Category: humour

Bad memories make good stories

Ok, so sometimes we’re going to get it wrong. Horribly wrong. Like we did a few months ago when we bought tickets and went to the wrong show.

How could we have done that? We asked ourselves over and over. But we’ve learnt – and we won’t make that same mistake again. We’ll just make new ones. No doubt.

A few months ago we saw an ad in one of the free magazines you get at the tube stations (those are fab sources of information, by the way!). The ad was for a “one night only” performance of SpiroGyra, in a cool old church building venue in North London, the Union Chapel. Does it get more hip and trendy than that? Well, maybe at the 100 Club. But not much more.

We really thought we’d stumbled on a well-kept secret; tickets were only twelve quid each and we managed to book them quite easily. No, we didn’t even start to get suspicious at that stage.

We headed off on our journey across London to make sure we got to the Union Chapel good and early. Seating was not pre-booked so we thought we’d be ahead of the masses fighting to get a good spot near the front. Our suspicions were still not aroused when we arrived and discovered that there were six people ahead of us in the queue. And, to be honest, about that number of people behind us. Even when the show started.

We went in, found brilliant seats in the second row, and waited for it all to begin. A very shy and diffident MC welcomed everyone (all 12 of us), and introduced the first of the three opening acts. As he shifted his weight from foot to foot, and read from his trembling script, we started to get the idea that this evening might not be all we had expected. Low-key was not a bad thing, though, we convinced ourselves.

Even when one of the opening singers responded to an audience “whoop” by extending her arms, palms facing the audience, and said, quite annoyingly, and eye-rollingly teenage-ish, “What?”

I have to confess that the opening acts were excruciating. Each one of them. But we kept our chins up and thought it would be worth the wait. And imagine being one of a handful of people to see this amazing jazz fusion outfit? In London? One night only? Shu – all fired up with renewed enthusiasm, we managed not to yawn and shift in our hard seats too much for the next hour or so.

So, all the small fry were out of the way, and the inordinately bashful MC announced that the moment we had all been waiting for was now upon us. Drum roll please, as the stage was prepared for SpiroGyra. Our hearts sank, just a little, as we watched representatives of each of the opening acts – now all donning a variety of weird wigs – take their places on the stage. And on came SpiroGyra. A single gentleman. Wearing a purple dreadlocked wig. Made of wool. He began to sing and drum, accompanied by the previous “artists”. That sick, sinking feeling overwhelmed us, as we looked at each other, and realised we were at the wrong show. Big time.

We realised that the chap in front of us who had flown in from Romania had seriously specially flown in to see this singer. The front-row audience were seriously exchanging LPs (yes, not CDs) of this singer’s music. And we had come to the wrong show.

Our strategy was to get out as soon as we could. We planned our getaway – bear in mind we were in the second row of a very meagre audience, and leaving the venue would never be subtle. But leave we did. And quickly. And we ran to the tube station as fast as our legs would carry us. We welcomed the open arms of the tube like long-lost lovers. We sat down on the tube and laughed till the tears rolled down our cheeks. What were we thinking?

Immediately we got into our flat, we googled what we had just seen. And, having a look at the fine Wikipedia print, noticed something that might have alerted us at the outset:  This article refers to the British folk band. For the American jazz fusion band, see Spyro Gyra…

I heard an expression once that bad decisions make good memories. I’ve added my spin on that for the title of this blog. And now I have a new one: wrong spellings make bad concerts.

Sunshine signing off for today! We’re off to Manchester for the bank holiday weekend!

Everybody’s stalking at me

Being a huge fan of live music, I have been to quite an array of concerts around London. It is SO exciting to see old and new talent in action. But I have encountered a new beast in the London jazz clubs and music venues that I don’t like at all: the stalker.

My naieve, bobbing up and down joy has a few times turned to distress as I’ve realised the extent of the hero worship I see around me. And it is really quite disturbing.

We went to a small, intimate jazz club in Chelsea last month, to see one of our favourite artists whose music we have loved for many years. He is a local hero, a fantastic musician and we had looked for opportunities for some time to see him perform live.

We read about a forthcoming gig, and applied to be eligible to buy tickets. I got an email a few days later, letting me know I’d been successful and could buy tickets.  Being the over-exuberant, highly enthusiastic person that I am, my email reply was more than a little effusive. Something along the lines of YAY – YAY – YAY – YAY! Remember, I’m from abroad!

When we arrived at the venue, we gave our names to the attendant at the door, and as she led us to our seats, she said, “Ooh, front row seats tonight!” Our table was literally the closest you could get to the artist without actually sitting in his shirt pocket. So close we could look up his nose. Not that we did. Or wanted to.

My husband attributed our seat allocation directly to my enthusiasm.

Two women came to sit at the table next to ours. Equally close, but without the nostril opportunity. They couldn’t breathe. One of them had to hold on to her chair to stop herself falling over; she then managed to get herself into her seat, fanning herself with the menu to stop herself hyperventilating. I am not exaggerating. I know that I am prone to, but my husband would tell the story the same way.

She tried to mouthe the words, “I.Can’t.Believe.He’s.Going.To.Be.Right.There.” but the sounds evaded her overwhelmed self. She pointed at the microphone stand. She put her hand to her mouth. She pointed at the microphone stand. She held her heart, she fanned herself further, and then she called the entire address book in her mobile phone to tell them where she was sat.

For a while I bounced along in innocent solidarity with their excitement. Hell, I hadn’t seen him before and look where we were sitting! When our neighbours had calmed down to a panic, I said, “This is so exciting, innit?” (Maybe I’m exaggerating the London-ness, but bear with me.) “Have you seen him before?”

“BEFORE? We only saw him last night in Essex,” said one of them, down her hyperventilating nose. This surprised me (the last night part, not the nose), so I said, “Wow, that’s amazing.”

They then went on to tell me they had met each other at one of his concerts, and that they had both been to 25 to 30 of his concerts around the country. They only ever go to his concerts, nothing else…  and I thought WTF? (which means Why The Fanaticism?)

The claws came out when one of the waitrons put the artist’s water bottle AND glass on our table; and even more so when I ventured to speak to the artist at the beginning of his second set. I told you that I have this compulsion to say I’m a Saffa, well … he was thrilled to meet us and told us he loved SA, and shook our hands. The two neighbours leant over to our table, faces frillied with envy, and told us NEVER to wash our hands again … seriously.

I also discovered – at the half time break – that the majority of punters there that night were seasoned fans who followed this artist everywhere he went. On Facebook. On Twitter. On discussion boards. To concerts. Everywhere. They know where he lives. Where he went to school. Who his family members are. His every move. I was seriously disturbed.

After the show, his band hung around in the pub, had drinks and a bit of a natter. The headline act was instantly missing from the venue. I am not surprised, and quite glad – who knows what would have happened to him.

And that hasn’t been my only exposure to that level of fanaticism. We’ve been to a number of live concerts and have come to recognise the fine line over which fans step; it’s really not a pretty sight. Downright scary, that’s what it is.

I don’t want to lose my innocent joy and excitement at seeing wonderful musical talent – old and new – while we’re here in London. And I don’t think I will. Calling myself a huge fan of anyone? I don’t think so. It’s not at all what I mean.

London and some odds

The nation is all in a frenzy. The British Prime Minister and his wife, fondly known as SamCam, have given birth to their fourth child. A daughter. Three weeks early. The question on everyone’s lips: what will they call her?

Something that I have found really amusing, living in the UK, is the national obsession with – or propensity for – gambling. You can place a bet on anything. Obvious ones like who’s going to win the World Cup – along with millions of permutations of who will meet whom in which stage and what the scores will be and who will score the goals and who will be in the starting line-up – and then the not-so-obvious ones of which WAG (wives and girlfriends – of professionally footballers) will be photographed on the beach in South Africa first. You can bet on reality TV programme results, election results, what’s going to be the Christmas Number One, and now, you can bet on what the Camerons are going to call their baby.

She was born in Cornwall, and the PM hinted that she might have a Cornish middle name. Which sent the bookies crazy with opportunity. Now they are flooded with changing odds over the first name: Angelina (40/1), Ivana (40/1), Kammy (66/1) and Maggie (33/1). The favourite is Isabella (8/1) and my personal favourite, although it has the longest odds, is Beyonce (150/1). Can you imagine? They must be having a laff!

Jokes are flying backwards and forwards about Nick Clegg having the final say in what her name should be, the fact that she’s a ConLib baby, that the odds are 100/1 for Clegg to be asked to be the baby’s godfather, and I’m just waiting for Clegg to announce – in true coalition love-in style – that he and his wife are expecting twins. Cameron and Clegg have been described as “the biggest double act since Morecambe and Wise” and I suspect Clegg will have to have his one-upmanship on this!

So for me it’s back to the job of job hunting now, ho hum! It sure is a scary time to be in London – what with budget cuts, global recession, global warming, the ConLib government, Ultimate Big Brother and now we don’t even know what babyCam’s name is. Stressful? You bet!

My little London number

Grab your dabber, wear your lucky pants and show me your game face. I’m about to show you a good time. Sunshine in London style.

It’s something of an institution in the UK, it can change people’s lives, and it’s not necessarily the domain of the elderly. Well, not completely. We’ve done it once since we’ve been here, although it’s not something we would generally do. And we’ve made – it seems – some new friends for life.

I know you’re going through the whole gamut of cool things that you think I would do in London. Concerts? Wining and dining? Walking the London bridges? Joining a secret supper club? Theatre?

Well, you clever folks – you didn’t realise we were trendiness in motion. It’s BINGO! Soon after we arrived in London last year, my husband and I went “daan the bingo” with our elder son and his girlfriend. We signed up, and all got our very own bingo books and dabbers – yes, we hadn’t heard of them before either. It’s a pen-type item for dabbing a coloured dot over the number that’s called out. And we entered the bingo hall … start the Jaws music, please.

I think we all had big red Ls on our foreheads … you can choose for yourself if you think that was for Learner or Loser! I know which one I think! Anyway, we chose our table carefully – seems everyone has their favourite table. And chair. And we had NO clue what was going on! Everything seemed to whizz by over our heads – numbers flying this way and that, people yelling different sounds that yielded responses from the suited people, and we still sat there, like stunned mullets, longing to use our dabbers.

Mr Cool – the local Bingo hero , wearing a lycra equivalent of a hankie tied on his head and walking with a smoothness that oozed Al Green hipness (and I think both hips were still his own) – came over to rescue us ignorant ones. A dear friend of ours loves to tell people that we’re “from abroad” so he would have had a field day that evening!

So Mr Cool showed us the moves, told us exactly when we could start listening out for our numbers – and he reminded us publicly when he got to that page – and although the numbers continued to whizz by at breakneck speed, we managed to dab our numbers just in time, but the all-important opportunity to yell “bingo!” eluded us all. Just like finding a job …

It was actually quite a fun evening, and the bingo hall continues to remind us of their special evenings and “winner takes all” options. We went out for a very posh afternoon tea at a central London hotel about two months ago, courtesy of a leaving gift from my lovely colleagues at the charity I worked at earlier this year. While I said to my husband, “Do you think people here will think we’re posh, or will they know we have a voucher?”, he reached into his pocket to yank out his cellphone as it vibrated the text of an incoming message. Guess who it was from? … the local bingo hall, reminding him that they hadn’t seen him down there for some time and inviting him to take advantage of a forthcoming special offer. Our new friends for life.

We laughed, continued to munch on the spoils of our voucher, and reflected on our lives in the Big Smoke. We sure know how to have a good time.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Waiter, there’s an egg in my sock

What do a skimpy Speedo and a pair of baggy, long socks have in common? Both are used, with varying degrees of success, to smuggle birds.

I used to be a swimmer and, in my day, guys used to wear tight Speedos. Budgie smugglers. While today it might be considered a crime, in our day no-one got arrested for wearing a Speedo. Although the fashion police were always on red alert.

In our church earlier this year, we had an international weekend. Our church is, as it aptly describes itself, a large, international local church – its wide diversity of nationalities bears testimony to this.  At the Sunday service, we had songs in all different languages, people praying in different languages, and sharing stories of their lives and cultures. It truly was a celebration of diversity, and the coming together of so many nations under the banner of the church. Our pastor invited people to think about weird cultures in their countries that might be interesting for others to hear about. After a brief pause, a Brazilian accent shouted out, “Speedos!”

I digress.

On the news last night, I heard about a man (heaven help us, he was a Zimbabwean!) who got arrested at Birmingham airport, trying to smuggle 14 peregrine falcon eggs on to a flight to Dubai. You can read the full story here,  but I thought his was such a bizarre, ill-thought out and flawed plan. Here’s how it must have gone:

He decided he could make his millions by stealing a truckload of peregrine falcon eggs from the wilds in Wales, and selling them in Dubai where there is huge trade, apparently, in rare bird eggs. Falconry is a sport of the rich. Smuggling them is a sport of the brainless.

So, hmmmm, now how to get them on to a plane without being noticed. I know, I’ll put them into my socks. Nah, too uncomfortable. I know, I know – I’ll make a necklace out of them, in my socks, and wear them around my waist. I’ll tie knots between each egg so it looks like a pearl necklace. I’ll make two, and tie them both round my waist before I board the plane – best do that in the gents, where no-one will see me, and then I can board the plane. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them they’re chicken eggs, and I strap them round me in sock necklaces because I have a bad back. That’ll do it.

Thanks to a quick-thinking cleaner in the airport bathrooms, he was detained, then arrested and sentenced to three years in prison. He has had his face and name splashed all over national television news, and – more embarrassingly – his “sock beads” have been displayed for all to see. I think his crime was speeding down the highway of stupidity without wearing a crash helmet.

So, Speedos or socks? In this instance, I’d go for the Speedo. At least no-one gets arrested. And the budgie isn’t stolen.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Right or wrong? I’d rather not say

So here I am, procrastinating again while I should be completing yet another lengthy person specification for a job application. Do I fit the minutely-detailed criteria attached to the job? I’ll exercise my new-found British right and say: “I’d rather not say.”

Right, I know that we are spoilt for choice here in London. What to do, where to go, how to get there, what to wear, and whether or not to take a brolly. Ok the last one doesn’t really have another option. But I’ve discovered – to my frustration – that job applications are just as full of choices. I found it quite funny at first, but now I just find it annoying.

Each job application requires an “Equal Opportunities Monitoring” form, which – we are promised – is not considered in conjunction with job applications. It is purely for monitoring purposes. So, in order that no-one is discriminated against on account of his or her sex, marital or family status, age, ethnic origin, disability, race, colour, nationality, national origin, creed, sexual orientation, political affiliation, or trade union membership, a record is kept of all of these criteria, for monitoring purposes. I haven’t yet been asked which football team I support, but I’m sure that’s coming next.

What amuses me about all of this – apart from finding it quite strange – is that you have the option in all of these to say, “I would rather not say.” If I answered that to every question – and it would be my right to do so – where would that leave the monitoring process? Imagine the level of speculation! And why do I have to complete it when I’m applying for the job – do all organisations monitor who applies for what, and then try to target different audiences as required for the next jobs they advertise? And if it’s not considered alongside my application, then what’s to stop me from being less than honest?

So it’s back to the drawing board. Am I having fun? No. Am I optimistic? Yes. Will I keep at it? Yes. Will I let it get me down? No. Is this something I’ll remember with fondness about my time in London? I’d rather not say.

Sunshine signing off!

Are those puppies on a lead?

In London, for many, when the sun comes out, the clothes come off. It doesn’t matter where you are. Or what state of preparedness your body is in. And you don’t even have to give a public health warning.

So anytime, in the summer in London, semi-nakedness – and well-nigh full nakedness, believe me – can strike. Coming from a land of generally endless sunshine – annoying, I know – I don’t quite get the obsession with public, high street flashes of flesh in the interests of soaking in the sun. I have noticed that people strip off their shirts in the high street, at restaurants, pubs, you name it. Some sights are so offensive, I think they deserve an *ASBO.

There we were, my husband and me, wandering innocently through Kensington Palace Gardens a few weeks ago when we saw a young woman emerging from the public loos wearing a skimpy bikini, with no swimming pool or beach in sight. A few minutes later, our eyes were accosted by a sight which was, well, frightening: a well-endowed and, as my granny used to say, stout lady, who had been lying on her stomach, sunbathing, decided to turn over. And as we all know, the bigger the ship, the harder it is to change direction. She lumbered her burnt pink self on to her bottom, sat up and then lay down flat on her back. What I haven’t yet mentioned is that she was clad in nothing but a G-string. Only just. Eeuww.

So, if the sun comes out, and you’re going to bear your flesh in public, pull everything else in and at least wear some sunblock. And keep those puppies on a lead.

Sunshine signing out for today …

*  Wikipedia’s definition of an ASBO: In the United Kingdom, an ASBO may be issued in response to “conduct which caused or was likely to cause harm, harassment, alarm or distress, to one or more persons not of the same household as him or herself and where an ASBO is seen as necessary to protect relevant persons from further anti-social acts by the Defendant.”

There’s fitness in my fantasy

Another job-hunting survival tactic that helps to keep me sane is going to the gym. I try to keep, well, fit – although in London if I said I keep well fit, you’d think I was showing off.

I do a few classes a week at our local gym, and while it keeps me fit and not too flabby, it also provides a truckload of material to write about!

At my Pilates class the other evening, we had to do a move where, from a seated position, we had to lift both legs at about 45 degrees from the ground and from each other, and then hold on to our ankles. If you think it’s a mission explaining it, try doing it! I could see the reflection in the mirror of a middle-aged lady in the front of the class, and she was grimacing and mouthing “ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow!” That was very funny!

People are often also quite liberal with their personal gas in this class; a move like I’ve just described could be deadly.

Body conditioning is another fun class I do. A few weeks ago, the young woman in front of me seemed to be struggling with several of the exercises. She spoke to the instructor a few times, and after a while, the instructor said to her, “I think it’s probably best you go home, now.” I thought she might have been ill, or recovering from an operation. As she left the studio, the instructor said, “That’ll teach her to eat a jacket potato before coming to the gym!”

And I think my all-time favourite is my Friday evening class – the most invigorating, fun hour of Latin aerobics. The Argentinian instructor is unbelievably – or, as she would say, SO endearingly, unveliebavly – enthusiastic!  What a fabulous dancer, an excellent instructor, and she gets our whole class – who, for some reason, are all females – totally caught up in the Latin rhythms and sassy dance moves! I keep my eyes glued on her for the entire hour, and end up thinking that I am dancing like she does … the little bit of fantasy helps, as well as, of course, blood, sweat and tears!

I made the mistake of coming home and demonstrating to my husband what we do in the class – I suddenly realized it wasn’t such a good idea (you had to be there, really) and slumped, in a scarlet-red blush, into the nearest chair while my husband laughed till the tears rolled down his face. Yes, it definitely helps to keep my eyes on the instructor! Fantasy is good.

Trains, tubes and paper aeroplanes

As an observer of the absurd, I don’t know if I attract situations that make me laugh. Or if it’s just that I notice them. Or maybe they’re not that funny. And I’m the one who’s absurd. Answers on a postcard, please.

On Saturday we travelled up north to my nephew’s wedding. We were kind of seething with London transport because – despite careful planning – we missed our train out of Euston station. And in the UK, you cannot change a ticket you’ve booked in advance for a particular train.

So, safely on a freshly-booked train – eventually – I went to the on-board shop to buy some coffee to calm our nerves. I placed my order with the guy, he had a Saffa accent, and of course I had to comment on it. My sons think I have a compulsion in those kinds of situations, and I have to say something. Hmmmm. to that, I say: judge for yourselves.

As we were comparing notes of where we came from, a lively northern Irishman – whom we’d encountered a little earlier on the train – decided to join in the conversation.

He said, “South Africa!” It was more of a statement than any meaningful contribution to the conversation. So, the train chap said to him, “Oh, do you come from South Africa too?” To which he replied, “Naw.” He could have left it at that, but our Saffa went on, “Oh. So where do you come from?” The intrepid comedian answered, “Me mo’her.” And this is how it went from there:

Saffa: “Sorry?”

Comedian: “Me mo’her.”

Saffa: “Sorry? So, are you her … husband?” (pointing at me)

Comedian: “Naw.”

Saffa: “So where do you come from?”

Comedian: “Me mam.”

Saffa: “Oh, so your mum comes from South Africa?”

At which point I beat a hasty retreat, and thought I would leave the two of them to continue to chuck meaningless words at each other like paper aeroplanes that never landed. But at least it made me laugh. And laugh.

So we eventually arrived in our northern town, checked in at our lovely guesthouse and were welcomed by the most friendly, kind and interested guesthouse owner ever. Nosy, in fact. But in a world where no-one really gives a darn, nosy is ok. And I’m not one who’s known for being short on conversation. So we did well together. Despite the fact that her hearing was not great and we did chat a few times at completely cross purposes. Sometimes it felt like paper aeroplanes too, but I busked and formed questions to fit what she was telling me. In retrospect.

Breakfast in a guesthouse is something else. It’s all so quiet – all the other guests (all four of them) always seem to know each other, and chat about their experiences of the town they’re visiting. And it seems that they visit at the same time every year. To do the same things. But to visit different restaurants. Just not the Italian ones. When they learnt that we lived in London, one couple said they didn’t really like London too much. And he said he couldn’t “be doing with the M1”. I didn’t know anyone ever said they couldn’t be “doing with” anything – but clearly people from Chester do!

The wedding was fabulous, but I’m not going to write about it here. Suffice to say, the sun shone on the beautiful young couple, and we were very glad to be there to share the day with them.

Sunshine signing off, till next time!

I’m job hunting, not looking for new friends

Yesterday I made a new friend. I met her on the bus. She told me her life story, and how afraid she is of dogs. Then she got off the bus. We travelled two stops together.

I don’t know what it is about me, but I do seem to attract “interesting” people. Who tell me their life stories. Long life stories, often involving a fear. Like the time years ago when I answered my telephone at home, and it was a wrong number. Ten minutes later, and another life story later – including the caller seriously telling me he didn’t like to answer wrong number calls, as he was afraid of contracting AIDS – the caller decided to try for the right number!

So, if only I could attract job offers with the same success as new friends!  Progress since I last wrote my blog, is that I have had two more job interviews and had two more “unfortunately unsuccessful” outcomes. If I had a pound for every time I’ve been told I’ve been unsuccessful, I wouldn’t need to be looking for a job now. And I could pay for my husband’s studies!

A few weeks ago, to take my mind off job-hunting, and to be able to see in front of me, I decided to go and have my hair done. I have found an exceedingly hip hairdresser in Soho – I can’t help feeling special as I walk through trendy Soho, stepping into a salon that is owned by a drop-dead gorgeous Australian, and having my hair done by a contagiously chirpy Spaniard. What a wonderful, uplifting experience – uplifted most of my current account too, but who’s counting? Sure beats job-hunting!

After my berry talented hair artist had transformed my do, I discovered that the online banking facility was offline, so I had to walk to the nearest pay point to draw cash (gasp – shock – horror! What? Pay with CASH?) That was another surreal experience for me – walking down Broadwick Road, past the most amazingly interesting shops – including a pop-up shop that offered “free ping-pong” – towards Carnaby Street. It’s such an iconic area of London, including places that I’ve read about so often in the past, conjuring up images of the Beatles, psychedelia, uber-fashion. And actually to be there … it was mind-blowing, really.

But back to reality … I continue the job hunt, keep at the keyboard, review job possibilities till they’re coming out of my ears, and move forward. I’ll be glad when I don’t have to study another person specification and match my suitability against all 35 criteria. And when I get that “congratulations, you were successful!” outcome; I only need one of those.

So, if you see me on the bus, or the tube, or the train, and you want to introduce yourself and tell me your life story, please offer me a job first.