I know what you're thinking. 'She said they'd be another blogpost when she got home; that was on Monday and it's now Thursday - what is going on?'
Thanks for your concern. Unfortunately my bronchitis morphed into a hideous chest infection, complete with cough, sore throat, fever and I've hardly left my bed since I flew back. I was meant to be back at work on Tuesday, but I haven't made it in yet. I have spent whole days sleeping and coughing and it's been no fun at all. Bed-rest, someone called Benny Lin and copious amounts of water have become my new best friends. I sound like a husky man who smokes 50 / day and it's not good. I have cancelled everything this week and feel like I've lost a week. I tried to make another doctor's appointment for tomorrow, but they haven't got one till Tuesday, when I'm hoping to be better.
The flight home was uneventful. I flew with United, whom I would not choose to fly with again - actually, they were the only option time-wise, so I didn't choose them! What sort of an airline charges for drinks on a long-haul flight? £7.99 for a tiny bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, which was gone in two sips. £7.99? When I'd already spent a month's salary on the return trip?! I tried to make small-talk with the girl beside me, but she quickly made clear that she was having none of that, so I took the hint and started reading a book, before sleeping like a baby almost the whole way home. Two tubes, a train and a walk up from the station, and I was home. Home sweet home. Jar Jar Binks was waiting for me (see the first blog post), although he is now safely back on eBay (is there a StarWars fan in your life?). My housemate had sensibly sought refuge in Malta for the week, but has since returned.
Anyway, in between prolonged sleeps, I've put a few more things on eBay - sold £100 of water purification equipment before I went to the States - this is all for 1st Chislehurst Guides trip to... Iceland ! Yes indeed, having enjoyed a relatively local jaunt to Luxembourg in December 2013, we are now preparing to go a bit further, to Iceland in October 2014. Twenty Guides, two Young Leaders and six adults. We are going to meet with local Girl Guides, hopefully see the Northern Lights, spend time in Reykjavik and enjoy an international Guiding experience! Leading groups abroad is extremely rewarding and we are all working hard to raise what we need. If you are a Leader in Guiding thinking about taking your unit abroad, watch this for some inspiration.
Whilst you're reading, you might be able to help us with the Iceland fundraising. Each attendee is paying £250 and we are fundraising the rest. To do this, we are collecting: CDs and DVDs (in original boxes only), some books (let me know if you have some), aluminium foil (washed and squashed), used postage stamps (cut off the corner of envelopes), mobile phones, and anything of value which I can put on eBay! We have also held a Variety Show which raised £890, the bag-packing at Sainsbury's last week raised £550 and we have other events planned. If you buy things online, you can support us by using easyfundraising, which generates a donation for us at no cost to you. Easysearch is good too - and you don't even need to sign up. One more thing - if you run a charitable group, you too can sign up for easyfundraising (if you're a Guiding group in LaSER, you are already signed up - Region kindly put all Counties, Divisions, Districts and Units on there, so have a look if you haven't already, as it's free money), but if you run a charity, school, sports club, community group or other good cause which isn't part of Guiding in LaSER sign up here. What have you got to lose? Nothing at all.
If you're having a clear-out and want to donate anything I've mentioned above, or help in some other way, feel free to e-mail me: helenbb75@hotmail.com or send me a message on Twitter.
Congratulations if you've got this far. It's been lovely writing for you all - I hope you have enjoyed my observations, anecdotes and constant references to Guiding. What do you mean you're not involved in Guiding?! Have a look here and get involved!
Thanks for reading. See you round. Best wishes from Helen BB x
Thursday 24 April 2014
Sunday 20 April 2014
Things Fall Apart
Nothing went to plan, but everyone is ok.
I am topped up with DayQuil which is alleviating the throat pain but not the hacking cough. Oh I pity whoever is going to be sitting next to me on this impending flight.
It wouldn't be right to go into the exact details of what happened, but after some hours of childcare, it transpired that I was going to need to make my own way to Larkspur to catch the aircoach. They only seem to have buses on weekdays, to meet the various ferries. It being Sunday, Easter Sunday in fact (Jesus came back - he sends his love), there were no buses to be seen. The average household here has 16 cars per adult, so it's no surprise that they don't need buses. What did I do? My Dad said - 'I suggest you call yourself a cab'. 'Helen - you're a cab', I said (the old ones are the best!).
I googled 'cab San Anselmo to Larkspur' and called one of the four numbers which popped up. I requested a cab in half an hour - 'do you have a local number we can call, Mam?' 'No', I replied, as those with local numbers were indisposed.
No cab came. I called again and asked where my cab was.
'Mam - you are not at the address you gave'
'Yes, I definitely am'
'Mam - the address you gave does not exist'
'Yes, it definitely does, because I am there'
'Mam, the driver came and there was no such address; we could not call you because you don't have a local number'
'Well, I am definitely here, what do you suggest I do?'
'Mam, I cannot help you'
'Ok, well I'll try something else'.
Disheartened, I googled again, back to the four numbers. I called another of the numbers.
'Taxi? How can I help?'
'Hi - I need a cab to take me from 151...'
'Mam - is that you again? I have told you already, that address does not exist'
'How can it be you again? I've called a different number!'
'Mam - all calls come through to me'
'What? All calls?!'
Finally, an experienced driver came and apologised profusely for the 'Diaper Brigade' which had failed to dispatch a cab to the right address - 'I'm always clearing up after them Mam, I do apologise'.
A farewell coffee and an aircoach later, I checked in using a machine. The first question amused me -
'Are you travelling with an infant on your lap?' No I certainly am not! I don't think his parents would like that. When I had said goodbye to the baby earlier, he had burst into tears. I told myself that it was because he was melancholy at the thought of not seeing his favourite (ok, only) Auntie for a long time. It was more likely that he had wet his nappy.
Another milestone today was teaching my mother to use WhatsApp. When mum told me she had purchased a new phone, I said 'It's not a smartphone, is it?'; 'No', she assured me, 'it's an Android'. I was going to put 'whoever sold my mother a smartphone should be shot', but if I put that, I might get Segway-ed away by a Police Officer - seriously, they Segway their way round this airport (what has this world come to, where 'to Segway' is a socially acceptable verb?).
I have just a 10 hour flight, two tubes and a train standing between me and my home.
No doubt there will be another blog post detailing the flight and the poor souls who find themselves beside me on the flight, but for now, I will sign out. I have just checked the stats - this blog has had 715 page views across 10 countries since it started, so thanks for reading and for contributing to that. Perhaps you know me and have shared a few laughs; perhaps you don't know me and have stumbled across my blog by accident. Perhaps you have enjoyed what you have read and want to offer me a lucrative book deal? Seriously, if you have enjoyed this, whoever you are, you might like to read some of my other blogs: Mexico / Guatemala 2013 - this one is frivolous in places; Rwanda 2013 - this one is the opposite. Luxemblog 2013 explores taking my Guide unit abroad for the first time.
I am honoured and delighted to be part of the UK delegation to the WAGGGS (that's World Association of Girl Guides and Girl Scouts) World Conference in Hong Kong in July 2014. I shall be blogging with the rest of the delegation here. I also tweet here, if you're into that.
Au revoir San Francisco.
I am topped up with DayQuil which is alleviating the throat pain but not the hacking cough. Oh I pity whoever is going to be sitting next to me on this impending flight.
It wouldn't be right to go into the exact details of what happened, but after some hours of childcare, it transpired that I was going to need to make my own way to Larkspur to catch the aircoach. They only seem to have buses on weekdays, to meet the various ferries. It being Sunday, Easter Sunday in fact (Jesus came back - he sends his love), there were no buses to be seen. The average household here has 16 cars per adult, so it's no surprise that they don't need buses. What did I do? My Dad said - 'I suggest you call yourself a cab'. 'Helen - you're a cab', I said (the old ones are the best!).
I googled 'cab San Anselmo to Larkspur' and called one of the four numbers which popped up. I requested a cab in half an hour - 'do you have a local number we can call, Mam?' 'No', I replied, as those with local numbers were indisposed.
No cab came. I called again and asked where my cab was.
'Mam - you are not at the address you gave'
'Yes, I definitely am'
'Mam - the address you gave does not exist'
'Yes, it definitely does, because I am there'
'Mam, the driver came and there was no such address; we could not call you because you don't have a local number'
'Well, I am definitely here, what do you suggest I do?'
'Mam, I cannot help you'
'Ok, well I'll try something else'.
Disheartened, I googled again, back to the four numbers. I called another of the numbers.
'Taxi? How can I help?'
'Hi - I need a cab to take me from 151...'
'Mam - is that you again? I have told you already, that address does not exist'
'How can it be you again? I've called a different number!'
'Mam - all calls come through to me'
'What? All calls?!'
Finally, an experienced driver came and apologised profusely for the 'Diaper Brigade' which had failed to dispatch a cab to the right address - 'I'm always clearing up after them Mam, I do apologise'.
A farewell coffee and an aircoach later, I checked in using a machine. The first question amused me -
'Are you travelling with an infant on your lap?' No I certainly am not! I don't think his parents would like that. When I had said goodbye to the baby earlier, he had burst into tears. I told myself that it was because he was melancholy at the thought of not seeing his favourite (ok, only) Auntie for a long time. It was more likely that he had wet his nappy.
Another milestone today was teaching my mother to use WhatsApp. When mum told me she had purchased a new phone, I said 'It's not a smartphone, is it?'; 'No', she assured me, 'it's an Android'. I was going to put 'whoever sold my mother a smartphone should be shot', but if I put that, I might get Segway-ed away by a Police Officer - seriously, they Segway their way round this airport (what has this world come to, where 'to Segway' is a socially acceptable verb?).
I have just a 10 hour flight, two tubes and a train standing between me and my home.
No doubt there will be another blog post detailing the flight and the poor souls who find themselves beside me on the flight, but for now, I will sign out. I have just checked the stats - this blog has had 715 page views across 10 countries since it started, so thanks for reading and for contributing to that. Perhaps you know me and have shared a few laughs; perhaps you don't know me and have stumbled across my blog by accident. Perhaps you have enjoyed what you have read and want to offer me a lucrative book deal? Seriously, if you have enjoyed this, whoever you are, you might like to read some of my other blogs: Mexico / Guatemala 2013 - this one is frivolous in places; Rwanda 2013 - this one is the opposite. Luxemblog 2013 explores taking my Guide unit abroad for the first time.
I am honoured and delighted to be part of the UK delegation to the WAGGGS (that's World Association of Girl Guides and Girl Scouts) World Conference in Hong Kong in July 2014. I shall be blogging with the rest of the delegation here. I also tweet here, if you're into that.
Au revoir San Francisco.
Saturday 19 April 2014
Rose again
It appears that I have bronchitis. I am rarely ill, so where better to become ill than whilst on 'holiday' on the other side of the world? My brother-in-law bought me this amazing stuff called DayQuil, which suppressed the pain but not the cough or the glorious yellow phlegm. (Phlegm - what a great word eh?) I drugged up on DayQuil this afternoon and felt a bit brighter. I also had another long sleep, before I rose again.
My sister gave me some NightQuil just now, which is the night equivalent of DayQuil, as you may have guessed; therefore I am not able to operate heavy machinery right now, so my plans to do a spot of tree felling with a chainsaw, to do a quick circuit of Fairfax in a tractor and to find a field to harvest in my combine harvester, have been put on hold. For now.
Tonight is my final night in the US. I have packed my bag. We are all off to church in the morning, where my sister is conducting a handbell choir - yet another of her musical accomplishments. I shall then say goodbye and 'au revoir' to the family, before heading to the airport. I'm taking a ferry, then some kind soul called Bart is going to take me to the airport. We spoke tonight and it's all good.
It is Easter Day tomorrow - Jesus is getting ready to rise again. I wonder how this is affected by time differences? A Happy Easter to those of you to whom Easter means something - whether it's Jesus-based or chocolate-based, may it be a happy time.
My sister gave me some NightQuil just now, which is the night equivalent of DayQuil, as you may have guessed; therefore I am not able to operate heavy machinery right now, so my plans to do a spot of tree felling with a chainsaw, to do a quick circuit of Fairfax in a tractor and to find a field to harvest in my combine harvester, have been put on hold. For now.
Tonight is my final night in the US. I have packed my bag. We are all off to church in the morning, where my sister is conducting a handbell choir - yet another of her musical accomplishments. I shall then say goodbye and 'au revoir' to the family, before heading to the airport. I'm taking a ferry, then some kind soul called Bart is going to take me to the airport. We spoke tonight and it's all good.
It is Easter Day tomorrow - Jesus is getting ready to rise again. I wonder how this is affected by time differences? A Happy Easter to those of you to whom Easter means something - whether it's Jesus-based or chocolate-based, may it be a happy time.
My biggest challenge yet
As you may know, I spend my Monday nights delivering programmes to 80 Brownies and Guides (40 or so of each) - yes indeed, large units, but well-organised, with large leadership teams, providing good Guiding.
This was nothing compared to today's challenge - I was entrusted to walk the dog and the baby (one is called Sage, the other Isaac - reassuringly, they both answer to both) from one house to the other, by myself - just me and the boys. It is a distance of about half a mile, crossing multiple roads.
The advice was to stay close to the left where there is no 'sidewalk' ('pavement' to British amongst us) and to put the lead across the top of the 'stroller' ('buggy') to stop the dog pulling. It was all going so well, until the wheels got stuck in a minor trench and nearly catapulted the baby, or the dog, or both into the path of the traffic which was not 'yielding' ('giving way'). We overcame this and, all in tact, used the 'crosswalk' successfully, once I'd worked out where the traffic was coming from. You have to be careful with Jay Walking here, because he's illegal.
The baby went very quiet. We walked past a grocery store and I was reassured to see the reflection of two tiny feet which confirmed that he was still there. I walked round the front of the stroller; the baby looked at me and said, 'You're the best Auntie I could possibly wish for'; but nobody else heard.
We walked past several houses who had put their possessions 'out front' for people to take - this is a normal thing here; they call it a 'garage sale'. In Plumstead, people put their unwanted possessions, usually mattresses, outside other peoples' houses; we call it 'fly tipping' and call the council. I've got them on speed-dial.
We got into the house - there is still a curious man in the garden, but I think he is a gardener. The baby happily bounced in his bouncer, whilst Auntie made a cup of tea. We played peek-a-boo, which the baby loved - although he might just have wind. Then his mum came back and baby started wailing! It must be difficult being a baby. A wail could mean - 'I'm hungry'; 'I'm tired'; 'I'm sitting in my own faeces and it's pretty grim, perchance could you change me'; or just 'get lost Auntie; we might share some of the same genetic make up, but you didn't give birth to me and I want my Mom not you.'
His parents are now shuttling between the two houses, bringing over the last of their possessions, whilst the grandparents are, I'm not sure actually, probably at the other house cleaning the bathroom. So I am on baby-watch and dog-watch, with a stuffed fox for company.
This was nothing compared to today's challenge - I was entrusted to walk the dog and the baby (one is called Sage, the other Isaac - reassuringly, they both answer to both) from one house to the other, by myself - just me and the boys. It is a distance of about half a mile, crossing multiple roads.
The advice was to stay close to the left where there is no 'sidewalk' ('pavement' to British amongst us) and to put the lead across the top of the 'stroller' ('buggy') to stop the dog pulling. It was all going so well, until the wheels got stuck in a minor trench and nearly catapulted the baby, or the dog, or both into the path of the traffic which was not 'yielding' ('giving way'). We overcame this and, all in tact, used the 'crosswalk' successfully, once I'd worked out where the traffic was coming from. You have to be careful with Jay Walking here, because he's illegal.
The baby went very quiet. We walked past a grocery store and I was reassured to see the reflection of two tiny feet which confirmed that he was still there. I walked round the front of the stroller; the baby looked at me and said, 'You're the best Auntie I could possibly wish for'; but nobody else heard.
We walked past several houses who had put their possessions 'out front' for people to take - this is a normal thing here; they call it a 'garage sale'. In Plumstead, people put their unwanted possessions, usually mattresses, outside other peoples' houses; we call it 'fly tipping' and call the council. I've got them on speed-dial.
We got into the house - there is still a curious man in the garden, but I think he is a gardener. The baby happily bounced in his bouncer, whilst Auntie made a cup of tea. We played peek-a-boo, which the baby loved - although he might just have wind. Then his mum came back and baby started wailing! It must be difficult being a baby. A wail could mean - 'I'm hungry'; 'I'm tired'; 'I'm sitting in my own faeces and it's pretty grim, perchance could you change me'; or just 'get lost Auntie; we might share some of the same genetic make up, but you didn't give birth to me and I want my Mom not you.'
His parents are now shuttling between the two houses, bringing over the last of their possessions, whilst the grandparents are, I'm not sure actually, probably at the other house cleaning the bathroom. So I am on baby-watch and dog-watch, with a stuffed fox for company.
Do you want leaves with that?
I am realising that here in the U S of A, meals are served with an enormous pile of leaves. It is also normal for one's jaw to be dislocated after eating a sandwich. This doesn't do much for my temperomandibular joint dysfunction, but that's another blog.
Currently, Mum is pretending to be a chicken, whilst catastrophising about the size of the extra capacity washing machine which my sister and brother-in-law have now resolved not to buy after all. Brother-in-law has headed off to karate and my sister is unpacking things from after the move. Dad has sensibly sought refuge in the bathroom. The baby is throwing things and making baby noises, as babies do. Thank God for the dog, who just wanders around in that dog-like manner.
I have not been well for the last couple of days. I am feverish, with chest pain, coughing like I smoke 40 a day (when in fact, I never go over 30 - that's a JOKE - I've never smoked), earache, headache, sore throat, generally feeling wrecked, so was asleep most of yesterday, having some very surreal dreams, including one where I was swallowed by a whale - hang on, that really happened. (see previous blog entry)
What better time to put together flat-packed furniture? That is my requisite task now. More later.
Thursday 17 April 2014
Diversion Ahead Ross
Ah, America, what a curious blend of curiosity you are. In a land where anything older than 50 years is ancient, where motorists are told to 'yield' rather than to 'give way' and where any family with less than one car per adult is strange, it was no surprise to see road signs intended for just one person - Ross. 'Diversion Ahead Ross', declared one; 'Ross Pharmacy'; methinks this one was missing an apostrophe; I even saw a bus which said, simply, 'Ross'.
There's a guy here called Jay Walking; he's illegal.
My sister had critical work to do today - looking at washing machines. My parents went to the house which we have all moved out of, to clean it. I took the opportunity to flee to the big smoke - hello, San Francisco.
I jumped aboard the commuter ferry - it's normal here to commute by ferry, across the bay. I was going to say here that it definitely beats the Northern Line, but I avoid the Northern Line as often as possible, so that doesn't make sense (although, as the legendary comedian Rob Hitchmough taught me - don't let the truth get in the way).
I had been told that there was a lot of poverty in San Francisco. Just to put this in context, I have travelled all over the world in the last fifteen or so years, visiting around sixty countries for all sorts of purposes - teaching, studying, attending Guiding events, conferences, volunteering on various community projects, travelling to places of religious significance (hence the theology / development degrees etc.), but I was staggered by the number of street people in San Francisco. Every few yards in Market Street, one of the main streets there, is someone wheeling a shopping trolley overflowing with their grubby belongings; an old lady with ailing teeth reaching into a bin and eating whatever scraps she pulled out; war veterans with dreadful injuries sitting in ramshackle wheelchairs, looking listlessly into the distance. A man sat, with a fraying paper cup beside him, and a sign which said 'Homeless. Ill with HIV. Anything helps. God bless you'.
This poverty does not discriminate - I saw people of every creed and colour; men, women, even children.
Many just sit, or lie. Some were quite threatening - the dreadlocked man shrieking obscenities at passers-by; the young man wheeling a huge trolley, issuing death threats to anyone who happened to glance in his direction. People come up to you in the streets, begging - 'just a quarter mam?' This wasn't in a backstreet, this was on one of the main streets. There is clearly a massive problem here, and a profound need for people to be helped out of these dire situations. There are a lot of very ill people out there as well, who need help and support. I just found this article from July last year, that goes some way to explaining part of the situation. I can't help wondering how this country, this superpower, where everyone wants to come, where you can get whatever you want, 24 hours a day, can't look after its people.
But is the UK the same? There is ConDemNation of the attitude of the coalition to the 'poor'; we are now 'Foodbank Britain', with a 'bedroom tax'. Discrimination is rife, hence campaigns like Everyday Sexism (which encourages people to report instances of sexism against women); the No More Page 3 campaign, which is working tirelessly to get The Sun to make page 3 a thing of the past; the Valuing Maternity campaign, working to raise awareness of and to combat pregnancy discrimination - did you know that 60,000 women a year lose their jobs as a result of pregnancy discrimination? We should not have to have organisations called things like the Child Poverty Action Group; we should not have to campaign against the government cuts which have made life so very difficult for people. Look at the NHS cuts, the cuts to maternity benefits, the changes to disability benefits, which have forced people who cannot work, to look for work. 'Working poor' has become a thing. Who saw that Sport Relief programme, where those 'celebrities' (famous in their own households at least), lived with people who live in food poverty and tried to understand the barriers that people face to being able to eat. 'Food poverty' - how has that even become a term?!
Sorry - I'm ranting now. What's the solution? Is there a solution? I'm not sure where you are theologically, but if you believe that there is a God / god(s), just consider how He / She / they must feel about the mess that humanity has made of the world. And that was epitomised in Market Street today.
Right - that's it, I'm going to go into politics when I get home. I've recently become Lead Volunteer for Advocacy for Girlguiding LaSER, which is very exciting and presents a great opportunity to help more women and girls to get stuck into politics, whilst doing good at the same time. Who's in?!
After coffee I met up with the delightful Mr and Mrs O for some divine ice-cream and a good natter. They are baby's godparents and have been holidaying here each side of the christening. We sat in the ferry terminal watching the world go by and catching up. Sublime. They are coming up here tomorrow before flying home. Happy days.
Well done if you've made it this far and didn't give up mid-rant. More tomorrow. Night all - going to go and slay those windchimes. I was hoping they would be lost in transit, but no such luck.
There's a guy here called Jay Walking; he's illegal.
My sister had critical work to do today - looking at washing machines. My parents went to the house which we have all moved out of, to clean it. I took the opportunity to flee to the big smoke - hello, San Francisco.
I jumped aboard the commuter ferry - it's normal here to commute by ferry, across the bay. I was going to say here that it definitely beats the Northern Line, but I avoid the Northern Line as often as possible, so that doesn't make sense (although, as the legendary comedian Rob Hitchmough taught me - don't let the truth get in the way).
I had been told that there was a lot of poverty in San Francisco. Just to put this in context, I have travelled all over the world in the last fifteen or so years, visiting around sixty countries for all sorts of purposes - teaching, studying, attending Guiding events, conferences, volunteering on various community projects, travelling to places of religious significance (hence the theology / development degrees etc.), but I was staggered by the number of street people in San Francisco. Every few yards in Market Street, one of the main streets there, is someone wheeling a shopping trolley overflowing with their grubby belongings; an old lady with ailing teeth reaching into a bin and eating whatever scraps she pulled out; war veterans with dreadful injuries sitting in ramshackle wheelchairs, looking listlessly into the distance. A man sat, with a fraying paper cup beside him, and a sign which said 'Homeless. Ill with HIV. Anything helps. God bless you'.
This poverty does not discriminate - I saw people of every creed and colour; men, women, even children.
Many just sit, or lie. Some were quite threatening - the dreadlocked man shrieking obscenities at passers-by; the young man wheeling a huge trolley, issuing death threats to anyone who happened to glance in his direction. People come up to you in the streets, begging - 'just a quarter mam?' This wasn't in a backstreet, this was on one of the main streets. There is clearly a massive problem here, and a profound need for people to be helped out of these dire situations. There are a lot of very ill people out there as well, who need help and support. I just found this article from July last year, that goes some way to explaining part of the situation. I can't help wondering how this country, this superpower, where everyone wants to come, where you can get whatever you want, 24 hours a day, can't look after its people.
But is the UK the same? There is ConDemNation of the attitude of the coalition to the 'poor'; we are now 'Foodbank Britain', with a 'bedroom tax'. Discrimination is rife, hence campaigns like Everyday Sexism (which encourages people to report instances of sexism against women); the No More Page 3 campaign, which is working tirelessly to get The Sun to make page 3 a thing of the past; the Valuing Maternity campaign, working to raise awareness of and to combat pregnancy discrimination - did you know that 60,000 women a year lose their jobs as a result of pregnancy discrimination? We should not have to have organisations called things like the Child Poverty Action Group; we should not have to campaign against the government cuts which have made life so very difficult for people. Look at the NHS cuts, the cuts to maternity benefits, the changes to disability benefits, which have forced people who cannot work, to look for work. 'Working poor' has become a thing. Who saw that Sport Relief programme, where those 'celebrities' (famous in their own households at least), lived with people who live in food poverty and tried to understand the barriers that people face to being able to eat. 'Food poverty' - how has that even become a term?!
Sorry - I'm ranting now. What's the solution? Is there a solution? I'm not sure where you are theologically, but if you believe that there is a God / god(s), just consider how He / She / they must feel about the mess that humanity has made of the world. And that was epitomised in Market Street today.
Right - that's it, I'm going to go into politics when I get home. I've recently become Lead Volunteer for Advocacy for Girlguiding LaSER, which is very exciting and presents a great opportunity to help more women and girls to get stuck into politics, whilst doing good at the same time. Who's in?!
After coffee I met up with the delightful Mr and Mrs O for some divine ice-cream and a good natter. They are baby's godparents and have been holidaying here each side of the christening. We sat in the ferry terminal watching the world go by and catching up. Sublime. They are coming up here tomorrow before flying home. Happy days.
Well done if you've made it this far and didn't give up mid-rant. More tomorrow. Night all - going to go and slay those windchimes. I was hoping they would be lost in transit, but no such luck.
Wednesday 16 April 2014
First world problems
The organic supermarket doesn't sell taramasalata. In fact, they haven't even heard of those curious pink fish-eggs, which we so liberally smear onto crackers and things at home.
Waking up this morning was immensely confusing. I had, once again, been consumed by the whale which is my air-bed; there was a curious odour; 'Hey SiL', came the American twang of my brother-in-law as I realised he was changing the baby on the changing table which lived in my 'bedroom'. At that moment, the dog burst in, as did my mother, waving a cup of tea at me and suggesting that I should perhaps get up as the room would soon be needed for storage whilst the removal men did their thing.
The dog is very protective and not likely to warm to strangers in the house, hence keeping him in my room whilst the removal men came. My brother-in-law sensibly sought refuge at work, whilst the rest of us toiled to get everything packed up and into the other house, which mercifully, is a 5-minute drive away; this whole operation would be worse if it was the other side of the country, as this is quite a big country.
Four orange-clad removal men appeared on time, variously speaking American and Spanish. One of them was called 'Duke'; another had spectacular tattoos on his hairy arms. They dutifully wrapped everything in huge blankets, then copious amounts of clingfilm, before bundling round to the new house and unloading it all. I unloaded the car, whilst my sister co-ordinated the operation to put all the large furniture into the right rooms. I have forgotten where everything was put, apart from the memory foam mattress.
Moving house - it's something to do, I suppose.
There was considerable distress caused by the teapot being lost in transit. I managed to find the tea-cosy, which is shaped like a cat; it taunted me with its arrogant expression. The teapot has since materialised and all is well.
The shower here has to be better than the one in the old house. I've had a better shower in a brothel in Burkina Faso. (I hasten to add that I didn't know it was a brothel until the next day; to the naive 19-year-old traveller, it was just a cheap hotel)
Goodnight all.
Waking up this morning was immensely confusing. I had, once again, been consumed by the whale which is my air-bed; there was a curious odour; 'Hey SiL', came the American twang of my brother-in-law as I realised he was changing the baby on the changing table which lived in my 'bedroom'. At that moment, the dog burst in, as did my mother, waving a cup of tea at me and suggesting that I should perhaps get up as the room would soon be needed for storage whilst the removal men did their thing.
The dog is very protective and not likely to warm to strangers in the house, hence keeping him in my room whilst the removal men came. My brother-in-law sensibly sought refuge at work, whilst the rest of us toiled to get everything packed up and into the other house, which mercifully, is a 5-minute drive away; this whole operation would be worse if it was the other side of the country, as this is quite a big country.
Four orange-clad removal men appeared on time, variously speaking American and Spanish. One of them was called 'Duke'; another had spectacular tattoos on his hairy arms. They dutifully wrapped everything in huge blankets, then copious amounts of clingfilm, before bundling round to the new house and unloading it all. I unloaded the car, whilst my sister co-ordinated the operation to put all the large furniture into the right rooms. I have forgotten where everything was put, apart from the memory foam mattress.
Moving house - it's something to do, I suppose.
There was considerable distress caused by the teapot being lost in transit. I managed to find the tea-cosy, which is shaped like a cat; it taunted me with its arrogant expression. The teapot has since materialised and all is well.
The shower here has to be better than the one in the old house. I've had a better shower in a brothel in Burkina Faso. (I hasten to add that I didn't know it was a brothel until the next day; to the naive 19-year-old traveller, it was just a cheap hotel)
Goodnight all.
Tuesday 15 April 2014
How Jonah felt
I awoke to find that unfortunately, I had been swallowed by a whale. I was engulfed by the soft blue innards, submerged beneath layers of whale flab. Breathing was difficult. My surroundings were soft, dark, but curiously non-threatening. This is how Jonah felt, I thought to myself.
After some minutes, I realised that the trusty air-bed, which has been my place of slumber since I arrived, had in fact, partly deflated, causing the sheet to ping off and consume me within, beneath a blanket, a duvet and another layer.
It was a relief to know that I was not inside a whale. I was about to say something about the people of Lilliput, but on reflection, I mean Niniveh. The two are easily confused in my brain, which has been addled by this house-moving malarky; making silly noises at the baby; spending a disproportionate amount of time in a wacky organic cafe; making all sorts of new friends I will never see again, just because I am wielding a baby; singing to the baby, (to the tune of 'Jubilate' - the options are endless - 'bounce the baby...', 'feed the baby...', 'walk the baby...' etc.).
The great house move is well-underway. The new house is about fifteen times the size of the house in which I live. We spent the day variously filling up the car at this house; then unloading at the other house; cleaning things; Mum catastrophising about kitchen equipment; me wheeling the baby around and making friends locally; and Sage the dog looking on, as if he was subconsciously co-ordinating the operation.
The WiFi has been switched off, so I am using some clumsy neighbour's WiFi.
What has 12 legs, 3 wheels and a combined age of 178? Myself, my parents, the baby in the 'stroller' and the dog, going to the organic cafe to buy a chicken. Mum wanted to cook chicken casserole, but we were missing the critical ingredient - chicken. The decision as to where to buy the chicken rested on how happy we wanted the chicken to have been whilst it was of this world. Chickens which are for sale in organic cafes were formally happy, free to travel wherever they wanted; they lived in extravagant palaces and ate Caviar; they had David Lloyd membership and enjoy regular gym sessions with personal trainers. They also had music lessons. Chickens which are for sale in regular supermarkets were formerly headless mutants brought up on a diet of MacDonalds, which is awkward when you don't have a head.
Mum spent time searching for the former type of chicken in the organic cafe, whilst Dad, myself, the baby and the dog, chilled out in the cafe; this is becoming a pleasantly recurring theme.
The baby and I enjoyed two more walks later in the day, including one to a nearby swing park where we made friends with a woman whose husband is from Hertfordshire. Ah, Hertfordshire, 'The County of Opportunity', I remember the sign boasting. Or you could move here.
Behold - the removal men are due in less than 12 hours. This is my final night in this house, ever. Tomorrow I shall blog about the joys of the actual move. The new house is a bit nearer to the organic cafe; no doubt there will be more adventures there.
I hope you're enjoying my musings; I have it on good authority that at least 2 people are reading this blog, so thanks if you're one of them.
Happy holidays team.
After some minutes, I realised that the trusty air-bed, which has been my place of slumber since I arrived, had in fact, partly deflated, causing the sheet to ping off and consume me within, beneath a blanket, a duvet and another layer.
It was a relief to know that I was not inside a whale. I was about to say something about the people of Lilliput, but on reflection, I mean Niniveh. The two are easily confused in my brain, which has been addled by this house-moving malarky; making silly noises at the baby; spending a disproportionate amount of time in a wacky organic cafe; making all sorts of new friends I will never see again, just because I am wielding a baby; singing to the baby, (to the tune of 'Jubilate' - the options are endless - 'bounce the baby...', 'feed the baby...', 'walk the baby...' etc.).
The great house move is well-underway. The new house is about fifteen times the size of the house in which I live. We spent the day variously filling up the car at this house; then unloading at the other house; cleaning things; Mum catastrophising about kitchen equipment; me wheeling the baby around and making friends locally; and Sage the dog looking on, as if he was subconsciously co-ordinating the operation.
The WiFi has been switched off, so I am using some clumsy neighbour's WiFi.
What has 12 legs, 3 wheels and a combined age of 178? Myself, my parents, the baby in the 'stroller' and the dog, going to the organic cafe to buy a chicken. Mum wanted to cook chicken casserole, but we were missing the critical ingredient - chicken. The decision as to where to buy the chicken rested on how happy we wanted the chicken to have been whilst it was of this world. Chickens which are for sale in organic cafes were formally happy, free to travel wherever they wanted; they lived in extravagant palaces and ate Caviar; they had David Lloyd membership and enjoy regular gym sessions with personal trainers. They also had music lessons. Chickens which are for sale in regular supermarkets were formerly headless mutants brought up on a diet of MacDonalds, which is awkward when you don't have a head.
Mum spent time searching for the former type of chicken in the organic cafe, whilst Dad, myself, the baby and the dog, chilled out in the cafe; this is becoming a pleasantly recurring theme.
The baby and I enjoyed two more walks later in the day, including one to a nearby swing park where we made friends with a woman whose husband is from Hertfordshire. Ah, Hertfordshire, 'The County of Opportunity', I remember the sign boasting. Or you could move here.
Behold - the removal men are due in less than 12 hours. This is my final night in this house, ever. Tomorrow I shall blog about the joys of the actual move. The new house is a bit nearer to the organic cafe; no doubt there will be more adventures there.
I hope you're enjoying my musings; I have it on good authority that at least 2 people are reading this blog, so thanks if you're one of them.
Happy holidays team.
Monday 14 April 2014
I feel British, oh so British..
It is a truth universally acknowledged that when you fly to the other side of the world, you should go to Ikea.
We bundled into the car - myself and the parents, the baby, and my sister at the wheel. I do admire her for driving on what feels like the wrong side of the road. I have driven on the wrong - sorry, I mean, other, side of the road in a few places, but I always end up opening the door instead of changing gear wreaking havoc. I am now banned from driving in at least four countries, and a safari park. But there was certainly no hint of my sister grappling for the door, and she effortlessly drove us all to a place called Emeryville.
I would rather eat my own face than walk around any sort of home furnishing store, therefore Dad, myself and the baby sought refuge in the cafe, which was remarkably like the Ikea cafe in Croydon, where I was once dragged against my will. The prices were low and there were unlimited coffee refills, so Dad and I enjoyed 74 cups between us, as well as a sumptuous Swedish-American breakfast.
The baby burbled and enabled numerous conversations with others wielding babies, including 6-month-old Logan. Later in the day, whilst out for another walk, I met Nora the baby (is that really a baby name these days?). Babies are really good conversation starters. I did a gig a while ago and one of the comics did a routine describing babies as 'mini dictators'. I think there is some truth in that.
The other obvious thing to do when your family is visiting from the other side of the world, is to move house. We spent the rest of the day packing up two years worth of accumulated belongings, outgrown baby clothes, toys, musical instruments, CDs, DVDs, books, furniture, photographs, equipment relating to deceased or escaped pets, kitchen equipment, shoes, bits of bathroom, techy stuff, soft toys, sheet music, bedding; I nearly packed the baby by mistake. And the dog.
I went for another walk with the baby. We went up into Fairfax. I used to know someone who had a rabbit called Fairfax. We wandered around, then settled in a Coffee Roastery, where we were accosted by a large, hairy woman. 'How old is he?' she asked, pointing at the baby. '10 months', I duly replied. She asked some more questions, then said 'how old is he?'; '10 months and about 6 minutes', I replied. She said that I had an accent and that she didn't think I was from round here. She's sharp, I thought. Then she asked 'how old is he?'
We bundled into the car - myself and the parents, the baby, and my sister at the wheel. I do admire her for driving on what feels like the wrong side of the road. I have driven on the wrong - sorry, I mean, other, side of the road in a few places, but I always end up opening the door instead of changing gear wreaking havoc. I am now banned from driving in at least four countries, and a safari park. But there was certainly no hint of my sister grappling for the door, and she effortlessly drove us all to a place called Emeryville.
I would rather eat my own face than walk around any sort of home furnishing store, therefore Dad, myself and the baby sought refuge in the cafe, which was remarkably like the Ikea cafe in Croydon, where I was once dragged against my will. The prices were low and there were unlimited coffee refills, so Dad and I enjoyed 74 cups between us, as well as a sumptuous Swedish-American breakfast.
The baby burbled and enabled numerous conversations with others wielding babies, including 6-month-old Logan. Later in the day, whilst out for another walk, I met Nora the baby (is that really a baby name these days?). Babies are really good conversation starters. I did a gig a while ago and one of the comics did a routine describing babies as 'mini dictators'. I think there is some truth in that.
The other obvious thing to do when your family is visiting from the other side of the world, is to move house. We spent the rest of the day packing up two years worth of accumulated belongings, outgrown baby clothes, toys, musical instruments, CDs, DVDs, books, furniture, photographs, equipment relating to deceased or escaped pets, kitchen equipment, shoes, bits of bathroom, techy stuff, soft toys, sheet music, bedding; I nearly packed the baby by mistake. And the dog.
I went for another walk with the baby. We went up into Fairfax. I used to know someone who had a rabbit called Fairfax. We wandered around, then settled in a Coffee Roastery, where we were accosted by a large, hairy woman. 'How old is he?' she asked, pointing at the baby. '10 months', I duly replied. She asked some more questions, then said 'how old is he?'; '10 months and about 6 minutes', I replied. She said that I had an accent and that she didn't think I was from round here. She's sharp, I thought. Then she asked 'how old is he?'
Baby steps
I took the baby for a walk yesterday. Well, to be fair, I did most of the walking. Well, all of the walking actually, because the baby cannot yet walk. Isaac was safely encased in a giant space-age buggy-thing, burbling away. People treat you differently when you have a baby with you. I'll never forget the first time I was in sole charge of Isaac, taking him all the way from Waterloo East to Orpington last July. I almost got the buggy wedged in the gap between the platform and the train, which I had been told so clearly, by the haunting voice of the automated woman, to avoid. At Waterloo East, whilst the baby was howling his head off, a savvy Southeastern employee took it upon himself to inform me, 'your baby is distressed'. It's a good job he told me that, because I hadn't realised that this tiny 9-week-old was howling his lungs out, distressed at being left with this peculiar aunt, albeit genetically similar, which he wasn't to know. 'He's not mine', I reliably informed the train passengers; I mean, I rapidly reframed, 'I didn't just find him somewhere - he's my sister's!'
Babies eh - what curious little things they are. There are just like little people. I keep hearing stories of people forgetting that they have had a baby. Who saw that episode of Rev a couple of weeks ago? The one where Adam left his baby girl in a shop and didn't realise till Mick, a local junkie, turned up and tried to sell the baby back to him. Adam was mortified to have left her behind, but I can see how it happened. He managed to get her back before his wife realised. All good. Rev is a legendary series, with uncanny parallels to the church I attended in Plumstead for five years - a curious microcosm of the Church of England in a multicultural, urbanised London. Do watch it, if you don't already. I think it is on Mondays.
I awoke this morning and wondered where on earth I was and why I could hear a baby crying. As I gradually remembered, I went to assist with the baby, so my sister could return to bed. When I was organising my travel insurance policy last week, the agent ran through all sorts of dangerous activities and asked if I was going to do any of them. I assured him that I was not. However, this morning, when the baby took a swipe at my face, narrowly missing my left eye, I wondered if I should have mentioned baby-handling as a dangerous activity. Baby's opening cuddle yesterday morning, when I hadn't seen him for nine months, involved a hefty swipe to the face, which I took as a term of endearment. I was reassured when he did the same to the pastor who scooped him up to baptise him yesterday.
The church had a a good font. Not as good as Trebuchet mind.
Babies eh - what curious little things they are. There are just like little people. I keep hearing stories of people forgetting that they have had a baby. Who saw that episode of Rev a couple of weeks ago? The one where Adam left his baby girl in a shop and didn't realise till Mick, a local junkie, turned up and tried to sell the baby back to him. Adam was mortified to have left her behind, but I can see how it happened. He managed to get her back before his wife realised. All good. Rev is a legendary series, with uncanny parallels to the church I attended in Plumstead for five years - a curious microcosm of the Church of England in a multicultural, urbanised London. Do watch it, if you don't already. I think it is on Mondays.
I awoke this morning and wondered where on earth I was and why I could hear a baby crying. As I gradually remembered, I went to assist with the baby, so my sister could return to bed. When I was organising my travel insurance policy last week, the agent ran through all sorts of dangerous activities and asked if I was going to do any of them. I assured him that I was not. However, this morning, when the baby took a swipe at my face, narrowly missing my left eye, I wondered if I should have mentioned baby-handling as a dangerous activity. Baby's opening cuddle yesterday morning, when I hadn't seen him for nine months, involved a hefty swipe to the face, which I took as a term of endearment. I was reassured when he did the same to the pastor who scooped him up to baptise him yesterday.
The church had a a good font. Not as good as Trebuchet mind.
Sunday 13 April 2014
Me, myself and ESTA
The three of us - ok, perhaps there was only me - clambered about the first flight, Vancouver-bound. I slept, ate, slept, wrote and chatted to the South African lady next to me who was on her way home to Canada. I read my way through the Saturday Guardian, half of which was about fashion - disappointing if you ask me.
Eventually, 17 hours after leaving Buckingham Gate; after a train, a walk, a meeting, a lengthy circumnavigation of Green Park, due to eighteen million people standing outside Buckingham Palace and a plethora of marching bands blocking the usual route, a Tube ride, a plane to Vancouver, a plane to San Francisco, an air coach to Larkspur (allegedly over the Golden Gate Bridge, which I can't vouch for because I was sound askeep) and a car journey, I arrived chez Montgomery.
Fast forward to this morning and I donned my christening outfit, complete with heels - yes, really - which hadn't been out since they were worn when I was my sister's bridesmaid in August 2012. I was told that Converse wouldn't really have looked right with that bridesmaid's dress
My sister is Choir Director at their church; she conducted the choir in their deep blue cassocks, whilst Isaac the baby burbled endearingly. His delightful godparents performed during the service, all singing as they so beautifully do. I met all sorts of people I am sort-of related to somehow and many of Ro's friends.
The pastor delivered a sermon, then challenged the congregation to respond quite literally - i.e. asking them what they thought. People actually put their hands up with their thoughts on what had been said; not one or two people - about 10 people. It's a interesting way of doing things. I equated it to me delivering a training, then saying, 'right, what exactly did you make of that then?' It's one thing to comment on an evaluation form; it's quite another to say it to the person directly.
Afterwards, I went to a nearby quirky organic cafe after with new friends; it was awash with herbs I've never heard of, organically grown just-about-anything and all sorts of things one can exist quite happily without knowing about.
Eventually, 17 hours after leaving Buckingham Gate; after a train, a walk, a meeting, a lengthy circumnavigation of Green Park, due to eighteen million people standing outside Buckingham Palace and a plethora of marching bands blocking the usual route, a Tube ride, a plane to Vancouver, a plane to San Francisco, an air coach to Larkspur (allegedly over the Golden Gate Bridge, which I can't vouch for because I was sound askeep) and a car journey, I arrived chez Montgomery.
Fast forward to this morning and I donned my christening outfit, complete with heels - yes, really - which hadn't been out since they were worn when I was my sister's bridesmaid in August 2012. I was told that Converse wouldn't really have looked right with that bridesmaid's dress
My sister is Choir Director at their church; she conducted the choir in their deep blue cassocks, whilst Isaac the baby burbled endearingly. His delightful godparents performed during the service, all singing as they so beautifully do. I met all sorts of people I am sort-of related to somehow and many of Ro's friends.
The pastor delivered a sermon, then challenged the congregation to respond quite literally - i.e. asking them what they thought. People actually put their hands up with their thoughts on what had been said; not one or two people - about 10 people. It's a interesting way of doing things. I equated it to me delivering a training, then saying, 'right, what exactly did you make of that then?' It's one thing to comment on an evaluation form; it's quite another to say it to the person directly.
Afterwards, I went to a nearby quirky organic cafe after with new friends; it was awash with herbs I've never heard of, organically grown just-about-anything and all sorts of things one can exist quite happily without knowing about.
Brand new material
I've been doing stand-up now for about a year. My first gig was in Antigua, Guatemala, where almost no-one understood what I was saying, so all in all, a good gig. Today I've noticed that there's an open mic night at a bar very close to where my sister lives, so I shall endeavour to be there on Monday night!
Anyway - there was a reason for opening with this - let me just remember what it was.
Ah yes.
A lot of comedians say that they are doing 'brand new material'. What does that actually mean? Does it mean, I'm not churning out the usual rubbish? Or does it mean that it's rare that new material is written? Not sure. Maybe it means, this material isn't definitely funny, so if no-one laughs, then that's the reason - it was new material, therefore not necessarily remotely amusing.
Where did I get to? I was about to board the flight to San Francisco when I last blogged. The US security took a long time, as expected, but I made some friends in the queue. I was staggered when the security agent asked me if I had any baggage - I said that it was already on the plane - and she pointed at a screen and said 'is that your bag'? She indeed had a photo of my trusty obese-tortoise style orange rucksack! If I'd have known it was going to be photographed, I'd have tidied it up a bit.
Technology eh? It has its uses. I can't help wondering how different life might have been. Adam and Eve never flew anywhere. Nor did Paul - how different things might have been if he could have e-mailed those Galatians, Colossians, Timothy, James, Thessalonians and all the others. I bet he was glad that Royal Mail wasn't privatised then.
Anyway - there was a reason for opening with this - let me just remember what it was.
Ah yes.
A lot of comedians say that they are doing 'brand new material'. What does that actually mean? Does it mean, I'm not churning out the usual rubbish? Or does it mean that it's rare that new material is written? Not sure. Maybe it means, this material isn't definitely funny, so if no-one laughs, then that's the reason - it was new material, therefore not necessarily remotely amusing.
Where did I get to? I was about to board the flight to San Francisco when I last blogged. The US security took a long time, as expected, but I made some friends in the queue. I was staggered when the security agent asked me if I had any baggage - I said that it was already on the plane - and she pointed at a screen and said 'is that your bag'? She indeed had a photo of my trusty obese-tortoise style orange rucksack! If I'd have known it was going to be photographed, I'd have tidied it up a bit.
Technology eh? It has its uses. I can't help wondering how different life might have been. Adam and Eve never flew anywhere. Nor did Paul - how different things might have been if he could have e-mailed those Galatians, Colossians, Timothy, James, Thessalonians and all the others. I bet he was glad that Royal Mail wasn't privatised then.
Saturday 12 April 2014
Tripped over the Hoover, then flew to Vancouver
I woke up this morning and as I dozed, thought to myself, 'hmmm - what's happening today then... it must be... Saturday, because yesterday was Friday... I can't remember... oh well, I'll doze a bit longer...'
My phone alarm started going off, so I snoozed, as I routinely do. The alarm persisted, as if it knew something I didn't. After the seventeenth snooze alarm, I picked up the phone and glanced at the screen, which proudly announced that it was, without doubt, Saturday 12th April.
This date rang a bell. I'd had it in my head for ages. 'Hang on a minute', I thought, 'today's that day when I'm off to the first meeting of the Girlguiding delegation to the WAGGGS World Conference; I am going up to London to attend the first two hours of the meeting, then legging it to Green Park station, onto the Piccadilly Line to Heathrow terminal 3, where at 3pm I'll be flying to Vancouver where I'm transitting before flying to San Francisco, where I'm to find a green and white curb beside a bus stop from where a colourful bus will transport to Larkspur, during which time I shall call my sister who will collect me from said place, ready for my tiny nephew's christening during the Palm Sunday morning service at 10am!'
I leapt out of bed; my eyes met the enormous face of Jar Jar Binks, in rucksack form. He's been on eBay for weeks, but has not yet departed. He'll be back on eBay soon, fear not.
I darted out of my room, narrowly avoiding injury as I tripped over the Hoover which has been outside my room for a week now. I haven't got round to putting it away. What am I saying? I didn't even get round to using it. It's become a bit of a feature now. A bit like the ironing board - the front room doesn't look right without it.
On arrival at Woolwich Arsenal station, I wandered into the station shop to buy my Saturday Guardian, which I don't feel right without. They only had The Times and The Sun. I spoke with a fellow would-be purchaser about the lack of newspapers - 'which paper do you buy?' I asked her; 'ooh, I can't do without the Daily Mail' came the reply. That was a short conversation.
I arrived at Charing Cross in good time and opted to walk through glorious St James' Park. Possibly slightly ambitious, given my convincing impression of an obese orange tortoise (caused by a 60l Vango rucksack strapped to my back), but I figured I'd be sitting on planes for most of the rest of the day. There were ridiculous numbers of tourists taking pictures of squirrels - yes really; grey squirrels. There was also a couple practicising yoga in the bushes. I think it was yoga anyway. I hurried on.
More soon - about to board.
My phone alarm started going off, so I snoozed, as I routinely do. The alarm persisted, as if it knew something I didn't. After the seventeenth snooze alarm, I picked up the phone and glanced at the screen, which proudly announced that it was, without doubt, Saturday 12th April.
This date rang a bell. I'd had it in my head for ages. 'Hang on a minute', I thought, 'today's that day when I'm off to the first meeting of the Girlguiding delegation to the WAGGGS World Conference; I am going up to London to attend the first two hours of the meeting, then legging it to Green Park station, onto the Piccadilly Line to Heathrow terminal 3, where at 3pm I'll be flying to Vancouver where I'm transitting before flying to San Francisco, where I'm to find a green and white curb beside a bus stop from where a colourful bus will transport to Larkspur, during which time I shall call my sister who will collect me from said place, ready for my tiny nephew's christening during the Palm Sunday morning service at 10am!'
I leapt out of bed; my eyes met the enormous face of Jar Jar Binks, in rucksack form. He's been on eBay for weeks, but has not yet departed. He'll be back on eBay soon, fear not.
I darted out of my room, narrowly avoiding injury as I tripped over the Hoover which has been outside my room for a week now. I haven't got round to putting it away. What am I saying? I didn't even get round to using it. It's become a bit of a feature now. A bit like the ironing board - the front room doesn't look right without it.
On arrival at Woolwich Arsenal station, I wandered into the station shop to buy my Saturday Guardian, which I don't feel right without. They only had The Times and The Sun. I spoke with a fellow would-be purchaser about the lack of newspapers - 'which paper do you buy?' I asked her; 'ooh, I can't do without the Daily Mail' came the reply. That was a short conversation.
I arrived at Charing Cross in good time and opted to walk through glorious St James' Park. Possibly slightly ambitious, given my convincing impression of an obese orange tortoise (caused by a 60l Vango rucksack strapped to my back), but I figured I'd be sitting on planes for most of the rest of the day. There were ridiculous numbers of tourists taking pictures of squirrels - yes really; grey squirrels. There was also a couple practicising yoga in the bushes. I think it was yoga anyway. I hurried on.
More soon - about to board.
Wednesday 9 April 2014
Sunday 6 April 2014
Greetings?
Greetings. Perhaps I advertised this a tad prematurely. Whoops.
In the meantime, let me tell you that in 5 days, I am off to the US of A to visit my little sister and her family. This journey shall include a few hours in Vancouver, where I shall arrive just 1.5 hours after I leave the UK, gaining precious hours. This does not usually happen.
Check back again soon and read about my adventures.
In the meantime, let me tell you that in 5 days, I am off to the US of A to visit my little sister and her family. This journey shall include a few hours in Vancouver, where I shall arrive just 1.5 hours after I leave the UK, gaining precious hours. This does not usually happen.
Check back again soon and read about my adventures.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)