Sun Attracts Workers & Students

I heard that the term ‘red tape’ has its origins in the red ribbons used to bind legal documents by solicitors and barristers and other legally related folk who milled around the Inns of the Court back in the day. I close my eyes and picture a swarm of figures dressed in Harry Potter’s school uniform and carrying bundles of weathered parchment tied with pretty satiny-silk red ribbons.

I open my eyes and see swarms of office workers and LSE students taking in the glorious weather. Most of them carry take-away lunches. Sandwiches from Eat or Pret or sushi from Itsu or special Friday BBQ from the new place that opened up.

God, how the old places must be hating that new place.

I watch the workers and students vie for space on the lawn. I'm surprised as I watch a girl climb through the bars of the fence that separates the walkway from the green.

Huh. I wouldn't have thought about going through.

I think about how single-minded I (we) (humans) can be. I think about how my first inclination would be to walk the long way round to the gate that lets people into or out from the lawn. I am generally a rule follower. If I were to flout the go-by-the-gate option, I would naturally climb over. Under and through would never have occurred to me. I think about how it takes a certain sense of creativity to see different options.

Two ladies, office workers, approach the fence. One hands her lunch to the other and makes to climb over the fence. She's slightly pudgy, and short. She gets stuck for a second or two with her legs straddling the fence. She lumbers over and turns to her colleague who returns the lunch bag and hands over her own. It's her turn to attempt the shortcut. She pauses for a moment. She bends down.

She's going to try the other way!

But before she even gives it a real go, she opts for the over option rather than the under.

At least she thought about her options.

I wonder at how people are lazy to spend the 1.5 minutes it might take to get to the entry of the lawn. I think how it's not really lazy because the climb over or even the under takes a certain amount of effort and a certain amount of courage. I wonder at this small decision in life and wish all my decisions were of this ilk.

I have snuck out for this break. I'm not having lunch. I'm watching the people go under or over and hoping that I get a little sun on my ankles.

Daily Smoke Fails to Deliver

I didn't get to post yesterday, and I'm afraid there might be some pursuant self-flagellation.

There I was, on a roll, 28 fucking days in a row. Maybe not masterpieces of insight or nuggets of wisdom, but my fucking 28 days of discipline. Even when I knew I wouldn't have time for a "real" post, at least I uploaded a god damn photo. I had 3 days to go, and I blew it.

The thing that fucked me up was a dinner reservation. The American Friend had had one culinary desire: Indian; and, yesterday -- what would have been my 29th day in a row -- was her last day in The Big Smoke, and we had not yet accommodated her request. Yesterday was her last chance, so we made a dinner reservation. The other thing was work. I had to work yesterday. See, I'd been able to balance this arbitrary one-a-day goal with an out of town guest because I took time off work, but yesterday I had to put on the uniform of a very important work person. Turns out I can balance work and blogging; I can balance an out-of-town visitor and blogging; but I cannot balance all three.

. . . . "balance all three" would be juggling . . . .

I can't juggle.

Even though I failed (and I will consequently be putting myself on a treadmill for longer and depriving myself of chocolate and standing upon a stage in front of an audience with a fistful of tomatoes with which to pelt me) I stand by the benefits of a period of everyday posting. It's like a month on the wagon, or a meditative retreat, or some half-baked spiritual journey. The simple act of posting everyday - once I get on a roll - makes me look more actively, think more actively. It makes me consciously observe my life. Especially when I'm on the bus.

Child Taunts Guard

Today a child climbed the gate outside Buckingham Palace. My American friend and I watched a couple of parents not only ignore the fact that their little rugrat was doing something stupid, but were actually encouraging him to climb, then picking up his siblings and attaching them to the gate that keeps the public away from the queen.

My friend and I tried to guess what nationality the permissive parents were. I guessed Scandanavian. Turns out they were Canadian (my friend and I spied on them).

Little kids should not be allowed to climb on palace gates. Parents should discourage such behaviour.

Employee Seeks Help

It's hard to say who's my boss. I say I've got two; on paper I have one; really I think I have 1 and 1/2. Yesterday I had a chat with my 1/2 a boss. He used to be more of a boss. Then I gained prestige. You might say I outgrew my boss, the way an on-the-up boxer outgrows his tired old trainer after a spectacular knock out. Except that I kept the 1/2 the boss relationship going because he's funny and I like him and he likes me and we're all one big happy family.

The big boss, the real boss, he's like a father or grandfather type. He likes me too. I had to have a conversation with him. Nominally my conversation was to seek input: how's the job I'm doing? are you happy?

In reality, my chats were a cry for help.

I don't want to whinge, but this level of activity isn't sustainable.

The big boss got carried away by his fondness for me and told me outright that he loves me. Not in bad way. Not in a way I couldn't share with My Man. It was a nice outburst; not a pervy one.

The net-net is everyone agrees something needs to change.

My mom used to say, "be careful what you wish for ...."

We will see how change pans out.

Railroaded

An out of town visitor keeps me occupied most of the day, and My Man wants to spend time with me. Encroachments on my time hinder my blogging goal. Thank God for the snapshots! (*winks to Sid and tUB*).

Dead Out; New In

In addition to the sickly Laurel trees in the front of the flat, there were a couple of dead lavender plants in the back garden.

Now you're giving the impression you're crap with plants.

In addition to the two dead lavender plants in the backyard, there were two happy, healthy lavender plants of a different type.

I did a bit of research to discover that the dead variety was Tiara Lavender and the happy, healthy type is unidentifiable (by me, through the Internet). My conclusion is that the Tiara is a dainty and weakly pedigree; whereas the unidentifiable type is a hearty mutt. One of those mutts, in fact was created by me. In a fit of a mad-scientist-playing-God moment, I took the audacious step to clone a lavender plant. Well, not clone exactly, but to take slice of a branch and replant it and create a new plant. I didn’t expect it to work, but it did! It made me feel proud, like a parent. Or like Dr. Frankenstein.

The dead Lavender isn’t in the back garden anymore. I tore out their dried up remnants and planted brand new species in their stead. We’ll see how the new guys fare.

Sun Burns Shoulders

I spent most of the morning trimming infected leaves from the laurel trees.

The irony is not lost on me: I got more sunburn on 1 London morning than I did on holiday in the Caribbean.

Disease Hits Laurel Hedge

The 5 Laurel trees are first and foremost on my mind.

I'm not the only who is sick. The Laurel trees (bushes), which comprise our defence against the street, have been suffering. The first symptoms, withering virgin leaves attended by a strange white powder, emerged about a year ago.

Not far from home, there is a nursery that dispenses horticultural advice. There is a lady there, a champion horticulturist (or so she sounds) who will talk to you for as long as you can stand about roots and leaves, insects, fungus, fertiliser, etc. I resort to this expert only when I am desperate.

Last year, I followed the advice by applying a 'natural' insecticide/anti-fungal spray. The symptoms seemed to clear up.

A new set of symptoms cropped up earlier this year. Leaves in the prime of their little lives ripened, turned yellow from green and brown from yellow before falling to the soil bed. A little tender loving care (without a consultation with the champion horticulturist) seemed to do the trick.

Now we've got both withering virgin leaves and overly ripened leaves. The Internet seems to be a good source of information regarding my Laurel tree woes. I diagnose the problem. Then, a second opinion suggests something else.

When I'm feeling better, I'll have to go out and deliver some care (do 'yardwork').

Allergies Become Flu

It was supposed to be just allergies. In fact, some of the allergy symptoms were there: the itchy roof of the mouth and itchy eyes. A sneeze and another and another and another. I repeatedly excused myself. My work colleagues repeatedly ignored me. My nose kept running, which was a bit odd, but I didn't think anything of it. Not even when the lady gave me the super plush tissue. It is, after all, allergy season; I am an allergy sufferer; there were tell-tale symptoms.

I didn't bank on the co-existence of allergy symptoms with just out-and-out sick. The sore(ish) throat was the first give-away. Then the achy muscles, especially around my neck and back. And a loss of appetite!

Oh boy.

I admitted I was sick and left work early today. My nose is crusty. My skin is hot, damp, and clammy. There is a cuppa tea on the nightstand. I'm well-dosed up on drugs and hope to sleep through the night.

Allergies & Victoria Line Strike

The big news coming out of London today: the Victoria Line is suspended; its workers are on strike. Descending into one tube station, an announcement is made. The woman making the announcement sounds utterly annoyed and unsympathetic with her Victoria Line compatriots.

"There is no service on the Victoria Line because some people had to go on strike." That's what her voice sounded like.

Ascending out from another station, and another announcement is made, this time by a comrade.

"No service on the Victoria Line today; please find alternative methods to get where you going." He singsonged.

This evening's free rags littering the tube contained seemingly canned quotes from different viewpoints on the tube strike. Lesley from Croyden thinks. Mark from Clapham thinks.

Ellie from Fulham doesn't give a shit.

Now I have a confession to make. Unrelated.

This evening I arrived on the platform just as a train was pulling out of the station. So I stood 'first in line' at the spot where I knew the doors would arrive (Yes, I do do that a lot). As the seconds ticked by, the platform began to fill up. An older woman stood next to me. I immediately took a dislike to her. I felt threatened. She seemed to be edging me out.

The train came; I boarded first; she boarded next. She was offered a seat. Fair game.

After two stops, the seat next to her became unoccupied. I took it. I sat there quietly sniffling (it's allergy season) and harbouring an unfair irritation with the lady who had seemed like she was going to edge me out. I don't like edgers.

Mid way through the journey, the-suspected-edger rummaged through her handbag, turned to me and offered me a tissue.

"Th Th Thank you." I stammered. "I had no idea I was making so much noise. Thank you. You're a lifesaver. Thank you so much."

It was an extra big, extra soft, super plush tissue.

I sat there torn between gratitude and shame. With a heightened sense of propriety, trying not to blow my nose too loudly and consciously fighting to suppress any sniffles, I simply held the sweet, soft tissue under my noise.

I thanked suspected-edger again just before alighting the carriage. She called me dear and wished me luck and told me I sounded awful.

My confession: I had a tissue in my pocket the whole time, but had just been too lazy to unfurl it! (Yes, I can be one of those. Maybe I need one of these.)

Thoughts Bombard the A.M.

There were a lot of things running through my head this morning. I thought about how the minicab driver chose to cut through central London in order to get to Saint Pancras rather than taking the less scenic, flyover route. It was my second time with this driver, so I knew his preference; his choice of route didn’t throw me off guard this time. I thought he probably likes to take the scenic route through London, and this time of day is the only practical time to do it. I blushed with the memory of how I panicked when he took me this way the first time.

“Which way are you going?” I had asked, trying to sound calm and in control.

I thought about Princess Diana when we descended into the concrete tunnel under Wellington Arch. Chrissie Hynde had been singing "I’ll Stand By You", but the radio went out mid way through the tunnel. I imagined Dodi and Diana in their tunnel. I wondered if the accident came as a surprise or if they’d been scared. An image of the cocky looking Frenchman, the driver, who also perished, caught on CCTV walking through the revolving doors of the Ritz flashed through my mind.

How do you even remember?

On Shaftesbury Avenue I thought about how really, really this is the only time of day when this route is a practical alternative. I thought about a more typical journey: riding the bus along this route and how during the typical Shaftesbury Avenue standstills, from the top floor of the bus I’d examine the top of the overhang of the theatre where Woman in White was playing, and Les Mis before that. For months there was an abandoned and rain-drenched pair of blue jeans littering the top of the overhang. I wondered when and how they got there and when and how they were eventually removed.

I anticipated our turn onto Charing Cross Road, which would turn into Tottenham Court Road, and I thought about that first taxi ride when My Man and I moved here.

As we passed in front of the Dominion Theatre with the giant statue of Freddy Mercury above the ... what do you call it ... I had a couple of thoughts simultaneously. Is that even possible … two thoughts at the same time? At the moment I thought about how this small segment of Tottenham Court Road inexplicably reminds me of calle Fuencarral in Madrid where there was another theatre (a movie theatre, though) and the ... what do you call it … the marquee? The marquee! …the marquee fell from the façade of the Spanish threatre onto the pavement and killed a passing pedestrian (or non-passing as this case may have been). I remember the 2nd - possibly simultaneous - thought was my wondering what the word was to describe the thing that fell onto the pedestrian in Madrid, and this leads me to believe I didn’t have two thoughts at the same time, but rather had a rapid succession of thoughts that have now become this paragraph.

I thought about how the commitment to write a little something each and every day supercharges my conscious thought. Throughout my days I examine the moments for the noteworthy. Even when it’s not noteworthy, it gets me thinking.

Vine Creeps into South Ken

At 06:00 I’m waiting on the east bound platform at South Kensington station. I stand under the board that announces the destination of the next approaching train and how many minutes it’s going to be that I’m standing here. I stand here because I know this is where the doors I want are going to be. This is where I will find the doors that will later lead me precisely to the exit of my next station stop.

Generally I examine the poster billboards slabbed against the wall of the opposite platform. Posters that encourage me to visit the Victoria & Albert or the Royal Academy of Arts or The British Museum.

Today I don’t notice those harbingers of should-see cultural events.

Today I am distracted by a bit of vine that makes a pretty picture as it swings in front of the the opposite platform's brick wall. The vine starts somewhere, up and over, on the other side of the decorative brick arches, where I imagine residents live and probably get annoyed by the sound of the trains, especially at this time in the morning.

I squint at the vine. I’m striving to make out the shape of the leaves. We have a vine that crawls up the wall in our back garden. I want to see if the vine marauding its way into the South Kensington tube station is the same sort as ours. I wonder if ours is a hearty, savaging, Japanese variety. The kind that comes and wipes out indigenous flora and grows with such strength that My Man will have to take Judo before he can even contemplate kicking its ass*.

I wonder if it’s racist or culturalist or in any way wrong that I wonder if the vine is a Japanese variety.

Kudzu!

*Note I've not volunteered myself to disarm the vine!

American Adverts Hit the UK

OK, which one of you came here searching for "pictures of male ass depilation"? I suspect you didn't find anything you wanted.

Sorry, Charlie.

I used the expression 'Sorry, Charlie' at work recently.

Is "Sorry, Charlie" an expression? Or is it just a cultural reference? A phrase pregnant with childhood memories bordering on slang, but not quite making it over the hump.

The work colleague to whom I delivered a mild let down with my 'Sorry, Charlie' gave me a blank look.

Later on, I decided to ask My Man if he could identify the cultural allusion. Having grown up in the USA, but in culturally ambiguous circumstances, he provides a good litmus test for the relative obscurity of oddball tidbits of Americana. He thought about it for about 15 seconds before he responded "Tuna fish ....?"

Bingo! If My Man got it, it's not entirely esoteric.

As a child, I always felt a little bit sorry for Charlie; though, if truth be told, I was glad he was always rejected. I didn't want to end up eating Charlie.

After I described the highlights of the Starkist tuna campaign to my work colleague, he put on a big cat-ate-the-canary grin and burst out with, "Trix are for kids!"

(Turns out my work colleague only knows that slogan ...

Is that what 'Sorry, Charlie' is? A slogan?

... from a rap song. He admitted he wouldn't be able to pick the silly rabbit out from a line up. )

No male ass-waxing pics here. Sorry, Charlie.

Imports on The Rise

Some time ago, I found myself in a spot of trouble.

Sometimes, we are called upon to take sides, and this is precisely what I did. I swore allegiance. I stood by a friend. My stance shouldn’t have come as any surprise.

But, then, I did something that you might consider stupid: I wrote a post about a certain event that occurred during this period. It was meant to be funny, demonstrating my awkwardness in uncomfortable situations.

I didn’t know that the opposing team even knew about my online confessions. My Man received an email about the post; he was angry as a motherfuck for my getting us involved in something that resulted in such a nasty drama. I wrote an apology, heartfelt and sincere. Sincerely.

In response, I received an email, a lengthy rant.

From Ellie’s blog she made herself completely clear. I do not belive her apology she has shown herself to be entirely false if not completely misguided and of questionable intelligence. For the record she don’t actually write that great either!! Ellie you had my number all along also I had been texing you and getting no response, there are so many holes in your half-hearted apology it’s like swiss cheese!!

It was a hurtful mail; as I imagine my post had been hurtful. My apology had been sincere, but it was too little too late. I’d been shocked by my blog’s audience (though I probably should have known better). I immediately took my blog down; I thought I was done for good. I mourned my previous template, the header I'd taken pains to create. I missed the visitors and visits and online interaction. I hadn't appreciated how important blogging had become to my daily existence.

Even if I can’t write and am of questionable intelligence.

The act of writing this post demonstrates, if not questionable intelligence, questionable judgement. What if the real world people know my current address [even though I’ve taken the necessary precautions]? If this is aired and a new drama ensues, my cyber forays will come to an end. Still, I cannot help myself. I will not self-censor.

I have spent all afternoon rereading, editing as required, and importing old posts. Unlike the diaries of my teenage years, my blogging incarnation doesn’t make me squirm; I quite like myself.

Man Becomes Woman and Cheats

I have a strange dream.

My Man and I are on a journey and board a bus. Only My Man isn't a man, but a woman. She has long hair and looks a bit like a gypsy. She's wearing a green dress. The bus is almost full; there are only two seats, and they are not together. I sit in one row, whilst My Man, she sits in front of me.

A small, old, hunchbacked man with thin, greasy hair boards the bus. "There's nowhere for him to sit," I think to myself. He begins a beeline straight for me. It transpires that his beeline is actually for the woman sitting next to me. "Phew!" As I'm thinking that I won't have to deal with this old nutter, he climbs onto the lap of the woman next to me. I think, "Surely not. He's not going to ride the whole time on her lap. They're cramping me." Then they start making out, and the man makes high pitched little noises which I recognise to be Brasilian Portuguese expressions of love-making enjoyment. I'm stunned by their mashing of faces together. I want to share my shock. I move forward in my seat so I can get My (Wo)man's attention.

Looking over into the next row, I receive a further shock. My (Wo)man is engaged in even more flagrant sexual activity with the two passengers in her row.

I'm stunned still. During some seconds staying utterly still, I wonder about what course of action I should follow. I lean back in my seat and look out the window. I'm annoyed and upset and want to analyse my feelings. I think I'm jealous, but as I dissect my emotions, I come to the realisation that my irritation isn't jealousy. I am annoyed and disgruntled by how dirty everthing and everyone on the bus is, and I don't like to see My (Wo)man rubbing elbows with such grime.

What does it mean? Am I a lesbian? Is My Man a transvestite? Or is my house in need of a good cleaning?

Girl Clomps Down

When I look into my closet and scan my spring/summer, professional shoe options, I realise I have a predilection for …

What the heck are they called?

. . . ‘mules’ … a strapless shoe, open at the ankle, generally with a smallish heel.

Is that what they’re called?

I don’t do ‘girly’. I rarely wear any kind of heel to brag about …

Maybe once … that time you went to … you wore those Prada boots mom gave you, you bitched all night and went home earlier than everyone else because your poor feetses were killing.

My spring/summer, professional shoe collection with its strapless, open at the ankle, smallish heel profile, however, is surprisingly feminine (for me). I suppose in the winter I stick with a basic pair of black or brown boots for work. Spring/Summer requires more choice. Even with all that choice, I find myself in a quandary.

The problem with open-at-the-ankle shoes is that, because they have nothing holding the back of the shoe snug to your foot, when you take a journey down steps (like walking down the left side of an escalator into the tube, for example) your foot and the heel of the shoe flap apart resulting in an embarrassingly feminine clop clop clopping as you descend*.

It’s a noise that screams “Oh-look-at-me-and-how-feminine-and-pretty-I-must-be-to-be-making-such-a-peacocky-auditory-display-of-my-feminine-and pretty-girly-shoes!” The observant upward commuters passing me will see that with each step I wince a little; each clop is a deafening shot from a pretty pink assault rifle.

Invariably, when I open my closet, I think about the sound I’m going to make in the tube, and wonder, “Can I bear making all that attention getting noise today?”

If any of the more seasoned feminine shoe wearing ladies out there have any pointers about how to change one’s gait to avoid the clamour, I’m all ears.

Please don’t suggest I stand (on the right), rather than walk. I’m impatient, and I’m a walker. Maybe I’m a walker because I am impatient. It is not in my nature to ride (stand on the right).**

I do have a manky little pair of slip-ons, that I sometimes carry in my bag, make a quick shoe switch before going into the tube, but I’m sick of hauling around so much excess crap!

*For those of you interested in the complete picture, the mechanics of the upward journey are somewhat different. I’m neither a scientist nor engineer so will not delve into the mysteries behind these mechanics, but be assured that there is no clop clop clopping to be observed during my ascent.

**Please note and appreciate the clever use of subliminal messaging in this post.

Distractions Prove Too Much

I sat on the sofa and turned on the TV (terrible vice). I thought to myself, I'll put on something not very interesting so I won't really watch (much).

It's just for the company of the noise.

My Man was out of town. I would write something witty and charming for my Internet audience.

What will it be about today? Maybe about that thing that happened on the Tube on the way home from work? Or the time you saw Brandon (or is it Brendan) Frasier in Leicester Square.

I thought Dragon's Den's would prove boring enough, but I'm oddly interested in the Cucumber Condom.

Then the biggest distraction of all confronts me. How can I resist this?

Tube Handrail Causes Flashback

Descending the escalator at Green Park this morning, I momentarily grasped the “handrail”.

Does that fat moving strip of rubber qualify as a ‘handrail’?

I had a flashback, and I remembered that I am not too terribly fond of my father.

At the time I wouldn’t have said, “I’m a woman.” As inflammatory as it might be to my feminist friends, I’m a girl. I don’t find anything wrong with that. It means I’m light hearted and childish and fun and spirited, except of course when work is dragging me down to unexplored depths of desperation. I'm a getting-old girl, but a girl nonetheless. This is all an aside.

At the time, the me in my flashback wouldn’t have said I was a woman, but I wasn’t a child. I was a new adult. I was 22 years old. I’d taught high school for a year in rural Africa without reliable electricity or running water (or a coffee supply!). I had hitchhiked through Botswana and Zimbabwe and South Africa. I had slept on a hammock on the island of Inhaca, Mozambique, and gone to a hospital in Maputo for a suspected case of malaria (a serious overreaction). I’d backpacked through Europe, and gotten a university degree, and worked as an intern pushing papers in a boring, over-air conditioned office in Washington D.C.

Back in an office? Doesn't seem like you've come very far.

In sum, I’d tasted a bit of the world. Enough to be annoyed by the stern warning my father gave me on my second visit to London as we rode down an escalator into the belly of some tube line or another. I stretched out my hand and let my fingers slide against the thick plastic of the ‘handrail.’

“Don’t touch that. You’ll get your hand dirty.”

Commuter Drinks Coffee

Some mornings, if I leave the flat early enough, I stop and get a coffee to take on the bus. It's got to be early because it's no fun riding public transportation during rush hour with a hot beverage.

This morning is one of those mornings. It's early. My feet veer from my normal course before my head even realises it. There will be no debate. We'll be getting a coffee for the road. I ask for four shots in my latte. And extra hot please. Not that I really care to scald my tongue, but generally the coffees are served just warmish, and I like it hot.

I'm the sole customer. The barista, she really takes my order to heart. It's HOT. So hot I daren't even take a sip on the short stroll to the bus stop, which I approach just in time to flag an about-to-pass bus. I climb aboard a completely empty-on-the-downstairs bus. I take a seat and blow on my coffee.

Woah! This is hot! This is going to last me to the office!

I think about how impossible it is to enjoy a coffee on the road during rush hour. I think back to how I learnt this sad lesson. It was on the District Line heading East at 8:30 in the morning. I naively stood on the platform with an extra hot latte and a few other million people. One train passed, and another before I could board. When I did make it onto a train, I had to hunch around my coffee to prevent it from spilling out onto anyone or me.

What an idiot.

Coffee just can't be savoured on a crowded tube. An empty bus is a different story.

Blockage in Holborn Station

Chances are, when you're going to the Holborn station to catch the westbound Piccadilly train, after you descend the first massive escalator and turn right and right again to descend the second, not-so-massive escalator and continue straight ahead for approximately 15 feet, then turn right then turn left, you will find a gaggle of overwhelmed tourists blocking the entrance to the platform you need.

If you are anything like me, although you like to think you are easygoing and cool, you will mutter 'fucktards' or something equally as crass.

My mother would tell me I need to practice being more generous with my patience.

Domesticity Grows Weary

There is a brand new BT Home Hub still in its cellophaned box sitting atop my dresser. It's been there since before holidays. I had forgotten about it. My heart dropped just a little bit when, upon entering my bedroom, I saw it staring at me. I tried to ignore it, to look around it, to pretend it wasn't there. In the back of my mind, I knew there was no escape.

God damn it.

Before we went on holiday, our broadband service had been acting up. The BT customer service rep who spoke to My Man had finally conceded that, yes, something was wrong with the Home Hub. He would send us a new one.

Will they compensate me for the time, my time, to set it up?

I'd just about gotten through most of the day without any interference from the new, yet neglected Home Hub.

"Should we try setting up the new hub?" My Man broke my Sunday reverie.

Crap!

"I suppose so."

Before we went on holidays, our toilet seat cover broke. It is no ordinary toilet seat cover, but one which closes itself all by itself. It is was so smart.

It is not as easy to ignore the broken toilet seat as it is the new Home Hub. I definitely spend more time interacting with the Home Hub than with the toilet, however the nature of the toilet interaction is far more direct and intimate than the that of the home hub. I'm using the home hub (old one) right now! At this very moment! And yet, I don't even see it. The home hub is out of sight and (generally) out of mind. Not so with the toilet.

The toilet seat should still be under warranty. I have shuffled through the myriad of paperwork My Man and I have kept over the years and found the necessary documents I think I will need when I eventually make contact with Porcelanosa.

These are the types of chores that whittle away at my spare time and at my patience. As soon as one is completed, another one crops up.

I know, I know. That's life.

It was a beautiful evening in SW London today.

God damn it ... I need to complete my British passport application.

Cabby Flouts Law & Looks Cool

"Where's the sun?" CBF asks with a wink when we step outside the terminal. Gray skies welcome us home. Three of us amble over to the taxi rank, taking our time to allow CBF a couple of minutes to inhale some nicotine, which she has sorely missed over the past 24 hours. We are in the queue behind a fat, elderly American. Probably from the Northeast. He wears shorts and Topsiders without socks. I hear some commotion behind us.

"Let us through. Please let us through. We're with someone up there."

The man's 2 female companions are equally hefty. They wear a lot of gold and have coiffed hair and freshly applied makeup.

Maybe they were reapplying while the guy got in line.

CBF has put her cigarette out; she finds this new development slightly irritating. She could have taken a couple more puffs. The threesome get into a taxi, whilst the one that will be ours drives up. Through the front passenger side window I see the cabby draw a deep long breath on the end of a cigarette. It's near the end. I imagine an inch of ash on the end, but know that this is unlikely.

His cigarette has vanished when we lean in to tell him the address where we'd like to go. The taxi is decorated with Pine tree shaped air fresheners and the obligatory no-smoking signs. We get in, and he pulls out of the taxi lane and heads toward town. Some minutes into the ride, he reaches onto his dashboard for a pair of sunglasses.

What, is he trying to be an elderly Jimmy Dean?

We notice shadows of other cars on the motorway. If there are shadows, there must be sun making those shadows. The CBF and I become giddy with the prospect of continuing our tanning activities here in London.

3 Leave Island

The bags are mostly packed, and the taxi* has been arranged. All that remains between now and leaving is coffee, showers and good-byes. My Man and I agree that we're looking forward to getting out of here, to getting home.


We're looking forward to cooking our own meals.




We're looking forward to some variety in the meteorological conditions.


In all seriousness, we are looking forward to going home. Even 'paradise' has its bugbears. For example, mosquitos. My ankles can't take any more mosquito bites. I wonder why mosquitos tend to congregate around my ankles. I wonder if it has anything to do with oxygen levels and if their tiny lungs suffer the higher they go.

Do mosquitos even have lungs?

Another thing, this place makes you feel guilty as hell and depressed as a motherfucker when contemplating our dear, sweet Earth. Unreliable expressed my despondency here. I understand and appreciate that we all have to prioritise; I know that the vast majority of people in developing countries are more concerned with feeding themselves and their families than worrying about what the black smoke billowing from the towers at the sugar cane factory will do to their lungs in X years time, let alone what it might be doing to the environment. I also know that individual actions don't put a dent into environmental damage. Real results will come from attacking industrial output (trading in all those dirty cars for bicycles, yes, is good ... but nothing compared to the CO produced by business). Nonetheless, attitudes on an individual level need to change before significant change can be made; and I'm just not very confident that individual attitudes are changing fast enough. In the first world, we're relunctant to make sacrifices that put a cramp on our lifestyles. Ditto for certain privileged socioeconomic circles in developing countries. Shame on us. Shame on them. In developing countries, there is no culture of dealing with trash. Of reducing trash. Of recycling. I know we export our literal garbage to developing countries. Again, shame on us and shame on those of them who allow it. I know recycling isn't always the answer; that 'do good' initiatives are often not thoroughly assessed, so something that is mean to help actually hurts. Factors impacting the environment are complex and need holistic assessment (ie - how much energy does it take to recycle. Does the process of recycling contaminate more than the original product to be recycled?), but the blatant disregard for the environment in developing countries is heartwrenching. I know it's not their fault. It's all of ours. I don't see an answer. Ug. This post has quickly descended into a depressing, poorly thought-out, poorly expressed wail for the environment. Apologies. I can't wait to get home where I can put my head in the sand.

Other than an absence of mosquitos and crap on the streets, I'm looking forward to seeing The Dog.

*The in-laws aren't taking us to the airport because they too are off somewhere, and the car doesn't have enough space for the five of us and our luggage.

NB: All photos from the Caribbean holiday are thanks to CBF.

4 Imagined Burnt to Death

The things that go through your head.

We're on holiday and having a grand time. Ok, mostly a grand time. The expedition to the capital from the country house wasn't so 'grand'. The in-laws had some papers to sign and errands to run. I agreed to go along for the chance to greet an uncle* who would also be in the capital the same day. I mustered myself up for a slow, island style day where quick errands are all day events. I have been here often enough to know that having papers signed means sitting down and having a coffee with a group of people I've never met but who have heard often enough about me, the gringa daughter-in-law, that we'll have to exchange some pleasantries. The CBF also agreed to come along, which meant the pleasantries were even more convoluted.

"Ah, una checa. Le gusta .... blah blah blah"

La Checa (CBF) has handled the keen interest in her with panache, especially considering her vocabulary in the language is limited. She wasn't as prepared as I was for the excursion to the capital. I brought a scarf along, seemingly unnecessary in the muggy heat; however, papers are signed in offices, and offices are well air-conditioned in this climate. Too well air-conditioned. While she froze (the locals oblivious to her discomfort ...)

how is it that they can prance around in such little clothing in such freezing temperatures?

... La Checa and I exchanged glances and snickers and rolled eyes at the some of their ways of doing everyday things.

like making a trip into the jodido capital to see the uncle who we didn't get to see because planning isn't optimal in this country.

Despite the failed objective of our mission and the freezing temperature in the paper-signing office and the 3+ hours in the car to get back and forth, I can't say the excursion was anything to really complain about. After all, we're on holiday and having a grand time.

So why the morbid thoughts?

At the sight of a speeding petrol-transporting truck with 'inflamable' written across the back I imagined an accident: the in-laws and me and La Checa burning to death as a result of an overturned petrol truck. Would we try to run to the ocean to douse ourselves? I'd rather die than survive, I think.

What the hell? You're on holiday!

*Uncle is used liberally in the country. In this instance, the Uncle is not a blood relation, however breast milk from one's mother was shared, thus creating a brothers' bond.

Holiday Reading Stalled

I'm not doing any reading. Whilst packing for my holiday I grabbed two books: The Bluest Eye (Tony Morrison) and a book of Octavio Paz's poetry. At the last moment, I came to my senses and returned Octavio Paz to the bookshelf.

Who are you kidding? You're going to read Spanish poetry on the beach?

To understand the improbability of my reading poetry in Spanish on a beach (or any reasonably public place), you must understand that when I read in Spanish, I tend to read out loud. Of course, I'm sensitive to those circumstances when reading out loud (in any language) is acceptable (at home, usually when My Man is out) and when it is not acceptable (any other time).

When I know the sound of my reading out loud (even if in a low, murmuring voice) will not be appreciated, I still end up moving my lips as if I'm reading out loud. This has the potential to be especially embarrassing -- if I forget where I am. For example, sometimes I buy El País to read on the tube, I have to make an extra effort to keep my lips still or risk looking like a complete mentalist.

Anyway, My Man is relieved that Octavio Paz stayed at home.

Maybe I should have left Tony at home too. She still hasn't made it out of my suitcase. The Bluest Eye is an American classic. I don't know how I managed to miss it at university. This isn't the first time I've brought Tony along and neglected her.

It's Su Doku's fault.

Family Falls Asleep in Front of TV

The long weekend has come to an end for almost everyone on the island. It's back to work for the cousins and aunts and uncles, school for the nephews and nieces, which means we are an almost-nuclear family left alone to wallow in peace. We don't know what to do with ourselves, though a large lunch time meal still sits heavy on our stomach. Even our eyelids droop. We turn on the television. The Mother-in-law wields the remote control. She changes from channel to channel for what seems like an hour. Finally, the CBF can't take it anymore. She announces that she is going to bed. Although we commiserate, we are in shock.

"So early?" someone asks.

"I'm tired, and it's almost bedtime, no?"

"What time is it?"

We look around at each other for someone to answer the question. No one knows, but then the Mother-in-Law remembers that she's wearing her watch.

"Ten to eight."

"It's not even eight!"

The CBF sits back down; she can't go to sleep before eight, you can see her tell herself.

A zillion channels and nothing on, we all agree. The-Mother-in-Law puts the remote down; the TV is settled on Dancing with the Stars.

Who the hell is that?

We reflect on the fact that we don't recognise any of the stars except Lil Kim. We wonder if the show is more about making stars out of has beens or almost beens.

A lizard scuttles across the wall and behind the TV. A little Caribbean (non-threatening) bat flits though the open front door and out the back door. The Father-in-Law starts to snore. Although she hasn't gone to bed, the CBF is also snoozing. The dancing stars are like sheep. My eyes flutter. They close.

We're asleep. Before nine.

She Writes Without Direction

One month last year (I think it was March), I resolved to write everyday. I did it and enjoyed it. I've made myself the same silent resolution this month. Here I sit on what is only Day 4, and I am at a loss for, not words, but subject matter.

I have multiple tabs open and distract myself from my subjectlessness by checking out mangoflow.com to see if my location will be compromised by my choice of photos, as if it matters, as if I'd be revealing a secret, as if I'm in the witness protection programme. Once the page finishes loading, I'm startled by the sound that comes out of my machine. I generally have the volume muted, and considering where I saw it advertised, I certainly didn't expect mangoflow.com to be such a sophisticated site. I determine that mangoflow.com poses no threat to my whereabouts. If anything, it is a false trail. The falsest. So I think; but I'm no private eye and haven't dug deep into the site. Truthfully, I was a little put off by the assault of noise that came from mangoflow.com.

I exhaust the subject that was a distraction and return to my subjectlessness.

I decide to end it here and resolve to keep an eye open for more direction tomorrow.

Whities Surrender

It's not a place where you can do much for yourself. CBF is finding it difficult to adjust to being waited on. I used to resist it too, but over the years, I have surrendered. From the moment you walk out the arrivals gate with your luggage in tow, there's going to be someone there to disencumber you of anything and everything. It starts with the father-in-law who insists on taking your luggage. Even your knapsack and camera case. You can't carry a thing. The Father-in-Law and I used to tussle (in a good natured way), now I just hand my bags over to him and watch as the CBF initiates in a novice's negotiations for self-reliance.

"Oh, no, I can manage. Thank you."

"No, no. Let me carry it."

Back and forth. Back and forth. At it's core, it's a clash of cultures. We, gringos ('whities') don't think it's proper to have someone seemingly wait on us; whereas, the father-in-law doesn't think it's proper that his lady guests should be burdened. It took me a while to realise it's just good manners to let the man carry my luggage.

At the jumbo grocery store, they have people who pack your groceries into bags. This isn't entirely unheard of in Europe. Sometimes the Tesco guys pack my bags ... though I don't think I've had the same service from anyone on the continent. In addition to the grocery packer, the jumbo grocery store has people who empty the contents of your jumbo grocery cart onto the conveyor belt at the till; also, there are a couple of someones who walk your groceries to the car and pack up your boot (trunk). I remember that some of this service was standard in the America of my childhood, but never to the same extent; never the numbers of people swarming around to ensure you don't lift a finger.

My Man comments on the service, "Job creation. It's all about job creation."

A jug of water magically appears on your nightstand table just before you go to bed. Coffee (albeit a very eensy teensy one) waits for you in the morning where you might have been observed to have been sitting the previous morning. Before you can look for a towel to take to the beach, you see one has been placed in your bag.

This isn't how the in-laws live. It's the hospitality they provide. There are others for whom this type of service is par for the course. They expect it; they pay for it; at least for now, though there are murmurings that business isn't what it once was. How long can the boat stay afloat?

Religion Infiltrates Island

At the end of our flight, after passing through a series of queues (to prove ourselves no threat by the immigration officers, to verify that we were not transporting any potentially mutable disease or foodstuff, to contribute to the local economy by buying a tourist card, just to line up somewhere else to relinquish our recently purchased tourist card so that it could be recycled for use by tourists following us on subsequent flights), I waited in the baggage claim area, away from the conveyor belt and removed from My Man and CBF. I didn't have the stomach for the jostling and elbowing and toe stepping that I knew would occur closer to the ring. I stood guard over the pile that our collective carry-ons formed at my feet. From my safe vantage point I watched the crowd. The 100% tourists with their blond hair and blue eyes and designer suit cases and golf clubs. The mocha brown well-to-do natives coming back from shopping excursions, carrying karaoke machines, Apple laptops, printers, and big bellies. My Man, CBF, and I, a mix of the two, foreigners but not foreigners, special ties to the Caribbean island.

My eyes fall upon a special group. Three boys. Young men. I think I know their exact age. 18, if I am right that that is the age at which the Mormon men walk the earth to spread their particular brand of religion. The sight of them in their cheap suits, clean and extra pressed with name badges pinned to their lapels makes me bristle. I can't read the pin, but I know that under their names, it is embossed with "The Church of Latter Day Saints". Their presence rankles against a raw nerve, a hatred for proselytizers.

How fucking rude. What makes your religion so much better than anyone elses?

I am more so annoyed because these boys come from the first world to recruit in the third world, and the arrogance of their task smacks me of colonialism.

The next day I am in the jumbo superstore where natives and tourists alike stock up on whatever they need. My Man and members of his family are taking the shopping duties seriously, whilst I mosey through the aisles examining the wares and comparing the familiar with the exotic. In one of the aisles I am approached by three natives. I pretend that I cannot speak their language, because I sense they want something from me that I don't want to give. The pamphlets in their hands are ominous.

As I walk away they yell after me, "Jesus love you. Jesus love you!"

Colonialism comes full circle.

Three Leave the Smoke

I got on the flight at 10am local time. It’s now 17:50, and I have another hour and a half to go. My butt is starting to get numb. I’ve watched two movies (Taken and Defiance) and two episodes of the American The Office, completed 5 of 8 Su Dokus started, gone to the loo 2 times, and I am starting to get irritated by My Man’s elbow, which keeps bumping into me; he’s playing a game on his laptop. I am, however, in a good mood because My Man, CBF and I are going on holiday. Somewhere warm. Somewhere sunny. Somewhere where we can eat good food in the company of loved ones. This elbow bumping me is driving me mad though. I know my irritability is related to the number of hours having been cooped up. I don’t think I’d ever make it on a flight to New Zealand.

A layover awaits us. I’m confident there will be Internet in the airport where we will wait two more hours before getting on another southerly headed flight. After the layover, I don’t know if I’ll come across the Internet in the next 9 days. I don’t know how I feel about that. I like the Internet. A lot. It keeps me company when I’m lonely and tells me important things I ought to know. A little daily Internet is enjoyable. If giving up the Internet is the price I have to pay for a holiday, I’ll pay the piper. The recent complaining about the recent workload is a symptom that I’ve been stretched thin and need a break before I break.

I think to myself how lucky I am and how spoiled I am. I have a job. I am truly and sincerely fond of the people with whom I work. I am a cry-baby and a pussy.

Fucking wimp.

The thoughts about my weak nature are a detour.

I’m thinking about the trip I made yesterday. I’m thinking about the journey through London to get to the train station and about the people I saw a long the way.

My butt is too numb and I cannot continue my train of thought.