Yule Blog - part one

Some lessons are never learned. Like a demented goldfish, I've already begun to repeat the same mistakes that I've made every Christmas previously. This was the first one.

The work's Christmas party
Having reached an age where getting pissed as a fart is no longer a top priority, I thought that this year's party would be, for me, a short and fairly sober affair.

The party was held in a flash new bar near work. We had an area reserved for us in the downstairs bar. 57 of us were penned into a space normally used to accommodate a table and four chairs. Loud, anonymous house music pumped out of numerous speakers above our heads, making conversation (despite our proximity to each other)almost impossible. To add to the discomfort, the smoking contingent of the bar's clientele trod a constant path through our area in order to reach the outside courtyard.
An hour into the party I was not enjoying myself, I felt tired and irritable and so decided that I would sneak off home - after one more drink.

However after the fifth, or maybe sixth, rum and coke something magical happened - suddenly I was having the best night of my life. My workmates were all charming and funny; the DJ was playing some great tunes and I was dancing with the grace and style of a professional.

Next thing I knew the bar was closing and it was time to leave. Out we went into the night - and heavy snow. A group of us stumbled our way to Bank station. We made our way down the stairs but were stopped by a London Transport employee. There were no more tubes. Why? It was 1 a.m. Back up on the street we tried to hail some cabs but every one that passed had it's light off and a quartet of smug passengers in the back. We wandered the streets of the City battling against the blizzard. It was mid-winter and things were looking bleak, there was more chance of getting a suntan than getting a cab. Our little group split - the northsiders and the southsiders went their separate ways.

Myself and two blokes from the office headed along Cannon Street, guided by a shining light - not the star of Bethlehem but the golden arches of MacDonalds. A quarter pounder meal later we headed back out into the snow and over London Bridge to the station where we joined the long queue at the taxi rank. It was no longer the best night of my life.

I eventually got home at 3.30am and just about managed to take my clothes off before passing out in bed. Three hours later my alarm woke me up. I'm not sure how I got to the bathroom but once there I was unable to do anything but sit on the toilet with my head in my hands. I slid along the hall wall back to my bedroom and having laid down again, with one eye closed to help me focus, text my boss to say I would be taking the day as holiday.

At about 2.30 in the afternoon I was finally able to lift my head from my pillow, albeit gingerly. As I sipped a glass of water and waited for the pain killers to take effect, snippets of the previous night replayed in my head. Was that me throwing my arms around my boss in a warm embrace, twice? Did I really get twirled around the dancefloor by a man the size of a Munchkin? Unfortunately, yes.

Later that evening, when I let a phone call whose number I didn't recognise go to voicemail, I discovered that I'd also given my mobile number to a bouncer at the bar - presumably with the promise of a date by the gist of his message. The following two days were spent ignoring his calls and texts until he gave up.

What happened to my plans to leave the party at a reasonable hour and be in bed by midnight? Those same plans that every year somehow go awry, leading to embarrassing behaviour, not to mention mental and physical deterioration.

As I said at the start, we never learn.

The Unusual Suspects

Friday night saw me in West London having dinner with 3 friends. For reasons which will soon become clear, I shall give them aliases and refer them as Irene, Pam and Linda.

We had a very pleasant evening dining in a restaurant affilliated to a certain football club. At the end of the meal we asked for our bill and, slightly fuddled by the wine we'd drunk, divided the bill in four. Pam and Linda chose to pay by credit card whilst Irene and I paid by cash. We put our cash on the table and waited for someone to come and take the card payments.

It took some time but a waiter arrived and asked how much we wanted to pay on each card. Pam and Linda paid their share and the waiter went away. Our cash stayed where it was. I went to the toilet and came back to the table. The cash was still there. We put on our coats - by now the waiting staff had changed out of their uniforms and were donning their coats too. No-one came back to our table.

We exchanged glances, had they forgotten to pick up our money? It seemed so. Coats on and handbags over arms, we hovered by our table and looked around. The few remaining staff were busying about resetting tables. What should we do?

We did what any right-minded people would do - we grabbed the cash and headed for the door. Pam and Linda scuttled off ahead, I was left bringing up the rear with Irene who, at 82 and in heels, was struggling to keep up and leaning on my shoulder for support.

We made our way up the road to the tube station, checking over our shoulders to see if we were being followed and laughing hysterically at our derring-do. At the tube station we split our booty, £17.50 each. Pam, Linda and I said goodbye to Irene and still laughing went down to the tube platform.

As we sat waiting for the tube Pam's mobile rang. It was the restaurant! We'd forgotten that she'd phoned to make the reservation so they would have her details. Linda and I had to look away as Pam did her best confused middle-aged woman act and spoke to the restaurant manager. She said that she was sure we'd left the cash on the table. No said the manager, all that was there was £3.50 in change. Pam said she couldn't understand it, we'd definitely put £70 down on the table. She would ring her other friend who'd gone home to see if she knew anything and ring him back.

On the tube back to Wimbledon, in between crying with laughter, we frantically thought of what to say. There was only one thing for it - blame Irene.

At Wimbledon station Pam called back the restaurant manager. There had been a mistake on our part. The elderly lady that was with us had inadvertently picked up the cash thinking it was her change. When Pam had called her, she'd checked in her handbag and there was £70 in there.

The manager was very understanding, these things happen. As Pam read out her credit card details, Linda and I sheepishly took out the £17.50 from our purses and gave it back to her.

How the restaurant manager fell for that story I don't know. Fair enough if you'd never met Irene - you could be forgiven for picturing her as frail, bent, hard of hearing and possibly slightly demented. In reality though Irene is straight as a pole, sharp-witted, elegant and glamourous beyond description. She looks how would imagine Joanna Lumley or Helen Mirren at 82.

Still, all said and done she is an octagenarian and, teamed with three ladies of a certain age, who would suspect her of anything underhand?

Moral of the story - if you want to pull a fast one take a granny with you, but don't book in advance.

The East End is round the bend..

A couple of Sundays ago, a friend and I caught the tube to Old Street to visit Columbia Road flower market. The bright day had brought out the crowds and it was a struggle to make our way down the narrow road. We both have bladders the size of walnuts so our first stop had to be a toilet. We chose to bypass the Portaloos and headed for a small corner pub.

The Pub

It was 11.30am and at first glance we only noticed the 3 obligatory hardened drinkers sat propped on stools at one corner of the bar, nursing their pints. Once we’d sat down at a table with our Diet Cokes though, we realised there was also a group of twentysomethings at the other end of the pub. One look revealed that they had been out all night - a further look showed that they were all completely off of their faces.

The jukebox was playing Soft Cell’s Bedsit Land and one girl in an emerald green satin dress and leopard print jacket was dancing alone, in a style I recognised as one I’d executed myself many times in the 80s down at Nero’s 2000 disco on Ramsgate seafront.

The rest of the group were sitting at tables talking earnestly, or staring blindly at nothing, as befits those on the gentle slope down from an Ecstasy high. They were fascinating to watch and we found ourselves smiling indulgently at their antics – that is until I went to use the ladies toilet.

I walked round the corner of the bar to where the toilets were and opened the door to the ladies. I pulled the door back to reveal three young men slumped in a heap on the floor by the wash basin.

I managed to say, ‘I wonder if can just…’ when I noticed another guy hanging on for dear life to the door frame of the toilet cubicle. None of them had noticed my entrance. I cut my sentence short, backed out and scurried back to our table.

A short while later, one of the less out of it girls managed to steer the door frame- clinger out of the toilet. He swayed dangerously in the middle of the carpeted bar. He was propped up several times but kept buckling. Eventually someone decided to seat him in a chair.

Then another guy emerged, this time unaided – though he’d have done better asking for help. He propelled his lanky body in the direction of a chair standing against the far wall but his aim was wrongly gauged and he tumbled over the chair, landing heavily on the floor beside it. His friends all turned round but their drug haze prevented them from understanding or caring what had happened to him. He wasn’t too fussed either and stayed happily on the floor.

At last they decided to call it a night and slowly gathered their belongings together. They were unable to rouse the remaining bloke from the toilet floor so the barman (of a similar age to them and unfazed by their behaviour) had to carry him out.

After a good twenty minutes, they left the pub as an ensemble. Some barely able to walk, some barely able to see, but the girl in the green dress still dancing.

I ventured into the Ladies again. I won’t describe the state I found it in but suffice to say that horrific vision will stay in my mind for some time. One of the 3 old boozers showed his gallantry and inspected the Men’s toilet for me. Having passed it suitable for my use, he then kept guard outside while I finally managed to do what I’d gone into the pub for in the first place.


……………………………………


The Market
Columbia Road is only short but the pavements on each side of the narrow road were crammed with pitches selling plants and flowers. The traders’ voices rang out like a herd of Mike Reids, hoarse from years of trying to out shout each other. Everything on sale seemed to cost a ‘fiver’. Poinsettias – 2 for a fiver. Roses – fiver a bunch. Cyclamen – box of 6 for a fiver. We bought 4 poinsettias from one. Further up another trader shouted at us –‘oose sellin’ them already, that fat bloke in the middle?’ Yes, we said, that’s the one.

For my birthday, my friend bought me a wooden barrel planter and a small olive tree. We put the plants in the barrel, which I carried on my generous hip looking not unlike an extra from Oliver - ‘who will buy?’ and she, being taller and a lot slimmer, carried the olive tree. We squeezed our way out of the market, cut across a housing estate and found ourselves in Brick Lane.

Brick Lane

It wasn’t our intention to go to Brick Lane but our ignorance of the area led us there so we decided to explore it while we could, as we’d surely never find it intentionally.

The first thing we came across was a demonstration outside a clothes shop. It was a small group of anti-fur protesters. (What is the collective noun for anti-fur demonstrators? A coat?) They had placards and a catchy slogan but I fear their message didn’t come across to full effect – the shop was closed.

After stopping for a bite to eat and to rest our aching arms, we carried on down Brick Lane musing at the various bits of tat that people were trying to sell from blankets they’d laid out on the pavement. Dotted amongst the art students and trendy wendys selling the quirky and the retro were shabbily dressed families – women and young children – and lone old men, desperate to make a few pounds by selling off old pairs of jeans and trainers that had already seen better days.

We passed all the trendy music bars that in a previous lifetime we would have been drinking in, no doubt watching two middle-aged women struggling down the road over laden with plants and swearing we’d never spend our Sunday afternoons doing anything so uncool.

The Bus

Eventually we made it onto Bishopsgate to catch a bus to Borough where we’d pick up the Northern Line. The bus as already fairly busy when we got on but we managed to get a couple of seats at the back. More passengers got on and by the time we reached London Bridge it was packed to the gills. We’d been chatting all the while and hadn’t been taking much notice of what was going on around us. However, some raised voices at the front of the bus stopped us in our tracks.

A disabled woman in a wheelchair wanted to board the bus but the wheelchair space was already filled by two pushchairs. The driver said she couldn’t come on, the woman insisted that she should and that the women with the pushchairs should get off to make room for her. As news of this altercation spread, all of the passengers on the lower deck decided to voice their opinion on the matter. The passengers were mainly African and made their opinions heard loud and clear – no tutting or whispered asides for them.

One of the women with a pushchair relented and attempted to leave the bus. She was told in no uncertain terms to stay where she was – she had every right to be there. Not so said an elderly man, who’d stood up to make his point, the disabled should come before babies. More debate ensued. Meanwhile the woman in the wheelchair was demanding the driver’s details so she could report him. This was too much for one woman who shouted to the driver that she would be his witness and for him to take her details so she could make a statement. More and more people joined in the row, everyone shouting in indignation. By this time the driver had switched off the engine and was cowering silently behind the safety of his plastic booth.

Another bus appeared behind us and the woman in the wheelchair whizzed off and boarded it. That bus drew away and continued on its journey whilst we were still stationary and still mid-debate. My friend and I, sides now aching from laughing at sheer farce of it all, decided to quit the bus and walk to Borough station.

On board the tube, heading for the sanity of the suburban south, we reflected on the day. Who would have thought that a simple visit to a flower market would have led to such bizarre encounters? Is the East End a crazy place to visit, or where we just lucky?

Everything in the garden is far from rosy..

Strange things have been happening in my little strip of garden over the last few months. I have two window boxes on the ledges outside my living room window which I fill with various plants, according to the season. I've got accustomed to them regularly being dug at by various nocturnal creatures, but I wasn't prepared for what I found when I went to replant them after the summer. As I turned over the earth, my trowel hit something hard. Thinking it was a stone, I put my fingers in the soil and pulled out an egg. A chicken's egg, just like the ones you buy in boxes in the supermarket.

It perplexed me for some time. I asked friends and colleagues for suggestions as to how it could have got there. Several people suggested that a squirrel had buried it. I know squirrels bury nuts but I doubt that a squirrel is big enough to run around with an egg and hold it under one paw while it digs a hole with the other. Eventually I put it down to a one-off unexplainable mystery.

Time passed and I forgot about the egg incident, until the end of September when the runner beans I had grown in pots in the back garden had finished their season. I dissembled the bamboo cane pyramids and pulled out the long tendrils that had held the beans. I gave a tug and out came the roots - what also came out of the earth was another egg. What was going on?

I did some internet research this time and found out that foxes often bury food too, to be dug up at a later date. That seemed to solve part of the mystery. A fox could feasibly carry an egg in its mouth. Where it would have got not one but two from (and months apart)still remains a puzzle.

One morning a few weeks ago I left the house for work. The glorious leafy shrub that stood resplendent in the middle of the front garden had been stripped bare. Not a leaf was left on it yet there were none laying on the ground. It was as if a plague of night-flying locusts had swarmed down and devoured it down to its bare branches. Why was my garden being picked on?

Yesterday though, things took an even stranger turn. Going into the back garden to check on the progress of my carrots (they're still the size of my little toe) I noticed something poking out of the earth in the - now moved to the back garden to avoid more disruption - window boxes. I bent over and pulled at the object. The attached picture is what I unearthed.

Surely this is not the work of some wild urban mammal? It looks like witchcraft to me. Have the Colliers Wood coven been cavorting in my back yard of a moonlit night? I'll keep you posted.

High on life ..

When people reach a certain age i.e. mine, they find themselves beginning a lot of sentences (particularly to younger colleagues, children's friends etc) with 'I used to'. It's a sad reminder that for various reasons, including physical decline, we no longer indulge in the activities that used to define us.

In my case it was clubbing. I never did much else with my spare time except drink and dance. Then it stopped being fun. Sunday morning's hangover stretched through until Tuesday night. My knees would ache and creak. As if by (tragic) magic my body morphed from hourglass to pint glass so that dancing in front of the mirror at home went from narcissistic to masochistic and sexy suddenly became silly. For the sake of my dignity as well as my health I had to stop. (If you’re reading this Madonna take note – you’re older than me for God’s sake).

For quite a while there was a void. What was I if I wasn't a life and soul, up for it, clubber? It was an unsettling time, the transition to middle-age. I still wanted to be in the fast lane but I could feel that I'd dropped down a gear, lost my revs and couldn't keep up the pace. Reluctantly, I eventually indicated and pulled over into the middle lane, watching enviously as the bright young things sped past.

Now though I've got used to the slower speed and begun to enjoy it. I’ve discovered that I can have a good time without the aid of alcohol or drugs (I don’t need to take drugs anymore; I get the same effect if I stand up too quickly). The only time I’m seen staggering around now is if one of my corns is playing up.

I've started to develop new interests - ones that don't require youthful stamina or toned arms and can be performed in comfortable shoes. I garden, bake and write – with varying degrees of failure. I visit garden centres, stately homes, museums and galleries – all of which involve a break for tea and cake. I read library books in bed and do Sudokos on the tube to work.

Does that all make me sound terribly dull and middle-aged? Well, I haven’t been entirely truthful, of course I still have my mad moments –why only last night I had a nip of Baileys in my bedtime Horlicks.

The world may be my oyster ....

Today, had I stayed married, would have been my 30th wedding anniversary. 30 years!
I lasted just over 8 years and that seemed like an eternity - how on earth would 30 years have felt? How different would I have been I wonder?

There's so many things I would never have done - travelled, moved to London, gone to university. So many great people I would never have met. So many good times.

Of course, I've also had my share of absolutely crap times, met some nasty people and done things I really wish I hadn't - but all said and done, at least I haven't spent the last 22 years slowly fossilising in a seaside suburbia.

Which brings me to the subject of oysters. 30 years of marriage is a Pearl anniversary. Had I stayed the course I'm sure I would have been presented with a string of pearls today (to go with my twinset no doubt).

Yes, the world may be my oyster but I missed out on the pearls.

Turning 49 - over the hill and on the way down

Monday 26th October - the last 26th October of my 40s, indeed every day from now until 26th October next year will be the last one of my 40s. My last 40-something Christmas, Easter, August Bank Holiday, F.A Cup final et al all face me in the coming year. With that thought in the forefront of my mind, I decided that I should do my best to make next 364 days ones to remember.

So how did I begin this momentuous year? I went to work of course. With age comes a sense of responsibility - there were reports to complete that couldn't be postponed for the sake of my birth celebrations. Not to miss out completely, I'd arranged to have a couple of drinks with work mates after work, followed by a takeaway with Harvey when I got home. Even those humble celebrations were not to be.

I was feeling ill when I woke up and as the morning went on felt myself getting worse. By lunchtime I was done for and headed for the doctors who gave me a prescription for antibiotics and sent me home to rest - so much for the drinks. The takeaway got taken away too - Harvey was sent to review the Noisettes gig that evening (he asked if I minded him going, I said no).

So, the afternoon of my birthday was spent wrapped in a blanket on the sofa and the evening eating a cheese roll and crisps for dinner, alone with the cat, watching Jane Austen's Emma on iPlayer.

The worrying thing is, apart from feeling ill, I was quite content.

Blognor Regis

Every year on Christmas Day night when the adverts for holidays came on the tv, I'd beg my parents to take our holiday in Butlins. The rides, the shows, the crazy golf - it looked like so much fun. But they would never take me, instead we spent the same last week of May at Aunty Lil's house in Weymouth.

I never grew out of the desire to go to Butlins. By the time I'd grown too old to be excited by the rides, I'd found another reason to want to go - David Essex as a randy red coat in That'll Be The Day. I was desperate to be taken behind the dodgems by a curly haired fairground worker with twinkly blue eyes and a gold sleeper in his ear. Alas, the holidays to Weymouth carried on and my dream was unfulfilled - until last weekend...

Butlins Bognor Regis beckoned, I'd been invited to a friend's 40th birthday celebrations at a Motown Weekender. I have to confess that over the years Butlins had lost some of its allure, though I was still curious to taste the Butlin's experience. The weekend ran from friday night until the monday morning but I decided that saturday lunchtime to sunday morning would give me enough time to sample its delights.

It was warm and sunny when I arrived and I soon located the other 12 girls on the fairground rides (several pimply operatives and not a David Essex in sight). They took me to our accommodation to drop off my bag. I glanced wistfully as we passed the impressive looking newly-built hotel, then climbed the rickety wooden stairs to our 1st floor chalets. To be fair, they weren't too bad inside. Sure, the soft furnishings left something to be desired but they were perfectly functional - apart from the fact we didn't have a shower in the bathroom. No shower in this day and age?

We sat and had a long, lazy lunch at a table outside the Sea Breeze bar and grill. The reason lunch was long and lazy was due to there being only two 'chefs' on duty and a waitress with poor English. Still, we were in no hurry and it was good to have time to chat and get to know those of the party that we hadn't met before.

After lunch we split up - some for a nap back at the chalets; some to the beach and some(including myself) to the amusement arcade. Armed with 2ps I hit the machines. Luck was on my side, I won three keyrings -a dice, a yellow fish and a bushbaby in a tree. I only spent £30. Another quick turn on the rides then it was back to get ready for the evening.

After several Pimms and lemonades and dressed in our finest, we set out toward the main ballroom for the live entertainment. I'd been forewarned by those who'd been there on friday night to be shocked and surprised by our fellow guests, they'd likened the dance floor to the bar in Star Wars. I assumed because they all came from small towns in Kent and Sussex that they were a little naive and unused to the everyday sights that us Londonders come across. I assumed wrongly.

90% of the crowd were in fancy dress of some sort. None had chosen outfits to flatter, in most cases it seemed that they had done everything to accentuate their worst features. There were women in their 60s in blonde wigs, mini skirts and knee high boots - it was impossible to tell who was wearing fishnets and who just had varicose veins. Beyond-large women trussed up in basques, their bosoms thrust so high that they merged with their double chins. With some it was impossible to tell their sex - neither their faces nor their figures provided any clues. They were all fat,tattooed and aggressive looking. At one point during the evening a man came up to me and said that we were the only decent group of women in the place but admitted that wasn't saying much.


On the whole the men faired better in their attempts. Generally speaking there are more attractive women than there are men - that's just the way it is. Not so at Butlins. That's not to say that the men were good-looking, just that they weren't as scary to behold as the women. Some of the outfits were even quite well put together. The two Eric Morecambes were funny and the trio of surgeons were a bit hit with the ladies. However, I did find the Clockwork Orange characters rather disconcerting.

The weekend was billed as Motown yet none of the live acts, or indeed the music played by the DJ (save for a couple of Stevie Wonder tunes) had any Motown connection. I was slightly disappointed to discover that Andy Abrahams, the singing dustman from X factor had made his appearance the previous night but was soon cheered to hear that Heatwave were due on. They were rather good - Boogie Nights, Mind Blowing Decisions, Always and Forever, we danced to them all. More music from the DJ - a Drifters medley, Tina Turner - Simply The Best, Mustang Sally (3 times), some Michael Jackson - and then it was time for Angelo Starr. Brother of Edwin for those unfamiliar with the name. Along with his brothers various hits, he too gave a rendition of Mustang Sally (what is it with that song). The night finished with more from the DJ, he'd really veered from the theme of the weekend by then and we left to the strains of Robin S and Show Me Love.

By then, around 3am, the alcohol had stopped taking effect and suddenly our feet felt like they were on fire. We hobbled back toward the chalets, stopping at Burger King for sustenance to complete the journey. I can only praise the patience and good nature of those poor souls behind the counter serving up the burgers and chips. One particular woman -'hen' according the sash (or more likely banner) that was stretched to breaking point across her ripples of fat - leant over the counter and banged her fist, demanding to know where her 'fucking cheese' was. We shuddered quietly at a corner table and avoided eye contact. One of our group (41 and single) was dismayed at the fact that someone would marry such a creature when she (slim, attractive, intelligent etc) couldn't even get a date. We consoled her by pointing out that it was unlikely that the groom would be much cop.

Our appetites vaguely sated, we ouched the last few hundred meters back to base where we flung off our shoes, donned our pyjamas and thanked God we were us. I settled down on the sofa bed which I shared with another girl(we 'topped and tailed' to avoid embarrasing eye contact in the morning)but sleep alluded me as every five minutes heavy footed groups stomped passed the window shouting, singing and on the odd occasion arguing. It finally went quiet but then I had to get up to take some pain killers for my feet which were throbbing as if they'd been hit with sledge hammers. Sleep finally came as the sun was rising and the sea gulls began their early morning cries.

The next morning, while the others breakfasted on danish pastries, I took myself off in search of a traditional english. This was on offer at the Sun and Moon pub but the length of the queue, combined with the sight and smell of hungover men downing their first pint of the day, forced me elsewhere. I settled for a breakfast bap from Londis which I ate outside at a table in the sun. With a fresh coffee to accompany it, I opened up my Observer, at last some semblance of civility. My peace was soon shattered, three men joined my table. They too were eating Londis breakfast baps but continued to talk as they were doing so, spitting bits of reconstituted egg onto my Sunday supplements. They talked loudly to a woman who was sitting on the next table about going up 'Roman' and various other east end localities. I could take no more, as the undercover reporters say - I made my excuses and left.

Not long after that, I said goodbye to the rest of the girls and headed back to London on the train. Never again I told myself. 'Let's do it again' said the birthday girl back in the office 'there's an 80's weekend next May, we can dress up for it'. I fear she stayed there too long, they've got to her .....

Scaling new heights

A woman at work who is about 5' 11" is always complaining about the lack of available tall men. She's 48. At her age holding off for a man the right height is a luxury she can't afford. Although she was interested to read in the London Paper today that the world's tallest man is in London this weekend in search of love. At 8'1" he more than meets her requirements. Alas, he won't be getting his size 23 feet under her table for it would appear that he too has specific criteria to be met. The article says he prefers blondes and her cover-all-grey shade of the moment is dark brown. Oh well, nothing that a bottle of peroxide can't put right. Personally I think she's being too particular - as I keep reminding her, we're all the same height laying down.

City sights - part 1

The City of London is full of little surprises. They are unseen by the top executives as they travel from meeting to meeting in their chauffeur-driven Mercedes. But for the lesser mortal like myself who spends many a working hour just gazing, there's many an event to amuse and baffle.

For instance, today I looked down from my 5th floor window to the public garden that fronts Lloyds TSB's offices. On an autumnal day like this I'd expect to see a dozen or so hardy souls sat on the benches around the edge of the small square. Swathed in macs and eating their sandwiches whilst struggling bravely to hold firm their Financial Times against the September winds. Today though they had to find somewhere else to take their lunch break as in one corner of the garden a ceremony of some kind was taking place.

Behind a cordon of red rope was a table upon which were bottles of wine and soft drinks. Next to the table was a small group of people with glasses in hand listening to a priest in robes who appeared to be delivering a sermon. Next to him an assistant, also robed, was swinging a chalice of incense back and forth. A photographer was recording the event. The priest made the sign of the cross - a blessing presumably, hand were shook and shortly after the crowd dispersed.

What the? I'll never know.

A day at Kew Gardens

After two weeks of holiday plans disrupted by a combination of illness, hangovers, bad weather and plain indecision, I finally made it to Kew Gardens today. That I managed to get there at all was a minor miracle as London Transport had done everything in their power to prevent me. There was no tube from Wimbledon and no train to Kew Bridge but my determination won through and after 3 buses and a twenty minute walk I finally arrived.

The walk alerted me to another complication I hadn't forseen, my new tights though a lovely shade of green were too small and as I walked I felt them sneaking there way down my hips, with the crotch heading kneewards as a result. Discrete hitching didn't work but I did come across a clothes shop were I went in and asked an asistant if I might pop into a cubicle to adjust myself. Once inside I grabbed the waistband of the tights with both hands and jumped up and down to hoik them up over my waist. Relief was only temporary and by the time I got to Kew they were once again at half mast.

To get into the gardens I used a friend's membership card, today I was Mrs Lynn Tanner. I headed straight for the Pavillion cafe where I had a much needed slice of coffee and walnut cake and a cup of coffee at a table in the sun. After that, a quick trip to the ladies where I took off my knickers and put them on again over my tights to secure them into position and like Superman in a dress I set to exploring the gardens.

The first thing that struck me were the trees; their sizes, shapes and colours and how beautiful they were. Trees are fairly abundant in the urban landscape but rarely get noticed. Here they are the landscape, making it seem both timeless and ancient.

Under an oak tree I found a pearl bead amongst the fallen acorns. I fancied it to have fallen from the bodice of a Tudor lady-in-waiting who had wandered through and that I too was a lady of the Elizabethan court, strolling through the leafy glades on my way to meet the men back from the hunt. (NB I do know that Kew Gardens wasn't created until several hundred years after the Tudors but please indulge my fantasy.)

As I strolled through the grounds past flower beds and rockeries, ponds and fountains, I thought how strange it was, the articial world we build for ourselves and the material goods we aspire to have, when really we are most happy when we are out amongst nature. I felt so content in the sunshine, walking amongst the trees with the grass under my feet, stopping to look at bees and butterflies as they flitted between flowers. The only thing that stopped it from being totally idyllic was the constant noise of planes overhead as they made their way in to land at Heathrow.

For the journey back I took the boat from Kew Bridge to Westminster. Being near, in or on the water is another thing that we all seem to love but do little of. I plugged in my iPod (not all material goods are bad) and listened to Strange Games and Funky Things compilation album as we made our way downriver.

I was surprised that there was no other traffic on the river besides the odd solo rower practising. Why aren't we all gliding up and down the river amongst the cormorants, cranes, geese, swans and ducks instead of being jammed into trains, tubes and cars? Are we mad? I suspect we are.

On our way we passed under many bridges; the iron splendour of Hammersmith, the bronze deorative swirls of Battersea, Albert Bridge with its delicate spires of pastel blue, pink and white giving it the appearance of an iced confection.

As we got further in to central London, both banks were dominated by new riverside developments. Great glass and steel tiers like rows of battleships with their prows facing the river - the topmost penthouse apartments forming the captain's bridge.

The sights became more familiar - the peace pagoda in Battersea Park and in the distance the four turrets of Battersea Power Station rising above the trees like Greek columns, it's skeletal main body only visible as we passed under Chelsea Bridge.

Then on past Vauxhall, with its bronze statues guarding the bridge, or is it the MI5 building they watch over? Down past Lambeth Palace and the Houses of Parliament and then finally docking at Westminster Pier.

There the spell was lost as I disembarked and found myself landed amongst a swarm of tourists. The noise, the traffic and the grey stone buildings that are usually invisible to me felt intrusive and disturbing. Once more I was back amongst the throng and it didn't feel good.

Not to worry though, in the words of Ice Cube 'Today I didn't even have to use my A.K. I gotta say it was a good day.'

Feeling Dishormonious

My desk at work resembles a sub-branch of Holland & Barrett. No family photos or desk toys for me, just jar upon jar of 'natural remedies' that can 'help women through their monthly cycle'.

There's Vitamin B6, Evening Primrose Oil, Black Kohosh, Red Clover & Starflower Oil. I've got more supplements than the Sunday Times (and they're getting a bollocking tomorrow when I phone them up to complain about being woken up at 3.10 am this morning when the paper was thrust through my letter box, landing heavily in the hall, waking both myself and the cat and then slamming the front gate behind them.)

Do these remedies work? Are my symptoms alleviated? Due to being on holiday from work and having my routine broken, I completely forgot to take any all week (forgetfulness being one such symptom). At the end of the week I now find myself having flushes that would win many a hand of poker and the kind of irritability you'd expect from an overtired three year old. Dear reader, my hormones are in disarray.

Add to that a child who not only got mugged on his birthday last wednesday, but phoned this evening to tell me that a) he nearly set his nan's flat on fire last night when he fell asleep after drunkenly putting a pizza in the oven and b) he's run out of money and can I send some more. I've got runner beans, courgettes, rhubarb and tomatoes growing in my garden but I'm afraid the garden centre were fresh out of money trees. it'll be back down to Barclays with the balaclava and the shotgun tomorrow then.

I shall keep calm and carry on.

Fear not, this is but a temporary blip for I have now swallowed a week's worth of supplements, washed down with a generous Baileys coffee. Thence to the front room (is it common to say 'front room', should I say 'lounge' instead?), where I will sit Florence on my lap and breathe to the rhythym of her purrs whilst I watch a film starring Al Pacino. One where he doesn't die in the end. Oh hang on, there aren't any. Perhaps I'll settle for an old episode of Flog It instead.

Beyond the Hedge of Reason

Saturday/Sunday 10/11 July

Time once again for a visit to mother. I arrived in Broadstairs around 2.30pm and decided to take a walk down the high street rather than go straight to her home.
It was mid-afternoon and a warm, dry day but there were not many people about. The folk of Broadstairs, most of them retired, like to go about their business early.

The fishmonger's had already shut an hour earlier and the butcher's window was empty except for rows of gleaming metal trays and strips of plastic foliage. (At least Broadstairs has a fishmonger and butcher, two of each in fact. Where I live it's the supermarkets or sod all.)

A new hairdressers had opened halfway down the hill - 'Gillian Kay of London'. How the owners of Hair Dayz, The Hair Cottage, Rootz et al must have quivered with fear when they saw the shop signage go up. The implied sophistication and cutting-edge glamour of a stylist formerly 'of London' would surely turn every woman's head and accompanying cut and blow dry. Not this afternoon apparently. The salon was empty when I walked past, save for a sullen junior half-heartedly sweeping fallen locks from the floor. Perhaps Gillian Kay of London's former location had been narrowed down and revealed her to be Gillian Kay of Lewisham, or Hackney and ruined the allure.

Further on I noted that Doyle's Psychic Emporium had shut down. They obviously had not forseen the economic downturn. I browsed the charity shops. In Thanet Animal Rescue I bought a butterfly brooch for 50p and a bamboo plant stand for £1.50 In the Cancer Research shop my access to the bric-a-brac section was blocked by three paunchy pensioners who were planted firmly in the aisle bemoaning the lack of consideration to others shown by 'youngsters today'. Unattracted by the temptations on offer in C-Wools (for all you knitting needs) or Plate Expectations (make and paint your own ceramics), I turned back up the hill towards my mother's.

My mother lives in a ground floor flat in a block of four. Until recently all four flats were occupied by elderly ladies. Mum's pride and joy is her garden which, despite her being 83, she tends to daily, only employing a gardener to mow the lawn and do the heavier jobs she can no longer manager herself. But all in her garden is not rosy.

From what I gathered from our weekly phone conversations, the hedge at the bottom of her garden - which belongs to Dorothy (next door, upstairs) has run rampant. Not only does it severely restricting her view but is preventing her from reaching some of her flower beds. Dorothy no longer lives in her flat, she became too frail. Mum's not sure whether she is now in a residential home or simply clicked her heels three times and found herself back in Kansas. Now the flat is unoccupied and the responsibility of Dorothy's daughter who rarely visits it. Mum said that she had put a note through the door alerting the daughter to the state of the hedge but said - without actually knowing whether the daughter had been to the flat and seen the note - that it had been flagrantly ignored.

Mum's descriptions left me wondering whether I should have arrived armed with a machete to hack a path through to her dooor. In the event it turned out to be unnecessary. True, the hedge was a little untidy and needed a trim, but that was all.

As I sat down for a coffee with her, I was regaled with her thoughts on the subject once more. There was another bee in her bonnet though. Ivan, the new owner of next door, downstairs had let his bushes grow too high. Never mind that the poor man was hardly ever there, spending most his time in Wales trying to find suitable accommodation for his elderly mother.

It was at that point that I realised what must be done. I asked mum if she had any garden shears. She had. I told her I would trim the hedge there and then. She was reluctant at first - it was too high, too hard a work, I was only a woman - it was a job for a man etc. I insisted she allow me to give it a try, promising to stop if I found the task too arduous. So armed with a two step stool, rusty blunt shears and a pair of rose pruners, I set to work. After an hour I'd made good headway, it wasn't the closest or neatest cut but it was looking better. I had to stop to get ready to go out for the evening but swore to carry on the next day.

The next morning, after a quick cup of coffee, I was back out in the garden with my through-a-hedge-backwards morning hair and no makeup, ready to carry on with the hedge trimming. I soon attracted an audience. First mum, who kept creeping up on me to shout warnings such as 'Mind yourself on those steps' or 'Careful with those pruners' - startling me each time so that I very nearly did fall down.

Next along came Lydia (94) from upstairs. Between them they began scooping up the clippings to put in the dustbin, all the while decrying the lack of neighbourly consideration shown by departed Dorothy's daughter. I, on the other hand, was commended for my bravery and skills.

I had more or less finished when Cyril (87) appeared across the lawn from the block next door. He asked if I wanted to borrow his electric trimmer (nice timing Cyril). I saw the look of horror and panic on mum's face. I knew she didn't believe I was capable of handling an electric trimmer without decaptitating myself or at the very least lopping off a limb. I politely declined his offer. Cyril and Lydia spent the next five minutes discussing the cost of stair lifts until Lydia announced she was going indoors to prepare her lunch. It was 10.30.

Unable to reach any more of the hedge and satisfied with my achievements, I want indoors myself to get a bath. As I took of my dress, shreds of leaves fell onto the bathroom floor. Those that were still stuck ot my skin floated off as I lowered myself into the bath, which I forced to share with mum's mobility bath seat. Wdged between the seat and the taps, I sat with my knees bent around my ears and washed myself clean. I winced as I made contact with the scratches that adorned my arms and chest like a self-harmer on a sad Sunday. The muscles in my arms and legs felt pleasantly tight. Were I to hedge trim on a regular basis no doubt I would soon reach my preferred dress size and give Madonna a run for her money in the toned arms stakes to boot. Alas, my everyday life provides little opportunity for such activities and so I shall remain soft armed and round hipped.

Enclosed are photos of the offending hedge, duly trimmed and the 'abominations' of the neighouring gardens.

Waiting for Argos

Saturday 4 July

Earlier in the week, I ordered some items from Argos. Possessing neither a car nor super-human strength I had to have them delivered. Being at work during normal delivery times, I opted for the Saturday delivery service. How convenient it is of them to deliver at the weekend, and for only double the normal delivery charge.

Delivery hours on a Saturday are from 7am to 3pm. Why, that's a mere 9 hours to have to spend indoors on a summer's day - jumping in and out of the shower with barely time to wet the body; not daring to venture into the back garden to hang out the washing; keeping the radio at low volume; all for fear of not hearing the doorbell and finding the dreaded 'We called, but you were out.' card on the doormat.

When I was younger, such was my vanity that I would have risen at 6am in preparation for their visit - convinced that they would be calling at 7.01 am precisely. Not only that, but that Argos would be sending their equivalent of Johnny Depp to deliver my order and I couldn't possibly open the door in less than smart clothes and full make-up. Indeed, the anticipation of any kind of male visitor to my door, be it postman, delivery man, meter reader or plumber, would have me up at the crack of dawn to make myself presentable for their arrival.

After many years of doorstep disappointments, it's finally struck home that there are no Johnny Depps working in those industries, or if there are they don't get sent to my address.

So today I slept in until 11.20 and stayed in my pyjamas and dressing gown while I made breakfast. Just as the sausages and bacon were browning nicely under the grill, the doorbell rang. It was the Argos man. Without even a glance in the hall mirror, I went to answer the door. I did hesitate momentarily - maybe, just maybe, this time it would be Johnny Depp.

My fears were unfounded. I opened the door and there, as usual, stood Benny Hill.

Fairwell My Summer Love

I was just getting ready for bed last night when Harvey got a text to say that Michael Jackson had died. Neither of us believed it so we turned on Sky News and there it was.

I said to Harvey that it was another Princess Diana moment - it was he who woke me up that day to tell me she had died. He's a bit of a harbinger of death is my son.
Then, as now, we both watched the tv in disbelief.

My first thoughts were of the practicalities: the concerts at the O2 - what would happen? Would people get their money back? Who would have to refund them?

I thought back to Diana and the ridiculous public grieving that followed, I can imagine that there'll be similar scenes for Jackson - in L.A at least - weeping fans clutching flowers and tributes.

He seemed too young to die, but he was 50 and it's not uncommon for a man of that age to suffer from a cardiac arrest. That scared me, I'm not man but I will be 50 by the end of next year. I'm getting my cholesterol checked next week.

Working from home today (due to an errant prawn in Wednesday's salad lunch turning my stomach into a working model of Vesuvius), I'm listening to Radio 2 who are playing lots of his songs and I have to say that I felt quite choked when I heard 'Ben'. Despite his weird behaviour and fuck ups, there was something special about him.

His songs were the backing track to a lot of my life: his poster from Jackie magazine on my bedroom wall; miming to 'I Want You Back' when I got my first record player; dancing to 'Off The Wall' with the girls from Nat West Bank on a night out in Margate; watching the first showing of the 'Thriller' video in a bar on holiday in Kitzbuhel; seeing him live at Wembley stadium in '84; wearing a promo T-shirt on the day of the 'Dangerous' album release when I worked at HMV and lots more.

I guess you can forgive him the facial surgery, the skin lightening etc for the great music.

I remember the day Elvis died, I was only 17 and working with a lot of older women. They were all shocked and spent the day discussing him. At the time I couldn't see what all the fuss was about, now I do.

Michael Jackson was the Elvis of our generation. RIP

Cats before kids?

Recently I decided that I'd like a cat. I checked with my landlord and he was ok with it. Rather than have a kitten I thought I'd give a home to a rescue or abandoned cat, some poor little creature that nobody wants. So I set to Googling 'rescue cats' to find some animal shelters to ring.

I imagined that I would call them up and say
'I'd like to give a home to an unwanted moggy.' To which they'd reply -
'What a wonderful, caring person you are. If only there were more people in the world like you, please come down and choose which one you'd like.'

But, oh no, it doesn't work like that.

First you have to fill in an appication form. Then you have to go for a face to face interview - with an animal worker, not a cat (that comes later). If that goes ok, arrangements are made to come and visit your home to check its suitability and to see if any adaptions need to be made in order to house a cat. Once that is completed, the shelter will decide which cats in their care they think would be happy living with you. Then, and only then, you can choose from the ones they have selected.

My God. Lack of eggs and offers aside, I could easily bring a child into the world without being vetted for my suitabiity as a parent. Indeed there are thousands of children in this country being brought up by parents who shouldn't even be in charge of a pot plant.

I can understand that animal lovers don't want rescue cats to come out of the frying pan straight into the fire but isn't it taking things a bit too far? Besides, it all seems a bit speciesist. I'm sure the same rigorous checks aren't carried out on behalf of guinea pigs or budgies. Don't they have the right do a decent life too?

I think I'll stick with my pet rock.

Saturday 20 June 2009

I've just got home from a one-day writing course. Like every course I've been on, from Stop Smoking to Salsa, the women far outnumbered the men - 17 to 4 in this case.

Women: if you're thinking of enroling on a course purely in order to meet a possible partner, don't - unless you're a lesbian, in which case you may have some luck.

Men: if you want an opportunity to meet lots of women, without minimal competition from other men, join 4 or 5 evening classes. You're chances of success are much greater than hanging about in bars - though don't expect a shag after the first class. Plus you never know, you might even learn something at the same time.

The course turned out not to be particularly inspiring. However, my fellow course-mates were an interesting bunch and two in particular caught my eye.

First, there was a tall, slim, grey-haired woman, in her early 50s at a guess. She was wearing jeans and a vest top. After looking at her for a while it struck me that she had no bust. I thought maybe she was bra-less (an unwise move for anyone over 30) so looked for them further down towards her waist. They weren't there either. She actually had no breasts. This meant she'd either had a double masectomy or been born without any. Whichever, it was obviously not a problem for her as far from trying to disguise the fact, she'd worn clothing more likely to draw attention to it.
Good for her, though my morbid curiosity kept wondering what had happened.

The second person to catch my attention was also a woman in her 50's. She looked like Elizabeth Taylor, but not in a good way. She was very short with wild, back-combed hair, dyed a dark brown. Bright blue eyeshadow, heavily-mascaraed false eyelashes and scarlet lips and nails fought for attention with her leopard print dress and patterned lace tights. She was American and when she spoke she had a gruff drawl not unlike Joan Rivers. She claimed to be a psychologist by profession but I wondered who in their right mind would go to her for treatment.

I might try a Human Behaviour couse next.

Salzbolg photos

Hope this works. There should be pics of salzburg, including the view from my hotel room balcony. Fingers crossed ....

4 Days in Salzburg - Tues 9 to Sat 13 June 2009

My journey began on the Monday evening when I caught at Terravision coach from Liverpool St to Stanstead. It was a normal coach so I'm not sure why it needed three members of staff to check the handful of passengers on board. There was the driver, a ticket issuer and a short, ruddy-faced, gap-toothed man who would have looked more at home on a cargo ship and seemed to serve no other purpose than to leer at the young girls as they boarded the coach (I managed to escape his gaze)and discuss their virtues in an unfamiliar language with the other two.

There were no more than a dozen of us on the coach, mostly young backpackers with too tight a budget for the Stanstead Express, plus one or two of us older travellers, who were just too tight.

The coach smelt vaguely of stale beer so I decided to hold off eating my homemade brie and tomoato sandwich until I checked into my hotel room, in the hope that it would be more fragrant.

En route we drove past the site of the 2012 Olympic village, it looked like they might need to get a bit of a move on with it. One other unusual sight was a sign on the sliproad to the M11 prohibiting pony and traps. It made me wonder how many people in that area used that form of transport for it to warrant a warning sign. Is there a large gypsy encampment nearby perhaps?

Off of the Terravision bus at Stanstead and straight onto the Holiday Inn shuttle bus to the hotel. At £66 for the night it was more than double my return flights to Salzburg, but how else was I to be at the airport for a 6.30am flight?

Was surprised at how effecient and modern the hotel was. I was checked-in and in my room in less than 5 minutes. The room itelf was up to date, clean and spacious and well sound proofed. Finally I was able to eat my brie and tomato roll, then settled down in bed to watch the final episode of Ashes to Ashes - and I was very happy with the ending, a perfect set-up for another series. Lights out at 10.30 ready for an early start.

Tuesday 9 June

Up at 4.30 and on the 5.20 shuttle bus to the airport. Got through security and to the gate in perfect time. The flight was only an hour and forty minutes, just time for a coffee and a snooze (apologies to the young German lad I kept falling against).

I left a grey and wet London but landed in a warm and sunny Salzburg. A taxi took me to my hotel , the Bloberger Hof - a truly delightful, traditional chalet-style, family run hotel. It was set in a suburban, rural area - surrounded by arable fields with mountains in the background.

It was too early to check-in, so I dropped off my bag and armed with a town map and directions from Inge, the hotel owner, I set off to catch the bus into town. 15 minutes and 2 euros later I was in the heart of Salzburg.

Pictures and more to follow in next blog - if I can figure out how to do it...

Labels: Holiday

I knew I was right

I spent last weekend in my home town, visiting my mother. Walking down the High Street on Saturday afternoon, I saw a girl on the other side of the road who went to the same school as me.

She didn't spot me, for which I was glad as we were never friends. Truth be told, I was rather horrible to her at school. I'm not sure I'd go so far as to say I bullied her - I never threatened, or physically attacked her - but it would be fair to say that I made her life uncomfortable. Barging into her if we passed in the corridor, sneering, calling her names - that was the sort of thing that I did. It worried her enough that she reported me to the headmistress.

Why? It's difficult to say as there wasn't a specific incident or reason that caused me to dislike her so much, I just did. If pushed I'd have to say it was the way she walked and carried herself. Lookswise she was verging on pretty but there was something about her demeanour that implied she thought that she was much more than that. She loved herself and I hated her for it. I guess mine was a fairly typical reaction for a self-conscious, overweight 14 year old. It was mean-spirited of me and said more about me than it did about her though and for years I felt ashamed of my behaviour.

But when I saw her on Saturday, walking up the hill dressed in summer white and turquoise designed to show off her tan (real or otherwise), her sunglasses atop skillfully highlighted hair; watched her climb into a gigantic 4x4 and drive off with the roof down and music blaring - then I knew I was right all along.

She did love herself and I still hated her for it.

Namesake

June 2 2009
After dinner tonight I was craving some chocolate (those hormones again). Unable to persuade my son to go for me; cajoling, commanding, crying - none of them work with him, I pulled on a long cardigan to cover up my scruffy tracksuit bottoms and headed to the shop.

My flat is about 50 meters from the end of the road which is a cul de sac, separated from the main road by a concreted area with raised beds of municipal bushes. On one side is the OK launderette and the Wizard tatoo parlour on the other. You might have gathered that I live in one of the less sought after areas of Wimbledon.

As I got to the end of the road, I saw a body lying on the ground. I thought at first it was a man, it was dressed in grey trousers and top but when I got closer I saw the small prone figure was wearing dangling, gold-hooped earrings. It was a woman. She was breathing and her eyes were open but she looked in some distress. I asked her if she was ok, luckily she was in no mood to dispense sarcasm. She was very bedraggled, her long, dirty nails were stained with nicotine, her hair greasy and tied back in a messy ponytail. I couldn't tell if she was drunk or drugged but it was difficult to make out what she was saying - her lack of teeth didn't help.

I decided to call an ambulance, even if she was just drunk she was too vulnerable to be left there. I stayed with her until it arrived, less than five minutes I was impressed. While we were waiting I asked her name - Christine, the same as mine. I don't meet many other Christines and I never assumed I'd meet one lying incapable at the end of my road.

The ambulance arrived, the medics got out. As soon as they saw the woman, one of them said ' Come on Christine, up you get.' Obviously a regular. I left them to it and went to buy my Milky Way. I couldn't get her out of my head all evening though, wondering what had happened to her along the way for her to end up half-dead in a dead end.