Almost here....

Mable arrives tomorrow! I really can't wait, the excitement is almost too much.

I promise pictures when I've calmed down.

A Preserving Adventure

Dear England, with love

Two years ago while living with a gorgeous Chinese family in Singapore, I would regularly be greeted with the phrase, "The English like their tea!" each time I boiled the smaller-than-average kettle. I would smile, and carefully pour out another cup of Earl Grey, sent lovingly from home by caring friends who didn't realise I could buy it at Cold Storage two roads away. That's one silly example, but the time spent in Asia taught me more than anything else that I am really English. No matter how cosmopolitan or international I claim, or even want, to be, I can't change who I am underneath: a tea-drinking, marmalade-on-toast eating, skirt-wearing English girl.

In my mind, I harbour a hugely romantic idea of England... perhaps it's nothing more concrete than the Shangri-La, or maybe it's a place I have in my head to retreat to when I'm overwhelmed, or stressed, or away from home. My England is a place where people are resilient, tough on the outside; soft and rubbery underneath. They get on with life, pull their socks up, make do and mend. No use complaining, keep going, do anything they put their minds to, with good results. They are healthy with rosy cheeks and they're kind to old people. When the central heating breaks down in winter and there's no hot water for the bath, they boil a saucepanful and make a game out of squatting in an icy bathtub with soap and a flannel. This evening, doing just that while drinking tea from a chintz-patterned mug, I looked at my scrubbed face in the mirror, and said to myself, "You're English." And as I did so, a grin spread across my face, and I laughed. I laughed.

Where are you?

m: I'm still here.
y: Where?
m: Here. The same place I've been in for five years.
y: What do you mean? You're not, you've done so much...
m: I am, I'm still in the same place. I have the same dreams, I'm just not there. It's depressing.
y: Don't be so hard on yourself, nothing is wasted, nothing. You'll see.
m: Yeah, but you can't say that. People live their whole lives and never achieve what they set out to do, and I don't want to be one of those people. I can't. It's killing me.
y: Ok, well what is it you want to do?
m: I don't know. That's the point.
y: *sigh* Let's go for coffee.
m: Ok. But it's your turn to pay.
y: Alright. Just smile will you? For me?

Where to dance in London

Where to dance in London is a very good question. It's one that is certainly worth asking at least once in your adult life, even if you have only the most minuscule interest. Perhaps the last time you wore a pair of tights and a leotard was when you stepped gingerly into a children's class when you were seven, but you never know when the desire to throw yourself around a white studio may grip you again! As Baden Powell once said, it's good to be prepared.

About four years ago, after a bad experience at the gym and a realisation that running was soooo mind-numbing I would rather eat my own vomit, I suddenly decided that maybe the noly exercise I had ever enjoyed was dancing. A few google searches later, I resolved to take ballet classes again. The rest is history, though I must point out that I am no Leanne Benjamin, and I am far from stick thin. But I enjoy it, and in two hours in a dance studio on a weekday evening is the cheapest therapy this city has to offer. I love it. I can't always explain why, but I do. Perhaps it's the freedom, the stretching, the comfort that comes from knowing I'll never be a dancer but I can be one in a white room for 90minutes once in a while.

The journey has been interesting and must have seen the best and worst of adult dance tuition London has to offer. In my humble opinion, out of the plethora of classes on offer (and believe me, I've been to most of them), the only real options are:

The Place, Euston: Home to London's School of Contemporary Dance, the Robin Hayward Dance Theatre, friendly staff and more than one vaguely amused teacher, among other great things. They run an extensive programme of classes for adults, mostly on weekday evenings and Saturday mornings (beginning at a leisurely 11.45am). Their classes are well-taught, varied and have the added bonus of an pianist at each one. Ballet here is suitable for complete beginners up to advanced level. Added bonuses: clean changing rooms and a cafe that sells restaurant-quality food at canteen prices.

Central School of Ballet: Home to the company of the same name. Perhaps not for the faint-hearted or those who are going to be nervous at the sight of a class full of professionals on pointe. However, the three open classes each week are a complete joy. You're as likely to find a novice there to keep fit as a professional dancer taking a breather, and you'll feel welcome and safe. The teaching is slow and precise; the perfect end to a hard day at work.

Should you need shoes, or any amount of lycra then Bloch on Drury Lane is your best bet. Better still, grab a pair of leggings and some tight-fitting socks and head to a class. Like me four years ago, you may find it's one of the best things you've ever done. Good luck.

Grateful Friday

Well, the sun hasn't got his hat on today, but I am still grateful for:

1. Seeing my grandparents today. They are old and a little frail, but my grandmother is still the wisest most pragmatic person I know. She sees life through a lens of hard work and teaches me so much by her positive attitude and gracious acceptance of this life. She also made the best bread and butter pudding I have ever tasted.

2. People. Last week I didn't see very many, and it may have made me go slightly mad. This week I rectified the situation and I'm much happier as a result.

3. Tea from Peyton & Byrne. Hard to find, but oh so worth it. I'm in love with a small cardboard box!

4. My new bicycle!! She has been ordered and she will be be shiny and heavy and much-loved when she arrives.

That's all for today!

Magic to Cry For

standnotamazed

Present
‘Magic to Cry for’
Bethnal Green Working Men’s Club
Thursday 8pm 28th February 2008

Following the sell-out success of their last evening at Bethnal Green Working Men’s Club, and hot on the heels of their acclaimed show ‘Quitters’ at The Place, standnotamazed are happy to hop back on to the cabaret stage and present another serving of ‘Magic to Cry for’: a delectable evening of sophisticated cabaret from London’s most refined creators of contemporary magic.

Please come! Let me know if you'd like to come and we can go together.

Busyness

'So, how are you enjoying your life of leisure?' is a question I am asked at least once a week, and so far, I'm not sure how to reply. From the outside, I'm not gainfully employed in the conventional sense. I work, but it's increasingly hard to describe to people in one sentence (their general attention span for these things) what I actually do. Many seem to interpret 'freelance' as 'free to do whatever you like'. Hmmm. I wish. Living in my life this way has brought freedom of sorts, I don't have anyone watching over my shoulder, I've cut out endless pointless meetings, and I decide when and where to work. It sounds blissful, but the reality is a little removed! Working on my own has taught me a great deal about myself that I was unaware of, and some of the things I've learnt I don't much like. I like being busy, and I push myself, not just with work but with other things that I want to do ... my Chinese classes, seeing friends, writing, completing endless projects 'for me' that exist half-begun in my mind. These things sit like a team of workers constantly badgering all day and half of the night in the office that is my head. They make demands and I placate them with promises of time - I'll do that then, I'll get to you later, don't worry you haven't been forgotten. The thing is, I realised that there just isn't enough time to do all I want to do. And that makes me sad ... . Perhaps I shall learn to be content with what I do achieve and happy to experience this life in its fullness as it is, not stuffed full with extra things. I do hope that happens this year.

Inspiration

I don't know about you, but I find most inspiration from people who are nothing like me ... the more different they are, the more it seems I can find inspiration from their lives, the things they enjoy, the places they inhabit. I don't watch much tv, but I do read, a lot, and an increasingly high proportion of what I read is online. Just for you, I thought I'd share some of the blogs/sites I read regularly. I hope you find them as beautiful as I do.

The Black Apple aka Emily Martin, a self-made kitsch artist who has made a cult-following for herself from a cottage industry, largely from her home. She sews, paints, screenprints and creates to her heart's content and her blog is a colourful insight into her life.

Post Secret You may be familiar with the Post Secret project, which has been going for a few years. The project invites people to send in a 'secret' on a postcard. It can be about anything, but it must be something you have never told anyone. Some of the entries are published on this website, a mixture of hilarity and poignancy in one graceful glance.

John van der Put A hugely talented and funny magician, comedian, actor and writer. He is also a very good guy, and a great friend. Occasionally I laugh out loud.

That's perhaps enough for today, or perhaps I'm feeling too selfish to share any more. Either way, goodnight.

Remember

Remember that time we ate fish and talked
about nothing in your mother's kitchen?
It was last century, so far away from now,
it's frightening. We were young back then,
Photographic evidence proves it, your eyes
Aren't tired and my face is soft. There's
An innocence, a bashful hopefulness in a
Future without death.
We would change the world.

Grateful Friday

Grateful Friday has taken a wee rest recently, but here it is, (back for this week anyway!)

1. My new Suzanne Vega album, Beauty and Crime. I think it's her best ever, it's certainly a little more progressive than her older material.

2. The thought of dinner tomorrow with ten of my favourite people. Some are old friends, others are those I've met more recently. There will be tables and chairs and there will be snacks, there will!

3. Working in my warm kitchen while the rain pounded down outside yesterday.

4. A glorious blue sky cycle today even though the forecast is for snow.

5. Gladys Pashley. She's not even mine, but I love her dearly already.

6. Crumpets. Recently rediscovered and more than yummy.

Bicycling

I've had my bike for almost four years. It's a sad-looking thing, unloved and resented of late. I resent it because the brakes are shot and I can't be bothered to pay to get them fixed. Add that to the fact it's heavy and slow, I really am not enjoying cycling anywhere further than Ken High Street on it. The other day, my dear friend Hannah lamented the near-death of her beloved bicycle, who had not lived up to his name, Hercules. I sympathised and forgot about it, until one day she arrived at my door with a very shiny new bicycle that was soooo sooooo lovely I actually am ashamed to say I did a jig on the pavement!

The only problem is that I've now come down with an acute attack of 'bike-envy'. I can't help it, it just came up out of no where. All of a sudden I'm all over the internet for a new bike. It's addictive. I have convinced myself that I will easily save the money I spend on a new one by not buying a travelcard, and next week I'm off to see these lovely people to test ride a few of their angelic cycles (the one I am coveting is pictured below). I'll let you know how I get on! The excitement is almost too much, then again, I am a faddy person so we shall soon see if this phase lasts.

Anger management

I'm not an angry person. In fact, if anything, I'm a little smug about staying cool as a cucumber while others shout and scream. Even I know that's all rubbish though, we all get angry, it just comes out in different ways. I tend to shut down, withdraw and have a good old silent slanging match in my head with the person or persons I'm cross with. That's actually no better than hitting a wall, or screaming, but I'm trying to work on being somewhere healthy, somewhere in between.

A couple of days ago I woke to the wind howling outside. The virginia creeper that looks so pretty outside my window in summer has taken on a horror-movie persona... scratching and beating on the panes of glass without ceasing. It was one of those winter mornings when the urge to roll over and go back to sleep is as strong as death, but instead today I chose life and ungracefully tumbled out of bed. I should have known it wasn't going to be a good day. First of all, the trip to the Post Office with a bundle of red cards resulted in a getting wet on the journey. Later, I spent two hours on the Piccadilly line on a defective train, going slowly insane at the huffing and puffing of my fellow passengers, who clearly had better places to be than 200 metres underground with a random assortment of the general public, one of whom had not had a wash for several weeks. After five tubes and a bus I found myself walking through unfamiliar streets towards my destination, when quick as a flash, my ipod was stolen. Someone with fingers so nimble I barely had a chance to realise what was happening. At first I didn't know what to do - perhaps I'll just get an iphone instead I thought. But the anger came, directed at anything, anyone, most of all at myself. I feel guilty for caring about something so transient, so indulgent as a material possession, that, let's face it, I can replace tomorrow. I guess I should write it off, but part of me wants to be angry, wants to indulge myself in that self-pitying guise. That's the bit I need to work on, for all things in this life are not my own, and today a woman in Calcutta is struggling through another day of rain, trying desperately to bring up her children on a pile of sand at the side of the road. I want her to matter - life and death, and not my indulgences.

standnotamazed

Standnotamazed are a theatre company, run by a few lovely folk, including a great friend of mine. They use magic to blur the lines of the real and the imagined in theatre, and watching them is like the feeling you get in life sometimes when you're not sure how something happened, but you're very glad it did.

They're amazing, and lovely and they're performing at The Place as part of Resolution 2008 on Friday 25th January. Do come and see them if you can, you'll love it.

Art can change the world

"I started to sense that words not only convey something, but are something; that words have color, depth, texture of their own, and the power to evoke vastly more than they mean; that words can be used not merely to make things clear, make things vivid, make things interesting and whatever else, but to make things happen inside the one who reads or hears them."

Frederick Buechner.

I happened across this quotation the other day, and I agreed wholeheartedly with the sentiment. Words have a power that is inherently greater than their surface value, and in the history of the world it's words that have stood the test of time, allowing us to get inside the minds of those otherwise lost generations who went before. I'm aware that in living this life, I'm only ever 75% there in the moment. The other quarter of my mind is writing inside, trying to put into words what is happening, the thoughts, feelings, textures and smells of whatever it is I'm doing at that moment. I can't tell you of the amount of times I want to go back to a conversation later in writing - to express my joy, or sadness, or floundering advice to someone through words on a page or screen, instead of those that tumble graciously from my lips. When I read something like what Frederick Buechner said above, I'm grateful because I know I'm not alone.

An Islamic Conscience: The Aga Khan and the Ishmailis

I wonder if you have heard of the Ismailis? Or the Aga Khan? If you are anything like me, perhaps the words evoke a vague recollection or something you feel you have heard of, or ought to have at least. My knowledge of Islam and certainly of the sects within, is hazy to say the least, but I was fascinated to learn more at the premiere of An Islamic Conscience: The Aga Khan and the Ismailis, a one-hour documentary film, the first of its kind, which showed in Leicester Square at the weekend.

The Aga Khan, a sixty-something, well-spoken white man, is the spiritual leader of the Ismailis, a small sect of Shia muslims, who number around 15 million worldwide. Historically they have been persecuted, and today they see their identity in the Islamic world as under threat. They are not fundamentalists but peacemakers, and their humanitarian work is to be admired. But if they're such an asset to the world why has no one heard of them? In the panel discussion following the film, one of the panel suggested his reasonings: good news doesn't sell newspapers.

Although I was left with many questions, the film was a great introduction into the delicate world of Islam and its relationship with the West. If you'd like to find out more, click on the link above or here to buy the DVD.

How then should we now live?

Travel is a huge privilege bestowed upon our generation like no other before. I think nothing of international flights in double-figures each year, soaking up cultures and people like the chamis leathers my dad used to dry the car with. From stiff and indifferent, my mind transforms, becoming supple and flexible. My mouth literally changes, wrapping itself around unfamiliar language and even more unfamiliar food. I can eat anything now, really, and this from the girl who used to almost vomit at the smell of fish.

Yet with great privilege, comes great responsibility, and the more I see of this world, the more I come to understand that all is not well. All is not well with the poor. All is not well with the environment. All is not well with the economy. All is not well with world politics. And after a time, it becomes hard to know what to do with that knowledge. I used to flit between guilt and indifference, until I realised that both were selfish in nature, and now I see that we all have our own choices to make, and our own paths to take. For some, their place is in living their life - bringing up children, seeing friends, loving their family, putting food on the table, and buying fairtrade, using the car less, buying green electricity. For others, their place is in politics. For others, in dialogue between communities, like a friend who volunteers in conflict resolution between different cultural groups in East London. All these actions are good and pure and right and will go a long way to starting us off on the journey towards all being well.

I don't know where it leaves you... it's not for me to tell you, or to say. But for me, on the journey past guilt and indifference, I hope to find a way I can make a difference, somehow, however small. Not to appease my conscience, but to live in a way that reflects what I have seen elsewhere. To know that my actions in some way take into account the misogyny I saw in Asia, the poverty in India, the indulgence in other cultures. I wish you well on your journey through to the place where you find some things, no matter how small, are well with the world.

Please

If you have a spare tenner and a free evening before 15th December, do go to see Rhinoceros at the Royal Court. Please, you won't be disappointed.

Sight

It's through others that we see ourselves, our true selves, goodness, truth, banality, ordinariness. All our faults and gorgeousness reflected in the gaze of another. In knowing others we can know ourselves.

We lose ourselves in loneliness
In loneliness we lose ourselves
The truth of the self, ever present
A lie. It is only through others that
We see ourselves
We see ourselves through others.

Mrs Lyser [After Mrs Krikorian]

That first time, when I saw her
I was transfixed -
as six-year-olds are prone to be -
In the same way that on seeing
a doll that time in Beatties, unable to get out
a squeal, I kissed it, so Daddy could see.
She stood in assembly, to the left. Upright, her body
taut against the climbing frame wall, her silver
hair a soft halo. She was old -
I knew that, old, yet progressive...
sometimes she wore trousers,
trousers, in 1985!
Once, I bought some awful made-in-Korea ornament
with my holiday money, and presented it to her,
sticking out my chest and standing up straight,
the way I thought one was supposed to
on these occasions.
And she took my soft child's body into
her arms and hugged me. The embrace
of a mother, as yet unfelt since.
And I knew, that first time, I knew,
I was transfixed. Over the shepherd's pie
that night announcing:
'I can't take my eyes off her.'
'I just can't take my eyes off her.'