Author: sunshineinlondon

I am a Zimbabwean/South African living in London. It is so much fun living here, finding sunshine in everything I do and then writing about it!

Dance, words and laughter

Nothing says Zumba quite like a gym studio in south east London, overlooking a historic dock, and filled with people from every tribe, tongue and nation. I was so glad to brave the rain to go to my Zumba class last night – exercise, music and the united nations renewed me!

Our instructor is eastern European and gorgeous. She welcomed everyone, asked if anyone had any injuries or medical conditions she needed to know about, and then she filled the room – corner to corner – with pumping latin beat. Our class began. From hip-swaying salsa through to rocking bacciata, we moved our bodies in unison (mostly), and conversed in the international language of dance. I do cringe when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, but if I keep my eyes on the instructor, I’m well in fantasy land! Ooh, I just love it!

I guess it’s because I don’t have much else to focus on right now, but my (almost) daily fix of gym lifts my spirits and helps to keep me positive. And the exercise is just what I need. It’s getting cooler now, but a few months ago, in mid-summer, we did the odd Pilates class outside on the deck, next to the water and under a fading blue London sky. Wonderful.

Our Pilates instructor has, as she says, a knee that is poorly. A few weeks ago she came into class and announced that she was, officially, “broken” and couldn’t do the class fully with us, as she usually does, until her knee was better. Turns out her brokenness is housemaid’s knee. Ouch! She does as much of the class with us as she can, and has told us – ad nauseum – that when we are to be kneeling, and she sits on one knee with the other leg outstretched, we should ignore her and do as she instructs. I have giggled to myself to notice – EVERY time – that there are a number of people who continue to copy her and stick one leg out to the side. I guess she finds it funny too. And I guess language is a factor.

Which reminds me of a conversation I seriously had some years ago when we lived in Harare, Zimbabwe. It was so bizarre I sent it in to the Readers’ Digest, and they published it! I used to go to gym every lunch time (the gym was close to where I worked) and do a class there. One day, soon after we’d returned from our three-month holiday in the UK and Europe, which had ended with three weeks on Santorini in the Greek Isles, a woman approached me in the change-room after the class and this is how the conversation went, I kid you not:

She: “Excuse me. Could you tell me the secret of your deep tan?”

Me, beaming, “Greece!”

She looked a bit confused and added this: “Really? I’ve tried oil, but it never works.”

Music, dance and laughter. Don’t you just love it?

Sunshine signing off for today!

Men in skirts

Wednesday, and I’ve got tartan on my mind. I’m married to a Scotsman, you see. And every now and then I stop and think about things he says, and things I now say, and I realise a lot of these things are well forrin.

Just to clarify – my husband was born in Africa. His parents and elder brother, who was a toddler at the time, left Scotland to seek their fortune in warmer, African climes and my husband was born there a few years later. My parents-in-law lived in Africa for the rest of their lives – around 40 years – and they both had broad Scottish accents till they passed away. Something that I find so sweet is that my husband and his brother both had broad Scottish accents until they started school – until the pressure to sound like everyone else overwhelmed their little minds and they learnt to blend in just fine!

We travelled to Scotland as a family when our boys were ten and twelve. We stayed with wonderful relatives and were also on a mission to meet some long-lost, newly-discovered relatives, but that’s a story for another day. It was so interesting to see how at home my sons felt in the land of their father and his people, and how intrigued they were with their Scottish heritage. By the time we left, they both wanted kilts in the family tartan and, if we’d had an arm and a leg to spare, we would have indulged them.

My husband has since inherited two kilts, and these are worn with much pride at any suitable occasion: my elder son wore one to his Matric (school leaving) dance, and both sons wore kilts to their cousin’s wedding in Cape Town last month. The five boy cousins together in family tartan kilts looked just fabulous and, of course, made the faraway (in miles) mother in me weep at the sight. My younger son is dreadlocked, and made a wonderful McRasta. Gorgeous boys.

Some years ago, my husband wore his kilt to a very posh, advertising awards ball in Zimbabwe. He went to the bathroom early on in the evening and the bathroom attendant (I told you it was a posh place) said to my husband as he exited, “Oh! I thought you were in the wrong bathroom.”

So here’s some Scottish forrin:

  1. Gibbles – this means stuff, or things. For example, my husband’s bedside table is full of gibbles.
  2. Bairns – we have two of them. They are big bairns now. Children.
  3. Bo’heed – my parents in law used to chuckle if they called anyone a bo’heed (usually their grandchildren) – it is used affectionately, to mean big head. “I canna’ see the TV, will you move yer bo’heed?”
  4. A Scottish friend at work said once, pointing at the desk of the absent manager, “Where’s his nibs?” This made me laugh out loud, as I’ve heard it so often from my family … It is used slightly mockingly to refer, in their absence, to someone of self-importance, usually someone in authority.
  5. My new blogging buddy, Wendy, is about ages with ma’sel’. This means she is about the same age as I am.
  6. Dreich – this means cold, damp and miserable, and refers to the weather. We’ve had real dreich days in London this week – autumn has shown its tawny face.
  7. If you’re talking nonsense, a Scotsman will say you’re talking blethers.
  8. If you’re mean to me, I’ll greet. And it’s not a pretty sight. Greet means to cry.
  9. My mother-in-law used to leave things in the kitchen sink to steep (soak).
  10. If you’re called a tattybogle that’s not a compliment – it means you look a sight, like a scarecrow!
  11. One of my husband’s and my favourite pastimes is to bogle in shops – that means to look and browse.
  12. My father-in-law had some choice sayings, but they are not fit for the blog! But if he thought someone was not very attractive, he would call her coors but hamely. This is liked being damned with faint praise – coarse but homely. Ugly, but could be worse.
  13. Had yer weesht – this means be quiet, shush.

A dear, late uncle of my husband’s used to say the best thing to come out of England was the road to Scotland! We took that road at Easter, to travel up to Pitlochry in central Scotland (Perthshire) for the weekend. We checked to see what was happening there over the weekend and were so excited to see that the Red Hot Chilli Pipers were playing at the Pitlochry Festival Theatre!We booked tickets and went to see this fabulous Scottish phenomenon that played to a packed auditorium.

They call themselves a “bagrock” band, or “jock ‘n roll” and they play music – as their forthcoming new album says – for the kilted generation! They are fronted by three bagpipers, with two guitarists, two snare drummers (including a world champion snare drummer), a keyboard player, a drummer and occasionally some brass. Of course they all wore kilts, and they looked pretty darn fit! They played songs like Smoke on the Water, We Will Rock You, Hey Jude (they called it Hair Jood) and Clocks mixed with a bunch of traditional Scottish numbers. They sure made it a brilliant evening’s entertainment and, being Scottish, all the banter in between songs was really funny. I read that earlier this month, they played at BB King’s 42nd Street Blues Club in Manhattan. Go figure!

One of the opening acts was a Scottish duo of fiddler and guitarist who played a variety of choons, fabulously. The fiddler introduced each number including one that the guitarist had written, inspired by a trip to Egypt. It was called The First Time Ever I Saw Your Fez.

I’ll dedicate some future blogs to writing more about our trips up to Scotland and the beautiful country it is, filled with wonderful, warm and kind people. A country where humour is woven into the national DNA, and laughter is their battle-cry and for me, that’s my kind of people. My husband’s ain folk.

Sunshine signing off for today.

Taking it to the seats

The best part of our London adventure has been to see as much live music as our time and pockets will allow. We have treated ourselves to an embarrassment of concerts and gigs at the most amazing venues in and around London. Shall we eat or shall we see another concert? Hmmm, food can wait.

In the middle of summer, on one of the hottest days of the year – temperatures were well into the 30s, even mid-30s (I’m not sure what that is in Fahrenheit, or “old money” as they say here in London!) we went to see Diana Krall in concert at an outdoor venue. We honestly couldn’t have chosen a better day to do that. We arrived in Hampstead in the afternoon.

George Michael lives in Hampstead and he had, notoriously, driven into a Snappy Snaps photo shop in the early hours of a morning that week, heavily under the influence of an unknown substance. I laughed when I saw a sandwich board bearing this handwritten headline for a local rag: “George Michael drives into shop”. He was subsequently sentenced to four weeks in prison for that misdemeanour, and is currently fighting to be released on bail.

So on we continued to Kenwood House. It is a stately home, in the leafy suburb of Hampstead, and is used as a venue for outdoor concerts through the summer. It is really beautiful, the emerald green lawns roll from house to lake and on to the woods on either side and we languished next to a peaceful little lake to picnic before the show. As show time drew near, we made our way to the concert area, where row after row of brightly-coloured deck chairs awaited our arrival.  Our seats were near the front, and gave us a good view of the stage area which stood in sharp relief against the royal blue sky. The wooden deckchairs filled with fans, all eager for the show to begin.

What an amazing evening! Diana Krall is a fabulous musician, and we were so excited to see her live! She performed a huge variety of jazz numbers, accompanied by her talented band of drummer, double bass player and acoustic guitarist. She bobbed and weaved through her songs, and caressed the grand piano with such tenderness and skill I was in awe. A concert such as this, on a night such as this, in London – it doesn’t get much better than that!

On another hot summer’s day, we went to the O2 Arena in North Greenwich  to see Michael McDonald and Al Green. We live right next to the Thames, so we decided to travel along the river – we took the Thames Clipper and bounced along the rippling river to North Greenwich.

I am a huge fan of Michael McDonald, he is another one of my all-time favourites, and I’ve loved his music since his Shine Sweet Freedom days of the mid-1980s. In 1986 my husband and I went on a three-month holiday to the UK and Europe, and I remember sitting in a park in Amsterdam one chilly Sunday afternoon, under blue sky and icy wind, drinking Heineken beers and listening to the piped music of Michael McDonald and Patti LaBelle singing On My Own.

I digress.

We arrived at the O2 about an hour before the concert was due to begin. We sat down and soon a mountain of a man and his petite wife came to sit in the row in front of us. He said to me, “You’re not going to want me sitting in front of you, are you?” To which I said, “Not so much.” He duly sat down in front of me and blocked out the sun. Luckily when the lights went down we were able to shift along a few seats and both get a clear view of the stage!

To see Michael McDonald performing live was just unbelievable. He was sensational. We again needed three seats as I was beside myself, and I boogied myself silly in my seat! I did my ugly whistle at the end of each song. I think I annoyed the people on either side of me (yes, I do include my husband!) as I bobbed and jived and shimmied and shook my bones to the dulcet tones!  – what a relief when Michael shouted out, “School’s out!” and gave us the nod to stand up and dance – YAY! He sang everything that I know and love from Yah mo’ be there, to Shine Sweet Freedom, You belong to me, Taking it to the Streets, Minute by Minute, What a Fool Believes and he was joined by a local singer – Jaki Graham – who filled Patti’s high heels fabulously to join him for On My Own. He left the stage amid much protest from the fans, after an hour and a half of pure, beautiful, blue-eyed soul.

It was interesting to combine Michael McDonald and Al Green in the same concert. They had equal billing, they didn’t share the stage but brought their music from opposite ends of the soul spectrum.

The interval over, we made some noise for the Reverend Al Green. He entered from stage left, resplendent and melodramatic in dark glasses, suit and boots and carrying a bunch of long-stemmed roses. He waved with his other, white-gloved, hand. And so began the Reverend’s soul session, interspersed with the flinging of long-stemmed roses to adoring female (and male) fans in the audience. He sang his heart out through soul standards and smooth cover renditions. His three daughters doo-whopped in the background, and he was accompanied by an outstanding band that he ordered around with elegant, frilly, trilling fingers.

When the Reverend got excited, he would stamp his feet and slip his silk-lined jacket off his shoulders and on to the floor. He would pick it up and put it on again as he pulled himself together after each song.

I was less than impressed with the audience that night. After an absolute treat of songs like Let’s Stay Together and Let’s Get Married, part of the audience thought Let’s Get Outta Here, and started to leave the auditorium before the end of the concert. The Rev called out to them, reassured them he was on “no curfew” and yet he watched as a steady stream filed out. I guess it was to get ahead of the traffic but come on, London … you can do better than that! This was a one-night only show. Al Green was clearly not amused, and the show ended abruptly.

My husband is mad about American Idol-winner, Fantasia, and she had a one-night only, first-ever concert in London in May. This was held in IndigO2, within the O2 Arena complex. We had fabulous seats in the second row upstairs, and watched Fantasia perform to the writhing mosh pit in front of the stage.

She was incredibly energetic and passionate, she put her heart and soul in her songs and most of her wardrobe on the stage floor. I exaggerate … she threw her shoes off as she walked on to the stage, and got rid of her necklace and earrings and anything else that bothered her as she stomped and sang her way beautifully and emotionally through a range of old and new numbers.

She gave the organisers a headache, as she wanted to “feel” her people; the mosh pit was separated from the front of the stage by a barrier, and, when the people couldn’t come to Fantasia, she stepped down from the stage to come to her people. It was a wonderful concert, a treat to see her and experience her stage presence and vitality, and to enjoy a talent that we watched unfold on international television.

I stand in awe of such talent, of endless opportunity and of life in a city that breathes life into so many artists and actors and buskers and students and punters-who-watch. May I never take this for granted, and may I always jump around in thrill and excitement. And may we always need three seats.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Karma, grovelling and a parked car

We went out to some friends last night for supper, and apart from having some good old Cape Town natter and laughter (they are fellow Saffas), we all shared some interesting memories. Of good and bad times, challenging and fun times, and, for me, of times when I got things, well, just wrong!

I told them of a time some years ago when we were living in Zimbabwe. I was working as an in-house PRO for a computer company and, at the end of a busy Monday, I left the office and went to my car, which was parked in a central parkade. For some reason, that day, one of the parkade exits was closed so all the rush-hour traffic was heading towards the same exit, and nothing was moving fast. I stopped behind a long line of cars on the downward spiral towards said exit, when the car behind me rear-ended me. It made such a noise and I was not at all pleased. Livid, actually.

I stormed out of my car, ran to the rear bumper to see what damage this idiot had caused. I sighed and I sobbed and, to be honest, acted like a right proper prima donna. The poor guy who had driven into me was apoplectic with apology. He was, well, grovelling. He said, “I’m SO sorry, my foot slipped off the brake and I just couldn’t help it. I’m really really sorry. I don’t know what to say. I’m so so so sorry.”

Being the ungracious wench that I was, I raised my eyebrows, allowed him to grovel a bit more and soon realised there was no damage to my or his car. Did I let the poor guy off the hook? Hell, no. I held on to his anguish and squeezed it in my palm till the sweat dripped from his brow. I cast him a sideways glance, turned on my heel, gathered my voluminous skirt and flounced back to my car. I might even have flicked my hair.

And here’s the thing. When I had jumped out of my car in anger, I left the motor running. The keys were in the ignition. And when my car door slammed, it slammed shut. Locked. My car door was locked. And I couldn’t get back in. All the cars in front of me had long since moved on, and the queue of cars behind me was growing apace and growing impatient. I. Could. Not. Get. Back. Into. My. Car.

Now what? Where to turn? What do I do? And did I mention that I was seven months pregnant? I’m just saying…

The poor guy from behind me could see something was amiss. Mainly because I couldn’t get back into my car. He walked towards me with something that looked like power, or maybe it was my karma I saw glinting in his eyes.

“Can I help you?” he ventured.

“Umm, I’m locked out of my car. The keys are there,” I said, tapping helplessly on the closed window of the locked car door.

“Maybe I can help you, let me see what I’ve got in my car,” he said as he ran off to his car to fetch something. He sauntered back to my car, and was that smugness I saw all over his face? He brandished a massive bunch of keys and said, “Let’s see if any of these work.”

He tried about five keys in my lock, and on the sixth attempt managed to unlock my car door. He held the door open for me to climb back into my car, and waited for me to gather my pride and dignity and pull it all back into the car with me. I looked up at him and said, “Thank you SO much,” before I slumped behind the steering wheel.

I don’t know what I was feeling at that moment. Angry. Embarrassed. Bemused. Blonde.

“No problem,” he said, as he turned on his heel and, dare I say it, swaggered back to his car, whistling, and twirling the keys around his fingers. I could swear I saw a fist pump before he jumped back into his car. But I couldn’t be sure of that as I’d already screeched off into the blushing sunset.

If ever I’ve had comeuppance run and slap me in the face, it was at that moment. It taught me the value of grace and reciprocity. And the value of the Biblical truth of “do unto others” … because when karma bites, it really hurts.

Sunshine signing off today.

My blog ate my homework

My new blogging buddy, Wendy, has set me a challenging task! She very kindly – mistakenly? – awarded me the Bloody Brilliant Blogging Award AND the Versatile Blogger Award about two weeks ago. She wrote kind and complimentary things about me on her blog; the ‘citation’ made me blush.

Wendy is almost my twin. We were born in the same month and the same year as each other. And Princess Diana. Wendy lives in Canada, is a loving fiancée, daughter, sister, mother and grandmother, who loves to write (which she does beautifully, prolifically and with wonderful humour). She loves her family, gardening, eating out and music. She was one of the first “strangers” to visit my blog, and she and I now chat across the miles and the blogosphere every day. She is a kind and encouraging person. She has gathered so many caring people around her who clearly love her and her writing equally. Have a read of her blog, Herding Cats in Hammond River, and you’ll see what I mean.

On accepting the award, I accepted the challenge to write seven things about myself that I might not have mentioned before, and to pass on the award. I have also been tagged by Maura at 36×37 who has set me an equal task. More about Maura and the task coming to a blog near you. Soon.

I would like to pass on these awards from Wendy to a blogger whose work I love and admire: emily at in the hush of the moon. She describes herself as “..author, journalist, and artist …. more … and i am believer … – here, i seek grace in grunge of every day”. Her blog is beautiful, brilliant, her writing sublime. I know that this task won’t match the style of her blog, so I am passing on the awards to her, without the obligation. Have a look at her blog, you’ll be blessed and amazed.

Seven things I might not yet have mentioned about myself:

  1. I went to six different schools. My father was a bank manager and was transferred from city to town to village around Zimbabwe and Zambia, while I was growing up. I started my schooling in Lusaka, Zambia, finished it in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe, and went to university in Cape Town, South Africa. I went to boarding school when I was nine.
  2. I am the youngest of four. I have an older sister and two older brothers. I have never outgrown the “don’t forget about me” syndrome, and the desperate need to be taken seriously. I was once facilitating on a course, and arrived for the pre-course briefing about a minute after it had started. The course leader apologised and said she hadn’t noticed I wasn’t there yet. I said “It’s ok. I’m the youngest of four. No-one notices me.” I said it tongue-in-cheek, kind of, but it led to quite an interesting discussion around how our birth place can often determine our world view. I’d be interested to know your thoughts!
  3. I never went to detention at school. Not once. I don’t even like driving over a solid white line.
  4. I had my nose pierced about five years ago. My niece thought I was having a mid-life crisis. I thought I had a rush of blood to my head. But I’m pleased I had it done. I wear a tiny diamond stud, however I won’t ever do anything like that again. For those of you who’ve not been through such self-inflicted torture before, my nose felt like a tomato with a healthy, shiny red skin that popped as the needle penetrated. I can still hear the ‘pop’ sound, and it still makes my eyes water.
  5. I was part of a singing group when I was in high school. The group was called Agape (love) and we used to write our own songs. Actually, Anne and Rachel were the talented ones who wrote the songs. The rest of us made coffee, made jokes, cheered them on and made sure they didn’t get distracted. And then we’d sing. We had a uniform of long, African-print kaftans. We thought we were really cool. Looking at the photos now … regrets? I’ve had a few. That uniform is one of them.
  6. I once faked a finger injury to get out of doing lino-printing in my high school art class. I sat in the corner of the art room with a bandage on my hand for about four double periods in a row. I hated art classes. For me, they were hell. And my art teacher was the devil.
  7. I’m mad about sports. I was a swimmer, in my day, and was a keen tennis and squash player. I only gym these days, but I love watching sport – tennis, rugby, soccer (football in UK language), and sometimes cricket and golf. I learnt to play golf when I was about ten (I haven’t played again since then) and told someone that I was a natural, and had a natural swing. I didn’t realise that that was not for me to say. Oh, and I laugh at my own jokes.

So, those are some things you might not have known about me. Are your lives richer for knowing these gems about me? Not so much, but at least I can tick this homework assignment off my list. I don’t want Wendy to send me to detention.

Sunshine signing off for today!

My life on the island

Job hunting in London can be fun. Not. Ever. It feels like my working life is a reality TV programme, and I keep getting voted off the island. And I have to keep going back on to the island to be voted off again!

If I could do anything that meant I could cease the hunt, and leave the island of my own volition, I would do so in a heartbeat.

I send off applications and the wait feels like a results programme, complete with a loud heartbeat soundtrack. “And the winner is ….. not you!”

Please don’t feel sorry for me! That’s not the purpose of my writing about this. I’m a survivor. While I do allow myself the indulgence of self-pity every now and then, I keep praying and going and know – through gritted teeth – that this thick skin I’m growing will serve me well. One day.

I recently applied for a writing job with a charity based in central London. I sent in the detailed application form (it wasn’t the one where I mentioned mud-wrestling with Mathew McConaughey, promise!) and waited to hear if I’d been shortlisted. A few days after the closing date, I had heard nothing, so I knew I’d been unsuccessful.

However, I decided to make sure. I sent an email enquiry, and got a reply, which is unusual; I guess I should be grateful for small mercies. The emailer advised me that unfortunately I’d not been shortlisted, but said I was welcome to call her for some feedback. I arranged a suitable time to do so.

We eventually spoke at the end of the day yesterday. She said I had completed the form well and my application was strong. (“Good girl! You made that song your own.”)

She said the fact that my experience was largely South African, was a key factor. (This is the first time I’ve been told that directly, and somehow it felt discriminatory. “We don’t know that song. Is it big in your country?”)

She went on to say how inundated they’d been with applications, and also gave me some feedback about my style of writing, and saying that how I wrote the application form did not fit their brand. Fair enough. And whatever. (“Maybe you need to work on your vocals.”)

However, the gem is yet to come…

She said to me, “If I can give you some advice as you continue your job hunting, it would be to get as much UK experience as possible.” Seriously?

All possible responses escaped me. All I could do was listen in bemused silence. Gob-smacked, that’s what I was! What I really wanted to say was, “And you are the weakest link. Goodbye.”

Sunshine signing off for today! The tribe has spoken.

London, alive and screaming

Today, I thought I would take you on a journey to some fun London venues, and tell you about some wonderful new, up-and-coming artists that we’ve seen while we’ve been here. We’ve also seen some old and fabulously well-worn artists, who I’ll write about another time.

There are SO many things that I love about London. (Like you haven’t heard that one before!) But one thing that stands out above the crowd for me is just how much everyone loves London! Every day we read about interesting people who are visiting London; if it’s not the Pope (and I just loved the comment I heard on the radio on Sunday, by a young teenager in Birmingham who’d seen the Pope. She said, and try and imagine a nasally Birmingham accent saying this: “He was amazing. He’s kind of like a celebrity. But holy.”), it’s actors here for their movie premieres, singers and bands on concert tours, cricket teams on match-fixing tours, politicans, philosophers, bankers, chefs and models. And, of course, there are people like my husband and me, people from every nation and continent and language and race and accent and religion you can imagine. This heaving mass of humanity, the focus of so much attention, in such a small country. I stand in awe and constant fascination.

It is also the place musicians flock to if they want to “make it” on the music scene. There are weekly magazines and websites that list gigs that happen each week in London, and these number in their hundreds. My husband and I grab any opportunity we can to go and see new artists whose names we may not at first know, but whose gift of music is outstanding, and whose music we now love and share and will follow.

My husband is something of a music geek. He absolutely loves music and anything to do with it. He reads about new artists, tests out their wares on iTunes, and checks out who’s performing where and when. He found out about a young singer/songwriter called Diane Birch, and was so excited to read of a “one and only” performance in London in March. A lovely friend of ours was staying with us at the time, so the three of us went to the Vibe Club in Brick Lane (east London) to watch her performing. If you haven’t heard of her, check her out. She’s a young American singer/songwriter whose talent is incredible, and way beyond her 20-something years. Her style is folk, country, soulful – and she has enjoyed some commercial success with one of her songs, Valentino, which was featured on the soundtrack of an Ashton Kutcher movie, Valentine’s Day. We stood in the small club and enjoyed the treasure of an evening of her brilliant music.

Brick Lane is the best place in London (well, one of them) to get a good, genuine curry (in London people talk about “going out for an Indian”, meaning an Indian meal!). As you walk along the length of Brick Lane, restaurateurs stand in their doorways, touting their menus and trying to encourage you to patronise their spot. After our concert, we headed purposefully towards the far end of Brick Lane in search of one of the legendary bagel shops that stay open 24 hours a day. We found them – there are two right next to each other! – and had a the most delicious smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels ever! At £1.50 a pop (a steal, I tell you), it wasn’t surprising that we “mmm, yummmmm’ed” all the way back down the Lane!

After my birthday in July, we went to see Diane Birch for a second time. It was another unique performance at an outstanding venue in Notting Hill. What a beautiful area that is! If you’ve seen the movie, Notting Hill, you will know what I mean! And being there in person was even more fabulous. Streets of unique little shops selling antiques, vintage clothing, unusual clothing and all sorts of other interesting things! And the houses are just stunning – three and four storey Victorian terraced houses, really beautiful! I want to live there when I grow up! We saw a house for sale there (between £2million and £5million!) – and thought we’d wait until I got a job before we put in an offer!

The concert venue, The Tabernacle, is a beautiful old refurbished church building which dates back to 1888. When it is not hosting well-known and less well-known artists in concert, it is a community centre where you can learn Spanish, capoeira, ballet, belly dancing or zephyr yoga. Its history is remarkable. Diane Birch performed without her backing band this time, although she had a guitarist in tow, and it was another gift of an evening. Quite lovely.

Another concert that my husband discovered was a young, English singer called Rox. We arrived at The Scala in King’s Cross good and early for the 7.30pm start, and immediately realised we were in the minority in a queue-full of youngsters. We were relieved to see some older punters join the queue and, once inside, and the crowd started gathering, we realised we were not the oldest there! The Scala also has an interesting history, having been built as a cinema which was nearing completion just before the First World War began, and which was used as a labour exchange for demobbed soldiers in 1918.

What made the evening all the more special for us were the two opening acts: a young singer/songwriter from Jackson, Tennessee, called Lauren Pritchard. She was first up on the evening programme and, at that stage, there were probably about 30 people in the venue. I couldn’t believe the whole of London wasn’t there watching her and cheering her on – what an amazing voice, a beautiful talent, and achingly soulful songs. I loved her!

Next up was an English singer/songwriter called Liam Bailey. His reggae style songs take you on journeys through pain and triumph, joy and angst; another young, soulful and generously talented young singer. Rox is a tiny dynamo of a singer. And she’s about 12. Actually, she’s 21 and has a big voice, a delightful personality and gave a rocking performance. The tickets cost us just £10 each: what a privilege to be able to enjoy such talent. These are all artists to watch – please check them out and let me know what you think.

One of my most precious friends in Cape Town is the only person I know who’s seen The Beatles live. She went to a concert in London when she was 14, and wasn’t too fussed – although quite intrigued – about these Liverpool lads who had turned the music world on its head. She decided, before she went in, that she wasn’t going to scream and swoon like all the other silly teenage girls, and she stood in the queue, with her painted-on eyelashes and seriously mini skirt, resolute that she would stay cool . Once she got inside, she screamed her voice hoarse with the rest of them – she got totally caught up in the moment. She didn’t know at the time, but she was watching history in the making. Hell, that’s enough to make anyone scream!

Sunshine signing off for today.

Making chapattis and walking under water

We decided to continue our “exploring London” adventure over the weekend and discovered a whole new part of London that we’d never seen before. And we had to walk under water to get there.

With the Pope in London over the weekend, and central London being crammed with people, police and Pope-mobiles, we decided to head in the opposite direction. We started at one of my favourite places in London – Greenwich – about ten minutes from where we live. From there, we took the foot tunnel that goes UNDER the Thames, and walked across to the Isle of Dogs. I had heard about the foot tunnel, but didn’t know where it was or where it went.  It was built in 1902, which completely blows my mind. How did they do that?

At the entrance to the foot tunnel, there’s a lift (elevator) that takes you down to the tunnel. It’s a fairly big lift that can hold 90 people – it felt pretty crowded with about eight of us, I’d hate to imagine how claustrophobic it would feel with almost a hundred of us. Unusually, the lift has a human operator, who presses the buttons and, I guess, keeps an eye on what’s happening down there along the tunnel.

We couldn’t take any flash photographs in the tunnel, so I’ll have to rely on the picture in my mind to describe it: shiny, white-tiled and roundish. It felt very old fashioned, but completely solid and safe. Although my husband had a field day of “imagine ifs”, like imagine if all the lights went out, or imagine if it sprung a leak (how scary would that be?), and imagine being followed by a stalker through this tunnel? At which point I asked him to shut his imagination up (or words to that effect) and let us enjoy the walk without the worry! I did wonder where on earth some of the puddles came from, but apart from that it was a fascinating fifteen minute walk.

We took the lift back up to river level on the far side of the Thames, and I did one of my favourite things – eavesdrop. I heard some lovely cockney banter between the lift operator and his mate, discussing what he was going to eat over the weekend. His mate said,

“You wan’ four poys?”
He said, “Yeah.”
“Wha’ fowa?”
“Fir me lunch and dinner.Tha’’s wha’ fowa.”
“Wha’? Just poys?”
“Four poys and a large liquor. Tha’’s me sor’ed.”

We emerged land-side at the Isle of Dogs. I took the photo that is my new header pic, where we emerged: a lovely park, a path along the river, and a view – which I hadn’t seen before – of Greenwich on the other side of the river.

I only realised how curvy the Thames was the first time we went to Greenwich and stood on the lookout spot in front of the Royal Observatory. From that vantage point, not only are you where time begins, but you can see the curves of the Thames, as it takes a serious loop to the left and to the right. The bit of land in between is known as the Isle of Dogs, and you can find out some more about its history here. Quite fascinating.

We walked all along the edge of the river until we were just about in line with the O2 (a huge, tent-like, state-of-the-art concert venue, previously known as the Millennium Dome) in North Greenwich on the far side of the river. We stopped for a picnic lunch next to a small pebbly “beach” and watched the seagulls and swans bobbing together on the busy water, as the waves lapped on the brown stones.

We then cut “inland” towards Canary Wharf, a modern business district and home to a large number of glass-fronted skyscrapers housing banks and finance companies. We took the conventional route home, travelling by tube, after a refreshingly special sunny autumn day in this city of surprises.

My weekend began, as usual, with my Friday evening dance class. It was not Latin aerobics this time, as our instructor had gone away; we had a class of Bollywood aerobics! Our instructor was Eastern European and she looked like a dark-haired Barbara Eden in “I Dream of Jeannie”, complete with pony-tail on top of her head! Only in London.

We shimmied and sassied, did all the Bollywood moves you could imagine:  flat hands, fishy hands, we moved our heads from side to side, we peeped our faces through “windows” that we made with our hands! We flicked our heads back, we were arrogant, we flirted with our audience (the mirror) and we focused on style over substance. We took a bow, we made chapattis, we jumped and we stamped and, for a time, in the sweat and the swirl, I let go and danced as if no-one was watching. Try it, there’s nothing quite as liberating.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Blogging is not pants

I had another paper aeroplane conversation with someone yesterday. We could still be at it today, burying ourselves deeper into complete misunderstanding of each other, if he hadn’t broken the deadlock in a simple way. By spelling it out.

Our front door buzzer went and I went to the phone to find out who was there. It was a delivery man from UPS. He told me he had a delivery for someone else, and asked if I would collect it. This is how the conversation went:

(me) “Hello?”
“You all right? I’m from UPS and I have a delivery, it’s 4A.”
“You must be at the wrong block.”
“No, it’s 4A.”
“This is Flat A, but we’re not block 4.”
“No, it’s FOR A.”
“But this is A.”
“Yes, but this is for A.”
“But this is A.”
“Yes, this is for A.”
“Is the delivery for me?”
“No. It’s for A.”
“A?”
“Yes, A for egg.” (he had a well cockney accent, you see.)

I really laughed to myself, as I ran down the stairs to collect the parcel for my upstairs neighbour, and I wondered what Mr Delivery Man thought about this person who spoke well forrin!

Which is a perfect opportunity to segue into more examples of UK English words that I don’t know, and Saffa English words that no-one here knows!

  1. A while ago, a local friend of ours talked about someone who had “popped his clogs”. He said it dead seriously (excuse the pun), and couldn’t work out why we found it so comical. It means “died”. Isn’t that just the funniest expression? To me, it doesn’t really fit with what you’re saying, and makes me want to chuckle. I’ve included an explanation of the expression below*.
  2. Blag – I’ve heard this a few times. I thought it could mean “to use your blog to brag” but it means “to lie” or “to wheedle yourself into a situation through tricking, lying or cheating”. For example,  I blagged my way into that club/job/relationship.
  3. Pants – I know I’ve talked about the different meanings of pants and trousers. But it can also be used to mean “bad” or “rubbish” (see below). The first time I heard the word used was in an interview with Andy Murray (the Scottish tennis player who, I heard a comedian say this week, makes Gordon Brown look charismatic.) The interview was a post-mortem of a match he’d just lost and he said, “I wasn’t happy with the way I played. My service was pants.”
  4. Rubbish – in my use of the word, it can mean garbage or poor quality. For example, Why do I always have to take out the rubbish? or This TV programme is a load of rubbish. Here in the UK, the word is used slightly differently, and I love it. I sent a friend a text a few weeks ago to say that both of my interviews had yielded no’s. She replied with, How rubbish!
  5. Cagoule – this word fascinates me. I had never heard it before I arrived in London last year, and now notice its use quite often. It means light raincoat, one that can fold up and be carried easily. It reminds me of a silly story a friend told me years ago, of a chap walking up to someone in the street and, with unlit cigarette in hand, saying, “Have you got a light, mac?” and he said, “No, but I do have a heavy overcoat.”
  6. At the minute: this means right now, at the moment. As in, I’m between gigs; I’m not working at the minute.
  7. And now on to the Saffa-isms! Pitch up or pitch: this means to arrive, to turn up. I find it hilarious. Especially when I heard it on the TV news in SA once: “He held a press conference on his arrival, but not many people pitched.”
  8. Bring with/come with: Use can include: Where are you going? Can I come with, and can I bring the kids with? I grew up in a home where these expressions were absolute no-no’s (along with the word kids!). We had it drummed into us that we should say with you at all times, in place of with. My sister continued the tradition and drummed this into her children. When her son was a toddler, I remember her thinking aloud, “What shall I mix this with?” Her son said very bossily, “WITH YOU!”
  9. Eina! This is an expression of pain, and is pronounced aynah. If you stand on my toe, I’ll say EINA! Not usually without adjectives and expletives. But you get the picture.
  10. Sis! This word is one which expresses disgust. Like yuck! And you usually pull a face when you say it, nose turned up and mouth splayed in ugliness. Last week at our local supermarket, I thought I’d stood on someone’s toe but discovered I’d stood on a half-chewed milky-jelly-sweet in the shape of a set of dentures. It stuck to my shoe. Sis.

My education into the English language continues and never ceases to fascinate. A few years ago, a new colleague at work was observing me and the joking banter I was having with a colleague at tea time. She said, “Yor! I fasciNATE myself with you!” I have decided that here in London, I fasciNATE myself with talking forrin!

Sunshine signing out for today!

*idiomdictionary.com defines the expression as a “light-hearted euphemism, implying that after the person’s death, his shoes or ‘clogs’ and other personal effects are pawned (‘popped’)”.

What colour is your parachuuuuuuuu…

Earlier this week I took a risk. I applied for a writing job, and said that I was “no spring chicken”. I did, however, add that I had all my own teeth. Granted, they were looking for a witty writer, and I don’t know if they’ll take me on, but it was quite fun taking the less-than-serious approach.

My sons would say, “oh dear”, or their typical one is, “ooh, LAME!” They have crowned me the Mayor of Lameville, but that makes me want to retain the mayoral chain even more.

So I thought I would write a bit about risk today. I guess because it’s so much on my mind right now.  It can be fun, and it can be scary. Fun, like just before we left Cape Town and went to meet with a consultant at the bank: a middle-aged woman, dressed in a business suit, walked past us several times. She looked at us and walked on. And then did the same again. On her fourth journey, she walked over to us and pulled my husband’s ponytail. She said, “I just couldn’t resist it!”

It can also be scary. We turned our lives upside down, just over a year ago, to come and live in London for a few years so my husband could fulfil his dream and get his doctorate in counselling psychology. It took us a little while to decide to come, but the turning point came when we told our travel agent to go ahead and book our flights. And we had to pay for them within 48 hours. There was no turning back at that point.

While we were committing ourselves irrevocably to climb on to an aeroplane that would launch us halfway across the world (or is it all the way across the universe?), it felt to us both like we had just thrown ourselves out of an aeroplane. We began the process of looking for a tenant for our home, finding a new home for our darling little Jack Russell Frankie, packing up our home, and starting to let go of all that was familiar. And secure.

We found tenants, Frankie went to an incredibly loving home, and our household contents were emptied into storage boxes, farmed out to relatives, donated to charity, given away to friends, recycled or thrown in the garbage. Our lives were simplified – for a time – into two 20kg suitcases, and two pieces of hand luggage.

We left behind all that we knew and were sure of. And, although we were excited about reuniting with our precious sons who were in London at the time, we came to something unknown and foreign. We both knew that we would regret not taking the risk, and following our hearts. It was for us a culmination of answered prayer, but for a time it felt like we were hurtling at breakneck speed down to earth, waiting for our parachutes to open!  They did open, and we have been gliding down to earth, enjoying the scenery and noticing everything that is new and different and exciting all around us. And, apart from the current levels of insecurity, we are loving every minute of this London adventure.

So, would I launch myself out of the aeroplane again? Hell yes. But would I say again, in a job application, how much fun it’d be to mud wrestle with Matthew McConaughey? Not so much.

Sunshine signing off for today!