Good tidings

How little it takes to change one's mood. Surly answers, take it or leave it attitudes, bad service and the shutters come down on my well being. Unexpected smiles, helpfulness, real tokens of friendship and my heart sings. 

This is supposed to be the season of good will toward all and while I continue to be appalled by man's inhumanity to man on the global scene, my own little world has had some lovely uplifts.

Last week, I drove home and discovered to my consternation that my handbag had not arrived home with me. Inexplicable. I had not got out of the car and P. had got out at the petrol station to fill up. I jumped back in the car and drove back to where I had been. No bag. 
Totally without hope, I called in at the busy petrol station and there it was, intact with nothing missing. Then I remembered that I had opened my door, to check which side the petrol cap was on. The bag had been wedged between me and the door and had obviously dropped out. A young man had found it and handed it in. Hallelujah!

Next  the optician. A car or two must have driven over my bag because although the lenses in my glasses were miraculously intact,  the frame was distorted. While it was being straightened, the manager - whom I didn't know - walked over, asked me whether I was well and then offered me a chocolate! Well I never! Chocolates at 11am in an optician? I turned it down but I beamed with pleasure.

And then we went to have a bite after the theatre in a pleasant chain restaurant, Zizzi. Nice food, attentive service and a long chat with the waiter who came from Kosovo and who was just filling in at that branch.He normally worked at another branch. When he left us, he made a pitch for us to come to eat in his place another time and said he would like to offer us a glass of wine when we came. We can buy the wine for ourselves but it was such a lovely gesture.

I nearly forgot - the doctor whom I sudenly had to consult in Jordan put me down as being 16 years younger than I am. What more can one ask?

 Peace, goodwill, health and happiness to all.

Travels on a Donkey

Or perhaps it should be called Dicing wiith Death.  I don't think I have a reputation for being a daredevil and I am not known for indulging in white knuckle pursuits. But a couple of weeks ago, when we spent some time in Jordan and went to Petra, walking up 850 steps to the Monastery at the top of the mountain, seeemed a horrible prospect, so I opted for a donkey. After all, if Robert Louis Stevenson could use this mode of transport, so could I.

Well, I was not sure whether I would survive. We are talking of a gradient of, at a guess, one in two, steps which are often just narrow indentations hewn out of the mountain. We are talking about sheer rock on one side and an ever growing abyss on the other. We are talking about a make belief saddle with an iron loop to hang on to. Nothing as fancy as a bridle. The stirrups are shortened by twisting the (fraying) rope round and round and the only other and totally essential aid to staying alive, was my 22 year old Bedouin donkey owner.  With a tchk, tchk, tchk, he encouraged his four legged friend to keep going. With a "You are a very good lady", he encouraged me.

Talking to him - he said he spoke five languages including Japanese and Russian, all learned from tourists - kept my mind off the imminent death I feared but we got to the top, without me sliding off the donkey's rump. I celebrated by  drinking a whole bottle of water, took the obligatory photograph, recovered my wits. More or less.

If I could have taken a helicopter down, I would have but it was not an option. So back I climbed on to the donkey and this time my lovely Bedouin (and he was lovely) told me to hang on to the rope - thick rough string was more like it,  running back from the saddle and around Eeyore's tail. If you want something to leave a welt on the palm your hand, look no further!

But, with the donkey occasionally stumbling and having one leg dangling into the void before being coaxed back on to the crooked and narrow by Mohammed, hold onto it for dear life, I did. Even the odd lurch the other way, with one leg being jammed between the donkey's flank and the mountain, was a negligible inconvenience, all things considered.

Shooting over the donkey's head seemed almost inevitable but like James Bond, I thought  'never say die'. Was it him who said that?  Anyway, I didn't. I am here to tell the tale and I just have.

Head over heels

I have fallen in love. Again. This time it's a whole country - Jordan. I really did not know anything about the place. Had never met a Jordanian. Just about knew it was in the Middle East. Remembered King Hussein with affection. Knew it was the Hashemite Kingdom, whatever that might mean.
And then, last week and the week before, we were there.

It is dramatic alright. Mountains almost everywhere, mainly bare. Some fertile valleys, places where flowers are grown in profusion and courful roadside vendors have almost vertical racks of pomegranates or lemons or bananas for sale on the roadside.

Camels and donkeys park side by side with 4 x 4s. Traffic is either non-existent or chaotic with no apparent rules for who has the right of way.

But it is the people who are so delightful. Unlike most of us in the West, they seem to be programmed to be helpful, charming, generous and hospitable to all around them. Bedouin hospitality is renowned (and many Jordanians are Bedouins) and it is said that if you appear outside a Bedouin tent, not only wil you be invited in to share tea and food but it wilk be three days before you are asked why you happen to be there.

Of course, they try to sell you things but there's no hassle. You say no and they will smile and say "Perhaps another day". And they love to show you their country, to explain its chequered history - Nabuteans, Romans, Greeks, Byzantines, not forgetting Lawrence of Arabia, Glubb Pasha and losing a large chunk of their country for the creation of Israel.

They have over 2 .5 million refugees on top of their own small population of 6.5 million. And their attitude to the refugees? "Of course, we must help them and look after them. They are our brothers."

Wow! Could we learn something?

Help!

I am drowning. Unsolicited catalogues are jamming the letter box, the flood is turning into a tsunami and soon  I will be submerged unless I take evasive action.

Who are these crazy firms thinking they can con me into spending money on something I don't want? Do I need an inflatable bath seat?  Single socks in different colours? Xmas-themed toilet roll holders? Or perhaps my hot water bottle is yearning for a cashmere cover. Since I don't have one, I will never know.

I am fed up with this dross. This gross effort to make us spend, spend, spend.  My recycling bin overfloweth. Is there a minister of Dreadful Waste I could write to? And should I sign it Disgusted of Muswell Hill?

How things change!

There was a time when petrol stations just sold petrol. Now one can buy newspapers, flowers, charcoal for BBQs and milk. Sweet shops? Well they don't exist any more except for Indian and Middle Eastern emporia which do a roaring trade in sticky, honey-drenched morsels or sweeties coated in silver.

And what about museums? They continue to show all the beautiful objects amassed by wealthy people or  brought back from grand travels abroad, more commonly known as looting or stealing. But museums too, can no longer rely on the artistically minded or scholarly to keep them going, even though specialist exhibitions are so oversubscribed that one has to be quick off the mark to get a look in.

But there is more on offer nowadays. Workshops, discussions, half term activities for kids, singles evenings for the romantic, music and members' parties.

Last night it was Colombian music and dance in the British Museum's Great Court, to complement their exhibition of Colombian gold. And it was fabulous! Apart from the fact that the performers were not on a raised platform and that many hundreds of people were crowded round them, making it virtually impossible to see unless you were six feet tall, which I am not, or held up iphones or iPads to get a view at extended arm's length, it was still enormous fun. Of course there were quite a few South Americans but the heady atmosphere made movers and shakers out of the most unlikely people and everyone was joining in, having a ball.

Trying to get nearer the front, my attempt was thwarted by a handsome six foot something guard. Who promptly started swaying to the music and holding out his arms to me! Not quite what I had in mind. But interesting.

The week

For me, Monday starts off quite dark but gradually turns several shades lighter. Sort of pink really. When I realise that the week ahead is fairly empty of pressing engagements. But it's my 500 calorie day, so no muesli or porridge. Perhaps an orange.

Tuesday remains fairly monochrome. Domestic chores, things to buy, phone calls to make and maybe a lecture at our local worthy institute to go to.

Wednesday is orange. The pace hots up. Have to be up and dressed. Lovely Brazilian cleaner arrives punctually and then I depart for T'ai Chi which is very therapeutic and quite liberating for body and soul, followed by an afternoon of bridge.

Thursday is sort of azure when I suddenly realise that the diary is crammed. We are going to the theatre or to friends. Out for a meal or to see a film.

Friday is a deeper shade of blue when the weekend hoves into view. If it's London, there may be grandchildren to ferry around after school. If it's France, it's market day in Etaples. Always fun, rarely good value but sometimes the most amazing 5 Eu necklace, which elicits ooohs and aaahs when worn back home with a slinky black dress to some social function.

Saturday is a warm shade of beige. Maybe a walk in the woods. Perhaps with children. Kenwood is always a good bet and one might bump into familiar faces and end up with a cup of coffee outside in the open air.

Sunday is all the colours of the rainbow. Maybe children, maybe grandchildren, maybe an exhibition in town with the joy of being able to drive in and park. Maybe lunch out. In fact almost certainlly lunch out. Who wants to spend the morning cooking? As for the timer setting on my oven, I don't have the courage to trust it to perform.

A good week really.

Chuffa chuffa

Trains don't make that noise any more but it is still a nostalgic experience to travel in one. I hardly ever do it and when I do, as I did last week, it is an exciting experience. I used to get kicks from seeing destination boards at mainline stations with exotic places like Warsaw, Rome or Naples appearing, letter by letter. Now, Exeter by way of Clapham Junction, Woking and Basingstoke and Salisbury, will raise my blood pressure.

The nature of the experience has changed too. When I took the 7.58am from Great Dunmow to school in Bishop's Stortford every morning, I would be greeted with a cheery wave from the guard and then get straight into  the compartment with its two red plush facing benches, occupied mainly with bowler-hatted men, bound for London. Today's sleek Virgin trains with their automatic doors, opening onto vistas of travellers, wedded to their laptops or endlessly playing games on their mobiles is a different cup of tea altogether.

Speaking of which, there is, of course, a trolley offering refreshments, trundling down the aisle at regulars intervals. Temptation and no lunch before travelling, overcame me. Two shortbread biscuits in a packet please. A note tendered in payment. Change given for a tenner. "But I gave you a £20 note." Show of opening the till, rummaging around. "No, you gave me £10, madam." The lady opposite pipes up: "No, she gave you £20." No murmur from the trolley man. He just hands over another £10.

And then there is an announcement over the Tannoy: "Would Mr Bao please come to the guard's van immediately." Has Mr Bao deserted a sick relative? Is it his dog which is mauling the guard?" Imponderable. Ten minutes later, the Tannoy asks us all to scrutinise our fellow travellers and if there is a young Asian gentleman, answering to the name of Bao, to tell him to come to the guard's van without further notice. And there he comes. Probably a student. And then he return to his seat with a happy smile on his face and smiles all around. He has been reunited with his wallet it seems.

Train travel is still exciting!

All the news that's fit to print

I am addicted to newspapers. Not online but the real paper and ink thing. I am interested in the news, I love the features and I really have to read all the bits and pieces.

That means finding out what the Royal Family has got up to. Has the Duchess of Wessex really opened another nursery school and whose hand has Camilla shaken yesterday? I have to know. But it's not just the Royals. Who's has been hatched, matched or dispatched? Do I recognise any names there? Probably not but you never know.

And then there is Whose birthday it is today. By order of seniority and, of course, the only young ones are sportsmen or women. But there is that extra bit which I relish. I mean, I bet you did not know that it is Julius Caesar's birthday today. For your information, he was born in 102 BC. So many happy returns, Julius.

 But wait a minute - don't we use the Gregorian calendar today and wasn't that introduced in 1582? (No I didn't know but I just looked it up). Before that, everyone was using the Julian Calendar, introduced by Julius C. himself.  So how can we be sure we are celebrating the right day? I would hate to be lighting two thousand, one hundred and fifteen candles on the wrong day.

I Hate Day

No particular reason. Just feel like getting it off my chest.

I hate speed humps. They jar my joints, shake me up and give me the hump.

I hate models who stand there pigeon toed, look as if they have ten ice cubes in their mouth and wear sheer, frilly clothes with army boots.

I hate people who say 'Sign this for me please' when I am doing it for myself, not them.

I hate advertisements which scream 'Only £99.99' or '£9999.99', when the article is actually overpriced.

I hate that ubiquitous voice which says "Your call is important to us".

And I hate having to turn on the heating on May 27.

That's enough for the moment.

Comfort Zones - Chapter 2

Forget about comfort zones. They are fleeting moments. Angst is the name of the game. The aliens are surrounding us or maybe it's just the French gas people who play a different game to the one we understand.

It took a week to deliver the gas. Or some gas. Then they could not fill our tank because their tanker had run dry. They also discovered that our tank was tilting and needed stabilising, which they would attend to in due course. And then. lo and behold, a couple of days later, we saw that the cement base on which it sits, was broken and that there is a gaping void underneath! Frightening? Yes. Dangerous? Probably.

But I have news for you. There is no emergency service. There is no one to turn to. It's the Easter weekend and you have to wait until Tuesday to make that call. To a call centre of course. Yes, they have a note of it. Yes, someone will get in touch. Yes they know we think it could cause an explosion. No there is nothing more they can do.

 *&%$£@+±. And I am a francophile!

Comfort zones - chapter 1

Comfort zones are precarious commodities. Just normal when they are intact, elusive and highly desirable when they have disappeared. It's minus 2 degrees outside and we have run out of gas for the heating. It was ordered but they don't believe in Urgent over here in France and they will deliver more to our 'citerne' when it suits them.  No cooking either, of course. Pathetic attempt at porridge in the microwave this morning, with porridge exploding all over the place.

And then there is a different type of comfort zone. Where something unexpected happens and suddenly B does not follow A. Like when I drive to the Centre Commerciale to replace a light fitting which has inexplicably fallen in a shower of ceramic shards on the kitchen table.

I park, shut the engine off, withdraw what passes for a key from P's BMW and it flies out of my hand on to the floor. So far so good. Except it's nowhere to be seen. I look at the front, I look at the back. I push the seats forward and backwards. It is invisible.

A car parks next to me. An elderly couple get out. I play the helpless little woman. Actually, I am the helpless little woman ! I tell them I have lost my key. They join in the search. Everybody is about to give up when Monsieur reckons he can see it: a narrow black edge is found to be wedged between the driver's seat and the centre bit. I get out my long-tailed comb and push it clear.  All is well. I am back in my comfort zone.

A change of air

Do you know Victor Horta? Well I didn't until we spent last weekend in Brussels, looking at  various really amazing houses designed by this Belgian architect and designer,  who is described by John Julius Norwich as the key European Art Nouveau architect.

Surprisingly, until Horta began to make his mark at the end of the 19th Century, architects were designers of buildings and knew little about engineering, plumbing, electricity etc. Horta had not only studied engineering but made a feature of exposed metal girders and supports. He must have been 50 or 60 years ahead of his time and it is particularly amazing when you look at his houses, department stores and hotels which are the most fanciful, light as a wisp creations, with virtually no straight lines and wonderful embellishments and curlicues everywhere. 

Horta was something of an obsessive, often designing built-in furniture, door handles, light switches et al and he was such a workaholic, that he would put the light on at 4am to spread his plans across the marital bed.  His wife left him and who can blame her!

Brussels is a wonderfully empty town, Under 2 million inhabitants but they still manage to have huge traffic jams. And a lot of beggars. And no tap water to be had in restaurants. You have to pay at least  2 Eu for a small bottle to slake your thirst.  Still a small price to pay for all the wonderful things this town has to offer. And I always remembered it as boring!

Righting the Balance

I can't stand being bored and, as I have made all too clear previously, I reserve the right to walk out of theatres. I am sorry to say that I am also a harsh critic of plays or other artistic offerings that I find wanting. It is great, therefore to be able to be positive and complimentary about about something.

First there was Robert LePage's House of Cards at the Roundhouse. Four of us went. The women  found it exciting and stimulating. One of the husbands was totally bored throughout, the other thought it didn't add up to anything. All were agreed that it was technically quite astonishing

Next, a totally sold out Saturday afternoon performance of Argo, the film about the 1980s hostage rescue operation in Iran. Quite extraordinarily good. Can't remember when the tension created has been as great. Also some hilarious scenes set in Hollywood, where the rescue mission is dreamed up.

And then yesterday, we went to the Tate to see the Kurt Schwitters exhibition. Not one I had particularly wanted to see but we had been friends for decades with one of the people interned with Schwitters on the Isle of Man, in 1940, who had championed Schwitters in a big way. Himself an art historian, he had written about him, organised exhibitions and his portrait, which we have seen hanging in his sitting room for many years, has pride of place at the Tate.

Loved the exhibition. Just shows you should not have preconceived prejudices. Judge afterwards not before. One of the things that endeared Schwitters to me was that, of the many collages he made, he said that the component parts didn't necessarily have a theme. He just thought they went well together.

Marshmallow with a dollop of treacle

I am not very keen on sweet things at the best of times but going to see the saccharine film Quartet definitely took me to the limits of my sugar tolerance. Over sentimental, characters so stock, it was amazing.

Set in a totally incredible home for aged musicians,  there was the standoffish diva who, of course, unbends,(Maggie Smith), the scatty semi-demented busybody with a heart of gold (Pauline Collins),the naughty lecher with creaking knees ( Billy Connolly). the acerbic, deeply (and of course silently) hurt ex husband of our national treasure Maggie, played by Tom Courtenay, and the whole shebang brought to a glorious operatic climax by super luvvie Michael Gambon in exotic eastern robe and embroidered cap.

The setting of stately home and and magnificent grounds with ALL the flowers in bloom was lovely, the staff devoted even if they did not give Tom Courtenay his lime marmalade for breakfast. And I did wonder where the wallpaper in one of the rooms came from. Oh and the acting as excellent.

I am not against sentimentality per se. On the contrary, I wept buckets when I came to the end of The Time Traveler's wife. I thought it was loverly|

Chickening out

It's a bit daunting to walk out of a play halfway. Particularly when it's had rave reviews. It is also very liberating when you have been sitting there, fidgeting, wondering how anyone can enjoy this rubbish, let alone laugh, as the people around  me were were doing.

But then, I have been walking out of theatres from time to time since the age of nine, when my twelve year old brother gave me a poke in the ribs and said  in an all too audible stage whisper "Let's leave this crap" or words to that effect and we rose from the third row of the stalls in the middle of a sickly performance of Hansel and Gretel. (The adult accompanying us could not make it at the last minute and my brother was put in charge.)

This time, the play was Privates on Parade with the illustrious Simon Russell Beale. No better actor treads our boards but this camp, cross-dressing, innuendo laden tale of wartime army entertainment, just did not cut it for me.

I sat out the second half in the bar, reading the program and chatting to the staff who, I discovered have this mad burst of activity in the intervals and at the end and, inbetween, count the takings, restock the bar, play computer games, read their books or talk to the understudies.

My better half stayed to watch the second act and said that it improved, a sentiment shared by the American lady on my left who had told me that she could not make head or tail of it because she could not really understand the English.

Stupid stupid stupid

It is enough to make one apoplectic! You go out for dinner in a neighbourhood restaurant.  You are meeting one of your children and his family. It is eight o'clock in the evening. It is January. There is snow on the ground. The only clear bit is the centre of the road. The pavements are white and frozen. You park in a side road where there are no parking restrictions. Not that there are any at that time of night anyway.

You come back to the car at 10pm to find a penalty notice on the windscreen. It says you have parked near a cycle path or dropped kerb, not that anything is visible anyway. The next day, I look at the photographic evidence, which is available on line. Four photos. Two are totally black -it was night after all - and two are black as well except for my number plate. This is the evidence!

I am apoplectic not because I am being asked to pay, which I most certainly will not but because a) it is such a bloody waste of time and b) what the hell are Barnet thinking of having traffic wardens desperate to write out tickets at 10pm in a residential suburban road?

Our wonderful men in Blue

There is no doubt about it. The Police have a tough job.  Lots of baddies around and nary a Bobby to be seen.  But occasionally, they get handed chapter and verse on a crime being committed and we think that's just great that they can apprehend the culprit without further ado.

This is an account, forwarded to me by our lovely Safer Neighbourhood police team urging residents to be particularly aware of scammers. It seems that a local resident/pensioner reported a man knocking on his door, claiming to be from Dial A Rod who, he said were working on the drains in the next street. He said they were turning off the water for the weekend but, since he was a pensioner, they could supply him with a pump to keep the water flowing but he needed to pay a deposit of £6000.

I am glad to say that our pensioner smelled a rat and phoned the police, telling them what had happened and passing on the mobile phone number that he had been given by the 'hire company'.

Good to report that the police acted promptly.  They phoned the 'hire company' to let them know that they were aware of the scam and to leave the area. !!!!!!

In their email to me, as a member of our street's neighbourhood watch, they went on to say that this was a new scam and could be tried in another area.

Any comments?