Recently overheard: a little girl, when asked if she knew what 'mahogany' was, confidently replied that it was the last day of the year. So I say to you, Happy Mahogany! (Naturally, you are too kind to correct me by pointing out that I mean Hogmanay, which demonstrates what a fine human being you are, and why I like you so much.)
This is my prayer on December 31, as I peer through the mysterious fog that always shrouds a new year. I perceive shapes moving about within it, as in a dark glass. Some of those shapes are known, some unknown. I am expectant; I wait, and am glad that I know the One who holds the future.
Come, Lord Jesus! Tear my heart asunder; take it to pieces like a washerwoman and clean each piece upon a rock and make it new; remake it with perfect stitches once the sin and sadness ingrained upon each thread are washed into the sea; and let that sea be endless; and let it create a right spirit within me. Come quickly, Lord, and make the world anew. I say again, come quickly, Lord Jesus! Speedily, as thou hast said. Amen.
Friday, 31 December 2010
Thursday, 30 December 2010
'Urricanes in 'Ampshire
Look, I know you probably don't want to hear more descriptions of my brief travels in England: others have been before and done it so much better. Bill Bryson and H.V. Morton spring to mind. However, I had such a perfectly satisfying and memorable day in Hampshire that it must be recorded for posterity. I beg your indulgence, and I promise that all this flowery descriptive writing won't last much longer. I'll try to tone down the superlatives.
Hampshire is a county known for its 'urricanes (which 'ardly hever 'appen), apple cider and watercress. There were no hurricanes today, only a lot of fog which sat in a picturesque manner about and atop the clumps of oaks, elms, beeches and hedgerows. Our first destination was Waverley Abbey, which was the inspiration for the Sir Walter Scott novel, Waverley. Founded in 1128, it was the first Cistercian monastery in England and now sits in gothic ruins in the countryside. Despite its weatherbeaten age, it was prettier than the eighteenth century manor across the river, the colour scheme of which brought to mind the worst excesses of 1960's architecture. The Abbey itself, however, was remarkably preserved and suitably scenic, as the small section below attests.
We started out late, so stopped at the Selborne Arms for lunch before anything else, which, I fear, I am compelled describe for you. (The lunch, not the anything else.)
To begin with, it's a sweet old pub with those ancient doors you have to stoop through to enter. We got a table close to both the bar and the fireplace, and the feasting began. Starter: Welsh rarebit, with some kind of good strong cheese and vinegar and chutney. Main: half a Roasted Pheasant with a perfect roasted potato and buttery soft brussel sprouts. I was extremely pleased to discover buckshot buried in the flesh of my pheasant, as I proudly reiterated later: "there was shot in my peasant!" At this point I went to the bar and ordered a locally-made apple cider, which came in an enormous bottle and was scrumptious. Then, dessert: Steamed Sponge with Jam and Custard, in the manner of a roly-poly. It may sound unprepossessing, but I can assure you that it was heavenly. After a decent espresso, we heaved ourselves out the door and into the car, beaming foolishly at the goodness of the meal.
Not far down the road from Selborne lies the exquisitely preserved village of Chawton, where Jane Austen wrote most of her novels. Her house has been made into a good museum, which avoids being tacky by virtue of being lovingly restored and not having too many tea towels with Jane Austen's face on them in the gift shop. There was a beautiful early nineteenth century piano in the drawing room, which Emily sat down and played; I went and sat on a windowsill in the next room and listened, and grew misty-eyed at the thought of our beloved Jane playing the piano and walking these floorboards and tending the garden and dreaming up Emma and Elizabeth and Eleanor and Anne. I much preferred this museum to the one in Bath, which was overstocked with the tea towels and oil paintings of Colin Firth. I purchased a light volume of the collected letters of Jane Austen which will just fit into my luggage. (To the right: the desk on which she wrote.)
Afterwards, we walked a couple of miles through fields, got our boots muddy in the manner of Elizabeth Bennet - "my dear, almost positively medieval!" - and drove home to Morden in the dark: tired, well-fed and sated on good things.
As I write, Emily is making pasta with roasted vegetables - time to leave off the computer and pick up a book and listen to some piano music.
Hampshire is a county known for its 'urricanes (which 'ardly hever 'appen), apple cider and watercress. There were no hurricanes today, only a lot of fog which sat in a picturesque manner about and atop the clumps of oaks, elms, beeches and hedgerows. Our first destination was Waverley Abbey, which was the inspiration for the Sir Walter Scott novel, Waverley. Founded in 1128, it was the first Cistercian monastery in England and now sits in gothic ruins in the countryside. Despite its weatherbeaten age, it was prettier than the eighteenth century manor across the river, the colour scheme of which brought to mind the worst excesses of 1960's architecture. The Abbey itself, however, was remarkably preserved and suitably scenic, as the small section below attests.
We started out late, so stopped at the Selborne Arms for lunch before anything else, which, I fear, I am compelled describe for you. (The lunch, not the anything else.)
To begin with, it's a sweet old pub with those ancient doors you have to stoop through to enter. We got a table close to both the bar and the fireplace, and the feasting began. Starter: Welsh rarebit, with some kind of good strong cheese and vinegar and chutney. Main: half a Roasted Pheasant with a perfect roasted potato and buttery soft brussel sprouts. I was extremely pleased to discover buckshot buried in the flesh of my pheasant, as I proudly reiterated later: "there was shot in my peasant!" At this point I went to the bar and ordered a locally-made apple cider, which came in an enormous bottle and was scrumptious. Then, dessert: Steamed Sponge with Jam and Custard, in the manner of a roly-poly. It may sound unprepossessing, but I can assure you that it was heavenly. After a decent espresso, we heaved ourselves out the door and into the car, beaming foolishly at the goodness of the meal.
Not far down the road from Selborne lies the exquisitely preserved village of Chawton, where Jane Austen wrote most of her novels. Her house has been made into a good museum, which avoids being tacky by virtue of being lovingly restored and not having too many tea towels with Jane Austen's face on them in the gift shop. There was a beautiful early nineteenth century piano in the drawing room, which Emily sat down and played; I went and sat on a windowsill in the next room and listened, and grew misty-eyed at the thought of our beloved Jane playing the piano and walking these floorboards and tending the garden and dreaming up Emma and Elizabeth and Eleanor and Anne. I much preferred this museum to the one in Bath, which was overstocked with the tea towels and oil paintings of Colin Firth. I purchased a light volume of the collected letters of Jane Austen which will just fit into my luggage. (To the right: the desk on which she wrote.)Afterwards, we walked a couple of miles through fields, got our boots muddy in the manner of Elizabeth Bennet - "my dear, almost positively medieval!" - and drove home to Morden in the dark: tired, well-fed and sated on good things.
As I write, Emily is making pasta with roasted vegetables - time to leave off the computer and pick up a book and listen to some piano music.
Wednesday, 29 December 2010
Things Look Better in the Morning
We visited Cambridge yesterday, for several reasons; Roy spent many years there (at King's and then at Jesus College) and wanted to catch up with friends, Emily had some other friends to meet with, in a cathedral choir that was passing through, while I simply wanted to adore Cambridge. Which I did, thoroughly, although it was greyer and wetter than the last time I paid homage there.
Selected highlights:
- the view from the cafe across the road from King's College.
- the unexpectedly good collection of art at the Fitzwilliam Museum, including a Renoir I'd never seen, a couple of Canalettos, and an obscure corner of pre-Raphaelites.
- a similarly unexpectedly good Thai restaurant.
- the purchase of two new pairs of shoes; a pair of leather/gore-tex boots to replace my old ones (which were rapidly filling with holes) and a pair of long wool-lined brown boots, which I had budgeted for and which are extremely beautiful.
- cream tea at Fitzbillies.
- the frozen river Cam.
- the company.
Even though it was a splendid day, I didn't sleep well; I had one of those nights filled with irrational anxieties and woke up pretty neatly on every hour after 3am. In the spirit of dot points, here are the silly what-ifs that plagued me:
- What if I/my agency haven't budgeted properly and I run out of money?
- What if my friends forget about me because I'm not around?
- What if I annoy my friends and family by writing too much, and being needy? (I told you these were irrational)
- What if it turns out I'm crappy at this job?
- What if I haven't filled in the proper paperwork and my life turns into a sort of Dante's inferno at the airport?
- What if all this is a fit of hubris and not God's will at all? (Yes, I see the theological idiocies in that now)
Those are selected highlights: there were even sillier things. Now, since none of those anxieties exist in the broad light of a London morning, I'm going to cast it all off and have poached eggs on toast, for reasons that this hymn, sung by Leigh Nash and stuck stubbornly in my head for days, makes clear:
I sought the Lord, and afterward I knew
He moved my soul to seek Him, seeking me.
It was not I that found, O Savior true;
No, I was found of Thee.
He moved my soul to seek Him, seeking me.
It was not I that found, O Savior true;
No, I was found of Thee.
Thou didst reach forth Thy hand and mine enfold;
I walked and sank not on the storm vexed sea.
’Twas not so much that I on Thee took hold,
As Thou, dear Lord, on me.
I walked and sank not on the storm vexed sea.
’Twas not so much that I on Thee took hold,
As Thou, dear Lord, on me.
I find, I walk, I love, but oh, the whole
Of love is but my answer, Lord, to Thee!
For Thou were long beforehand with my soul,
Always Thou lovest me.
Of love is but my answer, Lord, to Thee!
For Thou were long beforehand with my soul,
Always Thou lovest me.
Sunday, 26 December 2010
Christmas & Boxing Day 2010
I hardly need say that Christmas was exceedingly lovely. There was a late-morning pot of tea to start with, and a breakfast of cinnamon porridge and phone calls to relatives. Presents were exchanged as follows: I gave Emily Moab is My Washpot and a pair of Brora socks. (Brora is a particularly snooty brand of Scottish cashmere - a nice cardigan will cost several hundred pounds, so socks were about all I could manage, even though I would love to drape myself in the stuff.) To Roy, I gave Jan Morris's Trieste and the Meaning of Nowhere and Brora socks also. Then, to both, a collection of DVDs to be watched when Roy goes into hospital, including some Sofia Coppola films and Cranford. They gave me a very beautiful woollen rug from The National Trust and some good tea from Whittard's and some pretty pictures to decorate the walls of my imminent Soviet-era apartment.
In a fit of eponymity, today (being Boxing Day) we drove out to Box Hill in Surrey and went for a woodland walk. Again, the snow was still thick up there and the view from the Folly at the top of the hill was the British landscape at its best. We walked for miles and miles, discovered real holly leaves growing on real holly trees, through fields and over hills and stiles. Apart from the hole in my hiking boot which began to leak melted snow, it was really perfect. Then, we had a picnic in the car which consisted of a leftovers salad of potato and salmon and egg and beetroot and goat's cheese; masses of French cheeses on biscuits; clementines and nougat. 
So it's home again, home again, jiggity jig, and I've only just thawed out sufficiently to be sure of not babbling.
Then the parade of sumptuous food began. Emily, being a superb and intuitive cook, made several delicious dishes for lunch: roasted beetroots, baby carrots and sweet potatoes with good olive oil and herby yoghurt; new potatoes with Neal's Yard goat's cheese, salmon, capers and rocket on the side, all with a nice McLaren Vale wine. After, there were goodies from Paris, including a very lovely nougat with olives in it, and chocolate from Marks & Spencer's. Also, some lovely frothy coffee.
To justify this delicious meal, and the one to follow it, we decided to go to Richmond Park, the largest of the Royal Parks in London. The stunning vistas were enhanced by the snow that still sat everywhere and the red deer that grazed undisturbed. It was a perfect white Christmas; we crunched for miles through the snow, marvelling at the frozen lakes and the soft-hued winter sky that hung in muted shades of pink and grey. We drove home through Richmond as the sun was going down, and there was a remarkable moment as we came to the Thames where soft pink and orange light suffused (diffused? defracted?) the sky and reflected in the river and caused the world to be impossibly beautiful for several minutes. On cue, a flock of geese flew low to the water in perfect sleek formation, and signets passed classically under an arched bridge with their parents. After this rather exquisite moment, we went home immediately to gorge ourselves again.
This time, there were three courses, precluded by very, very good Champagne. The first, a bruschetta that Emily recreated from one she'd had in Italy. Olive ciabatta bread, toasted with garlicky olive oil and a semi-hard French cheese, topped with lemony steamed cale. A thing of beauty it was not, but thoroughly delicious. Following this, Emily made a pasta from scratch, a kind of tagliatelle, tossed it with chanterelle mushrooms and creme fraiche - gorgeous. And finally, pears poached in wine, with custard. Before dessert, however, and to be kind to our stomachs, we watched some Jacques Tati.
So it's home again, home again, jiggity jig, and I've only just thawed out sufficiently to be sure of not babbling.
Friday, 24 December 2010
Rowan Williams on Advent
Bruegel: Census at Bethlehem
(like so many of Bruegel's paintings, the trick is to find the extraordinary event among the ordinary daily bustle: Mary and Joseph are here, if you care to look for them.)
(like so many of Bruegel's paintings, the trick is to find the extraordinary event among the ordinary daily bustle: Mary and Joseph are here, if you care to look for them.)
Advent Calendar
by Rowan Williams
by Rowan Williams
He will come like last leaf’s fall.
One night when the November wind
has flayed trees to bone, and earth
wakes choking on the mould,
the soft shroud’s folding.
He will come like the frost.
One morning when the shrinking earth
opens on mist, to find itself
arrested in the net
of alien, sword-set beauty.
He will come like dark.
One evening when the bursting red
December sun draws up the sheet
and penny-masks its eye to yield
the star-snowed fields of sky.
He will come, will come,
will come like crying in the night,
like blood, like breaking,
as the earth writhes to toss him free.
He will come like child.
And also, this: (if you don't mind irreverence, done reverently) - Christmas clerihews.
Thursday, 23 December 2010
A Few Cold Words
Went for a wander around Morden Hall Park this morning. It was built by the oddly-spelled Hatfeild family in the late eighteenth century, who, quaintly, made their money from a snuff mill. It hasn't snowed for a few days so the ground has a patchy look, but I thought this picture accurately captured the feeling of the place! It felt like I had acres and acres to myself in the biting cold. After a while my ears and fingers started burning, despite being well covered, so I went to the ubiquitous National Trust shop and had the ubiquitous cup of tea. I've come to the conclusion that National Trust shops and cafes are exclusively run by round, middle-aged, slightly-inept-but-good-natured women. I had some nice conversations with the tea ladies and got called 'luvvy', which made me happy.
Monday, 20 December 2010
For the Want of a Teacup
London is not notable for its gastronomic pleasures. In Melbourne, if you're out walking or shopping or whatever and you feel like a nice cup of tea and a sit down, there's usually a decent cafe nearby ready to oblige. In London, unless you really know your way around, which I don't particularly, you either have to settle for Starbucks or walk for miles. And then, when you find it, it serves you teabags. In a mug. A gloomy mood ensues, in which the drinker contemplates the bygone glories of the British Empire and makes unfavourable comparisons between it and other countries. In the teeny-tiny suburb of Seddon, Melbourne, just as a completely random example, there are half a dozen cafes, each of them offering endless varieties of teas served in teapots and excellent coffee. And none of them play Sugababes for their customers. Just sayin'.
It was exceptionally cold today. I don't think it got above -2. I wore thermals and my duck-down jacket and was stoic. It's snowing heavily right now, and it's lovely and mesmerising to watch but I feel no strong desire to be in it. When you see the thing of mud and sludge it becomes on London streets, it loses some of its appeal. I'm glad of it, though, because it's all excellent preparation for Bishkek. I was intimidated by the prospect of this cold, but now I believe it's manageable.
Read lots today while on Tube. Emily has masses of Georgette Heyers lying about. This is a pleasing circumstance; given my jetlag, I'm in no mood for taxing reading. So I read The Grand Sophy today and more of Bill Bryson's At Home. I've also been listening to Sufjan Steven's The Age of Adz, which IS taxing and difficult and compelling and deserves to be written about, lots. If I find the energy, I shall do so tomorrow. Less taxing is this album which I'm growing to love, and recommend if you're looking for new music.
Sunday, 19 December 2010
The Next Day
It was a peculiar night. I slept the dreamy sleep of the very-jetlagged from 7pm till 2am and woke, extremely hungry. Warmed up some good soup and a bagel and ate ravenously, then went back to bed and found that I was wide awake. Annoyed at this silly mismanagement of jetlag, I extracted Bill Bryson's At Home: A Short History of Private Life from the mountain of books next to the bed and read as far as 'The Drawing Room' before dozing again. I intend to be much more sensible tonight, although my eyelids already feel like lead.
One of the things I was absolutely set on doing while in London was to visit St Helen's Bishopsgate, the church I attended irregularly last time I was here. So, after a hearty meal of porridge, I checked the Transport for London website to make sure that the Northern Line was running (it's all a bit hit-and-miss with the snow, and others things which I shall mention shortly. Oh, and that was a dreadful pun just now - keep reading and you'll know why -). It was, and so I made my way to Liverpool St Station without mishap, and to church on the dot of 10:30. And, glory be, it was a Carols service! Not just any Carols service: a pipe organ, trumpets, and a choir of sopranos in the loft. Incidentally, the church building dates back to 1210 and has all the requisite bits added on over centuries, fabulous timber arches and ancient plaques on walls, that sort of thing; so it was a thoroughly stunning experience. There were four Oxbridge types standing behind me, marked by the colours in their scarves, and I was thrilled when they started singing in pleasant baritone harmonies - not in a showy manner, but for their own enjoyment. I stopped singing altogether at that point because I couldn't take in that and the richness of the soaring sopranos too. Also, I learned a new song, the lyrics of which I shall write out presently.
You'd think that was enough, and indeed I thought I was sated, but then the Rev. Paul Clarke stood up to deliver a sermon, and by golly, it was a stunner. He chose Isaiah 9:1-7 as his text and his theme was Jesus as Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. I rejoiced in it and wanted to laugh and cry all at once because it was so beautifully illustrated; the glorious kingship of Christ, established and upheld with justice and righteousness forevermore.
I stuck around afterwards to investigate the bookshop, restrained myself admirably from buying Don Carson's commentary on 1 Corinthians, drank of the mulled beverages, and then took off. I was really hoping to strike up conversations, so that was disappointing, but it didn't dim the wonder of the service.
I thought I'd tramp around for a bit in the sludgy-yet-treacherous snow, and ended up at St Paul's Cathedral; you can't go in on Sundays because of all the services, but (and this trick I learned five years ago) you can enter the subterranean gift shop and hear the magnificent choir from above, which I did. Rejecting the offerings of the gift shop as too popish for my reformed low-church sensibilities, I crossed the Millenium Bridge to the Tate Modern and paid my homage there, more out of duty than delight. I find one needs to be in a colourful peasanty mood to really appreciate the surrealists, and my mood was an elevated one, not at all suited to the vagaries of modern installations. So I tramped on out of there and around the Thames for a while, and then home. Not before taking this picture of the Tate on my iPhone, however, which for some reason reminded me of a Bruegel:
Predictably, by this time the Northern Line was out of action, not because of the snow, but because of "a body on the tracks." This was announced in such a matter-of-fact way that I was sure I'd misheard it; but no, there it was, "body on the tracks" (hence the earlier pun, cue wincing). With some nifty recalculations, I found a way home, snuggled up on the couch to listen to Rosie Thomas and finish Bill Bryson, and did my best not to fall asleep.
I haven't decided what tomorrow holds. Maybe the National Gallery, Covent Garden, that sort of thing. I also want to visit Spitalfields market, and maybe have a Brick Lane curry. Who knows? It's all very whimmy.
Here are the lyrics to the carol I didn't know, but loved:
Lord, you were rich beyond all splendour,
yet, for love's sake, became so poor:
leaving your throne in glad surrender,
sapphire-paved courts for stable floor:
Lord, you were rich beyond all splendour,
yet, for love's sake, became so poor.
You are our God beyond all praising,
yet, for love's sake, became a man;
stooping so low, but sinners raising
Heav'n-wards, by your eternal plan:
you are our God beyond all praising,
yet, for love's sake, became a man.
Lord, you are love beyond all telling,
Saviour and King, we worship you;
Immanuel, within us dwelling,
make us and keep us pure and true:
Lord, you are love beyond all telling,
Saviour and King, we worship you.
Frank Houghton (1894-1972)
One of the things I was absolutely set on doing while in London was to visit St Helen's Bishopsgate, the church I attended irregularly last time I was here. So, after a hearty meal of porridge, I checked the Transport for London website to make sure that the Northern Line was running (it's all a bit hit-and-miss with the snow, and others things which I shall mention shortly. Oh, and that was a dreadful pun just now - keep reading and you'll know why -). It was, and so I made my way to Liverpool St Station without mishap, and to church on the dot of 10:30. And, glory be, it was a Carols service! Not just any Carols service: a pipe organ, trumpets, and a choir of sopranos in the loft. Incidentally, the church building dates back to 1210 and has all the requisite bits added on over centuries, fabulous timber arches and ancient plaques on walls, that sort of thing; so it was a thoroughly stunning experience. There were four Oxbridge types standing behind me, marked by the colours in their scarves, and I was thrilled when they started singing in pleasant baritone harmonies - not in a showy manner, but for their own enjoyment. I stopped singing altogether at that point because I couldn't take in that and the richness of the soaring sopranos too. Also, I learned a new song, the lyrics of which I shall write out presently.
You'd think that was enough, and indeed I thought I was sated, but then the Rev. Paul Clarke stood up to deliver a sermon, and by golly, it was a stunner. He chose Isaiah 9:1-7 as his text and his theme was Jesus as Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. I rejoiced in it and wanted to laugh and cry all at once because it was so beautifully illustrated; the glorious kingship of Christ, established and upheld with justice and righteousness forevermore.
I stuck around afterwards to investigate the bookshop, restrained myself admirably from buying Don Carson's commentary on 1 Corinthians, drank of the mulled beverages, and then took off. I was really hoping to strike up conversations, so that was disappointing, but it didn't dim the wonder of the service.
I thought I'd tramp around for a bit in the sludgy-yet-treacherous snow, and ended up at St Paul's Cathedral; you can't go in on Sundays because of all the services, but (and this trick I learned five years ago) you can enter the subterranean gift shop and hear the magnificent choir from above, which I did. Rejecting the offerings of the gift shop as too popish for my reformed low-church sensibilities, I crossed the Millenium Bridge to the Tate Modern and paid my homage there, more out of duty than delight. I find one needs to be in a colourful peasanty mood to really appreciate the surrealists, and my mood was an elevated one, not at all suited to the vagaries of modern installations. So I tramped on out of there and around the Thames for a while, and then home. Not before taking this picture of the Tate on my iPhone, however, which for some reason reminded me of a Bruegel:
Predictably, by this time the Northern Line was out of action, not because of the snow, but because of "a body on the tracks." This was announced in such a matter-of-fact way that I was sure I'd misheard it; but no, there it was, "body on the tracks" (hence the earlier pun, cue wincing). With some nifty recalculations, I found a way home, snuggled up on the couch to listen to Rosie Thomas and finish Bill Bryson, and did my best not to fall asleep.
I haven't decided what tomorrow holds. Maybe the National Gallery, Covent Garden, that sort of thing. I also want to visit Spitalfields market, and maybe have a Brick Lane curry. Who knows? It's all very whimmy.
Here are the lyrics to the carol I didn't know, but loved:
Lord, you were rich beyond all splendour,
yet, for love's sake, became so poor:
leaving your throne in glad surrender,
sapphire-paved courts for stable floor:
Lord, you were rich beyond all splendour,
yet, for love's sake, became so poor.
You are our God beyond all praising,
yet, for love's sake, became a man;
stooping so low, but sinners raising
Heav'n-wards, by your eternal plan:
you are our God beyond all praising,
yet, for love's sake, became a man.
Lord, you are love beyond all telling,
Saviour and King, we worship you;
Immanuel, within us dwelling,
make us and keep us pure and true:
Lord, you are love beyond all telling,
Saviour and King, we worship you.
Frank Houghton (1894-1972)
Saturday, 18 December 2010
Day 1
There's a Tube depot not far from where I write, and from time to time you can hear a prim 'thwoot' emerging from its yard, which reminds one of nothing so much as Thomas the Tank Engine. No doubt the Fat Controller is directing things over there, and if Ringo Starr should suddenly start narrating as I sit at the kitchen table, I shouldn't be at all surprised.
I haven't ventured out yet, but I plan to visit Westminster today, because it would be so pretty, and also because I want to visit the Abbey. I thought I'd start my London time with some pompous gorgeousness. Also, St James' Park is not far away. The only thing that stops me from leaving immediately is that I'm not quite psychologically prepared for the cold - have to do mental warmups first - and also I haven't had a cup of tea yet.
Till tomorrow!
(ed: the other thing that stops me is the EXTREMELY HEAVY SNOW that has just started falling!)
From the mild summery aspect of Melbourne to the bitter cold of snowy London, it took about thirty hours, with a stopover in weirdly humid KL. Everything went smoothly (although I didn't sleep), and I dumped my thirty-five kilograms of luggage gladly at Emily and Roy's doorstep in Morden just before 8am on Friday, having learnt in the previous twenty minutes the complete and utter insanity of walking London streets without appropriate gloves. If I'd had to do it any longer, I wouldn't be writing this because I'd be suffering from frostbite instead. Anyway, they were still in their pyjamas, which made me feel less conspicuously plane-ridden, and they fed me cups of tea and poached eggs and after a long, hot shower I was quite human again.
I was feeling energetic, so Emily and I decided to explore neighbouring Wimbledon and its attendant Common (where the Wombles live, apparently). We took the bus (I may have emitted a small 'squee!' when I saw it, which didn't help my plan to exude quiet, practised sophistication at all times: I did, after all, live in London for twelve months. But it was a RED DOUBLE-DECKER BUS! They never get unexciting) and on the way back it started to snow; itty-bitty flakes at first, and then whirling bigger bits, and by the time we got home there was a thick layer of the stuff. This was extremely pleasing to me, but less so for E&R who had plans to catch the Eurostar to Paris that evening. Actually, I should explain why - they were off to a Christmas party in the Loire Valley, thrown by the now-retired British Ambassador to India and his wife. On a related note, I also learned that Roy's naturopath treats the Queen. I include this ticklish trivia for your edification. Anyway, snow plays havoc with the trains around here, but less so the buses. They made it, however, so I have their charming apartment to myself for five days, and this was the view that greeted me this morning:
I was feeling energetic, so Emily and I decided to explore neighbouring Wimbledon and its attendant Common (where the Wombles live, apparently). We took the bus (I may have emitted a small 'squee!' when I saw it, which didn't help my plan to exude quiet, practised sophistication at all times: I did, after all, live in London for twelve months. But it was a RED DOUBLE-DECKER BUS! They never get unexciting) and on the way back it started to snow; itty-bitty flakes at first, and then whirling bigger bits, and by the time we got home there was a thick layer of the stuff. This was extremely pleasing to me, but less so for E&R who had plans to catch the Eurostar to Paris that evening. Actually, I should explain why - they were off to a Christmas party in the Loire Valley, thrown by the now-retired British Ambassador to India and his wife. On a related note, I also learned that Roy's naturopath treats the Queen. I include this ticklish trivia for your edification. Anyway, snow plays havoc with the trains around here, but less so the buses. They made it, however, so I have their charming apartment to myself for five days, and this was the view that greeted me this morning:
Till tomorrow!
(ed: the other thing that stops me is the EXTREMELY HEAVY SNOW that has just started falling!)
Friday, 3 December 2010
'Tis a Season of some Sort
I'm writing on an unfamiliar computer with sticky keys, surrounded by the dusty geography books of a bygone era. This is because I finally vacated my work desk today; I binned the last of uncollected student work, filed the useful resources, gave away all my stationery, and wiped the whole thing clean with a vile-smelling spray. I’m employed for another week yet, but the senior school students finished yesterday at 3:30 after the adrenaline of the choral competition, in the middle of a truly magnificent, bucketing thunderstorm. After three days of student-led choir rehearsal and one day of intense performance, exhilaration was tempered by exhaustion; amidst the smell of wet woollen jumpers in homerooms and the squelch of sodden socks, there was much joyful affection, some of it aimed at me. Girls gave me sweetly-phrased cards and hugs and pretty rain-soaked presents to say farewell; a couple of the boys dashed through the rain to say their goodbyes and thankyous; and I felt a great deal of affection for these tender-hearted teenagers.
Others keep asking me – will I miss them? – to which my reply is, yes, but not yet. Soon enough I will notice their absence, but for now there is too much to think about, too much to do; I haven't got room for sentiment, and probably won't till I'm on the plane. Right now, I dread the week to come; all the hours I'll need to fill, riding out these last days at this ancient computer.
Thirteen days until this new chapter in my life commences, and I don't know what I feel; maybe there's no name for this odd and complex sensation of yearning, loneliness, excitement, hope, wistfulness, joy; all of it mixed up together in such a way that I can't distinguish one from the other.
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