Category: thoughts

Forwards, sideways and blogwards

We would really love to go home to Cape Town for Christmas. But last night, I said to my husband that if that isn’t going to be possible, maybe we should go up to visit his family in Scotland for Christmas. And then I said, “Imagine the blog I could write about that!”

Which reminded my husband of how much he had thought about me at university earlier this week. They had a lecture about confidentiality and the lecturer opened his presentation with a cartoon of a Catholic priest in a confessional box, listening to the distressed confessions of his congregant. The priest’s thought bubble read, “I’m so going to blog about this.”

I realised that that’s me! I know that I have always had a keen sense of the absurd and I do notice funny things that others might not. My family have often listened to my ridiculous stories and then said things like, “It could only happen to you.” I disagree. It could happen to anyone, anywhere, but I notice and remember! And I have a compulsion to tell everyone about it. (That’s a topic for another day!)

But that’s me. And somehow lately I have noticed that my blog radar scans the horizon and it beeps and zooms in on everything I see around me. It’s like I have a renewed sense of observation. I also find myself formulating my blog post in my head. Do you do that?

Which also got me thinking about my blog. It’s so freaking random! I know that I write, largely, about being a Saffa living in London. And about Saffa slang. Oh, and Zimbabwean slang. And music. And London. And my husband’s Scottish relatives. And about his Scottishness. Oh, and about job hunting. (Yawn.)

And then I realised that my blog reflects my life right now. It is not going the way I had expected. And the thought occurred to me that my life in London is a bit like my sister’s drag racing. Fast, for sure. Exciting? Of course. Fun? That goes without saying. But not what you would expect. Let me explain.

My sister is married to a champion drag racer. He is one fast dude. He has a rail that could make a grown man cry, and a collection of Chevies that is, well, embarrassingly awesome. With a passion such as this, it’s not surprising his family have all come alongside him. Well, to a certain extent. He and my sister and their son and daughter, have regularly taken part in drag races. Not in the fancy rails, but in street cars and on a straight 80 metre course at the racing track.

We went with them to some drag races in Cape Town when they visited us there on holiday. My brother-in-law’s sweet Chev Lumina caused a stir and he had men lining up to drool over his engine and say, “Please can I race against you?” Boys never grow up. Their toys just become more expensive.

My sister then told me about an experience she had had of drag racing in Zimbabwe. I will relate the story in Sunshine-speak.

My sister is one mean driver. And competitive to boot. It was her turn to race. Out of a dust storm of revving, her vehicle emerged to take its spot in the starting dock. She manoeuvred the car this way and that until she was in exactly the right spot. She eyed her competition with that look that I know so well. Eat my dust, she thought. She glared at her enemy and growled, and that drag racing music came up all around. Eye of the Tiger, I think. And then it all went into slow motion… she watched for the cue of the green light … the crowd grew anxious with anticipation … she revved once more and the light went green … this was her moment. GO!

She stepped on the gas and her car shot backwards. She managed to shift gear and finish the race in second place, but that was not what she had expected to do. It is easy to understand how it happened, and it is now one of my favourite racing stories. Ever.

The parallels with my life in London are just too obvious to mention. And I guess, along with that, goes my blog. I don’t always move forward. I turn down plenty of side streets. And I head off on a tangent when something catches my eye. I hope I don’t take you backwards, and I seriously don’t need to win. But thank you for coming along for the ride. I hope I take you to new and unusual places, that I don’t drive badly and make you carsick, and that the scenery is good.

Am I focused? Not so much. Am I bovvered? Not at all. Am I having fun? Hell, yeah. I really hope you are too!

Sunshine signing off for today!

 

 

 

How much is that doggy in the tube seat?

I wish I had reason to travel on London’s tubes every day. Not so much for the need to reverse, with force, into a jam-packed capsule that hurls itself at crazy speed through the nether networks of the Big Smoke, but so much for the entertainment that communal travelling provides. Every time.

On Saturday, we went to Portobello Road Market. On the tube ride there, we noticed a guy – who looked like he could have been Rod Stewart’s slightly less talented and largely less handsome cousin – who was seated on the end seat of a set of three seats. The other two seats were empty. Why? Because his dog – if you could call it that, he was more of a small elephant with a brindle coat and not so much a trunk, as a small briefcase – was lying in front of the other two seats. Dog owner was completely oblivious to the interest and annoyance that his dog was causing. I think he was oblivious to everything. Some young girls got on the tube and oohed and aahed over the brown heap of dogness, stroked his head and asked his owner what kind of dog he was. Dog owner remained expressionless, and I couldn’t tell if he answered them or not. Big dog became uncomfortable, pulled himself up to his full height and then climbed on to the seat next to his owner. After carefully turning himself round, he sat upright on the seat. And remained there until they got off at their designated station. Not sure how dog owner knew where they were but off they went. Huge dog in punk collar and gormless owner. It was unclear who was leading whom.

So onward and upward to Portobello Road. What an amazing and fascinating market, completely crammed with antiques, beautiful things, old and new things and things you would never want near your house. And that’s just the people! Actually, when we arrived, a few outrageously beautiful young men walked past us, and then some more, and then … I wondered if we’d missed the memo that Saturday was beautiful people day? Oh no! Then I saw a couple who clearly hadn’t got the memo either, and I felt better.

As you walk along Portobello Road you walk through market after market after market. Antique markets, flea markets, clothing markets, food markets … wonderful sensory overload! My husband, being the music lover that he is, is magnetically drawn to any music stall, second-hand record shop or CDs anywhere. He sniffs them out at about 100 metres, and he cannot walk past without clicking his way through every single CD on the rack! There was plenty of music to look at and he was in heaven, although he didn’t find anything he wanted to buy!

We browsed and we wandered and we bogled and we walked. We saw two cute little pug dogs who were attached to each other by a collar and followed their dreadlocked master wherever he went. Wish they’d stayed still long enough for a photo but their master was walking and they were following. We stopped for the most delicious falafels at Falafel King and then walked through Notting Hill to get back to the tube. We stopped at The Tabernacle (where we saw Diane Birch perform) for a coffee and then travelled home for X Factor!

On the tube home, I saw a young guy wearing a T-shirt that said, “No, I will not fix your computer.” And we heard my favourite station announcer at Waterloo, who I think always wished he worked on the Johnny Carson Show. He is fabulously enthusiastic and bubbles: “Helloooooo! And WELCOME to Wadderloo! Mind the gap between the train and the platform. And wherever you may be going to today, be well, do good work and have a nice day!” Even Londoners, sometimes, pay attention.

Yesterday was a beautiful autumn day in London. Church was great and late in the afternoon we went for a walk around our neighbourhood. I took the camera in case we saw a roadside shoe – Maura at 36×37 publishes photos of random roadside shoes and I’ve been dying to send her a London contribution. We saw a roadside comb, a roadside toilet and then, after walking along the edge of the Thames, watched a chilly sun set on a wonderful week.

 

Sunset over Greenland Dock, complete with one of our resident swans

 

Sunshine signing off for today!

Tuesday – a good day for a miracle

I’m a believer. And I so believe in miracles. One happened in our lives over the past week. I know because I was there.

I know I have bored you all yawn-less with my job-hunting tales and lack of success. So this is not about that. Well, not really. My husband, or, as one of my blogging buddies referred to him yesterday – and I just loved it! – Mr Sunshine decided, for a number of reasons, to take an intermission from his doctorate studies and join me in the fun pursuit of finding paid work. He had a very small taste of rejection (I still out-no him by a mile) as he applied for counselling or assistant psychologist posts. He was either not shortlisted, or shortlisted and interviewed, without success.

Last week, we felt like we were running out of options. We belong to a wonderful church, to a special small group in our church, and we have fabulous family and friends all around the world who have been praying for us and for things to shift. Last Tuesday morning, we two prayed with an increasing edge of desperation. What more could we do? Leaving London didn’t feel right; we were doing all we could and what was the next step? You all know my experience of looking for work here. So we left it up to God. It felt desperate, but it also felt liberating.

That very morning, my husband got a phone call out of the blue, regarding a job he had applied for a while back and for which he hadn’t even been shortlisted.  The job entails an element of study and someone had dropped out, so they had a place they wanted to fill. They invited my husband for an interview for that spot. The job interview happened a week later (yesterday, also Tuesday). He came home mid-afternoon not too sure how the interview had gone, but reassured that he would hear the outcome either way by the end of the day.

We spent the rest of the afternoon pretty much in silence. Writing and reading and getting on with what we needed to do. We couldn’t speak. The minutes ticked by in rhythm with our anxious heart beats. My stomach was in a knot. Six o’clock came. The phone still hadn’t rung. Seven o’clock came, still no call. I couldn’t believe they wouldn’t take him on (they’d be crazy not to), but I also couldn’t imagine how good news would feel. I couldn’t bear the thought of another night of uncertainty.

At 7.15pm our phone rang. It was a call for my husband. They offered him the job. We high-fived, we screamed, we jumped and we cried. (The Royal we, of course.) We called our boys, we let everyone we could think of know the good news, and we thanked God for miraculous answered prayer.

So he starts next Monday. It is a counselling job, where he will spend three days a week as a counsellor in GP practices (doctors’ rooms) and two days a week at King’s College London, completing a Masters diploma in CBT (cognitive behavioural therapy), which will feed his career and earning capacity whether he continues with his doctorate or not. After a career in advertising, he now has a permanent, full-time job. Studying and doing the work that he loves and is so fabulously gifted – and called – to do. And for all that he’s getting paid.

For me, I can’t remember how good it feels to have the heaviness of pressure off my shoulders. And I’m realising that this is a gift for me too. My time to pursue my dream of writing. My time to shine. This is my time to sunshine. Thank you, Lord.

I thought love was only true in fairy tales
Meant for someone else but not for me.
Love was out to get me
That’s the way it seemed.
Disappointment haunted all my dreams.

Then I saw her face, now I’m a believer
Not a trace of doubt in my mind.
I’m in love, I’m a believer!
I couldn’t leave her if I tried.

I thought love was more or less a givin’ thing,
Seems the more I gave the less I got.
What’s the use in tryin’?
All you get is pain.
When I needed sunshine I got rain.

Then I saw her face, now I’m a believer
Not a trace of doubt in my mind.
I’m in love, I’m a believer!
I couldn’t leave her if I tried.

I’m a believer: The Monkees

Sunshine signing off for today.

The meaning of Sunshine

When my boys were small they used to play hide and sneak, as they called it. My elder son would hide and my younger son would look for him. He would squeal and jump up and down with excitement when he found his big brother, and then it would be his turn to hide. He would always choose the same spot his brother had just hidden in until he learnt the value of finding his own hiding place.

So today it’s my turn to find my own hiding place. Well, I guess it’s exactly the opposite of a hiding place. My new blogging friend, the delightful and outrageously talented writer, Maura at 36×37, tagged me a few weeks ago and handed me a task, which is this: to answer some questions about myself and my blog. And then to tag some other bloggers in turn.

Here goes nothing!

1. If you could have any superpower, which one would you have and why?

I guess I can only be selfish in answering this question. I would choose the power to be in two places at once: in Cape Town and in London. Every day. To be able to skip between the two cities, without taking an 11 hour flight. My heart is in both places. London is our adventure, yet I yearn for my sons who live miles and continents away. My parents too.

2. Who is your style icon?

This question makes me want to laugh. Me? I have a style icon? If I wear clean clothes, dry my hair and brush my teeth, that’s me styled up.

I used to love Princess Diana’s style and I guess she was my style icon in the 80s and the 90s. And if I think back further, I loved the soap opera fashions of Dallas and Dynasty! I know that is sooooo uncool, but it’s the truth. I promised I wouldn’t hide.

When my younger son was small, we spent a few days off school and work together as he was unwell. For some reason, we sat and watched a few re-runs of Dallas on daytime TV. I told him how much I used to love the programme, and how I loved watching all the fashions. He swung round to me, looked me in the eye and asked, “Did those used to be fashions in the olden days?” I rest my case.

3. What is your favorite quote?

I have a few:

“Sometimes a sad man can speak the sadness right out through his mouth.” (John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath.)

“Is this tomorrow?” (my younger son, at age 3.)

“Quote me to your heart’s content, Mom. I’m k*k funny.” (my elder son, at age 22.)

“We don’t need a major bloody march past.” (A client of the PR consultancy I used to work for. We did loads of work for his company and I always remember this regular instruction to us.)

“That’ll do pig.” (Babe.)

4. What is the best compliment you’ve ever received?

“You’re cute.” A shy, drop-dead gorgeous student said this to me when I was 19 and at university. That was almost 30 years ago, and he still tells me that today.

5. What playlist/cd is in your CD player/iPod right now?

Anything and pretty much everything by Van Morrison. He is the man.

6. Are you a night owl or a morning person?

I go to bed late in the hope I can sleep well, but I don’t, so I don’t wake early. In my previous, more ordered, life I would get up at 5.45am and start my week days with a 6.30 gym class and head off to work. So I guess, in an ideal world, I’m a morning person.

7. Do you prefer dogs or cats?

I grew up loving dogs and not knowing cats. My husband and boys taught me to love cats, with a passion.

Some years ago, we were on a family holiday at the Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe. We stayed over at a hotel, and were treated to some hilarity in the dining room that night. The waiter, who ground his teeth and kicked the kitchen door open as he entered and exited, stirred some hysteria in my sons and their cousins. When he came to take orders from the set menu, he asked each person in turn, “Beeffffffff or fishhhhhhh?” By the time he got to my son, he couldn’t resist answering, “Bothhhhhh.”

So, do I prefer dogs or cats? Bothhhhhhh.

8. What is the meaning behind your blog name?

I’ve been dying to tell this story! Sunshine in London has a kind of obvious ring to it, and I have mentioned before that it is both my nature and my intention to find sunshine in otherwise cloudy days. Our London adventure is exactly that, and we seek out fun and brightness in our everydays.

The deeper meaning is this: I worked for a non-government organisation in Cape Town during the 90s. This was the time that saw the end of apartheid and the birth of democracy in a nation that the world thought might implode. For me, it was the most amazing time of personal growth and learning that I have ever experienced in my life. I didn’t like how I thought or what my assumptions were and I worked hard, and with tears, to weave grace, respect and non-judgment into my life.

South Africa is a nation of 11 official languages, three of which are predominant in the Western Cape, where I lived. One of my friends and colleagues, who spoke all three languages (isiXhosa, Afrikaans and English), told me one day that she had been thinking about me, and thought it was time for me to have an isiXhosa name. She said she had chosen one that reflected who I was, and it was Nomalanga. This means “sunshine”. I carry the name, with love and pride, and humility, wherever I go.

So now it’s over to you! My mission, as I did accept it, was to answer the questions, and then tag another bunch of bloggers to do the same. So consider yourselves tagged:

If any other reader wants to take up the challenge, please feel free to do so. And do – all – let me know when you’ve written your pieces, as I’d love to read them.

Sunshine, Nomalanga, signing off for today!

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.

My little London number

Grab your dabber, wear your lucky pants and show me your game face. I’m about to show you a good time. Sunshine in London style.

It’s something of an institution in the UK, it can change people’s lives, and it’s not necessarily the domain of the elderly. Well, not completely. We’ve done it once since we’ve been here, although it’s not something we would generally do. And we’ve made – it seems – some new friends for life.

I know you’re going through the whole gamut of cool things that you think I would do in London. Concerts? Wining and dining? Walking the London bridges? Joining a secret supper club? Theatre?

Well, you clever folks – you didn’t realise we were trendiness in motion. It’s BINGO! Soon after we arrived in London last year, my husband and I went “daan the bingo” with our elder son and his girlfriend. We signed up, and all got our very own bingo books and dabbers – yes, we hadn’t heard of them before either. It’s a pen-type item for dabbing a coloured dot over the number that’s called out. And we entered the bingo hall … start the Jaws music, please.

I think we all had big red Ls on our foreheads … you can choose for yourself if you think that was for Learner or Loser! I know which one I think! Anyway, we chose our table carefully – seems everyone has their favourite table. And chair. And we had NO clue what was going on! Everything seemed to whizz by over our heads – numbers flying this way and that, people yelling different sounds that yielded responses from the suited people, and we still sat there, like stunned mullets, longing to use our dabbers.

Mr Cool – the local Bingo hero , wearing a lycra equivalent of a hankie tied on his head and walking with a smoothness that oozed Al Green hipness (and I think both hips were still his own) – came over to rescue us ignorant ones. A dear friend of ours loves to tell people that we’re “from abroad” so he would have had a field day that evening!

So Mr Cool showed us the moves, told us exactly when we could start listening out for our numbers – and he reminded us publicly when he got to that page – and although the numbers continued to whizz by at breakneck speed, we managed to dab our numbers just in time, but the all-important opportunity to yell “bingo!” eluded us all. Just like finding a job …

It was actually quite a fun evening, and the bingo hall continues to remind us of their special evenings and “winner takes all” options. We went out for a very posh afternoon tea at a central London hotel about two months ago, courtesy of a leaving gift from my lovely colleagues at the charity I worked at earlier this year. While I said to my husband, “Do you think people here will think we’re posh, or will they know we have a voucher?”, he reached into his pocket to yank out his cellphone as it vibrated the text of an incoming message. Guess who it was from? … the local bingo hall, reminding him that they hadn’t seen him down there for some time and inviting him to take advantage of a forthcoming special offer. Our new friends for life.

We laughed, continued to munch on the spoils of our voucher, and reflected on our lives in the Big Smoke. We sure know how to have a good time.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Cloudy in London today

So it’s Saturday again. Not that that means anything to me, really. To a job hunter, every day is the same. Filled with hope, opportunity and a balancing dose of absolute anxiety.

Here I am, sat at the laptop yet again, scouring cyberspace for that one job that’s going to change everything for me. For us. And keep us in London. No pressure.

If I send at least one application a day – or so – there is nothing much more I can do. Except pray.

As I stare out of the window of the flat, I have already seen two stripped-off Londoners walking along the street! And it’s not that warm today. One emerged from the shower block in the small dock we overlook, his hirsute frame clad only in a towel, wrapped around his waist. Another was walking along the street on the other side of the dock, shirt in hand. Eeeuw.

It’s so strange to think that we’re heading towards autumn in London. At this time of year, in South Africa where I come from, it’s rose-pruning time, some spring flowers are starting to show their heads, there’s an optimism and a gentle floral fragrance in the air, and the hope of warm weather and sunshine overwhelm us all, as we think about Christmas, end of year holidays, and plans for the new year. The hope of spring is quite overshadowed for me by the melancholy of the coming autumn in the north. Maybe it’s also how I’m feeling today.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Waiter, there’s an egg in my sock

What do a skimpy Speedo and a pair of baggy, long socks have in common? Both are used, with varying degrees of success, to smuggle birds.

I used to be a swimmer and, in my day, guys used to wear tight Speedos. Budgie smugglers. While today it might be considered a crime, in our day no-one got arrested for wearing a Speedo. Although the fashion police were always on red alert.

In our church earlier this year, we had an international weekend. Our church is, as it aptly describes itself, a large, international local church – its wide diversity of nationalities bears testimony to this.  At the Sunday service, we had songs in all different languages, people praying in different languages, and sharing stories of their lives and cultures. It truly was a celebration of diversity, and the coming together of so many nations under the banner of the church. Our pastor invited people to think about weird cultures in their countries that might be interesting for others to hear about. After a brief pause, a Brazilian accent shouted out, “Speedos!”

I digress.

On the news last night, I heard about a man (heaven help us, he was a Zimbabwean!) who got arrested at Birmingham airport, trying to smuggle 14 peregrine falcon eggs on to a flight to Dubai. You can read the full story here,  but I thought his was such a bizarre, ill-thought out and flawed plan. Here’s how it must have gone:

He decided he could make his millions by stealing a truckload of peregrine falcon eggs from the wilds in Wales, and selling them in Dubai where there is huge trade, apparently, in rare bird eggs. Falconry is a sport of the rich. Smuggling them is a sport of the brainless.

So, hmmmm, now how to get them on to a plane without being noticed. I know, I’ll put them into my socks. Nah, too uncomfortable. I know, I know – I’ll make a necklace out of them, in my socks, and wear them around my waist. I’ll tie knots between each egg so it looks like a pearl necklace. I’ll make two, and tie them both round my waist before I board the plane – best do that in the gents, where no-one will see me, and then I can board the plane. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them they’re chicken eggs, and I strap them round me in sock necklaces because I have a bad back. That’ll do it.

Thanks to a quick-thinking cleaner in the airport bathrooms, he was detained, then arrested and sentenced to three years in prison. He has had his face and name splashed all over national television news, and – more embarrassingly – his “sock beads” have been displayed for all to see. I think his crime was speeding down the highway of stupidity without wearing a crash helmet.

So, Speedos or socks? In this instance, I’d go for the Speedo. At least no-one gets arrested. And the budgie isn’t stolen.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Right or wrong? I’d rather not say

So here I am, procrastinating again while I should be completing yet another lengthy person specification for a job application. Do I fit the minutely-detailed criteria attached to the job? I’ll exercise my new-found British right and say: “I’d rather not say.”

Right, I know that we are spoilt for choice here in London. What to do, where to go, how to get there, what to wear, and whether or not to take a brolly. Ok the last one doesn’t really have another option. But I’ve discovered – to my frustration – that job applications are just as full of choices. I found it quite funny at first, but now I just find it annoying.

Each job application requires an “Equal Opportunities Monitoring” form, which – we are promised – is not considered in conjunction with job applications. It is purely for monitoring purposes. So, in order that no-one is discriminated against on account of his or her sex, marital or family status, age, ethnic origin, disability, race, colour, nationality, national origin, creed, sexual orientation, political affiliation, or trade union membership, a record is kept of all of these criteria, for monitoring purposes. I haven’t yet been asked which football team I support, but I’m sure that’s coming next.

What amuses me about all of this – apart from finding it quite strange – is that you have the option in all of these to say, “I would rather not say.” If I answered that to every question – and it would be my right to do so – where would that leave the monitoring process? Imagine the level of speculation! And why do I have to complete it when I’m applying for the job – do all organisations monitor who applies for what, and then try to target different audiences as required for the next jobs they advertise? And if it’s not considered alongside my application, then what’s to stop me from being less than honest?

So it’s back to the drawing board. Am I having fun? No. Am I optimistic? Yes. Will I keep at it? Yes. Will I let it get me down? No. Is this something I’ll remember with fondness about my time in London? I’d rather not say.

Sunshine signing off!

Are those puppies on a lead?

In London, for many, when the sun comes out, the clothes come off. It doesn’t matter where you are. Or what state of preparedness your body is in. And you don’t even have to give a public health warning.

So anytime, in the summer in London, semi-nakedness – and well-nigh full nakedness, believe me – can strike. Coming from a land of generally endless sunshine – annoying, I know – I don’t quite get the obsession with public, high street flashes of flesh in the interests of soaking in the sun. I have noticed that people strip off their shirts in the high street, at restaurants, pubs, you name it. Some sights are so offensive, I think they deserve an *ASBO.

There we were, my husband and me, wandering innocently through Kensington Palace Gardens a few weeks ago when we saw a young woman emerging from the public loos wearing a skimpy bikini, with no swimming pool or beach in sight. A few minutes later, our eyes were accosted by a sight which was, well, frightening: a well-endowed and, as my granny used to say, stout lady, who had been lying on her stomach, sunbathing, decided to turn over. And as we all know, the bigger the ship, the harder it is to change direction. She lumbered her burnt pink self on to her bottom, sat up and then lay down flat on her back. What I haven’t yet mentioned is that she was clad in nothing but a G-string. Only just. Eeuww.

So, if the sun comes out, and you’re going to bear your flesh in public, pull everything else in and at least wear some sunblock. And keep those puppies on a lead.

Sunshine signing out for today …

*  Wikipedia’s definition of an ASBO: In the United Kingdom, an ASBO may be issued in response to “conduct which caused or was likely to cause harm, harassment, alarm or distress, to one or more persons not of the same household as him or herself and where an ASBO is seen as necessary to protect relevant persons from further anti-social acts by the Defendant.”