Category: my life

My blog ate my homework

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

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

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

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

Seven things I might not yet have mentioned about myself:

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

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

Sunshine signing off for today!

My life on the island

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

However, the gem is yet to come…

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

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

Sunshine signing off for today! The tribe has spoken.

London, alive and screaming

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunshine signing off for today.

Making chapattis and walking under water

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunshine signing off for today!

Blogging is not pants

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunshine signing out for today!

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

What colour is your parachuuuuuuuu…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunshine signing off for today!

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!

Do not operate this book while drowsy

Laughter is my therapy of choice. And as you know, I’ve needed plenty of that while we’ve been in London. After the disappointment of Sunday’s so-called “comedy” (and I am making those quotation marks with my fingers), I found a good laugh in an unlikely place yesterday: the library.

Having read Vikram Seth’s beautiful Two Lives not so long ago, I decided to try another of his literary masterpieces. It was not available in our library, so they ordered it from another library. I got a letter last week, telling me my order was ready for collection.

I went off yesterday to collect my book. I walked up to the counter in the library and said, “I’ve reserved A Suitable Boy, and I received a letter last week to say it was ready for collection.”

The delightful young librarian behind the counter looked at me, cocked his head slightly and said, “We don’t deal in suitable boys,” and then added, sotto voce and conspiratorially, “we’re a library.”

He offered me my choice of unsuitable boy but I wasn’t too interested!

So, with the help of a forklift, he brought the hefty tome over to me. I had no idea I could read and build muscle at the same time, but I have now begun a new, hard cover relationship with 1,474 pages of Indian fiction. I think it’s going to be a very long relationship.

A laugh in a London library while lugging literature. Therapy doesn’t come better – or cheaper – than that!

A less-wordy-than-usual-and-definitely-always-less-wordy-than-Vikram-Seth 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!