Category: my life

Is that your new wife? Shame

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

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

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

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

Sunshine signing off for today.

Three chairs for Sunshine

Last year, my husband and I celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary by going to see my favourite artist of all time – Van Morrison – in concert at the Royal Albert Hall. We had to book three seats for the two of us; I was beside myself.

It all came about in quite a romantic way. We were still living in Cape Town, and my husband had applied to several universities in London to do his doctorate. He was invited for a number of interviews, and the dates happened to coincide with our silver wedding anniversary. I understood the importance of the interviews, and thought he would go to London on his own and we’d celebrate our anniversary on his return. I was okay with that, I really was.

One evening my husband came home from work and said he had an early anniversary present for me: tickets to see Van Morrison at the Royal Albert Hall in London, two days before our actual anniversary. To say I leapt around the house like a crazed springbok, would be putting my enthusiasm mildly. This was really a dream come true for me. Yay yay yay yay yay!

So that was the beginning of our London adventure. We travelled here for a two week holiday, my husband got offered a place at each of the universities that interviewed him, we stayed with some special friends, spent time with our younger son who had recently arrived in London on his gap year, and SAW VAN MORRISON.

I can’t remember when I fell head over heels in love with Van Morrison’s music, but I’ve been pretty much a lifelong fan. Not of his personality, nor his stage “presence” but his music. In my opinion, it is quite sensational. Sublime.

The concert was awesome. We arrived at the beautiful and gracious Royal Albert Hall in good time, and took our seats. I discovered that our seats could swivel, to give you the best view of the stage, so I swivelled up a storm before the lights went down and a voice announced, “Ladies and gentleman, Mr Van Morrison!” I screamed, did the loud and ugly whistle my sister taught me, squeezed my husband’s arm till it bruised, said I couldn’t believe I was seeing Van live, and I almost cried. All in one second.

The all-too-familiar silhouette of small man in large wide-brimmed hat walked on to the stage, went to the piano and began the two-and-a-half-hour Astral Weeks Live concert. Backed by a full orchestra, he bumbled , swagged and groaned his way through familiar old favourites, Madame George my personal best. Exchanging piano for guitar, and guitar for guitar, he thrilled the hall filled with avid fans, who whistled, whooped and danced the evening away. And I was up there with the best of them – quite in awe of the talent at work in front of my eyes.

I mentioned that my love is of Van’s music, not his personality. He didn’t greet the audience, nor did he interact once. I expected a “HELLOOOOOO LOOOOONDON!” Nothing. About an hour into the concert, Van walked off the stage, microphone in hand. The lights went up and interval was announced. Likewise, an hour and a half into the second half, after a fleeting, arm-flinging “giveitupfortheband”, Van walked off the stage, singing. Despite the audience’s lengthy and vocal protests to the contrary, Van Morrison had left the building. The music didn’t disappoint.

Down on Cyprus Avenue
With a childlike vision leaping into view
Clicking, clacking of the high heeled shoe
Ford and Fitzroy, Madame George.
Marching with the soldier boy behind
He’s much older with hat on drinking wine
And that smell of sweet perfume comes drifting through
The cool night air like Shalimar
And outside they’re making all the stops
The kids out in the street collecting bottle-tops
Gone for cigarettes and matches in the shops
Happy taken Madame George.

Sunshine – with Sunshine beside herself – signing off for today!

Capturing the moment – George Clooney style

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Change is good, but I need a holiday too

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunshine signing off for today!

Must love poetry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunshine signing off for today!

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!

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!

Pride, prejudice and peeing in public

We’re just back from a bank holiday weekend up north.  In Manchester. A city of old and new. Traditional and modern. Beautiful and ugly. Well-conceived and total disasters. You could say the same of the architecture.

It was great to have a break from the dreaded job-hunt, and to be soaking up some northern sunshine with some friends for a few days. I was in blogger bliss, watching everything going on around me, eavesdropping like you can’t believe, and soaking in the northern humour that is in such great supply. Everywhere you go.

We watched the Manchester Pride 2010 parade through the city centre on Saturday, and walked through the market area and on to the live entertainment area. My eyes nearly popped out of my head at some of the sights and some of the T-shirt slogans I saw (If you think my attitude stinks, you should smell my a***), but it was an amazing and significant celebration for so many. We saw drag queens, bears and muscle marys and everything in between; loads of flesh and plenty of flesh we wish we hadn’t seen. More fake tan, false eyelashes, hair gel and cargo pants than could sink a ship. People standing up for their rights, and others who could barely stand up at all.

Manchester trams provided a great source for loads of my entertainment. We were sat on a tram home on Saturday, behind a mum-who-had-just-turned-40 and her two teenage sons. After loudly snooting down her nose at the new, public, plastic urinals that had been installed on the pavements next to the tram station – I guess to stop drunken people relieving themselves on war memorials, which has happened in the UK of late – her elder son let her down with, “Mum, how can you complain about that? You washed your shewee* in the dishwasher!”

Understandably indignant, she justified, “But I had rinsed it first. I just wanted to sterilise it in the dishwasher.”

“Remind me to eat off paper plates tonight, Mum,” her son said.

As we were on our way home from Manchester Pride 2010, most of the tram commuters were wearing the tell-tale purple Pride 2010 wristbands, and hear what at our mum-of-the-year had to say, as the tram passed the Bridgewater Hall: “’’oo was it I sor there the other day? John someoneorother? Whatsisname again? The queer one?”

I also heard a young guy in central Manchester say, as he emerged from a newsagent, empty-handed, “I’ll not buy anything from him. He doesn’t speak English.”

And as we trammed into the city centre yesterday, to catch our train home, a bunch of less-than-sober youngsters, aged about 14, gave an interesting, expletive-filled reflection on life, friendships and the future of the British nation. As we passed a cheap hotel, one of the youngsters piped up: “Ooh. You know, we could all go and stay there for a tenner. It’d pay for our room, food, everything.”

His friend joined in the conversation with, “Ooh. I loove food.”

We also visited the Lowry theatre complex, home to the work of Lawrence Samuel Lowry, a northern artist famous for painting scenes of life in the industrial north during the early 20th century. He had a distinctive style of painting and is best known for urban landscapes peopled with human figures often referred to as “matchstick men”. While we were there, I had the pleasure of an impromptu dance lesson: a delightfully sprightly octogenarian was giving free dance lessons in a coffee shop at the Lowry, and I learnt the 1920s London Stroll! What fun!

I really loved Manchester. It’s dead loovleh! It is an interesting city, is home to a not-too-shabby football team or two, the people are very friendly, the accent is just woonderful and the architecture is truly outstanding.  Despite what everyone says about the weather up north, we enjoyed mostly warm sunshine and blue skies. It doesn’t get much better than visiting a new city with good friends and enjoying a whole bunch of new experiences. Add in a backdrop of inane conversation, and I’m pretty much in seventh heaven.

Sunshine signing off for today!

*Shewee: a  portable urinating device that is a moulded, water repellent plastic funnel that allows women to urinate whilst standing or sitting and without removing clothes.

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!