Have you ever had someone stand so close behind you that every time they move, their trapper-hat flap bangs on your head? And have you ever wrestled someone you’ve never met before? Or had bad thoughts about strangers that you wouldn’t dare write in your blog? I have. Last night.
My husband and I arranged to meet in Leicester Square for a certain film premiere event. We decided, because of the film that it was, that we would brave the cold, a bit of rain, the crowds, the stalkers, the hysteria and the mayhem. Perseverance and determination are formidable and necessary allies in a struggle such as we experienced last night.
We found a spot near the red carpet, took our places and tried – for the next hour or two – to stand firm. Hands, elbows, camera bags, hat flaps, bubble gum and phone cameras notwithstanding, we managed to keep breathing.
My sons played waterpolo at school and I was always amazed at the level of struggle that took place not only above water but below the surface. The key defender, who played in the “hole” near the opposition’s goal, would always jostle and do serious battle with his opposite number to gain domination of that spot. I felt like I was playing waterpolo on dry land last night. I did serious battle with a bubble-gum-chewing and bubble-blowing neighbour who insisted on elbowing me and pushing her way ahead of me. I tried to stand my ground and, at one stage, I heard her say to her friend, “I’m going to punch this lady.”
Thankfully she didn’t, nor I her. We all survived. And it was all for the sake of this:
For those who know me well, you will understand the value of this sight to my best friend in the whole world. The premiere was for the movie, “Burlesque”, starring Cher and Christina Aguilera and it starts in London on Friday.
Those were two hours of our lives we’ll clearly never get back, but – in hindsight – it was surely worth it.
The thing about accents is that you only notice them when they differ from your own. At home in Cape Town I never notice my own accent but here in London, it’s another story all together. I’m well forrin and can’t hide it.
I heard the tail-end of a discussion on a TV talk show this morning. One of the guests said, “When I speak to someone with an accent, I start talking with that accent. I can’t help it.” And everyone laughed. There is also the tendency to speak louder and more slowly when you speak to someone with an accent other than your own, or someone whose first language is not the same as yours.
So that was my prompt: I thought it was time to talk a little more forrin and share some more of my language idiosyncrasies with you. It’s funny, I never notice them at home and yet here, in London, they stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. Is that a well-known expression?
Here goes with the Saffa-isms:
Chips! This is an expression that has a number of uses. You can use it to ask someone to move out of your way (not really polite); you can use it to alert someone to a possible danger, such as “Chips! Open manhole ahead” or worse, “Chips, the teacher’s coming.”
Long teeth. This is a direct translation from the Afrikaans. If you do something with long teeth it means you do it with extreme reluctance, dragging your feet, not wanting to do it at all.
Swak (pronounced swuck). This is an Afrikaans word which literally translated means weak. Its use in English has a slightly stronger meaning and I’m not sure that I can do it justice: mean, horrible, nasty, unfair. For example, “My cell phone got stolen last night.” “Ah, no, bru. That’s so swak.”
Whinge. This is in common use in England and in SA, and it means to complain, or to whine, but with an extra truckload of annoying-ness.
Land with your bum in the butter. I’m not sure where this saying originates, but it means to be lucky, to have things go your way.
When I was a child, if something irked my Cape Town-born and bred mom, she would say she could spit blood. That was quite a frightening thought for me. She would also say, as she rolled her eyes, “Oh, heavens to betsy!”
Gedoente. Again, this is an Afrikaans word (don’t know how to explain its pronunciation) and it means (usually unnecessary) fuss. Or, in the words of a client that I worked with in a PR consultancy, it’s a major bloody marchpast.
And here are a few of the English expressions I notice here. I wasn’t familiar with them, but am now growing to love them:
Anorak. This one fascinates me. The word, which means hooded raincoat or parka, has evolved into slang usage, and it means fan, fanatic, aficionado, knowledgeable one on a particular (unusual) topic, and perhaps in an obsessive way. So you could be a train anorak or a Star Trek anorak (Trekkie).
In bits. I heard this expression on the news last night. The reporter was covering the story about the guy whose wife was murdered in South Africa last month, while they were on honeymoon. The taxi driver, convicted of the murder, implicated the husband by saying he’d been paid by him to murder his wife and make it look like a car-jacking. The reporter said the husband, at his home in England, was in bits. It means upset. It’s often associated with crying. In this context, the expression strikes me as the exact opposite of hyperbole.
Winding me up. This means teasing me, having me on. The local radio station we listen to runs many competitions, including one where you have to identify three mystery voices. The jackpot grows with each wrong guess and it continues to grow until all three voices have been correctly identified. Earlier this year, a listener won £100,000 when he did just that. His reaction? “You’re joking! You’re winding me up! You must be winding me up!” I must say, that was my favourite kind of reaction!
Lovely. This is not a new word to me, but I love its constant presence in conversation here. Lovely to meet you, lovely to hear from you, lovely to see you, lovely to chat to you, etc etc. When I had one of my first job interviews in London last year, the interviewer shook my hand at the end of the hour and said, “Lovely to meet you.” I walked on air as I made my way home. “She liked me, and I’m sure I’m going to get the job,” I thought. Not so much. I realised, when I got the no, that she would have said that to everyone. I was in bits. (Not really!)
This is an ongoing project, learning new expressions and discovering the forrin-ness here of the ones I use. If you have any suggestions or contributions, it would be lovely to hear them! And I do mean lovely.
My hair is naturally blonde. My hairdresser works hard to make sure it stays that way. And while I do my fair share of dumb things, I don’t like to refer to them as blonde moments. On behalf of all my fair-haired brothers and sisters out there, welcome to my world of brunette moments.
I’ll start off with a London one. Some years back, my husband and I came over to the UK and Europe for a three month holiday. We had planned it to be longer and a working holiday, but it ended up being three months. Holiday? Yes. Working? Not so much.
Our time in England was spent with my husband’s best friend from school. He took us around and about, and we spent plenty of time in London, seeing shows and sight-seeing and enjoying the outrageously vibrant city that was nothing like we’d experienced before. Our friend would tell us to close our mouths, as our Africa-shaped jaws kept hanging open. We usually walked a few paces behind him, looking about and soaking everything in. We were two little nosy puppies, looking about and following him everywhere.
On one of our visits into London, the scene was as I describe above: our friend striding ahead with local confidence, our following behind trying not to stare at everything and everyone. He turned around to say something to us but we didn’t catch what he said. When he turned to go down some stairs, we thought he had been letting us know we were going to the tube station. We followed him down the stairs and I couldn’t figure out why people coming up the stairs were looking at me strangely. Maybe we looked well forrin; that’s what I put it down to.
We got to the bottom of the stairs, and I thought it didn’t look like a typical tube station. As I took in the view ahead, I thought, “Oh wow, they even have little seats for you to sit on while you wait for the tube. Those are funny-looking, low, round, porcelain ….” and then all the blood drained from my head as I realised we had followed him to the gents’ loo. Those stairs led nowhere else. No wonder I’d had those looks. I ran up to the pavement in one leap and had to fan the life back into my lungs … I was so embarrassed I thought I was going to faint.
Another brunette moment happened some years ago BC (before children). Our phone rang one Saturday morning at 7am. That hour doesn’t exist before you have children. As is usually the case, my husband plays dead and then asks me who was on the phone. I’m sure plenty of you can relate. I jumped out of bed and answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hello, can I speak to Sarah please?”
“Sorry, you must have the wrong number.”
“Is that not 88…….?”
“Yes. You have the right number but the wrong person.”
I am sure that caller still scratches his head, wondering what on earth I meant. Me too.
In one of my previous jobs, I had an allocated parking space in a central city parkade. I got to know my parking neighbours quite soon and we would always wave hello to each other. One morning, I was getting out of my car as my neighbour drove into his parking. We waved and smiled at each other, and he drove his car into the wall. Gently, but loudly.
My less-than-gracious thought was, “What a dork! I can only imagine how embarrassed he feels.”
And off I went to carry on with my day.
The very next morning, he was locking his car as I arrived and pulled into my parking space. We waved and smiled at each other and I drove my car into the wall. Gently, but loudly. Karma can be a b***h.
I’d love to hear about your differently-coloured-hair moments – we’re all friends here, remember?
Yesterday I saw a woman at the bus stop. She was dressed like a model. Fluffy, faux fur hat. Designer coat. Boots up to her thighs. Sitting on the bench. And yes, folks, she was cutting her fingernails. All ten of them. With nail clippers.
I would love to have seen any CCTV footage of myself as I realised what she was doing. I would have seen a very thinly disguised expression of displeasure. Even with a frozen face, I managed to frown and let my lips frill. Surely her day wasn’t so busy that she couldn’t do that at home? Come on, lady.
Travelling on public transport in London, I have seen and heard things that no-one should have to see or hear in public. I’ll spare you the graphics of what I have heard. But I have seen someone cleaning out his ears on the bus. I have also seen a woman pluck her eyebrows on the bus. Seriously? That couldn’t wait? I know I’ve had long waits to get on the bus, but not that long that my eyebrows needed plucking by the time I boarded.
I have seen women doing their make-up on the tube, the whole business from foundation to eyeliner. I haven’t seen anyone wax their legs on their daily commute, but I’ve no doubt that’s a forthcoming attraction in the spring. Or maybe I just haven’t travelled the right tube lines for that.
I have watched people eat their breakfast, lunch, supper, snacks, elevenses, on the buses and tubes. Some people eat surreptitiously, sneaking morsels of food into their mouths and then darting their eyes around to see if anyone’s watching. I always seem to catch their eyes. Others stuff their faces like they’ve just finished a diet.
I once watched a young woman sitting opposite me on the tube lick her fingers – all ten of them – and smack her lips for a good five minutes after she’d finished eating whatever it was she’d just tucked into. After that little performance, she applied layer after layer of BRIGHT RED lipstick (caps to emphasise how red it was) on to her lips. She pouted and pouted as she checked in the mirror that her lips looked just right. She then put all her accoutrements back into her handbag, sat back and within two minutes, she had slumped sideways into an ugly, dribbling sleep.
Probably the most gross public display of toiletry (PDTs, as I call them) was a few years ago in Cape Town, when I was at a conference. As the afternoon session began, a woman came and sat next to me. She fidgeted and fidgeted. Now, I’m not a difficult person, but I hate it when people fidget next to me when I’m trying to stay awake concentrate on a graveyard shift at a conference. She dug in her handbag, she rustled sweet papers, she chewed sweets loudly and she sobbed and sighed as she dug further into her handbag for more hidden treasures. She chewed and fidgeted and chewed and fidgeted. I did my trademark shielding of my eyes … what the eye doesn’t see the heart can’t grieve over. However, it didn’t block out the sounds.
After an epic fiddling in her handbag (now you can tell how much I was concentrating on the conference subject matter), she sat still for a few minutes. And flossed her teeth. Seriously. She flossed her teeth. Don’t get me started here, but I don’t even like to be anywhere near the bathroom when my husband flosses his teeth – that’s just private. That’s a one-on-one affair. Him and the mirror. Nobody else’s business. Ever.
And this dear woman was flossing her teeth. At a conference, in a huge theatre, in Cape Town. Get a bathroom, already.
That PDT truly took the biscuit. I really don’t want to encounter anyone trying to top that. Thank you.
I’ve just walked in from a morning outing. I’m wearing three pairs of socks. I trudged through the snow and now, despite my layers and coverings, my fingers, toes and face have frozen. Good news is, nothing has fallen off. I don’t think. I can’t feel anything anymore.
Today’s temperatures, according to Google weather, range from a high of -1 degree C to a low of -2 degree C. Sorry to my friends across the pond, I don’t know how to translate those temperatures into F money. What I do know is that this is pretty darn chilly. Ask my face.
According to the Independent online, Britain has just experienced the coldest end to November in about twenty years. And the cold weather is set to continue. Reading that, I realise that since we have been in London, we have experienced a number of records. It makes me question our wisdom to time our London adventure thus, but I guess everything happens for a reason.
Here are the records, and they are pretty big:
January 2010 was the coldest January since 1987, right across the UK. Overall it was the coldest winter since 1978/1979 with a mean temperature of 1.5 degrees C.
In October, the British Chancellor announced the biggest UK spending cuts since World War II, affecting welfare, councils and police budgets. The reverberations and outworkings of the cuts will continue for some time.
Current and future university students have launched a season of – often violent – protest at the coalition government’s plans to allow universities to charge up to £9,000 a year for tuition fees. Such demonstrations have caused chaos and disruption in Central London and other cities around the UK, as students voice their opposition to the plan for their future.
The government has chosen to cut by a fifth the number of workers it allows in from non-European Union countries.
With a surge in inflation towards the end of 2009, it was predicted that the cost of living in 2010 in the UK would be the highest since 1997.
My toes are starting to thaw out, and feeling has returned to my face. But the reality check sends fresh shivering chills down my spine. The cost of our London adventure.
Sunshine signing off for today.
My new header picture is a photo I took through our kitchen window this morning.
It’s snowing in London today. I went out in the snow for a while this morning, but for now I can watch the snow falling, from the warmth and dryness of our flat. It’s been a bleak late-autumn week for the UK, with many parts of the country experiencing thigh-deep snow and temperatures around -16 degrees C. Traffic chaos is inevitable.
We had traffic chaos of another kind around the time of my elder son’s birth. He was born in the summer in Zimbabwe, in the season of wonderful, dramatic, electric thunder storms. The heat becomes unbearable as the storm clouds build and, as you smell the rain coming, the huge drops fall loudly on the red soil, bringing relief and life to the earth.
My son and I had come home in the humid mid-day to a rousing welcome from the women in our neighbourhood. They all sang to us in their native Shona, ululating and thanking my husband and me for the beautiful baby boy and, as is their custom, assured me that the baby looked like my husband. That, apparently, was an important reassurance.
My parents had come to stay with us, to meet their new grandson. They were such a joy and a treasure, bringing just what we needed in unconditional love and grandparently doting. I remember my Dad holding my baby son in his arms, turning the tiny-baby fingers over in his big hands, and saying to me, “You know, God never forgets anything.” My Mom made me feel like I was the best mother in the world, and that all my decisions were exactly right. She was by my side for the midnight feeds, cheering me on as only she can. Bless their cotton socks.
We also had a dear friend from the UK visiting us at that time. Another bonus.
The first Friday night we were home, we had invited my brother and his family to come and have supper with us and meet the new baby. A few hours ahead of their scheduled arrival, the heavens opened and the rain tumbled down in torrents. A knock on our back door alerted us to their arrival, but also to the news – from my completely sopping wet brother who looked like someone had just emptied a bowser of water over his head – that their car had got stuck in the mud on our driveway.
We rented a house on a smallholding, with a long, winding, dirt-road driveway up to our house. In the rain, the dirt became thick mud. My husband and his friend donned raincoats and went to help rescue the vehicle from the mud. My brother sat at the steering wheel while my husband and his friend tried to push the vehicle out of the mud. As the wheels spun, the vehicle went nowhere. About twenty minutes later, three men arrived at the back door – two were drenched in mud from head to toe, and one was still just sopping wet. The car was still stuck.
Sympathy was in short supply as hysterical laughter overtook us all. The three men went and scrubbed up.
Our friend was about to go out for the evening and he called a taxi to come and take him into town. My brother called a car breakdown service to come and tow his vehicle out of the mud. The tow-truck arrived about half an hour later, and it too got stuck in the mud. Our friend’s taxi seemed like it was never coming so he called to find out its whereabouts, only to be told it had turned back down our driveway as it couldn’t get past the tow-truck and the other vehicle.
At this stage, we were all crying with laughter. The tow-truck had to call in another tow-truck to rescue it from the driveway, and, given that it was a stormy night, tow-trucks were in short supply. We invited my brother and his family to stay the night, as we imagined tow-truck after tow-truck getting lodged in the mud along the entire length of our driveway.
Our friend ended up walking into town for his evening’s entertainment; the second tow-truck arrived at about midnight and managed to rescue both the other tow-truck and my brother’s car; and our new baby boy had a wonderful night’s sleep, oblivious to the chaos that unfolded around him and snug in the joyful arms of family.
So as the London snow continues to fall on the frozen dock in front of me, I smile and warm my hands on these precious memories.
I’m feeling a little out of sorts today. I have an annoying cold. It’s stopped me from doing what I had planned to do today, and, with snow forecast for tonight and the rest of the weekend, it had better not stop me from honing my snowman-building skills.
Well, maybe honing is too strong a word. And it presupposes a skill. Learning would perhaps fit the bill. Meet Snowman Ray.
Snowman Ray. The snowman with a kind heart.
Ok, so he was our first and only attempt last winter. I’m sure he has a very kind heart and a sweet singing voice. Neat handwriting too. And yes, he is a Manchester United fan.
We didn’t have a lot of snow to work with, as you can see, and, well, our hands got cold. The insults that flew through the Facebook world, when we posted photos of Snowman Ray for all to see, were quite voluminous. Poor Ray. I am hoping there won’t be too many less-than-kind-comments in the comments section here.
Before we arrived in London last year, I’d only ever seen snow once before. And that was atop the Alps, in the middle of summer in the mid-1980s. We had taken a cable-car ride up to Mount Titlis and, while the rest of the tourists languished in a heated coffee shop, enjoying hot chocolate and decadent pastries, my husband and I played in the snow. And kept running to thaw out our hands under the hand-driers in the bathroom.
So last December, when the snow fell in London (does it fall or float or both?), I was as excited as a puppy at meal time. The snow continued through January and February. I was working at that time, and I would get so excited when I noticed that snow was falling. I would jump around and say to my colleagues, “Look, look! It’s SNOWING!”
I usually got an indifferent look, an expression of “Whatever,” and was asked if I wanted to lie down until the hysteria passed. It’s a huge novelty for me, you know. Snow, that is. Not hysteria. Although hysteria is too.
So you’re hearing this first: I’m setting myself a challenge of learning to build a decent-looking snowman. The kind that could feature on a greeting card, rather than be mistaken for a Cape Town taxi guard. Photographs of works in progress coming to a blog near you soon.
So there’s this Swedish guy, a Spaniard, two Polish guys and a pair of twins from the US … Not a lame joke, but the line-up for the ATP World Tour Tennis Finals at the O2 Arena last night. Another ticket in our red box.
Bryan twins, joined at the grip. Photo courtesy of commons.wikimedia.org
I’d been looking wistfully at the ads for the tennis, wishing I could go again this year. I treated myself to a ticket last year and, somehow, it felt like too much of a luxury this year. I got an email from a friend last week to say he’d been given two tickets for last night’s tennis, and asked if I wanted to go with him. Did I ever? Duh.
For those who may not know, the ATP World Tour Finals involve the top eight players from the year’s men’s tour. The final eight are only confirmed close to the start of this week, as the contenders are still playing in tournaments and racking up points. The tournament takes the form of a round robin, so you don’t know who you’re going to see until a day or two before.
We discovered on Sunday that last night we’d see Robin Soderling (Sweden) play David Ferrer (Spain) in the singles, and the Bryan twins (USA) take on the Polish pairing of Matkowski and Fyrstenberg.
It was a fabulous evening of tennis, which saw Matkowski and Fyrstenberg beat the reigning world doubles champions in three sets and Soderling take Ferrer in two.
I love the new doubles’ format for non-Grand Slam matches: when the score reaches deuce, they play a deciding point – receiver’s choice – rather than playing advantage, and deuce continuing forever. Also, the third set is played as a championship tiebreak, where the winners are the first to ten points, two points clear of their opponents. It makes the game much quicker and more exciting.
The Bryan twins were brilliant. The VT of their tennis journey revealed that Andre Agassi was their tennis idol; as children, they had posters of him all over their bedroom and they always wanted to be like him. They’ve been playing tennis since they were two, their father owns a tennis club and their mother is a pro tennis player.
“Bob’s the leftie, and Mike’s the rightie,” said the voice-over.
They bounced on to the court. They run and bounce and reach and jump and slam and smash and lob. Each point they win they’ll high five each other, or do their trademark chest bump. They seem to communicate without talking and it sure works: they have 66 titles, making them a hugely successful tennis pairing, if not the most successful ever.
When they ran up to the net, they seemed to form an impermeable wall of volleying, frustrating their Polish opponents no end. But when Matkowski found a gap, and sent a pacey forehand through to the baseline, that was the beginning of the end for the twins. Matkowski and Fyrstenberg played fantastic tennis and fought hard and well for their win.
Soderling and Ferrer then took to the court for their match. By this stage, a fair amount of fizzy drinks had been consumed around the Arena, and chirps were flying as fast as backhand volleys. “Go, Ferrer!” “David, you beauty!” “Vamos, Ferrer, vamos!” “Go, Soderling, go!” “Soderling, you can do it!”
My personal favourite was, “Love you, Robin!” to which the umpire said, “Thank you.” He had been encouraging the crowd to simmer down, but his timing was delightful and caused a wave of giggles through the Arena.
Soderling took care of Ferrer in two sets (7-5 7-5) and the two of them gave us a great game to watch, free of melodrama and full of perfect ground strokes. In Soderling’s post-match analysis, I was surprised to hear the interviewer ask him why, after a long line of placid Swedish tennis players, did Soderling have an almost Latin temperament.
Soderling was equally surprised and said, “Really?” It would have been funny had he then danced the tango and slapped the interviewer in the face. But he didn’t.
In between the matches, we saw a VT of the recruiting process for “ball kids”. 1,601 children applied (I’m sure it was meant to be 1,600 and then along came Wagner) and then they were whittled down to the final 30. One little boy they interviewed said, “I didn’t realise how badly I wanted to become a ball kid. I really really want to do this.” Everything is a competition, reality TV gets its claws into everything, and frankly, that made me feel sad.
As we left the O2 Arena, in the thrall of people walking towards the tube station, an announcement directed people to the tube station, bus stops and taxi rank. At that stage, one of a group of black-coated hooray henrys next to me said, “Taxis? In East London? Where would they even go from here?”
Snobbery, reality TV and a fabulous evening’s entertainment. All in a night’s work in London.
We have a red box into which we throw any tangible memories of our adventures here in London. This morning I threw two Paolo Nutini concert tickets in there – mementoes of a surprisingly wonderful concert we saw last night.
I don’t know Paolo Nutini’s music too well, although I enjoy it and we have his CDs. When we saw he was performing in London, we thought it would be great to see him. I just didn’t realise he would blow my highlights back as much as he did last night. He is one hugely talented songwriter and singer, and his poignant lyrics and soulful delivery belie his 23 years.
I booked our tickets the very minute ticket sales opened, about a month ago. I was thrilled to get our two tickets, and I grew more and more excited as the concert date loomed on our calendar. What I didn’t realise, and I only discovered when we chatted to a couple last night who had travelled over from New Zealand for the concert, was that the tickets sold out in three minutes. I was totally oblivious to the mad scramble that ensued for tickets after I had got ours … the NZ couple paid three times more than we paid for our tickets, as they’d bought them on auction.
Paolo was the headline act for one of the Little Noise Sessions – an annual week-long acoustic festival to raise funds for Mencap, a mental health charity. Tom Jones headlined for the festival the night before, supported by one of our other favourites, Lauren Pritchard.
The concert was at the Union Chapel in Islington, north London. (The scene of a disaster earlier this year when we saw the wrong show – check out Bad memories make good stories …) It is a beautiful and relatively intimate venue, it seats about 850 people and it also still functions as a church. We got seats in the third row pews, and had a perfect, uninterrupted and up-close-and-personal view of the artists.
The opening acts were great: Jessie J, Michael Kiwanuka and Rumer. Check them out on youtube, they are all worth listening to. Rumer was my favourite; she is shy and self-conscious and her beautiful, soothing voice has been likened to Karen Carpenter’s. Her two big singles Slow and Aretha have had plenty of airtime on radio this year. She says she took ten years to become an overnight success!
The audience went ballistic to welcome Paolo Nutini on stage. Accompanied by a fabulous band – strings, brass, keyboard, drums, plenty of guitars and a ukelele – Paolo took the stage and kept us gripped for the next 90 minutes or so. Occasionally he would say a few words between songs, but mostly he just belted out number after number to the adoring delight of the audience, some of whom seemed to know the words to every song.
He didn’t introduce his band, although he did mention “big hairy Dave”, one of the acoustic guitarists who had co-written a song with him. As the band soulfully and passionately wove magic around Paolo’s unique voice, we enjoyed a journey through songs such as Candy, Pencil Full of Lead, Jenny Don’t be Hasty, Worried Man, Growing Up Beside You and the new and brilliant Bear With Me. My favourite of the evening was Paolo’s beautiful interpretation of Nature Boy, backed by a haunting and liltingly string-filled arrangement.
Of Italian descent, Paolo is exceedingly Scottish. Third generation Scottish, in fact. He grew up in Paisley, on the borders of Glasgow, the son of a fish and chip shop owner. Quite awkward in his song delivery, Paolo locks his knees together, stands on his tiptoes and leans to one side as he pours raw, eye-closed talent and passion through the microphone. His broad Scottish accent shines delightfully through his every song and, as well as everything else about him, that makes me smile.
Our red box is growing full.
Sunshine signing off for today!
Excerpt from Pencil Full of Lead
I’ve got a sheet for my bed And a pillow for my head I’ve got a pencil full of lead And some water for my throat I’ve got buttons for my coat And sails on my boat So much more than I needed before
I got money in the meter And a two bar heater Oh now it’s getting hotter It’s only getting sweeter I’ve legs on my chair and a head full of hair Got in a band And shoes on my feet
I’ve got a shelf full of books And most of my teeth Two pairs of socks And a door with a lock I’ve got food in my belly and a License for my telly And nothin’s gonna bring me down
“I’ve got sunshine, on a cloudy day,” is playing on the radio as I write. It’s grey and miserable and wet and cold in London today. The song is perfect encouragement for me.
So back to our weekend. After our delightful breakfast in Bethnal Green on Saturday morning, we went to Greenwich to show our friend the market and the wonderful second-hand record shops. The first record shop we went into had this poster on its window – there’s a bit too much reflection in the photo, but it’s clear enough to show you the message. Sorry to all the Celine Dion fans out there … nothing personal! Promise.
So this was a great record shop!
“You got the new Celine Dion, man?” “Gulp! Err, No. But we have got some decent music, though.”
My husband and his friend were lost in old records and memories, and moved on from that shop to another that has two levels of second-hand sounds. Wall to wall records and CDs … heaven, indeed!
After a good old bogle, we moved across the road to Greenwich market. The market in Greenwich dates back to 1700, when the Royal Charter Market was assigned to Greenwich Hospital for a thousand years. It has moved site since then and over the years has grown and evolved into the arts, crafts and food market that it is today. You can buy anything from a divinely iced cup cake to a leather handbag, jewellery, clothing, second-hand books, Italian nougat and a hat. Flanked by vintage clothing stores, pubs, coffee shops and toy shops, there is also a fabulous food section in the market where you can buy any kind of food from curries and Turkish wraps (our absolute favourite!) to cakes and sweets.
One of my favourite places in London.
One of our favourite things to do is to go there after church on a Sunday, pick up a Turkish wrap and then go and walk through Greenwich Park, venturing up to the Royal Observatory if we have the legs, or just relaxing on a bench or on the grass. It’s always lovely there, and if you do walk up the hill, you can see just how curvy the Thames is. I look forward to going there when it’s snowing and watch the tobogganers speeding down the hills. Earlier this year, a few English bobbies were reprimanded for tobogganing on their shields (somewhere in Oxford, I think). I loved that story – they just couldn’t resist the thick snow and they had perfect makeshift toboggans!
On Saturday night we took our friend to the Vortex Jazz Club in Dalston, north London, to see Britain’s finest jazz singer, Ian Shaw. Despite getting slightly lost en route there (our trademark), we got there good and early and sat and had a drink in the pub downstairs until the doors opened.
We went upstairs as soon as we could, and waited for the great muso to arrive and start his show. He was just fabulous. He sang a few of his Joni Mitchell numbers – mashing Edith and the Kingpin together with Big Yellow Taxi, Talk to Me and a wonderful mix of River and A Case of You. In between he delighted with Stuck in the Middle With You, Bowie’s Ch-ch-ch-changes and a beautifully poignant Alone Again, Naturally that brought me to tears.
Ian Shaw, jazz singer extraordinaire.
When we were waiting downstairs before we went in, we saw a huge posse of youngsters arrive, all dressed in matching tracksuit tops, and heading towards the Club. The Club is pretty small and we couldn’t imagine that they could possibly be going to see Ian Shaw. Where would they sit, and why would youngsters – apparently on a school trip – want to go to an evening of jazz? Turns out they were a big band from a school in Finland and were obviously mad-keen musicians. I felt quite ashamed of my assumptions, and listened in awe as a handful of them scatted along confidently at Ian Shaw’s nod, and one took out his saxophone and, with perfect attitude and flair, accompanied Ian Shaw’s intuitive piano playing. I was humbled and oh so impressed.
Ian Shaw took a few requests, and generously sang Baghdad Cafe, mixing up a hilarious snippet of Kate Bush’s Wuthering Heights in the middle. An absolutely fabulous version of Al Wilson’s The Snake led him to the perfect closing number in Shirley Horn’s Here’s to Life.A beautiful conclusion to an exceptional day.
No complaints and no regrets.
I still believe in chasing dreams and placing bets. But I have learned that all you give is all you get, so give it all you got. I had my share, I drank my fill, and even though I’m satisfied I’m hungry still
To see what’s down another road, beyond a hill and do it all again.
So here’s to life and all the joy it brings.
Here’s to life the dreamers and their dreams.
Funny how the time just flies.
How love can turn from warm hellos to sad goodbyes
And leave you with the memories you’ve memorized
To keep your winters warm.
There’s no yes in yesterday.
And who knows what tomorrow brings or takes away. As long as I’m still in the game I want to play
For laughs, for life, for love.
So here’s to life and all the joy it brings.
Here’s to life, the dreamers and their dreams.
May all your storms be weathered,
And all that’s good get better.
Here’s to life, here’s to love, here’s to you.
May all your storms be weathered,
And all that’s good get better.
Here’s to life, here’s to love, here’s to you.
Sunshine in London 