Saturday morning music: Bruch and The Indigo Girls

It’s raining and I’m sipping coffee, Classic FM on in the background while I browse through email. Tim has headed off to a meeting and I’m alone in London for a few hours. There’s a strain of violin in the background that captures my attention; it’s beautiful in a way that makes me pause to listen harder, and I want to remember it. I know the piece, but I can’t place it.

A quick look at the station’s website and I can see what’s playing: Max Bruch’s violin concerto No 1, movement 1, in G minor. It was somewhere in the third minute that I had my moment. The violin is serene, soft, simple, and I am no longer paying attention to anything else. And when it ended, I sighed at how music is such a powerful force.

And then, somehow, my mind jumps 125 years ahead to The Indigo Girls. If you’re a fan, well, you’re devoted. You know how beautifully constructed the lyrics are and how their music includes wonderful interludes of cello, piano, trumpet, acoustic guitar (or electric if it’s “an Amy song”), African drums, mandolin (more of an “Emily” instrument).

I think the connection came from a post from America a few days ago—the Girls are on tour in the New York area, and having read that and expressed jealousy at seeing them perform live, their music is still swirling in my mind days later. I haven’t seen them in concert in years—they don’t get to England much, if at all. When the mood strikes I find myself dusting off the CDs or finding a few tunes on You Tube when I want to hear something in particular, or just go through whatever playlist is available. There’s a host of recollections that different songs from different years hold for me; I quite like pausing and thinking about those times. There’s a comfort in replaying favourites, both melody and memory.

So that’s how I’ve spent the last hour. And yes, I am singing at the top of my lungs (Tim’s not hear, remember.) And I will go throughout this dreary wet day no doubt humming through some old favourites, pondering such things as what is love then, is it dictated or chosen . . . Mystery. And no doubt there will be a strain of the intermezzo from Cavalleria rusticana in my day, and I will pause and smile, grateful for how music and life are intertwined.

Bléchamel sauce

I am a fan of French cuisine, truly, though admittedly I tend to shy away from the creamier concoctions of Mornay and Hollandaise sauces. What I am not a fan of, and find it is one of the common ingredients of British "Italian" cooking, is Béchamel sauce. It is used in addition to red sauce to make lasagne or, gasp, eggplant parmigiana. What is this all about, white sauce as a layer? Gobsmacked, I tell you.

But wait, Jamie Oliver does it! Nigella Lawson does it! Delia does it!

Mario Batali does not. Emeril Lagasse does (he calls it Manly Man Lasagne). Martha Stewart sticks with the traditional red. My brother David  never put a white sauce in his . . . OK, he’s not Italian, but anyone I have known with an Italian background, at least when I’ve been in the kitchen with them, has not made a roux a layer.

Flour, milk, butter . . . red sauce? Well, this just didn’t seem to be right. I Googled it and found that northern Italians tend to use the béchamel whereas the southern Italians prefer ricotta. I think I am a Southern belle, then!

(Can you even buy Béchamel in a jar in New Jersey? I can’t recall having ever seen it.)

Poor Tim. He came home excited to make me eggplant (aubergine) parmigiana, one of my favourite meals. There’s a place in Harrison, New Jersey, called Nino’s that is for me makes one of the best—thinly-sliced eggplant, red sauce, a bit of cheese and no hint of Béchamel. Every time I go back to New Jersey I find myself there, usually ordering just that.

Out came the ingredients Tim purchased, and lo and behold a jar of Dolmio appeared. I wasn’t kind; I reminded Tim that I don’t like white sauce and would not have it used for my eggplant parmigiana. I was perhaps a bit strong. The Dolmio went into the cupboard.

There was also some mince (aka chop meat) produced. OK, so, I wouldn’t combine the two, but I could see this was starting to be more like moussaka . . . which is what Tim had in his mind. I was dreaming of Nino’s version, a side of whole wheat pasta and a salad with balsamic vinaigrette.

The compromise, in the end, was quite good—eggplant sliced skin-on, brushed with olive oil and grilled, then layered in a dish with a bit of cheese and red sauce, no Béchamel. The side was whole wheat spaghetti and we did use the mince so it was a la Bolognese, and the same sauce was used to layer the eggplant though straining the sauce so there was little meat with the eggplant (it was all we had at the time).

I had the leftovers for dinner one evening when Tim was away. The flavours melded nicely and the eggplant was delicious, not all that far off the mark from Mr Nino. Things can only get better!

Like if You Love Your Neighbourhood

My London, my true London home, is not the one that flashes in people’s minds when they think of the city: I don’t turn the corner and see Westminster Abbey or Buckingham Palace. It’s also a bit of a trek to catch a glimpse of the London Eye, and Madam Tussauds is a fair jaunt down the Euston Road that takes up to an hour by car; even though it’s only four miles, the traffic can be terrible. And the closest I’ve come to see the Queen, soon to be our longest running monarch, was actually on the Isle of Wight!

Terraced houses in "the north."

No, my London is my wonderful neighbourhood “north.” Not far, mind you, from the centre of tourist activity; four miles and I’ll be sitting in a sidewalk café in Covent Garden watching the buskers perform operettas. In 3.5 miles I could be looking at the Magna Carta or handwritten Beatles lyrics in the British Library. In just a tick over two miles I can be at the Silicon Roundabout—London’s  new innovation hub. And if I were the sporting type I live just over a mile from Emirates Stadium; on most nights when Arsenal plays at home we can hear the shouts from our front porch.

Along the New River Walk

Oh, and the canal is just a short one-mile walk to see the narrow boats emitting puffs of smoke from their fuel stoves on chilly mornings. You can stroll for six miles from one end to the other, and trust me, we have. Even closer is the New River Walk, an aqueduct originally meant to bring water from Hertfordshire to the local well and just 15 minutes away, a wonderful oasis that I simply love to stroll through to get to one of my favourite neighbourhood pubs, The Marquess Tavern.

The Marquess at the foot of the New River Walk.

Another favourite walk is to Clissold Park, and there in under 10 minutes. We often circle the park and slow down to peer at the goats or the fallow deer kept there to the delight of many small children (and a few adults). In the summer the park is brimming with runners, prams, and foot and paw traffic that usually means the walk is more leisurely than active, but what great people-watching! (Walking there often leads to a conversation, had dozens of times, about getting a dog.)

The other evening I convinced Tim (as it was the last day of my extended weekend) to pop into the Rose and Crown, directly across from Stoke Newington Town Hall where we were married, for a glass of something cold after our stroll down Stoke Newington Church street. 

One of the many shops along Church Street.

The road is filled with tea shops, cafes, garden shops, and lovely independent stores selling books, clothes, gadgets, etc. (It has its share of real estate agents, too.) The street has a slight grungy edge to it—the road is narrow along with the shops, and it’s usually crowded and I’d say it’s not actually pretty, but it’s close to  home and it’s wonderful for its diversity. Oh, and the best part of making that journey—the Whole Foods Market!

My Whole Foods.

Our pause at the Rose and Crown meant that we ran into a local artist who we’d recently seen selling his art from a table just outside one of the entrances at Clissold Park and whom we had purchased some cards from; he happens to be a friend of a good friend, we found out by chatting with him, and Tim recognised him immediately at the pub. Stokie is full of artists—many of the shops display works by the locals which you can buy right off the walls—and Alex kindly invited us to a private view of five artists’ works next weekend. How’s that for neighbourhood hospitality!

The Rose and Crown.

The other morning I had to pop out to get some milk, and as I was heading down the stairs I had this moment of absolute joy living in my neighbourhood. It was not a warm day, but it wasn’t cold either and the air had that lovely smell of fresh-baked bread, in fact from the shop I was heading to, and it was quiet and pretty, and I fell in love all over again.

When you come to my London, well, I’ve got a few things to show you!

Deer at Clissold Park.

Sacrifice

To give up something valued for the sake of other considerations

What’s the biggest sacrifice you’ve ever made?

I might say that I swapped the joy of physical closeness with family and friends in America for Skype (plus other assorted technology) when I relocated to another country, though there have been numerous benefits that have balanced the scale with sacrifice.

I was thrust into thinking about sacrifice while waiting for the bus the other evening, having decided to check my email. (A three-minute wait and I’m all over the mobile; how our lives have changed.) I had a note from a friend whose mother had passed away; a friend who I met 30-odd years ago and who despite the considerable distance between us has always been someone whose friendship I have cherished. (You know the type. Pause to be thankful for them.)  Yes, I cried quietly. I had a moment of frustration of being too far away. And then I had a ton of memories of our spending time together crowding my mind; there were smiles and smirks amid the tears.

A number of years ago my friend moved to take care of aging parents; attempts to manage their issues from miles away were difficult for all of them, and particularly for someone who wasn’t keen on flying. Pause. Imagine giving up life as you once knew it—the great apartment in the cool neighbourhood, a steady stream of work, friends you got to see on a frequent basis, your own space where the only limitations are those you create  . . .

There are a lot of intangibles to a sacrifice of that magnitude. And then there are the financial costs and the emotional strain of dealing with illness, decisions, adjustment, and uncertainty. Those all sit heavily on top of the realisation that all things once familiar are now physically distant and need to be re-established if not for any reason but for one’s sanity. It is a burden I suspect too heavy for most shoulders to bear.

I didn’t get the chance to have to deal with such sacrifice with my parents; they separated when I was in my teens and my father was not part of my life after the divorce decree but to discuss the odd bill here and there he was obligated to pay for the children he cast aside. It was never a pleasant phone call, and after the youngest turned 18 he was done. My mother died too young; in the last year of her life she required more care, but that was spread among some of the six of us. Frankly I never saw it as a burden—every moment I spent with mother was cherished, truly. (And it’s not just because she would tell me I was the best driver of my siblings; she did balance her praise with observations such as I had very ugly feet.) And financially, well, my mother fed me and kept a roof over my head until I was almost 25; she remarked when I decided to go to NYU that she could only feed and shelter me, and that was all I needed. Any contribution I made to her comfort was just payback, and probably not in the amount she provided me over the almost 40 years we had together.

I admire my friend in ways I can’t possibly articulate. We all make choices; there are always options. Putting your own desires and needs aside for the sake of others takes courage, strength, resilience, faith . . . and probably a whole lot more. We all say we’d do it; there are those who have lived it, on their own and with only their inner strength to remain sane, whole, and as happy as is possible.

I believe in karma. I hope that, in my next life, we are privileged to meet again and I can smile at the good fortune that surrounds someone who most certainly deserves it.

Around the world in 52 days

It’s been a while since I’ve paused to post, but forgive me; here’s why:

And oh what fun I’ve had . . . I have piled on the miles from Manila to Hong Kong to Reykjavik to Edinburgh to no less than four states in a ten-day swing through America.  The journeys covered several airlines (Cathay Pacific wins the award for the best, United for the absolute worst) and a few trains, trams, and buses. I highly recommend the Virgin train up to Edinburgh, where the view of scenic Berwick-upon-Tweed is absolutely gorgeous—you can glimpse the blue-green sea that would be enticing if it wasn’t freezing!

I don’t travel often for business, and when it rains, it pours! What wonderful memories of each journey—the wonderful, generous, friendly people of the Philippines; the vibrant, modern, expat-friendly city of Hong Kong; a bit of R&R in Iceland, enjoying the never-ending daylight; a quick stop to Edinburgh that was beautifully green in the sunshine, my second trip there but a completely different experience from the rain-soaked first visit; and, finally, America the beautiful. In England again, I’m spending a few days on the Isle of Wight after several weekends away—and I must say, it’s a wonderful homecoming.

First there was Manila, and I must say it’s the Filipino people who make their country wonderful—hands down—though there are some lovely areas I was able to visit on my one free day. I took a city tour with Bea, a native, and we travelled by air-conditioned van (as it was well into the 90s F) through the “old” and new parts of Manila. Remember that the city was destroyed by the US bombing campaign in 1945 to end Japanese military occupation; MacArthur won the battle, but Manila was utterly devastated. Intramuros, the oldest part of the walled city, has been rebuilt and is a lovely area to stroll with its historic feel, cathedral, and the old fort.

  Mother of pearl windows in the Plaza St Luiza complex at Intramuros.

It’s a city of many levels of economy—our guide took us through the area coined “Beverly Hills” for its gated communities for the uber-rich and mostly foreign owners, but we needed to go through some of the poorest areas which had me clutching my throat: children bathing in the street from buckets of water being poured over them; tiny, tin-roofed shacks packed forlornly one after another; narrow, pot-holed roads that the city simply isn’t interested in paving. And yet just a few miles away there is a mega-mall filled with shops of every economic scale. It’s no different anywhere, including places in America, and yet the localised destitution goes unnoticed as long as the tourists still come.

The food in the Philippines can be challenging—you need to appreciate meat and rice, though finding a place to have fish is not impossible. I had a few “authentic” meals for lunch and dinner, which mostly came from the office canteen since I was working the 2-to-10 pm shift, and Bea and I had a lovely lunch that included delicious vegetables and squid. I did not, dear friends, attempt the balut . . . for the uninitiated, it’s a boiled duck (or chicken) egg with a partial embryo inside. Go ahead, Google it. The photos will be enough to turn you off!

After the Philippines I had a four-day stopover in Hong Kong and absolutely loved the city—like nothing I’d seen before with the tall, narrow buildings huddled together, narrow side streets teeming with shops and restaurants and people—a mix of Chinese and the world as the ex-pat community is huge (second, I think, only to Dubai), a fantastic mass transit system that is incredibly easy to use. I most enjoyed the tram because it was a bit clunky and slow and gave a lovely view as it snaked through the city. You get on at the back and pay on your way out in the front—which I learned the hard way and paid twice. The underground is modern and well-mapped to easily find your way, with touch screens on a map to choose your destination without having to know how to spell it. My faux pas was trying to get through the turnstile with my hotel key card, which had the attendant laughing—the card you get from the ticket vending machine, much like an Oyster card, is hard plastic and of the same dimensions as the hotel key.

You can get anything you want to eat in Hong Kong; just walk one of the main roads in Soho and you’ll see Argentinian, Belgian, New York deli, Mexican, Middle Eastern, Australian, well, you name it. I had a few good tips from a colleague and did well to mix Chinese with tapas and enjoyed it all, perhaps my favourite a little place called The Monogamous Chinese. It’s a great city for singles—safe and easy to navigate, and many of the restaurants had bars that served food so you don’t have to sit at a table alone, though I never have trouble with that (and it’s become a bit easier with technology in hand).

After spending a few days back home Tim and I went to Reykjavik for a long weekend to have him speak at the Bar European Group conference on the rights of the accused while I reunited with the WAGs from previous BEG trips (you may remember jaunts to Athens and Sorrento). Neither of us had Iceland on our bucket list, though I must say having been there it is something to see—a lava desert, flat for miles until you reach Reykjavik, where the city is compact, modern, and filled with shops brimming with Icelandic sweaters (yes, I did) and assorted cold-weather gear. Food options are pretty diverse and, if you’re not careful, expensive—we had two nice dinners out and both tipped over £100. But, that said, the food was delicious and I don’t regret a single pence. There are lots of tourists in hiking gear donning backpacks who were not doubt prepared to walk on glaciers and climb volcanic mountains; we stuck with a leisurely walk in the national park where the tectonic plates of North America and Europe meet.

And what is a visit to Iceland without a dip in the Blue Lagoon? The geothermal water spa is about 100 degrees F though there are currents which are hotter or cooler as the water surfaces from 2,000 metres below—we moved around a bit and occasionally paused when a surge of hot water bubbled up. And the lagoon is more milky white than blue; I read it is the silica, algae and a smattering of other minerals that give it that eerie colouring. And, considering the air temperature was probably not more than 20 degrees F, it felt lovely to be submerged to the chin. Tim gave himself a silica mud mask; I sipped a Green is Good concoction which, naturally, is served at a bar in the spa.

I had chance to spend just one day in Edinburgh before heading off to the US of A—a quick work trip but, owing to a four-hour train journey I needed to stay overnight. Arriving in the early evening sunshine I walked around a bit, found the hotel, and then dropped my bag and walked some more—it’s such a lovely city with clean, wide avenues, some nifty old buildings dotting the area and a lovely view of the Firth of Forth (formed by a former glacier, to keep the theme going). And green! I mostly remembered grey, but in the daylight and the sun it transforms into a lovely place to stroll.

I walked until, alas, the wind picked up and the rain started to fall, and found myself in a lovely pub called Tiles where I had a lovely salmon dish and watched the world go by from my high-top table. When Tim and I had last been in Edinburgh it was a bit cold, very wet, and very crowded. In fact seeing the capital on a sunny day I almost didn’t recognise some of the sites we’d walked before. How nice it was to steal a few hours mid-week to see the city, a part of the UK but with a slightly different feel than the edgier London—perhaps I just didn’t see enough of Edinburgh. I suspect a return visit awaits.

And then, the most favourite journey, home. Home is still a funny word—I feel at home in London, but I always feel like where you’re from is where your home is, and so going back to America automatically delivers the word home from my brain to my tongue.

As usual, it was a whirlwind adventure filled with family on both sides, starting with my brother’s family, now ten years in Texas and visiting for my godsons’ high school graduation. I graduated with 67 students in my class; Chris had 960+ classmates that congregated at a football stadium to collect their diplomas. It was lovely even in its largeness. Several of us recorded the announcer as he read Chris’ name; what a proud moment for his parents. I know, I know; the British don’t “get” why graduating high school is such a big deal in the states but it has always been, perhaps going back generations where to make it through that much schooling was not an easy feat.

Catching up with my brother David and the rest of the family, including Elena’s relatives—some of whom travelled from Peru to be there—was really wonderful, despite a bit of a language barrier as my Spanish is poor and many of them don’t speak English—Elena had to do quite a bit of translating, and as ever she did it in good spirit. The Peruvians adore Tim—they find him charming and funny, and no doubt like most foreigners swoon over the British accent!

Hats being tossed by the new graduates!

And it was HOT. You’ve heard me complain before about the lack of a “true” summer in England—the joke is that it usually lasts a week—so going to a warm climate for days on end to let the heat just soak into my skin is always a treat.

It was just as hot traveling to Georgia and Florida, where we met with Tim’s relatives whom he hadn’t seen in, well, let’s just say a long time. Once there, the years melted away and there were numerous stories of when the cousins were growing up, and introductions of all the cousins’ children who are all friendly and polite and seemed genuinely pleased to meet the Brit(s).

We toured peach orchards and farms in Georgia, ate soul food, went to see the Cypress trees resting in the shallow waters shared with alligators (but unfortunately no sightings), and enjoyed the catching up with the relatives, who treated us so wonderfully. Believe what you hear of Southern hospitality!

The warmth and kindness continued on our stay in Jacksonville Beach with Tim’s cousins, who treated us to a great Thai meal at one of the local restaurants, a homemade blueberry crisp, lots of beer and wine, and, best of all, hours of conversation and reminisces. My favourite line came from Brendan, aged 10, who spoke his much-practiced line to Tim: ‘ello, guv’nor!

And then there was the beach. I’d been dreaming of a bit of warm weather holiday, and while we had just three days at Jax Beach, we made the most of it by rising early for a long walk along the sand, having a swim in the ocean where the water temperature made it comfortable to dive right in, and drying off in the shade by the pool, all well before noon so that we could spend the afternoon with the family. I quite liked being immersed in American accents—it’s unlike visiting anywhere in Europe where there is a collection of languages spoken around you; for me it’s just one of those “things” that makes it feel like being back home.

Most certainly one of the highlights was a bit unexpected. A thunderstorm shut down the airport in Jacksonville for a couple of hours, which meant we were going to miss our connection in Newark to get to London overnight. We opted to get at least to Newark if possible, and then board a plane in the morning from there, which meant I could have a quick visit with Robyn. We planned a 6 am breakfast meet at Tops Diner, one of our favourites, figuring a 9 am flight would give us an hour or so to have a coffee and catch up. Upon settling in one of the booths at the diner my phone buzzed—an alert from United that our 9:05 flight was delayed . . . by nine hours. I thought I was misreading it and asked Tim to look, and sure enough it was showing a 6:30 pm departure. Ugh.

Tim called United who said the time posted was an “estimate” and that we ought to show up as it could change. Hugs all around, Robyn dropped us at the Departures entrance and we spent the next several hours as guests of Newark Airport. We tried to coax United into giving us free access to their club, but they would not, so Tim ponied up for the fee and at least we had free wifi and an assortment of drinks and snacks as well as a comfortable chair, free newspapers, and room to play cards. Playing several hands of 21, Rummy, and War got us through the day, along with a nice lunch with our $42 in food vouchers courtesy of customer care. Tim is still drafting his Dear United letter! I sent an email to the CEO, and got a wholly unsatisfactory reply from a Corporate Customer Care person three days later, offering nothing but an apology. United did give us a non-transferable $125 credit on our next flight, to be used within one year. Well, I suppose that’s something, though I suggested they take a more proactive approach to caring for international customers stuck in the airport for innumerable hours. I also was a bit disappointed she didn’t do her research—the tickets were not in my maiden name, but she referred to us as Mr and Mrs using that surname. I’m debating whether to point that out in my reply, LOL.

Fortunately we weren’t in a mad rush to get home, having travelled on the weekend to give ourselves a bit of recuperation before picking up the work pace again. It did mean that Tim’s mum had to delay her arrival to take Tim out to dinner for his birthday, but as ever she simply rolled with it, well travelled and well used to the whims of trains and planes, and came to visit two days later, treating us to a lovely meal at one of our favourite local pubs.

There’s that funny word “home” again. I think it’s quite alright to say that I have two homes, as I have two citizenships and hopefully soon two passports. I don’t love one more than the other; I’m merely privileged to have them both.

She is My Hero

Those of you who know that I recently lost a sibling to a four-year battle with cancer might think those words are my words, for her.

It was her doctor, a man I met just two days before she died, who stood at the foot of her hospital bed and looking directly at her uttered those four words. It was the first time since arriving at her side two days before that I cried.

Even today, two weeks since she passed away, when I think of Dr I saying those words my eyes fill with tears—and yes partly because I have lost a treasure of a sister with whom I have innumerable memories in 50-odd years, but more so because this man spoke those four words with such grace and heartfelt emotion that I still cannot bear to recall them without crying, hard.

He said more—about how she did everything he asked, and with courage, never afraid to try something that had the potential to get “the enemy,” as he called her cancer, to retreat. And when she was just hours from death he came back to her room and said “I should have done more.” I disagree. Here is a man whom she had grown to trust with her life, and in his capable hands she managed more time than any of us could hope for since her Stage IV diagnosis in December 2010. They texted each other, filling in the gaps where he couldn’t get to her because of late rounds or a waiting room full of patients. He chided her  when she needed to be more proactive about her care, not to wait until her next appointment when something changed. He spoke with the family, calmly and honestly about the aggressive nature of her late-stage cancer and how everyone needed to rally and help fight the fight—I couldn’t be there, but heard the taped message after it happened.

She loved him. And even before I had a chance to shake Dr I’s hand outside Debbie’s room, I knew him—his manner, his deep caring for his patients, his passion for his work.  I thought perhaps his stroke several months before was partly due to the weight he carried in his heart for his patients.

I am glad he recovered to take her through her last few months; she had other doctors, but none like him and none that she preferred to him.  She would send me texts about how she really only trusted him, and felt like he was giving her more time.  She wanted time.

I have a new hero, and, I am sure, a new angel keeping watch over me. And on this Easter weekend I know I am blessed, in spite of the loss.

The Art of Relaxation

Let me start by saying I am no artist.

Last weekend I had hours of free time to myself; Tim was away teaching law students the art of advocacy for two days and I decided to stay in London and, well, relax. Sleep in. Be leisurely. Be carefree.

So how’d that go?                                                                                                                                           

Well, the epilogue is that in fact I had a very enjoyable weekend despite not having Tim around to spend the time with; weekends are our time to really catch up, and we look forward to the opportunity to sit together and read the paper, take long walks, and linger over coffee and conversation.

I’m not sure most people would read how I spent my weekend and label it relaxing . . . then again, we all have our paths to tranquillity, and it may not include eating popcorn from a big bowl (because it’s easier than having to dig down when you get to the bottom of the bag) while stretched out under the duvet watching Audrey Hepburn movies (though that would certainly be one of my definitions).

On Saturday I found myself up early—7-ish—and ready to start my weekend relaxing. (OK, first problem, but I tend to get up early no matter what the day of the week.) Quite honestly I didn’t have much of an agenda for the weekend other than dinner out with friends . . . but then as I brushed my teeth I thought that it would be nice to do the laundry, as Tim often does that, so I sorted the basket and started with that task. Taking my coffee to relax with to the living room, I realised I didn’t like the way the new TV was set up; there was “stuff” on the shelf behind the TV that was now mostly inaccessible. I cleared the cupboard below the shelf of a few miscellaneous items to re-home the DVDs and re-shelved the books. Oh, and I alphabetised the DVDs by title. As you do.

Earlier in the week I found that the new “smart” TV wouldn’t play DVDs from one of the USB ports that attached a portable player. Second cup of coffee in hand, I moved to the computer and researched why, and when I couldn’t find a good answer I contacted Samsung. The lovely woman on the other end told me “it won’t happen”: the USB player was not meant for such media. I needed to use an HDMI port to connect a Blu-ray player. And the complete set of Breaking Bad I’d bought Tim for Christmas was waiting to be watched. Something had to be done!

Second cup of coffee still being sipped, I browsed to the John Lewis website, found a reasonably-priced Samsung Blu-ray player, and ordered it via their wonderful Click and Collect service to any local Waitrose shop. There’s a store at the Angel, a short 15-minute bus ride away. Purchased and ready for collection the following day (yes, on a Sunday) after 2 pm. Perfect for me to buy groceries for dinner at Waitrose.

I headed upstairs to get dressed, pausing in the spare bedroom. An opportunity stared back. It was not lovely weather-wise on Saturday, so why not sort which photos will go into the multi-frame (4 horizontal, 8 vertical, one 8 x 10) still shrink-wrapped and needing attention? We bought three of the same frames and decided one would be for the two of us and one each for family photos. I’d already completed my family frame, but thought I could find some photos and make suggestions to Tim for our frame. I went back to the computer and started looking at photos I had over the last few years, keeping in mind what I needed to populate the frame. It didn’t take long to find ones I liked—some from our trips to Vietnam and Sri Lanka, and recent selfies along with a few of my favourite wedding photos. I downloaded them on to a USB stick; before collecting the DVD player I could pop into the Snappy Snaps on the same street as the Waitrose and make prints. Sorted.

Fortunately my enjoyment of Six Nations Rugby made me sit down and watch 90 minutes of Scotland v Italy before heading out to dinner—and I managed to sit relatively still, though I did use the opportunity to catch up on some personal email (mostly during the half). Hurrah.

One highlight this “solo” weekend was certainly having dinner with friends, which meant getting out of the house. I have found that in particularly cold, wet weather it’s easier just to stay in and be creative about what’s in the cupboards for meals. I’ll admit I did some of that, choosing to have oatmeal for lunch instead of, gasp, walking around the corner to the 24-hour shop for anything else.

Sunday morning arrived and I was up early; I never perfected the fine art of lying in bed by myself, and have always been “a morning person.” That and, well, I have things to do, places to go, purchases to acquire from my relaxing Saturday! I had a leisurely breakfast, spending time with a cup of coffee while gazing out to the garden and noticing there is no bird seed in the feeder. Mental note made.

At about 10 am I decided that I can head towards the Angel, get off the bus a few stops early to get some exercise and then rock up to Snappy Snaps when they open at 11 to get my prints done before my click and collect is ready down the road at Waitrose. I get there a bit too early and decide to stroll Chapel Market and make two unexpected purchases—shiny red baby plum tomatoes from the Isle of Wight tomato stand (a real surprise and a wonderful treat because the tomatoes are delicious) and bird seed from a guy selling a variety of household goods. For £1 each for a decent-size plastic bag it was well worth the weight to carry them. I buy two and put them both in my own carrier bag and head back toward Snappy Snaps, looking at each of the stalls. One of them was selling techy-type stuff. Like HDMI cables. I think, do I think the player I bought comes with one? Probably not. But I’m not sure . . . I asked the gentleman what time his stall is open until, in case I got home with my player and realised I need one. He blandly tells me 4 pm, unimpressed that I’m not actually buying anything, and I make another mental note.

It’s still early and I notice that Butler’s is open. It’s a great shop filled with household things like dishes and candles and paper napkins and furry animal heads you can hang on the wall—in other words a fun place to kill some time. I came across some lovely artificial orchids that, at a distance, look quite real. I decided to purchase one for the spare bedroom where once there was a live orchid that has since shed all of its flowers. £3.99 well spent!

I finally stroll up to Snappy Snaps for 11 on the dot and the door is unlocked and the shop is thankfully empty. A lovely young woman approaches and I tell her I have these photos on a stick and have never used their kiosks to order prints. She smiles, says “no worries” and walks me through choosing the 4 x 6 matte photos and displays for me the one I want enlarged to 8 x 10, which looks lovely. In a few clicks I have placed my order, paid for it, and have been given a receipt to return in 20 minutes. Tick!

The card store is next door and I pop in to buy a few cards for upcoming events. This is turning out to be a successful venture out. Not completely relaxing, but there’s only minor stress with trying to find two cards I like (I am SO particular about cards; I can take hours / multiple visits to choose.)

It’s still too early to go to Waitrose to collect, but the Sainsbury’s next door is open and I think I may buy a newspaper or just stroll to kill a few more minutes—having recently picked up a purchase I know that I cannot have it before 11:30 as there’s some rule about providing a “service” before then, even when the shop is open for browsing. In some strange bit of coincidence as I wander through Sainsbury’s I pause in front of an aisle that is selling . . . HDMI cables. I decide it’s a sign—not only that, but if I buy it now and don’t need it I can always return it to Sainsbury’s whereas it may not be so easy at the Chapel Market vendor. Tick!

Waitrose is now open for service and I approach the customer service counter with my phone displaying the email with the order number, and the helpful woman suggests I do my grocery shopping and come back to the desk to collect my purchase. I am happy to do that, and find my list of things to purchase, basket in hand. I quite like Waitrose because they have an interesting selection of food items—wonderful breads, a great assortment of cheeses and olives, and a nice selection of fish, which was Tim’s request for dinner. I decide on some lightly-smoked salmon, some cannellini beans to sauté with garlic and herbs, some leeks for St David’s Day and a few other bits and bobs we need around the house (there never seems to be enough wasabi). I use the self-check-out register and return to the customer service window for my collection.

The lovely young lady hands me a box I instantly know is the wrong one. It’s the wrong size, and sure enough the name on the box is Devine. So close, and yet . . . not quite. She apologises profusely (it’s a John Lewis / Waitrose trait to provide exceptional customer service), re-takes the order number and disappears behind the Click and Collect door with the secure keypad.

While I am waiting patiently at the reception desk, she calls down to the woman at customer service reception to request that I repeat the number; I once again show the email on my phone. Apparently the order has been flagged as already collected. Mrs Devine has my package, I presume. I am now beginning to think that I am going home without my Click and Collect purchase. That John Lewis has let me down.

But then the door swings open and there it is: a package with the right surname. I manage to get it into my other carrier bag brought exclusively for the box size I knew it would likely be, accept her additional profuse apologies, and head out the automatic doors toward the bus, laden with goodies.

What to do first? I decide I will set up the DVD player in case there needs to be a call to Samsung or some research on Google. It is, however, a very easy plug-and-play set up and I find the settings on the Smart TV to integrate the player into the remote. I’m not thrilled with the set up of two boxes resting below the TV stand, but I decide to leave it that way for now until Tim comes home. I gather up the packaging and put it with the recycling to go out in the evening.

I then have a moment of panic when I read the booklet to find that it won’t play “HD DVD.” What are the Breaking Bad discs? I begin my search for the box set, having absolutely no idea where Tim has put them. He opened it upstairs on Christmas morning, so it is likely still lurking up there. Not under the bed. Not by the bed. Not with the other DVDs. Not in his desk. If I were Tim, where would I put it?

One of the two dressers in our bedroom is a family heirloom of Tim’s, its front feet resting on two small pieces of flat rock to keep it balanced. You have to exert energy to close any of the drawers properly, otherwise they look askew (a fact that has sometimes eluded small, curious children). It is primarily filled with old photos, gadgets, and those things Tim hasn’t otherwise gotten around to chucking. It should have been obvious, but it took me a while to open each drawer and finally find the box set. No HD DVD label. Relieved, I take the set downstairs to try at least one. It works. Phew.

Next? Well, I’m so pleased with my photographs that I may as well fill the frame with my purchases. It doesn’t take long, and I arrange and then slightly rearrange a few of them. I place the frame in the spare bedroom where it’s hard to miss. Tick!

The clothes that have adorned the multiple radiators in the house are also now dry, so time to tidy those up and fold and put them away.

It is now time to relax. England is playing Ireland in Six Nations, and I have popcorn at hand, decide to open a bottle of white wine, kick off my boots and put my feet up on the couch. Tim won’t be home for a few hours and dinner will be a collaborative effort, so there is nothing left to do but watch the hail thrash against the window pane, enjoy the lightning and thunder, and watch as Ireland enjoys a bit of thrashing England.

There is something quite relaxing about being indoors while the weather rages out there and you can watch without a care in here. Except I’m worried about Tim driving home in such terrible conditions! I won’t be able to relax until he walks through the door . . . 

Love among Rouen’s . . .

Yes, it’s Valentine’s Day. Tim and I exchanged cards and he presented me with a box of chocolate hearts before heading off to give Coh Karek some attention. (I'm not jealous of her!)  He’ll be back in time for rugby (my idea of a romantic afternoon) and we’ll have a lovely dinner at one of our favourite restaurants—Number 12, aka home on the Isle of Wight. The menu still to be finalised, but there will be a lovely bottle of something red in honour of the day.

Magnificent architecture!

We had our little romantic escape earlier in the month, having had plans fall through on a weekend we were meant to be in London and finding ourselves yearning for a bit of French food and wine. How lucky we are to be 90 minutes from Dover to hop the car ferry abroad! (And even luckier that I paid the checking fee to hold on to my passport while my citizenship application is being considered!)

I’d never been to Rouen, and while it’s a slightly longer journey from the port of Calais than our usual last-minute, need some French wine stop of Boulogne, it is still close enough to make it a weekend fling. We hadn’t anticipated the snow along the way, which was quite pretty and fortunately only marginally accumulated on the road, and once we arrived in Rouen it was a bit dreary and wet, but of the above-freezing kind that meant we were never without an umbrella as we wandered through the town.

Cross at the site of Joan of Arc's execution

And oh, what lovely sites! The architecture can occasionally make you gasp; the history will make you pause. The cathedral is lovely, dark and cold but majestic both inside and out. Its construction began in 12^th century. There is a painting by Monet at the Musée des Beaux-Arts de Rouen that struck me as beautiful; it is the one postcard I left with. There are buildings that survived the war, bullet holes gashed into the stone.

Joan of Arc was executed in Rouen in 1431; I wanted to see the site, where now stands an enormous cross on the exact spot of her burning and, I must say, one of the less attractive buildings in the centre, a chapel of modern design built in 1979 that seems incongruous to the rest of the city’s history. The Seine, where her ashes were thrown to prevent any taking of relics, runs through part of Rouen, though it does not evoke the same romance as the river does in Paris, I must say. We did stroll down to take a look at the river and the boats docked, but it was cold and windy and we didn’t stay long.

View from our hotel room

And yes, the food was fabulous. We had two wonderful lunches, both at brasseries that served traditional French food and lovely carafes of wine, and dinner at one of the more popular spots according to Trip Advisor where, given a cold, wet, windy evening in February, was empty but for one other couple who knew the staff (and so Tim joked that they were called in to fill seats). We started with some fresh, slightly briny oysters with chenin blanc, and then I had wonderful coquilles Saint-Jacques (scallops) while Tim chose a steak and we drank a lovely red. We ate and drank slowly and savoured the night.

So an early Valentine’s celebration for us; and while tonight will be a bit less extravagant, in a city a bit less known (unless you’re a sailor), it will be no less romantic. Enjoy yours.

Happy Valentine's Day!

You Have Successfully Unsubscribed

Well, hopefully not to this!

I’m not one to make New Year resolutions, and in hindsight the quest to rid my inbox of unwanted email merely coincided with it being the start of a new year rather than it being a declaration to begin 2015 differently. I know how it began, this quest to keep my Inbox down to the precious few: being away from mail for a number of days where all those vouchers I signed up for and all those contests to sun in Montenegro or explore St Petersburg were stacking up among the important stuff. And oh how easy it is just to click Delete and watch it disappear off the screen, momentarily forgetting that there will be yet another fantastic sale or two-for-one offer in the next month. Or next week. Delete, delete!

Ah but for a few extra clicks I can Ctrl End to the bottom of the screen, scan for the Unsubscribe link, click, verify address, and click again. Some sites want one more verification, to be absolutely sure I don’t want to know about how to nurture my inner beauty, where to enjoy a 2 for 1 pizza, or learn the five “must see” health resources.

Are six clicks better than one? You betcha. And since the beginning of the year I have been (almost always dutifully) following the six-step programme to rid myself of unwanted flab in my Inbox. What’s there now can’t yet be archived, probably requires a response or some activity on my part, or acts as a gentle reminder of upcoming events, etc.

My Google mail Inbox, conveniently bucketed by my friends there into Primary, Social, and Promotion, which contain 32, 2, and 3 items respectively. The promotional emails are all from Prevention Today (and about exercises), and the two Social items are from LinkedIn—people I want to respond to in the future. The Primary mailbox is a mish-mash of things I need to get to, things I want to be reminded of, and an odd assortment of recipes and links to products I might like to buy someday when I’m finished papering the offices of the British government with pounds collected for various and sundry visas, certificates, etc.

Speaking of which, I have saved the appropriate fee and have made my appointment with a nationality checking service (for a much smaller fee of £55) to have my application for citizenship reviewed by someone at the local council, who will verify all the original papers—including Tim’s and my passports—and allow me to leave with them while the Home Office decides whether or not I am an upstanding enough person to be given the privilege of citizenship. Time will tell . . . they allow themselves up to six months to decide, though I suspect that I will find myself voting in the May election. Exciting times!

And, with my tidier inbox, well, I’ll see all the emails that come in about the progress of my application! Oh, wait, they don’t actually do that; Royal Mail will have to do. I think I will start anticipating the postman’s drop about mid-March, and hope that by St Patrick’s Day I’ll be invited to the ceremony (for which there is a small fee).