Uncategorized – Page 3 – Sunshine in London

Sulking and singing

This evening, I boarded a London bus whose driver was deeply sombre and morose. I thought back to this delightful soul whom we encountered a few years back, and thought I’d share the story with you again:

“I’ve never really thought of a red London bus as a chariot. But that’s exactly what we travelled in yesterday. Our bus driver told us so. Well, actually, he sang it so.

Travelling back from Greenwich to our home yesterday, our bus driver sang “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” at the top of his lungs, with all his heart and to the joy, horror and entertainment of his travelling charges. Some cynical commuters wondered if he was ~~p***ed~~ drunk, some didn’t notice, some smiled coyly and two people alighted earlier than planned.

The self-confessed “drunken bum” next to my niece and me was endlessly entertained. The proud owner of approximately two teeth, he chattered constantly and laughed like a drain. If he could stand up, he’d have been a stand-up comedian. But his seated banter broadened our smiles all the way home, and the driver’s singing warmed my heart.

“He’s quite religious, I think. He’s trying to save you. Not me; I’m just a drunken bum. But he thinks he can save you. I don’t think he can, but that’s what he’s trying to do,” our toothless neighbour offered.

Thank you, Mr Bus Driver, for keeping my joy alive yesterday with your delight-filled noise and for carrying us home in style. Keep singing and may your musical dreams find their chance to break out of that dreary uniform; you never know who may be listening.”

Sunshine signing off for today.

Queue, The Musical

As Great Britain holds its breath in hopeful anticipation that This Year, This Afternoon, a British player will win Wimbledon, I thought I’d share with you my own little experience of Wimbledon.

Having lived in London for almost four years, one thing I’ve been longing to do is go to Wimbledon, or SW19, as it’s affectionately known in London. That changed for me this week.

It’s really difficult to get tickets for Wimbledon if you’re an ordinary punter like I am. As I understand it, the options are few: if you belong to a tennis club, you might be able to get a ticket through the club; if you own a debenture – price tag of around £25k for five years – you have access to events (I would want to own at least one court at Wimbledon too, for that price), or you can enter The Ballot, (Wimbledon loves titles) which I have entered in the past and been Unsuccessful. The final option is to join The Queue.

After watching (live and in person) The Qualifiers at the Bank of England Sports Club in Roehampton the week before Wimbledon, and after seeing some of those qualifiers go on to do incredible things at Wimbledon, I just had to go and see some of it for myself. I took an afternoon off from work, grit my teeth and, after doing some research and gathering some encouragement and tips from colleagues, I travelled to Wimbledon to join The Queue. You can join The Queue for ground admission tickets either before 7.30am for when the gates open at 10.30am, or you can join in the early afternoon for when people start leaving the grounds after the first few matches. Be prepared for four or five hours of queuing. Just saying.

As the Southwest train pulled into Wimbledon station, the guy standing next to me at the train door asked me if I was going to the tennis. I flung my arms in the air with a dramatic flourish and jazz hands, threw my head back and shouted ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ (I might have been doing that only in my mind.) He asked if I wanted to share a cab, so I said ‘Sure’.

As we walked out of the station, he asked which court I had tickets for, as he had Court One tickets. I told him I didn’t have a ticket but was going to chance The Queue. He looked at me a bit askance, and then broke the awkwardness to tell me about all the fabulous tennis he’d ever seen at Wimbledon. Live. Fortunately, green is Wimbledon’s official colour so my undisguised envy was fully on-brand.

We got outside the station to discover a ‘gaartjie’ (they don’t call them that here, but in South Africa each minibus taxi has a ‘gaartjie’ to help him/her fill the taxi – a wingman, if you will) was organising all the taxis heading for Wimbledon and filling each, neatly, with five people. So my new taxi mate turned into four new taxi mates and the ride cost us each a wonderful £2.50. The conversation in the taxi inevitably turned to, ‘So who are you going to see?’ One couple had tickets to CENTRE COURT (capitals my own – CENTRE COURT already – sheesh!)

Another had a grounds admission ticket but was going to meet with parents-in-law to swop their tickets for CENTRE COURT tickets, and then there was my new-found train friend with his Court One tickets. After gushing about how amazing their day of tennis was going to be, and just before anyone got to ask me The Question, my new-found friend said, ‘And this lady doesn’t have a ticket at all, and is taking her chances in The Queue.’ They all looked down their noses at me (the taxi driver didn’t, thankfully, although I don’t think he was listening) and then one of them said, ‘Oh! Do people actually queue?’ I wished I’d got into a taxi with Ordinary People.

My new-found friend broke the awkwardness again with a little conversation about his outfit. He said, ‘I know I’m all summery [he was wearing a straw hat, a cream suit and pale blue shirt – summery? Where I come from, summery would mean a T-shirt and shorts], but I am prepared for all weather,’ and went on to describe the contents of his leather travel bag.

The taxi driver asked us to sort out the money between us, dropped us off near the main gates and we all parted company. I said, ‘Enjoy the tennis!’ They all said, ‘Good luck!’ And so I began my 20-minute walk to join The Queue, prompted by regular reminders of which way ‘Non-ticket holders’ needed to go. The walk felt interminable, and as I got nearer to my destination, I caught glimpses of people already in The Queue. My heart sank a little.

I got to the field where The Queue begins and was handed my Queue Card. It was numbered 09840 and dated Day 7, Monday 1^st July.

In the first of my 240 minutes in The Queue, not one single person was behind me. That changed within a few minutes, and then as time progressed, people were envious that my Queue Card was numbered a mere 09840.

The Queue moved in fits and starts. Sometimes we would shuffle forward two steps, sometimes ten. People picnicked, talked, played hand-clapping games, whinged, moaned, checked the tennis results or played games on their phones, argued, drank water, read books, sang and occasionally chatted to strangers. I had seasoned Queuers standing behind me, who were super-friendly and told me what to expect of the afternoon’s line-standing. They also said The Queue wasn’t a bad one.

After about half an hour, we moved through an archway and this sign welcomed and encouraged us.

I also found this sign amusing. As if.

I joined The Queue just after 1pm and between 3.30pm and 4.30pm, The Queue stood still. Many people went to sit in the sunshine next to The Queue area. The three hooray henrys in front of me, who had whinged, moaned, argued and panicked non-stop since they arrived, went to sit somewhere and never came back. Ever. As 5pm loomed, a steward encouraged us that things would change at 5pm, and invited everyone back into The Queue. He was right – we soon moved forward at a great pace. As we approached the security check area, foreboding signs warned us that ‘No thermos flasks’ were allowed in the hallowed tennis grounds. Ooh. Scary. We went through a security check like you would go through at an airport, walked over a bridge and along a kind of cattle walk towards The Grounds and only then, once we went through all of that, did I get to buy a ticket. I bought a ‘Grounds Only’ ticket for £14, which means you are free to go and watch tennis anywhere apart from the show courts (Centre Court, Court One and Court Two), enjoy the restaurants, shops and picnic areas anywhere. There is a booth that re-sells show court tickets, but you need to queue for those …

I was a bit star-struck. I’ve grown up with tennis. My mother was a brilliant tennis-player and we grew up spending weekends at sports clubs and alongside tennis courts at weird and wonderful places around southern Africa. I’ve grown up watching and loving Wimbledon tennis on television; the men’s final has always fallen on or around my birthday, and has always held a special place in my heart. To be standing in the hallowed grounds of SW19 was at times a little overwhelming for me.

I wandered around a bit lost and spoilt for choice. I found my way to Court 18 and watched this amazingly exciting match:

The duo who won this five-setter, Dodig and Melo (they beat Mirnyi and Tecau), went right through to the final yesterday where they were halted by the outrageously talented, chest-bumping twins from the US. Fair enough. The match I watched was ridiculously fast and impressive. I couldn’t quite believe I was sitting in the third row on Court 18 watching a match that I would have been glued to watching on TV. When a front-rower was struck on the forehead by a wayward, faster-than-the-speed-of-light return of serve, I do think the cameras moved our way as the umpire asked the gentleman if he was all right. With a bright-red, throbbing bump on his forehead, he graciously waved the umpire away with an embarrassed ‘Yes’.

The view across to the other outer courts, Court One to the left and Centre Court ahead of me, in the early evening light, was just glorious. I still couldn’t quite believe I was there.

I wasn’t the only one watching.

I wandered around the grounds and watched a few glimpses of brilliant junior matches, sat on Henman Hill (a large mound of grass behind Court One where you can sit and watch the main matches on a big screen) for a while to watch some of the Berdych v Tomic match, and the start of Djokovic’s annihilation of Tommy Haas. I then found my way to Court 17 and a front row seat to watch a personal favourite player – James Blake – in this mixed doubles match, which he and Vekic went on to lose to Srebotnik and Zimonjic.

A little before 9pm, I left Wimbledon, climbed into a taxi with four other Queuers, and made my way home, exhilarated, exhausted and quietly, magically, entranced by the much written-about atmosphere of SW19. It was everything that I had hoped it would be, and even more beautiful. I will definitely go back.

Today, in 30 degree sunshine, I have no doubt that The Queue will be the longest it’s been in the past fortnight. People have camped overnight to join The Queue, hopeful along with the rest of Britain that Andy Murray will break the 77-year dearth of a British winner in the men’s singles at Wimbledon. The rest of the world will be quietly confident that Novak Djokovic will continue to play unstoppable tennis. Whatever happens, we can be sure of watching an outstandingly brilliant display of tennis in this afternoon’s men’s final. For hardened tennis fans, the long wait in The Queue will definitely be worth it. And the newly-renamed Murray Mound (formerly Henman Hill) will be Heaving.

Sunshine signing off for today!

A shining star from the east end

She warmed up a chilly Southend evening like a golden shimmery ray of sunshine. Her soulful sounds mixed with her charming east London banter made for a fabulous evening out. Thank you, Paloma Faith; we’re big fans.

The beautiful young red-haired woman from Hackney came on to the stage in theatrical style. Wearing a glittery golden dress and carrying two oversized fans, Paloma opened her show with a surprisingly understated Let your love walk in. Singing alongside her three extraordinarily talented backing singers, with lead guitarist and grand pianist, she drew the song to a quiet close. As she sang Beauty of the end, the stage curtains opened to reveal a dramatic set of palm fronds and mirrored glass, and the rest of her outstanding band, all tuxedoed in black and white: keyboard player/bass guitarist, drummer and keyboard player/percussionist.

The haunting When you’re gone showcased more of Paloma’s theatrical instincts, each wave of her arms creating another beautiful silhouette. The rousing cover version of Inxs’ Never tear us apart brought the audience to their feet, and the lead guitarist to his knees. Paloma then greeted the audience with an enthusiastically east end, “Hello Saafend!”

With a hint of an apology for her Hackney accent, she quickly added, “Saafend, I fink you lot are even worse!”

She then went on to say, “It’s very arty; and then she talks. But you can still be clever and talk like this!”

At this point, she said we ‘clever clogs’ should be cheering her on. She reminded us she’d been nominated for two Brit Awards and then went on to say, “Who would have thought? Not me; coming from Hackney.”

Paloma told us the rules for the evening: ”Sing along, if you know the words. Otherwise, you might as well be listening to the album at home, and listening in a lonely way.”

The audience needed little encouragement to join in with the fabulous Thirty minute love affair followed by a dazzlingly dance version of Blood, sweat and tears. She then introduced her first album Do you want the truth or something beautiful and then suggested that anyone who’d not bought that album, might want to go and have a cigarette break.

Before starting her first album set, she said she didn’t know how Tina Turner does it, singing Simply the best over and over. “I’ve only been in the game since 2009, and already I’m sick to the teeth of Stone, cold sober!”

With no hint of ennui , she belted out the number to screams and whistles from the packed house. She followed with Do you want the truth or something beautiful? and then introduced her band members as each soloed their way through the delightfully Parisian-sounding Upside down. As she sang her wildly popular New York she got down off the stage to walk and among her fans in the mosh pit.

Back to the stage and to her second album, Fall to grace, she sat on the grand piano for the sublimely harmonised Just be. As the audience sang along gently with her, she curled up on the piano, before moving on to the appropriate Let me down easy. Streets of glory followed, and then the dramatic Agony, and a demonstration of Paloma’s contemporary dance training. For Freedom she stood on the piano, before inviting the audience to visit her merchandise store (‘even though my mum said it’s probably closed by now, but I’ll promote it anyway’) and avail themselves of ‘Topshop-worthy clobber. You’ll find no sticky transfers – our T-shirts have the image embedded in the thread’.

Introducing her second last number, she said, “If you don’t know the next song, you’re definitely here as someone’s guest.” A fabulously stirring Picking up the pieces followed, before she closed the show with a golden confetti shower over Black and blue.

A final mention of her band members, our leading light closed the show with, “And I’m Paloma Faith” before bowing, blowing a kiss and waving us goodbye. What a great show, and what a sparkling star; Hackney, Paloma’s done you well proud.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Why I’m still grateful for today

A repost from November 2010.

There are so many factors that shape who I am. And who I am constantly becoming. Life, my family, relationships, circumstances, choices, my faith, my personality, decisions, events. Today marks the anniversary of a pivotal event in my life.

November 12 fell on a Friday in 1999. It was a normal working day in Cape Town for me. I was the PR manager for an NGO that trained unemployed people to start their own small businesses. My work took me all over the Peninsula to visit training centres and fledgling enterprises. Trainees learnt business skills to run spaza shops (small retail businesses from their homes), or skills such as sewing, leatherwork, knitting or butchery, to run a business from home. It was rewarding work, and I loved my job.

On this Friday, I had an appointment to go and meet up with a new entrepreneur in his home in Guguletu, to hear about his new business. I had been given directions to get there, although road names didn’t feature too strongly: “Turn left at the school and go down and when you get to the station turn right.” I had a good idea where I needed to go, as I was familiar with the area, and I double-checked with the new entrepreneur’s trainer where I needed to go, and off I went.

I took the main route off the highway, Duinefontein Road, that heads through Manenburg and on towards Guguletu. Manenburg is notorious in the Western Cape for gang activity, and I always drove through the area with due vigilance and caution. As I headed towards Guguletu I couldn’t find any of the landmarks, and it was no longer clear to me where I needed to go. After going backwards and forwards a few times, and nearly running out of road, I chose not to venture into the unknown. I decided to go back to the office to get better directions and reschedule my meeting.

I drove back along Duinefontein Road. Cape Town had recently been hit by a freak tornado, Manenburg being the area most acutely affected by its brief appearance. Many houses had been destroyed, three people had been killed and a number had been left homeless. There were a few makeshift, tented camps where people lived until their homes were rebuilt. One such camp was on the grounds of a school that I drove past.

I looked at the brown tents and felt sad that people had lost their homes. I was also aware that there were hundreds of school children pouring out of the school and across the road. I wondered why they were finishing so early (it was mid-morning), I was concerned that many were crossing the road without checking what traffic was coming and going. It was in the middle of those thoughts that I heard a gunshot. And then a sound I can’t describe – perhaps a thwang – as a bullet hit my windscreen and I was showered with shavings of glass.

The bullet ricocheted off my windscreen without penetrating it. The trademark spiderweb left by the bullet on my windscreen was in line with my head. I thought, “I’ve been shot at. And God’s protected me. Perhaps I should go to the police station.”

I didn’t look to see where the shot had come from, I didn’t stop or slow down or speed up, I just carried on driving and thinking logically what I needed to do next. I knew the police station was just down the road and to the right. As I approached the intersection, I felt it would be unsafe to turn down that road. So I continued on to Guguletu to go to the police station there.

All the while, I felt calm and just kept thinking, “God’s protected me. And I need to report this.”

I turned down the road to go to Guguletu police station, and when I was about to park my car, it suddenly hit me, “I’VE BEEN SHOT AT AND I’M TERRIFIED AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO OR WHO TO SPEAK TO. AND I’M SO SCARED.” I began to shake and sob and my face and cheeks wobbled beyond control.

I turned my car around, and decided to drive back to my office. By now, my legs were shaking too and I don’t know how I managed to drive, or see through the tears.

I still felt the need to report this to the police, so I went to Mowbray police station, near my office. I cried all over the front desk, I could hardly get the words out, and the kind and patient officer took my statement and gave me a case number. I asked her if she wanted to see my car, and she said no. I felt sad for the state of Cape Town, and that more attention would have been paid to this in a more peaceful world.

I drove quietly back to my office, my colleagues and friends were astounded and open-mouthed and didn’t really know what to say. Then hugs and words of comfort abounded.

As an amusing aside, one of my colleagues told me to drink sugar water.

“It’s good for the shock. My mother’s sister-in-law’s nephew took sugar water after a cupboard fell on him, and he’s never had nightmares.”

I was able to chuckle at that, as I called my husband to tell him what had happened. I had stopped crying, but started again when I spoke to him. He came to me right away. And then I went and fetched my boys and went home. My boys were so shocked, but were just glad I was fine. Thank the Lord children don’t agonise over what if – I was there and I was fine. And that’s all that mattered.

It was a strange and scary and surreal experience telling people about what had happened, dealing with my own reaction but wanting to protect everyone else from feeling sad. Or anxious.

My husband, as a trained trauma counsellor, insisted on debriefing me that evening. We sat, cross-legged and facing each other on our bed, as he talked me through what had happened and asked me strategic questions about how I’d felt and what I’d thought. I know, without doubt, that that session was just exactly right. I’ve never had flashbacks, or nightmares, and I honestly haven’t relived that moment with anything but gratitude. My body had its own reaction six months later, when I experienced a series of panic attacks, but they were short-lived and I guess my body needed to vent.

Oh, and I didn’t ever get to do that interview. I just couldn’t.

In the paper the next day, we read of an off-duty policewoman who was shot at – and injured – in her car in the vicinity of my event. It was attributed to a gang initiation ritual. Perhaps that was the purpose of the bullet that hit my car. I don’t know where it came from, I don’t know where it was going. I’ll never know if I was caught in cross-fire or if the bullet was meant for me. All I do know, and am forever grateful for, is that the bullet didn’t have my name on it.

Sunshine signing off, with gratitude, for today.

George Michael’s back on song

So there he stood, purple-suited and dapper, at the top of a staircase dividing the Symphonica Orchestra in two. Arms outstretched, eyes to the skies, I feel good came belting straight out from his heart. George Michael finished his rousing anthem to renewal, waved goodbye to an adoring audience and left me, and the other 20,000 fans, breathless and screaming for more.

We filled Earl’s Court last night for the final night of George Michael’s Symphonica tour, and we danced, sang and screamed through two and a half hours of pure magic, George style. We waited 45 minutes for the show to start and as soon as we saw the familiar, shiny suited silhouette behind the red curtains, and heard that voice begin to sing Through, all was forgiven. He reminded us, in the most lyrical way, that boy, he can sing.

Looking sharp and sounding fine, he kept us close for the entire show. I read a Huffington Post review that described George Michael as a ‘star reborn’. It went on to describe George as a ‘changed man. George Michael has been looking after himself, and it shows.’ I overheard some older ladies at the interval sharing a similar sentiment: “He’s really handsome. I know he’s gay and all, but when he looks at you, it really does something to you. Doesn’t it?”

After an emotional opening number, he got us all up on our feet for My baby just cares for me before taking us on a journey to the 80s and 90s with Father Figure and Cowboys and Angels. A fun Star people moved him on to a cover of Rufus Wainwright’s Going to a town, which he sang in tribute to ‘my gay boys’. He dedicated You have been loved to his mother, and ‘for all of you who’ve lost someone since this song was written’.

Wild is the wind got the audience to its feet and him boogying his trademark jive at the front of the stage before he took us to the 1920s with his outrageously fabulous version of Brother, can you spare a dime? I screamed in delight as the song reached its beautiful brass-filled crescendo. On the final note our star left the stage, triumphant.

The short interval over, the purple-suited star returned to the stage with You can’t always get what you want. He introduced his sincere and gentle performance of John and Elvis are dead as a song ‘written by my best friend, David Austin’ before moving on to Sting’s Roxanne. A weird, autotuned rendition of New Order’s True faith followed, about the nature of addiction, which George said he had ‘no clue’ about. He mixed poignant with rousing through my favourite A different corner, Rihanna’s Russian Roulette and the supremely moving Praying for time.

Whether sitting and crooning or striding and jiving, George’s energy and sincerity shine through. His hands move expressively and you believe every word that he sings. When he left the stage after his final number – significantly, I feel good – we screamed and we whistled, we stamped our feet and clapped our hands till he returned, waving to and applauding his appreciative audience.

“London, you’ve made my last night f***ing perfect!”

After introducing his band, and inviting the sublime Symphonica Orchestra to take a bow, George took us on a loud and thrilling journey through Amazing, I’m your man and Freedom. He apologised for making us wait a year [he cancelled his tour last December when he fell seriously ill] and hoped it had been worth the wait. A second emotional departure from the stage left the audience screaming for more. George again obliged with a final, gentle I remember you.

“Thank you, London. I love you. See you soon,” he screamed as he left the stage.

We hope so, George. We sure hope so.

Disco fever at the London Sevens

Record crowds of more than 100,000 over two days. Sixteen teams from around the world. Two series’ cup finals. Two streakers and far too many men wearing floral sundresses. It could only be the 2012 London Sevens rugby series at Twickenham.

We were there last weekend to witness it all. Nestled in the north stand in weak sunshine on a chilly May weekend, it was difficult at first to know where to focus our attention. The rugby was fantastic, but the spectacle that is the London Sevens was hard to resist. Every series has a colourful theme; this year’s was ‘70s disco fever’.

I have come to realise that English fans of rugby sevens love to dress up. Most keep to the theme but many seem to keep a fancy-dress outfit at home to suit all occasions. Take the two guys dressed as nuns. They must have thought, “What can we wear for a 70s disco fever theme? I know; our habits. Ace.”

To make it even better, one of the nuns carried a scarecrow with him, who interviewed people as they walked around the stadium on Saturday afternoon. Seventies disco? Bang on.

As we watched the pool games on Saturday, we also saw a team of dancing penguins, a Roman gladiator, two men in kilts, cowboys, doctors, tigers, Eeyores, leprechauns, beachballs, someone wearing a T-shirt that said I heart Will Young and an over-abundance of men dressed in pretty frocks.

Tigers and penguins dance down the aisles

As I said, way too many men in floral sundresses

The rugby continued regardless, with league leaders New Zealand, Fiji, England and Samoa showing their brilliance. Sadly for us, the South African team felt the loss of their injured star players and barely glimmered in front of an unforgiving crowd. I have noticed that English fans support England, the underdog, and any other country that is not Australia or France.

Naturally biased, fans filled the stands each time the England team came on to play, and the players were heralded on to the field by flag-bearing disco dancers. Equally, after each England game, fans poured out of the stadium. In the England v Australia game, the announcers welcomed each of the English players by name and then, almost begrudgingly added, “And Australia”. For each England try, the fans jumped to their feet, swung their forearms up and down to the annoying tune of ‘do-do-do-do’ – looking around as if to say ‘Did you see that? Did you just see that?’

The dying strains of the victory ‘arm shuffle’

When Australia played Portugal, it was clear the home fans would support their European brothers. Australia stood no chance. When one Aussie player broke the line and sprinted for the try line, in the midst booing from around the stadium someone behind us shouted, “No-one likes you!”

Those who kept on-brand with the 70s disco fever theme included the entire cast of Anchorman, complete with a microphone-carrying Ron Burgundy. We saw the Village People everywhere, as well as Kiss, an abundance of large colourful Afro wigs, Saturday Night Fever suits, John McEnroe look-alikes and plenty of headbands, scarves, platform shoes, chest hair, wide lapels and shiny, large-collared shirts.

Mid-afternoon saw a man dressed as a chicken evade security and run an entire lap of the field. When he got to the poles in front of us, he did a forward somersault on the grass before handing himself over to the stadium’s security personnel who tackled him to the ground. Three of them escorted him off the field.

Later in the afternoon, two men broke through security to run along the top of the western stand. One of them was dressed as a banana and the other had taken his kit off entirely. Security personnel closed in on them before running at them and tackling them both to the ground before walking them out of the stadium.

Saturday’s train journey home was epic. We shuffled on to a crowded train in the middle of loud, rowdy and worryingly wobbly fans, including a young woman pushing crisps into her mouth with unfocused concentration. A group of energetic youngsters decided to have a ‘burpy’ competition on the train. They cleared as much space as they could in the standing area and cheered each other on as they dropped to the ground to do press-ups followed by squats and wobbly jumps to their feet.

This soon became difficult, so the competition turned to pole-dancing. Game candidates jumped on to the poles and success was measured according to the number of times they swung around the pole before hitting the ground. Some managed five, others slid roundly to the floor immediately. Three young men dressed as boy scouts strong-armed their way through the crowds to the train’s exits. Banter ensued. The competition organiser told one of them, “You’re the reason I never wanted to be a scout.” The scout retorted with, “Well, with an attitude like that, you’ll never get your pole-dancing badge.”

Sunday’s crowd was subdued. The rugby became serious and hopes of winning cups, shields, bowls and plates were dashed or kept alive. As teams were knocked out, they each did a gracious and well-received lap of honour around the field. Fans clambered for autographs and photographs and the rugby heroes cheerfully obliged. I did notice some players taking off their shorts or socks and handing them over to adoring fans. Seriously.

The sun sank lower in the sky and the play-offs continued in earnest. We had the bonus of watching the final of the Women’s Sevens series between England and Netherlands. It was an excellent match won convincingly by the home side.

The England women’s team warms up ahead of series’ victory

During half-time in one of the last matches, a female streaker broke through security and ran the length of the field. She, too, stopped in front of the poles and did a cartwheel, to the roaring amusement of the crowd. She walked towards the inevitably approaching security personnel and raised her hands, before side-stepping and running away from them. She was hotly pursued and carefully tackled to the ground before being blanketed in a couple of high-visibility jackets and escorted roughly off the field.

Fiji met Samoa in the cup final and provided one of the most outstanding games of rugby I’ve ever witnessed. Two sides of strong, fast and skilful players entertained the crowd with speedy action, numerous tries and a popular win for a world-class Fiji.

The tired crowd left the stadium and headed, with jaded banter, to a less crowded station than the evening before. We stepped over fake sideburns and moustaches abandoned on the road, and walked alongside a 70s-suited punter who sang flatly as he downed his beer, “Down, down, down, down into my belly!” All around us were filthy bell-bottomed trousers, floppy Afro wigs, faded Smurfs, and floral sundresses tucked into trousers. It was clear the London Sevens of 2012 had come to an end.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Randomness

Random thoughts. They tie together not at all and appear in “no random order” as I heard someone once say.

This morning on my walk to the bus, I watched a swan as it dipped its head deep into the water right in the corner of the local dock. I stood and watched for a while. Soon it came up, shook its head a little and its forehead was green with algae.

As I rushed home from work to get to my zumba class in time, I wondered if there would be any mail in our letter box. I imagined finding a letter there telling me I’d won a million pounds. You know what my first thought was? Would I still go to zumba?

On my way home from zumba, I saw three young professionals studying the plaque on a small heritage building in the area. One young man, dressed in a suit, hairstyle like a Beatle with long, pointy sideburns, was giggling as I walked by. He pointed at the plaque, and said, “I can’t believe it says erected.”

When we were at the open air concert in Hyde Park a few weeks ago, I discovered an amazing sense of community and the art of mime. I’d forgotten to take with me my note pad and pen, so I could make notes of the concert for my blog. I mimed “pen?” to my friend who was sitting behind us. She made a face as if to say she didn’t have one, and then motioned that she’d ask her friends. After a few minutes, she looked at me and made a disappointed face and showed me her out-turned hands, palms up. No pen. No worries. About two minutes later, the pink-haired lady with every finger nail painted a different colour, who was also sitting behind us, came over to me with a pencil. She’d borrowed it from her bovver-booted husband, and brought it to me. Who ever said mime doesn’t pay?

A relentless eavesdropper, as you know me to be, it was difficult to overhear conversations at the concert, against the backdrop of never-ending music. It was interesting, however, to watch the goings-on all around us anyway. I watched a family of four enjoy a day out in Hyde Park. Endless trips to the bar saw them taking it in turns to bring back pints and Pimms and ciders and spirits. You name it; they knocked them back. They danced and as the day progressed, their dancing became more “uncle- like” and standing upright seemed to be a growing battle for each of them. As dusk darkened the sky, I noticed the husband and wife arguing. She said, “Fine, then.” And with that, she turned tail and disappeared into the crowd. The daughter appealed to her dad, “She’s just gone. She’s just literally gone.” Dad appeared unperturbed. Oh well.

A few hours later, in the rainy evening, the mother appeared in front of me. I looked at her and smiled, and she said to me, “My whole family’s just fallen out. It’s an absolute nightmare.” I mimed sympathy, and smiled at her some more. She said, “I saw you look at me, so I thought I’d tell you. It’s a nightmare. We’ve all just fallen out.” I asked if they’d arranged to meet up somewhere, and she told me no-one knew where she was and reminded me that it was a “nightmare”. “Oh dear,” was all I could manage. At that point, her husband appeared to our right and said, “Oh, there you are! We’ve been looking for you everywhere!” To which she said, “Is that so?” and turned tail and disappeared back into the crowd. He looked at me, sighed and said, “It’s an absolute nightmare.” You think?

Sunshine signing off for today!

An audience with Miss Chatelaine

It must be about 20 years ago that I first saw this floppy-fringed Canadian singer. I didn’t really like her look and paid little attention. Until I heard her sing. Miss Chatelaine blew my mind, not to mention my assumptions. Seeing her perform that song live last night felt like a musical dream for me.

Just a smile, just a smile, hold me captive for a while
I can’t explain why I’ve become Miss Chatelaine
Every time your eyes meet mine,
Clouds of qualm burst into sunshine

kd lang live at the Royal Festival Hall. Yesterday’s date stared out at me from our calendar for a few months, our tickets stared out at me from their shelf in our cabinet, and I grew more and more excited as the day neared. Yesterday was a beautiful warm and sunshiney day in London; temperatures hovered around 26 degrees for most of the day. After work I walked along the edge of the Thames from my London Bridge office towards the South Bank, where I’d arranged to meet my husband at the Nelson Mandela bust. It seemed fitting.

Much of London was out enjoying the sun and the summer construction of a “beach” along the South Bank. Street dancers performed, families strolled along licking ice lollies, pubs overflowed with chirpy office workers, benches and patches of grass were filled with cheery people enjoying the welcome London sunshine. In lengthening shadows and royal blue sunshine, the balmy evening was simply sublime.

Because we booked early for last night’s show, we managed to get great seats in the fifth row from the stage. Little Miss Higgins and Floyd Taylor opened the show with infectiously bouncy old time country music, inspired by her rural home in the Great Northern Plains of Western Canada. After a short interval, kd lang and the Siss Boom Bang Band took the stage and wove musical magic around us for the next hour and a half.

Opening with I Confess from her recently-released and beautifully crafted Sing it Loud album, she moved on to The Water’s Edge before sending the audience into raptures with her crazy-fabulous arrangement of Miss Chatelaine. Mixing old and new songs, she sang and she danced and with every word, she reached out from her soul to an adoring audience.

When she shouted, “London!” we screamed and we whooped and we whistled, before her rousing delivery of Sing it Loud, her album’s title song and anthem to being who you are. She then began a set of spiritual songs starting, as she said, “at the top and working my way down”. She tore through Talking Head’s Heaven before moving on to probably the most sincere and emotional offering of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah I have ever heard. She brought me to tears and all of us spontaneously to our feet. After a poignant A Sleep with No Dreaming, she ended the set by giving her guitar pick to a little girl in the front row. Much applause followed and then kd said, “What? She wants my guitar too? Right. Everyone wants Josephine; she’s that kinda gal.”

She then introduced us to the immensely talented band from lead guitarist, to bass player, drummer, keyboard/piano wizard and then ended with the man who “changed my life”. She met Joe Pisapia at the Ryman Auditorium at the Grand Ole Opry and what we experienced last night is what resulted from “that union”. I’d heard her talk before about the name of the band – Siss Boom Bang is what happens when they play together. They sizzle and they just work. Beautifully.

A clearly well-loved woman, kd batted audience chirps away with grace and gentle wit. One audience member shouted out a whole bunch of song titles. This seemed to confuse ms lang, who said, “So many titles, so few mine.”

What followed was The Perfect Word, Habit of Mind, Reminiscing (what an adorable love song), Sorrow Nevermore (where kd ditched Josephine to play the banjo) and ended with a powerful rendition of Constant Craving. The audience went ballistic and she and the band left the stage. We wouldn’t let her go, so she returned sans shoes and jacket for the beautiful Inglewood, before her final and delightfully frenetic Sugar Buzz.

We still didn’t want her to go. And nor did she. She and the band returned for a third and final encore. She gathered her band closely around her on the stage to perform a song “for all the businessmen here tonight”. A fun and bouncy Pay Dirt was followed by the achingly delicate Hungry Bird.

kd lang and the Siss Boom Bang Band then left the stage. They left us screaming for more but knowing we’d just experienced an evening of musical genius. I loved it. k daddy – you have the voice of an angel and I’m a fan. A big fan.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Riding in buses with people

I commute to work by bus every day. I take a ten-minute walk to my stop, hop on my favoured ride, and sit among the good and the great, the quiet and the noisy. Usually I catch up on texting my friends or family, or I read my book. Sometimes I sit and listen. Other times I just sit.

Last week, the American President paid an official state visit to these shores. Barack and Michelle Obama were welcomed by both Queen Elizabeth II and British Prime Minister, David Cameron. In the midst of the pomp and ceremony and formality, David and Barack went to visit a south London school to play table tennis. And to meet the schoolchildren. Apparently the area was a no-go zone for most of the day, as security measures ensured the safety of the two highly competitive table tennis players.

The day after this school visit, which was splashed across all national and international media, I travelled on the bus with a bunch of schoolchildren who were clearly part-time political commentators.

“You know they went to that school, yeah? They chose that school, right, because them kids, yeah, they’s well bad, right? So they went to that school to make them good, innit?”

I hope they were successful.

So these are the things I observe as I ride in buses with people:

1. Some people bash everyone’s heads with their bags as they walk up or down the aisle of the bus. It looks like they have either a small washing machine, or an old-fashioned television set in the bags they carry on their shoulders and, systematically, they will bash the head of each person sitting on an aisle seat on their route. I am not sure how many points you get for a whole row of commuters, but there must be some high-fiving happening somewhere.

2. Some people like to take up two seats on the their own. They will sit on one seat and their bag on the other. (See above.)

3. Some people who travel with their friends or partners or spouses, love to speak loudly and sometimes to argue. I sat on the bus once listening to a young couple argue for forty minutes about the same subject. When eventually I got to my stop, I was tempted to say, “For goodness sake, do the freaking exam tomorrow. He has a point – you’ve got nothing to lose.”

4. Some commuters are very British. And others aren’t. One morning, as I walked up the stairs to the upper deck of the bus, I heard a young man seated at the back of the bus having a conversation on his cell phone. Clearly, he didn’t need a phone; I think his friend would have heard him from Edinburgh. He finished his conversation, and then began to strike up a conversation with the guy who had sat down beside him. I thought it was an entirely one-way conversation because all I heard was the young guy, at the same number of decibels as his phone conversation, tell his neighbour about what had happened on the bus the night before. After a polite pause, his new friend said to him, “Would you mind calming down, please?”

5. Some people don’t mind having inappropriate conversations that everyone on the bus can hear. One evening, I was joined by a chubby and jovial young man who came to sit next to me. He was already having a conversation on his cell phone, which he continued at full voice for the entire journey. As hard as I tried to concentrate on reading my book, I couldn’t focus for the incessant yabbering from my neighbour. My book was much more interesting than the fact that he argued with his partner for three hours on Monday night because, as he was ironing, he forgot to tell her when Glee came on television.

6. Some people are fruit murderers. The other day, I sat near a guy who wasn’t so much eating an apple, as beating it to death between his tongue and the roof of his mouth. Loudly.

Despite how it may sound, I do love travelling to work by bus. I have a scenic walk along the docks, the river and then a treed walkway to my bus stop. And it is fun getting to know some familiar faces who catch the bus at the same time as I do. Once I’m on the bus, I make sure I don’t forget to look up at the regular sights that we pass, like the occasional uninterrupted view of the River Thames, and the view of Tower Bridge. Mostly I sit there and feel thankful for my job and for this opportunity to live in London.

On the odd occasion – and thankfully this doesn’t happen too often – the journey can be quite different. Once, I planned an entire tantrum in my mind. I had no intention of acting on it, but the process of imagining turned out to be just what I needed. Let me explain …

One day a few weeks ago, I’d had a really full and busy day at work, and I got on the bus feeling quite tired and wearing the hair-shirt of grumpiness. I was trying, unsuccessfully, to send a text message to my husband; traffic was bad; our bus sat in one of the railway tunnels for ages; a young couple was arguing non-stop and a Spanish couple were shouting at each other (I don’t think they were arguing, just trying to get themselves heard above the arguers). In my mind, I imagined the following: flinging my head dramatically into my lap, grabbing my hair with both hands and doing a screen-worthy “aaaargghhhhh!” Once that had got everyone’s attention, I imagined myself storming down the aisle – telling the young couple to “sort this out, one way or the other, for the love of London!”. (I actually thought that.) As I stormed down the aisle, I would also be bashing everyone’s heads with my bag – not on purpose, but just because I had a big bag over my shoulder – and swearing like a pirate at the bus driver for the traffic, before demanding he let me off the bus.

It felt quite satisfying to imagine that drama in my mind, until I remembered that that very morning, I had prayed that God would use me to extend His kingdom in whatever I did that day. Major fail. That made me smile and it loosened the grumpy shirt that I’d been wearing. I breathed deeply, I tried to remember the true meaning of tolerance and chuckled as I stepped off the bus, quietly, at the next stop. I didn’t even touch my hair.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Sevens heaven

Two more tickets landed in our red box last night when we returned from a full day at Twickenham, the home of British rugby in London. We left in bright London sunshine and returned in balmy dusk, having had an amazing new experience in this city.

We were two of the world record crowd of over 54,000 at the first day of an international 7s rugby tournament, one in which our Saffa team – the Springboks – feature in the top four in the current standings, having being world champions in the 2008/09 season. It was too exciting to see our boys in green running on to the pitch to take on a series of rivals throughout the day: sixteen teams from around the world take part, namely New Zealand, Australia, Fiji, Samoa, Argentina, USA, Canada, Russia, Argentina, South Africa, Kenya, Spain, Portugal, Scotland, England and Wales. South Africa was ranked fourth at the beginning of this, the penultimate match of the series.

Our boys in green - Springboks, otherwise known as blitzbokke

The day was much like a festival of rugby, with a wonderful, colourful atmosphere for the entire day. A beach party theme encouraged more than half of the fans to arrive at Twickenham dressed for a day at the beach … some sharing a little more than they should, others – like the guy in a Speedo and mankini – causing more than a little trauma for fellow spectators. Grass skirts and paper flower garlands around necks and heads predominated the fancy dress, while there were a number of pirates (?), lobsters, sombrero-and-poncho-wearers, ice-cream cones, sailors, mermaids, many silly hats, painted faces, men in tutus and one guy dressed as a London bobby sans trousers. I guess some people just have fancy dress that they will wear regardless of the theme! There was way too much flesh on display, although the weather was just magical. One fan took that to the extreme by running on to the field, dropping his kit entirely and running around the field in his birthday suit. I did feel sorry for the security team who had to stop him…

The rugby, which was brilliant and hugely entertaining, continued relentlessly through the day. South Africa won two of its three matches of the day, which means it went through to the quarter final of the cup event today, and we wait to see what happens next. The home crowd went ballistic when the England squad appeared in front of our stand to warm up – grown men stood and applauded spontaneously, some almost wept with pride as their team ran up and down the width of the rugby field to prepare for their first pool game.

When England did appear for their first match, they were welcomed onfield by a swathe of red-and-white-clad young dancers, bearing St George flags. The crowd, to a man, jumped to their feet, screamed and applauded with excitement as the home side made their first appearance. The young men in front of us who, like many of their contemporaries, viewed the day as an excuse to go “on the p***” as they say here, actually paid attention to the game and jumped up every time England scored. Much lager was spilled underfoot, but who cares when your team is on the field?

The red-and-white girls provided much entertainment throughout the day and, for the most part, not in the way they intended. A group of them lined themselves along the stepped aisle in our [north] section and within seconds, there were comments flying about relating to one of the young women who, some said, “clearly has her head on facing the wrong way”.

I couldn’t work out who they were talking about, until my eyes fell on a beautiful young blonde woman who was standing, with her hands on her hips and her elbows pointing forwards at an angle that would make your eyes water. Oblivious to the comments about her strange joints, the young woman smiled and carried on regardless. Every time the dancing girls appeared thereafter, the guys behind us would say, “Look! There’s funny elbow lady!” or “Miss Bingo Wings again!”

As the day progressed, and the lager flowed, everything seemed to be that much funnier. And louder. A tartan tam’o’shanter-wearing supporter seated behind us, came staggering back up the steps towards his mates. As he approached, one of his friends shouted, “Oi, ‘ow you gettin’ on, McBain?” The young hat-wearer stopped in his tracks, put his hands on his hips (luckily his elbows faced the right way), and melodramatically said, “Ye can tek ma land, but ye can neverrrrr tek ma fridom!”

His would-be Scottish accent was horrible, a fact not overlooked by one of his mates who said, “Yeah, especially given that you’re Jamaican!”

We noticed an interesting quirk in the way Twickenham supporters responded to the different teams and matches played throughout the day. Generally, with the exception of national fans from the other countries, the crowd favoured any team that was the underdog in any match. Or any team playing France.

England came on to play France in what could best be described – historically – as a grudge match. Throughout the match, fans sang “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” – the song that has become an anthem for English rugby – and hearing that, in the midst of a 54,000 strong crowd, really gave me goosebumps. My sentimentality was interrupted by desperate pleas from a guy behind us, who yelled “DO something!” as France gained ground throughout the match. France narrowly defeated the home side, much to the horror of one English fan behind us who shouted, “Let’s not forget what happened at Agincourt!”

Patriotic welcome for the England team and its opponents

It was a wonderfully fun and entertaining day, and one I’d definitely love to repeat next year. Witnessing how teams warmed up together and left the field together was quite moving. Many teams held on to each other as they withdrew to the dressing room between warm-up and match.

The New Zealand 7s team walk back to the dressing room, holding on to each other - I loved this spirit of team

We travelled to Twickenham crammed in a train full of colourfully-dressed fans, walked to the stadium in the midst of equally colourful and chirpy fans. Our return journey was slightly less crammed, but with fellow travelling fans in sentimental, almost maudlin, mood. I think today will dawn with many throbbing heads, but I’m pretty sure Twickenham will be equally full and do an equally brisk trade in sales of alcohol. I hope our Saffa team continues to do us proud. Go blitzbokke!

Sunshine signing off for today!

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