I'm not altogether sure what is happening to the weather at the moment. Having shivered through most of yesterday, I now find myself sweating like some kind of addict. It is boiling hot today, and I'm wearing a thick cotton shirt and a linen suit, which I'm sure classes as an epic fail! How could I have judged things so badly? Oh that's right: it was disastrously cold yesterday!!!
I made myself a leek, pasta and broccoli bake for lunch, which has made me feel a little weird. I blame the roux I made, which I didn't necessarily expect to turn a shade of grey! I think the flour caught on the pan or something. It was definitely grey, however, rather than the more usual wrong-roux shade of beige!
Speaking of grey, I shaved an enormous grey and orange beard off on Tuesday. It was so large and so bushy that I was forced to use clippers first and then a Hoover to get rid of the huge amounts of hair which I'd removed. Since taking it off I've noticed quite how many beards there are about. 2014 is definitely the year of facial hair. Almost every chap, and indeed some women are sporting everything from the full pervy Captain Birdseye beards right down to ornately coiffed Dali moustaches.
I'm currently battling my way through hordes of commuters at Waterloo station. A busker is hammering out something desperately annoying and high-octane on a mouth organ. I think blues played on a mouth organ is possibly one the most hideous sounds ever conceived. It's right up there with religious songs played by choirs of recorders, bass solos in jazz music and anything played on a flute.
I've just spent the late afternoon with a dear old friend, Jo Emery, who, come July, I'll have known for 20 years. Twenty years! It's a fact I find rather difficult to get used to. When did I become the man that says "twenty years in the business" whenever I can't get my way?! It seems like only yesterday that I was doing student drama at the Edinburgh festival with Jo. We were members of the National Student Theatre Company, and our great rivals at the festival were the NYMT, who, twenty years ago were staging The Threepenny Opera. We found them amusing because they were chaperoned, which meant they were young and not to be taken as seriously as us wannabe thesps. Who'dve thought, exactly 20 years on, I'd be spending my summer working for them?
It was so nice to see Jo. We hung out in the sun on the Southbank, and sat on one of those natural beaches by the Thames eating ice lollies and remembering the good old days. I must see more of Jo.
Back at Highgate I was rather astonished to see an eight-year-old lad who seemed to be learning to ride his bike on The Archway Road. For those who don't understand the significance of this statement, The Archway Road is better known as the A1: the trunk road between London and Edinburgh. It's single carriageway in my neck of the woods, and the speed limit is 30 mph, but it's always full of articulated lorries and buses and lunatic angry drivers who are fed up with London. The lad's Daddy did seem to be on the bike behind, and the lad himself was wearing a Ninga Turtle-shaped helmet, but he was tottering all over the place. Cars were beeping their horns, people were unwinding their windows and shouting at him to get onto the pavement. Actually, the Dad was cycling on the pavement at one point, but the lad resolutely continued to ride along the busy road. It was absolute mayhem, it really was. I'm all for taking calculated risks with children: allowing them to eat worms and that sort of thing, but even I would draw the line at this!
I read today that George Osbourne is warning people of the danger of Muslim extremists "infiltrating" our schools. On the face of it, what he's saying seems a little, well, right wing. Obviously, I'd never go as far as to say I actually agree with a Tory, but I do share some concerns of my own in this respect. When working on casting the film Brick Lane, I visited a number of schools in the East End looking for young Bengali people who might be interested in playing roles in the film. I was fairly horrified even then to discover that Muslim Elders (particularly in single sex schools) held the majority vote on certain boards of governors, and that any permission to go into schools to offer children these sorts of opportunities needed to go through them. Needless to say, in at least two cases, they refused. Brick Lane was a book they disapproved of, as, in fact, was the concept of acting. As a direct result, none of the kids at these schools (regardless of faith) were offered the chance to be in a feature film. I do worry that, in an attempt not to offend, or seem un-PC, we have created innumerable problems for ourselves. And what's the way out?
Saturday, 7 June 2014
Thursday, 5 June 2014
Three meals
Finally a bit of sunshine to warm us all up and make our worries fade away. The sunshine has also brought the nutters out onto the streets. On my way from the bus stop to the gym I encountered all sorts of odd balls. One woman with facial hair was sitting in her front garden, fanning her lady bits and swearing at anyone who walked past. It takes all sorts, I suppose.
I did 40 lengths in the swimming pool. There's a buzz you get after a big swim which is quite moorish. There was a woman in the pool who rather put me to shame, however. When she arrived my heart sank. She had all the physical attributes of an incredibly slow swimmer. She looked like a toffee apple on a stick; a great big round top half, and tiny spindly legs. She also looked like one of those women swimmers who don't like to get their hair wet, so bob about on the surface causing huge queues of swimmers behind them. Imagine my surprise therefore when she steamed past me doing the front crawl. I've never felt so emasculated, or proved so entirely wrong!
I notice Alexandra Burke is going into The Body Guard as the Witney Houston character. On paper she's a great choice; oodles of personality, and, as Louis Walsh puts it, a fabulous recording voice. But here's the problem: I'm pretty sure Ms Burke has vocal problems. I can certainly almost guarantee she hasn't got eight shows a week of top-belt whinging in her. I'd like her to prove me wrong, but I have an enormous problem with reality stars thinking they can "do" West End shows. It's the reason I scream at the telly when Cowell tells people with theatrical voices and questionable tuning that they should be in the West End. No! In order to be in the West End, you need razor sharp pitching and brilliant vocal health.
This evening I met Jem, Ian and a plethora of other delightful people for a meal which took in three different restaurants. We had starters in Wagamama's, main courses at Bill's in Covent Garden, and after dinner cocktails at Balans in Soho. We were joined for the evening by the wonderful Richard le Cocq (or Double Dick as we love to call him), a charming yoga teacher called Warren and Julia Zemiro, Australia's top Eurovision expert! It truly was a wonderful evening. Just the right length. Just the right crowd. Perfect.
I did 40 lengths in the swimming pool. There's a buzz you get after a big swim which is quite moorish. There was a woman in the pool who rather put me to shame, however. When she arrived my heart sank. She had all the physical attributes of an incredibly slow swimmer. She looked like a toffee apple on a stick; a great big round top half, and tiny spindly legs. She also looked like one of those women swimmers who don't like to get their hair wet, so bob about on the surface causing huge queues of swimmers behind them. Imagine my surprise therefore when she steamed past me doing the front crawl. I've never felt so emasculated, or proved so entirely wrong!
I notice Alexandra Burke is going into The Body Guard as the Witney Houston character. On paper she's a great choice; oodles of personality, and, as Louis Walsh puts it, a fabulous recording voice. But here's the problem: I'm pretty sure Ms Burke has vocal problems. I can certainly almost guarantee she hasn't got eight shows a week of top-belt whinging in her. I'd like her to prove me wrong, but I have an enormous problem with reality stars thinking they can "do" West End shows. It's the reason I scream at the telly when Cowell tells people with theatrical voices and questionable tuning that they should be in the West End. No! In order to be in the West End, you need razor sharp pitching and brilliant vocal health.
This evening I met Jem, Ian and a plethora of other delightful people for a meal which took in three different restaurants. We had starters in Wagamama's, main courses at Bill's in Covent Garden, and after dinner cocktails at Balans in Soho. We were joined for the evening by the wonderful Richard le Cocq (or Double Dick as we love to call him), a charming yoga teacher called Warren and Julia Zemiro, Australia's top Eurovision expert! It truly was a wonderful evening. Just the right length. Just the right crowd. Perfect.
Wednesday, 4 June 2014
Rain rain go away
Yet more rain... I sat in the kitchen all morning, writing, with the window open, and realised just before lunch that I was actually freezing cold. The amaryllis which Uncle Bill gave us for Christmas two years ago is about to flower for a second time (v exciting) and I've placed it right next to the open window in the hope that it might provide a lovely supply of pollen for a passing bee. It's a bit tragic, I suppose, to be so brutally fond of bees, but I guess I'm still attempting to regain the balance of karma after murdering our friend, Gloria Bee, two years ago.
Gloria Bee was a mason bee who tried to build a little nest in a hole in the back of the telly which we used to keep in front of the (generally) open kitchen window. On the advice of a local bee expert I tried to dig out the nest and rebuild it in a plastic tube on the window ledge. It was, of course, an utterly hopeless mission. Plainly I managed kill all of Gloria's eggs, and days later, we found her, dead, under the telly. I believe she died of a broken heart, and to this day, the burden of guilt weighs heavy on me!
I watched footage of The Queen opening Parliament today and wasn't sure why this was happening so near to when MPs break up for their long recess. Surely the best time to set out what you're planning for the coming year is when the new term starts? Am I missing something? I'm sure this stuff used to happen in November...
Any more thoughts I might have had on this particular subject were entirely brought to a close by the Queen sounding a short "a". She actually read "enhance" the way that any self-respecting Yorkshire citizen would pronounce the word! I immediately tweeted my abject shock at the notion of The Queen forgetting how to speak her own version of English and was amused by a reply which said rather simply, "well Hannover is quite far North, isn't it? She sodding well ought to speak like a Northerner!"
I largely dodged the rain showers to get myself to Old Street, where I visited Philippa and her gang. It was a very pleasant trip, which has only just finished. Deia and I did sewing at the big conservatory table. Ah! The irony! I can barely thread a needle. We made a little cup thing which I covered in beads. It looked absolutely dreadful and Deia was plainly so unimpressed that she took herself off to watch a film, murmuring to herself as she left, "give me a shout if you need any help!"
We had baked potatoes for tea and Philippa gave me some brilliant steers on the Soho pitch. I have no idea how she manages to keep her mind so sharp and agile whilst bringing up two children. She's plainly a super hero.
The sun came out just before setting, which means the cloud cover has gone and it's bitterly cold as I walk home. The highest pity marks, however, have to go to Nathan, who Skyped me from his Leicestershire forest in what was plainly some sort of tropical monsoon. He took me on a tour of the set, which looked like something from The Poseidon Adventure. Poor thing was wearing the pac-a-mac I lent him and looked so dejected. Sodding rain!
Gloria Bee was a mason bee who tried to build a little nest in a hole in the back of the telly which we used to keep in front of the (generally) open kitchen window. On the advice of a local bee expert I tried to dig out the nest and rebuild it in a plastic tube on the window ledge. It was, of course, an utterly hopeless mission. Plainly I managed kill all of Gloria's eggs, and days later, we found her, dead, under the telly. I believe she died of a broken heart, and to this day, the burden of guilt weighs heavy on me!
I watched footage of The Queen opening Parliament today and wasn't sure why this was happening so near to when MPs break up for their long recess. Surely the best time to set out what you're planning for the coming year is when the new term starts? Am I missing something? I'm sure this stuff used to happen in November...
Any more thoughts I might have had on this particular subject were entirely brought to a close by the Queen sounding a short "a". She actually read "enhance" the way that any self-respecting Yorkshire citizen would pronounce the word! I immediately tweeted my abject shock at the notion of The Queen forgetting how to speak her own version of English and was amused by a reply which said rather simply, "well Hannover is quite far North, isn't it? She sodding well ought to speak like a Northerner!"
I largely dodged the rain showers to get myself to Old Street, where I visited Philippa and her gang. It was a very pleasant trip, which has only just finished. Deia and I did sewing at the big conservatory table. Ah! The irony! I can barely thread a needle. We made a little cup thing which I covered in beads. It looked absolutely dreadful and Deia was plainly so unimpressed that she took herself off to watch a film, murmuring to herself as she left, "give me a shout if you need any help!"
We had baked potatoes for tea and Philippa gave me some brilliant steers on the Soho pitch. I have no idea how she manages to keep her mind so sharp and agile whilst bringing up two children. She's plainly a super hero.
The sun came out just before setting, which means the cloud cover has gone and it's bitterly cold as I walk home. The highest pity marks, however, have to go to Nathan, who Skyped me from his Leicestershire forest in what was plainly some sort of tropical monsoon. He took me on a tour of the set, which looked like something from The Poseidon Adventure. Poor thing was wearing the pac-a-mac I lent him and looked so dejected. Sodding rain!
Tuesday, 3 June 2014
Linen
The new fun game which all the cool 134 bus drivers are playing this year is the change of guard on the Junction Road game. The busses pull up at a random bus stop somewhere near the depot and then sit for up to ten minutes whilst another driver appears with his little money box and faffs himself into a place where he feels it's possible to drive us onward.
It's rained all day today, which means I've been in a permanent state of sweatiness as I've made my way around London. Rain is not at all good for an hairy man like me - think wet dogs - although it does strike me how ludicrous it is that, give or take the odd layer of fur - human beings are inherently water proof, yet insist on draping themselves in fabrics which are anything but.
Today I wore linen. Linen is not water proof. In fact, I reckon, linen would be pretty useless in any crisis including fire, bouts of coldness, immersion in water, and unexpected erections!
Why am I talking about linen?
I've just returned from a swim which followed a session with an osteopath who pummelled me so hard he had to mop himself down with a towel afterwards. That's dedication to the cause, I rather think! It's not why I'm writing about linen.
I did some work in the morning on Brass, easing myself into the full tilt I'll need to be going on it as of tomorrow. Fortunately I did just enough work to turn the corner on one particular track, which means for a blissful and precious few hours until the arrangement is over, I am finessing rather than doing grunt work.
At the bus stop in Highgate, I did the rather mortifying thing of smiling at and saying hello to a woman I thought I recognised. It was only when she grimaced and looked through me that I realised I was trying to get the attention of the woman who plays the Mum in Our Family!
As I walked down the alley to our house, I happened upon three school children sharing a joint. They tried to style it out, with faces which said "what? It's just a cigarette..." The problem with smokers is that their smoking addled senses have made them forget that dope has the most shockingly powerful smell. Plainly I wasn't going to dob them into police, I'm sure the police have more important fish to fry, but I was somewhat annoyed by their brazenness.
I got home, and flung myself at the sofa and immediately heard the most shocking ripping sound. I looked down to see the gusset of my linen trousers ripped to smithereens! Now THAT'S why I was writing about linen!
It's rained all day today, which means I've been in a permanent state of sweatiness as I've made my way around London. Rain is not at all good for an hairy man like me - think wet dogs - although it does strike me how ludicrous it is that, give or take the odd layer of fur - human beings are inherently water proof, yet insist on draping themselves in fabrics which are anything but.
Today I wore linen. Linen is not water proof. In fact, I reckon, linen would be pretty useless in any crisis including fire, bouts of coldness, immersion in water, and unexpected erections!
Why am I talking about linen?
I've just returned from a swim which followed a session with an osteopath who pummelled me so hard he had to mop himself down with a towel afterwards. That's dedication to the cause, I rather think! It's not why I'm writing about linen.
I did some work in the morning on Brass, easing myself into the full tilt I'll need to be going on it as of tomorrow. Fortunately I did just enough work to turn the corner on one particular track, which means for a blissful and precious few hours until the arrangement is over, I am finessing rather than doing grunt work.
At the bus stop in Highgate, I did the rather mortifying thing of smiling at and saying hello to a woman I thought I recognised. It was only when she grimaced and looked through me that I realised I was trying to get the attention of the woman who plays the Mum in Our Family!
As I walked down the alley to our house, I happened upon three school children sharing a joint. They tried to style it out, with faces which said "what? It's just a cigarette..." The problem with smokers is that their smoking addled senses have made them forget that dope has the most shockingly powerful smell. Plainly I wasn't going to dob them into police, I'm sure the police have more important fish to fry, but I was somewhat annoyed by their brazenness.
I got home, and flung myself at the sofa and immediately heard the most shocking ripping sound. I looked down to see the gusset of my linen trousers ripped to smithereens! Now THAT'S why I was writing about linen!
Monday, 2 June 2014
What day off?
Nathan and I have spent Nathan's day off trying to edit a little sample film about Soho as a pitch for Channel 4. We shot it on a summer night about two years ago when, it seemed, an almost inexhaustible supply of freaks were out and about. It's all very rough and ready - both the material and our editing process - but I think there's definitely something exciting lurking within. A bit of a polish, a lot more research, some plucky camera men, and I think we could be onto a winner. It's certainly an idea which fills me with great excitement, which is always a good starting point.
They say a change is a good as a rest and the day off from Brass has definitely been good for me, although the idea of going back to the seemingly endless orchestrations is filling me with dread. I've got homework tummy; that sinking feeling I used to get as a child watching the Antiques Roadshow when I realised I hadn't prepped for double science in the morning! I have a target of completing two songs a week, which is something I need to maintain throughout June if I'm to deliver everything by the end of the month, which is my target.
We had lunch at the greasy spoon and then did our weekly shop at Sainsbury's in Muswell Hill. I was quite horrified (as I often am) with their selection of vegetarian frozen food. One tiny little shelf in an enormous wall of freezers is far worse than the tiny deli we live above. To make matters worse, it's Sainbury's policy to display their frozen "free from" range (that's the wheat and gluten free stuff) alongside the vegetarian food. Unfortunately, the assumption for a vegetarian who sees something which says "free from" in a green box is that it's meat free. Imagine my confusion therefore to see "Sainsbury's Free From Fish Fingers." Surely any veggie would assume that it was free from fish? No, says Sainabury's, it's free from "gluten, dairy and wheat, but it's our policy to display it next to the vegetarian food!" Brilliant!
They say a change is a good as a rest and the day off from Brass has definitely been good for me, although the idea of going back to the seemingly endless orchestrations is filling me with dread. I've got homework tummy; that sinking feeling I used to get as a child watching the Antiques Roadshow when I realised I hadn't prepped for double science in the morning! I have a target of completing two songs a week, which is something I need to maintain throughout June if I'm to deliver everything by the end of the month, which is my target.
We had lunch at the greasy spoon and then did our weekly shop at Sainsbury's in Muswell Hill. I was quite horrified (as I often am) with their selection of vegetarian frozen food. One tiny little shelf in an enormous wall of freezers is far worse than the tiny deli we live above. To make matters worse, it's Sainbury's policy to display their frozen "free from" range (that's the wheat and gluten free stuff) alongside the vegetarian food. Unfortunately, the assumption for a vegetarian who sees something which says "free from" in a green box is that it's meat free. Imagine my confusion therefore to see "Sainsbury's Free From Fish Fingers." Surely any veggie would assume that it was free from fish? No, says Sainabury's, it's free from "gluten, dairy and wheat, but it's our policy to display it next to the vegetarian food!" Brilliant!
Sunday, 1 June 2014
Crèche
I went to the gym again today, spurred on to lose weight by shots of myself all skinny in Soho two years ago. I got the bus down to Kentish Town but was forced to curtail the workout when I realised I'd managed to padlock my locker without taking the key out with me. Cut to tragic scenes with me at the gym reception asking them if they'd use their giant lock-smashing scissors to break into the locker and retrieve my belongings. I risked leaving my bag in the locker to have a quick swim afterwards, but the pool had become a crèche, with children jumping in and out all over the place and one little girl even sitting at the side with a watering can and loads of rubber ducks which she was dropping into the water. I wonder if LA Fitness needs to work out whether it's there to get people fit or to look after children! There were even two little boys in the steam room which felt ludicrous beyond words. Why does a child need to steam?
I went onto the Fortess Road and spent the afternoon on Brass, slowly making my way back to Highgate via a series of little cafés where I worked for an hour or so. I tackled Dartmouth Park Hill by foot again, and it was almost as difficult as it was the last time... Almost to the extent that I wondered if the gradient had somehow got steeper in the past year although I'm pretty sure I'm actually just getting old or unfit!
The last cafe I worked in was Costa up in Highgate Village, where I overheard one of those ghastly only-in-Highgate conversations...
Little Girl: What was that shop with all the pictures in the window?
Posh Gran: That was an estate agents. They sell houses.
Little Girl: Can we buy a house?
Posh Gran: Your Mummy already has three houses, darling, it might be greedy to buy a fourth.
Might be? MIGHT be?
I'm comprehensively in the wrong industry!
I went onto the Fortess Road and spent the afternoon on Brass, slowly making my way back to Highgate via a series of little cafés where I worked for an hour or so. I tackled Dartmouth Park Hill by foot again, and it was almost as difficult as it was the last time... Almost to the extent that I wondered if the gradient had somehow got steeper in the past year although I'm pretty sure I'm actually just getting old or unfit!
The last cafe I worked in was Costa up in Highgate Village, where I overheard one of those ghastly only-in-Highgate conversations...
Little Girl: What was that shop with all the pictures in the window?
Posh Gran: That was an estate agents. They sell houses.
Little Girl: Can we buy a house?
Posh Gran: Your Mummy already has three houses, darling, it might be greedy to buy a fourth.
Might be? MIGHT be?
I'm comprehensively in the wrong industry!
Pigs and other people's children
I stood on a crowded tube this morning listening to the almost non-stop announcements about which bits of which lines were suspended; a sure sign it's a Saturday. In these kind of clammy, sardine-like scenarios, my instinct is always to hide, although my spirit was warmed by the familiar sound of a Northamptonshire burr coming from behind me. I turned around to see a group of people in rugby shirts, and on closer inspection they turned out to be Saints fans, which suddenly made sense of the accent! As I arrived at Victoria Station, I was astonished to find myself in a sea of Saint fans. It was like being down Northampton market! Heaven knows where they were all going.
The concentration of people in London today - and the dreadful noise they seemed to be making - entirely freaked me out. It's strange; you get rather used to traveling in London on week days when everyone keeps themselves to themselves. On Saturdays there are possibly more tourists about, or Londoners get together with their friends to travel, which means the tubes and trains are a great deal noisier.
Having been hiding away underneath headphones for the last few weeks, without Nathan about, I realise I've become something of a hermit, pottering about at my own pace, not making a great deal of noise. How quickly we lose the ability to deal with society!
It was Lewes where I was heading today, in one of those confusing trains from Victoria where you have to sit in the correct carriage due to the train "splitting" at Heywards Heath. The front eight carriages were going to Ore, the back four to Littlehampton, but the dot matrix machine was broken and there was nothing to tell me which carriage I was in. Furthermore, even if I'd known I was in the front eight carriages, I have no idea whether Lewes is on the way to Ore. I don't know what Ore is. I had a mate called Donna Ore. Was I going to see her? The carriage smelt of feet and fart, there was a man who sounded like Bill Oddie talking ludicrously loudly about football and I just about lost the will to live. Still, looking at the countryside on the way down South is always a treat... So green and rolling....
Lewes looked like a picture post card with houses covered in wisteria and roses. The sun was shining. Meriel met me from the station and we walked across the town to a little hollow in front of Rupert and Hilary's house where a lovely marquee had been set up to celebrate Rupert's 40th birthday. Everyone is 40 this year. By the time mine rolls along everyone will be completely bored of celebrating! I bought Rupert a "in deepest sympathy card", which I thought was hysterically funny. "Which garage did you buy this from?" He asked, in a typically blunt way... Sometimes I wonder why we bother with birthday cards. They're such a nonsense aren't they? Unless you're writing a proper message inside, or you've made the card yourself, they just become something else to put out with the recycling!
Rupert, who's about as carnivorous as a man can get had organised a hog roast. Fortunately his wife, Uncle Bill, is vegetarian, so whilst the meat eaters chowed down on pig, we were given delicious hummus wraps and exciting bowls of Eaton Mess. The hog roast was incredibly popular but for me there's very little which looks as unappetising as the half-eaten carcass of a pig mounted on a stick! It genuinely ended up looking like the scene of some kind of horrific murder. Bits of melted yellow flesh dripping down with globules of white fat. Like a terrible autopsy.
The party was filled with parents and children, some of whom I knew, most of whom I didn't. The ghastly truth about quite a few parents with young children is they can loose the ability to talk about anything else! It becomes almost desperately boring, particularly when you finally manage to get one talking about something else, but they always have their eyes elsewhere, watching their little darlings. I think they genuinely feel that they're multi-tasking, because the other parents they talk to are doing exactly the same thing and no one cares, but when you don't have kids, it becomes really offensive because you see them glazing over, nodding politely and occasionally saying something to keep you sweet, but the conversation always ends up coming to a rudely abrupt halt when their child sidles over. "What's the matter Totty? Would you like another drink?" The words cut into your own like a knife. They can't even allow you the dignity of finishing a sentence before turning away and dealing with their beloved. And very rarely does the conversation ever return when the child goes away again, essentially, I believe, because they weren't actually taking anything in in the first place!
There are, of course, exceptions to this rule. I have friends who are parents who are desperate not to talk about kiddy things, parents who look you in the eye, and when their children come over they will continue to look whilst reassuringly putting a hand on the child's arm which says "Mummy's talking right now, but when I can give you my attention I will do." And the truth of the matter is that their children are universally the polite, more fascinating ones with whom you ultimately want to spend more time!
On my way home, I got a text from Fiona who was on her way back to Brighton from Northampton. It transpired that her train was pulling into Gatwick just as mine was leaving... Or was it the other way round? Anyway, we waved in each other's general direction.
I got to Victoria in a rush to get home and settle, having spent plenty enough time with large crowds of people. The station was absolutely heaving and as I reached the tube, the horror occurred of my Oyster card needing topping up. The ticket machines were surrounded by huge queues of tourists who had absolutely no idea how to deal with the technology. I stood in a queue for at least ten minutes willing people to be more organised...
I got home and worked until 2am... Which is why I posted this blog when I woke up!
The concentration of people in London today - and the dreadful noise they seemed to be making - entirely freaked me out. It's strange; you get rather used to traveling in London on week days when everyone keeps themselves to themselves. On Saturdays there are possibly more tourists about, or Londoners get together with their friends to travel, which means the tubes and trains are a great deal noisier.
Having been hiding away underneath headphones for the last few weeks, without Nathan about, I realise I've become something of a hermit, pottering about at my own pace, not making a great deal of noise. How quickly we lose the ability to deal with society!
It was Lewes where I was heading today, in one of those confusing trains from Victoria where you have to sit in the correct carriage due to the train "splitting" at Heywards Heath. The front eight carriages were going to Ore, the back four to Littlehampton, but the dot matrix machine was broken and there was nothing to tell me which carriage I was in. Furthermore, even if I'd known I was in the front eight carriages, I have no idea whether Lewes is on the way to Ore. I don't know what Ore is. I had a mate called Donna Ore. Was I going to see her? The carriage smelt of feet and fart, there was a man who sounded like Bill Oddie talking ludicrously loudly about football and I just about lost the will to live. Still, looking at the countryside on the way down South is always a treat... So green and rolling....
Lewes looked like a picture post card with houses covered in wisteria and roses. The sun was shining. Meriel met me from the station and we walked across the town to a little hollow in front of Rupert and Hilary's house where a lovely marquee had been set up to celebrate Rupert's 40th birthday. Everyone is 40 this year. By the time mine rolls along everyone will be completely bored of celebrating! I bought Rupert a "in deepest sympathy card", which I thought was hysterically funny. "Which garage did you buy this from?" He asked, in a typically blunt way... Sometimes I wonder why we bother with birthday cards. They're such a nonsense aren't they? Unless you're writing a proper message inside, or you've made the card yourself, they just become something else to put out with the recycling!
Rupert, who's about as carnivorous as a man can get had organised a hog roast. Fortunately his wife, Uncle Bill, is vegetarian, so whilst the meat eaters chowed down on pig, we were given delicious hummus wraps and exciting bowls of Eaton Mess. The hog roast was incredibly popular but for me there's very little which looks as unappetising as the half-eaten carcass of a pig mounted on a stick! It genuinely ended up looking like the scene of some kind of horrific murder. Bits of melted yellow flesh dripping down with globules of white fat. Like a terrible autopsy.
The party was filled with parents and children, some of whom I knew, most of whom I didn't. The ghastly truth about quite a few parents with young children is they can loose the ability to talk about anything else! It becomes almost desperately boring, particularly when you finally manage to get one talking about something else, but they always have their eyes elsewhere, watching their little darlings. I think they genuinely feel that they're multi-tasking, because the other parents they talk to are doing exactly the same thing and no one cares, but when you don't have kids, it becomes really offensive because you see them glazing over, nodding politely and occasionally saying something to keep you sweet, but the conversation always ends up coming to a rudely abrupt halt when their child sidles over. "What's the matter Totty? Would you like another drink?" The words cut into your own like a knife. They can't even allow you the dignity of finishing a sentence before turning away and dealing with their beloved. And very rarely does the conversation ever return when the child goes away again, essentially, I believe, because they weren't actually taking anything in in the first place!
There are, of course, exceptions to this rule. I have friends who are parents who are desperate not to talk about kiddy things, parents who look you in the eye, and when their children come over they will continue to look whilst reassuringly putting a hand on the child's arm which says "Mummy's talking right now, but when I can give you my attention I will do." And the truth of the matter is that their children are universally the polite, more fascinating ones with whom you ultimately want to spend more time!
On my way home, I got a text from Fiona who was on her way back to Brighton from Northampton. It transpired that her train was pulling into Gatwick just as mine was leaving... Or was it the other way round? Anyway, we waved in each other's general direction.
I got to Victoria in a rush to get home and settle, having spent plenty enough time with large crowds of people. The station was absolutely heaving and as I reached the tube, the horror occurred of my Oyster card needing topping up. The ticket machines were surrounded by huge queues of tourists who had absolutely no idea how to deal with the technology. I stood in a queue for at least ten minutes willing people to be more organised...
I got home and worked until 2am... Which is why I posted this blog when I woke up!
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