages. Perhaps he's trying to "get back" some of the multi-millions that he lost to Heather... No wonder that her "Thank You" to someone over her shoulder "didn't have" an accent! Don't worry Hubster, (or church-ladies,) he seems to be taken!

Out on the Street

2008-11-04T04:25:00.001-08:00

Mmmmph. Mrrrgggghhh! Ptuh! There!! I've finally dug myself out from underneath the avalanche of laundry that threatened to take out A Flat on Abbey Road.

Understandably, Hubster and TeenE gave the miniature washer/dryer a wide berth during my eleven-day absence. TeenE had two hampers-full, which I dumped into the empty bathtub, along with my post-trip washing and Hubster's usuals. I have now been back for four days, and am on the twelfth load. There is a colorful assortment of damp clothing draped artistically over the drying racks that grace several rooms. Opening the door to the flat releases an aroma of Fairy Liquid detergent and high humidity.

Having finally run out of the liquid laundry detergent that was purchased our first week here, I had to go out for a replacement on Friday. Who knew there were so many choices? The most puzzling choice of all was to decide whether to buy "biological" detergent, or "non-biological". What could it mean? I scoured the labels for a clue.

The ones marked "biological" stated "Do Not Use on Silk or Wool", which seemed counter-intuitive to me. Silk and Wool are both biological in origin, having been grown or extruded from a living creature. The non-biological had no such restrictions, but contained warnings of eye irritation. The biological formula also made vague statements about their formula being safe but that some individuals might experience skin irritation. There went my other hypothesis, that the biological formula was made from all-natural ingredients.

I looked around for someone I could ask. Several times I made up mind to just speak up to a total stranger, but they either avoided my gaze completely or just looked me in the eye and smiled. I couldn't bring myself to do it. Finally, after about ten minutes of re-checking labels, I turned to find someone right behind me. "Excuse me, do you know what the difference is between a biological and a non-biological laundry detergent?"

The attractive young woman laughed and said "Yes, and you've asked EXACTLY the right person!!!" I'm a nurse, so I do know the difference. The biological formula contains enzymes that digest the soil and bacteria on the clothes. If they don't get rinsed out completely, they can irritate your skin when they try to digest your skin cells." She went on to say that unless your clothing is REALLY soiled, for example if your son plays rugby (he has) or your Hubster, even (he hasn't) then you usually wouldn't need the biological formula. She exclaimed again about how I had asked exactly the right person, so I explained that I usually use the detergent made for sensitive skin without added dyes or fragrance. We decided together that the Fairy brand, good for baby clothes (they also make dish detergent, which I remembered from 1978) would make a good choice. I thanked her and went on to the checkout.

After leaving Tesco, I crossed two busy streets to get back to A Flat on Abbey Road. Just ahead of me in the intersection was the helpful nurse. I raised my jug of detergent to her and said "Cheers", which is a joke that I guess only Americans who do laundry would get. I'm afraid it was lost on her. She speeded up a little as she crossed the street so she would be well ahead of me.

Yesterday, after laundry load ten entered the machine, I decided to go out and do some errands. On my way past the Abbey Road Crossing, I passed a huge contingent of French-speaking teen girls. I actually had to step into the road to avoid ruining their photo opportunity in front of the Abbey Road Studio. Once across the street, I could hear an American couple planning their next move over a map. Should we have lunch now? I wonder where we could find a restaurant? I passed them, but something in their tone made me turn back and retrace my steps. "Do you need directions?" Yes, they wanted to know where they could find a restaurant nearby. I gave them detailed directions, and they asked me how long I'd been here. We had a nice chat. They were from Connecticut, etc. They wanted to know why we lived in London, was our daughter happy, did we like it, where did we live, etc. I told them that we lived in A Flat on Abbey Road, and that we thought that made us pretty cool. They agreed, it was cool.
Meanwhile, the gaggle of French geese passed by and they thanked the young couple for helping them. Apparantly they had been on a scavenger hunt, and the man had given them the answer to the question: What was the name of Paul McCartney's dog? Too easy, I said, and proceeded to provide the name and the breed of the dog immortalized on the White Album. The woman nudged the man and said "why don't you tell her why you're here?" , so he did. He was about to attend Rock Band Fantasy Camp, with tutelage provided by somebody from o the Rolling Stones, somebody from Pink Floyd, sorry, don't know any other living personnel's names that are NOT Roger Waters, and a visit to Pete Best in Liverpool. EXTREMELY COOL. I think he wins.

I told them I keep busy by writing a blog about living in A Flat on Abbey Road. I hope they remembered the address. So here's a shout out to Mr. and Ms. Cool from Connecticut: Cheers!

My Terminal 5 Experience

2008-11-03T14:47:00.000-08:00

Jimi Hendrix said it best: "Have you ever been experienced?" Well, I have.
I have been Experienced in Terminal 5 at Heathrow Airport.

We left Boston on British Airways AHEAD of schedule. The passengers boarded, the catering arrived, the doors were closed, the paperwork was done, and we pushed back from the gate at 9:05 am, about ten minutes ahead of schedule.

Once in the air, our flight was to take about six hours. The video screen showed a tail wind of 129 mph, so we were making very good time as the coasts of Maine, Nova Scotia, and Labrador went scudding by below us.

I spent the time happily knitting away on a brown alpaca scarf, the perfect plane project, per the Head Kitten. She was right. I played Peek-a-boo with an infant while I waited for my turn in the queue for the toilet. I chatted with my seatmate, an American who was returning to her home in Marrakesh, Morrocco. I took a little snooze to escape the incessant wailing of a crying toddler, and before I knew it, we were over land again. Cornwall, Devon, and the Isle of Wight were all clearly visible as we made a slow descent. The Captain came over the PA to inform us that Air Traffic Control had asked him to slow down. There was too much traffic heading into Heathrow, and we would have to circle, which we did.

We finally landed, having lost all the time we'd made by leaving early and having a brisk tail-wind. Once on the ground, our Terminal 5 Experience began. There was no gate available for our incoming flight, so we waited near the terminal. Please bear in mind that the line for the toilet facilities had been quite long near the end of the flight, and all such activities had been curtailed by the arrival of turbulence and the subsequent lighting of the seat belt sign. I knew that I'd be able to make it until we landed, but once we were on the ground I was quite eager to deplane. We could almost reach out and touch Terminal 5, we were so close. Only 25 minutes later, and a plane pulled out and we finally approached a gate. Of course the disembarking process takes at least 20 minutes to get all the way back to row 31, so it was almost an additional hour before we were on the jetway.

I made a bee-line for the immigration area, (or was it a pee-line?) and proudly showed off my new visa. After answering a few perfunctory questions (did I have a job lined up yet? No, but Hubster does...) I was on my way out of that level via escalator. That escalator led to another one. And that one led to another one. We were clearly hamsters trapped in a Habitrail cage. Big glass windows, tubes from one level to the next to the next, it was all quite dizzying. And finally, we reached the Wheel. Well, it was a wheel for the luggage anyway, which came spinning out in due course. I decided that this was my chance for a quickie visit to the Ladies. There were several cleaners inside the facilities, but Four stalls in a row had no paper. Perhaps the hamsters had shredded it all. I was grateful to have the Fung Wah! ticket still in my bag.

After man-handling my heavy bags off the luggage wheel and strapping them together on the folding cart thingy I had purchased in New York's Chinatown, I was ready to board the Heathrow Express via a lift. A nice airline employee lady helped me figure out that you did not have to push any buttons in the elevator; it just went up, then down, all by itself.

At the down level, there was another escalator to the Heathrow/Paddington express train. Keep in mind that I have Four bags with me; a large rolling duffel bag, a computer bag and a large tote bag filled with things I picked up in Belmont (walking shoes, beads, yarn, peanut butter, corn meal for corn bread)--both of these bags are strapped to the rolling cart thingy with bungy cords, and a handbag that is so full that the magnetic clasps won't close.

I got onto the escalator just in time to hear this announcement over the PA: "Travelers with a large amount of luggage should use the lift". Too late! I dismounted the escalator relatively gracefully and came up against an obstacle: metal poles a small distance apart so one cannot abscond with the airport luggage cart. My 2-bags-on-the-folding-cart-thingy did not fit through the barrier. I had to stop and unstrap everything. Meanwhile, the Voice continued: "This train will leave in Three minutes". As I struggled to get everything through the barrier without leaving my handbag behind, the same nice airline employee lady came to my aid, and lifted the biggest bag onto the train and into the luggage area for me. Many blessings to her!!

A nice man saw me struggling to put my bungy-cord contraption back together and vacated his seat so that I could park the monstrosity next to me in the aisle.

Thus endeth my Terminal 5 Experience, as we pulled off into the tunnel to Terminal 4 and headed into central London. I wasn't quite sure which side of Paddington Station held the taxi queue, but finally noticed a black line on the floor with the words "Taxi" and an arrow pointing in the relevant direction. If only there was a clue!! There was only one party ahead of me in the taxi queue, so I was back at A Flat on Abbey Road in under five minutes. It felt good to be "home".

Surprise Party Guest--now it can be told

2008-10-30T16:45:00.000-07:00

Well, we're going to back up about a week and a half.

The avid reader will know that I have been in the Boston and New York areas since the 19th of October.

I planned my arrival to coincide with a surprise party for the Head Cat at the Knitten Kitten, MaryAnn. She had been told by the other knitters that this was an Oktoberfest party, while they were secretly planning to surprise her. When she learned that I might be in town, she asked if I could change my arrival date and be a surprise guest at the party. Thinking that keeping our own secret might distract her from what the rest of the crew was up to, I agreed.
She picked me up at Logan airport in Boston on the afternoon of the party, dropped me off at my Hostess Dr. Erica's to freshen up, and collected me at 4 pm (9 pm body-clock time).

We hatched a plan to hide my presence in her vehicle. While still on the highway, I reclined the front seat in which I was located, and wound up almost completely supine. I was wearing a long, hooded raincoat, so turned my head to the side and pulled the hood completely over my face.
It was a good thing, because while we were nearing our final destination, we overtook EllenL, who was hopelessly lost. She got out of her car and approached ours, had a brief conversation with MaryAnn and her son Walter (there supposedly to help with folding chairs, but he was in on the surprise birthday aspect of it). EllenL was so distracted by her being lost that she didn't even notice the body-shaped raincoat "draped" across the front seat.

We arrived at our destination with me still hidden. MaryAnn and Walter unloaded the folding chairs, and headed into the house. I gave them a few minutes to get settled, then slunk out of the car, ducking down behind it to get the lay of the land. I didn't even know which house was the party house, but MaryAnn had wisely informed me that there was a balloon on its mailbox. As I was approaching the target house, I was ducking down behind the parked cars. A man came by and looked at me strangely. I asked for Susan's house, and he led me in. Apparently he was Susan's husband Ray, of the Running Elvises fame in the Las Vegas Marathon. I didn't recognize him, because he didn't look anything like Elvis. I was trying to tell him that I was a surprise guest and he shouldn't announce me, but I'm not sure he heard me.

I entered the house hellooooing and waving royally, and found that my presence was indeed a surprise.

Wine and munchies were much in evidence, and somebody handed me a bongo drum during the silly song honoring the Birthday Kitten. The accompanying pictures illustrate the dangers of combining wine, jet lag, and bongo drums.... A good time was had by all, even Toby the dog.

Blaise-ing HOT FLASH!!!

2008-10-27T12:44:00.000-07:00

Hip-Hop Hooray!! I am told that my Tier 1 HSMP Partner Visa has been issued. Hubster called after being emailed by the New York lawyer, whose associate, Blaise, has retreived my visa-containing passport from the British Embassy in New York.

I am told that they are Fed-Ex-ing it as I write this, and I shall receive it by 9 am tomorrow.

Let's all hold our collective breaths, shall we?

I will be flying home to London on Wednesday or Thursday of this week.

Visa Limbo

2008-10-27T11:00:00.000-07:00

Yes, I am still in visa limbo. No, I do not have my passport back from the British Embassy in New York. They are having difficulty "capturing" my biometric data (fingerprints, photos) although the application itself has been approved. In essence, I am waiting for my exit papers, as I cannot leave the US without my passport.

I shall be ensconced at Erica's for a few more days, and have made a tentative plan of exiting on Thursday Oct 30th. The NY lawyer seems to think my passport will be released today, but I've heard that before (Thursday, and Friday of last week). They will have to FedEx the passport to me, so that will take an extra day.

Hoping to be back in Great Britain by Halloween (which they do not celebrate).

Lack of Forward Motion on Visa

2008-10-26T14:38:00.000-07:00

To whom it may concern:
I have left the Big Apple (report to ensue in seperate posting) and am now back in Massachusetts.
My passport is still at the British Embassy in New York. Apparantly their computer was having trouble "capturing" my biometric data, which had been so carefully done at an INS application support center in Brooklyn.
Rather than hang around NY and overstay my welcome with NYsis, I have returned to my old stomping ground of Belmont.
Yesterday's adventure included waking at 3:40 am, going back to sleep, oversleeping until 6:22 am, therefore missing the 7 am Lucky Star bus to Boston.
I left An Apartment on Third Avenue and 91st at 6:40 am, took the number 6 train to Canal Street/Chinatown, walked several blocks toward the Lucky Star bus terminal, and found that a Fung Wah! bus was leaving for Boston at 7:30 am. For those of you not familiar with the brand names, either of those buses will take you from one Chinatown to the other for a total of $15 US. If you should take a chance with the Fung Wah! bus, you run the risk of speeding up the highway going 80 mph with flames shooting out of the back of the bus while the passengers alternately implore the driver to get off his cell phone and pull the bus over, and dial 911 to report a bus fire.
We arrived in Boston in less than four hours, and that included a rest stop somewhere in Connecticut.
Once in Boston, I took the Red Line to Harvard Square, where I ran into a startled Dr. Klemens M. whilst waiting for a Belmont bus. We talked about London, the global economy, the state of the US election, and general politics. I give a shout out to his wife, Dr. Laura M., who is a Wellesley College Class of 1980 classmate of mine. "Hi, Laura!".
My bus came about 30 minutes after his left, and I was ensconced at the Knittin Kitten, the World's Best Yarn Shop, before 1 pm, where I passed a very happy afternoon knitting and chatting. MaryAnn served cheese and crackers, Marilyn brought sponge cake from Chinatown, Barbara B brought beads (being the bead pimp, she always has something shiny with which to tempt us), Claudia knitted, and Susan brought hugs and requests for recipes for the guests she was hosting in about an hour and a half.
Erica came to collect me at 5 pm, and I got cleaned up for our dinner with Elizabeth R. on Pleasant Street. As they prepared to build a fire in the fireplace after dinner, I excused myself and walked back to Erica's before the torrential rainstorm set in.

I don't know when I'll get my Visa, so I look forward to more days of visiting in Belmont.

Belmont to Big Apple update; Happy Birthday Carl and Erica!

2008-10-21T06:02:00.000-07:00

Hello, dear readers, from the lands to the West of the sacred isle, the good ol' US of A.

Being back in the town where I've spent the last twenty years is pretty surreal. It feels familiar, yet I know it's no longer my "home".
There are other people living in our house, albeit with our permission.
The tenants welcomed me, but the cats shunned me when I visited 78 Oliver. Sunny, the eleven year old feline, was napping on the sofa. She heard our voices but didn't wake. I went over to talk to her and pet her, and she woke, bolted upright, and ran right to the front door. She didn't even let me touch her. I guess that's what I deserve after abandoning her. Mystery, whom we'd had for a little over a year before moving, took her sweet time arriving downstairs from her nap in the girl's bedroom. She allowed herself to sniff my fingers, but wouldn't let me touch her, either. Heartbreaking.

Yesterday's to-do list was: walk Erica's dog, go to the chiropractor, visit Leslie for coffee, visit the house, pick up forgotten items (such as my walking shoes--now I'll really be able to walk!) help the tenants get the steam radiators all balanced and delivering heat equally, pick up crafty items for sale at the St. John's Wood Women's Club Holiday Fair on 11/11, go to the bank, drop off my absentee ballot, (another vote for Obama/Biden in Massachusetts which, due to the electoral college, will have no impact on the outcome as Mass. is already heavily democratic) take Carl out for his birthday lunch at the Indian place we used to frequent on our bi-weekly lunches, shop in Macy's (nothing I liked fit or looked good on me), walk the dog again, and take my hostess Erica out to dinner to celebrate her birthday (actually today). I then collapsed into bed at 8:10 pm.

Now it's time to walk the dog again, before I head out to the Knittin' Kitten to press my nose against the glass and wait for it to open. Then it's off to The Big Apple via the Lucky Star Chinatown-to-Chinatown bus, for my rendezvous in Brooklyn with the Fingerprint People on Wednesday. NYSis has graciously invited me to stay with her while I wait for my visa to be processed by the British Embassy in New York.

Wish me luck!!

Cake Encore, Big Explore

2008-10-18T12:02:00.000-07:00

Greetings to the devoted readership of A Flat on Abbey Road.
BlogMama is gearing up for her big trip across the pond to secure her Visa.
Here is an update on her latest activities.
We join her as of Thursday morning.

I got up early (7 am) and hit the kitchen to bake. The occasion was back-up baking for Stitchery Group. My friend MomA was hosting it at her flat due to the fact that the regular hostess was out of town. I had been researching a sour cream coffee-cake recipe, and wanted to give it a try.

The amount of batter looked like it would be too much for one round cake pan, so I decided to put half in one pan and half in another. There is a person at Stitchery with a nut allergy, so one pan went nutless while the other got a handful of chopped walnuts sprinkled in amongst the cinnamon-crumb topping. I was then hit with an epiphany. Who had indicated that he regretting letting that slice of chocolate cake get away? Why, Receptionist Extraordinaire Fabian, of course! Gateau numero deux would go over to the Hospital.

Meanwhile, slumbering Son awoke in his spacious guest accomodations on the sofa.
"Something smells good". I cut him a piece from Fabian's nut-cake, and rearranged the slices with a little space in between each one. Perhaps the guys over at the hospital wouldn't notice that the sum of the parts was less than the whole.

Other equipment was being trundled over to MomA's on Maida Vale, so I loaded up the stylin' shopping cart and hit the street via the rickety old lift. A brisk two-minute walk brought me to the front entrance of the Hospital. I am used to seeing Fabian posted at the rear reception area, so I charged in the automatic front doors (no "Shazzam!" needed) and breezed past the front desk. It was then that I heard the ubiquitous Dr. D's voice. I turned to wave hello, and who was he addressing, but Fabian, right there at the front lobby's reception area.

I stopped in my tracks and reversed my shopping cart. "Fabian! Just who I'm looking for!" I thrust the "aluminium" foil-wrapped cake, still warm from the oven, at the unsuspecting receptionist. "Fabian, you're a Blogstar, and you've been Caked!!" (I think I've invented a new TV show, a la "Punked", only much tastier. Anyone who appears on this blog will be randomly presented with a Cake.) The kind doctor made himself scarce while I chatted for a quick moment with the surprised Fabian. "I guess I have too much time on my hands, but I was baking for the Stitchery Ladies Group and decided to bring you a cake, too." I then whirled the funky shopping cart on a dime/ten pence and rolled off into the west toward Maida Vale.

The women who showed up at MomA's were a small but high-quality subset of the larger group. I enjoyed getting to know each of them a little better, and really enjoyed the tour of MomA's spacious, light-filled flat on the top floor of a building that was designed by the same architect who designed the iconic red phone boxes.

MomA's husband is the proud owner of an Espresso Machine. Neither MomA nor I had ever operated one. Once she showed me how to use it, I was hooked, and wound up being the barrista for the morning anytime anyone wanted another cup. Using the steam wand to froth up the hot milk was my favorite part. I won't be getting a machine like this anytime soon, as hitting the "Hi" street for a morning cuppa joe or an afternoon chai latte is a good excuse to get out of the house. What I'd like to know is how the Capuchin Monks, after whom the cappucino is named, managed to get the milk all hot and frothy without an electric espresso machine...

The time knitting passed too quickly, and before we knew it, it was 1 pm (13:00) and time to decamp. Upon returning to the flat, I convinced Son to hop a bus with me and we went down to Trafalgar Square to the National Gallery (free admission!). Here one can see what seems like thousands of medieval and renaissance paintings of Madonna and Child (including the "Madonna of the Rocks" as featured in The Da Vinci Code), the Holy Family, Jesus with Disciples, Holy Family with Saints, Patron ArchBishops, Popes, Virgin Martyrs, allegorical paintings of Christ's life, huge panoramas of renaissance market squares with a tiny figures in the background depicting Jesus' life and works, and countless scenes of crucifiction, etc etc. I enjoyed seeing all the expressions and realism in the paintings, but I think Son was overwhelmed with the fact that every single piece of art from 1250 through the seventeenth century was exclusively Christian.
"Isn't there any modern art in here?" he wanted to know. No, there was not. We hit the gift shop, where I bought three postcards, and then left to go across the road to St. Martin's In the Field church. I wanted to go to the crypt there and do a brass rubbing.

After accomplishing my mission there, (and doing a rubbing of a medieval-looking woman whose first name was the same as my own) we hopped back on the 139 bus and got off on Abbey Road just steps from the flat.

I have dubbed the last day of the week Tidy Friday. This is the day that I engage in all my domestic goddess rituals, such as kneeling in front of the porcelain pulpit with toilet brush, scrubbing the bathroom floors in near-prostration, using a "Hoover" to exorcise the demon dustballs, and waving the magical Method Floor Mop over the floors to sweeten the room with almond-scented floor cleaner. Once these ablutions were performed, I hit the streets with my Oyster card in hand. I was on the lookout for a fabric store where I could purchase some craft supplies.

My walk to the bus took me down the "Hi" Street. I popped into the Hospice Charity Shop to say hello to the manager and to ask if she knew of any fabric stores in the area. This is the shop where I had been team co-leader several weekends ago. My team spent two hours tidying the shop, organizing the glassware, etc (see previous posting). I guess we had done TOO GOOD a job, as the manager asked me if I would be willing to come in several mornings a week to help her do the same thing while she ran the hoover. I must have still smelled like almond-scented cleaner. We sat and talked about the shop, the hospice and Glastonbury Tor, which is a place in southwestern England to which we both feel connected. I set out on my way again.

I boarded the 274 bus to Islington and the Angel tube stop. I had done this once before when going to find a yarn store (Loop), but wanted to get a better look at the shops right near the terminus of the bus route. Unfortunately I had started out too late (2 pm) for a leisurely explore, but figured I'd just go with the flow and see what I could see. The bus ride was enjoyable, as people of all ages, nationalities and colours boarded, chatted on their phones, or adjusted their shopping. Several times a cane-wielding elder would board the bus, and someone always gave up one of the easily accessible seats and helped him or her get settled. The bus driver would always-always-always floor the accelerator pedal before the frail person was fully seated, so several pairs of hands would reach out to steady them so they wouldn't be flung to the floor.

I recognized many of the sights on this second trip on the route; two separate giant Sainsbury's Supermarkets in two neighborhoods, Her Majesty's Prison in Pentonville, playgrounds, and parks. My handy fold-up map ended just to the south of the neighborhoods through which we journied, but I had a vague idea of where we'd come out.

Once at the Angel tube stop, I thought I might get something to eat, as I hadn't had lunch yet. It's not like me to skip a meal, but I wasn't going to miss my Day Out. While looking down several side streets, I saw a poster marked "The Islington Arts and Crafts Show". Someone had told me about this, and I thought I had missed it, but there it was. This was the week for fiber arts and jewelry. If I had been looking for it I never would have found it, but there it was, right under my nose. Before I entered the gallery an unusual vehicle caught my eye. It was a pick-up truck with a huge sign that read "Bone's Breakers, 1610 Powerline Rd., Pompano Beach, Florida". I found this particulary amusing since my parents live in Pompano Beach, Florida. The next time I'm there I'll have to drive past 1610 Powerline Rd. (see photo).

I went into the Show and spent some time browsing around and talking to some of the artists and crafters. By now I was really hungry, so I thought I'd get some noodles from a noodle shop I had spotted from the bus window. "Good Karma" the sign said, so in I went and helped myself to the oriental buffet (country of origin unknown). Stepping back outside, I said to myself, OK, if that is Angel, and this is Islington High Street, then that must be.... Pentonville Road, which I knew from having been on it once thirty years before would take me towards Euston Station and eventually Baker Street or Gloucester Place, from which I could catch the 139 bus back to the flat. It was too cold and windy to be able to eat my noodles, meat, sauce and broccoli comfortably while waiting for the bus, so I had to wait until seated to get my lunch on board. I hate to eat on buses, as I consider it rude, but it was now almost 3 pm and I was really hungry, so I flung decorum to the wind.

It was a Friday afternoon and this particular stretch of road was packed. The bus had been labelled Baker Street, but when it took an unexpected turn to the south I decided to bail out. I was near Portland Place, and decided to hoof it. I went across Tottenham Court Road, which jogged some memories from my days at University College London thirty years ago. Soon I was on Grafton Way, near the University Health Centre, and University College Hospital, where I had encountered the rudest and most insensitive receptionist ever placed on the face of this earth "back in the day". It reminded me how lucky the patrons of the local hospital are to have Fabian and his compadres.

On I pressed. The sun was now completely down behind the buildings and the air grew chillier. I had my handy pocket map with me, but it was taking a while to go what looked like a hop, skip and a jump toward Gloucester Place. "Perhaps I'll stop in at the Theosophical Society there" I thought to myself. I had been meaning to do just that since I arrived, having given a few talks and workshops at Boston's Theosophical Society, located in Arlington Center just a mile from my house in Belmont. Finally, I crossed Old Marylebone Rd, took a dog-leg to the right-and-left, and thought I could spy my final street with 139 bus route. A quick glance up to my right showed a sign for the Baker Street underground stop. Why spend more time stuck in traffic when I could just hop the tube? TeenE had already phoned me to tell me she was home from school, and I had said I wouldn't be more than half an hour, so I impulsively made the right turn that would take me up to the underground stop. As I walked the one short block up towards the busy intersection, I saw a door on my right marked "Self-Realization Fellowship Founded by Paramahansa Yogananda". Once again, I had auto-piloted myself exactly to the perfect destination. This is an organization started in 1920 by one of my favorite spiritual authors, for the purposes of exploring scientific methods of meditation in the search for the fully-realized Self (i.e. the Self that knows it is connected to and part of the Source we call "God"). Yogananda taught that the historical Jesus was a fully-Realised (i.e. Christed) being, fully divine while in human form. One of his books, "Autobiography of a Yogi" is one of my top-ten books of all time, and was the inspiration for my Most Favorite Band of All Time, "YES"'s album Tales from Topographic Oceans. When I look at photos of Paramahansa Yogananda, I feel a deep love and a feeling of inner recognition of a wise and kindred soul. Serendipity? Coincidence that I should find myself on the doorstep of Yogananda's organization? I'll let you decide.

Within a moment of passing this door I was on my way into the Baker St. station, and was on a train toward St. John's Wood within two minutes. Still lost in my reverie about the afternoon, I almost missed my stop, but managed to get off the train and float up the escalator toward Grove End Road and A Flat on Abbey Road.

Once again, a simple walk, during which the cosmic auto-pilot had been in control. With the destination as Angel, and with a forkful of Good Karma, I had visited my Present, Past, and, I hope, Future, and had ultimately found parts of my Self.

Hospice Volunteer Interview and Fabian, BlogStar

2008-10-15T10:33:00.000-07:00

Date: Tuesday the 14th of October Mission: Enter the world of Hospice Volunteer
Personnel: BlogMama, assisted by Fabian, and a cameo appearance by Dr. D.

At last the appointed time had arrived for my meeting with the Hospice's Volunteer Coordinator. Avid readers may recall that she had been unavailable for volunteer intake as she had been driving the ambulance that picks up the day centre clients.

Fabian was at his post at the rear reception desk. I was greeted warmly and he remembered me from our previous conversation. He expressed some regret at letting the cake go to the gang at Front Reception in the hands of Dr. D. I promised that I'd remedy the situation in the near future. I asked him if he was aware of his presence on this blog. He had not been informed of this by the other blogee, and was really pleased to hear of his near-fame. He asked to have his photo featured. I promised I'd do that, but was eager to be sent through the infamous double doors and into the inner sanctum.

As I charged through the doorway, I forgot to keep to the LEFT as is the usual pedestrian pattern, and nearly bowled over the unsuspecting Dr. D, who was busy disinfecting his hands with the anti-bacterial goo.

I was able to find the hospice reception desk, and while I waited for the VC, was asked by no less than four friendly helpful people if I needed assistance. The last person, a volunteer, offered to go get her for me.

The VC spent over an hour with me, explainining the hospice, it's history, mission, clientele, etc.
I was taken on the Grand Tour, and saw that many of the common rooms and patient rooms had a pleasant view out over the green lawn flanking Grove End Road. I was given a large packet of paperwork to fill out, and was on my way after about an hour and a half. I reappeared in the back lobby, and was disappointed to see that Fabian was not at his post. The helpful young lady who had replaced him suggested that he might be out at the front desk. Alas, he was not.

I left without having helped him to his paparazzi moment.

Today I did find him at his post, and he was ready for his close-up, so appears both posed and candid. Hooray, Fabian!

Son visits us

2008-10-14T14:26:00.000-07:00

We were delighted to welcome Son to London on Sunday morning. His direct flight took off from Raleigh, NC at 5:55 pm EDT Saturday, and landed in London shortly after 6 am BST Sunday. He took the Express train to Paddington, where he was met by Hubster at around 7:45. They were back at A Flat on Abbey Road by 8:15.

Son had slept only a little on the flight, but was eager to go out and explore. I took him on the 15-minute tour of St. John's Wood. We walked past the American School, the SJW tube stop, the library, the post office, Tesco's, Starbucks (where we fueled up), walked down the Hi Street, through the SJW Church park and cemetary, past Lord's Cricket Ground, past you-know-who's house, and back to Abbey Road. He was still raring to go, so we hopped a 189 bus to Oxford Street, where we disembarked at the top of Regent's Street, walked down that to Piccadilly Circus, down past the Duke of York's column, saw a lot of white trailers parked near the column, which son correctly identified as film-making trailers, crossed the Mall JUST behind a Kenyan runner, who was the first of a dribble of runners which later turned into a torrent of half-marathoners (we unknowingly timed it just right). We paused at a sandwhich stand for his breakfast, then pressed on through St. James' Park towards Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. It was a bright and sunny day that had dawned in mist but was getting progressively clearer as the sun rose higher. At this point we called the other two family members and motivated them to join us at the London Eye.

Son and I went over Westminster Bridge and I got on line for tickets. Meanwhile, the duo of TeenE and Hubster took the underground to Westminster and planned to rendezvous with us. We got in the queue for the queue for the queue, and went to the front of that several times as we awaited their arrival. One could not get in the real queue for the queue until all members of one's party were present with ticket in hand.

Hubster and TeenE finally arrived around noon, aided by the skillful use of "mobile" phones which allowed us to spot each other more easily. We then had our tickets marked with the special orange marker, and got in the queue for the queue. We went past signs that said NO FOOD OR DRINK ALLOWED PAST THIS POINT. We snaked around the roped barriers, and finally were at the top of the queue for the queue. At this point, one broke from the ranks and dashed across an open space to get into the real queue. The people behind us thought they'd make a break for it, but they did not count on my sharpened elbows and finely honed instincts as a New Yorker, which prevented them from gaining an advantage on us. Son laughed openly at their brazen yet pathetically ineffectual attempt.

The wait from the back of the real queue was about another half an hour. TeenE and I knew the experience would be well worth the wait, as we had ridden on the Eye the previous November when we came to stake out the school and neighborhood. That trip had been at night. We were looking forward to seeing the daytime panorama of the Thames and the city stretched out in the glorious sunshine.

At last we boarded a pod with a dozen other people. I was glad that I had not paid 3 additional pounds for the "guide book", which illustrated many landmarks, as a mother with an eight-year-old son loudly narrated most of the guidebook for the "benefit" of anyone who had to listen. From it's location near Waterloo station and the Marriott County Hall, the huge loops and meanders of the Thames can be seen. For example, the Tower of London can NOT be seen from the Eye as it is obscured by a bend in the river.

After our 1/2 hour rotation on the giant hamster wheel was complete, we got some snacks, and I showed the troops how to get to the Waterloo bus station to board the 139 bus, which took us past Aldwych, through the Strand and Trafalgar Square, up Regents Street, onto Oxford Street, up Gloucester Place, past Baker Street, into Lisson Grove and finally St. John's Wood, where it deposits us right in front of the Abbey Road Studios, i.e. a short hop from our Flat.

The rest of the day was spent relaxing. I went for an afternoon walk over to Primrose Hill, which is at the northern-most point of Regent's Park. There were HUNDREDS of people grouped in clumps on the lawns and atop the hill. It was warm enough for me to take off my shoes and feel the late-summer grass between my toes. I rolled up my jacket into a pillow and had a little "quiet time" at the top of the hill, listening to the pleasant buzz of many conversations. At one point a six-year old boy challenged his younger sister to roll down the hill. "Noooooo" she shrieked. "I don't think I have the strength!!!" Hundreds of grownups smirked and wished that they could be her age and have the uninhibited joy of rolling down the grassy hill until dizzy and spent.

My quiet reverie was interupted by the arrival of a bunch of Kiwis who smelled like beer and regaled each other with tales of not remembering whom they were with last night or how they got home. I reluctantly put my shoes back on and trudged home, about a 20-minute walk. After all that exertion, I laid down for a nap and awoke to find that Hubster had made dinner. Hooray, Hubster!

I shall relate more of our Adventures with Son and TeenE tomorrow.

Regent's Park Rendezvous

2008-10-09T13:27:00.000-07:00

Today held some of the most gorgeous weather I have ever seen in my life. The sky was as blue as the giant antique porcelain vase in Paris' Musee d'Orsay. The trees on the leafy streets of NW8 were a tapestry of greens and golds. On a clear autumn day in the US, I would be suffering from ragweed-induced hay fever, at least until the first frost killed all the pollen. I have never been able to enjoy clear fall weather without nasty sniffles and itchy eyes. This is not true here in the UK. They do not have the kind of ragweed species that occurs in the US. This makes any kind of outdoor activity so much more enjoyable.

I had a visitor this morning: my first guest for tea. MomA has two kids at ASL, and is on leave from her faculty post at Dartmouth College. So not only do we have the Hanover, NH scene in common (we lived there for two years 1986-88 while Hubster got his MBA, and our Son was born there, too) but MomA randomly mentioned her friend Elizabeth G, who is a Wellesley College classmate of mine. MomA had plans for a book club lunch, so when she left, I procured the groceries. After they were all put away, the Regent's Park homing beacon pulled me out of the door and into the sunshine.

The neighborhood was full of families walking to Yom Kippur services at the four local synagogues. Moms and nannies were manuvering push-chairs with uniformed pre-schoolers home for their lunches and naps. Almost every dog in NW8 was out for air. The sun, although low in the sky at the noon hour due to this northern latitude, had managed to warm the air into the upper 60's F. The weather was truly a gift. I mean to re-wrap it and take it off the shelf again in the gray days of winter.

For the past seven weeks I have been trying to get Hubster and TeenE to walk with me to Queen Mary's Rose Garden at the center of Regent's Park. They always seem underwhelmed at the prospect, so we never got there. Today, I struck out on my own. I had a strong sense of anticipation, as if I were going out on purpose to meet someone on a planned rendezvous. Whom would I meet on this walk? There is always someone interesting to watch, or a dog to admire, or someone to say hi to on my walks when I am mindful to notice these things. I decided to walk with open eyes, mind, and heart. I took a different route than usual to the park, following my intuition, and thinking... whom will I meet today? Somebody important, or famous, or maybe a new friend? I couldn't wait to find out.

By now I know the quickest route to the Inner Circle of Regent's Park. I walked past the athletic fields where TeenE sometimes has her gym class. The grass was being mown, and I remembered all those fall days when we used to drive Son and his buddies in the red minivan to different towns to play soccer in the "travelling league".

I passed over the bridge that crosses the waterfowl lagoon. Colorful birds, some with orange beaks, some ducks with teal feathers, and some brown bufflehead ducks floated and splashed in their warm-weather ritual. A squirrel eyed me for quite a while, as if doing the old Jedi mind-trick: "You will feed me nuts now". I ignored him/her. Most of the trees and shrubbery near the lagoon are still green and flowering, but some species are just now becoming edged in scarlet or yellow ochre.

The path to the centre of the inner circle led me right past the cafe. Feathery white Pampas grass ten feet high sheltered the al fresco diners from the passers-by. I passed row upon row of labeled delphinium beds, the most vibrant blue in the plant kingdom. I had been this way before, on the way to see Gigi at the Open Air Theatre. Finally, I passed into Unknown Territory, or at least territory unseen by me for thirty years. My last visit to this garden had been in the fall of 1978.

American gardens have never held rose beds such as these. Each huge bed holds hundreds and hundreds of plants of the same species, and is marked by a sign giving the Name of the Rose. All rose colours are represented, from the deepest reds to the palest pinks, the sunniest yellows to the warmest sunset-peach. Each rose bed is separated from its neighbors by a tidy strip of perfectly-mowed lawn. Some of the rose plants have all lost their leaves, but the tops are still covered with masses of blooms. Some plants have both blooms and ripe rose hips drooping from them like scarlet baroque pearls. All the rose beds form a huge circle. On one side of the circle there is an ornate gilded iron gate. The huge circle is bisected by a straight path flanked with a scores of park benches on each side. Most benches were occupied; others had felt the magic pull of the park as I had. A pre-verbal toddler shreiked with delight and pointed at the giant leaf-sucking machine that disturbed the scene. A gaggle of adolescent girls in their school uniforms appeared, each with a sketch pad tucked under her arm. They were all laughing and sparkling, having been sprung from prison early. Couples sat on the benches, absorbed in each other's secrets and enjoying precious moments connecting. Younger men read philosophy books, families picnicked, and older men debated politics while strolling in clumps of two or three. Every tenth bench held a person stretched out for a snooze.

I followed the sound of water to discover a man-made waterfall cascading over huge chunks of granite into a pond. Giant fuschia shrubs were a riot color. People took pictures of each other among the plants. Willows weeped, larches draped, and the sun danced off the pond. Other minds and hearts were open there. Every race and culture from London's vast array was represented; people living and loving in peace.

I stopped to admire a particularly lovely orange tapestry of petals, named Typhoon. The name made me think of last weekends torrential rains, and I wondered how all those roses had managed to keep so many of their blooms intact. After about an hour and a half, I reluctantly turned toward the exit of the inner circle. All that walking and wondering had made me thirsty, and what better way to slake one's thirst in a rose garden than... an ice cream cone! A single scoop of mint chocolate chip was served up. A young couple, presumably American students, came to the ice cream stand to ask if anyone knew the way to the boathouse. Luckily for them, I did, and gave them the quickest way to get there. I guess they didn't really believe me, because they promptly went over to the map sign nearby, then took off in the opposite direction. My way northward out of the park took me right past them on the waterfowl bridge, where they were awkwardly attempting to take a picture of themselves with the camera pointing right into the sun, which, as it was now nearly 3 pm (15:00) was almost down behind the buildings at the edge of the park. I positioned them facing the other way and got a good shot of the two of them with their ice cream cone (blackcurrent cheesecake flavour). As we headed on our way off the bridge, the young man said to me "So, did you do a lot of boating back in the day?" I was aghast! "Back in the day??? What, do you think I'm old?" He laughed and tried to save himself. "I mean, back in the 1950's, or 60's or whenever?" "You mean in the LATE '70's, which was only thirty years ago, because I'm ONLY 50 years old?" The girl elbowed him to shut him up, but it was too late. The damage had been done. "No, I didn't do a lot of boating when I was here in college, I just know where the boats are because I want to take my daughter and her friends there some day" . The girl tried to save the situation. "Well, where are you going now?" I gestured off to the north. "I'm going to St. John's Wood, where I live. It is the neighborhood right next to that side of the park." She smiled. "We live on Abbey Road, which we think is cool, because we're OLD". They laughed and we parted ways.

My feet were ready for a rest by this point, but I dragged on, feeling my age. I took yet another back street toward home, and managed to pass a building flying the Tibetan flag. It was Tibet House. Not exactly an embassy, as Tibet is no longer its own country, but a cultural centre for the Tibetan community of London. Around the corner, but still a part of the same building, was the Oriental Medicine Center of London. I poked my head in and picked up a few brochures. Lots of acupuncturists, oriental herbal medicine, energy healers of every description, meditation facilitators, chi gung practitioners, you name it. If it is Oriental, and a healing modality, it was there, along with an invitation to hear the Dalai Lama speak this weekend in Basel, Switzerland, on the 37 paths of the Boddhisatva. I made a mental note to make a return visit, and sped up for the final stretch, arriving home after a total of two hours.

This walk was the single most satisfying experience of my time in London so far.

So, whom did I meet at the center of the Garden? I met my Self.

ASL Community Service Day--Sunday Oct. 5th

2008-10-08T13:43:00.000-07:00

It was a dark and stormy morning. A door slammed. The maid screamed. Suddenly, a shot rang out. Meanwhile, on the horizon, a pirate ship appeared...

Oops, apologies to both Bulwer-Lytton AND "Snoopy" of Peanuts fame, who is more directly quoted above.

It was a dark and stormy morning, however. A low-pressure system swirled in a circular pattern over the midsection of England. As Hubster and TeenE lay snug in their beds, BlogMama heeded the call of the alarm and pried herself out from under the duvet at 7:30 am.
This was because I had volunteered to be a team co-leader for the American School in London's semi-annual Community Service Day. The site I had chosen to lead a team of helpful volunteers reflects two of my passions, hospice care, and rummage sales. Yes, both are represented in one spot by the St. John's Hospice Charity Shop, situated on the "Hi" Street. This also had the added bonus of being a site we could walk to, which came in handy as our Jubilee Underground line was closed for "scheduled maintainance" and many other groups had to find other ways to get to their service sites.

This year, 341 people from the school volunteered. There were 61 high school students, many family groups, staff and teachers, and individual parents like me. There was a rah-rah kick-off meeting in the school's "Commons" (lunchroom) at 8:30 am, and then we all straggled out in the rain.

I was assigned a high school student as a co-leader. Mohammed had been a site leader at the Hospice Shop before, so he knew the manager there and what was expected of the team.
Our team had the two co-leaders, a family of four, a teacher, another high school student, and the shop manager's eleven year old son.

It was too rainy to get any planting of the back garden done, so we fanned out through the tiny shop, dusted and polished the bric-a-brac to within an inch of its life, color-coordinated the outfits, reorganized the displays, put price tags on shoes, etc. The manager had arranged hot chocolate from Harry Morgan's restaurant across the street, and a big box of Crispy Creme donuts, which they sell in the local mini-mart. After the sugar buzz wore off we were just about done anyway, so we left after about two hours so the shop could open at it usual Sunday noon time.

I told the manager that I will be back for a regular shift at the shop. That is how I will get my "rummage sale" fix while I am absent from the one at Plymouth Church in Belmont, Mass. Note to church rummagers: I tried to get the team to put on all the silly hats in the shop, but I am sad to say I failed to motivated them properly. Perhaps the presence of a high school photographer made them more self-conscious than usual..

Mushroom Trip X 2, or you say tomato, I say mushroom

2008-10-04T12:02:00.000-07:00

Yes, it was a Magical Mystery Tour through the streets of NW8 today in search of ... mushrooms.

The planned menu item of Coq au Vin required a quantity of mushrooms. Accordingly, I set out for Panzer's Delicatessan to score some of the white variety. They have a lovely selection of produce arrayed outside the shop. The white mushrooms were loose in a bin, with no price nearby, and no implement other than one's own hand with which to select them. I asked the clerk if I should select them myself, or have him help me. He joked "call the police if anybody tries to stop you". I chose a little brown paper sack in which to place them. They were duly weighed and I owed 2 pounds 49 (for two handfuls of mushrooms!) I'm still a little iffy with the change denominations, so it took some effort to count out the change I received back. After pocketing the change, I grabbed the little brown sack and made my way home.

A few hours later, Hubster said "what's in this bag?" He looked, and low and behold, there were several tomatoes in the bag.

I went back out again, this time to Tesco, the little chain grocery store on the "Hi Street".
My choice of shrink-wrapped white button mushrooms were 77 pence for the regular, or 88 pence for the organic. It was almost exactly the same amount of mushrooms as the cute little brown bag of loose ones from Panzers.

We did eventually enjoy the Coq au Vin, including the delicious ragout of mushrooms cooked in red wine.

HOT FLASHBACK!! Sewing machine redux

2008-10-04T06:21:00.000-07:00

Before we left Boston, Barbara B of the Knittin' Kittens encouraged me to pack my sewing machine so I could be crafty here in London. We did just that.
I unpacked it today, and was reminded of the following incident that occurred only 18 months ago. Why the machine deserved to be transported over here after the way it behaved in Belmont is open for discussion.

I republish this classic blog entry for the edification of my newest readers.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday, April 02, 2007

WOMAN MAULED IN VICIOUS SEWING MACHINE ATTACK !!

At approximately 8 pm last night Eastern standard time, a Massachusetts woman was injured in what appears to be a vicious, unprovoked attack by her sewing machine. The woman, whose name was not immediately available, was placidly sewing on some costumes for a children's school musical production when her sewing apparatus attacked with no warning.

With scorpion-like swiftness, the machine reached out and pierced the innocent woman's left index finger with it's needle-sharp needle. The sound of snapping metal reverberated throughout the room and a searing pain overtook her. She immediately stood up and examined the finger, from which part of the needle was seen protruding, having gone in through the top of the fingernail and partially out the fingertip. The only other evidence of this random impalement was a single drop of blood oozing from the fingernail. She loudly called upstairs, alerting her family to the fact that she was in need of immediate medical attention. Her devoted husband drove her to the nearest hospital, using the exact route they had rehearsed only thirteen years earlier in readiness for the birth of their second child at that very hospital. In the waiting room, she ran into xxxxxxxx, who owns the local ice cream emporium and who remembers her from 19 years ago when, during the hottest summer on record, she used to wheel her first-born in his stroller up to the corner for ice cream and air-conditioning. Xxxxxxx was in the emergency room with his father, who had been in the industrial sewing machine business, and who insisted on finding out what brand and type of machine had gone so horribly wrong. Chatting with them was a good antidote to the searing pain now throbbing through the woman's hand. In between shouting her answers at the elderly partially-deaf man, they watched "Dancing with the Stars" and assessed their chances of being seen any time in the near future.

The woman soon received superior care at the hospital and was home in under three hours from the time of the accident. She received before-and-after x-rays, a local anesthetic injection into the affected finger, extraction of most of the needle, potent pain management medications, and a band-aid. She also had to endure the radiologist's story of how he had nailed two of his fingers together with a nail gun. She was prescribed potent painkillers, which she advised the medical professional would keep her up all night cleaning the house. No, no, they said. This will make you sleepy AND kill the pain, unlike a sedative. Whilst waiting for the taxi that would take her home, she decided she really did need to lessen the pain, as the local anesthetic began to wear off. Arriving home at 10:45 pm, she began to putter around the house, doing dishes, tidying up, and writing this memoir of the occasion while under the influence of the "narcotics", which had absolutely NO sleep-inducing effect.

Due to the fact that a fragment of metal remains in her fingertip, even though she is actually able to use it without pain to type this report, she will undergo medical follow-up by the hand specialist in a day or two, with an in-patient surgical procedure to remove the remaining fragment of steel in the days to follow.

The sewing machine could not be reached for comment. It may be quarantined and/or destroyed.

HOT FLASH!! Travel to US booked

2008-10-04T06:02:00.000-07:00

Hello Dear Readers

It's official! I will be gracing the skies over the Atlantic during my travel to and from the US to finalise my visa situation.

I shall arrive in Boston on Monday, October 20th, stay there for a few days, visit family, submit my electronic application and get fingerprints done, take the Lucky Star bus from Boston's Chinatown to NY's Chinatown, stay in NY while the lawyer there gets the marriage certificate and my passport to the British Embassy there, wait for the the visa to be issued (usually takes 1-2 days but no guarantee), return to Boston with Visa in hand, and fly out from there on Tuesday, Oct. 28th.

At that point, it should be all over but the shouting.

keeping a low profile

2008-10-03T14:12:00.000-07:00

Hello Dear Blog Readers
There is not much new to report from the Mean Streets of NW8, except of course that Hubster arrived back from NYC this morning, with visa firmly attached to his passport. He starts work at an international financial consulting firm on Monday, 6 Oct. I shall play the "Hallelujah Chorus" during breakfast as a send-off.

He arrived home still suffering from the head-cold virus with which he left and promptly went to bed to sleep off jet lag.
Meanwhile, the virus that I thought I had beaten seemed to linger on. I attempted a brisk workout at The Gym, but was daunted by the sight of the rowing machine. I avoided it until the end of my work-out, and fortunately/unfortunately, it was occupied by a brawny male athlete. I was relieved that I would not have to compete with the electronic pace boat. I came back to A Flat on Abbey Road and crashed on the sofa until the bedroom was vacated, then slept until after dinner-time. I am hoping that the sore-throaty thing doesn't last too much longer.

We are looking forward to Son's visit on the 12th of October, and TeenE's 15th birthday on Tuesday 7 Oct. We will probably save the celebration until after her brother's arrival.

I am making plans for a visit to NYC and/or Belmont for the issuance of my own visa.
Cheers!

Kilo Conversion Conundrum

2008-10-01T06:23:00.000-07:00

A miraculous healing of the tummy occured overnight, and I dressed for the gym this morning after doing my domestic goddess rites.

It was quite breezy and about 50 degrees F as I made my way to the gym at Lord's Cricket Ground. The curly brown chestnut leaves that have already fallen swirled around in the gusts of wind. The rest of the trees are still in full leaf, and most gardens are still blooming behind the high brick walls, with neat displays of impatience, fuschia, anemones, passionflower vines, and geranium competing with each other in a restrained, tidy, well-pruned way. Walking the "back way" down Circus Road presents a quieter, more residential feel than the Grove End Road way. Plus, it plants me right at the top of Sir You-Know-Who's street, which really IS on the way to the North Gate of Lords Cricket Ground. I keep remembering the dream I had a few months before we came over of hovering around the top of Sir YKW's kitchen on Cavendish Ave., watching his daughters cook.

Once at the gym, I filled out all the requisite paperwork for membership and hit the machines. A quick warm-up on the cross-trainer was followed by a series of crunches (woefully inadequate due to disuse) I will have to work back up to banging out 160 crunches again.

The weight/resistance machines are all lined up in a row, so I just started with the first one and worked my way down. I hadn't really been to the gym except once since March, when we heard about Hubster's job loss and my dad's stroke. Then all summer, I was busy cleaning, packing and repairing the house. It felt good to be kickin' A again. As I moved from machine to machine, I would pop the weight-selection pin into the numbered hole that I remembered from my SuperFitness days. Doing 12 reps times 3 with rests in between felt really good, if not just a little challenging.

Finally I got to a machine that I could not remember how to use. I had to get the trainer to come over and demonstrate the correct set-up. "How many kilos do you want?" he asked. Kilos? KILOS? I thought they were pounds, not kilos! So the leg press where I pounded out what I thought was 100 pounds was really 100 kilos, or rougly 220 pounds. I had more than doubled my muscle output on ALL of the machines. I fear that I will pay for this tomorrow. I guess I have forfeited the right to tease a certain doctor about being the Marquis of Kilo Mismeasurement. I shall annoint myself the Queen of Conversion Mismanagement.

I finished up with a cardio workout. My new favorite way to do this is the Concept2 rowing machine. You can set the digital display for however many meters you want (e.g. 2000), and it will keep track of your time, distance, and rate. You can also set it to display a little "pace boat" which will keep you motivated and allow you to save something for the final 150 meters. I asked the trainer to come over and beat the Roman slavedriver's drum to keep me moving for the last 500. Unfortunately, we started chatting, which has the effect of slowing one down. I requested that he put on some Led Zeppelin and "turn it up to eleven", but the TV was showing UK's version of survivor instead, with hungry, scantily-clad Brits whining about each other and the weather (what else is new?) I was able to shave 4.4 seconds off my previous attempt at 2,000 meters, and look forward to posting my continuing results on the Concept2 website. I now officially issue a challenge to any blog readers with access to a Concept2 machine to a row-off.

I am now fit and ready to tackle the mean streets of NW8!

Dancing in the Streets!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2008-10-01T01:28:00.001-07:00

Hello Dear Readers

If you go to the Abbey Road WebCam today, (http://www.abbeyroad.co.uk/, click on "webcam) you may just see me Dancing in the Streets!!

This is because Hubster HAS BEEN ISSUED HIS VISA. This is will enable him/us to work. No more house-hubstering for hubster!

Hip-Hop Hooray!!

Also, there was a reported Hubster-sighting by NYC-Sister yesterday afternoon. You'll remember her as the one who called me at the crack-of-dawn on my birthday to remind me that I was 50.

Instant Weight Loss Plan B

2008-09-30T12:01:00.001-07:00

Instant Weight Loss Plan A was last week's tummy symptoms. This occured after a visit to the zoo and was attributed to something that I must have eaten there. Then Hubster experienced it just before leaving for NYC, but he also had sniffles, so I decided it must have been a virus.

IWL Plan B appears to be a week-later revisitation of similar symptoms, and includes a nascent sore throat.

I thought I had been so virtuous yesterday in giving up the chocolate mousse cake. Perhaps my lack of appetite for the heavenly confection (chocolate contains theobromine, literally, "the food of the gods) was really due to a return of the viral symptoms. I hardly touched my dinner, went to bed early, and then was awakened by activity by downstairs neighbors at 1 am. Huge tummy rumbles were interpreted as a late-night "hunger attack". I assuaged them with chocolate "digestive biscuits" and milk. The "digestives", however, are certainly not living up to their name. (these are sweet wheat cookies with chocolate coating on one side). Today's "dinner" menu is limited to a can of store-bought chicken-noodle soup and crackers. Amazingly, yesterday afternoon I cooked up a huge pot of chicken soup, let it boil down to almost nothing, and promptly left it out overnight on the stove. I tossed it in "the bin" this morning. At least I know today's extravaganza isn't due to the ruined soup OR the chocolate mousse cake that I so selflessly donated to science.

A Weighty Matter

2008-09-30T04:38:00.000-07:00

Finally, another positive customer service experience (we have had fine experiences with grocery-delivery service) !

John Lewis, whom I'm informed will be my "new best friend" is a department store that offers free delivery. This way, one does not have to haul bulky items home on the bus from either the Brent Cross Shopping center, or the bustling Oxford Street shopping district, served directly by one of the Abbey Road buses.

New purchases fitting the description of Bulky (not Bahlke) are: 2 new bed pillows, and TA-DA, a bathroom scale. In a toe-to-toe fight, which do you think will win? Bing! In this corner, the cheapo mechanical scale from the department store, or, in the red corner, the fancy digital one belonging to the Marquis of Kilo Mismeasurement over at the hospital?

Bing! It's a knockout! The cheapo scale wins with an uppercut to the left cheek!
It wins by 2.5 kilos (LOWER than the hospital scale). You'll have to do the conversion yourself. I actually have no idea, but probably in the range of 6-7 pounds, as this scale also weighs one in "stone", which equals 14 pounds, and I can do THAT math.

I had a restless night being bothered by the downstairs neighbors, so I'm going to go test-drive the pillows now.... z z z z z z z z

Rush Hour on Abbey Road

2008-09-29T23:23:00.000-07:00

HOT FLASH!!

At 7:13 am today, British Summer Time, there was a lull in the traffic noises below our fourth-story window, followed by the rhythmic clopping sounds of... could it be.... Horses?

A dash to the window provided me with a fine view of a troop of horses moving quickly up Abbey Road. The horses passed in groups of three, with a raincoated officer on the middle one, flanked by one on each side. They were going by at a pretty good clip, and there must have been at least 50 of them. They stretched from the beginning of our window-view to the end. They took up a whole lane. The traffic in the southbound lane was stopped completely.
There is a horse barracks here in St. John's Wood, over on Ordnance Hill near the "Hi" Street.
I walked passed it once. The gate was guarded by a guy in army camo fatigues with a rifle in his hands. It's good to know the horses are safe.

Shout-out to my anagram peeps, and "let them eat cake"

2008-09-29T08:35:00.000-07:00

First to weigh in with the correct solution to the anagram "up my lacerant C" et al is John Bates of Gloucester, Mass, followed closely by Devon Frye of Phoenix, Arizona, and, in third place,
Rosemary Carter of Waltham, Mass, all of the USA. Now we know who is up late on Sunday nights wasting their time reading this ridiculous blog!! Cheers. I will not publish the correct answer so that the rest of you can wrangle with it.

Ran into a local erstwhile blog reader today, but said individual has either not been diligent in keeping up with the latest entries requiring anagram-solving, or chose not to expose Blogmama's identity in public. I'll give the individual the benefit of the doubt and go with the latter--you know who you are.

This encounter happened after I had "tea" (read, coffee) with some of the St. John's Women's Club ladies at Cafe Richoux near the "hi" street. There were seven of us there, and I had a chance to chat with the two who were closest to me. Despite being a known celebrity hang-out (you-know-who has been personally seen there by one of the women) the service was terribly slow. It took two hours to get served tea, a platter of finger sandwiches (cucumber & butter, salmon and ?, chicken and mayo, egg salad, all on soft bread with the crusts cut off) and a platter of scones, fresh butter, and jam/marmalade. As school-release time approached, the moms became restless. It turned out that our prix-fixe tea included a slice of cake each, and not one of us had the time or room to spare for the crowning confection. We got seven slices of chocolate mousse cake individually boxed and each went on our way.

On the way home, I stopped by the reception desk at the Hospital to see if I could track down the volunteer coordinator, who has been putting me off since I got here about coming in to volunteer. I had carefully laid my plans last May, and was told that all I needed to do when I got here was pop by for her to inspect my passport and to apply for a criminal background check. I've been phoning and emailing her to no avail, to set up an appointment to do just that. One day I even went over in person, but the receptionist sent me through the door and shouldn't have, as I wound up right in the middle of the lunch-time tray service in the hospice itself and was escorted out the door by a frazzled Volunteer Coordinatrix. She told me that she was swamped, as their ambulance driver had gone on holiday, and the replacement drivers that had been sent were not working out. She wound up having to drive the ambulance herself, and put me off until she was done with that. I knew that the backgound check would take weeks or months before I could actually begin volunteering, and I knew that once I had my work visa I'd be doing more than just volunteering, and wanted to get the hospice on my weekly schedule before it got full of other commitments (knitting group, anyone?)

I went to the reception area, still carrying the box of cake, and decided I would give it to the VC if she seemed even remotely friendly. ("let them eat cake" not-withstanding, a little chocolate mousse cake might have been able to sweeten her). Fabian, the friendly young gentleman receptionist suggested that I go right on through the double doors to find her, but I knew better than to pull that stunt twice. He was then happy to phone VC for me. She'd be out in five minutes, I was told.

As I waited in the reception area, a lot of drama unfolded. Fabian was distracted from his phone-answering and his Sudoku-puzzling by the need to give patients directions to various offices, obtain a porter for a shouting elderly woman who needed a wheelchair, chat with staff dropping by to talk about football, discuss the need for a consistent set of judging rules on questionable football calls by the line judge, help someone for whom the automatic doors would not open by saying "shazzam!" (at which point they opened on their own), tell other staff members what celebrities they looked like, etc. I was so engrossed by his performance that I didn't notice that a full twenty minutes had elapsed. "Fabian, do you reckon that she's forgotten me?" I asked. He reckoned that she had, and got on the phone again. He reported that she'd gotten waylaid, and would be right out.

That was when I decided that the offering of chocolate mousse cake would probably not go over too well. There had to be another option for it besides it coming home to reside in my fridge, from whence it would call my name in the night until I subdued it with a fork and a glass of milk.
Aha! Perhaps Fabian would do me the favor of taking it home. "Oh Fabian... do you like chocolate mousse cake?" He brightened visibly, then shook his head. "No, I'm trying to keep the weight down, I really mustn't, thank you, though, I'd love it really, but I need to say no, thanks, I'm trying to, you know, ...." He looked like a fine specimen to me, but I wasn't going to press any further. I told him why I was trying to give it away.

"I've just moved here", I said, "and although I do a lot of walking now, Dr. D's scales tell me that I am gaining weight. I told him that they are in serious need of re-calibration, but I'm afraid it's the chocolate cake, the beer, and the Stilton and Wensleydale cheeses that are influencing them." Fabian smiled a twinkly smile that let me know he was sympathetic to my plight. "I just love a mature cheddar cheese myself" he said. I was just about to go into a reverie about English cheeses when who should enter the lobby but the Marquis of Kilo-Mismeasurement himself.

"Hello!" he said, although I'm not sure if it was to Fabian, or to both of us, if indeed he even recognized me. "Ah, Dr. D., we were just talking about how your scales are in serious need of re-calibration. "Yes, I know" he began to joke. I received a doctorly handshake. "Are you here for the hospice?" He had been previously informed of my interest in volunteering. "Yes, I'm waiting to talk to VC". Without thinking, I thrust the gilded box of cake towards him. "Here, I think YOU should have this piece of chocolate mousse cake, since your scales tell me that I really shouldn't eat it, and Fabian here won't take it." The kind doctor gamely tried to offer it to Fabian, who continued in his steadfast refusal. A struggle of wills ensued, with the end result of Dr. D. taking the chocolate mousse cake with the intention of sharing it with the guys "out front", presumably in the main hospital reception area. Better the cake should be in their hands (and ultimately, cells) than on my hips and less-than flat abs. All the more carbohydrate fuel for them to convert into lactic acid, which in the presence of oxygen should enable their cells to metabolize stored energy into electrical signals, creating muscle contractions and therefore, work, and heat. (Oops, sorry, lapsing into a past-life experience involving frog dissection.)

This calorie-filled cake exchange was interrupted by the entrance of VC, who did not recognize me at ALL, and who was underwhelmed to see me, to say the least. I was able to get onto her calendar in a few weeks' time to start the criminal record background-check process. I sincerely hope that the illegal U-turn that I was caught doing in 1992 by Belmont's Finest doesn't come back to haunt me. Don't hold your collective breaths, dear readers. I'm more likely to have tea with Busta Rhymes, P. Diddy, and Snoop Dogg combined (all apparently clients of our solicitor) AND to do Reiki on HRH the Queen before I am allowed to volunteer at the hospice.

This was entirely too much excitement, so I left to go rest up on the bench at the famous road crossing, to wait for TeenE's exit from her voice lesson nearby. I waved toward the web-cam in case any of you were watching, and directed a couple of Japanese tourists to the correct "zebra crossing" (there is another one perpendicular to the correct one).

After all that excitement, TeenE and I retired to A Flat on Abbey Road, to make and consume fresh pesto on angelhair pasta and do our respective homework.

Immigration Hip-Hop

2008-09-29T08:28:00.000-07:00

News flash: Hubster is in NYC applying for the visa which will allow him/us to work in the UK. He has been in recent contact with our UK solicitor whom we have retained for advice.

It turns out the solicitor had an emergency case on his hands last Friday. His client Busta Rhymes was denied entry to the UK for the performance at a concert, despite having held a valid work permit and two previous entries this year since pleading guilty to assault last January in NYC. Smiling face of solicitor outside the Court is available to view by googling "Busta Rhymes London". I'm glad we have such high-profile representation.

Hubster should be back here on Thursday. Let's hope he does not forget the Skippy peanut butter, and is able to navigate the green "nothing to declare" line at Heathrow without incident.