I brought three pairs with me and wore two. The rest of the time I had to wear a pair of hideous short boots I had bought in Walmart last year. It really changes one's outlook when sporting a pair of ugly shoe/boots. So much so that I didn't wear makeup much while there. I mean, when your shoes are that ugly, a made-up face doesn't match. So, I bowed to ugly most days. Except when we visited B's mother for the day at the care home she is in north of London. Having seen many pictures of her over the years, I knew this was a lady with style. Even at 92, she commented on my high heels. She wore very cute sparkly flats and the staff had dressed her up a bit for our surprise visit. When we arrived, the head of the home said, "I guess you decided to tell Diamond you were coming afterall." "No," we replied. "We didn't say a word." Apparently that morning while dressing, she told the nurse that her son was coming today for her birthday. How's that for spooky!
I decided to take the bull by the horns and after she gave me some of her costume jewellry -- all she has left after years of living in a home in Spain, where they pretty much cleaned her out -- I asked if I could take her wedding ring back to hold for her great-grandaughter. Remember 'Zorba the Greek', when the village women stripped everything off the dead woman near the end of the movie? I kinda felt like that, but I knew it had to be done. I love the fact that I have my grandmother's wedding ring, My daughter loves having her grandmother's wedding rings, my step-daughter loves having her grandmother's rings and I knew I had to get that ring to keep in the family and pass down. I knew if I didn't ask (B kept saying, "it's all she has left, you can't ask her".......which is precisely why I had to ask) that little band would just poof upon her demise. The minute I asked if I could take the band back for safe-keeping, she immediately pulled it off her knarled finger and said, "Oh yes, dahling, what a good idea." That in itself was worth the visit because the little band is engraved inside with the details of her marriage so many, many years ago.
Things like that have to be sorted, as the English say. It still nags me that my ex-sister-in-law snatched my mother-in-law's eternity diamond band off her lifeless finger for herself -- ignoring the fact that it should have gone to my daughter, Edna's first-born grandaughter. And this sister-in-law (not blood) has only boys. As a matter of fact, I may ask her for it one of these days to give to Susanne. Fat chance I'll get it. Did that a few years ago with a family heirloom brooch on B's side of the family. Laid low and vulnerable by a bout of misplaced idealism and male naivite, B had permitted the familial pocket to be stealthily picked and the piece to find its way into the possession of someone who certainly should not have had the nerve to have kept it when the relationship crashed. I orchestrated an elegant and skillful manoever that saw it returned to my step-daughter, where it belonged. Afterall a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.
But back to makeup. We went a couple of times to a nifty little restaurant for lunch near our lodgings. I schlepped in there shamelessly the first two times without makeup. But as we got chatting with one of the waitresses and the owner, I somehow felt I should make at least one visit madeup because we got talking about makeup -- they both wore lots. And the waitress' sister was the famous (maybe) British actress, Rula Lenska. Anyone remember her? I remember a shampoo commercial she was in here, V05? Anyway, the day before we left I wore the paint and they were agog! I am one female who really benefits from the stuff. Years ago I sent away for a "face disk" featured by Lauren Hutton in an infomercial and I still use it. It came with a video -- you know, how to shade those fat areas under the jaw bone, how to make the neck fade back, how to make black, hollow eye sockets glow, how to apply eye shadow. No one ends up looking like the fabulous Miss Hutton, but I do manage to somewhat transform the bag-hag look.
More on dining later.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
War stories from a weary traveller
Well, back yesterday from our trip to England. I almost kissed the ground when we arrived. There is no place like Canada. When we flew in and I saw that beloved snow-covered tarmack, delicious relief swept me. Waiting in line for Customs, I overheard a young woman on her phone complaining to her mother......."Oh mummy, I hate it here. Why did we come here!? When I saw the snow I almost cried. I just wish I could turn around and go back!" Hey, do it. Wherever you came from, get the h-ll back there! But there are many stories to tell...........here goes..........
In case you're robbed............
..........all women of my age have to clean the house before they leave for vacation. So, there I was the morning of our trip, cleaning and vaccuming. My mother, coaching from the grave, made sure every toilet and every corner was spic and span. Presumably the respectable woman's hearth must be presentable to both thief and policeman. (By the way, she also insisted that anyone whose laundry was her responsibility wear proper, mended underwear in case one of us were in an accident and the doctors thought I had an unfit mother who let me wear ripped underpants. A secret slob I was not permitted to be.) Truth be told, I was looking ahead to our return. Dragging in from a long flight to a messy house I could not face. So condo shining, off we went and eventually arrived at Heathrow. After an 80 L taxi ride from the airport -- remember the pound is at $1.60 cdn, so you do the math -- we made it to our destination. Our lodgings were in Bloomsbury, a private club for alumni of London House, where B did his graduate work 50 years ago. We headed off to old haunts we had frequented in previous trips; they had not changed at all. And the English still drink. A lot.
Sitting in the local, I could not stop eavsdropping on four elderly gents beside us. All completely weird, but so British. They ordered things like "fish, chips and mushy peas", pronounced "moushy"...and sausage and chips...and a sausage and mash sandwich. For dessert the menu featured, "sticky toffee pudding with cream"........."treacle tart and chantilly cream, with a hint of scotch whisky" and best of all........."spotted dick dessert". I didn't dare ask what that was! All four patrons featured various pronounced facial ticks and bodily quirks, with one of them bordering on tourette's I swear. He blinked and squinted and ahem-ed and aha-ed, as he talked about Papua New Guinea, Tunisia, Edward VIIth, Mrs. Simpson -- "he was besotted with that one" -- and various other world issues. Not a word of gossip or sports did they utter. Just intelligent, facinating banter. It was a far and welcome cry from the lugs and louts found in the average Canadian sports bar.
But London is London no longer. It is a vast, crowded, rushing, rude torrent of all races, creeds and nationalities. Courtesy has flown out the window and security fears have given rise to blocked roads, one-ways, construction, screaming sirens and narry a garbage can in sight -- or should I say rubbish bin. Now there are men pushing carts and you have to chase them to throw anything out. The English have high-tailed it to the country, where we spent a lovely day visiting B's mother on her 92nd birthday. More about her in a subsequent blog. But to give you a hint, one of the first things she said to me was, "Dahling, what do you weigh?" "I don't know in stones," I replied, grateful I couldn't do the math! She dropped it. '
More on shopping later too. Another hint: we went to Liberty's where 2,300-L evening bags were the norm. I kid you not!!!! I drooled over Jimmy Choo's, but didn't fall prey to any.
More on dining later. Look forward to an account of our dinners at the Savoy, the Dorchester and the Ritz. Later.
In case you're robbed............
..........all women of my age have to clean the house before they leave for vacation. So, there I was the morning of our trip, cleaning and vaccuming. My mother, coaching from the grave, made sure every toilet and every corner was spic and span. Presumably the respectable woman's hearth must be presentable to both thief and policeman. (By the way, she also insisted that anyone whose laundry was her responsibility wear proper, mended underwear in case one of us were in an accident and the doctors thought I had an unfit mother who let me wear ripped underpants. A secret slob I was not permitted to be.) Truth be told, I was looking ahead to our return. Dragging in from a long flight to a messy house I could not face. So condo shining, off we went and eventually arrived at Heathrow. After an 80 L taxi ride from the airport -- remember the pound is at $1.60 cdn, so you do the math -- we made it to our destination. Our lodgings were in Bloomsbury, a private club for alumni of London House, where B did his graduate work 50 years ago. We headed off to old haunts we had frequented in previous trips; they had not changed at all. And the English still drink. A lot.
Sitting in the local, I could not stop eavsdropping on four elderly gents beside us. All completely weird, but so British. They ordered things like "fish, chips and mushy peas", pronounced "moushy"...and sausage and chips...and a sausage and mash sandwich. For dessert the menu featured, "sticky toffee pudding with cream"........."treacle tart and chantilly cream, with a hint of scotch whisky" and best of all........."spotted dick dessert". I didn't dare ask what that was! All four patrons featured various pronounced facial ticks and bodily quirks, with one of them bordering on tourette's I swear. He blinked and squinted and ahem-ed and aha-ed, as he talked about Papua New Guinea, Tunisia, Edward VIIth, Mrs. Simpson -- "he was besotted with that one" -- and various other world issues. Not a word of gossip or sports did they utter. Just intelligent, facinating banter. It was a far and welcome cry from the lugs and louts found in the average Canadian sports bar.
But London is London no longer. It is a vast, crowded, rushing, rude torrent of all races, creeds and nationalities. Courtesy has flown out the window and security fears have given rise to blocked roads, one-ways, construction, screaming sirens and narry a garbage can in sight -- or should I say rubbish bin. Now there are men pushing carts and you have to chase them to throw anything out. The English have high-tailed it to the country, where we spent a lovely day visiting B's mother on her 92nd birthday. More about her in a subsequent blog. But to give you a hint, one of the first things she said to me was, "Dahling, what do you weigh?" "I don't know in stones," I replied, grateful I couldn't do the math! She dropped it. '
More on shopping later too. Another hint: we went to Liberty's where 2,300-L evening bags were the norm. I kid you not!!!! I drooled over Jimmy Choo's, but didn't fall prey to any.
More on dining later. Look forward to an account of our dinners at the Savoy, the Dorchester and the Ritz. Later.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Word purge
Can you believe that Mark Knoppfel (sp?) of Dire Straits had to change the wording of one of his songs because it contained the word "faggot" in it!! Apparently, a gay guy in Newfoundland complained to a human rights tribunal and won. It's almost as bad as the move afoot in the US to purge Mark Twain's works of the word "nigger". I mean, come on people! Mark Twain wrote his books when this was an ordinary word. And Dire Straits wrote that song ages ago and so what!? Have you ever listened to black rap music these days? Everyone's a "ho" or a "nigger" or a "bitch"......and on and on. But I love Knoppfel's response. He is going to re-record the song and substitute the word "fudger" for the word "faggot". Brilliant. Not a guy to dig in on principle. No, he's going to continue to cash in the royalties by changing the word. Wonder if Mr. Newfoundland will like "fudger" better? It certainly has a number of meanings, so he's kinda check-mated there.
Darling Susannah York died the other day. How could she have been 73??!! Remember her in 'Tom Jones'? She was adorable, with her little perky breasts and her impish grin. And Gerry Rafferty died too. A great musician and song-writer, I have played his music for 40 years. Apparently he could not kick the booze. He grew up in the slums of Scotland and was a childhood chum of Billy Connolly. I love Connolly. He suffered physical and sexual abuse as a child, but came out of it. Proves it is possible.
Got an e-mail the other day from my old friend Sandra, the one I met 35 years ago through my ex-husband, Bob. She still wants to get together and I am reluctant. As I told her, the only thing we have in common is Bob and I don't want to spend hours talking about him. She also wanted to include another woman I knew well who ended up living with Bob after our divorce. Whaaaaat??!! I don't think so. But she is insistent that at least the two of us get together, so I agreed on the condition that we not go back 35 years and talk about "old times". More on that when I get back from Blighty.
Darling Susannah York died the other day. How could she have been 73??!! Remember her in 'Tom Jones'? She was adorable, with her little perky breasts and her impish grin. And Gerry Rafferty died too. A great musician and song-writer, I have played his music for 40 years. Apparently he could not kick the booze. He grew up in the slums of Scotland and was a childhood chum of Billy Connolly. I love Connolly. He suffered physical and sexual abuse as a child, but came out of it. Proves it is possible.
Got an e-mail the other day from my old friend Sandra, the one I met 35 years ago through my ex-husband, Bob. She still wants to get together and I am reluctant. As I told her, the only thing we have in common is Bob and I don't want to spend hours talking about him. She also wanted to include another woman I knew well who ended up living with Bob after our divorce. Whaaaaat??!! I don't think so. But she is insistent that at least the two of us get together, so I agreed on the condition that we not go back 35 years and talk about "old times". More on that when I get back from Blighty.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Air India, not Air Canada
I wrote a letter to the editor recently and although they called to say they would publish it, they did not. I guess it was because it was Christmas and they wanted to be warm and fuzzy. As you can imagine, my letter was a little too "on" to make that cut. Here it is, for your reading pleasure:
"Dear editor,
"While appalling and sad, the bombing of Air India flight 182 has never struck me as a "Canadian" tragedy. It happened to an Indian aircraft carrying mostly Canadians of Indian descent and was the result of a vicious religious holy war which persists today. How is that really Canada's fault? And yet we have been shouldering the responsibility and apologizing for it for 25 years. I think it's time for Canada to let go. The same hatred still thrives in these communities -- witness the warning given the B.C. premier to fear for his safety when he attempted to participate in an indo religious and cultural festival last summer. And look at the violence rained upon Ujjal Dosanjh whenever he speaks out. Blaming Canada and ordinary Canadians does nothing to heal such profound divides."
And I totally mean that. I was always uncomfortable with the whole Air India deal. Really, that flight could have taken off from Seattle and the result would have been the same. What's "Canadian" about that!!?? 25 years and millions and millions of $$$$$$ spent on looking into it and the families are still not satisfied with our hand-wringing. They bleat on. I guess it's more money they want in compensation. It's always money.
Have not been blogging lately because with only two followers and no feedback, I start to wonder why I am doing it? Seriously, I know how I feel on every topic about which I blog (how's that for perfect grammar!). But the Air India thing begged exposure, so I have started again.
B and I are off to England to visit his mother and surprise her on her 92nd birthday. I have never met the woman and we have been married for 30 years. Not that it's complicated, but whenever he visited, I always thought it would be better for one of the kids to go instead of me. We never had money -- B's hideous divorce from his money-mad crone/harridan/harpy ex made sure of that. (Sorry to still carry that grudge, but the woman inherited millions and really didn't need our paltry public-service pennies, from which we then had to wretchedly wring support for the four kids in our custody.) But I digress.
We have been thumbing through the latest London guide books and I conclude that everything starts at 100Ls -- a coffee, a taxi ride, a pub lunch, a drink..........everything. I told B to think of 100Ls as $10 and he'd have it about right. If you go out for dinner, then everything is 200Ls -- never mind throwing in a glass of wine or three. But as luck would have it, last time we were there I watched a facinating documentary on the BBC about the very high quality of London's tap water. Evidently, it has to do with these huge gleaming chrome and enamel machines, covered in beautiful dials and gauges of the kind only a dedicated British machinist could have fashioned at the turn of the century. Generations of skilled stationary engineers have been trained down the years to operate these magnificent beasts and the result is wonderful tap water out the other end.
At dinner that evening, when the waiter was scaring us into buying a $40 bottle of perrier, I asked for tap water with the complete confidence of knowing that the pepto bismol tablets I kept at the ready would not be called into service. The waiter then admitted he knew that and pronounced us pretty clever for not having fallen for his pitch. (G-d! I am really on a grammar roll here.) Must be the booklet sent me by my daughter filled with photos of bad grammar and spelling on public signs throughout the US. More on that later.
Speaking of the US, how perfect that they turned the Tucson tragedy into high and tacky entertainment. The other night I was damned if I could find a channel that was not pre-empting everything for Obama's performance at the memorial. What a show! Even the CBC fell for it. But why should we be surprised that the CBC was all over it. The only thing missing was Peter Mansbridge down there in person, weeping into a microphone. Isn't he the biggest egomaniac you have ever seen! We knew his parents and he definitely inherited his self-adoration from his mummy. His father, Stanley, was a perfect gentleman.
"Dear editor,
"While appalling and sad, the bombing of Air India flight 182 has never struck me as a "Canadian" tragedy. It happened to an Indian aircraft carrying mostly Canadians of Indian descent and was the result of a vicious religious holy war which persists today. How is that really Canada's fault? And yet we have been shouldering the responsibility and apologizing for it for 25 years. I think it's time for Canada to let go. The same hatred still thrives in these communities -- witness the warning given the B.C. premier to fear for his safety when he attempted to participate in an indo religious and cultural festival last summer. And look at the violence rained upon Ujjal Dosanjh whenever he speaks out. Blaming Canada and ordinary Canadians does nothing to heal such profound divides."
And I totally mean that. I was always uncomfortable with the whole Air India deal. Really, that flight could have taken off from Seattle and the result would have been the same. What's "Canadian" about that!!?? 25 years and millions and millions of $$$$$$ spent on looking into it and the families are still not satisfied with our hand-wringing. They bleat on. I guess it's more money they want in compensation. It's always money.
Have not been blogging lately because with only two followers and no feedback, I start to wonder why I am doing it? Seriously, I know how I feel on every topic about which I blog (how's that for perfect grammar!). But the Air India thing begged exposure, so I have started again.
B and I are off to England to visit his mother and surprise her on her 92nd birthday. I have never met the woman and we have been married for 30 years. Not that it's complicated, but whenever he visited, I always thought it would be better for one of the kids to go instead of me. We never had money -- B's hideous divorce from his money-mad crone/harridan/harpy ex made sure of that. (Sorry to still carry that grudge, but the woman inherited millions and really didn't need our paltry public-service pennies, from which we then had to wretchedly wring support for the four kids in our custody.) But I digress.
We have been thumbing through the latest London guide books and I conclude that everything starts at 100Ls -- a coffee, a taxi ride, a pub lunch, a drink..........everything. I told B to think of 100Ls as $10 and he'd have it about right. If you go out for dinner, then everything is 200Ls -- never mind throwing in a glass of wine or three. But as luck would have it, last time we were there I watched a facinating documentary on the BBC about the very high quality of London's tap water. Evidently, it has to do with these huge gleaming chrome and enamel machines, covered in beautiful dials and gauges of the kind only a dedicated British machinist could have fashioned at the turn of the century. Generations of skilled stationary engineers have been trained down the years to operate these magnificent beasts and the result is wonderful tap water out the other end.
At dinner that evening, when the waiter was scaring us into buying a $40 bottle of perrier, I asked for tap water with the complete confidence of knowing that the pepto bismol tablets I kept at the ready would not be called into service. The waiter then admitted he knew that and pronounced us pretty clever for not having fallen for his pitch. (G-d! I am really on a grammar roll here.) Must be the booklet sent me by my daughter filled with photos of bad grammar and spelling on public signs throughout the US. More on that later.
Speaking of the US, how perfect that they turned the Tucson tragedy into high and tacky entertainment. The other night I was damned if I could find a channel that was not pre-empting everything for Obama's performance at the memorial. What a show! Even the CBC fell for it. But why should we be surprised that the CBC was all over it. The only thing missing was Peter Mansbridge down there in person, weeping into a microphone. Isn't he the biggest egomaniac you have ever seen! We knew his parents and he definitely inherited his self-adoration from his mummy. His father, Stanley, was a perfect gentleman.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)