My Most Recent LOL Moment

Sometimes you can’t help but laugh out loud . . . and count yourself lucky at the same time.

Over a year ago Tim and I purchased aging but working “banana” bikes from one of our dear Cowes neighbours, Ray Bulman, for the princely sum of £50 for two, including the locks. The bikes are fine for local travel, but mine is the really old-style version: in order to stop, you pedal backwards. You DO remember those, yes? In fact my first bike was one of those. I can still remember riding up and down Lexington Avenue, and on warm summer days when it was still light out taking the round trip from Lexington Avenue, turning right on Kennedy Boulevard to Oxford Avenue and heading down that narrow street that didn’t get much traffic, then another right and a fast pedal on the not-so-safe Bergen Avenue before heading right down Lexington Avenue again. We’d lived on Lexington Avenue for years and most of the people who lived there with us, including the less savoury characters, knew us as the kids on the corner and let us be as we zipped by. (Well, all of us except my sister Debbie, not one to exactly “zip,” but I’ll save that for another time.)

Not mine, but very similar!

I had been looking to upgrade those bikes, mostly because I do love to cycle and the Isle has wonderful paths but you need a sturdy bike with good tyres and gears to handle the terrain. Previously we’d hired bikes from the local shop when we wanted to do more than just go up and down the seafront. I had been eyeing an ad in the Evening Standard for folding bikes, but they could only be delivered to the UK mainland and not the IoW; not a show-stopper, but a bit of a faff. Then there was an ad in the local IoW paper for two like-new folding bikes in Cowes for what was a reasonable sum. Tim contacted the seller and we arranged to meet, and at the appointed time we walked over to Fellowes Road to inspect them.

Forgiving the one tyre (it’s spelled that way here) that kept going flat, and the one hand brake that needed adjusting (which the seller promptly had a neighbour take care of), the two bikes were in good nick, and after a trial ride we decided to take them, the single broken reflector that could easily be glued back tucked into my pocket.

Stay with me, the laugh is coming . .  .

Thrilled with my purchase, we took the short cycle ride back to our place.

Pause. Yes, you read correctly that we had a flat tyre when first inspecting the bikes. The sellers didn’t have a pump, so Tim was going to walk back to our house to get our pump while I lingered on the sidewalk with Ellie (the seller) and her beau and chatted about her studies in veterinary nursing at uni. Not more than two minutes later Tim reappeared, a pump in hand that was not ours—in fact there was no way he could have been to our house and back that quickly. It turns out that he coincidentally saw someone on the next road with a pump in hand and asked if he could borrow it. Without hesitation the stranger handed it over, no questions asked. How can you not love the IoW?

New folding bikes now in our possession, next to consider was what to do with the old bikes. We offered them up to Ellie as she had a friend who recently had her bike stolen along with her colleague’s. They are members of the RNLI team who need to get to rescue quickly—their one-minute bike ride had suddenly turned into a four-minute sprint, and while that doesn’t sound like a lot of difference, trust me, it is a world of difference when you need to be rescued in The Solent.  We gave our address, Ellie had my mobile, and we waited until the next day, Sunday, to offload them in case we heard from Ellie’s friend Heather.

We did not. Tim remembered a charity shop not far away, and it was nearing lunch time, so we decided to make it an outing—we often have a cheap and cheerful lunch on Sundays after a long walk, and usually in a place with a view, to absorb every bit of the time we spend being near the seafront.

Right. To the shop, then.

Tim’s second question (after enquiring about where we’d have lunch): where’s the car key? The key is always placed in the same drawer in the house so that regardless of who needs it we always know where it is. The key, alas, is not in its place.

I remind Tim that when we were unloading the car the previous day of boat-related goods now that Coh Karek was in the water I needed to have an urgent break, and left the key for him to lock up—Maggie (aka The Blue Peugeot that Could) can be fidgety when you press the Lock button on the key, and will simply demand you open one of the doors and lock her the old-fashioned way. She’s just that kind of girl.

Having relived that moment, the thought occurred to me to look out the window of the kitchen, where the top of Maggie can easily be seen.

Sitting on top of the car roof. In plain sight. One entire day later. The key to the car.

Cue laughter. I do love the Isle of Wight.

Our parking area is a public walkway. Dozens of people stroll just to the left of our front door through a small alley to cut across to the high street, or simply because they live in the mews or nearby. Our next door neighbour has a bright motion light that flashes on whenever someone passes in the evenings. The key, naturally, would have been in plain sight at night as well as during the day. No one bothered. Okay, she’s old, but c’mon, she’s still “wheels”! Heck, neighbours did have their bikes nicked recently; why not Maggie? Truth be told with her fiddly locking nature we have more often left the car unlocked for days while we were working in London, so I suppose I should not have been surprised that the key was perched untouched for 24 hours on the rooftop.

The story concludes: we managed to get the two banana bikes into Maggie and headed to East Cowes – usually a quick ride over the chain ferry that spans the River Medina, but currently out of service while being refurbished.  A lovely day, we happily took the longer journey, found the charity shop open, and were delighted that they were willing to take the bikes off our hands. We also offloaded some old cushions, in good shape but collecting dust in the utility room where the folding bikes now take up less room than the previous bikes and await adventures across this beautiful island.

The view from the Folly Inn.

Lunch, by the way, was at The Folly, a well-known pub in nearby Whippingham where Saturday night it’s the place to be if you want to hop onto a table and dance to disco. Really. I’ve not. Been. Yet.

I suspect that may be another LOL moment.

In Praise of the Independent Shops

Yes, I go to Sainsbury’s or The Cooperative supermarket when the loo roll (aka toilet paper) and kitchen towel (aka paper towels) run low, as those are the only places locally in Cowes to restock. But let me need to buy dinner, and you’ll only find me at the supermarket when my local butcher or fish monger is closed; I am a born-again fan of the butcher, and all local shops for that matter.

I say born again because some of my earliest memories of shopping go back to visiting Mike the butcher on the Boulevard in Jersey City, where it was the occasional treat to get fresh mince (chop meat for the Americans) or a fresh bit of rolled meat for Sunday dinner. It was, I recall, not often that my mother or grandmother would go there—quality notwithstanding, buying from the butcher cost more than from the supermarket. Heading just across the boulevard to Mike’s—we lived within view of his store—was more out of necessity when other options didn’t exist—the local A&P was a bit of a walk and there wasn’t always transportation to the PathMark or ShopRite on Route 440, too far to go on foot.

If you were chosen to walk over to the butcher—it was never all of us, usually just one or two—you were almost always treated to a slice of bologna while you waited. I never really liked bologna from any other place but Mike’s, and wouldn’t seek it out today, but there was something about that fresh, slightly thicker slice of Thumann’s that made it worth the trip. Our neighbours Helen and Barbara would sometimes ask if we wanted to walk over, when my sisters or brothers and I were playing something or other on the sidewalk—wiffle ball, badminton, or jump rope.  Off we’d go, hoping Mike would find the time to put the bologna on the slicer and pass one across the counter.

The experience of visiting the butcher is a bit different now—not that I wouldn’t turn down a slice if the gentleman at Hamilton’s offered me, LOL. I first pause in the shop window first, under the striped awning, to think about what I want. In many cases I already know it’ll be steak or lamb, but I still like taking a look; it’s mostly because I want to see if they have what I want on offer. The butchers are friendly, like Mike was, and I am occasionally asked something about America as my accent gives me away. There are lovely other things in the shop—local cheeses, jars of condiments and local relishes, local produce. I rarely turn down a small package of Isle of Wight tomatoes sitting on the counter as they are superb or the roasted garlic bulbs perched in a basket.

As with most things, simple preparation best suits—an onion sliced and sautéed in olive oil before the steaks are grilled, the pan piping hot; a bit of garlic infused into the lamb before roasting in the oven. And each time, Tim and I will look across the table at each other and find some superlative to describe that first bite. Think delicious. No, think amazing.

The same holds true for the local fish shop—such a pretty array of choices, often locally sourced, that taste far better than anything supermarket bought. I am most pleased when there is samphire in a silver bucket on ice in their window; it is a plant that looks like miniature cacti and tastes of the sea, fresh and salty. Granted, some of the larger supermarkets in London have delightful fish counters, but here on the IoW I’m more inclined to have pasta or vegetables on those evenings when I arrive after the shops on the high street have long shut, and then start planning the dinners at home with Tim by what looks good under the awning or on ice across the road the next day.

The high street in Cowes boasts quite a few independent shops, in fact, including a health food store, a vegetable shop, a food hamper that has an interesting array of different items from wasabi to unusual sweet and savoury biscuits, and a fantastic wine shop that will sell you small tastes of numerous bottles. It’s where I know I can buy my newest favourite, torrontes, a fresh, vibrant white from Argentina.  And I’m excited to read in the local paper that there will be a monthly market on the high street on Sundays this summer, with stalls crammed with local produce and crafts. I will want to make sure that the market coincides with the weekends I find myself here, walking along the sea front and daydreaming about a fantastic dinner at home.

Tim and I seem to manage in the small Cowes kitchen. Our duties are often the same as when we are in London: I prepare the salad, set the table, and assist with the preparation. I make suggestions, but usually let Tim handle the pots and pans. He peels the potatoes and the garlic. I know the right place in my palm to press and then gentle do the same to the steak to be sure it’s medium. I pour the wine (though we often choose together what it will be) and keep the water glasses filled. I usually load the dishwasher, though Tim often volunteers (and in London I often let him have at it).

We don’t always eat in, and have our local favourites—the Cowes Tandoori shop that sits between two others on the high street that serves delicious food and of the three has the best service, hands down. The two waitstaff will wave to Tim and me when we pass along the high street, in fact; I find that charming. We less often go to the Thai place, though we always enjoy it—the women there are quite amusing with their abrupt manner of service yet they treat us well and the food is superb. Naturally we find our way to the pubs now and again. Always popular is the Island Sailing Club where the bartender is friendly (and has forgiven me for “ruining” his dark and stormy by, gasp, stirring it) and the food is always good, plentiful, and inexpensive. The club wins for having the best view this side of Cowes, situated directly on the waterfront, and it’s a wonderful place to bring newcomers to the Isle or meet our friends, most of whom are also members.

And before you think that I am a snob who pooh-poohs the supermarket, I will say that our local Cooperative carries a brilliant stash of local produce and other locally-sourced items from the Garlic Farm and the bakery, etc, which I keep in mind when I shop.

I am glad that all of these shops can peacefully coexist on the high street, and am grateful that I can pick and choose where to shop, helping to keep the independent ones thriving. We’ve even got into the habit of doing the same in London, frequenting the grocery on Green Lanes that usually has everything we need but the main course.  We go there often enough to be treated with a warm hello and a hearty thank you. The supermarket isn’t far, but it doesn’t have any of the warmth. You can’t smell the fresh Turkish bread just out of the oven at Tesco, but you can around the corner on Green Lanes. And that reminds me of home, living in Harrison steps away from Pechter’s Bakery where the neighbourhood smelled like fresh-baked bread for a few hours each morning.

Catch you on the high street. I’ll be the one peering in the window, a bit lost in a daydream of some sort, likely about my next delicious meal.. 

Powering Down

Save for a few hours on the 7th of March when my gorgeous friend Leah was marrying her handsome prince Andrew at Woolwich Town Hall I had not taken a day off in 2013. And I have been ready and willing, just unable with a hectic work schedule. 

First, about the married couple--I kid you not, the bride and groom are lovely in more ways than one . . . she is one of my dearest friends in England and hails from America. We were brought together by a mutual friend who upon finding out I was moving to London sent me a note to say that Leah wasn't "icky" and he thought we'd be well suited to each other--and Paul was right. (And I am ever grateful for his intervention.) Leah is warm, generous, naturally beautiful, smart and grounded and thoughtful. She has a knack for remembering names I mention once in conversation, and always asks after my family. Her husband is funny, dashing, gregarious and most important, deeply caring to her. I love the way Andrew looks at Leah. They glow in each other's presence, and you sense their intimacy in a way that is warm and reassuring that love is splendid.

Andrew, Leah, Leah's mum Susan

Where was I? Yes, the wedding, which included a fantastic trip via an old RouteMaster bus from the town hall to the restaurant where the reception was held. Spectacular mode of transport, both for those of us on board and the onlookers who seemed to get a kick out of The Love Bus. The whole afternoon into early evening was filled with special moments--Leah's mum speaking of her happiness for her daughter, so evident in every word she said with a soft-spoken warmth that drew us all in; Andrew's dad, filled with pride about his son settling down into (married) life. Chatting with friends new and old met through Leah, photos snapped, smiles captured. A delight, and how very special I felt to be invited to be there with Tim.

Fast forward to the next time I was scooting out of the office early--Holy Thursday, off to catch a train and ferry and hopefully beat the mad dash to the Isle of Wight. It's been cold in England--the coldest March on record, in fact--and while it's no warmer in Cowes the exodus was much anticipated and not just by me, as the train even ahead of rush hour was packed and the ferry from Southampton to Cowes had every seat taken.

Bliss? You could say that. Tim has been happily spending hours on the boat, scrubbing down her hull and anti-fouling the area that will soon be below surface. It's messy, smelly work but it puts a smile on Tim's face to be on Coh Karek, even when she's cradled at the marina. Me, I'm just happy idling the days, watching the boats go by, reading the paper, staying indoors from the chilly northeasterly wind with a good book or the newspaper. We will see our friends for a drink at the sailing club, and perhaps have a pub dinner. Easter Sunday will be roast lamb with rosemary and garlic, a lovely pinot noir, and just the two of us. If the weather is nice we'll take a long walk along the sea, warm up with a cup of tea or coffee on our return, and perhaps light a fire--I splurged on a wall-mounted fireplace that burns bio ethanol fuel; there is nothing like a fireplace to warm your senses.

View from my window

And the best part is that, fingers crossed, my urticaria is finally in check. Granted it is with the help of three different medications at the moment, but it has taken a huge amount of stress off my shoulders to know that I will most probably wake up in the morning looking normal. I am due to go back to the doctor next week, and will start down the path of decreasing the dosage of anti-histamines to gauge my ability to keep the redness and swelling at bay with less and then eventually no medication. I plan to be patch tested later next month for contact urticaria, which involves bringing lotions, make up, etc to be sampled on my back to see if any reaction occurs over a series of five days and three visits. The dermatologist, while initially saying it wasn't about the make up, is puzzled by the localization of the outbreaks, and I suppose better safe than sorry to have the patch tests rule out any issues. I have moved from restricting my diet to re-introducing foods known to be higher in histamine back into my meals, one every other day, and so far with success. Of course it's hard to know if it's the medicine that's preventing the flares, but at this point I'm happy to be eating fish and drinking wine with dinner. Urticaria has a way of showing up, exhausting your patience and then quietly departing without rhyme or reason. I'll be glad when it's grown tired of me.

Bliss? Yeah, and for a lot of reasons. But mostly because I have absolutely nothing to do for a few days but to watch the boats, to smile at the gulls shrieking as they fly overhead, and to stroll by the sea when I feel so inclined. 

If only I could remember how to sleep in!

You Are What You Eat

I suppose I always knew that what you take in has a profound impact on what you look like, but never has it been more apparent than in the last three months.

Having seen several doctors and read hundreds of pages of information on the internet, I have come to the conclusion that the urticaria I’ve been diagnosed with—after ruling out all types of allergens—is directly related to the foods I take in, and the only way to help myself is to take in less of those that make a bad situation worse.

Urticaria and its companion angioedema have plagued me on and off since just after Christmas. The former is often controlled with antihistamines, as it is related to histamine intolerance. I won’t bore you with the details; suffice to say that my body is producing more histamine than it knows what to do with, and while large doses of anti-histamines have been prescribed, it’s not been enough to control the problem. It seems like every week I have a flare up, with swelling above and below my eyes (the angioedema part) and a deep redness around my eyes, usually starting in the outer corners and spreading below. It ain’t pretty.

When I visited the dermatologist who diagnosed me with urticaria, we briefly discussed a few foods I should stay away from—citrus, sugar, fizzy drinks, and aspirin or aspirin substitutes—none of which were part of my regular diet anyway. A substantial dose of anti-histamines to take for four weeks was meant to control the problem—you never cure urticaria, you simply tolerate it by keeping it in check.

But then I’d wake up one morning with the red swollen eyes all over again, wondering what might have been the “trigger” and knowing I didn’t eat any of the taboo foods. More reading on the internet and I found a restricted diet on the Urticaria Society web page that included most of what I in fact did have in my regular diet—fish, tea, chocolate, wine, eggplant (aubergine), spinach, soya, tomatoes or tomato products like sauce, most berries, yogurt, leftover meat, olives, vinegar, mustard—and that’s not all of it. While wheat was specifically mentioned, the breads and cereals section suggest “plain” breads and pasta, while I have generally gravitated to the whole-wheat kinds for both flavour and fibre.

The idea is to restrict one’s diet of the “trigger” foods for one month and then slowly re-introduce foods to see which ones your body can tolerate. It has been slightly daunting thus far to introduce variety—a lot of porridge (aka oatmeal) for breakfast, plain pasta for dinner with a variety of vegetables like broccoli or peas or bok choy with garlic and olive oil, and a simple salad with olive oil, salt and pepper—no bottled dressing allowed.

Perhaps some of you are not challenged by the list—I have to admit the hardest part of the day is actually lunch, where four days a week I would usually head out for a sandwich (alas, no processed meats or fish these days) or a salad (and no cheese or tomatoes); there’s not much left on offer! I have found a vegetarian wrap of falafel that has the smallest amount of yogurt, at the EAT takeaway just across the road, and for now that will suffice. There was one day last week where I went to four places near the office to find something that had only the allowable ingredients, and came up empty and marched back to EAT. I would have settled for oatmeal again, but most places stop serving porridge, typically a breakfast meal, at 11 am. I think I will start making lunch at home, or having cereal at midday, which thankfully has always been a favourite no matter what time it is!

I returned to the doctor today and requested blood tests to rule out an auto-immune disorder or a thyroid problem, whose symptoms are not all that dissimilar to what I’m experiencing. If nothing else, I’ll be relieved to know I’ve had some additional testing and perhaps it’s just this chronic urticaria that I will have to learn to live with. I also asked the doctor to consider a second anti-histamine—not that I want to be pill-popping, but combination therapy to mediate the inflammation while also treat the symptoms sounded like an approach worth taking after reading about it and having a chat with a few people at the office who have similar issues or know others who do. Fingers crossed, as they say.

Time heals, and I keep digging down for a bit more patience and strength to just keep calm and carry on. It is the chronic nature of this urticarial that makes it so frustrating, and while it is not life-threatening or even remotely a terrible disease, it distorts my ordered life in the smallest of ways that drives me crazy. Right now my eyes are sore, red, and probably a half day away from being swollen. I will not sleep well—it’s hard when your eyes feel odd, as though they do not fit properly in your head.

I will of course persevere. Tim has adjusted beautifully to my (or shall I say our) eating habits and is genuinely wonderful about bringing home the right kind of oatcakes and beans and apples along with a dozen roses to lift my spirits. The other night he called my sister Robyn to have her chat with me, one of those nights when I was really feeling a bit sorry for myself and lost about what to do but crawl under the duvet and pout. And you know what? It was terrific to hear her voice, to get a little of the angst off my chest, and to laugh again with my best friend. Gosh I needed it, and it worked a treat.

Even in my most miserable moods, Tim offers a hug, an embracing solace. And when I am in that way, there is nothing that beats the feel, the smell of a warm hug—a lean on the shoulder, breathing in the odour of warm cotton on warm skin. That will make me smile no matter what the day brings.

Love is Blind

Your first question, perhaps, is where have I been? Read on . . .

After a wonderful Christmas with Tim--just the two of us for the first time since I’ve been living in England--starting with a sumptuous meal and then a quiet evening together followed by friends for Boxing Day and then a delightful trip to the Isle of Wight with Tim’s mum that included celebrating New Year’s eve with friends Mark and Kim, well, it all went a bit downhill from there.

A few days after Christmas, I started having a minor bit of swelling under my left eye. A cold compress alleviated some of the swelling, and a bit of make up disguised the rest well enough for me to carry on my usual work and social activities.

When it first happened I was trying to figure out the cause—and thought perhaps that it was due to the feast of excess over the holidays—roast dinners every night, some which included rich Christmas pudding and cheeses, and of course more wine than I would normally drink. But that over-the-top wining and dining was short-lived; by New Year’s Day I was back to a relatively healthy lifestyle of balanced meals more Mediterranean than the English meat and two veg, and a more normal routine overall.

Returning to the routine, though, didn’t seem to matter; a week later both of my eyes were swollen, so much so that I didn’t recognise myself from the nose up. More cold compresses and this time a trip to the GP, who suggested an over-the-counter antihistamine to relieve the swelling, and a bit of the wait and see (which I find is the NHS way of dealing with issues that don’t appear to be life-threatening). Well, it didn’t help much to give it a few more days, and I returned to the GP office and saw a different doctor who entertained my suggestion that perhaps I was still reeling from too much animal protein—hey, why not? He tested my proteins—normal.  A stronger dose of antihistamines as well as a course of antibiotics was prescribed, my skin cracking on my face and leaving me known to infection. I was sent home to recover.

And I did, just a bit, though the swelling had moved to the bottom of my face and I was looking a bit Godfather-ish. Not a good look on a woman, I might add. My skin was quite dry and tight, and shortly after I felt I was improving all hell broke loose on my face. I was devastated. I cried. Just a little. I asked Tim to take me to the A&E. At Homerton Hospital I saw a lovely gentleman who suggested that I should visit Moorfield’s Eye Hospital immediately to be 100% certain it was not something wrong with my eyes that was causing the swelling. The first A&E leg took about two hours; the Moorfield’s Eye Hospital visit immediately after was another three. On a Saturday night. Poor Tim!

Moorfields’ specialists concluded that it was not my eyes and perhaps a contact allergy . . . but there was nothing new I’d tried, so it didn’t make sense. Nonetheless I was given stronger antihistamines and sent home to let it all calm down. Including me. I did, actually; there’s something of a relief knowing that you’ve seen a doctor and you have some meds.

Once again I saw progress in a few days. And then the inflammation happened again. I now resembled an embarrassed Michelin Man, with my face swollen and inflamed. I did apply some cream to my face—a prescription—but it stung and I wiped it off immediately.

And I cried, for the second time, over my situation. I felt truly helpless and just wanted it to be over with, and here I was, once again looking positively ghastly when the day before I was nearly normal. I told Tim I needed to return to the Homerton A&E. Another Saturday night, coincidentally, though early enough before the emergency could get too ugly with London’s casualties of pub brawls, domestic squabbles, and the occasional accident. It was busy, and we did wait over an hour to be seen by a consulting nurse who took the details and made an assessment to send me to the urgent care team, as it was a shorter queue and I was swelling more by the minute. A GP looked at me, frowned a bit at my swollen self and then smiled and asked what had happened. The story is retold. I tell the GP that I cried while waiting to see him; I’m not sure why I told him, but he said he understood. I had to laugh when I showed him the cream I’d used earlier that day, prescribed by one of the GPs in my local surgery for when my face felt dry and irritated; he looked at the tube, said “NO, NO, NO” and I believe tossed it in the trash. Fortunately it had only cost me a few quid.

This doctor prescribed an oral steroid to bring down the swelling, suggested I keep on the antihistamines and in fact add a second over-the-counter version to the mix, and recommended an aqueous cream to keep my face from becoming so dry and tight to react so severely. He explained that the first inflammation can seem almost mild, and that subsequent ones are usually more severe. Yep.

Another few days and slow progress . . . and hope. I travelled back to my GP, who had all my A&E notes, and suggested that perhaps I could see a dermatologist. She examined my face, which was still a bit inflamed around the eyes, and suggested instead that I give it another week and see if my face calms down and, possibly, the swelling completely goes away. I prod her with a name of a dermatologist; she still wants to wait  the week and prescribes a different cream that is thicker and is a better moisture lock for my face to heal, and also gives me a topical steroid for the angry red patches under my eyes, primarily my left one where it all started. I make an appointment for a week later.

And I am confident enough to take a lovely weekend journey with Tim to Brussels to see the Belgian contingent. What a wonderful weekend we had spending time with the kids, enjoying a delicious dinner at home with fabulous food, wine, and conversation, taking a trip to the Magritte museum, and enjoying each other’s company; it felt comfortable, easy. I garnered a fantastic salt shaker in the shape of a lighthouse from the restaurant Leon that will no doubt be a talking piece on the Isle of Wight. It was a chilly weekend—it even snowed as we wandered around Brussels Grand Place—but it didn’t matter much, and I was happy to get outdoors and spend time with family.

Upon my return I re-visit the GP. I am determined to leave the office with a referral, and I do, but I am also told that the NHS wait to see a dermatologist is 2-3 months. I ask her to repeat that last bit. Yes, likely three months.

I am one of the fortunate who has private insurance through work, and so I give them a call instead of waiting for the NHS to ring me, and provide the insurer the name of the dermatologist I want to see, recommended from Tim’s mum. He’s on their list, thankfully, and they remind me that my excess (aka deductible before the insurer starts paying a dime) is £100. I don’t blink; it’s well worth it. I call the doctor’s office at the London independent hospital and get an appointment—for just five days later. A far cry from the wait going through the free NHS service!

Dr Cerio is lovely. I ask if Tim can join me in the consultation, as he’s lived with all of this for the last several weeks, and Dr Cerio says fine; he adds that it’s usually the wife who interrupts the husband so not a problem here as it’s me who’s the patient and not Tim. We go through the story; I show him the photos I took of myself each day from the first time both my eyes were swollen. He tells me they are quite helpful, and pulls out his own set of pictures; I agree, yes, that looks familiar. OK, allergy; but to what?

I give enough blood to go be tested for the whole lot—airborne, food, and contact allergies. I ask if I can start wearing contact lenses again, as my eyesight is not optimal in my glasses which are now three years old and only worn occasionally. He says yes. I ask if I can wear make up as I’ve been using the same stuff for ages and never had a problem; he says yes, adding “you know it’s not the make up” which makes me laugh. It has been such a difficult journey that I’m literally scared to put anything on or near my face, but I trust that he is right. He suggests I put a bit of the make up on another area of my body, near my wrist, to see if I react, and if I don’t to go ahead and use it. I leave happy if not a bit drained of some blood and buy Tim a nice pub lunch at Paternoster Square looking toward St Paul’s Cathedral. What a trouper Tim has been! Another Saturday in yet another hospital, only this time at a decent hour and without all the swelling and tears. Amen.

I try my contact lenses on Sunday. No reaction, and I’m pleased; I will wear them on Monday to work. And I do. I patch-test my make-up; no reaction. I live it up on Monday and put a bit on, and a tiny bit of powder blush, a hint of mascara. I am starting to feel like myself again—I recognise the woman in the mirror.

Until Tuesday. I am fine in the morning, though by midday I see my left eye looks a bit irritated. It gets worse. I head home and look in the mirror—both eyes have swelling just coming up, and are angry red. 

Relapse.

I wash my face with water, apply a cool compress briefly to my eyes, slather on the Epaderm cream to lock in moisture, and at 8:30 pm, crawl under the covers in bed. I am disheartened. I don’t know what’s going on, and I fear that by the time I wake up in the morning there will be more swelling, despite the antihistamine tablet I take each night, the highest dose reasonably allowed.

Tim has spent the evening at a dinner at Lincoln’s Inn, and when he comes through the door and cheerily yells hello I respond with a mournful whine. He comes upstairs immediately to look at my condition and offer comfort. I try not to be stupid and cry, but I do anyway, if just a little.

I am slightly relieved on waking up the next day that the swelling and redness haven’t gotten any worse, only it also hasn’t improved. I have three important meetings—one a presentation which I ask my colleague to lead while I relegate myself to note-taker, one a visit to the school I volunteer at to pick up an important form, and one a working session with a colleague who is travelling in from a different office especially for the meeting. I decide I am ugly but not unwell, and head in. By midday I realise the rest of what I need to accomplish that day can be done from the comfort of my own living room, and because I was just slightly itchy about my face I decided to pack my rucksack and hop the 341 to N5.

Improving. Again. Still. I will get the results of my blood tests in another week’s time. I will not go back to wearing contact lenses or makeup, at least not until the day before I visit Dr Cerio again just in case there’s another setback. It probably wasn’t the cause of the relapse, but I’m done with taking chances.

Tim and I joke that it’s probably dust mites and we’ll have to pull up all the carpets and move the clothes out of the bedroom and change a few other things around the house. It is pollen season, and perhaps I’ve acquired an allergy to tree pollen, or something else airborne. I’m heartened knowing that I will have an answer, if not a solution, to all this madness, before the month is out.

I am a little proud of myself in some ways—while I did stay home for close to two weeks while my face morphed back from unrecognisable to just a little puffy and red, I have become, because of this, a bit less vain about how I look. My colleagues don’t seem to care—I had one lovely woman say to me today that if I hadn’t told her she’d have not even noticed, and she’s been in recent training sessions with me so has seen me earlier this year before it all went a bit puffy. My routine in the morning has become blissfully simple, and I have more time in the morning to fold the clothes that were left drying overnight or empty the dishwasher or gather the tea cups and glasses from the night before left behind in different rooms.

I do think that when all is said and done I’ll go back to a bit of glamming up—a safe, hypoallergenic mascara, perhaps a bit of blush and most certainly a bit of colour for my lips. But there’s something to be said for keeping it simple. I’m probably spending more money than is necessary for the latest anti-wrinkle cream; the E45 cream is doing a nice enough job and perhaps I can learn to love my wrinkles!

And Tim, well, what can I say? Each morning he greets me with a smile and says I’m looking better, and each night he says he hopes I’m better tomorrow. He has held my hand, wiped my tears, kissed my unswollen forehead even when I looked my most ghastly, and escorted me to numerous doctors and hospitals without a single complaint. He bought me a dozen roses for Valentine’s Day, and a lovely card—even though we send no Hallmark Holiday exchanges.

So, as I write this on Valentine’s Day evening, on the train on the way to Cowes to spend a weekend by the sea and relax, I thank Tim for his love, his compassion, and his kind words through what has not been an easy journey for either of us.

Love is blind, truly, and for that I am ever grateful!

Xin Chao

There's quite a bit that I could write about our trip to Vietnam, but I think I'll let the photos speak for themselves; do take a look, here. Use the link in the smaller print to sign in as a guest, and don't forget to choose to view the captions.

It was a slightly different holiday than our usual December jaunts--I tend to crave warmth and relaxation at the end of the year, a treat at the end of what is usually a productive but tiring work year. It's also usually a good time to get away from the cold British weather, though in my opinion it's been a very mild autumn. 

Vietnam certainly brought warmer temperatures--when we arrived in Ho Chi Minh City it was in the mid-80s--and we did carve out some days of our two-week trek to spend on the beach. But it was going to be more of a city adventure, as we planned to travel from Saigon in the south to the central part of the country and Hue and Hoi An, and then end the trip with a few days in the capital, Hanoi. 

And an adventure it was! From the moment we stepped off the pavement and into a mass of roaring motorbikes until our sail amid the limestone islands of Halong Bay, it was unlike any other country, any other holiday Tim and I have had together. Saigon is vibrant, noisy, filled with neon. The sidewalks are crowded with parked motorbikes and street food vendors and their customers, perched on colourful, low plastic stools drinking coffee or eating bun cha, pho, or whatever else can be stirred up in a pot that only hours before had been carted, often on shoulder baskets, to that corner. The sidewalks are broken, unfinished in some places and sometimes simply difficult to traverse, though walking in the street doesn't feel much safer! We managed well to take the advice of previous visitors and wait for a gap in the traffic and simply walk on to cross the road where there was no traffic light, which is most--motorbikes and push bikes easily dart around you, and with so much traffic the cars (which are less plentiful in Saigon than bikes) are barely moving at 20 mph, enough time to give you clearance as you cross the road. After the first several crossings Tim and I gained a bit of courage and then never hesitated midstream.

Saigon is not a late night mecca; we found ourselves often the only Westerners walking after 8 or 9 pm, and while shops were open in the evening as we returned from dinner somewhere in town, there wasn't much activity. One of the guides we had during our trip said that many Vietnamese have several jobs, and so there is not much time left for play. We spent most days out looking at historic sites, strolling through the markets, or simply walking (though often with a destination). Saigon, or Ho Chi Minh City as it is now known, has so much to see and is quite lovely, and we stayed at a brand-new hotel that was swanky, hip and centrally located to it all.

The food. I am always game to try to the local cuisine, and while I've had a few nights at the well-known chain Pho here in London, my knowledge of Vietnamese food before the journey was limited to that--spring rolls and large bowls of soup with noodles and beef, pork, or seafood. What we discovered was a mix of stir fry dishes, steamed fish and vegetables, and the wonderfully fresh spring rolls bursting with aromatic greens, pork or shrimp, vermicelli, and bits of star fruit and dried banana rolled into a crisp rice paper and dipped into a chili sauce. We tried to always stick to a recommendation for dining--while I'm game to try "street food," I'll admit I took the coward's way out and ate at two or three more stylish street food restaurants, where the stalls were in plain sight but you sat on substantial chairs and felt a bit more confident in the ingredients. We occasionally found ourselves in places where the clientele was decidedly Western rather than Asian, and where you could just as easily get prawn in chili sauce or chicken saltimbocca, though overall we did well to immerse ourselves in the local cuisine and tuck into delicious prawns, pork, or beef with rice. We only had one so-so meal the entire journey; a restaurant we'd chosen was no longer there, replaced by one that had a nice enough menu and so we decided to give it a go. Alas the duck turned out to be almost inedible--poorly chopped and tough--and while the chicken in bamboo tube was nice enough, much of it was a bit dry. My favourite dish (next to the fresh spring rolls) was probably the bun cha, where vermicelli, pork, and fresh greens are served with a bowl of delicate fish sauce for you to toss in the ingredients and enjoy. Breakfasts were decidedly Western--I did have dim sum, roasted pumpkin and even a grilled mackerel in the first couple of days, but then decided to switch to muesli, brown bread and fresh fruit for the rest of the trip. The best food choices overall seemed to be in Hoi An, where the old town had several restaurants to choose from, some along the water with lovely views.

I was surprised to learn that coffee is one of the chief exports from Vietnam--behind rice, rubber, cashews, seafood, and pepper--probably because I've never seen Vietnamese coffee in England (or in America, for that matter). I'll admit I didn't like the coffee much--when iced it was good, but first thing in the morning with a bit of milk it tasted too strong and slightly oily. When you order a Vietnamese coffee it is served with a bit of syrupy sugar at the bottom of the cup, with just an inch of coffee on top, much like a Turkish coffee. An acquired taste, I think!

I did enjoy central Vietnam for its slightly quieter pace, its colourful shops and pretty beaches, and its more relaxed atmosphere. I expected the beach to be a bit wider, more breathtaking, and perhaps more commercial; it was lovely, but honestly I'd been to more beautiful places. When we exited the taxi at An Bang we were greeted by a woman who was unhelpful when we asked for a particular place--she had her own place and wasn't going to help us find any other--and in the end we just decided to park on her slice of the beach under an umbrella and have lunch there. The food was fine--stir fried noodles with pork and vegetables served on garish plastic plates, and the food was tasty and filling. We were repeatedly visited by hawkers--the jewelry girl, the sunglasses gent, the old woman selling peanuts, the disabled man selling the Vietnam News--you get the gist. I learned to say "no, thank you" quite a lot in Vietnam! Tim did buy me a necklace made from coconut shell from one young female vendor, and we bought cheap key chains of Vietnamese girls to turn into Christmas ornaments from another. 

As a birthday gift Tim insisted on marching me into a shop in Hoi An, where tailoring and made-to-measure clothing is all the rage, to buy me a dress. I resisted initially, but Tim can be as persistent as those local shop vendors, and in the end I agreed to a sleeveless silk dress of a particularly lovely dark green for Christmas. It was fun to have these tiny women--seems to me most Vietnamese females are barely five feet and small-boned--fussing over the measurements and then at the fitting to get the dress just right. Of course it did mean visiting the shop a few times, but it was a short ride via taxi or shuttle from our hotel, and we managed to fit the trips in (including a fitting for a suit for Tim) in between beach and pool relaxing times.

We ended our journey in Hanoi, the capital. It is a smaller city than Saigon, but not without its own bustle. The old quarter is just mind-boggling--narrow streets of assorted shops, cafes, vendors, and a market, all teeming with motorbikes and cars competing for space. It's something that needs to be experienced to really be understood and appreciated. It's a bit grittier than the streets of HCMC, One day we happened to walk by a school as the children were getting out, and the sight was just wild--tens of five year olds pouring out, with mums on motorbikes idling on the sidewalk waiting to pick up their charges, and no room to walk anywhere. The traffic on the street was at a standstill, prompting many motorbikes to hop on to the sidewalk to get around the congestion. Some of the kids would look up and say "hello" and giggle and scurry away. I'm not sure how many Westerners they bump into!

The people of Vietnam can be friendly and helpful, but my lasting impression is that they are for the most part reserved and less inclined to give tourists a big smile and a "xin chao" (welcome) unless it's a vendor trying to coax you to buy something. I did like being addressed as "madame" anywhere we went, and we had wonderful guides to take us through pagodas and temples and tombs and places of interest, though we spend quite a bit of our journey finding our own way with the help of a Lonely Planet guidebook and the local map from the hotel we were staying at. We managed well to see the things we wanted to in our two-week sojourn; we'd thought about a cooking class or to see some water puppetry theatre--a Vietnamese original--but simply ran out of time and energy. I was glad that we ended our trip with a cruise along Halong Bay, one of the new natural wonders of the world. It was a misty, cool day, which certainly gave a different perspective to the limestone islands than what I'd seen in photographs. We had grey skies and low-hanging clouds that covered some of the taller formations, and that made for an atmospheric view. Truly lovely, and while it took us close to four hours to drive there from Hanoi, it was well worth the trek.

I said I'd keep it short and sweet, so I will. Enjoy the photos--do look at the captions--and I hope you get a flavour of our captivating journey into a bit of Asia that is beginning to become more popular. I'm glad we saw Vietnam before it becomes more of a destination--for now, even with a number of hotels and tourist sites, it still feels just a bit undiscovered.

The Trouble with Paris

What, you say? Trouble in paradise, the City of Light, the place for romance, the idyllic centre for food? Sacrebleu, she must be folle.

Paris is still charming. The magnificent Eiffel Tower, a marvel from any view during the day and breathtaking at night. The food, yes, divine. The architecture--oh, so much and so lovely--wander down a side street and you'll be captivated by the beautiful buildings, with balconies wrapped in patterned ironwork. Take a taxi around the Arc de Triomphe and you'll be both thrilled and scared witless as the vehicles seem to dart and nearly collide in unmarked lanes. Find a small bistrot on the corner and order a cafe au lait and some cheese to nibble on between long walks and take in the romance of the scene--indoors, softly lit, decor reminiscent of another time, or outdoors as couples lean into each other to share a secret.

In fact I enjoyed Paris quite a bit this time--my first time traveling with Tim to a city we'd both been before and anticipated returning to together. We were invited to have dinner with Tim's brother to celebrate his brother's birthday, and why not Paris? The family is a bit far flung, making many European capitals options for a celebration. Upon arrival, Tim's brother was kind enough to let us have a few hours on our own whilst he took the eldest Mrs D to an area of Paris she wanted to see having read The Hare with Amber Eyes. The memoir by author Edmund de Waal follows the Ephrussi family, whose grandmother was part of the Jewish clan who owned several hotels in Paris. (I suspect I'm not doing that justice as a brief sentence about the novel.)

We walked . . . or perhaps we strolled. Tim snapped a photo or two. We talked about times we'd been in Paris before, separately, and what we enjoyed. We wandered in and out of shops, bought a few postcards, and otherwise ambled between the occasional raindrops on a grey, damp Saturday afternoon. After a couple of hours we popped into a corner brasserie and chose a table near the window to get off of our feet and have a small bite before dinner--cheese and a baguette, and a coffee for me to knock out the slight chill. It was a lovely respite, if not a bit expensive for the modest portion of three cheeses and the small basket of bread, already sliced in its maroon paper napkin. 

Dinner that evening was not your typical French fare--picture an English chef in a handsome, bright restaurant known more as a neighbourhood joint owned by a New Zealander--and yes, it all worked wonderfully together. The food was not only pretty, it was delicious. There were lovely choices on the small but well-crafted menu, and having tried the scallops as a starter I must say they were fantastic--seared with a crust that gave way to a perfectly cooked, gently spiced, beautifully textured mouthful. And the pork--slightly pink, unbelievably moist--was a wonderful main. Yes, cheese, and of course, champagne and wine--the restaurant has a wine cave and a large square of the floor is glass so patrons can peek down (though it was oddly a bit well lit for a wine cave). 

Did I mention our waitperson was from Mexico? She told us that there was perhaps one staff who was French, but it was her day off.

Breakfast at the lovely Hotel Baltimore the next morning was, well, confusing. We were seated quickly but then waited quite some time for someone to ask us what we wanted to drink, and I was growing impatient (Tim would say grumpy, but frankly I don't appreciate poor service). Finally he flagged down someone to bring coffee (and a smile to my face). While Tim had asked about the breakfast buffet and what we were entitled to as we entered the restaurant (the information in the room suggested an express or a full breakfast at either 14 eruo or 26 euro), there was no one to ask and no information displayed, and we were all a bit hungry . . .

We simply dug in. The brown bread with swirls of fig was quite nice with no butter or jam, and there was a nice array of fruit and other breads, yogurts, and croissants, cereals, spreads, and a baked egg if you so desired. I had to have a croissant--in fact the three of us did (Tim's mum was with us for breakfast)--and it was fine, but not warm or delicate as I'd hoped. On an earlier trip to Paris I had the most delightful croissant--flaky, buttery, warm, divine--and coffee at a corner bistrot, and so naturally every croissant I have from that point forward is compared to that experience . . . not unfair, I don't think, but when it comes to hotel buffets I should have lowered my expectation.

It was raining again after breakfast and so we lingered a bit before arranging a taxi to meet a friend of Tim's for lunch. The taxi was ordered at 10:30 anticipating that with foul weather they'd be a sought-after commodity. And they were--in fact the gent at the hotel  who arranged taxis had his mobile phone pressed to his ear constantly, trying to locate taxis nearby to take the growing number of hotel patrons to their afternoon destinations, occasionally gesticulating that he was on it and mumbling to us that it was coming. It was all a bit chaotic--in fact Tim's sister-in-law hailed her own, having also arranged a taxi earlier, so that she and her husband wouldn't miss their Eurostar train. (They did not.)

Finally it was our turn and we were brought to a bistrot that, well, oozed the American idea of a French bistrot: The menu was in French. The staff spoke French. It had that look--wooden tables, locals buried in their Sunday paper, garcons clearing tables.  It just felt French. I asked Tim translate some of the menu items that were unfamiliar to me and decided on a tuna nicoise. When I ordered it and said "tuna" the waiter looked at me like I had two heads. Tim repeated my order, this time using "thon," and it was promptly written and I was promptly forgotten. Champagne was ordered to celebrate Tim's friend Jeremy's new book release, and while the first glass was poured by the waiter, there was no top up, nor at any point a "comment se fait-tout" query from the staff--perhaps asking how everything is considered gauche, but I have come to expect it. Once again the food was delicious--I like a thon (LOL) when it's more pink than grey, and the salad was fresh and plentiful. The rum baba that Tim's mum ordered was enormous; it was also well soaked in rum and tasty as she kindly offered me a taste. I did notice that both our waiter and the maitre d' looked our way often, yet never bothered to come and refill a glass or check on how we were until our plates were empty.

A taxi back to the Gare du Nord from the restaurant was easily obtained through the maitre d' without question and somewhat quickly, and the driver brought us there safely and in plenty of time. He only gently muttered when asked to clear the passenger seat in front to make it easier for the elder Mrs D. 

So what is the trouble with Paris? Honestly, I'm not entirely sure; it just feels as though it's lost a bit of its charm. It's expensive, but then again it always has been, hasn't it? The service is rubbish, and perhaps that's become a bit worse than I recall from previous visits. Even when spoken to in French it didn't matter; there seemed to be a brusque response rather than a warm one. (The exception was the lovely reception staff at the Hotel Baltimore.) The Champs Elysees could be anywhere, with its high street shops, crowds of tourists, occasional McDonald's. In fact there was even a Marks & Spencer, the British retailer, along the avenue.

Maybe it's me; I've romanticised Paris in my mind and now find that it's been upstaged by other wonderful cities I've had an opportunity to travel to since my first trip there--places like Bruges, Amsterdam, Edinburgh. Boulogne-sur-Mer; even the lovely East Sussex town of Rye where we recently spent a day strolling on cobbled streets, pausing in little shops, climbing the narrow stairs of the bell tower, popping into Lamb House (photo at right), where Henry James wrote his novels and enjoyed a lovely garden, and then having tea and cakes at Edith's to give our feet a rest.

I am certain we will find ourselves strolling in Paris again, Tim and me; it's so accessible to London, and it will always have its delights: the gargoyles of Notre Dame; the out-of-the-way, family-owned bistrots where there is a genuine warmth for your company; the Seine; the architecture. There will be the fantastic food and wonderful French wine and the croissants (perhaps at a more carefully chosen venue). 

Then again, there are so many other places to see, Paris will likely be nudged a bit down the list until I've tasted pizza in Naples, seen the ports in Croatia, bought something cheap and cheerful in a Viennese market . . .