Category: Uncategorized

Key moments

It was a warm, balmy evening in Cape Town. A bunch of us students decided to get together after supper to have a jam session: me on the piano, one friend on the recorder and another on guitar.

We gathered in our university residence hall, took our respective places and began our gig with a noisy rendition of Hey Jude! We’d each invited some friends to join us, and they trickled into the hall one by one. Among them was a barefoot and gorgeous dark-haired student in grampa vest and jeans. I noticed his deep, dark eyes and as I looked at him, I was overwhelmed with the knowledge that he was part of my future.

So began a beautiful relationship that has so far lasted over 30 years, 27 years of which have been as husband and wife. Heck, was he ever part of my future. He still is.

Happy birthday, Mr Sunshine, I’m so glad you love music.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Let’s not forget to remember

The more I get to know London, the less I realise I know of this city heaving and overcrowded with history. And the more I get to know the city, the more I love living here for now.

My New York blogging buddy, jacquelin, told me about Postman’s Park, just behind St Paul’s. I met up with my husband one sunshine-filled lunch time last week, and we walked across the London Millennium Footbridge over the Thames, towards St Paul’s Cathedral – a sight that still takes my breath away – and we walked around the massive and awe-inspiring church to this little spot:

Postman's Park, in the City of London

This little spot is interestingly one of the biggest parks in the City of London. It was built in 1880 on the site of a churchyard and burial ground of St Botolph’s Aldergate. Named as it is because it stands on the former site of the General Post Office where postmen often sat to eat their lunch, Postmans Park is also home to a sheltered wall commemorating, as something of a protest against the upper class, ordinary people who lost their lives heroically trying to save others. G F Watts, the painter (1817 – 1904), came up with the idea and he commissioned Doulton to create the hand-lettered tiles to honour the otherwise unheralded and unnamed heroes.

So quaint and so special

In a similar vein, one of my colleagues showed me this little site just down the road from our office. Known as Cross Bones, this is an unconsecrated burial site, going back to medieval times, for “single women” and paupers. (“Single women” was a euphemism for prostitutes, known in the area as “Winchester Geese” because they were licenced by the Bishop of Winchester to work within the Southwark area known as the Liberty of the Clink.)

According to Wikipedia, the Liberty of the Clink lay outside the jurisdiction of the City of London, and as a result became known for its brothels and theatres, bull and bear-baiting. The age of the graveyard is not known: John Stow (1525 – 1605) wrote about it in A Survey of London in 1598, and by 1769 it had become a paupers’ cemetery for the poor of St Saviour’s parish. It is believed that about 15,000 people are buried there.

Cross Bones, with the Shard - Europe's tallest building-to-be - in the background

When the London Underground planned the construction of its Jubilee Line through the area, between 1991 and 1998, archaeologists found this overcrowded graveyard with bodies piled on top of one another. Test showed the deaths to have been caused by anything from smallpox to TB, Paget’s disease, osteoarthritis and Vitamin D deficiency.

The find captured the attention of local community members who created an informal group – Friends of Cross Bones – to campaign for a permanent memorial garden on the site, which has also become the site of annual Halloween festivals – held every year since 1998 – marked by processions, songs and candles.

A permanent, living memorial marked by ribbons and flowers and poems

My, how the times have changed. Or have they?

Sunshine signing off for today!

Like Old Friends

We arranged to meet in Marylebone at 10h30 Saturday morning. I set off early from my home in south east London, caught the tube, fought my way through the thronging mass of tourists outside Madame Tussauds and walked down a quiet side street to our deli meeting place. The moment we met, we were instantly friends. Lovely to meet you, Renee from Life in the Boomerlane!

I walked down this street, which looked lovely in the crisp sunshine

Renee had flown in from DC to spend a week in London with her daughter. She said her daughter found it weird that two blogging buddies from opposite sides of the world were going to meet up for breakfast. I guess, if you put it like that, it was kind of weird. But, despite the fact that we had the novelty of communicating verbally – no laptops to hide behind – we talked like old friends. Nearly three hours went by at lightning speed.

We started off talking about writing and blogging and things we knew we had in common. It wasn’t long before we were talking about everything else and laughing and joking and pointing out interesting people in the deli! I guess that’s what we have in common. We love life, we love people, we love noticing things about others, and we love telling stories.

What a wonderful morning it was, what a lovely person you are, and such fun it was to meet you, Renee. See you next time you fly over this way and until then we’ll continue to chat in the cyber world. LOL.

Enjoying a little glimpse of London sunshine

Sunshine signing off for today!

Dude, that’s a car …

Yesterday we enjoyed a beautiful, chilly, Autumn, aromatic afternoon in Brick Lane. Apart from feasting on a delicious curry there – it would be rude not to, really – we soaked in the buzz and the vibe and the air of east London. Just not as much as some people did.

The famous curry centre of the universe!
Brick Lane has a fascinating history and today has become known as the curry capital of the United Kingdom. Home to indoor markets, food stalls, curry houses and night clubs, it is also popular for fashion, fine art and graffiti. You cannot walk down Brick Lane without being accosted by restaurateurs touting their “very good deal” meals. I have not eaten in a restaurant there yet, because I just love the vibe of grabbing a takeaway dish, and finding a spot somewhere outside to sit and eat and watch the world go by. We did just that yesterday.

We waved off the formal establishments, and went into the Sunday Up Market. After checking out every exotic spicy food possibility you can imagine, we settled on Moroccan food. Pretty much all the meals – complete with rice or couscous and trimming – cost five quid a pop, you get a good-sized helping and it’s always yummy! We took our brimming foil dishes and plastic forks and went and sat on the kerb outside to eat our meal! It was really funny pulling our feet towards us as cars came past along the narrow road – otherwise we would seriously have had our toes flattened.

This is how we ate our lunch.
We became aware of a large, navy blue Audi gliding slowly into a parking spot on the other side of the road from us. What made us take notice was the sound of metal on metal as he glided into the car in front of him. With clearly no panic, he unhitched his vehicle from the other, reversed and then glided forward to position his car just right. He wanted to park next to the kerb, and seemingly had no objection to graunching his hubcab against the pavement – another crunching sound of metal on concrete. With no sign that he needed to extricate his car from the pavement, he and his passenger emerged from the car and set off – in slow motion – to the market. He was enormously wide-eyed and nattily dreadlocked, she was just wide-eyed. I have no doubt they had just spent the past hour parked on a middle island somewhere, Cheech and Chong style, their car filled with the sweet aroma of happy smoke. They glided off, wondrous and in awe, dude, of the market that lay ahead and oblivious of the damage he caused as he crash-landed his car.
What you don't have to do in Brick Lane.
When we finished eating, we walked through the other sections of the market. In the busy-ness of Sunday, we looked at hats, paintings, light shades, jewellery, clothing, coats, shoes, T-shirts, lingerie, vintage clothing, designer clothing and anything else you can think of. There were displays and displays of designer watches – large plastic-faced, neon-coloured, cartoon-charactered watches – and I think, on some of them, you could even tell the time.

Famous for food and everything else.
We soon came across a huge seating area with wooden benches and tables, where we could have sat to eat our meal! I guess we would have missed out on the doobie dude, so I’m glad we sat street level.
Mr Curly Tache walked past us in the market – he had a curly, waxed moustache, his hair was neatly combed and side parted, he wore a checked shirt and purple-striped tie, pink corduroy pants (trousers) and a blue jacket. This sartorial experiment was not alone. Brick Lane is filled with alternative, fabulous, colourful, fascinating, different and beautifully-dressed people. And ordinary folk like us too. This is no place for the fashion police.
Anything goes in Brick Lane.

I found this fabulous mural on a wall near Brick Lane.
In Brick Lane, you can clash your colours, scrape your hubcaps, haggle for your curry and buy second-hand wellington boots. Anything goes and no-one’s watching. Well, there are always people watching, but no-one really cares. It's blogger heaven.
And we always find sunshine in London!
Sunshine signing off for today!

So, as I was saying …

One of the things I was so hoping to do yesterday was to include some photos of our weekend adventures in London. I don’t consider myself to be technically-challenged, but boy did I battle! And then I gave up. Here’s my attempt to get it right today. And by the way, is this a phlog?

Portobello Road Market after market after market!
Colourful houses, colourful people and colourful stalls
Signs of our times
The old and the new
I couldn't resist this random mural on a wall near Portobello Road
Autumn in Notting Hill - don't you just love it?

And then on the Sunday we went for a walk around our South East London neighbourhood. Here’s what we saw:

Our flat overlooks this dock
This little chap looked like he was walking on water!
The Thames at sunset, with Canary Wharf on the far side of the river.
In case you get caught with messy hair, especially near the Thames!
Now that's what I call a public toilet! With a river view.
In case you didn't know what to do!
And the sun sets over our neighbouring dock.

So there you have it! Thanks for travelling on this little journey with me. Tomorrow I will have words again.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Laughs in translation

So when you write articles in English for the Web, a basic requirement is to speak English. I know, because I had to pass a test. Fair enough. Clearly, this is not true for everyone who feeds our cyber knowledge base.

Some things I read make me laugh out loud. I know if I was writing in any language other than my own (and I don’t get it right with my own much of the time!), I would struggle, so please understand this blog is for s***s and giggles, no big commentary or criticism intended. Sometimes, the information we get is just not quite on message.

I have recently started writing articles for an online content company. My friend, Mandy, who lives – poor thing! – in Mauritius and writes the fabulous Complete Cook Book Blog (check it out – it’s one classy blog and the recipes are just yummy), encouraged me to apply for this online writing job. Thanks, friend! So now I write articles on really random and arbitrary topics – it’s fun, it’s interesting doing the research and they pay me twice a week! So far, I have earned enough to pay the rent for the windowsill in our ensuite bathroom. A few more articles and pizzas are on me. For two.

My limited earning is because of two things: I’m not quite used to the format and structure of the articles  but when I am I’ll jolly well churn them out. The other reason is my current tendency to procrastinate and multi-task at the same time. I can’t explain. I just do it. I get loads done while I do absolutely nothing at all.

Anyway! Yesterday I was writing an article on how to create your own bouffant. I know, I’d always wondered too. My research took me to a site that contained this:

“The bouffant hairstyle was all the anger in the 1960s.”

Naturally, this captured my attention. I read on:

“… gather a little part of hair from the face of your head …”

“… fringe is best for hiding a large forehead …” and

“For summer season, most women prefer updo hairstyles because they do not want their hair sticking on their beck.”

(If you’re South African you’ll be giggling especially at that last one – bek is a pretty vulgar term for mouth. I guess it could be directly translated as gob.)

The other day, while researching Chinese beauty tips, I found these pearls of wisdom:

“Mix dry oatmeal and water until the paste is spread on her face.”

“Learn how to keep your ID number? Before going out to sunbathe, you know that drinking carrot juice.”

“… white tea has many antioxidants in them and are useful in helping to grow old before.”

So now you know.

When I took my elder son for an interview at a prospective high school, we were taken on a guided tour of the school, shown the impressive sports grounds, classroom facilities and reminded, at every turn, of the school’s proud tradition and history. It is one of the oldest schools in Cape Town, and we certainly got whiffs of a bygone era as we walked the wood-panelled corridors of boys’ school excellence. I guess we would have got a similar whiff had we been shown the bathrooms, but we didn’t go there.

Our enthusiastic young tour guide walked us towards the Principal’s office suite and stopped en route to show us the honours board that boasted a list of names that, sadly, was too long for my liking. He informed us, “These boards have the names of all the school’s old boys who lost their lives in World Wars 1, 2 and 3.” My son went to another high school.

A delightful lady worked for our family twice a week when we lived in Cape Town. One day she called me at work, in a bit of a tizz. I asked her what was wrong, and she said, “The hoover. She does not want to hoove.” I knew exactly what she meant.

My sister, as a cute-as-a-button little girl, once said, “Patience is a virgin.” Indeed.

When my younger son was a little boy, I sat him on my lap to tell him a long story about I don’t know what. He was kind of wriggly and restless in my lap, and kept looking at me to see if I was finished yet. When I got to the end of my words, he looked up at me with his beautiful big eyes and said, “Mom. It’s rude, when your Mom’s talking to you, to say shut up shut up shut up. Hey, Mom?”

Freudian or not, I hope that’s not what you, dear readers, are thinking right now!

Sunshine shutting up for today! Have a fab weekend!

Taking it to the seats

The best part of our London adventure has been to see as much live music as our time and pockets will allow. We have treated ourselves to an embarrassment of concerts and gigs at the most amazing venues in and around London. Shall we eat or shall we see another concert? Hmmm, food can wait.

In the middle of summer, on one of the hottest days of the year – temperatures were well into the 30s, even mid-30s (I’m not sure what that is in Fahrenheit, or “old money” as they say here in London!) we went to see Diana Krall in concert at an outdoor venue. We honestly couldn’t have chosen a better day to do that. We arrived in Hampstead in the afternoon.

George Michael lives in Hampstead and he had, notoriously, driven into a Snappy Snaps photo shop in the early hours of a morning that week, heavily under the influence of an unknown substance. I laughed when I saw a sandwich board bearing this handwritten headline for a local rag: “George Michael drives into shop”. He was subsequently sentenced to four weeks in prison for that misdemeanour, and is currently fighting to be released on bail.

So on we continued to Kenwood House. It is a stately home, in the leafy suburb of Hampstead, and is used as a venue for outdoor concerts through the summer. It is really beautiful, the emerald green lawns roll from house to lake and on to the woods on either side and we languished next to a peaceful little lake to picnic before the show. As show time drew near, we made our way to the concert area, where row after row of brightly-coloured deck chairs awaited our arrival.  Our seats were near the front, and gave us a good view of the stage area which stood in sharp relief against the royal blue sky. The wooden deckchairs filled with fans, all eager for the show to begin.

What an amazing evening! Diana Krall is a fabulous musician, and we were so excited to see her live! She performed a huge variety of jazz numbers, accompanied by her talented band of drummer, double bass player and acoustic guitarist. She bobbed and weaved through her songs, and caressed the grand piano with such tenderness and skill I was in awe. A concert such as this, on a night such as this, in London – it doesn’t get much better than that!

On another hot summer’s day, we went to the O2 Arena in North Greenwich  to see Michael McDonald and Al Green. We live right next to the Thames, so we decided to travel along the river – we took the Thames Clipper and bounced along the rippling river to North Greenwich.

I am a huge fan of Michael McDonald, he is another one of my all-time favourites, and I’ve loved his music since his Shine Sweet Freedom days of the mid-1980s. In 1986 my husband and I went on a three-month holiday to the UK and Europe, and I remember sitting in a park in Amsterdam one chilly Sunday afternoon, under blue sky and icy wind, drinking Heineken beers and listening to the piped music of Michael McDonald and Patti LaBelle singing On My Own.

I digress.

We arrived at the O2 about an hour before the concert was due to begin. We sat down and soon a mountain of a man and his petite wife came to sit in the row in front of us. He said to me, “You’re not going to want me sitting in front of you, are you?” To which I said, “Not so much.” He duly sat down in front of me and blocked out the sun. Luckily when the lights went down we were able to shift along a few seats and both get a clear view of the stage!

To see Michael McDonald performing live was just unbelievable. He was sensational. We again needed three seats as I was beside myself, and I boogied myself silly in my seat! I did my ugly whistle at the end of each song. I think I annoyed the people on either side of me (yes, I do include my husband!) as I bobbed and jived and shimmied and shook my bones to the dulcet tones!  – what a relief when Michael shouted out, “School’s out!” and gave us the nod to stand up and dance – YAY! He sang everything that I know and love from Yah mo’ be there, to Shine Sweet Freedom, You belong to me, Taking it to the Streets, Minute by Minute, What a Fool Believes and he was joined by a local singer – Jaki Graham – who filled Patti’s high heels fabulously to join him for On My Own. He left the stage amid much protest from the fans, after an hour and a half of pure, beautiful, blue-eyed soul.

It was interesting to combine Michael McDonald and Al Green in the same concert. They had equal billing, they didn’t share the stage but brought their music from opposite ends of the soul spectrum.

The interval over, we made some noise for the Reverend Al Green. He entered from stage left, resplendent and melodramatic in dark glasses, suit and boots and carrying a bunch of long-stemmed roses. He waved with his other, white-gloved, hand. And so began the Reverend’s soul session, interspersed with the flinging of long-stemmed roses to adoring female (and male) fans in the audience. He sang his heart out through soul standards and smooth cover renditions. His three daughters doo-whopped in the background, and he was accompanied by an outstanding band that he ordered around with elegant, frilly, trilling fingers.

When the Reverend got excited, he would stamp his feet and slip his silk-lined jacket off his shoulders and on to the floor. He would pick it up and put it on again as he pulled himself together after each song.

I was less than impressed with the audience that night. After an absolute treat of songs like Let’s Stay Together and Let’s Get Married, part of the audience thought Let’s Get Outta Here, and started to leave the auditorium before the end of the concert. The Rev called out to them, reassured them he was on “no curfew” and yet he watched as a steady stream filed out. I guess it was to get ahead of the traffic but come on, London … you can do better than that! This was a one-night only show. Al Green was clearly not amused, and the show ended abruptly.

My husband is mad about American Idol-winner, Fantasia, and she had a one-night only, first-ever concert in London in May. This was held in IndigO2, within the O2 Arena complex. We had fabulous seats in the second row upstairs, and watched Fantasia perform to the writhing mosh pit in front of the stage.

She was incredibly energetic and passionate, she put her heart and soul in her songs and most of her wardrobe on the stage floor. I exaggerate … she threw her shoes off as she walked on to the stage, and got rid of her necklace and earrings and anything else that bothered her as she stomped and sang her way beautifully and emotionally through a range of old and new numbers.

She gave the organisers a headache, as she wanted to “feel” her people; the mosh pit was separated from the front of the stage by a barrier, and, when the people couldn’t come to Fantasia, she stepped down from the stage to come to her people. It was a wonderful concert, a treat to see her and experience her stage presence and vitality, and to enjoy a talent that we watched unfold on international television.

I stand in awe of such talent, of endless opportunity and of life in a city that breathes life into so many artists and actors and buskers and students and punters-who-watch. May I never take this for granted, and may I always jump around in thrill and excitement. And may we always need three seats.

Sunshine signing off for today!

What colour is your parachuuuuuuuu…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunshine signing off for today!

Living with London

If I reflect on the last few days, they represent what London has to offer a couple of Saffas like us. It’s been good, bad and, to be honest, downright hideous!

I walked, stiff-muscled into the weekend, thanks to completely overdoing it at body conditioning, Pilates and latin aerobics at the end of last week. My dance class always ends the week for me on a high note – even though it usually means I can’t sit down without groaning for about 72 hours. Or walk up or down steps without going ow-ow-ow-ow-ow. Friday’s class was no exception; the four of us in the class followed our delightful instructor step for step, well, kind of, and I realized I would probably look more Latin if I didn’t try and dance like I was in a Broadway musical. Perhaps this week I’ll try and tone it down a notch.

Saturday night we were invited to some friends for supper and to watch our guilty pleasure: X Factor. The auditions continue, and one thing you can be sure of is that every episode offers its fair share of great singers, of junk singers, as we say in SA, as well as a few sob stories and a whole bunch of tension and drama. Every ounce of pathos is teased out to its limit and wrapped and tightened around our we-should-really-get-a-life curiosity till it hurts. Oh dear, maybe I should really get a life …

On Sunday we started our day with church – which was amazing – and then went out to a riverside (Thames-side) pub for lunch with some friends. When the chilly wind moved us indoors, we discovered there was live jazz playing upstairs … aaah, my favourite! It made for a wonderful afternoon, although we sat next to the carvery so had hungry punters eyeing our food while we ate and they queued for their plates full. We ordered a dessert platter – three heavenly sweet dishes and four spoons – yum! It was slightly spoiled, though, by a group of queue-ers watching us in disbelief, nudging each other and making muted comments to each other about the decadence of our desserts. One of them eventually looked at me and, rather subtly, said, “Piggies.” I don’t think English was his first language, but perhaps it would have been helpful to point out to him that that wasn’t such a polite thing to say to us.

And our day ended with an outing to a playhouse in London Bridge – south east London and not far from where we live – to see a production that had been put on as a celebration of …. (I will leave out the words here, to protect the innocent). We had no idea what to expect, which is just as well, as we certainly wouldn’t have gone had we known what was in store: an evening of amateur, stand-up comedy and poetry, if you could call it that. First up was a man dressed as a woman, with an improbable name and an even more improbable repertoire of poetry, short stories and “comedic” props. It was all so contrived it was embarrassing, and honestly I would have rather watched my toenails grow than listen to a poem about “pixies that fly, uninvited, through my letterbox, so I put them up on the elf-shelf” as well as a story of a lion cub who had cheese graters for legs and ended up on a desert island. Next up was a sit-down comedienne (she sat and played a keyboard and a ukulele) whose songs and comedy comprised of random one-liners. The compere, who had been caught in traffic and arrived just before the interval, invited us to get a drink at the bar and join them for the second act … we looked at each other, reminiscent of our SpiroGyra moment, and ran out the door and for the bus home!

I do love that we are getting to experience all aspects of London life. It’s a bit like a marriage, really – when you realise that it’s not all romance and fresh breath. And that’s ok too!

Sunshine signing off for today.

Cheersmateniceone

One thing I love about living in London is being in the dense heart of a cosmopolitan city. I have never heard so many languages and tongues and for me it feels like accent heaven!

When we arrived in London a year ago, the tube journey to our friends’ flat in south east London took on epic proportions, as we crashed into the fabulous London quirk: “planned engineering works”. They usually take place at weekends. We arrived in London on a Saturday.

We completed the long distance walk at Green Park to change from the Piccadilly line, and as we arrived at the platform we hoped to leave from, we were met by some equally dismayed tube travellers who greeted us with this news: “Thayr IzzNorJublyLineTawday.” Flip, the Jubilee Line was down as well …

If London is a melting pot of all international cultures and nationalities, then London public transport is the baking tray. Everything comes together, the accents merge with one another, and it all just works. Somehow. Either we all understand each other. Or not at all. But it doesn’t really matter. No-one is really listening anyway.

Except me.

Sometimes I hear two people talking, or hear someone speaking on their mobile phone, and I am surprised by how unusual the words sound. Languages fascinate me. Almost as much as accents. So then I try to listen harder, to identify the language – or not – and often I realise I am listening to English!  The giveaway words, in the area of London where we live, are usually an abundance of “yeah”, “mate” or “bruv”, mixed with a truckload of “innit”. But you often have to listen hard to recognise them!

Equally, I have said things which no-one understands. Like, “You all set?” “Sorry?” “All set?” “No, I’m not really fit.” “Not fit; set.” “Sorry, I have no idea what you’re saying. It must be your accent.” And, venturing into central London, we asked a windowcleaner if he knew where New Broad Street was. After about a dozen exchanges of “Wo’?”, he eventually said, “Oh, you mean noo Braw Stree’?” Exactly.

And I love what I have come to learn are typical greetings. Apart from “cheersmateniceone” and, if you live in the north, “eyup”, my favourite one in London is: “Hiyalrigh’ma’e?” To which I could answer, “Hiya.” or “Yes, fine thanks, yourself?” or “Yeah, I’m all right, thanks. Are you all right?” or I could just nod.

I have heard more languages than I know countries, and more accents than I could ever hope to mimic. I have heard Asian people speak with cockney accents, and a Japanese man speak Spanish. I have been served by a kilt-wearing South African barman in a small pub in the heart of Scotland, and had an Australian waitress put me off tasting haggis in a traditional Scottish restaurant. I’ve been asked on numerous occasions whether I’m from Australia or New Zealand, and I’ve had wildly head-nodding conversations with strangers on the bus who have no clue what I’m saying, and nor I them.

When life is so busy, it’s best to cram as many words as you can into one. Or you can just nod. No-one’s looking anyway.

Sunshinesigningofffortoday, innit?