Nightfall

It’s a cool evening in London and I’ve just finished having a quick chat with Tim, who is sailing on Nightfall to bring her home to England from Sweden. It has been a slightly arduous journey—not the best weather, small mishaps, and while the journey has been wonderful, I sense the desire to simply be home in Tim’s voice. They will all have wonderful stories to tell and fond memories, of course; it is one of those adventures of a lifetime—sailing down the Baltic coast, seeing a different part of the world, experiencing ports and people in places that are quite different from England. No, the desire to be home is less about wanting the trip to end than it is simply wanting to be here, with me. Am I a bit conceited for saying that?

Nightfall is just beyond Norderney, less than 300 miles now from the coast of England—they plan to head for Ramsgate, a port close enough to call home, and almost due west of Zeebrugge. With favourable wind, Nightfall should reach Ramsgate by Saturday, which is a relatively short train journey back to London for Tim.

When Nightfall first set off with a crew of four (owners Tom and Karen, Tim, and Eddie), the two-week journey was meant to exclude night sailing, but now that the trip has been delayed due to weather, etc, tonight they sail the North Sea, three hours on/three hours off for the helmsmen. Tim is used to it; for the 16-day trip from Gran Canaria to St Lucia on Tom’s previous sailboat, Nightlife, it was the same interval. No doubt there will be little chance of flying fish leaping on to this boat as it traverses the North Sea!

Here’s a quick look at what’s left of Nightfall’s maiden voyage:

Mirepoix the Cat and I have managed well since the 2d—even without electricity in key rooms in the house, no land line phone service, and a broken shower pole (when it rains, it pours)! We are fine here in London, and we are both anxiously awaiting Tim’s return. Poor Mirepoix has been without milk and any decent table food!

I had a wonderful postcard from Nakskov today from Tim—addressed to “Mrs” . . . it made me smile. I’m not sure if absence makes the heart grow fonder—I am, after all, very fond of Tim even when he’s sitting three feet away from me as we read email on our computers.  I do miss conversation; we spend the time together most nights while preparing dinner simply catching each other up with our day, and that continues into the meal and with the lingering sips of wine that follow.  Life’s simple pleasures.

There is rose champagne chilling—one of life’s adventures (and I don’t mean rewiring the house with leads to have a cold fridge or a cup of tea) deserves a celebratory toast—and I will be home on Saturday in London, waiting for the text from Tim that tells me when he will arrive at my doorstep.

Until then, a safe journey to Nightfall.

What’s in a name?

What's in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet.

Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2)

After 50 years, I’m giving it up: my surname, my last name. You may wonder why I hadn’t done it before, having been married more than once . . . the truth of the matter is I asked, and the response in return was a bit wishy-washy--something along the lines of it being up to me. Well, when you consider the paperwork, the time and effort to change everything from one name to the other, my feeling has been if it doesn’t matter to you, then heck, I’ll stick with the one on my passport, my driver’s licence, etc.

Tim, however, said yes immediately when I asked him if he’d like me to change my name. That actually made me quite happy! The new combination has gotten some interesting remarks; agreed, it has a lovely alliteration. It does feel almost, well, celebrity. But the strangest comment has to be that it sounds like a porn star.

It hasn’t stopped me.

Act I: At the office. One HR rep tells me a copy of the marriage certificate is OK to move forward with the name change, and I change the database myself as we are empowered to do and await approval. Another HR rep tells me a certified copy of the marriage certificate is required. I politely counter-argue based on what the first HR rep has told me. Agreement is made to change the name, but at some point a certified copy must be viewed by a HR rep. Sorted? I seriously doubt it. Apparently there is also the need to contact someone in IT to change how my name appears in Outlook. I just think, well, one day at a time. I expect to debut my new name at the office in 2012.

Act II: The driver’s licence. All the D1 forms are gone at the local post office; I order the D1 pack on line. Seven days, they say;  I still have a few more to go before I start stopping at all the Royal Mail facilities. You mail your licence with the form, and a new licence turns up with the new surname, same old photo. I suppose driving without a licence here in the UK is a less serious offence than in the US of A!

Act III: HMRC, which will take care of National Insurance. Their website down all day; I decide I’ll take care of that some other time.

Act IV: The passport. When you change your name, you effectively have to pay for a passport renewal, at $110, including the submission of a new photo and a certified copy of the marriage certificate. (Perhaps now you can see why both the office (see Act I) and the Embassy can’t be satisfied at the same time; I chose the Embassy as my priority.) The “renewal” form is easy to complete, available on line, and you can even pay by credit or debit card if you download and complete the appropriate form. The Embassy site says the process should take 15 days; I’ve no plans to travel until December, so this seemed like a good time to make the leap and forgo the passport. 

It’s been a comedy of errors—first, I download the form and complete it, only to realise that the site says you can’t use double-sided (how very NOT green of them) so I need to copy the form before sending. In my haste to do this at the office on Thursday, I copy the wrong side—I now have two copies of the same page. Sigh. Despite that, I think I can get a copy made somewhere over the weekend, so I’ll get my passport photo taken. There’s a shop in Cowes, where I spend most weekends, that has a sign for passport photos. I walk in, give a cheerful American hello, and say I want my passport photo taken. The lovely gentleman asks me to sit down, and while he is fetching the camera I tell him it’s for an American passport. He frowns; he is only set up to do UK passports—the US passports demand a different size. I’m deflated—the nearest next passport photo place is in Newport, a 22-minute bus ride that I’m not really willing to make as I have no reason to spend £7 to get there and back—the shopping is only mediocre and I’ve already had a long walk, thank you. I smile anyway and thank him, and decide that instead I’ll leave Cowes early enough on Sunday to hit a Snappy Snaps in London and be ready for the quick photocopy of the right side of the form at the office, and then dash to the post office on Monday at lunch.

The ferry is delayed  on Sunday to get back to Southampton (restrictions on speed around the Hamble due to diving, they tell us) and then the train to London seemingly stops everywhere, even though it is the “fast” train. The bus comes quickly at Waterloo, but alas I arrive at Angel at 5:03; Islington Snappy Snaps closes at 5:00. Monday it is! I’ve a busy day but I’ll find the time . . . and so I do, and Snappy Snaps on Holborn is happy to take two 2 x 2 photographs for a US passport for, ahem, £19.99. 

I smile, then I don’t—apparently you’re not allowed to smile any more for passport photos. The photographer / shopkeeper then asks me to move my hair away from my face; apparently there’s too much of it blocking my features. I try not to look dour, but I do. I ask for a retake. My hair is a bit wild from the wind, my nose is slightly pink from a budding cold, and my eyes, never asymmetrical, seem particularly off. I also look a little tired. Cheese. Oh, no, curds.

This is the photo I must live with for 10 years.

I have never considered myself photogenic; in fact, as I’ve aged I’ve shied away from the camera more and more—I simply don’t look good in photographs, particularly when I’m not smiling. I feel lucky to have had a few really nice pictures with Tim from our wedding—then again, it was a joyous day where I was simply bursting with happiness. I’m not exactly bursting as I sit on a wooden stool in a cramped shop in central London thinking about the next meeting I need to get to.

I could have had the shot re-taken, but it would have come out just the same. I secretly count my lucky stars that someone in this universe called Tim thinks I’m lovely despite the photographs that say otherwise. I think of the Seinfeld episode where Jerry’s girlfriend looks alternately lovely and ghastly so he keeps taking her to the diner where she looks lovely. I think of Nora Ephron’s book, “I Feel Bad About My Neck.”  And  in the end I laugh with the shopkeeper that I’ve got to look at it until 2021, and he smiles, accepts my £20 bill, and tells me to have a nice day.

Act V: Credit cards, bank statements, council tax bills, and other miscellaneous items. I’ll get there.  The pressure was really on to manage the passport—we’ve finalised our honeymoon to Sri Lanka under my married name so I simply had to get that done, and I am less inspired to rush to ensure that everything has the new seal. 

And grateful that there are no more photographs.

Torbenator II

I realise I owe you a follow-up on my new adventures in osteopathy. I revisited the Torben’s office one week to the day of my first “manipulation.” I was both satisfied and disappointed with the result of the first visit; that’s Tim’s fault (LOL) as every time he has gone to Torben he walks out a perfectly readjusted man without having to (immediately) return!

The satisfaction came with not having any discomfort in walking. The odd feeling—not a sharp pain, but a pain nonetheless—that had recurred several times in the week before the first visit had disappeared; I could walk normally. The disappointment, then, was that I was feeling a bit more ache in the instep of my left foot, and, just the day before the second appointment, I started to feel a slight strain in my left calf, as though I’d pulled a muscle. I tried to think of when that began and why; the best I could come up with is that I’d gone to my reading scheme at the primary school and had to sit in a child-sized chair for about 30 minutes while listening to my partner hurry (as Year 5 kids do) through a dozen pages of her chosen book.

I explained all of this to Torben, who got right to work—first having me bend and twist in several directions, and feeling my neck, shoulders, and hips for alignment. On the table the method started by following last week’s process, though I was admittedly better braced for the sound of the gas bubbles “popping” within the fluid of my joints. The treatment continued with a rather forceful massage that, even in its pressure had me laughing out loud—I’m terribly ticklish and Torben seemed to find all the wrong places. When I get tickled—which I hate—I naturally tense up. Nevertheless Torben kept on and I managed to not squirm off the table. Session done, and I felt good—again, no pain in hip or foot—and dutifully made my next appointment before heading off to the St Pancras Grand Hotel lobby to have a coffee and catch up with Jyoti.

My friend Taron, who has regular visits to a physiotherapist, posted a comment on my earlier blog asking how osteopaths do what they do. Like a physiotherapist, the osteopath will try to alleviate pain and also improve mobility. Torben’s site mentions three basic principles:

1) Your body is a whole and must be regarded and treated as such.
2) Your body can under the right conditions heal itself.
3) Your body's structure and function are mutually interdependent.

Osteopathy recognizes that pain and disability stems from abnormalities in the body's structure and function; osteopaths diagnose and treat problems with muscles, ligaments, nerves, and joints to help the body's natural healing ability.

Treatment involves gentle, manual techniques to ease pain, reduce swelling, and improve mobility. And, once the optimal balance in the body is restored, the osteopath may provide exercises to maintain this balance.

I’ll admit I didn’t ask as many questions as I normally would of Torben on the first visit—I was thinking “one and done” and was actually surprised when he said that he wanted me to return, and of course my time was up and the next patient was waiting.

During my second visit, however, I asked everything I could think of: where was the discomfort coming from? What is the root cause? How many more visits before it goes away?

I’m not thrilled with the answers—sciatica, root cause unknown, and 4-6 more treatments before he can relieve the compression. The sciatic nerve is the longest nerve in your body, running from the back of your pelvis, through your buttocks, and all the way down both legs, ending at your feet. Makes sense as to the discomfort I feel; how I may have compressed the nerve, I don’t know. I’ll wholly admit that I’m clumsy, that I stumble, and I have in fact tumbled down a few stairs recently and turned my ankles any number of times walking on the crooked sidewalks in London.

I must say I’m disheartened by reading posts on the NHS (the national health care system) site from patients who have found little help or relief after months, sometimes years. Drugs (which I won’t do) and leeches (um, never) have been recommended. Some patients have found an alleviation of symptoms with physiotherapy. I’ve also seen some sufferers suggest Shiatsu massage and yoga (and thank you to the anonymous post about yoga—not a fan, but do enjoy Pilates). Several patients have found that cycling has been helpful—I think that means I need to make a better effort to get a bike on the Isle of Wight, which has been my intention for months.

I have asked Torben about exercises—he said to keep playing tennis and let’s see how the next session goes. I’m not 100% satisfied with that, but will accept it for now.  I am still walking well, have the occasional discomfort in my foot, and feel that odd tingling now and again in my left leg and arm—I don’t like that at all, and it seems to be either something I’d not noticed before or something “new” since my treatment. I keep thinking, heck, I’m too young for this!

Actually, reading other people’s stories, I’m not—in fact I’m older than most of them. And I’d like to think I’m more active—I walk quite a bit, even more on weekends when I take my long strolls to and from Gurnard; I take the stairs, not the lift, at work; I walk from the office to Angel regularly, and except for the last week owing to other events I’ve been playing tennis twice a week. I don’t sit at a desk all day, I don’t lie in bed for hours . . .

Enough. We’ll see what the next few weeks bring. In the meanwhile I’m very glad that I can still be active without discomfort—last time we were in Cowes Tim and I took a four-plus mile walk on Saturday and a 15-plus mile bike ride on Sunday, and I was comfortably able to do both—even though I was less pleased about the latter, where we found ourselves a bit isolated in Parkhurst Forest (but at least on a worn path, so we weren’t actually “lost”)!

I’m the eternal optimist, as you know; sometimes I think that’s half the battle!

Hot and Cold

This last week has been most remarkable in terms of weather since I arrived in England. Every day the sun shone, the temperature reached into the high 20s C / 80s F, and despite the arrival of October, there was neither a scarf nor a pair of gloves to be seen, at least not in London.

Perfect timing for the refrigerator to go on the fritz. It has been groaning loudly for months, collecting inches of frost at the back of the fridge and freezer compartments where our jars of gherkins, onion chutney, and whatever else nearby was slowly swallowed up, only to be prised out with a hacking around the sides to loosen the goods (Tim’s choice of implement has been a paint scraper).

Yes, we saw it coming—in fact, I can recall doing research months ago on a fridge freezer that would fit the space the current one occupies—it’s about four feet high and narrow-ish, with a small freezer at the top. Tim wanted a unit where the freezer is at the bottom; except for ice and the occasional frozen veg or fruit, our freezer compartment remains relatively empty. I’m a fan of fresh fish, fresh chicken, fresh everything really, so the freezer doesn’t matter much. Even leftovers are generally quickly eaten rather than frozen.

Over the last two weeks we’ve awakened to an odd silence in the kitchen—no fridge croaking and whirring loudly. While we can’t be sure, we think the electricity gets tripped by the unit gasping for energy (wasted, no doubt) to remain powered up.

So, toast and morning coffee have waited for Tim to power off the main switch, flip the circuit and get everything up and running. It works, but it’s been annoying—the milk isn’t quite cold enough, nor is the yogurt, and worst of all the white wine isn’t chilled properly!

Several days ago I suggested to Tim that we either get a new unit or make sure I know how to get the electricity running again, and just before he left for Sweden to sail for two weeks, both happened—a fridge freezer, larger than the one we have (though likely far less thirsty on electricity), has been ordered. And, to be safe, the wall below the circuitry in the space under the stairs has scrawled in pencil the order of getting the electricity back on. I’ve referred to it once, and have just two days before John Lewis comes to the rescue . . . if in fact that is the reason why the power goes out, generally while we’re sleeping. I suppose I’ll know come Wednesday morning!

I spent a small part of today clearing the cabinet above where the old fridge sits—the new fridge is taller, so the cabinet previously filled with odds and sods of glassware and dishes will need to be removed. I thought I would be able to do it myself—emptying the various bits (and trying to find a new home for them, for which I was marginally successful), and then removing the glass interior shelving, I somehow thought that I’d be able to figure out a way to simply lift and separate the unit from the wall. I'm not sure what I expected to see—bolts to unscrew, perhaps—but there is no obvious indication of how that unit is attached to the wall.

So the new fridge freezer will take residence in some odd space near the area it will eventually reside, but not until sometime in the middle of October when Tim arrives back from his journey down the Baltic Sea, then through the Kiel Canal and into the North Sea to England. I don’t know the exact route, but here’s an idea:

The crew will be day sailing—meaning they will only travel by boat for about nine hours each day and then moor at some port each evening to relax, get a decent night’s rest, and start very early the next day. Tim was very much looking forward to the chance to see some of the Baltic ports; it is one of those small adventures of a lifetime, much like his trip across the Atlantic. As with that one, I will meet him on the other end, possibly in Gosport or some other place depending on when Nightfall—the new boat—arrives. Tom and Karen have been taking trips to Sweden to see their Arcona 46 being built, and she is now ready for the maiden sail to her home port.

The week before Tim left—our Indian summer—I made an effort to leave work on time and get home while it was still light so we could enjoy a sip of something along with the day’s conversation in the garden. It was a lovely week in hindsight; warm, clear nights relaxing at home, anticipating Tim's upcoming trip and wanting to spend some time together. We ventured out, too, and had dinner with Tim’s brother and his wife one evening on The Strand at a well-known curry house, and went for drinks at a neighbour’s house two doors’ down after dinner.

Saturday was a true delight—after a bit of gardening while Tim gathered his sailing gear and prepared for the trip, we had a lovely lunch in the shade and then took a stroll through Clissold Park, coming back to a dusky, warm evening. Life’s simple pleasures, courtesy of a generous Mother Nature who has extended her warmth into the early days of autumn.