Category: London

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!

News it or use it

If we’re to believe the popular press, these are the things that occupy British minds right now: cricket match fixing, pending tube strikes, the foreign secretary’s relationship with a young adviser, and Princess Eugenie being photographed wearing a plastic bottom.

Wayne Rooney is said to have cheated on his pregnant wife, Serena Williams is said to be OMG-ish about her sister’s choice of outfit for the US Open, and there was a right proper punch up on X Factor last night. It is all so exciting, I can barely breathe.

While I am someone who is interested in everything, I thought of all the opportunities listed above, I’d focus on the X Factor. It’s the one news item that might not spread beyond these isles.  X Factor is a reality TV programme – a singing competition – conceived and produced by and making truckloads of money for Simon Cowell, and it draws in the viewers by the millions. True confession time: my husband and I are two of that number.

We are three weeks into the latest season, and the early audition weeks make for good – if not cringeworthy – viewing. Last night was no exception. It presented the British public with a local, 16 year old Cher, who can really sing; a kind of Spanish bullfighter-type who described himself as “older than Brad Pitt but younger than Sir Mick Jagger” who Simon said his mum would love, an over-fake-tanned and well built young man who thought it was a compliment to be likened to an action figure man, and a real live punch-up between two Birmingham lasses who fell out while trying to out-yobbo each other on national television.

My personal favourites included a young, shy chap who – with his typically nasally Birmingham accent – said he wanted to be “the next Michael Buble of Birmingham”. (Not sure who the first one was, but hey, let’s give him his dream.) He went on to sing really badly, and read the lyrics off a piece of paper. When the judges asked him why he read the words, he said, “for the past few weeks I’ve had a headache and a chesty cough” (pronounced with the same intonation as Tretchikoff), which apparently meant he couldn’t learn the words. All the judges gave him the thumbs down, but he said he’d be back next year. Simon quipped: “What if you have a tickly throat?”

And along came a young, part-time funeral singer, whose dream it is to be the next Elton John. He croaked a few tuneless lines of a song before being stopped by the judges. Simon said to him, “Do you really believe you’ll be the next Elton John?” “Fingers crossed,” he said!

Watching the X Factor is mindlessly entertaining. It’s as valuable to my life as newspaper in a parrot cage. Now that’s a good use for the tabloids.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Stressing and shimmying

I am feeling a little out of step today. Not as out of step as the person next to me in my latin aerobics class last night, but pretty close. I need a job, I’m tired of this feeling of insecurity and, most importantly, my favourite gym instructor is leaving London.

I’m not sure how well the dreaded job hunt went yesterday. I felt like either I was a few arrows short of a quiver , or the prey was running too fast … but I’m not sure I bagged any game. I’ll know within the next week or so, and in the meantime will continue to prowl and circle my prey. The thrill of the chase? Pfffffft.

Anyway, it’s not in my nature to dwell on the negative, so let me tell you about my adventures as I sallied forth through this big city yesterday. First up, I travelled by bus to our local tube station, and, sitting upstairs on the iconic red double-decker, I encountered true London gentility. A chap from the across the aisle let forth the loudest, most disgusting and growling burp I have ever heard. My instinct was to turn my nose up at his indiscretion, and you would have laughed had you seen my face. And then I imagined what just happened, as it would be in cartoon land: the wind rolled up from his toes, his mouth fell open like a moat bridge, and his burp rolled out like a rock from a cave. Just gross.

Then I took two tubes to get to my destination in central London: Angel. It’s north west of the river from where we live. As I walked the long walk through Angel tube station, I heard, in the distance, a busker playing a piano accordion. Buskers in the tube stations are generally pretty talented, and I often wonder if they are stars-in-the-making. Judging by how he was playing, yesterday’s busker was late for the tube. Talent? I’m sure he has neat handwriting.

And then on my afternoon outing to Lewisham (south London, and the same side of the river as we live), I encountered some true sunshine on the bus: the smiliest, cutest little baby girl who couldn’t take her eyes off me! She cheered my soul, and made me realise that life is much more about people, family and relationship: sod the need for a job! Well, not enough to put me off going for my next interview, but the sentiment helped.

And after all of the stress and tension of two interviews in one day, I headed off – by foot – to our local gym for my weekly dose of latin aerobics. It was just exactly what I needed – despite hearing that our delightful, infectiously bouncy Argentinian instructor, is leabing. Ahhh, how disappointing. She’s heading for Washington; our loss is totally their gain. Anyway, despite her reprimanding me for snoring in class (I yawned, but she gets the words confused!), and a woman next to me whose enthusiasm was diametrically opposed to her sense of rhythm (she was hugely enthusiastic), we had such a fun, hair-letting-down, shimmying, bouncing and mambo’ing hour of dance, movement and fabulous Argentinian music. While I can follow the dance moves relatively easily, I do think I look like an ironing board with flailing limbs. Who cares, though? It was totally wicked.

So despite the stresses and the significance of yesterday, I let go of my anxieties – and some of my dignity – for an hour and, for a while, I felt like I was in step with the world.

Sunshine signing off for today!

In search of sunshine

I have a huge and hectic day today. One that requires all of you to  hold whichever part you do to bring me luck! I’m heading off to two corners of the Big Smoke, on the dreaded hunt, and I’m anxious and looking forward to this evening!

I was quite overwhelmed yesterday with the huge amount of interest in my blog! Thank you all for your enthusiasm and your comments – I’ll definitely make that topic a regular one – talking forrin!

I’ve also had a few of you put me on your blogroll – as soon as I learn how to drive this blog machine, I’ll return the favour. Thank you. And some requests for photos of London: the photo in my header is one I took one evening a few months ago.

My husband and I went to see an outdoor production of The Crucible at Regent’s Park in the north western part of central London, which was absolutely fabulous – on every level. An evening at the Regent’s Park Outdoor Theatre is a huge recommendation, should you ever visit London in the spring/summer. They run a series of wonderful productions.

It had been a grey and miserable day and had rained non-stop, pretty much until we got off the bus in Regent’s Park. The sun came out as we sat down to picnic in the park, and the rain stayed away for the whole evening. I took the photo as we picnicked. What a wonderful evening!

The photo captures Sunshine in London for me – finding a bright and beautiful moment in an otherwise grey day! I am hoping for a repeat performance today.

Sunshine signing off for now!

Which part do you hold for luck?

If you were heading off to a job interview and I said, “I’m holding thumbs for you!” how would you respond? If you were a Saffa, like me, you’d say, “Thanks. I need it.” If you were from anywhere else you’d look at me and frown. And if you were British, it’s likely you’d frown and you might say, “WTF?” (Why The Fums?)

Well, where I come from, holding thumbs means the same as the British “fingers crossed”. It means good luck, I’m wishing you well and every success. I used the expression when I was communicating with a work associate earlier this year, and she asked me what I was on about! I was quite surprised, as I thought it was a universal expression, but thinking about it, it must just be a literal translation from the Afrikaans expression. I’d be interested to know who else is familiar with holding thumbs?

So with all my job hunting, I’ve had Saffa friends holding thumbs for me, British friends crossing their fingers for me, and even a dear friend who said he’d cross everything he had in pairs for me!

There are a number of expressions and words that I use that make no sense here, and vice versa. I thought I’d run through a bunch of them:

  • In SA, we wear pants, and underneath them, we wear underpants. In Britain, people wear pants under their trousers.
  • I wear takkies, which are known around here as trainers or sneakers.
  • A fabulous sunny SA leisure pastime is a braai, known here as a barbecue, or BBQ. Our Ozzie friends talk about barbies, but that’s the subject of another blog!
  • What I call a geyser, is known locally as a boiler or a hot water system. If I asked someone here to come in and check out the geyser, they’d send over a doctor to look at my husband!
  • Our flat overlooks a small dock, filled with yachts and boats. Most of the boats have people living in them. They have a communal ablution block, which I understand is known locally as a shower unit.
  • I communicate via sms on my cellphone. Here, you send texts or you message from your mobiles.
  • We have to be careful inviting people for tea here. It could mean afternoon tea or it could mean supper.
  • Don’t get me started on flapjacks, pancakes, scones, crumpets – who knows what any of them mean! I don’t have a clue!
  • If I do someone a favour, they could respond by saying any of the following: ta, cheers, brilliant, wicked.
  • Are you stopping means are you staying.
  • Where I might harp on about something – like job hunting! – others here might bang on about it.
  • When I started my temp job earlier this year, a colleague asked me if I wanted a drink. I thought gosh, I know it’s important to fit in, but drinking at 11 o’clock in the morning? And at work? As I felt all my possible responses flash before my eyes, he said, “What’d you like, tea or coffee?” Where I come from, if I offered someone a drink it would usually refer to an alcoholic one, otherwise I’d offer to make you a cup of tea or coffee!
  • There are a number of words here that mean very:
    • dead:  I was part of a small market research group a few weeks ago, and the wonderful market researcher, shy as a button, introduced the process to us by saying, “Right, it’s going to be dead informal.”
    • well: you could describe a good-looking person as well fit, or a bright person as well clever. My favourite explanation of this comes from one of my nephews. He believes that Jesus was definitely from London, given that God said of Him, “This is my Son, in whom I am well pleased.”
    • bear: I don’t know this one too well, but my lovely sons tell me that it’s used a lot by their young adult contemporaries. It’s bear cold out there, bruv.  I could write a whole blog about language of that generation – watch this space!

There is a delightful commercial on television in SA for a fast-food chain. It features a young, Afrikaans couple sitting on a bench together on the porch of their home in a small, rural town. To impress her, he’s memorized the menu of the coffee offering of the chain, and he recites them one by one: “Macchiato. Cappuccino. Mocha. Americano.” With each word, his girlfriend gets more excited and amorous. Eventually she lumbers her heavy arms around him, snuggles into his neck and says, “Ooh, I love it when you talk forrin.”

I had a telephone call this morning from a telecommunications service provider. We had a brief and disastrous encounter with them when we arrived in London, and would never go with them again. The caller said, “I believe you were a former customer of ….?” To which I said, “Yes.” He said, “Oh, you were for years?” And I said, “No. Not for years. I said yes.” So he said, “Oh. Are you still a customer then?” It reminded me of the paper plane conversation I blogged about a few weeks ago, but made me realize once again, that in these parts, I sure talk forrin!

Sunshine signing off for today!

Views of the booze

Having been in Manchester for Pride 2010 last weekend, and being aware that today is the first day of autumn up in the northern hemisphere, just got me wondering: does Pride always come before the fall?

I also have been thinking about the amount of drinking that was taking place at Pride over the weekend, and it seems that binge-drinking is something of a national sport in the UK. I decided I would blog about that today and, quite fortuitously, I heard this on the radio news this morning:

More than 1,500 men and women are admitted to hospital every day because of alcohol, a report reveals. The figure is 65 percent higher than only five years ago, while drinking is to blame for around 15,000 deaths a year. More than 400,000 brawls, burglaries, sexual assaults and other crimes are also fuelled by alcohol each year, the study shows. Read more at: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1307850/Drinking-puts-1-500-hospital-everyday-increase-65-years.html#ixzz0yHSPVh00

Quite sobering, really, when you think about it. Not that the young chap I saw over the weekend in Manchester would really be bovvered. He was standing with a group of friends, clearly having fun and enjoying a sherbet or two. At one stage, I looked at him and thought he had leaned down to pick up something next to his feet. However, he didn’t pick anything up, and he didn’t stand up straight again (excuse the pun). It was as though he had been on his way to doing that and then forgot. Both of his hands were hanging down near his knees, his knees were bent at 45 degree angles, and he looked up at his mates and continued chatting to them!

Another time, a few months back, we were walking back to our flat from an early evening outing. We stopped to take some pictures of the dock near where we live, which looked pretty awesome with the backdrop of Canary Wharf under a full moon. I happened to notice a young guy, dressed in a suit, “standing” a little way behind us. He was in his cups, to say the least, but he honestly looked like someone who was overacting being drunk! He was standing there, looking at his phone, and it looked like his phone kept disappearing from view. He was standing at about a 45 degree angle to the ground, and kept swaying and even hiccoughing! Then when he eventually started to walk, it was like he was walking on a heavily veering boat. He was walking alongside the dock and really, if there weren’t bollards and chains there, he would have ended up in the water! And every now and then he walked like he was climbing over something – it really was very funny! Not sure how he knew where home was – maybe he was checking his satellite navigation on his phone!

You couldn’t make it up! It’s funny on one level, but quite tragic on another.

A serious, but not-so-serious, Sunshine signing off for today!

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!