Columbia Road is terrific but the traffic gives me the screaming irrits

Travelling from one place to another, whether it's hundreds of kilometres or just going across town, is something that Aussies take for granted. Get in the car and go and get there and yippee, no problem. We often get up and think oh a coffee at Byron Bay would be good, so in the car and drive for an hour and voila there is coffee. If I want to visit Belly, it's in the car and go, 50 minutes later I am having a cuppa and a cuddle.

Distance is considered and sometimes the weather, cos god knows it's no fun driving through cricket ball sized hail or worse still, cyclonic winds where dodging falling branches and trees requires a skill that I just don't have. But if google says it's gonna take 50 minutes to get drive 80 kms then that's usually pretty right.

No so however in London.

Twice no we have set off on a book adventure courtesy of Carol. And the London traffic is 2 from 2. We imagined that yesterday, being Sunday, would be a good day to go to Columbia Road. There's a flower market there and lots of wonderfully quirky little stores. The flowers are only there on Sundays.

It's not very far as the crow flies, maybe 20 kms

We set off at 11.30am.

We got there at 1.30pm!

Parking was ridiculous! Except that we had pulled up and parked on a single yellow line which by all accounts is legal on Sundays, and a friendly bloke walked by and warned us off. Very helpful he was too. He had pulled up in the private parking spot of a council house dweller, and as he was a decent friendly sort of bloke he told us to take his spot and just say that we know the Real Estate agent. He said that the tenants don't drive. I wondered about the irritation factor of having strangers just pulling up right outside your front door and parking in the spot you are paying rent on, but the frustration of 2 HOURS  in the bloody car led to a serious delousing of ethics. We parked up and did a runner.

2 hours in the car also led to a serious peeing issue, so I ran - well not literally you understand - into the first pub and there were signs up saying 'For Customers Only'. Ethics shredded again - Ahhhh.

The Birdcage is the Peeing spot, but do please have a pint there too.

One of the many quirky little stores.

And then we wandered. Often times it was a bit of a jostle which is not pleasant and people's bad manners driving them to push and shove gave me the shits - yeh I know this from the car park stealer and the illegal loo user.

The place is lovely. There are the most quaint little stores selling all sorts of stuff which you may not want to buy but that are cool to look at and sometimes laugh at. We picked up a couple of pieces of silliness but mostly we just looked and chattered.

Then, like Phantoms we flew into the car and took off before the residents came out and vented their spleens.

3.30 to 5.30pm to get home! On a Sunday!

It took the glamour out of the equation.

We inched our way along streets where there was nothing to see, but along The Bayswater Road, where the artists display their wares on a Sunday, where if we had inched along I would have happily had a look see, well along here, as you might gather we flew! No traffic hold up until we were painting free and then it all snarled up again. How the bloody hell does that happen?

At least if you are on the tube, there is no traffic, nothing to see but no traffic, and if you go by bus, the traffic is still shit, but you sit up high like royalty and the views are excellent, and there is no bile build up because of cars shoving their way in and idiot tourist not having a clue where they are going.

So, I am very pleased to have been to the Columbia Road Flower Markets, but I am less pleased that we spent twice as long on the roads getting there as we did wandering.

Next time it's gotta be public transport, which in London is excellent.

Sidmouth - bloody brilliant

It's been a Bolly kinda  few days.

I don't mean the Ab Fab crazy, pissed as newts, frenzied madness of the tellie fame, but I do mean the sort of days that need to be savoured and sipped and repeated as often as you can when 2 households are on opposite sides of the planet.

Amid the boysiness of beer and the RWC, in the middle of one of the biggest loudest crowdiest - yeh I made that up,  I escaped for a few days to the country seaside, and to say that I feel a little in love with it is an understatement.

My friend Ally lives in Sidmouth. It's a tiny spec on the Devon Coast. I have been there before. It's just bloody beautiful.

There is no train into Sidmouth, so if you want to go there and you are not driving, you catch a train to Honiton, about 3 hours of checking out the English country side or sitting comfortably reading your book,  and then a bus or a cab into the village. There are more B and Bs than you can poke a stick at, but Ally was putting me up - lucky girl that I am.

There was the expected natter of catching up after 3 years and then the kids tumbled home. I really need to put a brick on their heads cos they are growing so fast. The school uniforms are so flash! Blazers and ties and the kids are happy to wear it all. It's not like the tracky - dack crap of the city. yeh the kids are still delightfully cheeky in the country but not perhaps as downright bloody rude as the city slickers who are trying to make a name for themselves and stand out from the many thousands of other rude little sods.

The big one is charming and the middle one drew me a picture in school - not sure what he missed but it made me smile and the little on let me plait her hair to take me back to when Belly was a girl. We all sat around and ate a yummo dinner made by Mum and then got a bit of a Katherine Tate after dinner mint of 'Am I bovered?'

All up and sorted for school the next day. Ally is so calm about getting 3 little people ready, but ready they were. The big one trooped off on his own, he's 12 after all and at upper school and then the middle one bolted to meet up with a mate on the way and the little one luckily still allows Mum to walk with her.

Then as it was 'weekend at dads' it was girlie time for us girls.

We phaffed a little and then wandered into town.

Coffee and toast at the Chatterly and then a wander through the shops.

Now there are chain stores that just cannot entice me in cos I know what crap they sell or I know that they are a 'skinny person' shop or a place to buy tapwear and hammers. But here in Sidmouth, every shop is worth a look see and if you want a Master Thatcher for your new roof then the village is good place to start.

 

We wandered the cobblestone streets and peeked in and finally I have a couple of bits to take home for Belly and Zig.

Lunch was a languid process right on the water's edge, and it wasn't until I got home and was throwing myself through the shower that I realised had made a rookie mistake of thinking there is no way you can sunburnt in England in October! Arms and chest are Sidmouth sunny!

The cliffs come right down to the water and it seems that some parts are tumbling into the sea. That's a frightening thought, if as some were, you are bonkers enough to be going walking right along the edge of it poking it with a stick, but looking on it is quite majestic.

And then we wandered some more.

We did the girlie trip to the hairdressers for a bit of jujz up and then took our hair-dos back into town.

We met up with friends and then wandered back home in the bright sort of twilight. Well actually we didn't wander, after all day on the cobbles, my legs were buggered so we grabbed a bus up that bloody hill. No way was I gonna be able to carry my little prizes home up the cliff face.

Unlike the big smoke people look you right in the eye in Sidmouth. The bus driver spoke to us and when one of our party decided to catch a different bus, even though the driver was part way through printing her ticket, She just smiled and cancelled it and was chatty and replied when we thanked her for the ride.

People on the narrow footpaths are happy to wait for you to pass and smile and say hello. It is just so bloody friendly! I reckon Londoners on the tube would do well to tellieported to Sidmouth for a bit of a 'look up and smile ' lesson, but that would take a little while, cos at first they would be completely out of their comfort zone.

If you have time in your England visit then I can highly recommend Sidmouth as a little getaway, but please don't tell everyone cos I want to be able to go back everytime I am here and I don't want to find the Gold Coast Glitz next time cos the Oldie Worldie suits me just fine.

Holidays are hard work

Yeh I know, get out the violins.

A whole month in London and it's been bloody marvelous.

About the first thing I did, after I found my feet and popped onto the wifi and got a phone card and a supply of toilet paper,  was buy a calendar / diary so I could make a bit of a plan. Yeh I know I could use the calendar on my phone, but I need to see at least a week at once, cos I am so old fashioned.

At home I've got a London Calendar that has people's birthdays circled and that's about it. I dutifully write some appointments on it but I can usually manage to remember all that is going on.

But here I am going like a whirlie-gig flitting from one tourist destination to another and having a wonderful time catching up with friends and revisiting favourite cafes and restaurants.

I have given the metal knees an excellent work out and have given the booze a bit of a nudge, so I suppose my poor old liver is getting workout too.

Unless you are on a lazing on a beach holiday, where the only activity needed is to roll over and turn the page on your magazine, most people really cram in as much as possible so they don't miss out on anything. All too often at the end of the holiday we need a holiday.

Another whole month and I plan to continue as I've started.

It's only to be expected I suppose, but the more you do the more you find to do. So I arrived with a pretty long list and even though I have crossed some things off, at the same time I am adding to the list and I reckon it is longer now than before I trundled off the plane.

If I allow myself to become sanguine about missing stuff, then that would give me an excuse to slow down, but bugger that! There's plenty of time to sleep when I get home.

But that's not to say that I am unhappy to have spent today with my feet up, popping on some washing, fighting with the bloody washing machine and useless combined drier, so that I can pack a little bag so I can head off south tomorrow on another little adventure.

Where's my wee bag and a clean pair of knickers then? Let's go!

Teaching ?

I reckon all too often teaching is a thankless task.

You front up each day and try your best to get through the set work with as much joy and discipline as you can manage, all the while agonising about keeping the kids' histories in mind and making as sure as you can that they are all OK, well fed and loved at least a little.

Yeh yeh yeh, people bang on about the holidays and the short hours and I am not at all interested in defending that part of the job, except to say that if I had a dollar for every day I worked from 9 to 3, well I'd be fucking living on the streets with Dog and a plastic cup for begged change.

Each year there'd be at least 200 new kids sometimes many more if the Drama option in lower year levels brought every kid in years 7 8 and 9 to my studio. That's a lot of kids.

And over 30 years well that is just a shed load of kids. And of course they grow up to be big people who all too often look nothing like they did when they were youngsters. On the other hand, I look the same only creased and wider, like an image on a perishing rubber mat stretched tight width ways, probably recognisable but maybe not at first glance.

When we decided to stay in Twickenham, I worried about running into 'kids' I taught way back when.  My unexpected, speedy exit from the school would possibly have been wrongly explained by people who were no longer allies - understatement of all times! and so I wondered if I ran into kids/adults they would be smiling or wanting to avoid me.

I needed not have worried really.

When I popped into the hair dressers to get coloured up, the colourist immediately identified herself as an ex-student and we had a lovely time catching up. Then another of the hairdressers popped over to say that she had been in my class too. She was full of praise and mentioned that she was sad when I left. I didn't go on with any bile filled vitriol. It's too long ago and these now adults would have been unaware of the politics and bullshit of the time.

The 2 women made me proud to have been apart of their education.

They are lively, confident, competent professional women and their drama classes could not have hurt in this regard.

So it's gratifying to randomly run into exes and NOT have them pull a newspaper over their faces and hide, or reach into their handies for something rotten to throw.

Yeh it makes me feel like some good was done.

What to wear to the RWC at Twickenham

Ok, I admit it, I would be the very last person to listen to about 'What to wear'. I am not a style guru, or a fashion diva, I am just a fat old woman who last night was lucky enough to have a ticket to the Rugby World Cup, England Vs Australia, so I figured I might have had a little look see if someone was offering advice, and because I hadn't seen any such I advice, I thought I'd just tell ya what I wore.

We are staying a few kilometres from the ground, and feet are the only transport possible, although I dare say if we wanted to splash some cash we could have found a helicopter to take us there, but that would have required a whole other outfit.

It is still THONG weather here - no not little whispers of bum irritation, good old Aussie footwear, and as I have trouble with my feet, I started at the ground - up, for my attire selection. I choose the red birks cos they are well worn in and I know that I can go yomping in them for miles. I did wonder about some big fat popo type smashing his size 16s onto my toes, but as I was walking and as I have no other shoes suitable for distance, there was really no choice, but caution is advised.

I tossed up for a while about what would be good to cover the arse end. A dress could get stuck between the fold down chairs and a skirt would probably drag in the spilt beer, so pants it is, but did I want to wear jeans, linen or leopard print jobbies? I am not much fond of jeans, even though I know they are a necessary evil in everyone's wardrobe, I just find 'em tight and restrictive - yeh perhaps I should buy a bigger pair, ho fucking hum. So the Leopard print it was!

Black tops go with everything so black it was. I had a black T shirt, under a silly black top and a black jumper and for good measure a black faux leather coat I bought last week from the charity shop for 7 pounds. I agree that all that seemed excessive, especially when the thongs are considered, but I have been to stadiums before and know that sometimes a breeze blows in that can freeze your tits off, and that's a lot of breeze, so better to be safe than titless.

The hair doesn't really matter, unless you plan to push your way onto the tellie by doing something quite mad like sticking your painted tongue in some B grade TV personality's ear, and makeup is not essential, but do pop a lib balm stick into your smaller, over the chest handie.

But the piece de resistance is the scarf, for warmth and waving and identification. This has nothing to do with style or colour co-ordination cos god knows really no-one looks good in that gaudy yellow gold, and that much acrylic is likely to spontaneously combust with the addition of the slightest bit of friction. No the scarf is just cos.

So here's the whole ensemble laid out - what? you didn't really expect that I was gonna include a self wearing it all did you? How long do you think my arms are? No self sticks allowed in the grounds and I don't have one anyway. This is as good as it gets.

Except to say Aussie Aussie Aussie Oi Oi Oi, What a win!

Exploring the unexplored

Thanks to my Brissie Carol, we set off yesterday in search of some little style nooks hitherto unexplored. Well that should come as no surprise cos I am not stylish, but I have read the book from cover to cover and have turned down page corners and am keen to have a little look see.

Wouldn't you think that as I lived here for 7 years I would A. possibly have seen these places before, and B. be capable of driving around the old town to find 'em. But the truth is a big, fat as my arse, NO to both. I hadn't visited and I don't reckon I can drive here anymore.

It is not the weight of the traffic or even the need to reverse park. Neither of these things worry me. It's the fact that since I last drove here the streets must have been on Jenny Craig, cos they are now so skinny that I just do not believe there is enough space for driving. Yes there is enough space for cars to park either side of the roads, but then there is no room for traffic to go through, and there certainly is not enough room for a big fuck off double decker bus to trundle along. I just cannot work out how my cute little sporty number ever fitted. I hate to think it, but it seems my eyes now see things as wider than they used to, perhaps as an adjustment to looking at my arse?

Steve on the other hand has just returned like a duck to water. He was happy to have a driving adventure, whereas I would have gone, all day every day, by tube and bus. He picked himself up an A to Z - (Referdex or Greggories - spell check here has been useless so I am guessing they really are made up Aussie words) and I had the maps up on my phone and off we went.

Well I spent quite a lot of time pretending I was watching some horror movie, ie sitting with my eyes closed or hiding behind my hands.

We missed the turns to the little backwaters where we were heading, but we did find a number of really lovely spots and I have now started a list in the front of my book of places I want to go back to, but next time I reckon I will go by tube.

The roses in Regents Park are worth the risk of a bee sting. Go ahead, stick your face right into 'em. Ahhh!

We pulled up at Regents Park. There was ooodles of cheap parking. We trooped in and grabbed a sort of picnic style lunch and enjoyed the sunshine. I hadn't been to this park before, and bloody fabulous it is. The whole place wafted with the scent of old fashioned roses, like the ones we used to steal and destroy on the walk to school when I was a kid. It's oldie worldie, except that it's new today, cos mostly roses don't smell of anything at all anymore - cue whinging grumpy old woman.

In the Queen Mary gardens there are deck chairs set up, yep I said deck chairs! They are set in pairs in the sunshine and there eventually is a little fella who comes along and points out that there is a charge for sitting on them. It was pretty and twee and all very English.

Finally I found where the London Zoo is and yep I have written that in the front of my book, along with the Kensal Green Cemetery which is supposed to be the resting place of some flash folk. It might be a bit odd, but I do like a wander through the head stones - wandering is however where my strangeness ends.

We got gridlocked amid 4 wheel drive monsters at school pick up time and this just confirmed my thoughts that it would never be wise to come between a mother and her cubs. It was fucking frantic.

So I haven't made it to the places of interest in The Book, but we came very close, close enough to know that we want to go back another time via public transport, so there will be no worries about parking, driving, or nutso school mothers.

Ta Carol for the book, it's definitely taking me out of my comfort zone.

More Elf and Fucking Saftey

I sat at a newly appointed bench seat, on the High Road, this mornng, slurping on my coffee. I watched as 2 adults shepherded 9 children around the footpaths and then across at road at the walk lights. It was so cute. Each of the kids had their own little high vis vest on and each were attached to a long bit of webbing which they were either tethered to or they were clinging onto within an inch of their lives.

They looked safe.

I was reminded of simpler times when we would run loose until the street lights came on and then head for home. I reckon I knew how to  cross a road without causing a crash or breaking any part of myself, when I was about, oh let's say 6, cos I was walking to school on my own then and I had to cross a busy 4 lane road and there wasn't any walk lights. I just legged it as fast as I could when there was a break in the traffic. It must have helped with distance awareness I reckon.

I am pleased that I have never had to be in charge of youngster babies, although I do remember very clearly taking kids into Town to the theatre in London at night and one of the teenagers, grabbed my hand when confronted with the double escalator at the tube station exit. No it wasn't a 'Graduate' moment, he had just not ever seen anything like it, and was a little afraid.

But all this is only leading me to the idiocy of being unable to get my hair coloured until I have passed a test for allergies. Elf and fucking saftey be damned I say.

I tried to make an appointment and was told that I would have to pass the test, but they would make an appointment for 2 days hence cos presumably they were pretty sure I would pass.

It was irritating to have to go out of my way to get a dabby-doozy of dye but hey ho off I went.

When I walked in, blind freddy could see that my hair was already coloured and the fact that I was still ambulatory should have meant that I was a fine candidate for uncomplicated more of the same, but NO, a test was procedure so a test was necessary.

She disappeared and came back with some card or other and a squirt bottle, and she went about sticking on 2 big squares of colour onto the inside of my elbow.

They were STUCK there, for 2 DAYS.

I am ALLERGIC to all adhesives.

I know this because I have been in this body for more than 50 years and I, well I just know it.

When I told Dr Angus, my knee bloke, that I was allergic, he really didn't believe me until I presented him some very gruesome photos and then he took all sorts of care.

I told the woman I was allergic to ALL adhesives, she asked me if I knew what ingredient I was allergic to. I told her ALL ADHESIVES, oddly enough a specialist doctor didn't ask about the specific ingredient.

So then so scraping began. It was not easy to scratch off the adhesive or the colour splotches. I am damaged. I probably did it to myself. Bloody, bugger, shit! What a fucking mess it is now.

I failed the test! Fuck!

I never fail tests. I am a high achiever like that.

I headed home thinking I would just go and get some splodge and have a go myself, but on the way to Boots there is a hairdresser which I used to go to years ago. I popped in and asked if there was any palaver involved in making an appointment to get my hair coloured. The colourist hovered close by and she used her own brain and saw that my hair has been routinely tortured for years and she just toddled off to get her colour chart so she could be sure to have what I wanted when I came in.

How fucking simple was that?

I am going in tomorrow.

Yippee.

My arm is still a mess.