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...
Love and Light
- BlogMama
- London, NW8, United Kingdom
- A "recovering academic", I have left the world of research and teaching Psychology. My current focus is on offering hypnotherapy, Reiki, and spiritual support for clients and hospice residents. I like to express myself through the arts, especially drama (the quirky-comic relief part),stand-up comedy, painting, and the fiber arts.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Quiet day in NW8
It was a quiet day in NW8 today.
The leftover laundering proceeded apace in the am, then I went out to Stitchery Group. This is a subset of women from the St. John's Wood Women's Club. We met at stitcher Mary's house, which is just across the street from the driveway where I nearly got run over yesterday, and across and down the very same street as Sir You-Know-Who, who presumably is ensconced in the love nest with the latest love interest.
While at Mary's, about eight of us got caught up on the election coverage and topics of more personal interest. Every time someone came to the front door, her two wire-haired dachshunds would erupt in a cacophony of barking. I decided that I had had so much success at "dog whispering" Erica's huge black lab into submitting to me as alpha dog, that I'd go down to her lower level (the dogs cannot climb stairs) and tell a thing or two to Gus (a sweetie-pie) and Gracie (more cranky). Gus immediately recognized my alpha status and rolled over on his back to have his belly scratched. Gracie took about 30 seconds longer, then did the same thing. When a repairman came, he was able to run the gauntlet of the doggies while I kept them distracted with tummy rubs. I have two new canine friends in London! I told Mary I'd walk them any time, which I would do even if she didn't live on the same street as a certain musician.
When we left Cavendish Ave around 1:30 the day was so overcast that there was no telling in what direction the sun might have been located, or whether it had even cleared the tops of the buildings that day. The rest of the afternoon was taken up with sorting mail, paying bills, and, surprise! More laundry. I think that by tomorrow I may be all caught up from the backlog.
I'm hoping to hear from my readers; everyone's been very quiet this week. I think a lot of people stayed up late to watch the election returns...
The leftover laundering proceeded apace in the am, then I went out to Stitchery Group. This is a subset of women from the St. John's Wood Women's Club. We met at stitcher Mary's house, which is just across the street from the driveway where I nearly got run over yesterday, and across and down the very same street as Sir You-Know-Who, who presumably is ensconced in the love nest with the latest love interest.
While at Mary's, about eight of us got caught up on the election coverage and topics of more personal interest. Every time someone came to the front door, her two wire-haired dachshunds would erupt in a cacophony of barking. I decided that I had had so much success at "dog whispering" Erica's huge black lab into submitting to me as alpha dog, that I'd go down to her lower level (the dogs cannot climb stairs) and tell a thing or two to Gus (a sweetie-pie) and Gracie (more cranky). Gus immediately recognized my alpha status and rolled over on his back to have his belly scratched. Gracie took about 30 seconds longer, then did the same thing. When a repairman came, he was able to run the gauntlet of the doggies while I kept them distracted with tummy rubs. I have two new canine friends in London! I told Mary I'd walk them any time, which I would do even if she didn't live on the same street as a certain musician.
When we left Cavendish Ave around 1:30 the day was so overcast that there was no telling in what direction the sun might have been located, or whether it had even cleared the tops of the buildings that day. The rest of the afternoon was taken up with sorting mail, paying bills, and, surprise! More laundry. I think that by tomorrow I may be all caught up from the backlog.
I'm hoping to hear from my readers; everyone's been very quiet this week. I think a lot of people stayed up late to watch the election returns...
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Another Fine Day in London-town
I couldn't imagine that any day could have been better than yesterday, what with seeing a world-known celebrity on one corner of NW8 and a local celebrity on the next. No wonder I like that "back way" to the Hi Street that consists of Circus Road. It's certainly a celebrity circus!
I must say, however that today turned out to be even better. I wasn't sure the US was ready for the progressive energy of a non-republican, non-warrior president, but awakened to find out that the person for whom I had voted had actually won the election. This is only the third election since 1980 in which this has happened, and it's very gratifying. I empathize with those who are disappointed, having spent twenty-two of the last twenty-eight years (and all of my adult life but eight years) being disappointed, frustrated, and enraged in varying degrees with the policies and actions of my government. It is the "heartland's" turn to learn how to yield graciously without resorting to name-calling and other vituperative strategies. I pray we can all behave ourselves.
First up on the social calendar today was a coffee at the home of another American School/London parent. This coffee featured a speaker, a parent who works for the DEA (Drug Enforcement Agency), and who was there to speak to the other parents (all Moms) about the differences in the teen drug cultures in the US and the London area. I've always felt that any school that says there are no drugs on campus is either clueless or lying, so I was glad to see this issue addressed by the PTO.
We learned about the US drug user's "culture of stimulants" (cocaine, etc) vs the UK's "culture of depressants". One would think that those in the US are already over-stimulated enough, what with all the Starbucks, and that those in the UK are already depressed enough, what with all the pubs.
We learned that 35% of all 10th graders in the US have tried illegal drugs, and 75% of all US High School Seniors (including alcohol, which, in the US, is illegal until age 21).
We learned that teens drink openly earlier, as the age at which one can buy a beer or wine WITH a meal in the UK is 16. Whether this is earlier than US teens drink on the sly is open to debate. I think probably not.
We also learned that within a five-minute bus ride from the school, in a place where many of them congregate, a student can be exposed to people dealing all sorts of substances.
We learned that within a two-minute WALK from the school there is a known nexus of marijuana activity on a street called Abbey Road, (ever heard of it?) and that this spot is directly across from our flat. So much for the safe "leafy" neighborhood theory!! This area includes a row of stores where one can buy milk, get one's hair done, and get physical therapy. The one time I went down to buy milk there, there were some shady characters. Now I know why.
I had to leave that talk early in order to rendezvous with an old pal from my University College London days, Mr. A.S. We had kept in touch sporadically over the years, and he was one of the people that called to wish me Happy Birthday on the Big 5-Oh. We had known each other from our days in the UCL Drama Society, and Hubster and I visited with him and his girlfriend (now wife) on our honeymoon here in 1986.
We had much to catch up on: the move, the economy, turning 50, the election, how my idea for a documentary about Abbey Road might come about (he has connections in the TV world) etc.
I have to write up my "pitch" and he might be able to get it in front of the right people.
After lunch I strolled around the Regent St/Carnaby Street area, and found the bead shop that I had spotted while Son was here. This time it was open, but sadly does not carry the right beads for my knitted projects.
A quick ride home on the 139 bus and I was ready to work on some of the projects I am getting ready for the St. John's Wood Women's Club Annual Holiday Marketplace on 11/11. Time is running short...
TeenE is getting ready to catch a ride to the American Church in London (on Tottenham Court Road), whose choir will be singing at the Thanksgiving Day Service at St. Paul's Cathedral. Yes, you read that right. Naturally we will be attending that service!!
I must say, however that today turned out to be even better. I wasn't sure the US was ready for the progressive energy of a non-republican, non-warrior president, but awakened to find out that the person for whom I had voted had actually won the election. This is only the third election since 1980 in which this has happened, and it's very gratifying. I empathize with those who are disappointed, having spent twenty-two of the last twenty-eight years (and all of my adult life but eight years) being disappointed, frustrated, and enraged in varying degrees with the policies and actions of my government. It is the "heartland's" turn to learn how to yield graciously without resorting to name-calling and other vituperative strategies. I pray we can all behave ourselves.
First up on the social calendar today was a coffee at the home of another American School/London parent. This coffee featured a speaker, a parent who works for the DEA (Drug Enforcement Agency), and who was there to speak to the other parents (all Moms) about the differences in the teen drug cultures in the US and the London area. I've always felt that any school that says there are no drugs on campus is either clueless or lying, so I was glad to see this issue addressed by the PTO.
We learned about the US drug user's "culture of stimulants" (cocaine, etc) vs the UK's "culture of depressants". One would think that those in the US are already over-stimulated enough, what with all the Starbucks, and that those in the UK are already depressed enough, what with all the pubs.
We learned that 35% of all 10th graders in the US have tried illegal drugs, and 75% of all US High School Seniors (including alcohol, which, in the US, is illegal until age 21).
We learned that teens drink openly earlier, as the age at which one can buy a beer or wine WITH a meal in the UK is 16. Whether this is earlier than US teens drink on the sly is open to debate. I think probably not.
We also learned that within a five-minute bus ride from the school, in a place where many of them congregate, a student can be exposed to people dealing all sorts of substances.
We learned that within a two-minute WALK from the school there is a known nexus of marijuana activity on a street called Abbey Road, (ever heard of it?) and that this spot is directly across from our flat. So much for the safe "leafy" neighborhood theory!! This area includes a row of stores where one can buy milk, get one's hair done, and get physical therapy. The one time I went down to buy milk there, there were some shady characters. Now I know why.
I had to leave that talk early in order to rendezvous with an old pal from my University College London days, Mr. A.S. We had kept in touch sporadically over the years, and he was one of the people that called to wish me Happy Birthday on the Big 5-Oh. We had known each other from our days in the UCL Drama Society, and Hubster and I visited with him and his girlfriend (now wife) on our honeymoon here in 1986.
We had much to catch up on: the move, the economy, turning 50, the election, how my idea for a documentary about Abbey Road might come about (he has connections in the TV world) etc.
I have to write up my "pitch" and he might be able to get it in front of the right people.
After lunch I strolled around the Regent St/Carnaby Street area, and found the bead shop that I had spotted while Son was here. This time it was open, but sadly does not carry the right beads for my knitted projects.
A quick ride home on the 139 bus and I was ready to work on some of the projects I am getting ready for the St. John's Wood Women's Club Annual Holiday Marketplace on 11/11. Time is running short...
TeenE is getting ready to catch a ride to the American Church in London (on Tottenham Court Road), whose choir will be singing at the Thanksgiving Day Service at St. Paul's Cathedral. Yes, you read that right. Naturally we will be attending that service!!
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Episode IV: A New Hope
Yesterday's Perfect Day ended when we went to bed at 9 pm, (4 pm EST) knowing that the US election results would not be final until at least 4 am our time, what with the West Coast being an additional 3 hour's time difference.
I was cautiously optimistic that the results would reflect my voting preferences, but afraid of another Gore-like "tie" with weeks of uncertainty and another Supreme Court ruling. I didn't want to give voice to my fears, so refrained from making any predictions.
Hubster was up and out of the house before 6 am. The fact that he didn't wake me to give me news bothered me a bit. Did that mean that the news was good, or bad?
A quick check of the internet at 6:15 am showed me the results. Now I can truly sleep.
I was cautiously optimistic that the results would reflect my voting preferences, but afraid of another Gore-like "tie" with weeks of uncertainty and another Supreme Court ruling. I didn't want to give voice to my fears, so refrained from making any predictions.
Hubster was up and out of the house before 6 am. The fact that he didn't wake me to give me news bothered me a bit. Did that mean that the news was good, or bad?
A quick check of the internet at 6:15 am showed me the results. Now I can truly sleep.
A Perfect Day so far
So far it has been a perfect day. I fear tomorrow's news; however, I'll address that in another posting if I feel like it.
My day started at 7:30 am, far too early for my still-jet-lagged brain and body. What could motivate me to get out of bed early and hit the street by 9:15? Rummage!! Rather, the high quality used goods at the St. John's Hospice Charity Shop on SJW Hi Street. Before I could leave A Flat on Abbey Road, there was a lull in the traffic sounds, so I rushed to the window to see the horses and ordnance pass by. I never get tired of it. I wonder if there is a schedule to their jaunts. For example, this is the first Tuesday of the month, we've been here three months, and I've seen them pass by three times. I'll have to check my other entries.
Laurie, the Hospice Charity Shop manager, was busy Hoovering when I arrived, and her associate Lloyd was organizing racks of clothing. I was assigned to tidying the shelves along half the store's walls. Shoes, videos, bric-a-brac, jewellry, ties, etc. all had to be organized and made to look extra-nice, as there would be VIP's in the shop later.
After a while, the shop opened and two volunteers arrived to be sales personnel for the first shift. After discovering the source of my accent, they were MOST eager to talk American politics. In fact, every one with whom I've chatted recently wants to find out if I've voted (I have), for whom I've voted (they don't make even a pretense of being polite about asking) and then spend ten minutes talking about US politics and the US's role in the world. I lingered for another fifteen minutes or so, then made my way up the Hi Street.
A quick peek into Starbucks as I passed revealed that no one I know was in there. I kept going, less alert than usual for spotting a familiar face. As I passed one cafe, there was a couple in a close embrace in the doorway under an awning. The man was in shadow facing the street, the woman had long dark hair which obscured both their faces. Their embrace went on for about ten of my paces. It seemed pretty long to me... Not wanting to gawk, I averted my gaze. JUST as I was about to pass, they broke apart, and the man looked a bit startled when he saw that I was there. The woman turned and shot a "thank you" to someone in the other direction. I glanced quickly at the man, and saw that it was YOU KNOW WHO, my first crush when I was 10, NW8's most famous citizen, standing there on the street engaged in an intimate embrace with another woman!! I hurried on toward Finchley Road. I resisted the urge to turn around for another look, (at least until a full minute had passed) and reflected on the pitfalls of fame.
Smiling and humming softly to myself, I waited at the lights for the "Green Man" to show that it was safe to cross. An elderly lady with a cane waited with me, and she took off ahead of the light change, which I am still not able to bring myself to do most of the time, never knowing from which direction a speeding bus may materialize. As I passed the back entrance to one of the local hospitals, I glanced to my right, and who should be approaching but the ubiquitous Dr. D, with MP3 player in hand and earbuds firmly placed. He popped out the earbuds when he saw me, so I took that as a signal that it was OK to stop and say hello. "Dr. D, my day is complete! First I saw "name of celebrity", now you!!" "Where was he? Maybe I'll see him, too!" he joked.
Pleasant chat ensued; we both needed to be on our way, so we parted with a comment by me about his tunes. "I won't tell you what I'm listening to, you'd probably publish it on your blog". "That is distinctly unfair!" I replied, (I put this part in just to find out if he's still a reader), while backing toward a driveway containing an oncoming car. He cautioned me to stop moving in a direction I was not looking, and saved me from being squashed. Of course, if I had been injured, at least my G.P. would have been on hand...
I note that Dr. D. is the first Brit to NOT wish to talk with me about today's election, or at least to be so polite as to not enquire about my politics.
PS Further research reveals that the woman seen with Sir You Know Who is New Yorker Nancy Shevill, age 47, (not that much younger than me!) and a multimillion dollar US heiress to New England Motor Freight, which she manages. Perhaps he's trying to "get back" some of the multi-millions that he lost to Heather... No wonder that her "Thank You" to someone over her shoulder "didn't have" an accent! Don't worry Hubster, (or church-ladies,) he seems to be taken!
My day started at 7:30 am, far too early for my still-jet-lagged brain and body. What could motivate me to get out of bed early and hit the street by 9:15? Rummage!! Rather, the high quality used goods at the St. John's Hospice Charity Shop on SJW Hi Street. Before I could leave A Flat on Abbey Road, there was a lull in the traffic sounds, so I rushed to the window to see the horses and ordnance pass by. I never get tired of it. I wonder if there is a schedule to their jaunts. For example, this is the first Tuesday of the month, we've been here three months, and I've seen them pass by three times. I'll have to check my other entries.
Laurie, the Hospice Charity Shop manager, was busy Hoovering when I arrived, and her associate Lloyd was organizing racks of clothing. I was assigned to tidying the shelves along half the store's walls. Shoes, videos, bric-a-brac, jewellry, ties, etc. all had to be organized and made to look extra-nice, as there would be VIP's in the shop later.
After a while, the shop opened and two volunteers arrived to be sales personnel for the first shift. After discovering the source of my accent, they were MOST eager to talk American politics. In fact, every one with whom I've chatted recently wants to find out if I've voted (I have), for whom I've voted (they don't make even a pretense of being polite about asking) and then spend ten minutes talking about US politics and the US's role in the world. I lingered for another fifteen minutes or so, then made my way up the Hi Street.
A quick peek into Starbucks as I passed revealed that no one I know was in there. I kept going, less alert than usual for spotting a familiar face. As I passed one cafe, there was a couple in a close embrace in the doorway under an awning. The man was in shadow facing the street, the woman had long dark hair which obscured both their faces. Their embrace went on for about ten of my paces. It seemed pretty long to me... Not wanting to gawk, I averted my gaze. JUST as I was about to pass, they broke apart, and the man looked a bit startled when he saw that I was there. The woman turned and shot a "thank you" to someone in the other direction. I glanced quickly at the man, and saw that it was YOU KNOW WHO, my first crush when I was 10, NW8's most famous citizen, standing there on the street engaged in an intimate embrace with another woman!! I hurried on toward Finchley Road. I resisted the urge to turn around for another look, (at least until a full minute had passed) and reflected on the pitfalls of fame.
Smiling and humming softly to myself, I waited at the lights for the "Green Man" to show that it was safe to cross. An elderly lady with a cane waited with me, and she took off ahead of the light change, which I am still not able to bring myself to do most of the time, never knowing from which direction a speeding bus may materialize. As I passed the back entrance to one of the local hospitals, I glanced to my right, and who should be approaching but the ubiquitous Dr. D, with MP3 player in hand and earbuds firmly placed. He popped out the earbuds when he saw me, so I took that as a signal that it was OK to stop and say hello. "Dr. D, my day is complete! First I saw "name of celebrity", now you!!" "Where was he? Maybe I'll see him, too!" he joked.
Pleasant chat ensued; we both needed to be on our way, so we parted with a comment by me about his tunes. "I won't tell you what I'm listening to, you'd probably publish it on your blog". "That is distinctly unfair!" I replied, (I put this part in just to find out if he's still a reader), while backing toward a driveway containing an oncoming car. He cautioned me to stop moving in a direction I was not looking, and saved me from being squashed. Of course, if I had been injured, at least my G.P. would have been on hand...
I note that Dr. D. is the first Brit to NOT wish to talk with me about today's election, or at least to be so polite as to not enquire about my politics.
PS Further research reveals that the woman seen with Sir You Know Who is New Yorker Nancy Shevill, age 47, (not that much younger than me!) and a multimillion dollar US heiress to New England Motor Freight, which she manages. Perhaps he's trying to "get back" some of the multi-millions that he lost to Heather... No wonder that her "Thank You" to someone over her shoulder "didn't have" an accent! Don't worry Hubster, (or church-ladies,) he seems to be taken!
Out on the Street
Mmmmph. Mrrrgggghhh! Ptuh! There!! I've finally dug myself out from underneath the avalanche of laundry that threatened to take out A Flat on Abbey Road.
Understandably, Hubster and TeenE gave the miniature washer/dryer a wide berth during my eleven-day absence. TeenE had two hampers-full, which I dumped into the empty bathtub, along with my post-trip washing and Hubster's usuals. I have now been back for four days, and am on the twelfth load. There is a colorful assortment of damp clothing draped artistically over the drying racks that grace several rooms. Opening the door to the flat releases an aroma of Fairy Liquid detergent and high humidity.
Having finally run out of the liquid laundry detergent that was purchased our first week here, I had to go out for a replacement on Friday. Who knew there were so many choices? The most puzzling choice of all was to decide whether to buy "biological" detergent, or "non-biological". What could it mean? I scoured the labels for a clue.
The ones marked "biological" stated "Do Not Use on Silk or Wool", which seemed counter-intuitive to me. Silk and Wool are both biological in origin, having been grown or extruded from a living creature. The non-biological had no such restrictions, but contained warnings of eye irritation. The biological formula also made vague statements about their formula being safe but that some individuals might experience skin irritation. There went my other hypothesis, that the biological formula was made from all-natural ingredients.
I looked around for someone I could ask. Several times I made up mind to just speak up to a total stranger, but they either avoided my gaze completely or just looked me in the eye and smiled. I couldn't bring myself to do it. Finally, after about ten minutes of re-checking labels, I turned to find someone right behind me. "Excuse me, do you know what the difference is between a biological and a non-biological laundry detergent?"
The attractive young woman laughed and said "Yes, and you've asked EXACTLY the right person!!!" I'm a nurse, so I do know the difference. The biological formula contains enzymes that digest the soil and bacteria on the clothes. If they don't get rinsed out completely, they can irritate your skin when they try to digest your skin cells." She went on to say that unless your clothing is REALLY soiled, for example if your son plays rugby (he has) or your Hubster, even (he hasn't) then you usually wouldn't need the biological formula. She exclaimed again about how I had asked exactly the right person, so I explained that I usually use the detergent made for sensitive skin without added dyes or fragrance. We decided together that the Fairy brand, good for baby clothes (they also make dish detergent, which I remembered from 1978) would make a good choice. I thanked her and went on to the checkout.
After leaving Tesco, I crossed two busy streets to get back to A Flat on Abbey Road. Just ahead of me in the intersection was the helpful nurse. I raised my jug of detergent to her and said "Cheers", which is a joke that I guess only Americans who do laundry would get. I'm afraid it was lost on her. She speeded up a little as she crossed the street so she would be well ahead of me.
Yesterday, after laundry load ten entered the machine, I decided to go out and do some errands. On my way past the Abbey Road Crossing, I passed a huge contingent of French-speaking teen girls. I actually had to step into the road to avoid ruining their photo opportunity in front of the Abbey Road Studio. Once across the street, I could hear an American couple planning their next move over a map. Should we have lunch now? I wonder where we could find a restaurant? I passed them, but something in their tone made me turn back and retrace my steps. "Do you need directions?" Yes, they wanted to know where they could find a restaurant nearby. I gave them detailed directions, and they asked me how long I'd been here. We had a nice chat. They were from Connecticut, etc. They wanted to know why we lived in London, was our daughter happy, did we like it, where did we live, etc. I told them that we lived in A Flat on Abbey Road, and that we thought that made us pretty cool. They agreed, it was cool.
Meanwhile, the gaggle of French geese passed by and they thanked the young couple for helping them. Apparantly they had been on a scavenger hunt, and the man had given them the answer to the question: What was the name of Paul McCartney's dog? Too easy, I said, and proceeded to provide the name and the breed of the dog immortalized on the White Album. The woman nudged the man and said "why don't you tell her why you're here?" , so he did. He was about to attend Rock Band Fantasy Camp, with tutelage provided by somebody from o the Rolling Stones, somebody from Pink Floyd, sorry, don't know any other living personnel's names that are NOT Roger Waters, and a visit to Pete Best in Liverpool. EXTREMELY COOL. I think he wins.
I told them I keep busy by writing a blog about living in A Flat on Abbey Road. I hope they remembered the address. So here's a shout out to Mr. and Ms. Cool from Connecticut: Cheers!
Understandably, Hubster and TeenE gave the miniature washer/dryer a wide berth during my eleven-day absence. TeenE had two hampers-full, which I dumped into the empty bathtub, along with my post-trip washing and Hubster's usuals. I have now been back for four days, and am on the twelfth load. There is a colorful assortment of damp clothing draped artistically over the drying racks that grace several rooms. Opening the door to the flat releases an aroma of Fairy Liquid detergent and high humidity.
Having finally run out of the liquid laundry detergent that was purchased our first week here, I had to go out for a replacement on Friday. Who knew there were so many choices? The most puzzling choice of all was to decide whether to buy "biological" detergent, or "non-biological". What could it mean? I scoured the labels for a clue.
The ones marked "biological" stated "Do Not Use on Silk or Wool", which seemed counter-intuitive to me. Silk and Wool are both biological in origin, having been grown or extruded from a living creature. The non-biological had no such restrictions, but contained warnings of eye irritation. The biological formula also made vague statements about their formula being safe but that some individuals might experience skin irritation. There went my other hypothesis, that the biological formula was made from all-natural ingredients.
I looked around for someone I could ask. Several times I made up mind to just speak up to a total stranger, but they either avoided my gaze completely or just looked me in the eye and smiled. I couldn't bring myself to do it. Finally, after about ten minutes of re-checking labels, I turned to find someone right behind me. "Excuse me, do you know what the difference is between a biological and a non-biological laundry detergent?"
The attractive young woman laughed and said "Yes, and you've asked EXACTLY the right person!!!" I'm a nurse, so I do know the difference. The biological formula contains enzymes that digest the soil and bacteria on the clothes. If they don't get rinsed out completely, they can irritate your skin when they try to digest your skin cells." She went on to say that unless your clothing is REALLY soiled, for example if your son plays rugby (he has) or your Hubster, even (he hasn't) then you usually wouldn't need the biological formula. She exclaimed again about how I had asked exactly the right person, so I explained that I usually use the detergent made for sensitive skin without added dyes or fragrance. We decided together that the Fairy brand, good for baby clothes (they also make dish detergent, which I remembered from 1978) would make a good choice. I thanked her and went on to the checkout.
After leaving Tesco, I crossed two busy streets to get back to A Flat on Abbey Road. Just ahead of me in the intersection was the helpful nurse. I raised my jug of detergent to her and said "Cheers", which is a joke that I guess only Americans who do laundry would get. I'm afraid it was lost on her. She speeded up a little as she crossed the street so she would be well ahead of me.
Yesterday, after laundry load ten entered the machine, I decided to go out and do some errands. On my way past the Abbey Road Crossing, I passed a huge contingent of French-speaking teen girls. I actually had to step into the road to avoid ruining their photo opportunity in front of the Abbey Road Studio. Once across the street, I could hear an American couple planning their next move over a map. Should we have lunch now? I wonder where we could find a restaurant? I passed them, but something in their tone made me turn back and retrace my steps. "Do you need directions?" Yes, they wanted to know where they could find a restaurant nearby. I gave them detailed directions, and they asked me how long I'd been here. We had a nice chat. They were from Connecticut, etc. They wanted to know why we lived in London, was our daughter happy, did we like it, where did we live, etc. I told them that we lived in A Flat on Abbey Road, and that we thought that made us pretty cool. They agreed, it was cool.
Meanwhile, the gaggle of French geese passed by and they thanked the young couple for helping them. Apparantly they had been on a scavenger hunt, and the man had given them the answer to the question: What was the name of Paul McCartney's dog? Too easy, I said, and proceeded to provide the name and the breed of the dog immortalized on the White Album. The woman nudged the man and said "why don't you tell her why you're here?" , so he did. He was about to attend Rock Band Fantasy Camp, with tutelage provided by somebody from o the Rolling Stones, somebody from Pink Floyd, sorry, don't know any other living personnel's names that are NOT Roger Waters, and a visit to Pete Best in Liverpool. EXTREMELY COOL. I think he wins.
I told them I keep busy by writing a blog about living in A Flat on Abbey Road. I hope they remembered the address. So here's a shout out to Mr. and Ms. Cool from Connecticut: Cheers!
Monday, November 3, 2008
My Terminal 5 Experience
Jimi Hendrix said it best: "Have you ever been experienced?" Well, I have.
I have been Experienced in Terminal 5 at Heathrow Airport.
We left Boston on British Airways AHEAD of schedule. The passengers boarded, the catering arrived, the doors were closed, the paperwork was done, and we pushed back from the gate at 9:05 am, about ten minutes ahead of schedule.
Once in the air, our flight was to take about six hours. The video screen showed a tail wind of 129 mph, so we were making very good time as the coasts of Maine, Nova Scotia, and Labrador went scudding by below us.
I spent the time happily knitting away on a brown alpaca scarf, the perfect plane project, per the Head Kitten. She was right. I played Peek-a-boo with an infant while I waited for my turn in the queue for the toilet. I chatted with my seatmate, an American who was returning to her home in Marrakesh, Morrocco. I took a little snooze to escape the incessant wailing of a crying toddler, and before I knew it, we were over land again. Cornwall, Devon, and the Isle of Wight were all clearly visible as we made a slow descent. The Captain came over the PA to inform us that Air Traffic Control had asked him to slow down. There was too much traffic heading into Heathrow, and we would have to circle, which we did.
We finally landed, having lost all the time we'd made by leaving early and having a brisk tail-wind. Once on the ground, our Terminal 5 Experience began. There was no gate available for our incoming flight, so we waited near the terminal. Please bear in mind that the line for the toilet facilities had been quite long near the end of the flight, and all such activities had been curtailed by the arrival of turbulence and the subsequent lighting of the seat belt sign. I knew that I'd be able to make it until we landed, but once we were on the ground I was quite eager to deplane. We could almost reach out and touch Terminal 5, we were so close. Only 25 minutes later, and a plane pulled out and we finally approached a gate. Of course the disembarking process takes at least 20 minutes to get all the way back to row 31, so it was almost an additional hour before we were on the jetway.
I made a bee-line for the immigration area, (or was it a pee-line?) and proudly showed off my new visa. After answering a few perfunctory questions (did I have a job lined up yet? No, but Hubster does...) I was on my way out of that level via escalator. That escalator led to another one. And that one led to another one. We were clearly hamsters trapped in a Habitrail cage. Big glass windows, tubes from one level to the next to the next, it was all quite dizzying. And finally, we reached the Wheel. Well, it was a wheel for the luggage anyway, which came spinning out in due course. I decided that this was my chance for a quickie visit to the Ladies. There were several cleaners inside the facilities, but Four stalls in a row had no paper. Perhaps the hamsters had shredded it all. I was grateful to have the Fung Wah! ticket still in my bag.
After man-handling my heavy bags off the luggage wheel and strapping them together on the folding cart thingy I had purchased in New York's Chinatown, I was ready to board the Heathrow Express via a lift. A nice airline employee lady helped me figure out that you did not have to push any buttons in the elevator; it just went up, then down, all by itself.
At the down level, there was another escalator to the Heathrow/Paddington express train. Keep in mind that I have Four bags with me; a large rolling duffel bag, a computer bag and a large tote bag filled with things I picked up in Belmont (walking shoes, beads, yarn, peanut butter, corn meal for corn bread)--both of these bags are strapped to the rolling cart thingy with bungy cords, and a handbag that is so full that the magnetic clasps won't close.
I got onto the escalator just in time to hear this announcement over the PA: "Travelers with a large amount of luggage should use the lift". Too late! I dismounted the escalator relatively gracefully and came up against an obstacle: metal poles a small distance apart so one cannot abscond with the airport luggage cart. My 2-bags-on-the-folding-cart-thingy did not fit through the barrier. I had to stop and unstrap everything. Meanwhile, the Voice continued: "This train will leave in Three minutes". As I struggled to get everything through the barrier without leaving my handbag behind, the same nice airline employee lady came to my aid, and lifted the biggest bag onto the train and into the luggage area for me. Many blessings to her!!
A nice man saw me struggling to put my bungy-cord contraption back together and vacated his seat so that I could park the monstrosity next to me in the aisle.
Thus endeth my Terminal 5 Experience, as we pulled off into the tunnel to Terminal 4 and headed into central London. I wasn't quite sure which side of Paddington Station held the taxi queue, but finally noticed a black line on the floor with the words "Taxi" and an arrow pointing in the relevant direction. If only there was a clue!! There was only one party ahead of me in the taxi queue, so I was back at A Flat on Abbey Road in under five minutes. It felt good to be "home".
I have been Experienced in Terminal 5 at Heathrow Airport.
We left Boston on British Airways AHEAD of schedule. The passengers boarded, the catering arrived, the doors were closed, the paperwork was done, and we pushed back from the gate at 9:05 am, about ten minutes ahead of schedule.
Once in the air, our flight was to take about six hours. The video screen showed a tail wind of 129 mph, so we were making very good time as the coasts of Maine, Nova Scotia, and Labrador went scudding by below us.
I spent the time happily knitting away on a brown alpaca scarf, the perfect plane project, per the Head Kitten. She was right. I played Peek-a-boo with an infant while I waited for my turn in the queue for the toilet. I chatted with my seatmate, an American who was returning to her home in Marrakesh, Morrocco. I took a little snooze to escape the incessant wailing of a crying toddler, and before I knew it, we were over land again. Cornwall, Devon, and the Isle of Wight were all clearly visible as we made a slow descent. The Captain came over the PA to inform us that Air Traffic Control had asked him to slow down. There was too much traffic heading into Heathrow, and we would have to circle, which we did.
We finally landed, having lost all the time we'd made by leaving early and having a brisk tail-wind. Once on the ground, our Terminal 5 Experience began. There was no gate available for our incoming flight, so we waited near the terminal. Please bear in mind that the line for the toilet facilities had been quite long near the end of the flight, and all such activities had been curtailed by the arrival of turbulence and the subsequent lighting of the seat belt sign. I knew that I'd be able to make it until we landed, but once we were on the ground I was quite eager to deplane. We could almost reach out and touch Terminal 5, we were so close. Only 25 minutes later, and a plane pulled out and we finally approached a gate. Of course the disembarking process takes at least 20 minutes to get all the way back to row 31, so it was almost an additional hour before we were on the jetway.
I made a bee-line for the immigration area, (or was it a pee-line?) and proudly showed off my new visa. After answering a few perfunctory questions (did I have a job lined up yet? No, but Hubster does...) I was on my way out of that level via escalator. That escalator led to another one. And that one led to another one. We were clearly hamsters trapped in a Habitrail cage. Big glass windows, tubes from one level to the next to the next, it was all quite dizzying. And finally, we reached the Wheel. Well, it was a wheel for the luggage anyway, which came spinning out in due course. I decided that this was my chance for a quickie visit to the Ladies. There were several cleaners inside the facilities, but Four stalls in a row had no paper. Perhaps the hamsters had shredded it all. I was grateful to have the Fung Wah! ticket still in my bag.
After man-handling my heavy bags off the luggage wheel and strapping them together on the folding cart thingy I had purchased in New York's Chinatown, I was ready to board the Heathrow Express via a lift. A nice airline employee lady helped me figure out that you did not have to push any buttons in the elevator; it just went up, then down, all by itself.
At the down level, there was another escalator to the Heathrow/Paddington express train. Keep in mind that I have Four bags with me; a large rolling duffel bag, a computer bag and a large tote bag filled with things I picked up in Belmont (walking shoes, beads, yarn, peanut butter, corn meal for corn bread)--both of these bags are strapped to the rolling cart thingy with bungy cords, and a handbag that is so full that the magnetic clasps won't close.
I got onto the escalator just in time to hear this announcement over the PA: "Travelers with a large amount of luggage should use the lift". Too late! I dismounted the escalator relatively gracefully and came up against an obstacle: metal poles a small distance apart so one cannot abscond with the airport luggage cart. My 2-bags-on-the-folding-cart-thingy did not fit through the barrier. I had to stop and unstrap everything. Meanwhile, the Voice continued: "This train will leave in Three minutes". As I struggled to get everything through the barrier without leaving my handbag behind, the same nice airline employee lady came to my aid, and lifted the biggest bag onto the train and into the luggage area for me. Many blessings to her!!
A nice man saw me struggling to put my bungy-cord contraption back together and vacated his seat so that I could park the monstrosity next to me in the aisle.
Thus endeth my Terminal 5 Experience, as we pulled off into the tunnel to Terminal 4 and headed into central London. I wasn't quite sure which side of Paddington Station held the taxi queue, but finally noticed a black line on the floor with the words "Taxi" and an arrow pointing in the relevant direction. If only there was a clue!! There was only one party ahead of me in the taxi queue, so I was back at A Flat on Abbey Road in under five minutes. It felt good to be "home".
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