Category: life

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!

Heard the one about the comedian who thought he was a copper?

When I think of London bobbies (policemen), I usually think of seriously neat, black uniforms, large helmets (I’ve learnt never to call them hats), clippety-clop shiny black shoes and deep voices. What I don’t think of is comedy, but that’s exactly what we experienced a while back: a genuine, London, stand-up bobby.

We’d not long been in London, and we went with a friend of ours to see an ABBA Tribute Concert at Hyde Park. It was, as you gather, an outdoor concert, in the heart of central London. Magical. However, I don’t know why, but I always feel compelled to justify why we went to see an ABBA Tribute Concert. It’s maybe because I think I’ll drop down the hip-meter (to the artificial hip-meter perhaps?), or because deep down, secretly, I do actually quite like ABBA. Being a teenager in the 1970s, ABBA was part of the soundtrack of our lives and, although I have never owned an ABBA album, I know pretty much every one of their songs. Word for word.

So back to Hyde Park … the line-up of artists to perform ABBA songs was quite mind-blowing really. Lulu, Elaine Page, Kylie Minogue, Jamie Cullum, Marty Pellow, Chaka Khan, Beth Nielsen Chapman, Jason Donovan … the list goes on. The two Bs – Bjorn and Benny – from ABBA joined in too, and said they couldn’t believe that 35 years on, they would witness 36,000 people in Hyde Park singing along to all their songs. It was pretty awesome. We stood and locked arms with our neighbours and swayed and sang our hearts out – Dancing Queen has never sounded so good.

When the concert was over, and we were walking towards the gates to leave Hyde Park, there were some crowd control measures in place, with stern-looking coppers barricading us in, to stop us all crossing the road en masse. A copper was standing in a little raised booth at the gate, microphone in hand, dishing out instructions to the crowds. He was our “stand-up bobby”. He was absolutely hilarious, and embodied so much of the English humour that I know and love. It was like being treated to another show.

He said, “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. You are being held here for your safety. And, quite frankly, for my amusement. And because I can. Once you get to the tubes, and the Transport Police take over, no-one’s looking after you – you’re anyone’s game.”

He asked the crowds if he was better than the ABBA show, and someone shouted “NO!” so he said, “That’s why I’ve put tickets on all your cars. Now who’s laughin’?”

He also said, “‘eard the one about the brain who went into the pub, went up to the barman, asked for a pint. He said I can’t serve you, you’re outta your ‘ead!”

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. You are being held here for your safety. Hey, I should put that on a loop, add a bit of backbeat and some scratch … then, Mr Simon Cowell, who’d be number one at Christmas, eh?”

Someone asked him for his number, so he said, “999!”

It was the most refreshing surprise, in what could have been a truly exasperating prolonged exit from the concert. We didn’t even notice we were standing there for about 20 minutes, and, to be honest, we didn’t really want to leave!

So a stand-up bobby and a librarian who made me laugh. What can London produce next? A charismatic politician? You must be bleedin’ joking!

Sunshine signing off for today!

Living with London

If I reflect on the last few days, they represent what London has to offer a couple of Saffas like us. It’s been good, bad and, to be honest, downright hideous!

I walked, stiff-muscled into the weekend, thanks to completely overdoing it at body conditioning, Pilates and latin aerobics at the end of last week. My dance class always ends the week for me on a high note – even though it usually means I can’t sit down without groaning for about 72 hours. Or walk up or down steps without going ow-ow-ow-ow-ow. Friday’s class was no exception; the four of us in the class followed our delightful instructor step for step, well, kind of, and I realized I would probably look more Latin if I didn’t try and dance like I was in a Broadway musical. Perhaps this week I’ll try and tone it down a notch.

Saturday night we were invited to some friends for supper and to watch our guilty pleasure: X Factor. The auditions continue, and one thing you can be sure of is that every episode offers its fair share of great singers, of junk singers, as we say in SA, as well as a few sob stories and a whole bunch of tension and drama. Every ounce of pathos is teased out to its limit and wrapped and tightened around our we-should-really-get-a-life curiosity till it hurts. Oh dear, maybe I should really get a life …

On Sunday we started our day with church – which was amazing – and then went out to a riverside (Thames-side) pub for lunch with some friends. When the chilly wind moved us indoors, we discovered there was live jazz playing upstairs … aaah, my favourite! It made for a wonderful afternoon, although we sat next to the carvery so had hungry punters eyeing our food while we ate and they queued for their plates full. We ordered a dessert platter – three heavenly sweet dishes and four spoons – yum! It was slightly spoiled, though, by a group of queue-ers watching us in disbelief, nudging each other and making muted comments to each other about the decadence of our desserts. One of them eventually looked at me and, rather subtly, said, “Piggies.” I don’t think English was his first language, but perhaps it would have been helpful to point out to him that that wasn’t such a polite thing to say to us.

And our day ended with an outing to a playhouse in London Bridge – south east London and not far from where we live – to see a production that had been put on as a celebration of …. (I will leave out the words here, to protect the innocent). We had no idea what to expect, which is just as well, as we certainly wouldn’t have gone had we known what was in store: an evening of amateur, stand-up comedy and poetry, if you could call it that. First up was a man dressed as a woman, with an improbable name and an even more improbable repertoire of poetry, short stories and “comedic” props. It was all so contrived it was embarrassing, and honestly I would have rather watched my toenails grow than listen to a poem about “pixies that fly, uninvited, through my letterbox, so I put them up on the elf-shelf” as well as a story of a lion cub who had cheese graters for legs and ended up on a desert island. Next up was a sit-down comedienne (she sat and played a keyboard and a ukulele) whose songs and comedy comprised of random one-liners. The compere, who had been caught in traffic and arrived just before the interval, invited us to get a drink at the bar and join them for the second act … we looked at each other, reminiscent of our SpiroGyra moment, and ran out the door and for the bus home!

I do love that we are getting to experience all aspects of London life. It’s a bit like a marriage, really – when you realise that it’s not all romance and fresh breath. And that’s ok too!

Sunshine signing off for today.

I’d like to thank my dad

Today is confession time. I have a rare, inherited condition. My father has it. So do my siblings. And some of the younger generation. What is the condition, you ask? I give too much detail.

When my darling dad of 87 tells a story, he gives the background, the foreground and every other possible angle that might relate to the story.  And you know what? So do I. And so do both my brothers and my sister. A few of my nieces and nephews have inherited it either fully or in part, and – for the two little girls in the fourth generation, it is still too early to tell but they might well show signs of wordiness.

My husband has started a support group for the rolling-eyed in-laws, and has co-opted my darling long-suffering mum of 83, who all have to put up with our lengthy tales. Both of my sons would happily join as they, along with their dad, prefer headlines to body copy.

Some years ago, when my elder son started at high school, he went to an orientation evening at his school: a grade 8 social. His dad fetched him from the event, and I couldn’t wait to see him and hear all about it. After my customary mommy hug, I said to him (and I don’t think I’m exaggerating): “How was it? Did you have fun? Who did you meet? Were you with any of your friends? Who are your new friends, and what are their names and where did they go to junior school and where do they live? What did you do? Did you stand next to people you didn’t know?” With a sigh, and a shifting from foot to foot, he eventually said, “Mom! When Dad picked me up, he asked me if the evening was cool. I said yes. And Dad was happy with that.”

Point taken.

I do notice at times when I speak to my husband that his expression shifts to screen saver. I can tell you the exact point when I’ve lost him, but usually I persevere until he comes back. My sons are the same. I can tell them wonderfully interesting stories and realise that they have not listened to a word. Although I understand they do hear some of what I say. My younger son said to me once, “Mom, you know at the Oscars, when actors are giving their acceptance speeches and their time is up, and the music goes up? That’s what often happens when you’re talking; the music goes up in my mind. And I can’t hear any more.”

They both did say that if I throw in keywords – and I won’t mention their suggested words – they start listening again.

So thank you, faithful readers of my blog, for coping with my detail. Or has the music already gone up for you?

Sunshine signing off for today!

Is that your new wife? Shame

I mentioned in a previous blog, that I am fascinated with language. And accents. Living in London is not only accent heaven, but I’m learning so much more about a language that I thought was my own: English.

I had such fun last week blogging about talking forrin, that I thought I would continue in that vein today, and bring you another helping of words that I use that no-one else here does, and vice versa. I got so much positive feedback last time, and contributions of words from elsewhere, so I’d love to hear more of what words are unique to your end of the stick – that’d be fun!

  1. Shame. This is an interesting word. And quite difficult to explain. It is obviously not unique to South Africa, but its use there is unusual. If a Saffa looks at a newborn baby, the comment will often be, “Shame.” Which doesn’t necessarily mean they feel sorry for them or anything, it usually means “Isn’t he/she just so darling?” or “How cute is your baby?” or “You must be so proud, she’s just beautiful.” It could possibly mean, “Shame, she looks just like her father” but let’s stick with the positive interpretation for now.
  2. Shu. I come from Cape Town, which, in South African terms, is considered the ultra laid-back city, never in a hurry, not materialistic and coolly understated. I know this is a hugely, sweeping, simple characterisation, but bear with me! Shu could be translated as “WOW THAT IS THE MOST AMAZING THING I’VE EVER HEARD IN MY WHOLE LIFE, I’M SO EXCITED YAY YAY YAY YAY YAY!”, or it could mean, “That’s really scary/wonderful/awful/amazing/tragic.” It can also be used in conjunction with another word in common SA use: “Shu, that’s hectic, hey?” (we also say hey a lot), which has the same meaning as either of the above.
  3. I have an illustration of the word shu. A few years back, on the last day of the school holidays, I went with my two sons to a beach in Cape Town. I lay on the sand and read my book while my sons played soccer (which is what is known in the UK as football) in the shallow waters. After a while I heard a really loud siren, which my sons ran to tell me was a shark warning. Shark-spotters up on the mountainside had seen sharks in that bay, and monitors ran down the beach to call everyone out of the water. We had never experienced anything like this before – scary and exciting all at the same time, not knowing if Jaws would make a personal appearance, and where would it all end? We were eventually given the all-clear and allowed back into the water, although it wasn’t so much fun when you know who’s just been swimming there. When we got home, I sent my husband an sms explaining – in my usual wordy style – the turn of events at Fishhoek that morning. My words spilled over into three messages, and I sent them off. A few minutes later, I got this sms response from him: “Shu.”
  4. An alternative to shu is: Is it? It can be used in exactly the same contexts as above. And sometimes, depending on the accent, it may sound like eeeezit?
  5. In South Africa, we call a van a bakkie, and traffic lights robots.
  6. I have noticed in the UK that a number of our friends like to drink redbush tea. It is a South African product, which we know as rooibos. So if I’m making tea or coffee back home, and someone has asked for tea, I will always ask, “rooibos or normal?” I’ve said that a few times here, only to be met with confused stares!
  7. Something that I’ve picked up here, is the use of the expression “as you do”. It adds an interesting spin to something slightly unusual that you might be talking about. So for example, you might say “When I was chatting to the Prime Minister the other day – as you do – he mentioned that he was glad he hadn’t called his new baby daughter Beyonce.”
  8. I have my own version of that kind of spin – if someone says something slightly obscure, and perhaps out of context, I’ll say, “…said the actress to the bishop.” Try it, it’s fun! Breaks the ice at parties.

So, English or Inglish, I love that our language is common but we all have our own words and meanings that we use. It’s so interesting, can cause much hilarity and confusion, and, if we allow it, draws us all towards each other. Please share your thoughts and words and meanings; it’ll be so, like, hectic, hey?

Sunshine signing off for today.

Capturing the moment – George Clooney style

So, would you say George Clooney is better looking in real life, or on the big screen? I reckon he’s pretty knock-out in real life. How do I know? Well, blush, now that you ask …

It was something quite philosophical that made me think of George today. And something quite relevant to where I am at in my own journey right now. But for now, just bear with me.

Being a Saffa in London, and one who is quite easily star-struck (yes, true confessions, and I know it’s not that cool!) one evening soon after we arrived last year, we ventured into central London – Leicester Square to be exact – to watch the celebs arriving for the world, red carpet premiere of Fantastic Mr Fox. We got there just before the planned 5.30 start, and when we got there, we were kind of wandering around all gormless-like, and a security guy told us we had to stand in the “pen”! How funny. The “pen” is an area defined by metal railings that separates the fans from the stars.

Anyway, there we were – stood right next to the red carpet, waiting with cameras poised, to take photos of the big name celebs as they walked along the red carpet! George Clooney – who is the voice of Mr Fox in the movie – was the first one to arrive, and he was so amazing! I must say he was shorter and slighter than the screen persona, but pretty darn gorgeous in real life! He walked down the stairs to screeches and whistles, and my heart sank as he walked across to the other side of the red carpet. Ahhh no! We should have stood there.

All was not lost. After greeting fans all along the far side of the red carpet, he walked across to our side, greeting everyone and signing autographs. When he came close to me, he asked me how I was! I was about to tell him I was fine, loving the London experience after moving here from SA, and how cool it was to see him. Unfortunately, he’d already moved along. And it’s difficult to think straight when you have Alison Moyet’s, “I go weak in the presence of beauty” blasting forth in your head.

I got some great photos of him, but when he was RIGHT in front of me, I couldn’t do anything. My husband said he was wondering why I wasn’t taking a photo, and then saw my face – gaga. That’s how he said I looked. Mouth open, eyes glazed over. And totally gaga. I laughed so much when he told me that, but I have my own version of that moment!

Bill Murray was the next celeb to hit the red carpet – and he came over and shook hands with me. Other celebs, who sailed up the red carpet and occasionally waved from a distance, included Cindy Crawford, Jason Schwartzman, and Wes Anderson. Oops, I completely forgot to take photos of Cindy Crawford. I’m usually much more observant than my husband is, but I didn’t even notice her dress was split all the way up to her waist. Sorry!

We also saw Sir Ben Kingsley, who came over to sign autographs when the guy next to me called him. When Sir Ben walked across, nattily dressed and elegantly eloquent, the yobbo next to me said, “Sir Ben! Love your work! You sexy beast!”

So here’s the thing. And here’s my version of events. When George Clooney was walking along the red carpet in my general direction, I took a number of photographs of him. I took one when he was about this close to me. But when he stood in front of me, I thought I was going to lose the opportunity actually to see him because I was so busy taking photographs. I didn’t want to lose sight of the now. So I stopped, left my camera and took in the moment.

For today, I’m putting down my camera, focusing my eyes and myself on being truly present, and soaking in all that today has to offer. I don’t want to be so busy capturing the moment, that I forget how it looked. Or felt. Or too busy focusing on the future and how we’re going to stay in London, that I forget how it feels to live here. Now. Today.

Sunshine – and her best friend, George – signing off for today!

Change is good, but I need a holiday too

I’m thinking of changing careers. According to my job alerts, now is the time for me to consider a career in criminal justice. I just need to sign up to do this five year course, and then I can start looking for a job in criminal justice. You must be freaking joking!

I’m back at the drawing board today. I’ve had one no from my interviews last week, and am less hopeful about the second.

I have never experienced this before in my life! I feel a bit like the pimply teenager who runs the gauntlet across the dance floor to ask the girl he’s been eyeing all evening if she’d like to dance. She says no, so he moves to the next and then the next and the next. He gets a barrage of no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no as he continues down the line.

I think I could paper my walls with reject letters, and write an improbable book about the reasons I’ve been given (if I’ve been given any!) for not being successful. The majority of applications meet with silence, and recruiters excuse themselves by saying, “If you haven’t heard from us within two weeks of the closing date, consider your application unsuccessful. “

And here’s a taste of some of the reasons that I get: “Other candidates matched the criteria more closely.”; “The client thought you’d be bored in the job.”; “You were a strong candidate but others had experience in that specific sector.” And my personal favourite: “We thought you were too nice for this job.”

I think it is the worst time in the world to be looking for work in London. Or anywhere in the UK. I am not alone in my struggle to find work, and I’m learning not to take it personally. I know recruiters are inundated, and, with the new government spending cuts, there are more people applying for fewer jobs.

However, this is my morning routine: I start off by checking my email. My inbox is always full of new mail – no, not that I’m popular, I’ve just signed up for loads of job alerts. These are something of a mystery to me … I sign up for them, with strict, clear criteria of the kind of job I am looking for, and where.  These are the kind of emails I get, and they now fill my trash:

We have found the following jobs which match your search criteria:

  • Financial Controller
  • Senior Enterprise Systems Analyst
  • Interim Deputy Director of Maintenance
  • Gas Supervisor
  • Russian speaking PR associate
  • Primary Teacher
  • Media Intern, Sudan

Do any of these sound like communication jobs in the charity sector in London? They’re ‘avin’ a laff!

Another thing that frightens me is that a number of job sites generate tons of spam: emails from HR managers (with hotmail or yahoo email addresses) who have a job opportunity for me. They love me long time. I don’t think so.

So, mostly I keep my chin up and keep at it. At times it gets me down, and I do take it personally, and I’ve been dealing with that for the past few days. But generally I am able to be positive and optimistic and find sunshine in my search! We have lots of loving, caring and praying family and friends around us both here and back home in SA. And rescue remedy works a charm!

For those who might not understand my predicament: we came here from SA for my husband to do his doctorate in counselling psychology. And to have fun and an adventure in London at the same time. My desire and wish has been to work and support us. I had a brief – five month – temp job earlier this year, but nothing since.

In my first post, I mentioned that my sister said if I couldn’t get a job in London, I should consider a career in stand-up comedy. Equally, I don’t think so. But I have been giving this some thought, and I’d love to know what you think. I don’t have the business to be a sit-down comic, criminal justice is not really my bag but, as I command the stage in this, my tiny corner of cyberspace, I’m considering a career as a stand-up blogger? Pay’s not great, in fact there is no pay, but hell it’s fun!

Sunshine signing off for today!

Must love poetry

I realise, looking back at Friday’s blog, that I was a little unfair about the un-rhythmic person in my latin aerobics class. Today, I thought I would put the spotlight firmly back on me, and my inept foray into unknown territory: yoga.

As I see it, you are either a yoga person or a Pilates person. To an outsider, they are pretty similar. But confuse them at your peril. Like asking a Scotsman if he’s English. Or a South African if she’s Australian.

I do Pilates and my husband does yoga. I can’t imagine either of us ever shifting allegiance to the other. But I did cross the floor, briefly and for a special occasion, some months ago:  a friend of ours was travelling to London from central England, for the annual yoga show. She asked us to meet her there.

We arrived at Kensington Olympia, expecting a day of peace, calm and tranquillity. I even expected the hundreds of people waiting to go into the hall to be sitting in line on the pavement, in the lotus position and gently ommmmmm’ing as the queue moved forward. Not so much – it was a bunfight of yogic proportions, as punters shoved and pushed to get into the hall of calming wares.

When we got into the hall, our senses were smacked across the jowls with an avalanche of incenses and fragrant, soothing aromas to put us in the mood for yoga. There was gentle, Eastern music playing over the tannoy (as they call it here), which would have calmed our nerves were we not jostled by a million other punters, all trying to bag a bargain before the weekend rush.

You could buy anything from a stick of incense to a massage chair, every style of yoga fashion, yoga music, yoga mat and falafels. And all around the edge of the hall were opportunities to take part in yoga classes, demonstrations of yoga moves and numerous people looking up their own assets.

We decided to try out three yoga classes. The first one was quite manageable, slow and every move carefully explained. Although the rubbery guy who took the class started off by showing us all his moves. He was SO flexible: I’m sure if you asked him to meet you for lunch, he could do any day. First of all he did a headstand, and then while still on his hands, crossed his legs and brought them down to just behind his arms, above the ground. He could probably check what he had for breakfast, but he wasn’t telling. And no-one was asking.

After that class, I felt quite self-satisfied as we moved on to the Gong meditation class. This involved a few warm-up exercises, and then we had to adopt the corpse position. This is my husband’s favourite yoga position. We lay there while the instructor played his gong. Gently. I did find it hard to switch my mind off, but it was kind of relaxing to lie prone in a London exhibition hall. With hundreds of people watching.

Then the third and final class we did was a power yoga class, called Poetry in Motion. Mercedes was the instructor, she looked like a model, had a body to die for (bitch!) and she was so supple and moved so beautifully I wanted to throw up. Actually, it was more the class that made me want to throw up – Mercedes made us move so fast, and do such intricate moves (none of which I had any prior experience of); I was more like Poetry in a Sweaty Flap. My hair flew all over the place, every time we had to go down into a low lunge and emerge with arms outstretched, I always came up facing the wrong way, and usually about three or four beats behind the rest. A game of catch up, with sweat dripping from my brow, and never knowing which direction I was supposed to be flinging my arms and looking like a goddess… yoga? Pfffffff.

We ended our day with a supper of pizza. Yes! Just what I needed after seeing all those ridiculously perfect bodies. I could barely walk the next day.

I’ll stick to Pilates and leave the yoga moves to the more lithe of body. And if I’m ever tempted to try out yoga again, I’ll adopt the corpse position. And ommmm. Until the feeling passes.

Sunshine signing off for today!