extra new fangled

I can't keep up! Technology moves at too fast a pace. I thought I was pretty good at computers, having used one since the days when you had to feed a number of hieroglyphics into the beast every time you wanted to type a capital letter and then a reverse symbol after the event. That was back in the 1980s and the printer had a continuous perforated stream of paper where you had to tear off bits before it was presentable.

Now we have the internet and apart from the joy of instant communication with the near and dear - and the far and dear, via email, there is the bottomless timewaster pit of computer games. It isn't as if I played games I can win. I only play the ones I really cannot win and that, unfortunately, is the challenge. So, how can I, a self-proclaimed intelligent woman, my spouse and various offspring ask me, spend so much useless time, chasing playing cards round the screen? Dunno!

Then came Skype and we embraced it with open arms. Fantastic to see the people you are talking to and I don't mind being skyped when I am in my dressing gown since I don't put curlers in my hair!

I even blog, as you may have noticed. But I don't twitter. I don't you tube, I don't facebook, I don't I-Chat and I am bemused when I get messages which say '....... wants to be my friend'. Particularly when it is one of my grandchildren!

Where will this end?

Are the young a different species?

What is it with the young? Why are they so different from me? Anyone under the age of about forty does not walk along the street, sit in a bus or wait in an airport lounge without having a mobile phone clamped to their ear. Who are they talking to nonstop? How do they know so many people that they can talk all day long? If I talk to three people on the phone every day, that's about it. And don't they mind having others overhear things like "love you too."?

And what about a nation of tea drinkers turning into a population of take away coffee drinkers? Are they thirsty all day long? And don't they burn their lips and slurp scalding liquid over their hands like I do when I try to get anything out of those crazy little holes they put in the lid?

As for the fashions of the ultra young - I give up! My two 13 year old grand-daughters wear the universal uniform of minuscule denim shorts, over thick black tights, Ugg boots in the middle of Summer, le tout topped by something frilly or lacy or both or something which looks inside out.

Please explain - or is it just the generation gap?

Travel Fever

Not really! Here we are, off to New York in three hours and I am not excited at all! That's one of (the many) downsides of getting older - you lose the enthusiasm for birthdays, presents, new experiences. So, another journey, another endless wait at airports.

How different to my first ever trip to the States over fifty years ago. Sailing majestically into New York Harbour, having spent seven delightful days at sea, meeting people, eating fabulous food, arriving rested and excited to see and get to know this new continent. A US official at the dockside, gun on his desk, quizzing passengers, asked me whether I was carrying any firearms or had ever plotted the overthrow of their government and when I said gaily, " do I look like that?" replied "Lady, I am not here to joke with you!" Even that did not faze me. I just thought it was weird.

And then there was China Town and Little Italy, Greenwich Village and the sky scrapers. All so different and so exciting.

Must try harder!

Metropolitan life

We know that we live in a multi ethnic society. Sit on a bus, stand in a queue, look at the children coming out of school and it is clear that they or their parents come from every corner of the earth. And yet some corners are still missing. Seen any Eskimos recently and what about Finns or Nicaraguans?

I was charmed by a piece of paper which dropped through our letterbox which offered the services of a 'very honest and reliable worker, willing to help senior citizens to maintain there homes, hovering... no job to small...I am willing to do most things".

Tarok now cuts the grass, he has cleaned the windows, cleared the kitchen drain, power washed the patio and now gone back to see his family in Uzbekistan ! There, it turns out, he was a tax official.

Reminds me of a visit to Sicily, standing at a bus stop when a woman turned up and said something which elicited no response from the waiting passengers. Slowly she said "Does anyone speak Italian?" There was an embarassed shaking of heads!

And in Dubai recently, only English to be heard.

So the world is turning into a tower of Babel.

Officialdom

I think my borough probably created the term 'Politically Correct'. If it didn't, it certainly deserves three palms or perhaps three fig leaves for trying to be totally inclusive.

It has created an online consultation document (which nobody knows about) asking me whether I would prefer the Leader of the Council or a directly elected Mayor, to have the power to hire Important People internally.

That is the only question. The rest of the document asks me my name, address, age group, religion and ethnic origins. Not just black or white but pink, yellow, brown and mixtures thereof.

The next line asks me to "tick the box which best describes you". The two boxes on offer are 'Man' and 'Woman'. Well, blow me down! That's a definite first for asking me to think about what I put down.

Next they want to know whether my gender differs from my birth sex! If she were alive, I would consult my mother.

Last, they ask me to describe my sexual orientation and offers me a choice of heterosexual, bisexual, gay or lesbian. I was tempted to put the cat among the pigeons by writing Not Sure.

What does this have to do with electing a mayor?

Imagination

I am in awe of people who are truly creative. People who string words together so that two and two make five or six or seven. People who keep you glued to your theatre seat with ways of presenting thought and actions in ways that you could not imitate, even if you tried.

Two recent experiences prompt these thoughts. The first a theatrical cooperation between homeless people and professional actors called Mincemeat, which takes place in a disused warehouse in Shoreditch. As the play unfolds, both actors and audience move from space to space, up and down the stairs, following the action. The plot involves The Man Who Never Was - a true WW2 story about a body washed up on a Sardinian beach purporting to be an English agent with papers designed to mislead the Germans into thinking that the allies were going to launch an attack there. In fact it was planned and did take place in Sicily.

The play imagines the man (whose body it was) arriving in heaven, unable to prove his identity because he does not know who he was and being guided through his life by the heavenly gatekeepers.
It is funny, its argumentative, it is absolutely riveting and one of the most imaginative things one could experience. On until July 12.

And then, I have just finished reading Elise Valmorbida's The Winding Stick about a social misfit whose working life is spent sitting behind glass, in a petrol station, on the night shift, pressing buttons to activate the pumps and take money. He watches people fill up their cars with petrol and doing late night shopping but he sees much more than meets the naked eye. He sees their inner lives, he fantasizes about his Sri Lankan boss and he thinks about his mother, long dead and his unknown father.
I got more and more drawn in by this strange book which became really compulsive reading and I marvelled at the imagination required to write such a tale. What amazing ideas and how beautifully written! It is in paperback published by Two Ravens Press.

Night Life

Have you ever been on a Night Bus?  Nor have I.  There we were, freshly decanted from the tube at Blackfriars Bridge after midnight, having arrived at Gatwick late.  No taxi in sight and then suddenly, I saw that the bus, which had arrived in front of us, was the one which passes our road.

Had it come home to roost, I asked the driver. Not at all the driver said. We'll be off in two minutes. Amazing! Particularly after jammed doors on the plane, an endless wait for luggage and, of course, a change of platform, as our 23.48 approached. 

An empty bus, empty streets and then the fun began: Approaching Islington, people piled in. A boy and a girl, clearly not sure whether they were going to get off together or not, a girl immersed in whatever her iPod had to offer, chaps talking loudly, straight out of the pub, Russian workers - or maybe some other slav nationality, checking stops, fearful of getting it wrong and so on. No limit whatsoever to the number of people who were let on. For once, good nature and understanding prevailed. Whoever wanted to get on, did.

Away from the buzzing nightlife, the bus started emptying out.  Only a handful remained as our street came into view, we got off and walked down our silent street.

We did not even have to pay, even though we had left our red bus passes at home! Perfect!

Travel broadens the mind

If travel does not exactly broaden the mind, it certainly broadens the beam! The food does not necessarily taste better but every day abroad seems to be more regularly interrupted by meals. And if not meals, then a cup of coffee while watching the world go by. And if you are in Italy, which we were, perhaps a gelato or a dolce, just because it is tempting. Worth it though!

It started with three days in Zurich and, just for a change, Eurostar and TGV,  to get away from the purgatory of budget airlines. A ten minute walk from the Gare du Nord to the Gare de l'Est is easy peasy but then there is a steep staircase down to the station. I was thrilled and amazed to have a young man leap up from the bottom, climb up the steps to wrest my suitcase from me, offer me his arm and escort me down. How sweet! Or do I look that decrepid?

All was revealed after the descent, when a sheet of paper was pushed in front of my eyes, claiming that he was deaf and dumb, expected a financial reward and offered a pound coin (because the Euros were not handy) gesticulated madly to show that a pound was not enough! Left a sour taste. In Lucca, we were accosted by the same bright young students that we get here in London, asking one to sign up for regular donations to a charity. Globalisation is everywhere!

But international understanding is sometimes hard to achieve. We go to (supposedly) Zurich's best Konditorei and I order an iced coffee - einen Eiskaffee. 15 minutes elapse. The waitress says we are not the only customers and the cold kitchen is busy. Eventually, a huge coffee icecream arrives. I reject it. Tell the waitress that I want something to drink not eat and the waitress tells me that what she brought is what the Swiss call an Eiskaffee. Rubbish! It is taken away and the next glass to arrive is one containing hot coffee with a blob of vanilla icecream. I remonstrate, to be told this time, by the manager, that what I want is a cafe freddo! I give up and leave drinkless!

The dear departed

Yet another funeral! Where will this end? I hate to think!  This one was a celebrity funeral. I should have known, It was Clement Freud's. The venue: St Bride's in Fleet Street and, unusually a jazz band played in front of the entrance.  15 minutes to go and I was being shunted upstairs with the hoi polloi but the magic words 'I am his cousin', assured me a seat in the nave.

I am not given to gleeful spotting of celebrities but you could not help noticing that Gordon Brown arrived with his missus and indeed, read the lesson. Lots of people one had seen on TV, lots of faces one knew by sight but could not put a name to. And a lot of laughter throughout the service which interestingly, on the cover of the order of service had Cle's photo - less lugubrious than usual - his date of birth and instead of the usual date of his death, it said 'Best by 15.4.2009' His own touch.

Hailed a taxi in Fleet Street to take me to the ensuing reception, if that's what you call it, on the other side of town and was immediately asked by the taxi driver whether I had been to the funeral. He made it sound like it was the only funeral in town that day!  For the next few minutes, he was quizzing me about my connection with the dear departed, how I was related, at whose house the reception was etc. That's fame indeed.

What I did not tell him was that my fondest memory of Cle, who could be and often was exrtremely rude and cutting, was that when I was in my teens and living in rural Essex and took the train to town to go to the dentist, Cle used to meet me at Liverpool Street Station and apart from the dentist, we would spend the day together, always starting off at a milk bar, going on to play pinball machines in an amusement arcade and ending up at a news cinema in Oxford Street. Those were the days where such pleasures a) existed and b) were innocent.

The reception was great. The jazz band played again and the food was what Cle had planned for his birthday celebration and it actually was his birthday.  
There's no doubt that he would have loved his funeral.

Arabian nights - and days

Take one part Las Vegas, two parts Disney, add a boxful of Meccano, mix over high heat and what do you get? Dubai. An architect's dream but something of a residents' nightmare. The town did not exist until about 25 years ago and a quarter of the world's cranes are there now, building, building, building. The highest, the biggest, the most extraordinary. The tallest building, still growing. Man-made islands, in the shape of a palm tree and soon others to mirror the whole world, country by country. An indoor ski slope in a shopping mall, real enough to merit professional instructors and so on. 

There is unrivalled shopping to keep you going until kingdom come and speaking of celestial kingdoms, there is the regular call of the muezzin bidding the faithful to prostrate themselves, even in the shopping malls, each of which has a prayer area.

There is also desert all around, sometimes blowing stinging sand into the atmosphere but if you are an expat and that is probably 95% of the population, you are living royally in air conditioned villas with built-in servant accommodation, Waitrose and Marks & Spencer round the corner and even English public schools who have opened up here.

Amazing place. Great fun for a couple of weeks.

Falling off the perch

There are lots of downsides to getting old. Not least is the fact that similarly aged people around you are dropping off like flies.  So, one begins to be a connoisseur of ceremonies to mark the event.  Funerals, memorial services, tea parties in houses that one used to visit but will not see again.

I am sure that in times past, these events used to be solemn and lugubrious. No longer or at least not for my friends.  It is rare not to have funny anecdotes being recounted.  Of the dear departed being remembered not just with affection but with laughs.  The latest victim of the grim reaper was remembered in print for the lobster dinners he gave for his friends and we all knew that he had been to Billingsgate that morning to do his shopping. Virtually up to his 90th year. 

 At the gathering after the funeral, we ate really good smoked salmon sandwiches - nothing else would have done - and Luigi himself, of the restaurant he frequented on an almost daily basis, was among the friends who had gathered. Pretty good send-off really!

domestic incident

We are in France. The temperature is an unremitting -10C. Everything outside is beautiful - glittering with frost. Inside, a curtain has been improvised to hang over the front door and insulate the house further.

We don't put a foot outside. It is just too cold. No contact with the outside world until two unexpected visitors appear: two magnificent pheasants, feathers plumped up for warmth. But there's trouble in store. Domestic strife in evidence. He makes constant and aggressive little runs in her direction. She scurries off to one side. He renews his attacks, she raises her eyes to heaven, lifts off briefly, comes down again, only to be pursued again shortly after. It is too early for courtship rituals, I would have thought. This is definitely a case of marital disagreement. What has she done? Has she laid an egg of dubious provenance? Has she gone off gallivanting on her own? I shall never know.

Back to an orgy of reading:The funny and heartfelt Man Booker winner The White Tiger, a second reading of Malamud's memorable The Fixer. Anti-semitism of the first order in Tsarist Russia. The Suspicions of Mr Whicher - a riveting reconstruction of a Victorian murder. Also Singing the Song, dispassionate and unsentimental account by Elizabeth Bryan, my erstwhile co-president of the Twins and Multiple Births Association of her losing fight with a defective, cancer inducing genetic defect. Moving.

Here we listen to the radio. And I have conclusively realised that radio is actually aimed at intelligent people unlike TV.