Happy Christmas!

To all my blogger friends, you should know who you are ... from the mountains and villages of Spain (and the Basque Country) to the sands of Arabia to the little antique-everything shops in The North and the football loving, country-music home in The South, and the football loving transplants down under and everyone in-between ... you guys mean something to me ... something unexpected, something good. Have a good one! xxx, Ellie.

Water Less

I’ve boarded a train outside London where the snow has accumulated. The platform at the station is ½ shovelled- ½ still covered in snow. The sun has come out, but hasn’t had time yet to turn the snow and ice to slush.

Not long.

The train pulls out of the station and heads toward London. In the distance, the naked arms and spindly fingers of leave-less trees hold up a coating of snow. When the sun hits those tree-skeletons, they look like pyrotechnic displays frozen in time, a moment of full, round bursting glory.

London’s snow is now naught.

Not even the grey slush will be left, I bet.

It will be just damp asphalt. Remnants that could just as well belong to an average rain.

I wonder if I will have to water the privet or if the moisture provided by the melted snow will suffice for this week’s watering.

Regarding the privet, the Jury* is still out. The laurel lost its touch-and-go battle for survival when we bumped into a fellow walking his three dogs in the park. In addition to his three dogs, the bumped-into-fellow also happens to own a landscaping business. We mustered up our courage and asked him his professional opinion on the durability of laurel bushes in the city.

He shook his head and, in an authoritative tone, denounced laurel bushes as a pansy strain.

“Privet, though. Well, now that’s another matter. Privet is a hardy beast.” He spoke about privet like a lover.

He offered to walk by around later in the evening and evaluate the status of our laurel. His diagnosis was delivered swiftly via Facebook. “Your laurel sticks are finished as shrubs. Suggest 7 privet bushes. Can do it for you Tuesday. £300.”

I remember the pleasant surprise of coming home on Tuesday to find our sticks had been replaced with plants that actually had leaves – green leaves! Later that evening, I wrote a cheque, hoped it would arrive despite the on-again-off-again postal strike, and logged onto Facebook to solicit some privet care-giving tips.

The landscaping, dog-walking man responded, “Water it 2 times a week during the summer. Less in the winter.”

Now that we’re fully entrenched in winter, I wonder what constitutes ‘less’.

*The Jury = My Man and me.

Telephone Rings

My mother had been trying to get in touch with me. She and the hordes of telemarketers are the only ones who try me on the landline. It's an imperfect landline anyway. Sometimes it seems to choose not to work. When the landline first refused to work, I thought it was the phone; not the line itself. We swapped phones out, but the same obstinate non-working behaviour continued to dog us. I called in BT who said they would charge me a call-out fee if they didn't find anything wrong. Guess what: they didn't find anything wrong, but miraculously the trouble we'd been having left when the BT engineer left with 100 of our £s with him. Although the landline sometimes works, I never pay it any mind. We have one phone plugged into the landline, and it sits in the corner of our bedroom. I never think to look if the message indicator is blinking.

When I got home form work on Friday, and My Man got home from out of town, and we caught up on a week's worth of news whilst he unpacked, we noticed we had 6 messages. All from my mom. She'd been trying to get in touch.

Of course I knew something was wrong.

Please let the cancer not be back.

I didn't consciously think it. It crossed my mind like a flash. Fast. So fast I would have said I didn't think it, except I have to be honest. I didn't want to entertain the possibility so the thought was banished. Fast.

"It's too late to call her now, isn't it?"

"Yeah. You'll have to wait until tomorrow."

15 minutes later, the landline rang. It was my mother. She sounded serene and beautiful.

"My Man died on Thursday."

Her Man had been a rediscovered high school sweet heart. After 40 years in a crap marriage (with my father), she found a partner who treated her better than any child could hope a partner would treat a mother. He passed away unexpectedly. This will be the next hard thing that my mother will have to bear.

My Insides Will Be Examined

I will spend most of the day in the hospital. Shortly after 2pm they will put me under. I don't know what method they will use.

When I was a 5 year old I had an eye operation; and they (the American medical profession of the mid 70's) used laughing gas to knock me out. I remember waking up with a massive headache. I cried for my mother who was out in the hall chit- chatting with someone. I was pissed off. I was in pain; I didn't understand it; and I wanted Mommy to make me feel better.

When I was 17, I was put under general anaesthesia to have my wisdom teeth pulled (all four; all impacted). I enjoyed the Demerol that they (American medical professionals in the late 80's) prescribed to tackle the anticipated lingering pain.

When I was 37, they (the British medical establishment) put a needle in my good vein and watched me smile dreamily into nothingness so that they could cut me open to put a couple of knots in my lady parts.

For as good as I remember feeling that last time during the 10, 15, 20, (?) pre-knock-out seconds, I am not looking forward to the entirety of my imminent experience. I want to get in and get out, but they will insist that I stay. I don't imagine I will be home before 22:30.

I shouldn't sound so glum. Overall the experience leading up to this point has not been bad.

A few weeks ago, I visited one of the practitioners (one of the good ones) in our local GP's office. She filled out the requisite insurance forms and wrote the requisite letters of reference in order to have me seen by a private specialist. So far so good.

The insurance people ...

aren't they suppose to be evil?

... authorised my visit to a specialist with efficiency and a concerned tone of voice.

The Chelsea Wing of the Westminster & Chelsea Hospital is newly refurbished, clean and modern;and, I noticed whilst I waited for my first visit with the specialist that it was inaugurated by Sophie Ellis-Bextor. All very nice. So far.

Whilst I waited on the crisp, leather sofas and stared at the modern, brightly coloured works of art on the walls, a man in green scrubs and with an important demeanour exchanged a few words with the receptionist of The Chelsea Wing. His voice bellowed.

He doesn't really have to speak so loudly, does he?

I took a dislike to him.

Self important.

He wore slip-on shoes so I could see his ankles and heels. There were gaping holes in his socks. This imperfection made me soften slightly to him.

He can't be all bad if he has a pair of favourite socks that he can't bear to throw away.

He shuffled into a consulting room with his heelless socks, a pregnant woman, and the man I presumed had impregnated the woman. I imagined the impregnator asking lots of questions whilst the woman sat back with her hands on her belly. In my mind, it was a man to man meeting. The woman, a mere vessel.

After the couple left, the self-important, yet sock-fond medical professional called me into the consulting room. He put his elbow on his desk, rested his head on his palm, and looked at me sideways to show that he really was interested when he asked, "So why are you here?"

As I had done with my GP, I reeled off the symptoms from The Symptoms to Tell the Doctor (1) list.

Guess what he did then?

He asked me - as if it weren't perfectly obvious from my accent - where I was from.

I played along with his game and informed him I hailed from the Great United States of America.

He replied, "Aha. I thought so. Do you know how many American women are buried without their uteri?"

"Excuse me?"

"American women - what percentage have been buried without the uteri? 60%*"

"I didn't know that."

"And Saudi women? Do you know how many Saudi women are buried without their uteri?"

He could see on my face that I didn't have a clue.

"Less than 1%. Why? Availability. If it's available to you, you'll take it."

I would like to make it perfectly clear to my Internet audience, that the last thing I really wanted out of my visit with this women's issues specialist was a hysterectomy. I also hadn't hoped to get a lecture on the geographical vagaries of the global medical profession.

The specialist in women's issues then went on to ask a lot of embarrassing questions about my sex and farting practices and the frequency of my peeing. He then went on to explain different options. He didn't seem to hear me when I said that my need to pee frequently isn't an all-the-time circumstance, but comes and goes (generally with my period).

I wanted to say, "Look Mr. Specialist, would you please just get the fuck over yourself for just a few minutes and listen to me. Really, really listen to me. I do not want anyone cutting me up. I have these symptoms. I have been told in the past that I have fibroids. I really just want someone to take a look in there and let me know if those fibroids have gotten worse. If so, then I'll think about my options. If not, heck, I can live with these uncomfortable symptoms."

But I didn't.

I let him go on.

He initially recommended the Mirena Coil.

Some of you might remember that I made a reference to this 'miracle device' of which the medical community seem so enamoured (for birth control as well as for 'treating' fibroids). My experience with it was an awful experience. And I told the self-important specialist so. He asked why. I told him about bleeding almost non-stop for 6 straight months and stinking like rotting flesh.

He laughed.

Let me say that again: he laughed.

He then said he had never heard of that particular symptom: stinking. (The implication was that I must have imagined it.) I told him he could check the Internet. That got an even bigger laugh.

"Never go to the Internet for medical advice!"

He continued on to describe the other options for treating fibroids.

Finally, I was able to whimper out my preference to defer decision making until we had a better idea what we were talking about.

IE - Can't you just fucking take a look inside and tell me what the delta is from the last time the fibroids were spotted?

"Yes. Yes. Let's schedule a Hysteroscopy bladie blah. And while we're looking inside we might as well stretch your bladder a little bit."

What?

I didn't voice my scepticism. I had been defeated.

As I shuffled out of the consulting room, he had to bring up the Mirena Coil again.

"Maybe it just gave you a keener sense of smell so you thought you smelled."

Jeesuz fucking Christ. He just can't accept it or drop it.

I fixed my gaze on him and stated slowly and sternly, "No. I smelled. My husband couldn't even stand the smell of me."

If you would like me to ask him in to verify the symptom, I would be happy to.

The specialist who I really didn't like will be looking into my insides today. He will stretch my bladder, a procedure I wonder if it's necessary.

I also wonder if the specialist will be wearing a proper pair of socks.

* I was too astounded by the line of questioning to remember the actual figure quoted.

Man Born in High Class Hotel

I keep putting this off because I haven’t yet taken a proper picture of the Lanesborough.

Not true.

Actually, I did take a photo specifically for this post; but it was in autumn’s early morning darkness and from the bus stop across the street. The photo does not do the Lanesborough justice; furthermore, days later, I happened to be on the other side of the Lanesborough in the light of day (but without my camera) and I noticed that the Lanesbororough’s profile would make a much better, more relevant photo for this post.

The Lanesborough is purportedly London’s most expensive and exclusive …

don’t they generally go hand in hand?

...hotel, the cream of the crop of the hotels that surround Hyde Park. Its name is so discreetly etched across it’s plain egg-white façade, that I don’t exactly recall where it’s etched …

on the portal or higher in the cornice?

… and my photo is so poor, I can’t make it out. Not like the Dorchester, whose signage I can visualise perfectly.

Sometimes I’m not even sure I’ve gotten The Lanesborough’s name right. For ages I called it the Landsdowne. I don’t know why that name stuck. I’m pretty sure I have the name right now: the Lanesborough.

The Lanesborough first entered my awareness (as the Landsdowne) after a year of living in The Smoke. My Man’s confidence in his then-employer had waned, and he began the painful process of networking. One of his contacts (a contact of a contact) agreed to meet him for lunch. This contact of a contact suggested they meet at the Lanesborough. My Man regaled me with intricate descriptions of the prices of the menu at the Lanesborough restaurant. I still remember that the contact of a contact ordered a £20 crab salad as a starter. Steep stuff considering the nuts-and-bolts nature of the lunch was to discuss job hunting and the fact that the soon to be job hunter would be picking up the tab. My Man was quick to point out that the contact of the contact was exceedingly polite, gracious, and never, never, never went further afield than Knightsbridge to the West or Mayfair in the East unless it was to go to his ancestral home in (I don’t remember where) or for a little R&R in the Maldives. That is how the Landsdowne entered my imagination.

Much later, a few short months ago in fact, My Man and I walked to what we thought was going to be a casual dinner with a couple whom we met through our dogs. (Our dogwalker walks The Dog with this couple’s Boxer). We had previously hosted a little barbeque (steaks) attended by the couple, our dogwalker, his girlfriend, and the dogs. When the couple had invited us to their house, we thought it was along the same vein.

Before entering the couple’s front door, we noticed their building had not been chopped up into flats; their home occupied the full five floors. My envy grew as we were led through different rooms and up and down flights of stairs.

All this space!

It climaxed in the kitchen.

A kitchen with a full American sized refrigerator!

We were escorted to a terrace that overlooked their neighbours’ gardens and we waited for the other guests to arrive.

One of those guests was a not-quite 40 year old boy with the type of name only an aristocrat, or someone very wealthy, could get away with. A name that carried a geographical connotation – like a street name or neighbourhood; or a name, like good names from the American South, which seem more appropriate surnames than first names. Fleming or Parker, Harley or Eton or some such thing. The boy-man with the strange name led the party in drinking games and story-telling and joke-making. He was one of these who commands a room with his height, his good looks (cross between Rupert Everett and Hugh Jackman), and aura of impish fun.

During the course of the evening, discussions turned to the origins of the different guests. American, American, American (nee Seattle; NYC; Oxford, Ohio); South African (nee Cape Town); Dutch (nee Utrecht). When the imp-man-boy was asked where he was born, he answered without batting a mischievously twinkling eye,

“The Lanesborough.”

That is how I learned that in former times the opulent Lanesborough was a hospital.

Click on the 2nd photo and you'll see it should have been obvious to me sooner.

List Forgotten

The list that engendered the whole idea of putting my mental lists into a post was forgotten. Since we made the decision to move, I have begun noting those things I will miss.

The List of Things I Will Miss About London

1. The green spaces. The parks.
2. Running to and through the green spaces; the parks; overshadowed by Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, the Eye.
3. Pulling on my Wellingtons for long strolls with Dog through Wimbledon Common on rainy Saturday or Sunday mornings.
4. A river. Madrid's river is a mere 'aprendizaje de un rio' (apprentice of a river; and no, at this time, I don't feel like identifying the keys that will produce the proper accents).
5. Grape Nuts.
6. Having a pint outside an overflowing pub on the occasional sunny day.
7. The British respect for and pride in proper queuing behaviour. The Spanish must learn to queue.
8. Itsu.
9. My back garden.
10. Monitoring the progress of the Lavender, the Clematis, and the Privet, which replaced the Laurel; it had lost the fight.

I'm sure there will be more, but at least I can begin preparing for missing.

Sometimes I Make Lists, Too*

The Things-To-Do-Before-Moving List

1. Call the pet transport people.
2. Arrange pet passport.
3. Arrange Rabies vaccination for Dog.
   
4. Update CV.
5. Find translator for CV.
6. Book flight.
7. Book temporary flat.
8. Shed possessions no longer required or desired.
   

The Symptoms-to-Tell-The-Doctor-List (1)

1. Occasional pains in my side - generally the left ovary; sometimes the right. (I do not know exactly how I know the pain's is in my ovary; but I do know. I feel it.)
2. An over-frequent perception (often false) that I need to pee. Badly.
3. Heavier and heavier menstrual cycles.
4. Iron deficiency (from above, I assume).
   

The People-to-Contact (and about what) List

1. Mom:
   • The neighbour next door in Scottsdale, AZ in the mid 70's.
   • What she did when she had Plantar Fasciitis?


2. Dad:
   • Home ok?
   • How was Germany?


3. Eldest Brother:
   • When & where does he want to travel?
   
   
4. CBF:
   • Apologise for reaction to some news.
   • Xmas plans
   • Trip to Madrid


5. ABF:
   • Sister's wedding - congrats.
   • What do I do with the Clematis?

The Symptoms-to-Tell-The-Doctor (and what I've tried) List (2)

1. Pain in bottom of my left heal.
   
2. Sometimes sharp; sometimes dull and throbbing.
3. 5-6 months. Started in both feet but the right one has improved.
   
4. Worse in the morning.
5. Bought insoles.
6. Ditched the flats.
7. Stretch 3-5 times a day.
8. Laid off running.
   

The Chores List

1. Water the orchids.
2. Give Dog a bath.
3. Pick up new batch of heartworm medicine.
4. Laundry.
5. Grocery shopping.
6. Sock darning.

*Not nearly as interesting or fun as those lists Rassles composes.

Mind Wanders on Way to Train

As the taxi edges down Euston Road toward the Saint Pancras station, my mind goes a million miles an hour in a thousand different directions. I am struck by the similarity of my current train of thought with yesterday’s, when I had been on a bus in Knightsbridge, just past Harrod’s, right in front of the flagship Burberry’s with the larger than life advertisements featuring the little girl from Harry Potter who really isn’t a little girl any more. I had started thinking how my blogging was suffering from a lack of inspiration or distraction by real life events or a period of authoress languor. The now-stunningly-beautiful, not-so-little-girl from Harry Potter snapped me out of my mental doldrums. From that point forward, every building, every modulation of light, every start and stop of the bus driver, and the whisperings of my fellow bus travellers became something of such interest that I felt I should …

I must …

blog all about it. As soon as one observation concluded, another began. Half formulated phrases were abandoned as new ones were required. I hoped I’d be able to remember the stream once I would find the time to chronicle it all, but panic set in.

How will I ever keep up with the speed of these thoughts?

At some point the blogging thoughts gave way to the normal-day-is-starting thoughts: calls that I would need to make, meetings I would have to arrange, personal errands I would need to try to fit in between the sheets of workday hours. Then the workday was over, and I was at home alone with Dog, (The Man was out out of town), and what should have been ideal blogging time became petting-the-dog and falling-asleep time. Then it became today.

The taxi isn’t really a taxi, but a licensed mini-cab. I was waiting outside when it pulled up, and I thought, “Whoa! That’s no mini-cab!” because really it is an extraordinarily large van easily fitting eight, able to fit ten. I didn’t immediately feel guilty this morning that such an excessive vehicle was going to transport me and my overnight bag across town to the train station.

It isn’t until I am on Euston Road when my thoughts eventually lead to a sense of environmentally-conscious guilt. The driver has asked me what time my train is. Actually, I think he has asked what time my flight is – I can’t be sure, but that’s what I think I have heard – I know what he means.

Flight. Train. Same Difference.

I look at my watch as I respond to the taxi driver.

“I’d like to be there in half an hour. We should have plenty of time.”

I’m taking a later train. When I booked the mini-cab yesterday, I factored later morning (worse) traffic into the logistics. I notice the traffic isn’t as bad as I had thought it might be, but still much slower than the crack of dawn journeys I used to make. This is when I think…

You might have been better off taking The Tube.

I have become so accustomed to leaving the house before The Tube is running that it didn’t even register as an option …

Dimwit. You. In this big van. Guzzling petrol. Alone. With a small overnight bag. You could have easily taken the Piccadilly line straight to King’s Cross / Saint Pancras! It would have been cheaper; better for the environment; probably faster; you could have gotten your morning drink – well maybe not; you wouldn’t be able to carry it easily with your luggage – but it would have made much more sense. Then you wouldn’t have had to worry about whether or not it’s rude that you don’t feel like being engaged in conversation with the taxi driver. I know he is just being nice and probably wants to practice his English, and you should be sympathetic; you might be in that position someday, but you’re paying him for his service in cash, not kindness; are you really being rude? You just want to enjoy the quiet; you don’t want to make the effort. If you were in the driver’s seat, would you think you were being rude? I don’t think so; I think you would pick up on the mood of the customer and respect it. Don’t feel bad about it. He’s going to get a tip. Look! There’s the railing where the bicycle was chained during the snowstorm. Always too slow with your camera. Your bicycle has been under your desk at work for ages. It’s because you’re afraid deep down. After Colleague’s accident. Same Colleague for whom you delivered training last week. What a disaster that was. Would you write about that? I don’t know. You have so much to write about. If you were to write everyday between now and the time that you leave would you have written enough about London? What about the non-London stuff? You’ve started so many threads. Will you ever get to the CAT scan at Charing Cross hospital or the guy with the name of a London street or neighbourhood or the tackiness of the Winter Wonderland display at Hyde Park or your first foray into the Natural History Museum. And the new stuff? The preparations, The Dog, the worry during the run up to Madrid….

My mind keeps going everywhere.

Work Done & Bus Smells (Good. Ish.)

The bus doesn't take the detour at South Kensington. I hear a couple of the other early morning regulars gasp, laugh and comment on the length of time the work has taken. The detour has been a way of life for the past couple of months. Now the bus, rather than turning onto Old Brompton Road and heading in the direction from which it has just come, plods straight through the myriad streets that converge in front of the South Kensington tube station. It barrels up Cromwell Place - where, if I were to come later in the day, I would see a queue forming outside one of the buildings and I would wonder for the umpteenth time what building it was that merits such a queue.

An embassy? The French one? The Institut is nearby. Do those people look like they need and/or want visas to go to France?

The bus stops at the stop light at Cromwell Place and Cromwell Road. I don't like this little piece of the new route. Before the bus used to speed down Thurloe Place and would have had to cleverly negotiate oncoming traffic in order to pull out in front of the Victoria & Albert. I know this small change in the route is probably safer; but it's not as much fun. I used to rate my bus drivers on the demonstration of skill exhibited on this little stretch of my sometimes commute. Now it seems the bus driver's job has been dumbed down: the light will guide them.

When I boarded the bus this morning, I sat right in front of the only other person on the bus. I wondered if it bothered him that I sat in such proximity when I had all the other seats from which to choose. At subsequent stops others joined the bus and scattered throughout so my presumptuousness wasn't all that apparent for too long. At Hyde Park Corner I see him in the reflection of the glass partition by the exit doors and decide it must be he who is responsible for the overpowering smell of cologne that envelopes me. He has slicked back hair and wears a suit. He repositions his arms, and, in the reflection, I catch a glimpse of his wedding band around a pudgy finger on a pudgy hand. He disembarks at Marble Arch just in front of the Speaker's Corner corner of Hyde Park. The smell of cologne lingers. Now I have my doubts. I do not know if the pudgy handed man doused himself in cologne -- or was it someone else?

Gifts Listed

Two or three years ago I drafted a "what I want for Christmas" list in response to CBF’s asking me what I wanted for the holidays. I began the drafting process with a less than enthusiastic attitude.

I don't know what the hell I want.

I tried to be mindful of what I thought CBF’s budget ought to have been. My list started with reasonably priced items like books, music, and socks . I also included broad categories like "comfy pajamas" that could span a range of budgets. I tried to be funny and explain why I wanted certain things. Like expensive face creams that would make me look ten years younger or a pedicure administered by the CBF herself because she does the best job at making my pathetic toenails look reasonably ok. At the end of the exercise I realised it had been be fun to think about all those things I might have wanted either as a caprice or as a matter of practicality - whether I expected to receive those things or not.

As my birthday approached the following year, CBF asked me to repeat the exercise. Despite having found it to be worthwhile, I failed to produce a list that equaled the quality of my Xmas list (quality as defined by a mix of cost, whimsy, utility and variety of items).

Likewise, I failed to match my list-making achievement the following Xmas. I realised that, for as enjoyable a task as list-making might be, starting afresh each gift-getting season is arduous. Then and there, I decided I would start a running list for any gift-giving (to me) holidays. Then and there, I started my list. Somewhere between then and there and here and now I was distracted; it hasn't moved on. At least I have a baseline.

Ellie's Fantasy Wishlist of Everyday Gifts (or Things that will bring Ellie temporal joy).

Anne Fontaine blouses. [Warning: the website sucks. You'll get stuck in a flash
vortex. Click only if truly interested.]

Cashmere scarves. I thought I might have to
strike this one off my list since the decision to
move to Madrid was made; but I can't; it does get cold in Madrid; and a cashmere
scarf is the next best thing to snuggling up with an warm, fuzzy, cute
animal.

Pajamas.

Lip gloss on Beth's site.

Paper and pens.

Gloves of a certain kind ... either cheapish cashmere from one of those
all cashmere tourist shops on Brompton Road or Regent Street or a fancy and
sleek leather pair with some kind of cool colour combination like that brown
with orange trim pair I saw in Harrod's the year before last. They slipped on
... fit like a glove ... And I short-sightedly put them down. I thought I'd
think over the potential purchase. Not recommended during Harrod's Christmas
sale.

To be continued (ie updated).