Canadian Maple

Saturday night Dog needs a walk. We head up our mainly residential road toward the crossroads where business happens: a mini-Tesco sells essentials, Prime Time rents films, the local pub provides pints and big screen tvs. Keeping a comfortable distance, we follow a staggeringly drunk man. Dog has been taught to sit at each street corner, until we give her the go-ahead ("Cross!"). Generally, this safety ritual slows us down. Staggeringly drunk man's stagger slows him down. Our paces are in-sync.

We inch along. In the distance, where the business happens, the tell-tale signs of a police barricade hint that more than business has happened at the crossroads this Saturday night. Tesco is unaffected except for the crowd milling outside the doors and waiting for any news as to what might have happened. The local pub seems to have been the source of the excitement. The chairs and tables out front are smashed to bits. Glass is strewn across the road. Uniformed men and women of the Metropolitan police stand around as if to ward off anyone who might be thinking of more mischief. The damage however has been done.

Earlier I had noticed Australia had been beating the Canadians 3 - 0 in rugby.

"It must be the Canadians." I venture.

"Oh, yeah, the rugby, it must be."

We make a loop, enjoy a 30 minute stroll or so, notice teenage couples in the shadows of the common. On the way back, CBF and I tell the Man to walk ahead. The last time there was this much excitement in the 'hood, a devilishly handsome man in uniform nodded at us. We were hoping he had returned. He hadn't. The Man grumbled and rolled his eyes at our girlishness -- probably influenced by the teenage hormones in the shadows of the common.

Sunday afternoon we stop in the local for a pint. The sun is shining, so it really would be nice to sit outside; however, there is only 1 table and 1 chair on the otherwise empty patio. When we place our order we ask the barwench what happened. She didn't work last night so can't give us details, but she does throw cold water all over my Canadians-as-menace-making-types theory.

It was football, not Rugby. The Chelsea - Fulham derby.

Smokin'

My grandmother was a smoker. My mother is an artistic soul. I would never say my mother encouraged my grandmother’s smoking habit, but when grandma came to visit, mom would make best efforts to accommodate her smoking mother. In preparation for one of these maternal visits, my mother, with artistic eye in tact, bought a little ashtray formed out of some sort of metal or another (it’s quite heavy for its size and has a the greenish-blue patina of a heavily weathered metal) in the shape of a little bird with an open beak. One is meant to extinguish one’s cigarettes in the little bird’s open mouth.

The little bird is now in my possession.

When my parents divorced after 40 years of marriage there was a great division and redistribution of familial possessions accrued over a lifetime. I got the little bird. I always loved that little bird. It carries so many associations of both my grandmother and mother.

So when the painter came a-calling this weekend and asked if I had an ashtray available, I reached for the little bird.

“Here you go, Sammy.”

“Thank ya, sista.” Sammy has a low volume voice that resonates with deep tones and Caribbean accents.

We needed a painter to pay a visit thanks to some damp a while back. One of the walls of our reception (living room) had been re-plastered, and we took advantage of this opportunity to repaint the entire room.

Sammy was supposed to come the week before last. He called the Man on the Saturday morning that he didn’t come.

“Man, I'm not gonna be coming today. Is next weekend ok?”

“Ok, Sammy.”

“Much respect, blood.”

The Man loves Sammy. I noticed he even has him filed as “King Sammy” in his mobile phone address book. When I began to make fun of the Man's inside joke (between him and his phone), Man informed me that Sammy’s surname happens to be King.

Oh. Excellent!

So, King Sammy came a calling to apply a new coat of paint to our reception this weekend.

He was sitting in the garden and having a break when we overheard him talking to the ashtray.

“Hey little birdie, whatcha ya doin smokin my spliff?”

Needless to say, the little bird ashtray has just adopted a new association. My grandmother, my mother, and Sammy.

Orange Hoodie

It’s standing room only on the overland train to Waterloo. I’ve gotten a seat. I had to crawl over a man in a suit to get to it, but I got it. My walkman insulates me from the whirring of the train and the hushed conversations between the occasional commuting colleagues. I close my eyes and try to sleep. It doesn’t happen. I open my eyes and look around for distraction.

Sometime between the time I boarded and the time I opened my eyes, the scenery in the train has improved. a tousled-haired sportsman -- or construction worker – or some sort of brawn stands in the aisle about three feet from me. He’s eyeing the luggage rack. He looks down at his large duffel bag and seems to assess whether the effort of lifting the bag above the heads of the suited City workers is worth it.

His summer tan still glows in his face and in the skin of his burly hands, which I imagine do active things like hammering and lifting or punching or grasping oars that his broad shoulders pull through the water of the Thames.

He easily wears an orange hooded Abercrombie sweatshirt and blue tracksuit trousers. His outfit is lose enough to give the impression that he’s not vain about the underlying muscles, but snug enough to show he’s got confidence.

Nice.

I notice the woman who is sitting just below him. She looks like a 2nd class literary critic: aging, plump, too much make-up.

I wonder if she notices how close to a perfect ass she is.

Not Black and White

Of the three boys, CBF and I recognise two: the chubby, blond one and the tall, lanky, black one. They are in the park with their dog, whom we also recognise: an occasionally aggressive Staffordshire named Killer. Petunia and I are with The Dog. The Dog demonstrates wisdom beyond her months. She manoeuvres CBF and me so we block the potential aggressor.

The boys don’t immediately recognise CBF, The Dog, or me, even though on previous occasions they have shown considerable interest in The Dog.

“It’s a Rottweiller, innit?”

“Yep.”

“How old are you?” Lanky asks CBF.

The third one (who is not white or black, but possibly Asian) laughs at his friend and mutters, “unbelievable” as he bends down to pet The Dog.

“How old is it?” Lanky asks after getting no answer from CBF.

“Just about 6 months.”

“It’s just like that other one we seen!” screams Chubby, (who, it strikes me, would make a very convincing Dudley – Harry Potter’s bully of a cousin, or the fat, greedy kid from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory).

“Yea. The one that American couple have.” The lanky kid agrees with Chubby Dudley.

“Yea, that black guy.” Chubby Dudley recalls My Man.

“Hmmm. That would probably be my husband.” I say.

“You married that black guy?!” The lanky, black kid blurts out.

“He’s not black …” I boldly take the first steps to explain My Man’s ethnicity, but stop myself dead in my tracks. Lanky, black kid is giving me a look, a look that says, “go on, I dare you.”

Lanky, black kid isn’t really very black but if he thinks My Man is black then he must identify himself as black and any explanation of the distinction of Hispanic and Black from a white girl like myself will probably smack of some sort of racial protestation, a defense of My Man’s colouring, an implied rebuff to black.

Chubby Dudley points to the plastic bag containing The Dog's ham treats. “What’s that?!”

Appropriate.

Commuting

My mind wanders while I sit on a bus, which is stuck in the worse-than-usual traffic of Oxford Street. A “general action” has brought the Tube to its knees and above-land traffic to a standstill. The bus edges past a bedding shop where I bought the sheets I slept on last night. They are soft and smooth, and I love them and would even fancy buying another set just to have them, but I remember that that shop is the very same shop that bungled up a much larger purchase (i.e. the bed), and I have vowed never to return. This train of thought leads me to my current duvet. It’s well-aged: purchased 11 years ago just as My Man and I began our conjugal adventure. Then, I remember that not so long ago, I attempted to replace the duvet. My Man and I argued about whether or not a new duvet was really necessary. In the end, he conceded. We brought home a brand new duvet stuffed with Hungarian goose feathers. I remember at the time being struck by the fact that the duvet-selling shop proudly displayed the avian origin of its duvets’ innards and that most of the donors were from eastern European countries. I remember Russian feathers were the most expensive. I don’t remember why we opted for the Hungarian variety. Price probably had something to do with it. After all, My Man had compromised, why shouldn’t I? Now, on the bus, I think about how excited I was to get home and decorate the bed with the brand new duvet. The old duvet, who had served us so well, would be retired to the guest room. I remember how certain My Man and I were that our bed was a Queen size. I remember how disappointed, and then a few short minutes later how incredibly pissed off I was when it resulted that our UK bed is, in fact, a king-sized. My Man refused to go back to the shop (a trip into central London can seem a journey). The new duvet became the guest room duvet. I slept under the 11 year-old duvet last night. I lean my head against the stalled bus’ window and think about how different a queen-sized bed in England is compared to a queen-sized bed in America. From there my head takes a turn to the Big Gulp: the obscenely extra-big, extra-large signature beverage size of 7-eleven, the American chain of 24-hour convenience stores that have not, surprisingly, made it to the UK. I think to the time when I lived in Madrid, where there was, surprisingly, a 7-eleven. It did not, however, live up to the 24-hour promise of its North American counterparts. In fact it was rarely open. I don’t remember ever seeing a Big Gulp in the streets of Madrid. I think about how fat Americans are. My mind is going further than the bus.

Diana and Dodi

A small crowd weeps. CBF is on the verge of a fit of laughter, but I catch her in time.

"CBF, don't laugh! Some of these people take this very seriously."

She stifles her jovial tendencies; CBF is, after all, a sensitive being. She wouldn't want to cause offence with disrespect.

"I don't believe it. How did you find this?" she whispers in my ear.

I chanced upon the Dodi and Diana shrine in Harrods some months - maybe even years - ago. It struck me as a London must-see spot. Ever since, I have made it a point to take all my out-of-town visitors to see it.

CBF is not an out-of-town visitor. She is, however, a pragmatic type who only goes to Harrod's during sale season; and on those occasions I imagine she sticks to the task at hand, neglecting the spiritual opportunities offered in these hallowed halls.

We're here (in Harrod's) because CBF is off to Italy. She wants to buy a gift for her Italian friend's mother. Old-fashioned English-name-brand powder or soap or lotion or some such thing.

CBF is grateful for the detour to the basement. She's a broad-minded gal keen on exposure to culture. I'm proud of my contribution.