I'm Alive!

Poor blog, it's been sadly neglected these past few weeks. It's been an exciting and busy time for me, getting the almost-final copy of 24 Hours: London ready... and the small task of organizing a wedding!

In book news, we've decided to push the launch ahead to October to allow us more time to send out review copies, and to have an extra window to make sure everything is letter perfect (hopefully - I hate seeing grammatical errors in books!).

In wedding news, everything is almost set! The big day is 8th August, and The Man and I can't wait. It's a small group - about 12 people. I'm really looking forward to seeing friends and family, and really touched that people are crossing oceans to come! In fact, my maid of honour is arriving on Saturday and we'll lounge and drink it up!

The Man and I decided to get married on the South Bank. It seemed fitting, as that's where we first met and where he proposed. Given that we both love art, Dali Universe fit the bill. We'll tie the knot surrounded by beautiful artwork by Azam, with poetry by Harold Pinter and Carol Ann Duffy, then head over to Waterloo Pier right by the London Eye to a waiting boat, for our reception. We've chosen a great jazz duo called Smoke to pay some funk and jazz as we drift down the Thames (in hopefully good weather!).

Then off to Lopud on Croatia for a week, before returning to reality.

Swine Flu Nation

Want swine flu? Come to England, where the number of cases is said to be ballooning. Yes, that wonderful piggy virus is spreading at lightening speed -- apparently, pigs can fly. One of the reasons the UK seems to be a virus hot-spot is the wonderful Heathrow Airport, the busiest airport in the world and a giant mixing pot for the world's infected.

I've never been that keen on germs and the like (who is?), but now I find myself suspecting every cough and snort beside me on the Tube as a carrier of swine flu. People of Britain, please - cover your mouth when you cough! As much as I like pigs, I have no desire to have their virus inside of me.

Swap It!

There's more to Windsor than the Queen. The legendary Scott Pack is starting a new monthly literary event: The Book Swap. Here's his description:

Our first night is on Thursday August 20th at 8pm. Tickets are £5 and are on sale now! The Book Swap will be a regular monthly literary event taking place at The Firestation, a lovely arts venue in Windsor. Hosted by myself and novelist Marie Phillips, it will essentially involve us sitting down on a sofa with a bunch of guests from the world of books and chatting about, well pretty much anything. The emphasis is very much on getting to know the authors so rather than having them read from their books we will engage them in banter about all manner of other things - music, cake, gossip - and hopefully it will end up a rather endearing, if chaotic, night for all concerned.

Oh, and then we have the book swap bit. Everyone who comes along is required to bring a book with them, one they don't want any more. During the evening they will get to swap it for another book, ideally one they do want.

For more on location and directions, click here to go to Scott's original post. What a brilliant idea, and if I can entice myself out into the wilds beyond London, I'll be there.

Summer Days

I'm feeling lazy (yes, again -- well, it is summer after all!), so instead of exercising my brain I will leave you with these recent photos.


The new pavillion at the Serpentine Gallery, Kensington Gardens.


Rogue piano plunked down at Portobello Market for all to play.



Veggies at Portobello Market.



Late-night dancing at the National Theatre, South Bank.

The Art of Conversation

There's a great discussion over at Pond Parleys this week: Who's friendlier, Americans or Brits?

After interrogating many Brits at countless parties in an bid to get them to talk -- and then wondering why on earth they don't ask any questions back -- I'd have to say that overall, North Americans (I'm going to include Canada in this) are friendlier. Or at least chattier! I find it hard to let the 'awkward silence' lapse for too long and I always feel compelled to fill it in with a useless (and likely annoying) observation about the weather or such.

It is a mystery to me why people as erudite and articulate on everything from politics to philosophy seemingly have difficulties sharing anything personal other then 'I'm very well, thank you.'

Insert awkward pause here.

And that's all I have to say on that subject! And yes, I'm aware this whole post is a massive generalisation.

Four Years On

Four years ago, 52 people were killed on Tubes and buses as they made their way into work. To remember the victims of the July 7 bombings, a memorial will be unveiled today in Hyde Park -- 52 pillars commemorating each Londoner killed.

I remember the shock I felt when I first heard about the bombings four years ago. I was teaching in a secondary school in Staines, just outside of Heathrow. I had a car at the time, so the Tube for me was just an unpleasant memory. I'd just finished teaching the first two lessons of the day and was in the computer room with some other teachers when we read online about the bombings.

It was hard to believe. But the horrific photos of twisted metal, and the shock and panic on the faces of commuter in business suits -- those more apt to be single-mindedly pushing you out of the way -- drove it home.

Back in class, students worried about parents in the city and what it all meant for their own safety as residents of one of the world's biggest cities. Unfortunately, there were no answers I could give them.

Driving back into central London that afternoon was surreal. The roads were empty; Tubes and buses had ground to a complete halt. Shops had closed and the streets were deserted. It was like the city was under siege.

But over the next few days, Londoners reclaimed their city with a vengeance. Tubes ran again and although fear and tension was palpable, there was also a sense of determination. London is a city with people from everywhere -- people who escaped fear and persecution in their homelands -- and we would not let such events destroy our home.

My thoughts are with the families of the victims of 7/7 and all Londoners who helped in the aftermath.

City Stories

I've just run across this great website, Hitotoki. It give snapshots of city life -- in words. Here's an example by Dylan Carline from the London section:

We were to meet outside the tube station in Brixton. She was an old friend I hadn’t seen for years. The premise: a date. Riding up the escalator into the night, my first time here, I noticed acute drops in temperature with each weary clunk, and a regular metallic grinding that quite clearly meant ‘please use the stairs’.

It was colder than I expected. A still night, but dry compared to what I had become used to. Trails of breath lingered, their form and meaning suspended in transient beauty, inexorably decaying from this fragile state. Once gone, they were replaced, in seamless exchange, by the heavily breathing procession of people around me. I wondered if I was the only person here without an imminent need to be in another place, and therefore the only one capable of appreciating this scene. I briefly entertained the notion that it was entirely for me. Abruptly, someone buffeted me from behind. Evidently I was in the way. Rousing myself with a deep, icy breath, I realised that I had begun to tingle slightly.

The dense ball of excitement in my stomach wouldn’t attribute itself specifically to either the forthcoming event or the fact that I was back in London. It probably comprised an amount of both. Where I live (the Lake District, in case you’re interested), you don’t see that many people, especially at night, and the ones you do see are generally all made in the same factory. I spent ten minutes waiting at the top of the escalator, but could have happily been there for an hour.

To read more, click here.

Birth of a Book

Sorry for my absence for a few days, but the reality is that when it's sunny in England, you just gotta get out there and enjoy it. So, that's what I've been doing (when it's not too hot, anyway!). The weather here has been gorgeous, and after two rubbish summers I'm ready for it! But it's significantly cooler today, so I can finally line up my thought again.

A few days ago, I had a very exciting moment: I saw all my work come together in the shape of a book! OK, it's just a proof copy for reviewers -- and the cover needs a bit more work -- but it was still pretty exciting to see the stack of papers I'd been endlessly editing take a recognisable form. The glossy black-covered book felt so foreign that when I held it in my hands, I had to remind myself that I had written it. It'll be even stranger, I'm sure, once I see 24 Hours: London in a bookstore. I can't wait until that moment!

This is a baby step, but for me it felt like a giant leap forward on the road to publishing.

Happy Canada Day!

Yes, it's July 1, the one day Canadians feel it's actually OK to show we're proud to be Canadian. So what is Canadian?

I have pondered this question several times during my five years living in the UK, and my two years in Poland. What is it that makes us so different from our unforgettable neighbours to the south? And are we really that different?

I'm often mistaken for an American, due to my accent. I'm always quick to point out that I am, in fact, from a completely different country. But when people ask me what's the difference, I'm at pains to answer succinctly. Is it that we like hockey? No, Americans have that passion (obsession, some might say) as well. Tim Horton's? Nope, it's spread across the States. Crazy cold winters and lots of snow? Again, it's like that in the US, too. Perhaps it's the way we say 'about' (I've never understood that one, but apparently it's different!).

I'm not sure Canadian is something that can be defined. Perhaps it's in the way we react to events that find their way through to our little peaceful piece of the world. Like the 9-11 tragedy, when the people of Gander, Newfoundland -- a town of only 9,900 people -- took in 39 trans-Atlantic flights forced to land there, with over 6,600 passengers and crew, opening up their own homes and even organizing sight-seeing outings for those stranded.

Or, indeed, in the referendum of 1995, when the Quebecois voted on the possibility of Quebec independence. Over 100,000 Canadians from across the country travelled to Montreal to show their desire for Quebec to stay Canadian. And it did, with a narrow majority voting to remain in the country.

I don't know what it is but I do know this: I'm proud to be Canadian!

Summer in the City

Seems it's either feast or famine when it comes to weather in London! The heat has made me wilt somewhat, so I leave you with this rare sight from BBC London weather.

Hidden London: Ye Olde Mitre Pub

It's been awhile since I've done a 'Hidden London' post, but I tracked down this pub yesterday and it is so hidden, it deserve to be found.

The Man and I made a voyage to Hatton Garden, London's centre for diamonds, yesterday. We were on a hunt for wedding rings, but I knew Ye Olde Mitre was around there somewhere, so we decided to try to find it. After looking at some exorbitantly prices rings and wandering the streets for awhile, we finally decided to ask a jeweller where on earth this elusive drinking hole was to be found.

Turns out he was the perfect person to ask. He had a drink at that pub when he came to interview for his diamond apprenticeship at age 14. He pointed us in the right direction, and off we trotted.

The sign on Ely Court, off Hatton Garden.

Sadly, the pub was closed (it's only open on weekdays), but it was definitely worth a look. Apparently part of the bar is an old cherry tree that Elizabeth I danced the maypole around.

The passage-way back to Hatton Garden.

The facade of the pub.

WAG: The Results

WAG #16 Results and WAG #17 instructions below. All are welcome to join next week’s adventure!

The theme for the Writing Adventure Group 16 was “True Love” Go people watching and select a couple. Write about the “secret” part of their relationship… the things about this couple that they don’t show to the world.

The Writing Adventure Group is on Facebook. Join us there too, and get weekly reminders so you never miss an adventure.

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How to Join the Writing Adventure Group
Gail Stekler (New to WAG!)
Dan Powell
Frances Wookey
Mickey Hoffman
Christine Kirchoff
Paige Bruce
Marsha

Next Week:

“WAG #17: The One That Got Away”
From your own point of view (or the point of view of a stranger you observe) write a short scene about someone from the past who comes into the picture back suddenly. It can be an old boyfriend/girlfriend, a childhood friend, or anyone you haven’t seen for many years. It can be a sweet reunion, or a total disaster! It’s up to you.

Deadline: next Tuesday, June 30th.

On the Road (or Sidewalk) Again

Spotted about five minutes ago, out my window. Inside was a dapper man in a suit, beeping at all who slowed his progress.

He zipped by fairly quickly!

WAG: What Lies Beneath

I've been bad, bad, bad at doing the writing adventure group's exercises lately. But hopefully, I shall redeem myself with this attempt. This week the assigment is to select a couple. Write about the “secret” part of their relationship… the things about this couple that they don’t show to the world.

This week, I was inspired by this article in the oh-so-reputable Sun newspaper. Honestly, I don't know if they try to be entertaining, but they certainly succeed.

So here goes.

-----

'Honey, did you get it?' He lowers his voice and leans towards her.

Her eyes dart around the room. She nods. 'It's in the back garden. I gave it some lettuce. Isn't that what they eat?'

Her husband shrugs. 'I dunno. It won't be around be around for long, anyway. I've got the BBQ fired up. Jim and the boys are coming round at nine. It's gonna be one hell of a feast!'

She digs in her purse and holds out a paper. 'Here's the receipt. We can return it in fourteen days if we're not happy.'

'Honey, it ain't gonna be around for fourteen days, innit? We're 'aving it tonight!' He scans the paper. 'Hang on a second. Hang on! What the hell is this?' His finger stabs the paper.

She leans over. 'What? Yeah, I dunno, I just signed where I needed to. I didn't actually read it.'

His face is red. 'WHAT DO YOU MEAN, WE CAN'T EAT THE HORSE?'

Silence.

Finally, he says: 'We'll do it in secret. We'll roast it in the oven. I don't care how we do it, we're eating that horse.'

The Great Drinking Debate

Today I'm over at Pond Parleys (thanks for the invite, Toni and Mike!) debating drink. Head over and join in the fray!

Here's a taster (no pun intended!):

It's my first week in London. Straight from the Canadian hinterland (otherwise known as the country's capital, Ottawa), I saunter into a pub for my first real night out in the big city. My friend and I eagerly head for the bar. It's quarter to eleven, and the night is just beginning.

'I'll have a glass of house red,' I say, opting for the cheapest option on the menu. I've yet to start working, and my Canadian bank account is dwindling fast.

'Sorry, last call was fifteen minutes ago.' The bartender's bored with me already. '

What?' I look at my watch. Has time suddenly shifted forward by three hours? Surely no pub would close at 11!

Click here to read more.

Summer Sales... Already!?

Yesterday, while tooling around on High Street Kensington, my eyes were drawn to a large sign in Warehouse proudly proclaiming clothes for under £20! Under £15! And -- surely not -- under £10! Yes, the season of summer sales is upon us, even though we've yet to truly experience summer-like weather.

Not that I'm complaining. My meager budget barely allows me the extravagances of Primark, let alone the high street. Still, every summer I seem to end up buying things I don't need and, in retrospect, I don't even like. A moth to a flame, I was drawn inside the store, my eyes glazing over as I took in the row after row of bargains. I plucked two dresses from their hangers and plodded my way over to the fitting rooms, my legs moving as if of their own accord.

Pivoting in front of the mirror, one refrain managed to push itself through the consumerism-induced fog of my brain: Do I need this? I tore the dress off as if it was poisoned, hung it up and shoved it at the sales assistant. I would not be tempted; I would not buy yet another useless item I couldn't afford.

Out on the sidewalk, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had escaped, unscathed. Just another two months of summer sales to go!

Living in the Back Pocket of 8 Million People

Life in a big city has lots of benefits: the sheer amount of things to do; the diversity of its inhabitants; and the fact that you'll never get tired of exploring. But it also has one major drawback: noise.

I live in a row of Victorian terraces that backs onto another row of Victoria terraces, parallel to ours, with only small gardens in the middle. This means we have a perfect conduit for all the sounds of the neighbourhood to travel, ricochet and echo their way up and down the red-bricked exteriors of the buildings, straight to my ears.

There's the neighbour who lets his dog out three times a day to bark, endlessly, at God knows what. There's the American couple who live somewhere nearby, having a BBQ in their courtyard. The family torturing their children with French lessons; the birthday party with 50 screaming kids; the graduation do where for some reason, they just couldn't seem to stop playing Deacon Blue... and on, and on.

It's interesting, these slices of life that seep through our window. It heightens the feeling that we live in a community, that there's people around us, even if I still don't know them after five years of living here! The mingling of accents, of customs and traditions, is right there -- we don't even need to leave our flat.

I could do without the barking dog, though.

Hats and Horses

The Royal Ascot mixes tradition with outrageous fashion. For lack of anything that can really top it, I bring you this. Scroll through the series of ten to get the full picture.

BBC and Poetry

BBC Radio 3 is a wonder. No commercials, great classical music -- and poetry every morning (for six weeks, at least) at breakfast.

The Man and I always turn on Radio 3 on the weekends. Slowly sipping coffee while listening to concertos and debating the day ahead is our favourite way to start the morning. Lately, our ritual taken on an added significance with the BBC's poetry series. Read by the poets themselves, time seems to stop as we pause in whatever we're doing and cock our heads towards the radio, waiting for the words to fall through the air towards us.

Yesterday's selection was 'Shanky' by Katrina Porteous:

Shanky

Shanky is all England:
A barn-conversion.
Strangers in four-by-fours. Forgotten

Names: the Butty Meadow. Shanky Hall.
The nugget of a chapel.
Faith in ruins.

Down the Long Nanny Burn
A green gate leans.
Dark, witchy hawthorns

Point along the leat
To Shanky Mill,
Its bricked-up windows, walls

Empty, its rafters open
To the swifts, the rain;
The knotted fabric of the farm

Shrunk, first, to one man
Alone in his tractor cabin,
Radio on; then

To no one
But the nostalgic, who like it here
At nightfall, when

Black cows wallow in the burn
And the low sun
Floods everything golden.


Last week, we listened to the hypnotic voice of England's new poet laureate, Carol Ann Duffy, as she read her new poem 'Premonitions':

Premonitions

Dedicated with love to the memory of UA Fanthorpe

We first met when your last breath
cooled in my palm like an egg;
you dead, and a thrush outside
sang it was morning.
I backed out of the room, feeling
the flowers freshen and shine in my arms.

The night before, we met again, to unsay
unbearable farewells, to see
our eyes brighten with re-strung tears.
O I had my sudden wish -though I barely knew you -to stand at the door of your house,
feeling my heartbeat calm,
as they carried you in, home, home and healing.
Then slow weeks, removing the wheelchair, the drugs,the oxygen mask and tank, the commode,
the appointment cards,
until it was summer again
and I saw you open the doors to the gift of your garden.

Strange and beautiful to seethe roses close to their own premonitions,
the grass sweeten and cool and green
where a blackbird eased a worm into the lawn.
There you were,
a glass of lemony wine in each hand,
walking towards me always, your magnolia tree
marrying itself to the May air.

How you talked! And how I listened,
spellbound, humbled, daughterly,
to your tall tales, your wise words,
the joy of your accent, unenglish, dancey, humorous;
watching your ash hair flare and redden,
the loving litany of who we had been
making me place my hands in your warm hands,
younger than mine are now.
Then time only the moon. And the balm of dusk.
And you my mother.

Churchill's Castle

After residing in Eastern Europe for two years, where crumbling castles litter the landscape like... well, litter, such structures don't hold the same curb appeal for me as they once did. My one and only castle (OK, palace) experience in the UK was so disappointing I never again repeated the experience. Until now.


With the rain and cold scuppering our more ambitious travel plans, we decided on a day trip to Blenheim Palace, just outside of Oxford. The accidental birthplace of Sir Winston Churchill, it looked impressive enough from the outside to warrant a visit. So we piled into the car and a mere 50 minutes later (thanks to The Man's Cairo-style driving), we drove through the gates and up to a toll-booth. Turns out that despite being a UNESCO World Heritage site -- an entry fee of a mere £17.50 must be paid. Sulkily, I handed over the wad of bills.



Blenheim Palace.



But despite my sulkiness, I have to admit it was worth the price. The architecture of the palace is stunning, and the interiors do not disappoint. Filled with paintings and tapestries and with a grandiose library and dining room, it's a veritable feast for the eyes. The gardens are groomed to within an inch of their lives, and even the man-made lake looks idyllic.




The Italian Gardens.

After taking in the grounds, running through the second-largest hedge maze in the world and scaring the butterflies, we headed back to London -- £17.50 poorer but richer in culture and heritage.



In the centre of the hedge maze.