Friends! As I posted recently, this site will no longer be active at the end of April, so I've set up shop somewhere else--here:

A Day in the Life

Come join me, won't you?

It's Sunday, and the sun is shining—that alone is bliss. It's hazy, slightly warm, and with a gentle nudge of spring. I wish I weren't feeling so lazy, otherwise I'd have taken a longer walk than I did earlier to enjoy being out of doors; instead I'm perched on the couch, sun streaming through the window, watching the passersby. It's the usual story in early spring--there are light coats and scarves as well as tee shirts as the apparel du jour; I did wear my usual winter coat for the short walk, but left the gloves and scarf behind.

I'm suddenly anxious for spring to really bloom--I feel like I've been wearing my "duvet" for far too long. One night last week I went to my favourite department store, John Lewis, and bought some buttons for my lighter coat; it has funky, oddly matched buttons and unfortunately a few have been lost to loose threads. I expect to find myself doing a bit of sewing later, just in case the forecast for tomorrow mentions a number above 16 C (62 F).

The trip to John Lewis was only secondarily about buttons--I'm reminded on occasion (mostly by friends) that I need a special dress for a special event in early July and I should at least begin to form an opinion of what I want/don't want. JL has a floor where all of the different high street shops/designers are in one place, so you can just wander from one area to the next and see a lot of dresses in one place. I do have some ideas--I don't want it to be strapless, I don't want it to be short, I do want it to be elegant. Will I find that off the rack? Well, time will tell; I expect I will. I did in fact try on one dress--it was brown, sleeveless, and had nice shirring in all the right places--I even had Jyoti, who was with me, take a photo. Now, thinking about it, while it was nice it wasn't anything special; just something I would wear to someone’s wedding. The search will continue. I half thought to trek to Westfield and visit Debenham's today, one of my favourite stores for nice dresses (aka frocks), but my laziness did get the better of me and so instead I'm squinting from the sun coming through the bay window in the front, and Mirepoix is snoring in my ear. This is the lazy Sunday I've not had in a long time, and getting from North to West London simply didn’t fit into the plan.

Not that most Sundays aren't lazy these days; generally Tim and I are heading back from Cowes around 3 pm, and we've not done much in the morning but have a leisurely breakfast and take the long, relaxed walk to Gurnard, west of Cowes, and watch sailboats starboard while dogs hustle for balls or sticks thrown by owners on the pebble beach. The day is short though, which is why today, this Sunday where I am without a care, feels so long and luxurious--no ferry to catch, no traffic to whinge at . . . just me and Mirepoix on the couch, Classic FM on the radio.

A few weekends ago we spent a lazy two days in Aldeburgh, a lovely seaside resort with a mix of old Victorian and Edwardian architecture in East Suffolk, about a two-and-half hour drive from London. We were invited to stay with Dominic, one of Tim's sailing crew, at his family's home which has a view of the coast from a distance. It is surrounded by trees and brush but not many other homes, and the path to the coast is dotted with fields where horses graze and marshes where birds nest, and the occasional other walker or cyclist passes you with a good morning greeting. I didn't do much research about Aldeburgh, but I'd heard from a colleague that the fish and chips joint on the south end (where there was always a queue) was a must try. Tim thought the high street, with its unusual shops, book stores, and galleries, would be something I'd enjoy, too, in addition to just being near the sea.

We arrived in a bit of mist and rain to find Dominic a tad under the weather, owing to a bit of bad Tesco fish soup, but he gamely pulled himself together and off we were to stroll the mile-long beach and see the town. One of the first stops was in fact the Aldeburgh Fish and Chips shop, where the queue was short--about a half dozen people squeezed inside the front of the shop waiting patiently. We half thought to go someplace else where we could sit and have a proper lunch, but Dominic wasn't much up for eating and we were already there, so two cod and one chip split for two was the order, in an open bag (and not a carry box) for Tim and me. A quick sprinkle of salt and we were out the door and digging in, though I found out quickly that the cod needed to cool a bit before being handled!

The chips were chips--I'm not a fan so I'm not one to judge--I'd have preferred them a bit more crisp, like a good double-cooked steak fry. When my fish was cool enough to handle, I took a bite and enjoyed the crunch of the batter, the taste of salt, and the still-hot flesh of the cod that was fresh and had a wonderful texture--yes, it was delicious.

You do want to eat the cod before the batter gets soggy in that paper wrapper with the chips, and it's best when just hot enough to not burn your mouth. I ditched some of the chips, but I didn't waste a morsel of the fish.

Pause. I will admit that I wasn't terribly impressed as we approached Aldeburgh Fish & Chips and I read the sign that the place has been family owned since 1967--heck, I'm older than that--but tasting is believing.

Once we wiped our fingers clean, it was time to walk in and out of a few shops and of course, at least one pub. There is the usual array of seaside shops selling seagulls on a stick, postcards, and photo frames with seashells stuck all around them; no matter how upscale the town, there's always one of those. We did go in to that shop, of course—always a treat to see how tacky you can make seashore items! We also went into one of the bookshops, where we were treated to a free copy of a novel in honour of World Book Day. We ambled into the wine shop to get something for later, and yes we did pop into a pub for an afternoon pick me up. It was the pub closest to the life boat association, I believe, so there were sailors as well as a few locals and guests crowded around the bar or at one of the tables.

I recall that I enjoyed the stroll; it was one of those misty, slightly chilly days that has a romance to it. It reminded me of the ocean scenes from the movie Brighton Beach Memoirs, an old favourite, where the camera sweeps across the water, everything looking a bit grey. We went by the former home of Benjamin Britten, the composer; in fact his best known opera, Peter Grimes, is set in Aldeburgh. Britten lived with his musical collaborator who became his partner in a house just off the shingle (“pebble”) beach.

After a bit of walking in the drizzly rain we hopped back in Dominic's car so he could show us some more of the sights in Aldeburgh and nearby. One of them is The Meare--an artificial lake where there is a main pond and several channels with landings marked with names from Peter Pan. “Islands” on the Meare are locations found in the novel--the pirates’ lair or Wendy's home--and children can play on them as the lake is quite shallow. On our travels we also saw the House in the Clouds, a converted water tower with a red house perched atop in Thorpeness.

Having taken in the local scenes we headed back to Dominic's wonderful family home to sip tea, read the paper, and otherwise chat and watch the world go by in the distance from big windows in a comfortable dining area.

The house is a treasure trove of art, plates, carvings, figurines, delightful furniture, and books. Tim was making a small nuisance of himself, occasionally removing a piece from a shelf and telling Dominic that it was worth a small fortune while Dominic looked panicked that Tim would drop it! There are a few precious pieces of fine bone china and delicate plates and bowls that I suspect Tim is right about. Dominic's mum collects what appeals to her, and the house has been in his family for a number of years. Yes, it was a little dusty and crammed with treasures, yet there is a warm, comfortable feeling to the whole place. Our wing off the main house was lovely, with a comfortable bed, modern bathroom, and even a kitchen area that we didn’t have need for.
We opted for a pre-dinner drink at another pub on the high street, and chose the restaurant closest to that where’d we’d stopped by earlier in the day to make a reservation. Even in the off season the more popular restaurants are crowded, but we managed a nine o’clock slot at a place called Regatta House; we had a lovely dinner. I'd ordered the monkfish--a personal favourite--but alas there was none to be had (although the blackboard menu still listed it), so I opted for a John Dory, a white, deep sea fish, served with the pumpkin risotto which doubly attracted me to the monkfish in the first place. The gents ordered steak and chips and even Dominic managed a fair bit despite being under the weather--the food was excellent.

But perhaps the best meal of the weekend was to come--a breakfast fry up with all the usual British fare--bacon, sausages, eggs, beans, toast and good, strong coffee. (At this point I suspect Dominic must have been feeling better.) Leaving the two men in the kitchen was both a blessing and a curse--the two of them were chatting so much like old hens that breakfast was taking forever! I managed to beg a piece of toast out of them while waiting, reading through the Sunday paper, and finally the plates arrived with eggs sunny-side up and all the rest. It was another grey-ish day and we found ourselves back at the table with the wonderful coastal view having a proper English breakfast.

We took a walk afterwards (much needed after that feast) along the foot path to the shore. Like Cowes the beach is pebbles and not sand; in fact, there are a lot of similarities to Aldeburgh and the Isle of Wight, with the rambling coastal paths and the high street with unique shops and restaurants and the sailors and visitors who sit along the water's edge. I truly enjoyed the visit, and would like to return in warmer climes to spend more time there.

Before thanking Dominic for his hospitality and heading back to London, Tim and I did take a side trip to Snape. There is a row of 19th century buildings called the Maltings, holding shops and galleries, and I've read that there is a concert hall where part of the Aldeburgh music festival is held, which was initiated by none other than Benjamin Britten. The original purpose for the buildings was for barley malting for beer, but the maltings closed in 1960 and many of the buildings became dilapidated—some in fact still are.

Another lazy Sunday followed that one, though not before a wonderful wedding on Saturday of our friends Taron and Neil. The ceremony and reception were held at the Law Society, a place both Tim and I know well--it is literally across the street from where I work, and we've been there together for a party or two. There's probably more to say than I actually will pen here--the bride looked simply luminous, and while Taron had laryngitis she managed to say her vows and give a lovely speech to boot! Neil's speech was a love letter to his wife--he praised her intelligence and warmth. The best man's speech was hilarious--though Neil tells me afterwards that it wasn't all quite the truth—some mention of Neil being a personal favourite to a certain teacher, etc. Truly funny; in fact his best man has just signed a two-book deal with Bloomsbury press to publish his fiction; I will have to get a copy.

There was a lovely reception between ceremony and dinner which gave me a the chance to catch up with some of the other guests I knew--Kelly, of course, and Amy and Mary and their husbands, and Priscilla, the maid of honour, and her partner David, who I was meeting for the first time but who knew quite a few things about Tim and me, either from Priscilla or Neil. The champagne flowed and the music played--courtesy of a wonderful string quartet who I nudged Tim into chatting with to get one of their business cards; I see them at a future wedding!

While we were awaiting the dining room to be set, we spoke to some couples we hadn't met before--Adrian and Louise, he an equerry (personal assistant) to the Duke of Edinburgh (yes, the queen's husband); and Mary Ford and her partner, who I believe is called Tom, she a barrister who knows mutual friends Pauline and Chris nearby us in London. It turns out that we were also all sitting at the same table, along with two other couples from the US--one from Wisconsin, and one from upstate New York where Taron's family lives now. While Tim and I sat at opposite ends of the table, we didn’t mind; we conversed effortlessly with our table mates and had an opportunity later to share stories.

What fun we had chatting, eating, and then of course dancing! The food was lovely--a duck starter with a chicken main and a lovely dessert (of biscuit and mousse and toffee ice cream), and a mountain of cupcakes in the usual wedding cake tier style to boot!

It was wonderful to see Taron on the dance floor with her dad, and to shimmy with Tim on a few old favourites when the DJ came on later in the evening. Leah was invited for the dancing and drinks bit, and we got a chance to talk a bit, dance, and then head out just before midnight.

I must say all in all it was a wonderful night, and I was glad that we could sleep in a bit on Sunday before heading to Woking to visit with friends Clare and Alan and their children Dom and Lucy--I'd not yet met Lucy, who was days shy of her first birthday, and Dom had just turned three. I certainly see Alan often enough, but hadn’t seen Clare since she went on maternity leave.

It was Tim's first introduction to the Blanchards, and I'd forewarned Alan that there was Six Nations Rugby on, so perhaps having it the match on in the background . . . ? He obliged and while Tim wasn't his most talkative, he did manage to stay with the conversation when it wasn't about work (which was easy to slip into with Alan and Clare while England was playing)! We were treated to homemade cupcakes and tea (or in my case, a glass of chilled red) and had a thoroughly relaxing and enjoyable visit. Tim is wonderful with children, and had Dom’s wooden train tracks quickly assembled into some newfangled design, while Lucy was absolutely lovely--she wasn't shy at all, wanting to sit with me and play with my necklace (perhaps that was the attraction--LOL). She is adorable--looking more like the lovely Clare, where Dom is the spitting image of his dad!
Pause. I know I don’t talk much about other stuff—it’s me, me, me—but I have mentioned here a few times about my sister Robyn’s cancer and what a remarkable woman she has been through 16 months of treatments—she is my heroine, truly. Well, dear friends, raise a glass: she has had her last treatment. Yes, yes, she will have to swallow that damn tamoxifen for a few years as preventative medicine, but there are no more regular trips to the hospital, no more infusions, pin pricks, etc. The hair is back and it is fabulous—curly to the point of being unruly—and she looks truly radiant. People tell her she looks ten years younger and she laughs; “did I look old before?”

I love her to pieces; she has been my best friend and my strength through so much in our lives—and I hope I have given back half of that. I am proud of her for her strength, and her just-do-it attitude that meant she didn’t miss a day of work and carried on much as she always did, with a determination that she would deal with this and get beyond it. And she has; brava! Now she provides a source of strength, compassion, and help to my eldest sister, in her own cancer struggle which started months ago, before Robyn had even finished her own treatment. There aren’t the right words or superlatives. Don’t believe me when I say that I miss good pizza and eggplant parmagiana the most from America; that’s just a cover. Texas in May will be a wonderful celebration for a lot of reasons; I am so looking forward to that reunion!

One more celebration to take note of--Austin's new initials! Austin, a wonderful artist who is best known for his intricate etchings, has become a member of the Royal Society of British Artists, a distinction he well deserves. So, he gets to put RBA after his name!
I love this description, from the Cambridge Book and Print Gallery (and you can go to this site and see some of his work):

“His etchings of New York are created on metal plates (mostly zinc) using a hard ground and an etching needle to draw the design as Rembrandt would have done. Then to add the tone he uses an aquatint in just the same way that Goya would have used to create his images. His lithographs are created on stone with litho crayons and touché just as they would have been done a hundred years ago when Lautrec and Bonnard created their lithographs.“

Austin

To celebrate this fantastic honour we went with Austin and our mutual friend Sue for dinner--cheap and cheerful, the nearby Strada—and toasted with a lovely Prosecco. I am so, so pleased for him; I've attended many a private view of his work, and private views of other artists as Austin has invited me, and I always come back to the grace and beauty of his work: finely detailed etchings that evoke a romanticism you simply fall in love with. His landscapes are as brilliant as his gritty urban scenes of tenements in New York and buildings in London. I am looking forward to finding the right Austin Cole, RBA, to grace my home in Cowes--two already reside here in London.

And the weekend celebrations continue! Leah's mum Susan has been in town and Leah threw a fabulous get-together for her (as it's also her birthday) at a pub with an amazing view of Tower Bridge. The pub, on Tooley Street, has a cosy upstairs room and we were more than happy to travel down the stairs to use the loo for the view and the comfort up one flight--soft, big leather couches, big windows, great wooden tables and a really lovely ambience to chat with friends and wish Susan a wonderful birthday and extended trip. Leah was the consummate hostess--no surprise--bringing dishes of finger food from table to table and clearing glasses to make room for more, and also circulating among friends. I arrived first (and no doubt Tim is laughing at that) so I had a chance to chat with Susan before the rest of the guests arrived, and then found an empty chair near her a little while later to talk about her trip to London (and the outer reaches--they're heading to Normandy soon). She was sitting with a couple they'd recently met on The African Queen--yes, you read that right--

The boat, a converted Dutch barge, is based at Mapledurham, near Reading, and it is one of the largest vessels on this stretch of the river, so says its website.

The couple Susan and Leah met on the boat are British, and Chris grew up in the Islington area, so we chatted a bit about the neighbourhood. We talked about Barack and Dave and of course the royal wedding, and whether we'd all try for tickets for the Olympics, which are now open for the lottery. Leah volunteered for the Olympics and is waiting to hear what her assignment will be--we joked that we were certain she didn't tick the box for Waste Management on the volunteer form! Leah speaks French fluently and of course English brilliantly, and she has I think another language up her sleeve; that must be a commodity when it comes to choosing how to use your volunteers wisely. I hope she gets what she’s hoping for; no matter, she’ll be an asset and I’m pleased to know she’s representing the Americans well!

So let me close, and with a note--I've just read that this blog site will be closing down at the end of April, so I will look for another site shortly. I'll send a note to my known fan base--LOL--but if you're a sometimes reader and would like to keep in touch, then please drop a comment with your email on this site and I will let you know where to find me!

In fact, if I can set up the site before 30 April I will post the information here as well. Until then, do take care and enjoy the remaining days of March; just a few left before the advent of April where, yes, I am sure, the sun will be glorious, gaining strength and that oh so desirous warmth. April has always been one of my favourite months, for the warmth of the sun, the mild breezes, and the beauty of budding trees and flowers; the sky, too, has that deeper shade of blue that makes me smile. The duvet goes away, to be sure, before we meet again. And, perhaps, Coh Karek is christened into the Solent and the crew takes her sailing . . . I’m hoping for a quiet cruise on the Solent with my Captain. Fantastic.

There is something quite soothing about the muffled sound of rain falling on the hatch to the rooftop terrace here in Cowes. I have always found a comfort in the soft, steady "drop, drop, drop," and the occasional more persistent "plop!" as the storm intensifies--it seems to calm my soul. Today my enjoyment is increased by my location--on a comfortable seat overlooking the Solent, dry and warm as the rain seems to persist for hours. Not much earlier I was up on the roof, admiring the slightly-warm sun and the sailboats slowly moving past. Now the Solent is near empty, with just the ferries going by every half hour or so. I did just see a sailboat with a pretty blue spinnaker pass--caught out, perhaps, or maybe enjoying the rain and having the sea to herself, no one else around within sight.

I'm idle today; not something I do often, or well. I read a quote in the paper the other morning by a famous actress whose life has been transformed, she says, by reading a book about how to be idle and enjoy it. This is from the Idler site--whose screen background is a pattern of snails:

From Tom Hodgkinson, editor of the Idler, comes How To Be Idle, an antidote to the work-obsessed culture which puts so many obstacles between ourselves and our dreams. Hodgkinson presents us with a laid-back argument for a new contract between routine and chaos, an argument for experiencing life to the full and living in the moment. Ranging across a host of issues that may affect the modern idler – sleep, the world of work, pleasure and hedonism, relationships, bohemian living, revolution – he draws on the writings of such well-known apologists for idleness as Dr Johnson, Oscar Wilde, Robert Louis Stevenson and Nietzsche. His message is clear: take control of your life and reclaim your right to be idle.

I am tempted to put it on my Amazon wish list. Then again, I seem to managing my idleness well today. It's been a somewhat lazy weekend after a very hectic week both socially and work-wise; perhaps that's why it's so easy to simply kick back--it feels well deserved.

Not that what the week had presented me wasn't enjoyable. After tennis I found my way over to Tsunami, a Japanese restaurant on Charlotte Street, to meet Tim and his brother. Friends of theirs joined us for a shared meal that included edamame, sashimi, spicy chicken, grilled lamb, seaweed salad, and shumai. I love Japanese food and rarely go; as my choice for food would always be sashimi, it's expensive, and so a real treat to go. And, the sashimi needs to be good; I've been spoiled by Matt Ito's wonderful, delicious, inventive offerings at Fuji back home in New Jersey.

Dinner at Tsunami was just a taste of a few offerings--I liked the scallop and sea bream in the sashimi platter, and Tim's spicy chicken was quite nice. The company was certainly lovely--the distance from Brussels to London isn't far, but, we don't see each other often. It would appear that a highlight of their trip to London was shopping, particularly at Waterstone's, where the list of purchases produced had nineteen titles. (I don't recall that How to Be Idle was one of them--LOL.)

The following evening gave me a chance to catch up with Austin and Sue; we hadn't seen each other as a trio in months, and it's always a delight to find a cheap and cheerful place to catch up with Austin's art viewings (including one I just attended at The Mall Galleries), Sue's menagerie, and well, whatever it is I have on offer at the time! I was happy to give them a date to save for the wedding--2 July--and hope both can attend. Our choice of venue this night was Prezzo, a chain I'd not been to before that was offer £10 for two courses and a glass of wine--a veritable bargain. The portions are nice for the price, and the food is good--honestly, you can't beat that for a night out in London, perched in a restaurant across from the English National Opera!

And then there was a chance to try tapas at a Croydon restaurant called Galicia with the Ladies Wot Dine group--or at least several of them. The LWD shifts between dates in London and the Croydon area, given that those who regularly attend dinners are split from both areas. These days there aren't many Londoners who attend, though we still have a handful who work in central London and we can still get a few of the Zone 5 ladies to make the trip!

Pause--I was accused of being cheeky when I asked Adella, who lives in Croydon, if I could use my Oyster card for the train (not tube) out to East Croydon and then the short bus ride--I was fairly certain, but didn't want to get caught short of not having a ticket and risk being late. She promptly responded yes, of course, it was Zone 5, to which I retorted something along the lines of Croydon being so close to the action . . . I suppose the truth of the matter is that it IS close. Hmmm, so why is it that there's resistance to having more Croydonites join for London dinners? Ah well. I saw that the London Overground, minutes away from N5, can now take you all the way to the Croydon train station . . . there's quite a bit of work going on to make transportation accessible for the 2012 Olympics; being not far from the centre of quite a bit of activity--Stratford--Tim and I are benefitting from some additional (and permanent) connections being made with mass transit.

A quickie about Zones--London is split into six zones, with varying costs for travel on public transport within the six or so miles west to east or the four-ish miles north to south. Central London is Zone 1; I live in Zone 2. It's not much different than New Jersey Transit where your fare is calculated depending on the distance you need to travel. Well to the west on the underground is Heathrow Terminal 5; to the east on the tube is Upminster, 16 miles from Charing Cross in Zone 1.

Getting back to the food at Galicia--while we bantered about sharing tapas, in the end there were a few offers but most of us stuck with what we ordered. For me that was aubergine in tomato sauce, not all that different from an eggplant parmagiana you would find at an Italian place. It was good, though it didn't rival Nino's in Harrison, NJ. (Ah, the memories.) My other tapas selection was warm octopus, and while it was tasty in the end I found myself a bit bored--too much of it, and while it was served with white potato and a hint of olive oil and spice, it became a bit monotonous toward the end. So, while I must say Galicia's portion sizes for tapas are generous, I'd have preferred having ordered three dishes with less of each . . . or perhaps I should have shared more! (I was the only one who ordered octopus, and no one asked to try it.)

I did enjoy an opportunity to catch up with Susanna, Stephanie, Mary, and Amanda M (not to be confused with Amanda B, the LWD founder who was not in attendance) before and during dinner; while Susanna somewhat regularly attends London dinners as well, I don't often see the other three. Mary was telling us interesting stories about her son, who plays with Eliza Doolittle's band--she's very popular here in the UK. I recall something about a form that had a choice for whether you were interested in a male or female, meat or vegetarian . . . I haven't read the Keith Richards' book, though suddenly I'm thinking it's not all just rubbish; the stories of sex, drugs, and decadence are true—all you have to do, apparently, is tick the box!

This weekend we will be going to Aldeburgh, a small seaside town on the East Suffolk coast. One of Tim's sailing crew, Dominic, has invited us to stay. Tim thinks I will enjoy it--it has smart bookshops and galleries and lovely pubs and restaurants. I am looking forward to it; if I can't be in Cowes, well, why not another lovely place by the sea? I've read that in the 16th Century Aldeburgh was a port and shipbuilding area, and then became a fishing village and seaside resort in the 19th Century. I'll enjoy, I'm sure, seeing what the 21st century has made it, and I’m hoping to do a little bit of research on what’s not to be missed.

In other news, Tim and I do progress with wedding plans--date and place settled, we are now looking at caterers and finalising the invitation list . . . there's not a lot of pressure, at least not that I feel, third time around. I suppose that may change as we get closer to the date, but, I must say I am looking forward to a great party with wonderful friends and family. Watch this space as I provide more details and/or begin to show signs of cracking!

We are also just about finalising the great American tour of the west . . . a trip to Houston to see David and his family, then on to several points west and north to wind up in Berkeley for Mark and Jessica's wedding. Fuel prices have just increased the cost of flights--not a lot, but enough to make me annoyed that I hadn't yet booked. We have a road map and will make several stops along the way via car; the Amtrak service is just not quite where we want to be, so we’ll rent a car in Phoenix and take it from there. There are hotels to book and a car to rent . . . all in good measure.

I'll leave it at that, dear friends. I've decided that short, sweet, and more often may be a bit easier for me than 3,000 words of catching up and catching my breath from month to month--I've said I'd try to post more often, but haven't really yet posted more than once a month. Let's see how this goes, eh?

Until the next time, when I can regale you with stories of seaside towns, more wedding plans, and electric shower replacement . . . well, hopefully some of that will make you want to come back. It may in fact be spring when you arrive!

I don’t know if the ground hog saw his shadow; I do know that the snowdrops are blooming in the garden and there are buds on the hydrangea bush—the one that overtakes every inch of space in the front of the house—and Tim has also noticed one morning as we were sipping coffee at breakfast that some daffodil greens were sprouting before our eyes. Spring isn’t quite in the air, though we’ve had a few mild days and nights.

And thank goodness for that; it’s tennis season again. After a lull for holidays Tony and I are back on the court weekly, out of doors, hopefully improving my game. I have to admit I am often not psyched up for it, counting down the hours until I’m on the court—LOL; on Tuesdays at 5:30 pm after what is invariably a long day at the office, I am not always raring to go—LOL. However, the walk from Chancery Lane to the Colombo Centre is a good 15 minutes, across the Blackfriars Bridge; there is something magical about crossing the Thames and looking at the magnificent buildings on either side or a few narrow boats crossing below. I smile no matter what kind of day I’ve had. And, as I approach the courts, I’m ready to spend the hour chasing balls.

Has my game improved? Well, I think so. Sarah thinks so—Sarah is a friend of mine from work who occasionally wants to pick up her racket, and so she and I have had a few sessions on the odd evening when she’s free and we’re able to book a court. In fact we’re going to hopefully start playing a bit more regularly and nearer to the office—playing just around the corner may make for a more consistent schedule of games between us, provided we can secure one of the three courts at Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

Tony thinks my game has improved, too, and he finds ways to challenge me. Like those damn drop shots; I wish I were faster at getting to the net. I want to focus on my serve in the next few months; it’s boring for Tony (LOL) so he never brings it up unless I do—good to practice it a bit each week, though; you don’t have a game unless you have a serve (so he tells me; I believe him as that was my failing in last year’s company tourney).

Oh, and yes, it’s cold outside in February. I wear thermals and sometimes start with my scarf and my gloves still on (but the duvet coat is removed; far too bulky to run around in), though once I’m warmed up I shed those and carry on. There are pauses when we have to collect all the balls and my fingers get a little chilled, but it’s literally two or three minutes, we discuss what’s next, and then I’m back to focusing on getting ready to move the moment I see the ball leave Tony’s racket or hand, depending on what we’re working on. By the end of the hour, I must admit, I’m tired, out of breath, and smiling. Endorphins! Ah sweet opioid.

Game.

I’ve had a few interesting outings of late—a poetry reading, a publisher’s workshop, a henna “do,” and a jazz night with friends, not necessarily in that order. The henna do was for Taron, as the clock ticks toward her and Neil’s wedding early next month. Taron writes a wonderful blog called Mind, Body and Scroll that I’ve referred to here before, and I’m so enjoying her twice-weekly missives on the anxiety of the approaching date, discussions of and with “Future Hub,” and keeping healthy (or trying to) through all of it! I suppose as my own date approaches I may get stressed; for now, well, I’m just taking notes on her experiences; I’m more of the mind “been there, done that,” though there are apt to be moments that have me a bit frantic.

The “do” was lovely—five American and four Pakistani women chatting away, eating homemade traditional Pakistani dishes, and getting hands painted in pretty designs with henna . Oh, and of course there is the dancing to Bollywood video clips; Aarti showed us some of the moves--light bulb turning (imagine you’re fitting a light bulb into a socket above you), a bit of swirling with arms raised in the air, and oh, all those Michael Jackson-like steps . . . I thought the latter was a bit odd, frankly!

Taron looked lovely—she was positively glowing in a colourful, traditional ensemble and pretty little shoes to match. I chose to wear a colourful blouse with my grey trousers, having come from a publisher’s workshop directly to Hina’s flat in Wandsworth Town. Hina was a wonderful host and a delightful cook—it was a lovely treat. It reminds me that I owe her a thank you note for a special evening.

That same day began with a trip into central London to attend a publisher’s workshop; I’d been sent an invitation through the press who published my book and thought it was worth attending, particularly as I was planning to be in London anyway. There were five panellists—a marketing specialist, a publisher, a literary agent, and two editors—each bringing their own expertise about the state of publishing today and focusing on how to get published. I must say, it was a bit of a downer—it’s not just about a brilliant book these days, it’s about marketing! I realise that JK Rowling was rejected 19 times, and I suspect thousands of people are rejected monthly, but, to hear the panel talk about how to market yourself and the biases in the publishing industry, well, I’m not sure that the usual mantra of “persistence pays off” will in fact make a difference.

I did not go out of interest in having something published; I don’t have a novel in me (I’m too lazy), nor do I have a WOW idea that’s swimming in my head. I went because I had this invitation in hand and thought it could be interesting to hear what the panellists had to say about how to get published, and, my, it is daunting if you aren’t female, young, attractive, and have at least 90,000 words. Poetry? Forget it; even Carol Ann Duffy has trouble, and she is (in case you didn’t know) the current British poet laureate. Short stories? Nah, not marketable. (I laugh as I’m currently reading a book of Hemingway’s short stories; maybe it was different back in his day or he was already a “name.”) Fiction? Don’t bother; all the publishers already have the big names they need to make money. You could try a memoir. One of the panellists—an editor—suggested that the next big thing will be dystopia/future world fiction. Hmm, yes, that’s what I said! Brave New World 2012. WOW, there’s my idea.
Not. Aldous would roll over in his grave, as the saying goes.

Well, it was an eye-opening experience for the 70-odd of us crammed into the back room of a club just off Oxford Street. At the interval (it was a four-hour session) they opened the bar. Nuf said.

The literary agent, an American called Darin (after Bobby Darin) Jewell, was kind; he thanked the audience for keeping him in work and did say to be patient and keep at it—I suppose he wanted the room to feel like persistence does in fact pay off. It’s no wonder self-publishing has proliferated; there are so many books out there that agents don’t have enough resources to read what’s being written. So, the lesson learnt is, make the first chapter brilliant and captivating, and then fingers crossed . . .

On a jazzier note, Tim and I finally got back to the 606 Club to see Dan Reinstein and his (now) quintet perform. Dan is an acquaintance through my friend Heike, and when I first arrived in London she e-introduced us. I’ve had the pleasure of attending a few of Dan’s gigs where he plays sax with a pianist, drummer, bassist, and trumpeter. They play brilliantly together, and the club is intimate which lends itself well to the music and the moment. It’s good fun, truly, and the food at the 606 is also quite good—the menu doesn’t change often, as I spotted most of the same items since my last visit probably nine months before. Nothing wrong with that as long as there is variety and the food is good, and the menu meets both those criteria.

It was a nice chance to catch up a bit with Leah, who Tim and I hadn’t seen since our brunch at Roast announcing our engagement; we also had a chance to chat with Laura, whom Tim met for the first time at panto recently. Laura’s partner Rod also came along for the gig—he and Laura have been working with Dan to promote his vision clinic here in London and to expand to other countries; Rod was telling us how they are working with Nepalese doctors to offer services for the poor through providing laser surgery for the rich and donating some of that money. I hadn’t seen Rod in a bit and it was the first time Tim and he had met; I heard some discussion of North America (Rod and Laura are Canadians who have been in England for, I think, over eight years) and holidays to the Midwest, while Leah and I were chatting about family stuff (her mom coming to London soon, my two sisters in cancer treatment). We also caught up with Dan just as we were leaving, and he asked me if I was staying in London—I told him that as Tim had asked me to marry him, it was more certain than my work contract, so, yes! Last I’d seen Dan my job situation was a bit more tenuous, and, Tim and I were just dating.

Let me not forget to tell you about the poetry reading—a friend of Tim’s called Mary Michaels invited us to her reading, as she had just published a slim new book of poems. We found out about it as we were travelling on the 341 bus home and Tim recognised either Mary’s or her partner Eric’s voice, and we turned around to see they were sitting just behind us; funny that.

I was excited to go because, while I don’t often seek out poetry, I enjoy reading it when it’s well written. Honestly, poetry is like modern art to me—I just don’t “get” some of it. I will occasionally seek out a Dickinson or Plath or Blake or Cummings, or more contemporary works of Angelou and Duffy, and lately even a Bremner—my 18-year-old niece occasionally posts on her Facebook page, and I think she is a delightful writer.

Mary had four friends read a poem of their own design, and then she chose excerpts from her own new work of 21 pieces, called Squint. Mary, like my niece, writes about contemporary issues and personal experiences, and in fact I think that’s why I appreciate their work—it feels relative and thoughtful, and for me, that makes it powerful. I did enjoy the evening and was glad to have Mary sign a copy for me to share with Alyssa.

Set.

I have decided that my most favourite venue in London is the St Pancras Grand. The first time I went there was with Tim—we were just friends at the time (looking back, it was early February 2009)—and the restaurant, poised above the St Pancras International rail station (think Eurostar), had recently opened. I wanted to try it, and asked Tim if he would like to join me for a “swanky” lunch and see if it was everything the early critics were saying it was. And, in fact, with its gorgeous Art Deco design, set far above the hubbub of the train station below and with a lovely view of The Barlow Shed, it was.

Pause: The Barlow Shed is the roof of the train station; it’s 100 feet high and almost 700 feet in length. Want to see it? Go here:
[[LINK,StPancras,http://www.bbc.co.uk/london/content/image_galleries/stpancras_dev_gallery.shtml?16]]

Americans: The restaurant is designed by the same gentleman who designed Le Caprice at The Pierre, New York City. He’s Swedish and dreamy, like his designs.

During this outing we had the pleasure of Tim’s mum’s company—she was heading back home after spending an enjoyable weekend in London. And what a treat to go to the Grand for lunch before seeing her to the train. As ever, the food was lovely, if not over-abundant in choice: three different menus to peruse. I had made a reservation on a website to procure the two-courses for £15 menu, and they were offering a special Burns menu in addition to their a la carte. (It happened to be the Sunday before Burns night, in honour of the great Scottish poet.)

Well, I must say, it was a magnificent afternoon—the food was delicious; the atmosphere, well, grand; the company, as ever, delightful in its comfort, candour, and humour. And, there was jazz! On Sundays the Grand has a jazz ensemble in the afternoon, and we were treated to a lovely, sultry singer accompanied by a guitarist. I recently contributed a review to the London version of Zagat for this place, and I always give it an enthusiastic write-up on the TopTable site regardless of the fact that I get points towards a free meal. It is my recommended go-to place in the Kings Cross/St Pancras area for anyone who has a short break before hopping a train, if only to see the building in all its splendour from the upper reaches. Next time: the longest champagne bar, just across the way!

I do think that rounds out my life since we were last together; there has been a smattering of planning—both for the trip to Texas and California in May to visit with my brother David’s family and then take the long way to Berkeley for Jess and Mark’s wedding, via Phoenix by air and then road-tripping with Tim via the Grand Canyon, Death Valley, Yosemite, and finally San Francisco. More to come on that ambitious journey; I did have to laugh at David’s remark—was I sure I wanted to do this BEFORE the wedding? Well, the way I’m planning this adventure we’re not in the car more than four hours at a time . . .

As for the *other* wedding, well, venues are being reviewed, dates are being sorted, and perhaps by the next time we are here there will be more to share.

I will close and wish you a happy Presidents Day for my American following; there’s no equivalent date in British history to recognise great men, although the poet and playwright Christopher Marlowe, contemporary of Shakespeare, has a birthday in late February. He writes “come live with me and be my love . . . “
Match.

First and foremost, happy new year to you! I realise I'm writing this more than three weeks into 2011 . . . it has been a busy year thus far! Let me recap a bit . . .

When last we were together it was 30 December, and there was New Year's Eve to look forward to as well as a ski trip to Wengen, Switzerland--even for the nonskiers (like me)--to celebrate two milestone birthdays in 2011--Tim's mum turning 80, and his brother turning 50.

Makes sense to start with ringing in the New Year, which Tim and I decided to observe from the Isle of Wight, having not experienced NYE there before. We decided to go to Cowes Yacht Haven to celebrate with the masses (I'd guess close to 1000) at the Electric 80s fancy dress party. For £15 you were given a wristband and a chance to listen to the music the DJ "spun" on his Mac, and dance the night away. We found ourselves, dressed as Uhura (me) and Man with Big Afro and Loud Shirt (Tim), heading toward the bar for a good spot to watch the crowds, critique the costumes, and shimmy to the likes of Gloria Gaynor, Madonna and the B-52s, to name a few.

Fireworks at midnight, and a particularly fabulous display across the Solent where the succession of lights travelled from right to left like a wave, topped off the evening. Well, perhaps popping the champagne cork at home was the real highlight! I was happy to be in Cowes, fondly recalling the year that brought me so many wonderful moments as well as my home away from home near the High Street. It was, truly, a very good year.

New Year's Day found us across the street having (yet more) champagne with neighbours Ray and Brenda. Ray is 80 but you'd not guess, and has rescued me a couple of times in Cowes (door lock, running toilet). When we walked in and Brenda asked “coffee or champagne,” I blurted out coffee . . . but was outnumbered. A lovely brut rose bubbly emerged and was shared along with conversation about (of course) boats (Ray's a power boat guy and still writes for Yachting magazine), travel, homes, and relationships. There was a photo in a recent issue of a magazine of Ray when he was in his early 20s--a handsome sailor. We probably could have spent hours chatting, but Tim and I'd decided to take an early ferry and get back to London to pack for our trip to Wengen the next morning. I know we'll see more of R&B and we'll look forward to dining locally next time we're both in town.

Packing for the trip to Switzerland was relatively easy--every turtleneck (aka roll neck) sweater I owned, some base layer warmth, hiking boots (to be worn to the airport), one nice dress just in case, and a couple of good books (Catherine of Aragon by Giles Tremlett, Freedom by Jonathan Franzen). It was to be a long journey getting there--a short plane ride from Heathrow to Basel, and then a bus or taxi to the train station where we'd then take a series of four trains to arrive in Wengen. We started out at 6:45 am with a taxi taking us to Paddington in London to pick up the Heathrow Express, and after making all connections like Swiss clockwork, we were pulling our luggage through a bit of snow on the ground to our hotel, which happened to overlook the train station, at about 3 pm GMT, or 4 pm in Wengen.

Travelling by train is wonderful, particularly in new territory. In fact, I'd say that was my most favourite part of the holiday, outside of a few wonderful meals with the whole clan (17 in all). Sitting back on the train and watching the mountains, streams, small towns and still beauty of Switzerland through huge windows. The glacier glows with an eerie blue tinge, and the water in the streams fed by it have an unusual colour--like an ice-blue Halls cough drop. The blue ice occurs when snow falls on a glacier and is then compressed, becoming part of the glacier. (Thank you, Wikipedia.)

In fact, being a nonskier, riding the trains to different locations--Wengen, of course, but also Grindelwald and Kleine Scheidegg--was the most wonderful part of the journey. While the skiers set off after breakfast, we nonskiers and the odd other parent whose children wanted to do something else) would plan to meet the skiers at some location for lunch, and then we’d take the slow, glorious train ride up to greet them. The stop for lunch at Kleine Scheidegg was a bit wild--hundreds of skiers queued for a coffee, hot chocolate, or hot food (mostly spaghetti Bolognese or soup in a bread bowl, and of course, chips—carbs for the afternoon burst of energy required for skiing). Fortunately there was a separate queue for drinks, where pre-made sandwiches (cheese or meat on either ciabatta or brown bread) were on offer, and that is where I headed.

Getting a table in the seating area that was not outside--it was a cold, grey day--was an exercise in patience and observance: you had to look for a group that was almost done (skiers tend to eat and run), and then linger at their side so that no one else could grab the table. We managed, and all were properly fed! After the skiing group left us we were left sipping hot drinks and watching the nieces who weren't interested in skiing anymore. Ann was thrilled to get to see the skiers in action; I remained inside, keeping warm—most of you know that I’m not much of a cold-weather gal.

There were a few days of similar adventures, and also a day where Tim took the day off from skiing to spend with his mum and me. It was a delightful day--a long walk around Wengen while stopping in a few shops, and a pause in the English church (St Bernards) where postcards and next year’s Christmas cards were purchased and we admired a piece of stained glass that we thought, possibly, could be a Chagall. Wengen is a car-free village, allowing just a few electric vehicles for travelling to and from the railway station, which made it a perfect place to walk when the sun was shining and the weather not too cold. Tim and I had walked the town earlier, and so we knew the right path to take with his mum that wouldn't be too difficult or slippery (for either of us; I’m not the most coordinated as you know). What a treat, and we wound up having a lovely lunch at the Terrase restaurant in our own hotel (in fact, the only meal we ate there outside of the breakfast that was included). The sun was warm and while I declined to sit outside, we found a table near the window with a lovely view of the rail station and enjoyed the warmth from indoors.

Days were filled with such things as that, and nights mostly with dinners with many of the family, always save one or two who were out elsewhere. One evening we dined at a lovely Italian restaurant, quite good food I must say (so much so that Tim and I went back there for the sole dinner we had on our own), and another night we enjoyed the Swiss buffet at the Sunstar, where the families with children stayed to take advantage of the play room and swimming pool. Nothing in Wengen is far from anything else--from the window of our hotel room at the Silberhorn we could see the Sunstar where most of the group was staying.

Dinners gave us all a chance to share our day's events--who skied with whom, where was lunch, etc. We often ate early--7 pm--much to my delight (LOL) and surprise; I should have realised that skiers eat heartily, sleep well, and start early! The food was generally delicious--I often had fish when it was available, and the cheese plate when there was room left. The Swiss buffet was essentially a meat, potatoes (rosti, the Swiss specialty), and cheese feast, though there was salad and some lovely vegetables. The best meals were probably at the Baren, an upscale place with blonde wood and clean lines in its decor, efficient service, and a lovely menu that catered to the blend of German, Swiss, and French cooking from the area. I had a wonderful veal steak one evening that was prepared simply grilled; it was delicious. On another night a chicken escalope was served with smoked ham and pumpkin risotto--very nice, and very warming on a cold winter night. No matter where we went, the wines were plentiful--and, again owing to location, the lists included delightful pinot noirs, crisp whites, and “local” (German) Rieslings. I shouldn't forget to mention the Glühwein--wine mulled with spices and served warm—which we enjoyed some afternoons after the gang returned from the slopes. In fact, the first one that Tim and I had, at the cosy, dark bar in our hotel--was made from white wine, which surprised me. All others along the way were in fact made with red—and all as warm as soothing as you’d expect.

Oh, and, I recall the coffee was quite good most mornings!

Continuing on with food, I suppose, yes, there was chocolate . . . I'm not quite sure why I didn't have more of it, frankly. I don't think I even had a hot chocolate! Our London neighbour Ann was treated to a box for caring for Mirepoix in our absence—otherwise I hadn’t really gone out of my way to purchase Swiss chocs. When we dined, I also passed on the raclette--hot cheese poured over potatoes—frankly it looked a bit too artery-clogging.

I did not try the fondue, having had the experience in a wonderful restaurant on Park Avenue in New York City called Artisanal, where the manchego blend of fondue was a treat. I will say, some of the restaurants had the strong odour of cheese fondue, to be sure—not exactly a turn-off, but, it can be overpowering.

While the food was always good, the conversation was better--a wonderful opportunity to catch up and talk all the topics you're not supposed to, especially among siblings--politics, religion, the EU--LOL. Honestly it was all good fun, and it was truly wonderful to see Tim's mum smile at having successfully brought everyone together for the week. Her days were busy, too, even though a nonskier--we spent some afternoons together taking trains to meet the skiers, or sitting in the sun watching the children ski nearer to the hotel. She managed all the train travel, walking, and even some babysitting brilliantly at almost 80. Mostly it was wonderful just to see her at the table chatting with one of her sons, and feeling the warmth of her joy of having them all near with their families. It reminds me that I owe her a long note of thanks for asking me to come along and share in the gathering. And Tim's brother, too; he did quite a bit of the planning to get us all there and settled. And what a brilliant job he did!

OK, so yes, there were questions around the dining table about Tim's and my engagement—perhaps the most insistent being, when is the big day? Well, my friends, I'm afraid I don't have a revelation quite yet . . . soon, though, once some of the details are sorted (like my needing a certificate of approval to be married in the UK, issued by the home office who would like to retain my passport from 20-180 working days. Viva Las Vegas?).

Dinner on the last night we were all together in Wengen was at Baren, where mountain hay mousse (yes, made from hay) with sour cherries was passed around for all who were game to try it; it was quite good, in fact, with a scent of mowed hay and an ever so slightly sweet, pleasant taste. The evening was dedicated to Ann, and she was presented with a beautiful photo album with contributions from all of the brothers--the subtitle of the album is "the first 80 years"! There were wonderful pictures of the "boys" as children, and looking around the table it is clear that the current children resemble the older brothers--though not necessarily their own parents! I'm smiling at remembering the evening, watching Ann look fondly at all of the pages. And I am smiling that I am represented in there; while not officially part of the family yet, I am thrilled to be thought of as another member of the family. What a memorable, wonderful night for all of us!

And then, there is the repacking to head home, the hugs and warm wishes, and the promise of seeing each other again, hopefully soon.

Well, I was beginning to feel like I was on a nonstop holiday, having travelled to Barbados, the Isle of Wight, and Switzerland in very short succession, with a stopover in London . . and still I could not put away my passport--I had a business trip to Belfast just a few days from returning from Wengen. I'd never been to Northern Ireland. and my colleague and travel partner Sarah wanted to spend a day there to see the sights; we decided to have a Friday exploring Belfast, where we were on duty to provide some training about eBooks to our customer support team there.

Sarah and I were staying at a wonderfully-located boutique hotel called the Duke at Queens, near the university, which I'd highly recommend. The included breakfast was fabulous--you could even get an omelette or eggs Benedict with the array of other goodies on the buffet.

Ah, food. We enjoyed the food in Belfast, having lovely meals with another colleague, Vicky, on "work" evenings—one at an Italian place called Scalini that was just a block from our hotel. It was the choice for the first night because it was just chucking down with rain and we wanted to duck into someplace quickly. The food was simple (I had spaghetti and meatballs) and tasty, and it had an Old World feel to the atmosphere, even down to the red-checkered tablecloths.

The second evening we were slightly more adventurous and having been given a few recommendations, we headed on foot first to the Crown pub, a well-known tourist spot as a Victorian gin palace since 1885. It is gorgeous inside and out--the exterior is decorated in polychromatic tiles, including a mosaic of a crown on the floor of the entrance. The mosaics continue indoors, and there is a red, granite-topped bar, and a heated footrest underneath. The interior is lit by gas lamps, and the ceiling is very intricately carved. There are booths, one of which we sat in, which were originally made to accommodate the pub's more reserved customers during the Victorian period—there is even a bell system for alerting staff. There are stained-glass windows surrounding the booths, featuring shells, fairies, pineapples, and, oddly, clowns. After imbibing on a few drinks and catching up with Vicky and her husband Mark, who was joining her for the weekend, we set out to find Nicks Warehouse for dinner.

Taxis are plentiful and not expensive, and since we weren't 100% sure which way to go (and it was a bit chilly), we hopped a cab and found ourselves there, on a lovely cobbled street, in short order. Nicks Warehouse was originally built for the Bushmills Whiskey Co. in 1832; it opened as a restaurant sourcing local food in 1989. The menu looked great--and while it was eclectic with lots of choices, somehow we all decided on the curried mussels to start, and they were delicious, served with a scented hunk of bread. I chose the grilled mackerel as my main--you don't often see mackerel on a menu, and I was glad I tried it; it was simple and delicious, with that slightly strong flavour and nice texture, and, best of all, nicely boned for me! We so enjoyed the food as well as the chance to chat a bit and get to know each other better--as colleagues we don't get to spend that much time at the office talking about anything but work! I'd say a good time was had by all!

The best was yet to come though--Sarah's and my "day off" to hop on the bus (one of those hop on/hop off deals where the ticket is good for 48 hours) and see Belfast from the top of a double-decker while getting some commentary--often funny--from our man Brendan. For 90 minutes we learned about the city, winding our way down streets to see wonderful architecture like the Parliament buildings, City Hall, St Anne's Cathedral, and even the Titanic area (bet you didn't know she was built there).

We never did hop off--Sarah took lots of photos (that I'm hoping to see soon), and we sat in comfort and took in the scenes; perhaps the most emotional, if you will, was the Shankill Road/Falls Road journey, where the "peace" lines erected to separate Protestant from Catholic neighbourhoods during what Brendan often referred to as "the troubles" still remain. Meant as temporary structures, in some places with gates that are closed at night to pedestrians, there has been resistance with removing them. I felt a bit odd, almost sombre, when we slowed down to look at the barriers, many made of steel. They are quite imposing. I don't pretend to know the root of the issue, and I sense that there is still far too much uneasiness between the British and Irish communities. I read the survey results from a 2008 poll that suggests that while most residents (just over 1,000 were polled) in the communities feel the walls should come down (while 17% said they don't care if they never come down), a full 60% said when it's "safe enough, but not at present."

Onward: I had read about the murals, but hadn't expected to see so many, and with the endorsement (for peace) by the likes of the Dalai Lama and others. Probably one of the most photographed, even by me, is the mural of Bobby Sands, the first hunger striker to die. He was 27. Despite your loyalties, it feels sad and unnecessary.

And more: Brendan the bus commentator did have us laughing about why it is that, 99 years after the sinking of the Titanic, they still talk about it in Belfast! Perhaps it's because the area where she was built is being refurbished, and with the centenary approaching in April 2012, it looks to be a real tourist treat. Brendan did pause to remind us that it wasn't THEIR fault the Titanic sank; after all, the captain was a British bloke called Edward Smith and the first officer was Scottish! The radio operators who failed to wire the message to the bridge about icebergs in her path were, ahem, English, and one of them survived the sinking.

There were other highlights to the day--once we hopped off, we strolled back to a few places we wanted to see. We stopped at Belfast cathedral, the church of St Anne. It is a lovely, more recent structure from 1904, although there has been a church on the site since 1776. It is probably best known for the large Celtic cross that was built in 1981, and the stainless-steel spire from 2007 that you can see both inside the church, and out--a section of it protrudes through a glass platform in the roof, directly above the choir stalls.

Sarah and I managed, fleetingly, to see some of the Irish painters (and a smattering of others) at the Ulster Museum, at one end of the Botanic Garden. We'd had a deliciously long lunch (Irish stew, a glass of wine) nearer to the city centre, and by the time we found the building after a few fits and starts, we had just 15 minutes to head up to the wing and walk through what was a near-empty gallery--not bad, actually, but, it deserved more than the time we had!

We also had access to a fantastic view of Belfast from the glass dome of the shopping centre.

As small as Belfast city is--everyone says it's small, even if it is the second largest (next to Dublin) on Ireland--there is a lot to see; Sarah and I barely scratched the surface. I found it a warm city--most people were friendly and helpful, though occasionally we had to ask them to repeat what was said--too fast, too thick the accent! All in all, it was a wonderful experience and Belfast would be a city I'd return to in order to spend more time. So many cities . . .

And so we are back in London. I've had real cultural treats--for one, a trip to panto (aka pantomime) to see the one, the only David Hasselhoff (don't hassle the Hoff!) play Hook in a production of Peter Pan. I must say, he was quite good! He was a rather tall presence on stage--a bit of a surprise, but then again, perhaps the rest of the cast was undersized. He was funny, delivered his lines well, and actually sang and danced with the rest of the crew quite well and appeared to be having a wonderful time of it all. As for panto, well, it’s always a joy to catch a bit of the adult innuendo for the child-friendly audience . . . all good fun.

Back in London I also went to see Matthew Bourne's Cinderella with friend Sue, my ballet buddy. Mr Bourne's production of Swan Lake, with a cast of all-male swans, is quite well known, and his Cinderella was brilliant. Set during the blitz in London in the Forties, there was still the evil stepsisters and fairy godmother, only this fairy godmom was a suave gentleman in a shiny suit who danced beautifully. (I should mention that this rendition is a ballet!) I was enthralled by the sets, the dancing, and of course the beautiful music. And, I'll let you in on a little secret: at one point, near the end of the ballet, Cinderella turns to face the audience with this warm, wonderful smile, with a glow about her where you know she is so happy; it is just as she is heading off to her life with Prince Charming (who was, in this production, a soldier). Well, I saw that smile on her face clearly from the first row in the Dress Circle, and you know what? She was me. I was her. I suddenly felt like all the wonder, all the moments leading up to that one, well, like Cinderella, I am amazed at how my life has changed. The shoe fits.

And Prince Charming (aka Tim--LOL) and I had the chance to see The King's Speech--it opened in the UK later than in the US, so we had to be patient! A huge Colin Firth fan (to me he IS Mr Darcy), I was anxious to see him in the role of King George VI, and, to see if all of the reviews I'd read rang true . . . I was not disappointed. In fact, I was smiling from ear to ear by the end. If you haven't seen it, then do try. Outside of it being wonderfully acted, the dialogue (by an American screenwriter, BTW) is brilliant, and Colin is just fabulous. The scenes where he stammers are just long enough to be tense but not tedious; I along with everyone laughed out loud during the scene where he in a single paragraph of his speech danced, sang, and cursed through the lines. Oh, and Geoffrey Rush was, as ever, sublime. Go.

I feel like that's enough, though I am reminded that I have had the most wonderful two months of playing catch-up with many of my former university buddies through Facebook. Those of you who decry FB as the social media curse of the decade can whine, but, I love FB for its utility to help you reconnect with people you didn't necessarily want to disconnect from.

When I was a student at NYU I belonged to the Alpha Phi Delta sisterhood (it wasn't considered a sorority owing to some legality) and made wonderful friends whom I kept in touch with for a period after graduation, but then for one reason or another those faded. Enter Facebook, and suddenly there we are, exchanging photos from when we were 18 (oh dear--well, Tim did like one of the photos I shared--LOL) and remembering frat parties with the Theta Beta guys (the fraternity we were associated with), ski trips, etc. What fun it has been to have all that back in my life, some almost 30 years later. Unfortunately the APD reunion was held in NYC while I was away in Barbados, but there is discussion of another, and I am truly looking forward to a face-to-face reunion with the likes of Laura (my Jersey City pal), Angela, and my "little sister" Mabel . . .yeah, and, I suppose some of the "brothers" as well! :)

And, one more little tidbit--for the first time I had to complete a form where my age group was, gasp, 50-59! I honestly laughed out loud. It was for an online survey and I automatically hit the "4" key, as usually the age range is something like 46-54, so I was taken aback when it ended at 49 and I had to hit the “5” key! Ah well, life is wonderful at 50. There's a part of me that enjoys the moment when people say something like, no, you're not . . . whether they mean it or not, well, I still smile. Good genes and maybe a little effort on my part . . . and, mostly, a fair dollop of luck.

So let me post this and look forward to February, when I'm sure we'll be together again. I'd hoped to post more often and in shorter bursts, but sometimes the world just takes over! I cannot believe the first month of 2011 has flown by . . . and I still have my moments of sitting on the top of the double-decker bus and saying to myself, so, exactly how did I get here? I love this city called London. I miss home just enough to close my eyes and say to myself that it will always be there, and I will always have someplace to stay and get my fill before returning to Gatwick, or Heathrow, to be with Tim. Who knows where life will take us . . . down the aisle, certainly, and beyond.

Details? Well, y'all come back now, you hear?