Boothosaurus

Does anyone use phone booths any more? (Apart from weak-bladdered ne’er-do-wells, that is.)

I suppose it won’t be long before they become extinct altogether, and we’ll shake our heads at how old we must be to remember actually using them. Like electric typewriters. Or “please”.

Already in my mind they are taking on the warm glow of nostalgia. Burnished by memories of reverse charge conversations from the Boulevard St. Michel in my student days, shivering with cold and homesickness. Or, even further back, coded rings home to request a pick-up from the station after school, hanging up just in time to bring the coins clattering back. (Coins!)

I think they’ve always had a somewhat retro aura, haven’t they? Plush cabinets in old theatres. The groovy 60s capsules you used to see at airports. The opening credits of “Get Smart”. Then of course there’s the red, old-world charm of the local variety, only used these days as backdrops in tourist snaps.

Actually, I did see someone make a call from a phone booth this morning. He was on his mobile.

This England

Overheard on the 319 to Sloane Square.
Two silver-bobbed ladies:

“Jasper set me up with the Internet. Are you online?”

“Oh yes. Emma emails from Botswana.”

“Isn’t it extraordinary!”

“What?”

“The Net! My dear, the things you can find!”

“I know! Marvellous, isn’t it?”

“I found one site which tells you how to train goldfish.”

“Goldfish?”

“Yes. It’s the most extraordinary thing. You teach them how to swim in formation.”

“What, like synchronised swimming?”

“Exactly. It’s all about how you scatter the food. I’ve been practising with the carp. I’ve managed to get them to swim to one end of the pond. Eventually I’m hoping for a sort of arrow formation.”

“How marvellous! You’ll have to throw the most enormous drinks party!”

Bonnet

Do you remember Easter Bonnet Parades? Some of my sharpest early school memories come from those bizarre occasions when all the infant students would be forced to don holiday headgear and file around the playground while the seniors snickered and mocked.

One year Mum helped me make a “Cat in the Hat” affair, a crisp red and white cylinder. I was giddy with the thought that I might actually win a prize, until some daft sadist of a teacher put me in the “tall hats” group instead of the “story book” category. I had no chance against the towering creations around me.

The next year, Mum thought it would be character-building for me to compete on my own efforts, so while other kids’ parents pulled in favours from society milliners, I got creative with an ice-cream container, some foil and a couple of Mintie wrappers.

That year I walked in my own special category.

Despite these traumatic memories, I do love the idea of wearing silly hats in public. It’s a shame the Easter Bonnet Parade isn’t more widely celebrated in the grown-up world. True, in Australia we have Melbourne Cup Day, which is always good for a giggle at fascinators, but it lacks somehow the innocent abandon of the E.B.P. (Hard to feel innocent when you’re guzzling Champagne and betting on horses.)

That is why I was so pleased to read the below article in today’s Wandsworth Guardian. It’s good to see the spirit of competition so vibrantly alive this Easter. Even at 86, “funky” Mae Main be-ribboned her way to victory in the Battersea Pensioners Contact Club Easter Bonnet Parade.

Congratulations, Mae – I take my home-made hat off to you.

Larks

We had such a wonderful weekend in the Lake District, part of a boisterous bunch baptising a friend’s B&B (with fire). The highlight was a long, high walk from Grasmere to Alcock Tarn, climbing past streams and flinty cottages to the wide wind-scoured fells. The sky expanded above us as we breathed in the broad view, houses and cars comically small on the valley floor below. My childhood love of the Swallows and Amazons books gusted through me and I almost whooped with the joy of running through the grass, tacking uphill in the breeze. All we needed as we lay on the spongy moss by the tarn was a basket of pemmican sandwiches, ginger beer and an admonition from Sensible Susan not to eat too quickly.

It was a shame that the weekend had to end with a Bad Train Experience. It would have been quicker to fly back to London from New York than travel on Virgin Trains from the Lakes. Fortunately, I found a half-bottle of gin in my bag, so anything after Preston is just a pleasant blur. And my memories of the Lakes remain untarnished and exhilarating, just like an Arthur Ransome adventure, with less ginger beer.

Swallows and Amazons forever!

Competition

Fignale

One final act in my consumadrama: a letter from the dried fruit packing company responsible for the unidentified metal object in my figs. Quite a respectable concern by all accounts: royal warrants if you please. By Previous Appointment to The Late Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother 1971-2007. I’m not sure I’d use a deceased Royal to champion my comestibles but there you are.

Under this impressive letterhead, the Previously Appointed Manufacturers of Provisions and Dried Fruit describe in bewildering detail the entire sorting, grading and packing procedure. Multiple paragraphs explain such mysteries as infestation parameters, blancher infeed platforms, vibratory screens, non-ferrous test pieces and due diligence. It’s not just the technical syntax which is confusing: the product in question seems to change from fig to prune and back again throughout the process. Form-letter induced transmogrification, perhaps?

The message so subtly conveyed between these densely-typed lines is, of course, “WE DON’T BELIEVE YOU FOR A SECOND”.

I’m not really offended. I suppose there are people who spend their days opening packets of food and inserting bits of hardware in the hope of a juicy payout. It does seem rather a lot of trouble, but I can’t deny that I’ve made a profit from my complaint. Attached to the letter was a postal order for ten pounds.

Hush now.

Light

I was taken to task on Tuesday for looking glum. A street-corner ne'er-do-well informed me (and the rest of Clapham Junction) that I seemed a bit down in the dumps. Being told you look “FUCKIN’ DEPRESSED” by an alcoholic bum certainly gives you pause for thought.
So this morning, despite the leaden skies, I forced a smile as I walked to the gym, just in case my derro friend was there again to comment on my mien.
They say that smiling, forced or not, releases endorphins. And I definitely felt bouncier as I grinned my way up the road. Especially when I realised that Dr. Cirrhosis McFilthymouth was nowhere to be seen. The clouds lifted and blue brightness broke forth.
I’m sitting now, facing the window, knees against the sill, leaning into sunshine. I close my eyes and inhale the pink-golden light, thoughts floating to beaches and childhood and bliss. A bumblebee taps the glass, drunk on the scent of daphne. I surf the surge of vitamin D and smile. For real.
After the last few grey heavy days, it’s wonderful to be lifted like this by the sun. Easy to see why Londoners embrace these bright harbingers of Spring, however brief, and crowd outdoors to soak and thaw. It’s impossible not to be seasonally affected.
No, it’s not Summer yet, but the endorphins are making me do it:

FigGate - the fallout

Following from the previous entry, I received a very prompt and sincere email response to my foreign-object-in-figs feedback. Two days later came a real letter – gratifyingly grovelly – apologising again for the concern caused, and expressing the laudable hope that lessons could be learned. To that end, I was assured, the relevant buyers and technologists had been made aware of the complaint. Not just technicians or mere engineers, mind you, but Technologists. Colour me impressed! And as a token of their goodwill, a gift voucher was attached.
Five Pounds.
Better than a slap in the face, and certainly not to be sneezed at in these crunchy times. No indeed. More than fair.
That’ll buy a lot of figs.
This afternoon a letter arrived from the supplier, asking me to send them the offending packet in the freepost pouch provided. “Exhibit A” is on its way to who knows how many white-coated Technologists for forensic analysis. Wheels are in motion…

Figment

No, I didn’t imagine it. This is what I found halfway through my packet of figs.
I realise it’s not broken glass or razor blades, and there wasn’t a huge risk that I’d put it into my mouth and break a tooth. (Even I’m not such a speed eater that my fingers didn’t have time to register the difference between smooth/dense and sticky/wrinkled.) But still, I mean to say. I definitely felt less than well at the thought and (imagined?) taste of rust and engine grease. Not sick enough to rush frothy-mouthed to Emergency or Fair Trading. But distinctly off-colour.
Once over my slight queasy shock, I wondered what to do. If anything. I could hardly claim physical or mental distress. I doubt “mild momentary nausea” would justify compensatory millions. But I felt that someone should know. If only for the smug altruism of helping protect fellow figgy shoppers from such unpleasantness. And what if a vast and complex packing conveyer somewhere was about to fall catastrophically apart? I hastened to my local supermarket’s website and fedback.
We’ll see what happens. I’ll either be able to glow with self-righteous indignation if ignored, or bask in grovelling thanks and apologies. And I might even deign to accept some small token of contrition.
Flex that consumer muscle!

Foxy

The very first morning in our London flat I looked out the back window and saw an old fox treading along the garden wall. It was a magical introduction to urban English wildlife. I have since seen him a few times, slinking through our garden or trotting around Wandsworth Common. Finally today he rested long enough for me to take his photo. Bless his silver whiskers.

Sideswipe

London is the most pavementally challenged city in the world. This can make a walk down the street incredibly frustrating, as every footpath becomes a warpath of eye rolling affront; every sidewalk a side-stepping minefield of manners.

Please, someone tell me: are you supposed to keep to the left or the right?

Perhaps it was naive think that the pedestrian rules would follow the Highway Code: in this country, you drive on the left, right? Rove down most motorways and you’ll find that the majority of Brits abide by this convention. So why is there so little consensus when it comes to travelling on foot?

I have theories.

Firstly, the puddle has been muddied by the Escalator Exception. Tube tradition demands you stand on the right of the moving stairs, leaving passage on the left for more rushed or sprightly folk. This curious anomaly (How did it start? Why?) is enshrined in signs and rigorously observed. And from staircase to street, people drift.

Secondly, this is a truly international city, embracing all comers regardless of habits formed on homeland autoroutes, bahns or strade. Thus the law of the left is diluted and London’s worldly-wise citizens adopt a more middle-of-the-road approach.

Finally, I’ve found that confusion accrues when wheels roll into the picture. As soon as people mount a bike, blade or scooter, they switch to motorway mentality and ride rigidly on the left, regardless of what the pictures on park pathways suggest. Unless the wheels happen to be on a pram, of course, in which case they weave slowly down the middle, taking as much space as possible, oblivious to everyone else trying to share the way.

Don’t get me started…

Sprung

It’s cold today, but not thrillingly so. It’s dismal with desultory rain, as if the weather couldn’t be bothered with extremes, but just wants to sit gloomily, spitefully in one place. An atmospheric manifestation of my mood.
So lovely to know that on such a day as this, I can look through the clammy kitchen window and see this:



My brave Spring bulbs offering defiant promise of fragrant days around the corner.

A handbag?

This Christmas, I spent some time with a bunch of old bags in Amsterdam. Handbags, I hasten to add, before my Dutch family and friends take offence. And purses.
I’m referring of course to the Museum of Bags. (And Purses.)
Located in a stunning house on the Herengracht, an überswank canal, the museum is the result of a 30-year obsession of one Hendrikje Ivo, collector and accessory fetishist. I suppose once you hit 3000 bags, a walk-in wardrobe just won’t cut it any more.
Despite our initial misgivings and mirth (mandatory photos outside, lips puckered, underneath the ‘Bags and Purses’ lettering), the museum turned out to be a perfectly-proportioned treat. Not nearly as camp and frivolous as feared (or hoped), it presented a fascinating slice of history from the 16th Century to present; an oblique glimpse into the lives of our ancestors. It is amazing what the contents of a handbag can tell you about the society of the time. The objects women carry with them make such eloquent statements about their status and role: from the pendulous keys, scissors and thimbles on chatelaines hanging over full-hooped skirts, to belle époque fans and dance cards; from art deco powder compacts and lipsticks, to the phones and credit-cards of today.
The bags themselves are fashioned from every conceivable material, including glomesh, which reminded me of the purse Mum had which seemed dazzlingly, impossibly glamorous for 1970s Sydney. If you still have it, Mum, maybe you should wrap it in acid-free tissue paper. Or pop it on Ebay. It’s a museum piece, don’t you know.

Remembering

Every Thursday morning, Dad would get up early to make a pot of tea. He’d put a banana on a plate, with a knife, because he always used one to make a cut at the base of the stalk to make it easier to peel. Or neater maybe. He was fastidious like that, in strange little ways. So I’d come out to find everything ready for my usual rushed breakfast, the morning after my weekly dinner and sleepover at Mum and Dad’s place, before making the trek back into the city. And because he knew I had to throw things down so quickly before running for the bus, he’d pour me a mug of hot tea, then add a dash of cold water to bring it to gulping temperature. He’d always remember.
Every morning I remember too. I make my mug of tea, then take it to the sink for a quick twist of the cold tap. It’s just one small ritual which hurts sometimes, and helps. It reminds me of the care I took for granted, and which I go on missing. Two years on, I’m learning to cherish these daily moments of memory.

The Devil Wears Lipstick

Went to see a jewel of a show last night: Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea by theatre company 1927. A devious blend of sinister fairy tales, peep-hole naughtiness and nonsense verse, all delivered with gallows deadpan and cut glass accents, it left me feeling utterly elated.
After a mood-setting music hall Charleston, a series of darkly comic vignettes unfolded, blending white-faced actors with scratchy film and animation in a virtuosic display of precisely-timed anarchy. Edwardian nursery stories were deliciously subverted, so that children dress up as crack whores, twin sisters torment grandmamma with sticks, and the Devil does drag. Combined with 1920s touches of silent-film piano, cabaret and black bobbed hair, it was a bit like Louise Brooks reading Grimms’ Fairy Tales on acid. A perfect nightmare before Christmas.

Noooooo!

Leaving France, I thought I'd escaped the sickening sight of finger heart. I almost spat coffee when I saw the below image in the Guardian jobs pages, at the bottom of a recruitment advert for an Associate Director, PR & Communications. I wonder if you can guess which organisation thought it appropriate and desirable to represent themselves with such a nauseating abomination...

Snugg as a bugg

The first real frost overnight! Icing sugared backyard. Wandsworth Common looks anything but as I jog around it, in full winter regalia (running gloves and triple-layered top). I zigzag delightedly from puddle to puddle, cracking the ice as I steam around the great milky field. Disgruntled ducks tread gingerly on the pond, walking winter miracles on the solid surface. It’s been months since I’ve been able to go jogging, thanks to a dicky ankle, and to ease back into it on such a morning makes me hum with pleasure.
Less humming at home, where the cold really seeps and bites. No double glazing here, just thin chilly panes sapping the central heating. I find myself doing housework just to warm up. Yesterday, finally fed up with frozen toes, I stormed into M&S and bought myself the daggiest pair of slippers I could find. Tan moccasins. Dreadfully, wonderfully lined with thick faux fur. To deal with the cold, I’ve decided, you just have to embrace your inner bogan. Manky trackie daks, ratty cardigans and layer upon layer of fashion-backward poly-fleece.
In fact it seems that bogan is the new black here in London. There is one store in the glittering new Westfield London (infinitely flashier than Fountain Lakes, it seems, and blingier even than Bondi Junction) which has had to employ door bitches (seriously) to control the velvet-roped crowds clamouring to get inside. It’s the Ugg boot shop.
So there you have it. The London look for Winter 08/09: BoBogan (Bourgeois Bogan. Or should that be Fauxgan?). Top Shop shelves are already groaning with skinny jeans and check flannel shirts. Time to complete the trend with my fake fluffy footwear, which shall now be known as the mockasin.
As showcased in the timeless stylings of Michelle and Ferret.

Le retour

It was our first trip to Paris as visitors last weekend. Since giving up our resident status and moving to London back in July, I have often wondered how this first visit would feel. Would we be mauled by melancholy and remembrance of things past? Or would it be too soon for that; would we simply fall back into a humdrum residential experience? Both possibilities made me apprehensive.
As it happens, our time was too rushed to take real stock of any reaction. From the moment we picked up the family wagon hire car, the weekend was a tense blur of motorways, ferry crossings, traffic and packing. Saturday, our only full day in Paris, slid by in unsatisfactory fits, shopping aimlessly while I tried desperately to think what I’d rather be doing. It was of course wonderful to see friends – generously warm and welcoming as ever. That was one of the very best things about our brief return: discovering that, for us, the beauty of Paris will no longer just be in the buildings or the river or the light.
Having said that, I did experience one thrilling, “pinch me I’m in Paris” moment. After battling the grey waves of shoppers on the rue de Rivoli, we turned a corner and there, backlit by sudden sun, were the towers of Notre Dame, capped by the distant dome of the Panthéon. Moved almost to tears by this familiarly ravishing sight, I was then delighted by a new marvel: the delicate white Tour Saint-Jacques, finally unwrapped after years of restoration. We sat at its foot sipping cafés express, gazing on the bleached stone tracery, and I realised with relief that I need not fear this Paris ambivalence. We will take the best of both worlds, sashaying like locals along the boulevards, while gasping like tourists at treats (re)discovered.
Let them have cake, and eat it, too.

Holiday highlights 2

Dinner in Ajaccio, our cheerfully shambling waiter serving wild boar and bitter dark myrtle liqueur

The harrowing hairpinned Gorges de Spelunca, and the relieved rush getting out of the car unscathed

Square towers squatting on warm rocks reflected in bright gentle blue

Close encounters of the cloven-hoofed kind driving through unhurried trips of mountain goats

High granite picnics and crushed wild mint

Following a liquid jade tumble up and up to its round mountain source

Strong local beer tasting of chestnuts and malt

St. Florent sunsets over Cap Corse, shushed by waves on the pebble beach below

Holiday highlights 1

Impressions from Bordeaux and the Périgord:

Chatty apéritifs with Mum on the thin hotel terrace, hung over the darkening spires of Bordeaux
The shock of grey gothic stone and hot terracotta looking down over Cathédrale St. André
Witnessing opulence restored leaf by gilt leaf in the jewel-like Grand Théâtre
The overblown tumult and exuberance of the Fontaine des Girondins

Picnics watching fish swim lazily in the Dordogne, fixed in the limpid current
Skirting the twilight vineyards, hands sticky with blackberries and figs
Staying with the sun from first to last through the full high arc of blue, day after day
Feeling slightly voyeuristic at vendange watching the harvester tickling the grapes beneath vineleafy skirts
Distant pops of hunters’ shot and treehouse ladders to canopy lookouts
Dining and laughing amongst the vines, evenings dissolving into parlour game idiocy
The postcard perfection of the Château de Montbazillac