Jubilation

It is such a remarkable summer in Britain, and a part of me feels as an expat that I should remark on the events that are exclusive to my place of residence.

First, the Diamond Jubilee. I did not stay in London, did not join the huge throngs lined up along the Thames to watch the Flotilla. Tim was participating in the Diamond Jubilee Regatta in Cowes, a series of races over the holiday weekend that began with a sail around the island followed by shorter races on Sunday and Monday.  My dear friend Leah came down to join her beau and was not sailing, so we had the opportunity to pull up stools at the local pub and watch the flotilla on a big screen TV. I must say, it was grand. There was this buzz, this anticipation about all sorts of things—what colour would HRH be wearing? Will it rain on her parade? How many boats are actually IN the flotilla? Well, I have to admit, I got slightly choked up when the Queen stepped out of her Bentley; she is a remarkable, elegant, truly regal woman and I was filled with respect for her. The weather was awful, yet she smiled and waved and stood for hours to the delight of all of those onlookers lining the waterfront.  It was fabulous watching (we could hardly hear the TV) and Leah and I enjoyed the lunch, the conversation, and the chance to see it all from a very comfortable position—maybe not the best seat in the house, but certainly one of the driest!

We had a funny incident at one of the post-sailing barbies that I still smile at: we popped into a water taxi to head back to Cowes after a less-than-inspiring gathering at the East Cowes Sailing Club where the beef was grey like the skies—to be fair, the BBQ was sponsored by a local charity, so the money we paid was not for a posh meal but for the hospice. It was edible, it just wasn’t very good. At the barbie there was a couple wearing HRH and Prince Philip masks, dancing in an oddly, almost creepy tete-a-tete, and just as we were getting ready to leave on the taxi the Queen pops into our boat! It turns out she was the boat driver’s mum bringing him some food. The way she wore the mask--with a scarf around her head--she looked, again quite oddly, just like the queen. We asked if we could take her photo, and she laughed and agreed, giving us a decidedly American pose when she detected photographer Taron's accent.

The picture quickly found its way on Facebook, and I sent it around to some friends the next day, some of whom commented at how authentic our fellow water taxi passenger appeared.

On Monday Tim and I planned to go see a local Isle of Wight Celtic band, but missed their set and instead found ourselves at the same pub Leah and I sat in, this time to watch the concert and fireworks that ended the Jubilee weekend. I found some of it odd—Alfie Boe and his duet companion Renee Fleming singing a tune from West Side Story . . . how is that a celebration of something quite British? Stevie Wonder? Well, it was all good, just not very British to me. I absolutely loved Madness doing “Our House” as they flashed different London scenes and buildings on to Buckingham Palace; if you haven’t seen it, give it a look here.

And so went the Diamond Jubilee. Britain was closed for an extra holiday, which was quite nice and gave us a chance to relax together after a busy weekend in Cowes. I was glad to have seen some of the events, even digitally, and felt it was a nice juxtaposition to the start of the weekend where we celebrated Leah’s birthday with a cake decorated with a huge American flag! Tim arranged it with the Island Sailing Club and it was just lovely, much like Leah.

Next, the quintessential British summer weather. To sum it up in one word: rubbish. When I first came to England I was surprised at how much the natives talked about the weather--always a good ice breaker, but this was beyond polite conversation. The whingeing! Well, having experienced what is now my fifth British summer, I can understand why everyone goes on about it. This year has been particularly bleak—not many days above 20 C / 70 F, and while there was a drought in May, it feels like it has not stopped raining since June. There are some positively glorious days which are little treasures, and I find myself wanting to sit in the garden until it gets too chilly or the dusk gives way to darkness, knowing that these are precious evenings indeed. Those of you who have been following Wimbledon know how it’s been a bit wet and windy this year; just imagine those two weeks repeated over three months! I do not envy New Jerseyites who are sweltering in scorching 38 C / 100 F, but I must say there are days in London when I simply shake my head at how many layers I’m wearing in summer, and how there are more women wearing scarves (and I mean the bulky kind) and boots in June and July than there are donning flip flops and tees! It makes an upcoming trip to sail in Turkey that much more desirable. I’ve just checked the low /highs for the week we’ll be there, and the low is London’s high, and the high is just under the scorching weather New Jersey has been experiencing—so I guess we'll get the best of both worlds there!

Last, a note about the Olympics. I’m nervous. I’m excited. I’m half-thinking to escape, at least for some part of the two weeks where the world descends on London and some of its outer reaches. I have been boarding crowded buses and trains in the last few weeks thinking how is London going to handle the crowds that haven’t arrived yet? Some of us still have to go to work, still need to take some transport. We’ll have to grin and bear it, adjust our hours and our attitudes and be polite to our visitors. I’m excited that I will be, at least for some part of the two weeks, in an Olympic hosting city. I may even go to one of the sailing events (albeit in Weymouth), and am anticipating the excitement in what is already a vibrant city. I know I will need to get to the office—training schedule in place, I will need to be there for the first of the two weeks. The second week, at the moment, is blissfully free of appointments that require me to find my way to Chancery Lane, which has been designated as one of the hotspots (likely because the station is on the Central Line, with a direct link to Stratford where the Olympic stadium and its surrounding park are poised.

A very exciting, unique British summer indeed. Excepting the dreadful weather!

Another Great Escape

I never saw the movie In Bruges, and having now seen the real thing I don’t understand why the beautiful city is associated with Hell—there’s a line in the movie that says maybe that’s what hell is, the entire rest of eternity spent in Bruges.

It was a last-minute getaway; we were expecting company on the Isle of Wight and when plans changed and the weekend became free, it was an opportunity to dash off on Saturday morning to someplace near, potentially someplace warmer than England, and if possible someplace we’d not been. Bruges has been on my go-to list for some time now (it’s the canals; I have a mad  “thing” about water) so when Tim suggested it and the weather was looking sunny, I closed the browser open to Pisa and started guiding Tim to hotels with a canal view . . .

And in no time we found ourselves wandering Bruges’ centre—we parked the car and decided to walk, as having been rerouted due to road works our Google map directions were no longer applicable. The centre is compact enough to navigate on foot and in fact easier, as the roads are narrow, crowded with people, and often circular in direction.

When we found the hotel Die Swaene I was pleased to see its Old World style and, gleefully, windows opening up to the canal in our room. One of my favourite things to do during the weekend became sitting at the open window and waving to the tourists, 36 per open boat, gliding by along the canal. About every 10 minutes another boat packed with camera-carrying foreigners would look up as I waved, and I never failed to get at least one of the crowd to wave back. (And no, we never took the boat ourselves; Tim offered, but I preferred seeing it on foot).

I was expecting Bruges to be a lot like Amsterdam—the canals, stunning architecture, bicycles, shops, narrow cobbled streets. Bruges does have all of that, yet it felt quite different—the canals don’t dominate the city as much in Bruges, and the centre felt more open and light than Amsterdam. I hesitate because when I’ve been to Amsterdam it’s been cold and rainy, and that lends a certain ambience—closed, narrow, dark—whereas it was lovely and sunny in Bruges.

And I loved it, all of Bruges. It didn’t matter that I hate walking on cobbles and they were making me tired; I wanted to walk and see as much of the city in 36 hours as we could. And eat! We found a place for lunch shortly after checking in, and it was brill—the interior looked like a big kitchen, and Tim and I sat near the crepe oven where the owner would occasionally come to make one fresh for a diner. The service was a bit brusque, and the place was filled with an older crowd that didn’t look much like tourists. My simple croque-monsieur and white wine fortified me to spend the rest of the day exploring, a sole map in hand that Tim purchased for three euro.

Given it was a spur-of-the-moment decision, we hadn’t planned much; I spent about an hour on Friday looking at places to go—museums, churches, and medieval buildings worth a view. I also asked my friend Leah to recommend a few places to eat. The rest would just have to come together, and it did.

We spent some time at the Groeningemuseum, which holds six centuries of Flemish and Belgian painting. The museum was fairly empty, and we had opportunity to stroll through the rooms and take in the paintings at our leisure. My favourite was a portrait by Adriaen Thomasz Key—it is beautifully detailed, right down to the wrinkles around the eyes and the delicate structure of the fingers.

 Most streets you turn down in Bruges will have a niche within one of the old buildings displaying the Madonna, sometimes with child, and often with the words Ave Maria at the base—it would appear the Flemish are a largely Roman Catholic population. The buildings are lovely, with pretty ironwork on the windows and lace on the interior. The streets a distance from the centre were very quiet and often it was just the two of us strolling, peering in at windows and remarking about the varying ages of the buildings, some clearly more modern while others from the early 1900s wanting to be more like those far older on the same block. I wanted to go to the Church of Our Lady, which has one of the world's highest brick towers (so says the Wikipedia page). Michelangelo’s sculpture Madonna and Child is here, behind plate glass and up high on an altar, a lovely white marble piece and the only one of his works to have left Italy within his lifetime. History says it was purchased by wealthy Belgian merchants and still resides there today, though in 1944 German soldiers smuggled it to Germany enveloped in mattresses in a Red Cross truck. (It was later found and returned.) I was happy to take Tim’s last four euros to see it—we were short of cash and it was one of the last stops of the weekend. The Madonna looked pensive, a rather different expression than I’ve ever seen on statues or portraits of her.

Tim was happy to wait just inside the church while I roamed; there are effigies of Charles the Bold and his daughter in the choir space, and a glass floor that looks down to crypts below, some with decorative art and writing within them.

We also wandered into at least two other churches, one St Jacob, the other St Magdaleine and Catherine, and what is striking about all of them is the ornate carvings inside, particularly the pulpit, where the intricate details catch your eye. Alas we did not venture into one of the more famous churches, The Basilica of the Holy Blood, though we wandered outside of it several times–it is a stone’s throw from the hotel, and in fact our landmark for finding the hotel in the first place.  The church was built in the early 12th century, and a relic of the blood of Christ, said to have been collected by Joseph of Arimathea who washed the body after it was taken from the cross, is here.

Bruges is a wonderful city to walk—the cobbled streets do wear on your legs after a while, but what glorious sites to behold down the narrow streets that make the aches well worth it. There were many a lace and chocolate shop, none of which we ventured into, but we did do plenty of window shopping. We stopped in a bookshop to buy postcards, and wandered in and out of a few shops looking for cheese—I was actually quite surprised there weren’t more of those. The main thoroughfares were filled with tourists—and why not, the weather was really quite perfect with blue, sunny skies and warm, comfortable temperatures throughout the day. We peered into shops with furniture and lovely kitchen goods, and even went to a supermarket so I could buy some chocolate-covered waffles for the office and Tim bought some coffee for home. My valued purchase, a gift from Tim, was from an artisan potter in the market who had lovely vases, pitchers, ash trays (!) and such on display, and I found a lovely small blue pitcher to bring back to Cowes. I had to smile as I unwrapped it from its newspaper cradle and looked at the print—all in Dutch—the sports and property sections that I may hold on to for a little bit and take a closer look at.

Dinner turned out to be a delight after a minor disappointment—Leah’s suggestions for venues for dinner were fully booked, and I wasn’t amenable to walking up and down the streets to find something else—when I’m hungry and irritable it’s not pretty. We decided to try the hotel’s restaurant, listed as a Bib Gourmand (Michelin inspectors’ favourite establishments). The restaurant is in the lower ground floor, in age-old cellars at the water‘s edge with a view of the Groene Rei canal. It was decorated to a contemporary standard, romantically lit, and the set menu had interesting choices—one was called The Three Naughties, another The Four Pleasures. We both went with the former, choosing different mains of salmon and chicken, and Tim found a lovely red Bordeaux on the wine list to start the evening. What a treat—the service was lovely, the food quite good, and we shared the vices of crème brulee and chocolate tart. It was a very short walk back to our room overlooking the canal, but we decided to venture out and have a walk, perhaps find a coffee. In the end we found ourselves at the hotel lounge sipping an Oban whisky and chatting with the host, who either liked us immensely or was completely forgetful and didn’t charge us for our very generous pours!

Unfortunately Bruges' most famous landmark, the belfry known in the movie In Bruges from where Colin Ferrell leaps, was surrounded by white tents and metal gates—there was a triathlon taking place, and the centre was where the runners would come through on the last leg of their event. You can of course still look up and see the tower; there are 48 bells in the belfry and they have a full-time carillonneur in the city. There are so many churches that it’s hard to know where the sound of the bells is coming from on Sunday morning! We did have breakfast al fresco with a view of the belfry—the one time I would allow us to dine in a touristy square with hundreds of tables where the food was bound to be edible but nothing special—hey, it’s bacon and eggs and beans on toast, after all. We were both disappointed that there were no croissants; the bread provided in lieu could have been Hovis or Wonder. The coffee, I must say, was delicious, and a second cup kept us there a bit longer to watch the city wake up, which it did in very short order.

We did find a lovely place off the beaten track for lunch on our second day while walking around the city—another al fresco dining experience with a wonderful hostess who did her best to explain in English the specials of the day. I decided on the simple white fish with frieten, and Tim went for the three-course special of the day, which included two fish courses and fruit. The first course was a bit of a surprise—a whole, small fish, and not cooked but pickled, much like a herring. We both tried it. We both left about half of it on the plate. It was served cold, with white onion, and while it wasn’t bad, it wasn’t delightful to my palate, perhaps a bit too strongly flavoured. My white fish, which looked very much like skate, was delicious and perfectly cooked, served with a delicate homemade tartar sauce, and the “French fries” as the hostess called them were a nice treat. The half carafe of rose suited our meals and our minds, perfectly—it was a wonderful meal and a glorious way to idle away a couple of hours in Bruges.

Oh, and, why not Belgian moules frites? Not the right month!

So, can one do Bruges in 36 hours and thoroughly enjoy it? Ja. Its proximity to London makes it that much more appealing—a 90-minute drive to Dover, 40 minutes in the Eurotunnel, and then another 75 minutes on the other side from Calais to Bruges went by quickly, helped along by pretty countryside, a bit of conversation, and The Telegraph.

We had a quiet drive back to London, I suspect both of us reminiscing about the weekend’s walks and talks and food and sights and sounds. I didn’t even mind the traffic once we found ourselves back in North London. Of course if I had one of these, known as a Twizzy, I might zip through the traffic!

What I Miss

The house is quieter. The fixtures of the last four years are gone, leaving empty spaces behind in the kitchen and the utility room. The cushion on the couch, a favourite spot to be near the heat rising from the radiator, is empty of its blanket.

Mostly I think it’s the company I miss—we miss. Mirepoix had a habit of wanting to be in the same room with us. She’d find a comfortable space near the chair I’d be sitting on while working at the desk and simply sit there until I was ready to move elsewhere. She’d always jump up on the couch and climb around and then on me or Tim, trying to find the right space to finally settle in. Some of my favourite moments with Mirepoix were when she’d find just the right space between us so that some part of her was touching some part of us. Occasionally she’d stretch a paw so that there was a connection, a touchpoint. I must say, that was sweet.

Tim swears she loved watching the old films with him. I think she just loved him.

It’s been an odd few weeks without Mirepoix. I still come home and pause at the door because I know she’s not there, and it makes me just a little sad. I recall how she used to meowch quite harshly as I approached the door, clearly heard from the other side, as if to berate me for leaving her home all day. She’d then race me down the stairs, sometimes getting dangerously close to tripping me as I headed to the kitchen to check for food and provide fresh water, and take a quick look at the litter tray in the utility room.

In her 20s she became somewhat forgetful (I think the vet termed it feline dementia), and if you left the room and she didn’t see you exit she’d howl as if you’d abandoned her. I’d then look down from the top of the stairs, and she’d stare back up with that oh, yes, there you are look and then she’d either carry on with dining or head up the stairs to join me. It always made me laugh a little. The fact that she was deaf and couldn’t hear herself meowing as though being strangled meant she became louder and louder over time—I often wondered what the neighbours thought.

Even now when we are on the bus together heading home, either Tim or I will look at the other, lean in a bit, and simply say “meow.” We used to do that as the precursor to re-enacting the usual scene of the cat waiting on the other side of the door with her insistent meow; now we do it as a gentle reminder of how she is no longer there, but in our hearts.

I had a note from the microchipping registry to update Mirepoix’s details. I shed a few tears when I changed her status to deceased. It prompted me to write this post; I felt a proper acknowledgment of The Cat Who Crossed the Atlantic was in order.

There are a lot of memories I hold over 22 years, five homes, a few relationships, and two continents with Mirepoix. I can still vividly remember the day she came home from her flea bath after acquiring her at the Teterboro (NJ) Animal Shelter; she was fluffy and wore a pretty yellow bow around her tiny neck that stood out from her all-black fur. Fast-forward to the day she arrived in London, emerging tentatively from the carrier after the service brought her to my West London flat. She “punished” me that first night by not sleeping in the same room, but by the second day I was forgiven, even after the lonely seven-hour trip in climate-controlled cargo. (I read that cats have no short-term memory; thank goodness for that, if it’s true.)

Yep, I will miss that sweet Girly Girl with her sashay of a walk, her delicate female face, her grace, and most of all, her company. The house is quieter, but in some way I feel it honours her to recognise that, to give me pause to reflect on what a wonderful part of my life she has been.

When the sun moves across the floor from the bay window, I will remember how she would move along with it, half asleep, craving the warmth of the sun. And I’ll smile.

Mackerel Fishing in the Solent

OK, so I’m paraphrasing from a popular movie title, and in much the same way that the current film isn’t only about the salmon, this post isn’t just about mackerel fishing.

The journey itself was over a year in the making, owing to busy schedules all around, particularly with Coh Karek’s sailing schedule that makes for few free weekends to have a girls-only event during nice weather for fishing. In fact, this weekend almost got postponed when the fishing boat was no longer available and we needed to sort another. Fortunately with a good recommendation and a phone call later the Becky May was booked for a short afternoon of mackerel fishing off Yarmouth. I’d always planned to stay behind, having no real desire to fish (love to eat it, hate . . .) and being a bit unsure of how I’d feel physically on this particularly windy day which made for a slightly lumpy Solent. I was happy to wander Yarmouth’s harbour and take in the Old Gaffer’s Festival, an annual event that brings hundreds of people into the town to see the old wooden boats, listen to music, stroll through stalls selling food and crafts, and wander the narrow streets near the marina to look in the shops, this year filled with lots of Britannia wares for the Diamond Jubilee.

It was a glorious day weather-wise; warm sun with a gusty breeze to keep the day from getting unbearably hot. Over 100 gaffers were moored in Yarmouth Harbour, brightly-coloured flags up and down the mast—a real treat to see.  I spent some part of the time in the tent listening to music, an array of blues, bagpipes, and Latin jazz while waiting for the girls to return.

I was all ears to the stories upon their return: how Hannah caught the first fish only to have it slip off the hook and back into the sea; how Sarah caught the first that managed to stay on board, and it also turned out to be the largest. Kelly didn’t catch any, but enjoyed the ride. They were accompanied on the Becky May by a stag do trio, whose soon-to-be husband was dressed in a silly yellow get up. The gents shared their fish, having outnumbered by several what the girls managed to pull in, and there was a plastic bag of eight lovely mackerel to grill for dinner. Well done them!

Having grilled many a fish among us but not mackerel, the first order of business on returning to Cowes was to Google for preparation and cooking time. We went with the simple approach—lemon, rosemary, and black olives under a grill for about ten minutes. I prepared a quick shopping list, and we headed off to the grocery store after a brief stop at the Island Sailing Club to enjoy a quaff on the balcony—it has one of the best views in town.

Duties were quickly divided: Kelly would prepare the fish after Sarah washed them down, Hannah would boil the new potatoes and make the salad. Sarah also was in charge of drinks, and I set the table, organised the necessary bowls and serving utensils, and would grill the fish with Sarah’s timings. I introduced her to the phrase x minutes to the mark, used by sailors, and we were off.  

Despite four girls in a small kitchen, we managed well—Kelly found her space to chop olives and prep the fish with olive oil, rosemary, salt, and pepper; Hannah staked the space closest to the hob to keep an eye on her potatoes and chop her cucumber, beetroot, and spring onions. Sarah found herself at the table after washing the fish and pouring us all a glass of something, and I positioned myself near the oven, pre-heating the grill and trying to clear the dishes used for preparation to give us more space. I grilled the first five mackerel of the same size at once, and while we feasted on those put the second lot under the grill.

And what a wonderful meal it was—the fish was perfectly delicious, the salad a fresh, colourful, flavourful side, and the potatoes finished with a healthy dollop of butter, salt, and pepper Hannah style. It was simple, good food that we truly enjoyed. And, having caught the main course and prepared it together, it was quite special.

 We toasted the success of the fishing trip, and we chatted around the small table crammed with our dinner plates and glasses, easily going from one topic to another. There was the inevitable conversation about work; all of us are in the same company, not all on the same team but within throwing distance of each other’s workstations.

Certainly one of the highlights was sitting on the roof terrace after dinner, watching the stars come out. Hannah whipped out her smartphone and told us what we were looking at, using a brilliant app called Starmap where you simply point your phone to the sky and the app will tell you what you’re looking at. It’s an amazing little piece of technology that reminded me how I must upgrade my four-year-old Nokia for something that can do things like speak me directions or confirm it is Ursa Major I’m looking at. It was a beautiful, cool night with plenty of stars and planets on view. I’ll never tire of the view, day or night, here in Cowes.

After boasting about them early in the weekend, we were anticipating Sarah’s special scrambled eggs and bacon breakfast, and she didn’t disappoint us—fluffy, creamy eggs, bacon, granary bread and coffee and tea made for a delightful morning start.

The stroll to Gurnard on a beautifully warm Sunday morning was a nice way to end the girls’ weekend. We paused a few times to take some photos, talked about the lovely properties along the Solent, and bought ice cream at the café just outside the Gurnard Sailing Club. The breeze was less gusty than the day before but a bit cool, which was refreshing given that the sun was so warm. I have to admit, I like showing off Cowes; it is such a relaxing, pretty place. Sarah even braved dipping her toes in the Solent, but it was brief!

So why is this post more than just fishing for mackerel in the Solent? For me it was a quiet celebration of friendship. No one will want to make a movie of it, though playing some of the weekend over in my head it would be better than some films I have seen, with more than a few laugh out loud moments and with a very good soundtrack, thanks to Kelly’s iPod. I was so happy for the ease of it all, how comfortable we were with each other, and how life’s simple pleasures, like cooking a meal together and watching the stars come out and joking about who takes the longest to get ready (Sarah!) were all effortless joys. How fortunate I am to have the friends I do—here, there, and everywhere. 

Hooroo, Simon!

It went something like this: Simon led me into the usual room, the table ready. I walked past it and sat in the metal chair near the window. I smiled broadly and proclaimed "I'm not taking my clothes off!"

Simon, you may recall from an earlier post, is (or shall I say was) my Australian physiotherapist. I'd been having sharp pain in my left leg, and after a half dozen chiropractic treatments with no sustained relief, decided to go to a physiotherapist, anxious to do something to help myself rather than being pulled, cracked, and massaged every few weeks. Simon understood, diagnosed the issue, and after the first session I left with some stretching exercises. I returned every two weeks to learn more advanced techniques, and then Simon went home to Oz for a month.

The first couple of times I advanced the stretch, I was not happy--rather than having the sharp pain diminish, it seemed to happen more often. I was slightly panicked; Simon was away, and I wondered if my technique was perhaps flawed. I half thought to call the centre and see if someone else would be willing to see me. Instead, I reverted to the easier, less advanced stretches. And, I observed more keenly to see if I could determine what was triggering the pain. 

I had a revelation--or perhaps more of a DOH! moment--as I was carrying a sackful of groceries back from Sainsburys, just down the high street from Harbour House. I had noticed that the pain would occur more on the IoW than in London, and half though it was because I wore flats--usually my faded blue sailing shoes--more often than not whenever Tim and I took our long walks to Gurnard. Now that the weather's a bit warmer, though, I've also been wearing my patent-leather black flats almost daily to work . . . so that wasn't it.

In London, and to the IoW, I do often tramp around with my laptop and papers, but it's in a rucksack and I rarely carry it on just one shoulder. Not it either.

In Cowes, I dutifully bring my recycle shopping bag so I don't take any of the store's plastic shopping bags (still for free, unless you shop at Marks and Sparks). One bag, always with a few pounds of stuff in it owing to bottles of wine, water, and food, and my shoulders are quite visibly out of line--and no doubt with the rest of me. I am clearly throwing my skeleton off kilter every time I carry my shopping one-handed.

I discuss this with Simon--my "aha" moment--and he agrees. He suggests I weigh between 50 and 55 kilos (he's dead on) and that carrying 10 per cent of body weight awkwardly is enough to do harm. I am at once proud and embarrassed at my observation, and have promised Simon and myself to keep the load balanced in the future. 

We talk about when to stretch. Not before, as I often see people do. Better to start the programme slowly, which my tennis partner and I always do, beginning close to the net before finally winding up at the service line for our hour's play. Stretching is best done post-exercise, when the muscles will tend to tighten a bit from the work out. 

I find the time to ask Simon about his month home; he points to two large sacks near his desk in the office, where he slept last night because he'd come in from the airport quite late and needed to be in early for his first appointment. He is ebullient; he always has been, but he is even more bouncy and friendly than usual. I suppose a month off, and being home, would do that to anyone.

I tell Simon I had thought to simply cancel my appointment, not feeling the need for treatment, but as he had helped me focus on my "injury" and helped me get through it, I felt he deserved to hear my story and to be thanked for his work. He is grateful; he likes closure with his patients. He is incredibly smart about physiology, and while I don't know why that surprised me, I realise I am grateful for that knowledge and competence. In fact, I was telling my tennis partner, who pulled something while we were 40 minutes into our last session, about how I see Nuffield as the John Lewis of their field--JL has a reputation for hiring good people and training them well to understand the products and provide excellent service. I would recommend them in a heartbeat--both of them.

Simon walks me to the door, shakes my hand, and wishes me well. (Hooroo, by the way, is slang for goodbye for Aussies.) I remark to him that this is the point that I am supposed to say "I never want to see you again," and  I add the phrase "for this problem, which I hope is now behind me." He agrees and smiles. I don my sunglasses and head right onto Endell Street, wishing I didn't have to head back to the office. Strolling through Covent Garden in what has turned out to be a rare few hours of spring sunshine would be a far better way to spend the rest of the day.

{Dress for} Success story

Occasionally you do something that you feel really good about inside, and it's not that you want to boast, you just want to share. I had one of those days this week when I volunteered at a wonderful organisation called Dress for Success. DfS is a charity that helps women with low incomes get back to work by offering confidence-building attire and interview preparation. Clients are ushered into a room where a stylist will help them choose professional job interview outfit (down to shoes and handbag, and if necessary, what goes underneath the suit). The woman is then escorted into a comfortable office to receive one-on-one interview training from an experienced "executive." I was that executive that day, and throughout the course of six hours I was introduced to six women who were in most cases just hours away from an interview--for many of them their first interview in years after time spent raising children or being in the same job for years, only to find themselves now unemployed and seeking work.

I was issued my schedule for the day along with a list of some follow-up phone calls to be made in between interview sessions.  Scanning the schedule, the jobs today's client would be interviewing for were quite diverse--receptionist, police support officer, retail salesperson, estate agent, design shop assistant, NHS carer. 

After a briefing by Delwyth, the office manager, I dutifully read the interview packet I'd be discussing with each client, and jotted down some notes for opening questions to make them feel relaxed and welcome. Oddly enough, I was nervous; it was sinking in that these women would be looking for advice about how to win over the interviewer from me, and while I've been on both sides of the desk interviewing is not something I do regularly. I had to muster up a bit of my own confidence to be ready for my first client, and when she was escorted to my temporary office I smiled, shook her hand, and just got on with it.

Funny enough, the toughest question for most women was how to handle an icebreaker like tell me about yourself. Some women felt there was so much to say and they rambled; others weren't sure what an interviewer really wants to know when they ask that question. So we talked about what seemed relevant, and we practiced a few phrases that would get the interview started. In some instances posed the phrase so tell me about yourself no less than three times in the same session, just dropping it in occasionally while we talked about other things, until the woman looked me in the eye and confidently told me an answer that was going to work--concise, credible and compelling. The smile I received after nailing it was, well, brilliant in more ways than one.

My day was filled with wonderful little stories from these women who wanted to do their best and land the job. In turn, I wanted to help them succeed, and I gave them the best advice that I knew, from experience, that could give them an edge. And I believe that I gave them a bit of confidence--praising their eye contact, or their open body language, or their concise answers, or I gave a bit of advice on how to make their responses more relevant. And at the end of each session, I was thanked, warmly, for my time. 

It was, I must say, an exhausting day--harder than the job I do day in and day out--but ten times more fulfilling--that says a lot, because I love what I do. I was glad that I found my own comfort zone early on to get to the heart of what their interview phobias were. I struggled on a few matters, not surprisingly: whether to sidestep certain issues that were there, but not relevant; whether to mention you're a single mom; how to redirect one mother's enthusiasm for her children to talk about the skills she acquired being a mom; how to handle a group interview, etc. In the end, six hours later, I signed six feedback forms that made me proud, as each woman wrote that she found the interview session helpful. 

Before sending them on their way, I asked them all to be sure to call DfS to let us know how it went, and afterwards Delwyth told me that one in two who do keep in touch do land the job. 

I wrote little notes about the sessions on their paperwork--topics that we'd focused on so that someone else could help them if there was a next time. I hope not; I want each of those women to shine first time out of the gate. They deserve to--they have reached out for help, realising they want or in some cases need that job, and that they'd like to look and perform at their best. It's not easy to admit that you may not have the right attire to go on a job interview, or that you're not sure how to answer the question what is your greatest achievement? It was a bit humbling for me, recognising how hard it can be for women to make it back into the work force, particularly those on low incomes who can't put together a decent outfit head to toe. I suspect we all sometimes forget there is a slightly sad state of affairs out there. I know how fortunate I am, and a day like this one put a bit more substance to how true those statements are.

Mostly, though, it's exhilarating. I walked out of there as though walking on air. I practically glided down Essex Road to the bus stop, with that silly grin on my face that no doubt had passersby thinking I was from another country. 

Oh wait . . . I am. 

Easter and memories

Easter can be a tricky time for me, as the holy week coincided with my mother's death in 1998.  I'm no longer deeply sad when the anniversary comes around, but I do miss her, and it's during this time of year that I stop to reflect on my warmest memories of her.

On my last trip back to New Jersey I finally went through the last of the boxes Robyn was storing for me, mostly photographs and small artefacts that I didn't feel ready to part with four years ago. There were photos I'd forgotten about, and ones I knew I'd tucked away that would come back to England with me. In the latter collection were a number of 3 x 3  black-and-white prints of my mother when she was in her late 20s, I'd say, dressed in a crisp white shirt and wearing her dark hair in a short, wavy style reminiscent of Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca. She was clearly happy and relaxed, not exactly posing but not being camera shy. I love these photos, glad to have kept them in my possession. In fact, Robyn coaxed me into giving her one of them--I was happy to, actually; at one point I think we'd had them displayed when we both lived in Harrison together.

There is yet another, an 8 x 10 portrait, her hair a bit longer, at her shoulders, a colour similar to mine.  She is wearing an aqua-coloured top, silky, and a silver choker. I always thought it was a most beautiful photo, and I imagined that it was taken when she was in her 30s--I don't know for certain, and I know that styles being what they were, photographs from the 50s and 60s always made their subjects appear older. There is no indication of the year anywhere on the photograph--only that it is a Lorstan photograph, and they have been around, in Newark, since 1926. When I was younger I used to imagine that she was 36 in the photograph, and that I always wanted to look that lovely when I got to be that age.

Another prized photograph is one taken much later, probably when she was close to 60, and she is wearing a leopard-print winter coat of faux fur, posing with a huge smile on her face, holding the coat tightly wrapped around her and just crouching a bit. I think I love this photo because she is truly happy. Christmas was a nice time each and every year--we all gathered at her home, and there were presents of all sorts no matter how little she had to spend; she always had something for us. She made wonderful food and pies and there was the Yule log on the TV, the Sinatra Christmas album and the tree twinkling in the front of the living room. Home, her home, was a warm, welcoming place--you knew you could always go back, no matter what, and she'd take you in.

My mom didn't have the happiest life, to be honest--my parents divorced in the late 70s and there was a lot on her to take care of all six of us--the youngest being just 11 at the time--and the family court was not generous with "maintenance." She did well to feed, clothe, and care for us. We had wonderful times together, particularly holidays when, as we got older we could afford to take her away, to places like Hawaii, the Bahamas, or Puerto Rico--places she truly enjoyed. She loved the beach and the sun, and was rather fond of the casinos in Puerto Rico! 

Funny, though, some of my more cherished memories are sitting around the kitchen table in the evening playing Scrabble or cards, or dropping by in the morning before work when, having long moved out of Jersey City myself I'd still go back to get my car serviced there, and I'd pop into the McDonald's on the way back and bring us both an Egg McMuffin, and she'd make some good coffee and we'd chat about life.

Today marks the anniversary of her death, and I miss her; I always will. I am sometimes secretly jealous of people who still have their moms, and I think that if my mom were still here, we'd still be friends, she'd have visited me at least once in London, and she'd make me laugh by forcing Mirepoix to sit on her lap, much the same way our cat was made to when we lived in Jersey City, despite not wanting to. She'd agree that the Queen looks like Babci--her mother, my grandmother. And she'd still beat me at Scrabble.