Suburban hymns

J.C

2006-08-22T08:20:00.000+01:00

At the insistence of both sets of parents (and despite the inherent embarrassment to us both) YKW and I have placed an announcement in the JC’s Social and Personal page. It’s actually the best page of the newspaper. In fact, if I’m honest, it’s the only page I read. Really, they should print the Social and Personal on the front cover and save me the effort of having to flick through all the articles about cemetery desecrations and WIZO coffee mornings.

I should admit that I don’t buy the JC every Friday. There’s really no point because it is exactly the same every week. Without fail, there will be at least one article about Ken Livingstone, something about resurgent anti-Semitism in Hungary, a recipe with a terrible pun for a headline (“Flan-tastic”) and the usual smattering of provincial synagogue tittle-tattle. You could save yourself a fortune by just folding the paper up on a Saturday night and keeping it in a safe place to read the following week. It’ll be 90% the same as a new copy.

But the Social and Personal page is different. It’s an institution in itself. You can gauge the stage of life you’re at by which column you read. Once you hit your early 20’s you head straight for the Forthcoming Marriages. After a couple of years your eyes veer to the left to check out the Births, and later, hopefully much later, you start reading the Deaths. The best column by far is the Births. Initially you read the Births to see which of your friends have had kids and later, once you start having them yourself, to check out the names. It simply isn’t Friday morning until someone has screamed “Milo Patrick!? What kind of name is that for a Jewish boy??” There is also some fun to be had (albeit in terrible taste) in seeing which death has provoked the most announcements. (The record so far is 22. Which I think is a tad excessive. Nobody is THAT important.) My late grandfather outlived most of his friends (I suppose you would if you live til you’re 90) and he would always comment on the age of the deceased. When I was younger this was understandable. “Chap in the JC today, died at 52. Terrible”. But by the time he hit his late 80’s it was harder to sympathise. “Dear God” he’d say. “Hymie Blimie died. 87 years old. That’s no age!”

Be that as it may, you cannot get married in North-West London without placing an advert in the JC. It’s the rule, apparently. And, since we don’t want to rock the boat at this stage, YKW and I happily agreed. The truth is that YKW’s parents were especially keen. This is because their son is now in his [very] late 30’s and the only time he’s ever been in the JC was when they published a photo of him wearing a bra over his t-shirt for a breast cancer charity event. A very noble thing to do, but not exactly what any Jewish mother intends when she dreams of reading her son’s name in the JC.

Placing the announcement has turned out to be more problematic than I anticipated. You would be staggered by how many emails, phone conversations and dummy texts need to be drafted purely to tell everyone that he and I are engaged. You would think that “YKW and R.X are delighted to announce their engagement” would suffice. But no. A whole morning was spent, sending drafts back and forth before we finally pinned down the exact wording for this grand opus.

The parents favour a traditional wording. Something along the lines of “X and Y together with A and B are thrilled to announce the engagement of their children YKW and R.X”. I am not one to wilfully find fault. But I took exception to the phrase ‘their children’. YKW is nearly 40 (as I may already have mentioned) and, to put it politely if bluntly, I’ve been around the block a bit myself. I’m not sure that either of us can accurately be described as children. So that had to go.

Once all interested parties had agreed on the text I submitted the announcement online and pressed ‘send’. I then panicked. Had I spelled all the surnames right? Did I remember to mention my parents? Did I send it to the Forthcoming Marriages page? I decided I’d better phone up to check. The internet is all well and good, but in the end, you always end up having to speak to a human being.

“JC Personals. [pause] Shirley speaking. [pause] How can I help you?”

Now Shirley is clearly a clever woman, who spends the best part of every day talking to people who are either sleep deprived due to the arrival of a new baby, grief stricken by recent bereavement, or giddily in love. But Shirley doesn’t know when she answers the phone which personal occasion the voice on the end of line has called up to announce. So she speaks...very...slowly...and...clearly until she’s ascertained whether I am calling about a hatch, a match or a dispatch. As soon as I tell her that I’m phoning to announce my engagement her voice rises an octave, she starts jabbering ten to the dozen and refuses to let me get a word in edgeways. In fact, she seems so delighted that for a moment I suspect that she might know me. Or my mother. (Exactly how many people HAS my mother told the good news to??)

“How lovely. That’s wonderful news. Mazal Tov. Let me take down your details”

I tell her that I’ve already submitted the wording of the announcement online, together with my date of birth, credit card details and email address, and that I am merely phoning to check that the submission was received and that it’s all right for printing.

“Let me just bring it up on the screen for you. Did you choose a ring yet?”

“Erm, actually, my fiancé chose it. He gave it to me when he proposed.”

“Did he really?? How wonderful. How did he propose? Was it romantic?”

I decide not to tell Shirley the entire Boggle story. I just reply “Yes, it was very romantic”.

“Okay, here we are.” Shirley then mumbles the announcement under her breath. “That all seems fine dear. Only you haven’t mentioned any grandparents. Most people mention their grandparents.”

“Yes, well, er, the thing is we both left it rather late and neither of us have any grandparents left.”

There is a slight pause which I only realised afterwards was the time it took Shirley to scroll up the screen to find my date of birth.

“Yes, I see. Well, never mind. I’m sure they are with you in spirit.”

“Thank you. I’m sure they are too”

“And your mother must be very relieved. Better late than never.”

“Erm, yes, she is”

“Okay, well the announcement is absolutely fine. You did the right thing to call though because you don’t want any mistakes. After all, you only get engaged once”

“Actually Shirley….Oh, never mind….”

still quite excited...

2006-08-17T11:17:00.000+01:00

Being engaged is a full time job. The phone has not stopped ringing since we announced our news. I think shares in vodafone and orange must have trebled in the last 24 hours on the back of the texts that have been flooding in from the four corners of the globe. YKW is still on cloud nine - unable to sleep, grinning like a chesire cat and looking like he's about to burst into tears at any moment (but in a good way). He's so excited that he wonders why he's never gotten engaged before. I reminded him that I have. Well, you've gotta laugh.

Reaction to the news has been very enlightening. My Dad cried. So did YKW's. And within a nanosecond of hearing the news, both sets of parents had phoned each other and arranged to meet for lunch. Without us.

So far, the funniest response has been from my mother. I told her the entire Boggle proposal story (see yesterday's post), making a special effort to highlight the romance of the moment. Her response? "Oh, we've played Boggle with Harvey and Sue".

Scrappino has known about the news for some time so he wasn't particularly surprised. In fact, I think he's probably wondering what all the fuss is about. But when I told him we were officially announcing our engagement he looked me straight in the eye and said "Mum. I am NOT being a page boy". So any plans I had to dress him up in a purple satin shirt and velvet trousers have now been dashed.

Meanwhile, all of our friends (mine and YKW's) have been thrilled. The standard reaction seems to be a shrill shriek, then a loud "Oh My God!!!" and then a sort of yelp. But despite the screaming and oh-my-godding, all are violently insistent that they knew all along and are not at all surprised. In fact, there seems to be a bit of competition between our oldest friends as to who knew first, who guessed it would be this week and what the tell tale signs were. Which, considering I was totally flabbergasted and not expecting it at all makes me wonder how they knew when I didn't.

The great thing about planning a wedding at YKW's age and at my 'stage in life' (that seems to be the polite way of saying divorced single mum) is that we have the authority to do things our way. So we are hopeful that the wedding will be exactly how we want it to be, and we can plan it with little hassle (or, as they put it, advice) from out parents. "We just want you to be happy" they tell us. "Whatever you want is absolutely fine by us". "We'll go along with whatever you decide".

First job is deciding whether or not to put an announcement in the JC. The parents say yes. We say, why bother? They say, because we've waited this long and we'd almost given up hope and he's nearly 40 and she's been single for years and couldn't you just let us enjoy the moment and do this one thing for us and........

M.A.Z.A.L T.O.V

2006-08-16T11:03:00.000+01:00

Well now, here it is. The post that I never thought I’d write. To be honest, this is the post that nobody thought I’d write. But, we of little faith have been proved wrong. Guess what?

I’m engaged!!

I know, I know. I sound girly and 16 and pathetic and I can almost hear Germaine Greer tutting as I type and relegating my name to the list of feminist has-beens. But, be that as it may, the fact remains, I am engaged.

Oh, in case you were wondering, I’m engaged to YKW.

We’ve been talking about marriage for a while and now that we’ve been seeing each other for 6 months we both felt it was the right thing to do. Let’s face it, I’ve run out of sad-single-female gags. And being a single mother is so last century. And for his part, YKW is nearly 40 and is starting to find that the female Jewish population of NW London is divided into two groups. The ones he’s already tried (largely unsuccessfully) to pull and the ones who are convinced he’s gay. (I suspect there may be a smaller subset of girls who fall into both categories, but we’ll gloss over that for now).

So, on Monday night, 6 months to the day after our first date, YKW proposed. (I know you want the details, so here they are.) As a bit of background, I should say that YKW and I have an in-joke about the game Boggle. (In case you’re not sure, it’s a staggeringly dull word game that uses a 4x4 grid and a set of cubes with different letters on each side. The idea of the game is to randomly shake the cubes and then try to make as many words as possible out of the letters displayed).

Now, the joke between us is that, whenever we find ourselves doing anything remotely dull or boring, I try to see the positive side by saying ‘at least we’re not playing Boggle’. I can’t think of anything I’d rather NOT do than play Boggle. The day my life is so sorted and so complete that it will be enhanced by making random anagrams out of a set of letter cubes I will be a very lucky girl indeed.

So, back to Monday. YKW came home from playing football (wherein lies a whole other post!) and tells me he’s got a present for me. To celebrate our 6-month anniversary. (Cue Germaine throwing up again.) And he hands me a shockingly wrapped present.

“Oooh, what is it?” I ask.

“It’s a present.”

“Can I shake it to see what it is?”

“NO!! Don’t shake it. Open it very carefully”

So I opened it and inside was…a set of Boggle. Not exactly what I’d been expecting.

“Open it” says YKW. “Just don’t shake it”

So I opened the lid and inside he’d spelled out WILL U MARRY ME in boggle letters and placed the ring (yes, he bought a ring too) in one of the squares.

I was a bit confused at first. Mainly because Boggle, as I’ve already explained, uses a four by four grid. So YKW had actually written
WILL
U
MARR
Y
ME
which looked like WILL U MARR ME (Although I suppose the other alternative would have been WILL U MARY ME which is not much better.)

Obviously I said yes. Actually, I thought I’d be a bit cheeky and so I spelled out YES with Boggle letters. I couldn’t resist being a bit clever-clever. But I was totally bowled over.

It was only later on that evening that I realised how much trouble YKW had gone to. He was working in Barking on Monday where they don’t exactly have a glut of Boggle sets. He tried ASDA, Woolworths, WHSmith and the pound shop to try to find a Boggle set. But nobody had one. Let’s face it, Barking is not exactly the anagram word-playing capital of the world. Not a great call for Boggle in Barking. Luckily, the chap at Hamleys was most helpful. In Knightsbridge they have lots of Boggle. They have the deluxe version, the standard version and the family version. (I later assured YKW that there was no need for a family version. Just yet.) So he hurtled half way across London to pick it up.

His trouble didn’t end there. He spelled out WILL U MARR Y ME in his office and discarded the unused cubes. But by the time he got home the cubes had all rattled out of place. He then spent the best part of an hour trying to find the exact (and possibly single) permutation of cubes to spell out WILL U MARR Y ME. By the end of the exercise, he was as anti-Boggle as I am. So there’s no fear that we’ll start playing the bloody thing. (But just to make sure, I glued down the letters so that they permanently spell out WILL U MARR Y ME. Part romantic souvenir. Part insurance against after dinner word games.)

Anyone for tennis?

2006-07-12T12:14:00.000+01:00

One of the (many) upsides to dating YKW is that he manages to wangle tickets to some of the best events in town. And so on Saturday we had ring-side seats at the Ladies Wimbledon final. Since he had procured the tickets I agreed to prepare the picnic lunch. This doesn’t sound much of a chore. However, one of the (few) downsides to dating YKW is that when it comes to food he is like a 9 year old. He is the most unadventurous eater I’ve ever met. I packed cherries “I’m not really a cherry person”; I packed mozzarella “I’m not really a mozzarella person”’; I packed Green and Blacks biscuits “I’m not really an organic biscuit person”. So I enjoyed a picnic lunch that made the National Trust couple sitting on our picnic table green with envy while YKW munched on a banana, Dairy Lee triangles and Jammy Dodgers. Honestly, he's really just a big kid.

I was disappointed that Venus Williams wasn’t playing because she is so inspirational, so athletic and such a powerful player. YKW was disappointed that Maria Sharapova wasn’t playing because she is blonde, beautiful and has legs up to her arm pits. But instead, we had to make do with Amelie Mauresmo versus Justine Henin-Hardenne. Or, as it seemed to us, a man versus a midget.

The atmosphere was fantastic. There was a brass band on the corner of the court playing the usual brass-band favourites – Theme for Grandstand and Is this the way to Amarillo. The audience clapped along, although personally I was slightly puzzled as to where the band had come from. Do they have coal mines in Wimbledon?

At one point, just before the match, John McEnroe came onto the court to be interviewed by the BBC and he got a louder cheer than the two players did - when they eventually arrived. After a brief warm up the match began and for the first few moments it all felt very odd. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something felt different. I then realised that there was no commentary. Watching a tennis match without the commentators is a totally different experience. And a much more exciting one. There is nothing more annoying than following a point of tennis, only to be interrupted by some old BBC bod who is wittering on about the days of wooden rackets and Fred bloody Perry. Or John Lloyd, who never got further than the 2nd round of an ATP championship, remarking “What Federer needs to do is come into the net a bit more”. I’m sure Roger will be rushing home to write down your advice, John. On the down side though, there were some shots that were so fantastic that I’d have loved to see them again. But there is no action replay at a live match.

I hope I’m not making myself out to be a tennis expert. I very rarely play and Wimbledon is the only tournament I follow. So I can hardly claim to take the experience too seriously. In fact, at one moment on Saturday, I thought YKW and I would be thrown at. At a quiet lull in the match, someone called out (as they do) “Come on Justine!” and then someone else replied “Come on Amelie!” at which point YKW called out “Come on Henman!”. The serious couple to his right tutted audibly. At the next lull, when the “Come on Justine!” started up again, I called out “Come on Eileen!” to which the French lady to my left leaned towards me and said “It is pronounced Ah-Meh-Lee”. Obviously, Dexy’s Midnight Runners didn’t make it to France.

After the three-set match and the presentation of the gold shield, YKW and I decided to go home rather than stay for the mixed doubles. Well, we had important stuff to do (i.e. we had to be back in time for the Doctor Who series finale). So I missed seeing Venus Williams play live. And Andy Ram – the first Israeli player to win an ATP event. Instead, I sat on the sofa with YKW and Scrappino and I blubbered like a baby as Rose and the Doctor were parted forever. Now who's the big kid??

...I just couldn't stay away...

2006-07-05T00:25:00.000+01:00

As Elton John once sang, the bitch is back. (He also sang Candle in the Wind, but that’s not really the point).

You will no doubt have noticed that there has been a rather lengthy hiatus here at suburban hymns. I apologise to all (both?) readers who have checked in on a regular basis only to find that I’ve not updated since April 8th. If it’s any consolation, I do feel very guilty about this and I feel I should explain.

Firstly, I blame You Know Who. It’s a case of being careful what you wish for. I wittered on for a whole year about my dating fiascos, meeting rubbish blokes and bemoaning my lot as a singleton. And then unexpectedly, out of nowhere (well, not exactly nowhere, out of North London) this rather lovely chap appeared and buggered up my entire shtick. So I found myself happy and settled with nothing much to moan about and the whole slant of this blog was suddenly out of kilter. Bloody men. You just can’t blog with ‘em. (Though, in case you’re wondering, it’s all going rather well. I will change a habit of a life time and leave the personal information at that).

Secondly, I have been writing elsewhere. Not on-line, but in private. A first for me. I am normally one to scatter my creativity with abandon, showering anyone who’ll listen with my latest offerings. But I’ve taken a rather large writing project on that I’m trying to keep under wraps until it’s finished. So the blog had to take a back seat while I concentrated on that. For a while at least.

Thirdly, there’s the World Cup. I’ve been totally hooked. If you’d told me six months ago that I would watch every game in the entire competition I’d have laughed in your face. But that was before I factored in YKW being a football fanatic and Scrappino catching the footie bug from his friends. The result has been a soccer-fest of ridiculous proportions. There are three wall charts in my flat which Scrappino has lovingly filled in, listing every game, the teams, the scores, even the penalty shoot-out results. I even considered joining in the jingoistic fervour of the nation by investing in a St George Cross flag for my car. But I drive a Skoda and I was worried that the weight might tip the balance and topple the car over. (You can tell it’s been a while – I’m making Skoda gags).

It goes without saying that I’ve been supporting the English team (much good it did them). But I’ve taken an interest in the other matches too. Only, like most Jewish viewers, every match had to be viewed from the perspective of how each of the countries has treated the Jews. This is not as easy at it sounds. Obviously, we all cheered when Germany lost. But some of the fixtures posed very difficult dilemmas. Ukraine versus Iran was a tricky one. Talk about a rock and a hard place. I mean, who do we want to lose more?? Or Saudi Arabia versus Croatia? The commentators were no help. Filling the half time discussion with their views on goal defence strategies without a single mention of the Arab boycott or the massacre of 1942. How is a girl to know who to support??

Meanwhile, the sporting bug reached Scrappino’s school just in time for the annual Sports Day. Scrappino came home today with two stickers on his t-shirt – both with a rosette and “2nd” printed on them. He’d come second in two races. One was the running race. I congratulated him on his success but he admitted that he’d not been in a very difficult line-up. Just him, Sam and five girls. “So Sam won then?” I asked. “No, Natasha did” he replied. The other was the sack race. I resisted the urge to praise him for being so good in the sack. “I’ll keep that one for the blog”, I thought.

And so I did.

It’s good to be back.

all work and no blog...

2006-04-08T18:06:00.000+01:00

Apologies for the long silence. It’s good to be back.

While I’ve not been blogging, I have been:

1. Listening: to Sophie Solomon’s new album Poison Sweet Madeira. Fabulous. I saw her recently at the Barbican. You can read about it here. But before you do, I have a confession to make. YKW (“you know who” is becoming too tedious to spell out in full) read the post and thought that I’d over-egged my cultural credentials somewhat. He has a point (he’s always right…) since I didn’t admit that we only actually stayed for the first half of the concert. Well, Sophie played before the interval, and the second half was all a bit too Radio 3 for my liking. So we bought a cornetto and went home.

2. Watching: ”Live and Become”. Quite possibly the worst film I have seen in the past five years. It’s a French-Israeli film set during the 1984 Ethiopian famine, about a Christian boy whose mother realises that his only hope of survival is to go to Israel on the Operation Moses mission. So the boy goes to Israel and pretends to be Jewish and is eventually adopted by a French family. So far so good. However, the film then proceeds to cover pretty much every cliché you can think of. For two and a half very long hours. Intergration, bullying, adoption, racism, secularism v orthodoxy, prostitution, military conscription, etc etc. And the ending (where the boy is reunited with his mother twenty years later in a Sudanese refugee camp) is so twee that it would have been rejected from a trashy airport novel for being too contrived. However, the evening was not without its highlights. As the film began the woman sitting behind me was talking (in Hebrew, naturally) on her mobile phone. In the middle of the cinema. I thought she’d stop once the credits had finished but she carried right on. So after five minutes I turned round and, quite loudly, said “Say hi from us”. People around me clapped. And people around them no doubt wondered what was going on. But the woman turned her phone off and shut up.

3. Playing: poker. I have never played before and I have to admit to a (probably prudish) hatred of gambling. But YKW is quite keen and it’s still early days so I have to show willing. The ‘buy in’ was £10 and I went home with £9.40. So my first proper gambling experience only cost me 60p. (Actually, it cost me £35.60 once I’d paid the babysitter and bought a bottle of wine for the host. But you know what I mean). The trick, apparently, is to work out the best possible hand on the table and then measure your chances of winning based on how your cards compare with that. But I couldn’t quite get my head round the various options. In the end they all blended in to one royal flush straight. I think I’ll leave poker to the experts and stick to playing top trumps with Scrappino.

4. Celebrating: the civil partnership ceremony of A and Y. I’d not been to a civil partnership of men before. I’ve been to one for two girls which was exactly like a ‘regular’ wedding, only with two brides, so I had to pretend to like two dresses rather than just one. But there were no dresses at all this time. In fact, this made it quite difficult to make small talk to guests I didn’t know, as the obligatory “Doesn’t she look fantastic” wasn’t an option. It was a very low-key affair. Just 8 guests, including grooms. A champagne toast before we went in, a 20 minute ceremony, and then lunch at a restaurant round the corner from the town hall. (I had the pigeon. It’s a lot like chicken). It may not have been a conventional do, but I still had to hold back the tears. Just goes to show that you don’t need 300 guests, the Kinloss Banqueting Suite or Danny Shine in order to tie the knot. You just need a lot of love and someone to share it with. And A and Y clearly have that. So Mazal Tov to them both. (And in case you are about to become the Nth person to ask me, no, they didn’t both break a glass.)

A few words about shoes

2006-03-23T13:03:00.000Z

I am about to get a little bit girly. (Male readers might want to look away now.) To be honest, I’m not really a particularly girly girl. I don’t have endless conversations about shoes and make up. I don’t fixate about my weight or drift from fad diet to fad diet. And I was never one to flutter my eyelashes and claim blonde idiocy to get my own way with men. (All of which might explain why you-know-who is the first proper boyfriend I’ve had in years and why I seem to be frequently mistaken for being gay – remember this?)

That said, I am not without my vain moments. And this week I came upon a revelation. I bought a pair of shoes which

a) look great
b) feel comfortable
c) give me a bit of height
d) can be worn with jeans and smart black trousers
and, the best bit
e) make me look thinner

It’s true. They’re MBT trainers. MBT is (not a yeshiva, but) Masai Barefoot Technology. The idea is that the Masai walk upright for miles every day without shoes and without any back pain. The reason? They train themselves to walk on natural terrain in their bare feet. Meanwhile, I walk for roughly an hour a day in shoes of varying degrees of quality and constantly suffer from spine twinges and back pain.

Now, contrary to what I might have implied above re. blonde idiocy, I don’t quite understand the science. It’s something about replicating the feel of unstable, rocky terrain beneath your moving feet. Clearly, I'm not the only one to stumble (no pun intended) across these shoes and not quite understand the science. These shoes (get this) come with a DVD to teach you how to wear them and how to walk in them correctly. Imagine, a free DVD with your shoes to show you how to walk in them. (Needless to say, I haven't watched the DVD. It would be a miracle if I could get near the TV to be honest, since Scrappino recently inherited another 20 odd Dr Who videos...)

But whatever the scientific reasoning, these shoes are incredible. They force you to stand tall and consequently (point e) they make you look thinner because you hold yourself (and all your wibbly bits) in as you walk. They are amazingly comfortable – like walking barefoot, only with support - and they look brilliant.

How amazing is that?

Okay, enough giggly girliness. Back to normal. What do you think of the budget, eh?

While I've not been blogging...

2006-03-15T13:49:00.000Z

Oh dear. Yet another fortnight (almost) with no blog update. Sorry. Too busy living. It looks like MC is also taking something of a blog-sabbatical, so I don’t feel too guilty. But it is rather ironic that now that I have something vaguely exciting to blog about I am actually blogging much less than I used to. Makes me wonder if the cyber-detractors are right when they say that blogging is for those with no life who make up for it by blogging about crap.

That said, I’m not quite ready to throw in the towel on SuburbanHymns just yet. I just have to find cryptic ways of getting my news across without breaking the promise I made to you-know-who that I wouldn’t divulge personal information. I could try telling you what I haven’t done and let you fill in the gaps. So, for example, I could reveal that we recently went away to York for the weekend and we didn’t see the Minster, the Yorvik Viking center or the Castle museum. Or indeed any of the tourist attractions. We were kinda busy. (Mind you, I was rather upset not to visit Clifford’s tower. I recall visiting the Tower a couple of year’s ago with Scrappino. At the entrance gate, the woman in the ticket office asked him – he was aged 6 at the time- in thick Yorkshire accent, “Do you want a Jewish Massacre Leaflet?” I replied that I didn’t.)

I love going away for the weekend. You get all the benefit of starting the working week feeling like you’ve been away for months but you don’t lose any holiday from your annual leave. And York is a brilliant distance from London for a quick weekend’s break. It’s far enough away to forget all about London but near enough to get back in time for the Antiques Roadshow. Or, in our case, for the second half of the Spurs match. Actually, that was the result some rather delicate negotiation. We were booked on the 3.00 pm train back to London when early on Sunday morning you-know-who realised that if we left on the 2.00 pm instead, he would be back in time to watch the second half of the match. Would I mind if we left York an hour earlier? The quid-pro-quo would be that he would remain silent for an hour and 15 minutes while I listened to The Archers Omnibus. He even promised that he would resist the urge to make tractor noises and repeat, in a voice of disbelief, “Do you actually listen to this horseshite?” I thought that this was a pretty good deal and agreed to lose an hour of our weekend away.

Back in London it was interesting to see the reaction from friends and family. Female friends were clearly disappointed by the blow I’d struck against my Feminist ideals and tried to give me advice along the lines of ‘start as you mean to go on’ and ‘give an inch and he’ll take a mile’. Male friends were actually impressed (either by you-know-who’s audacity or my understanding) and considered nominating me for the Girlfriend of the Month award. But then Brother #2 just asked why you-know-who hadn’t insisted on taking the 1 pm train so that he could watch the whole match?

Meanwhile, Purim has been and gone. Scrappino dressed up as a clown – not very original, I know, but it was better than being the 197th Harry Potter that turned up at school that day. There was the obligatory Fancy Dress Competition that he didn’t win. I tried to warn him that he didn’t stand a chance since he was wearing shop bought costume and didn’t have any face paint on him. There are certain unwritten rules that you have to comply with if you want to win the Purim Fancy Dress Competition.

1. You have to wear a hand made costume. (You’re in with an even bigger chance if the costume looks like a child with learning difficulties made it, rather than your parents. If it falls apart as you’re walking across the stage, you’re a safe bet for First Prize).

2. Your costume has to be based on a terrible pun that your parents thought of. (9 Caret Gold – where the kid wears orange clothes and 9 carrots strung round his waste is very popular. Ant and Dec – where the kid wears black, 2 extra legs and a pack of cards stuck to his back is also a sure winner.)

3. Your costume should be Purim or Jewish themed. (If you dress up as anything Purim/Jewish related, you’re gonna win because the judge is invariably some Rabbi that the school hauls in for such occasions and they love all that Jewish stuff. So dressing up as a Hamentash, Queen Esther or a Sefer Torah is a clever idea.)

4. If all else fails, cry. (This tends to work especially well for the girls. If you refuse to walk across the stage when it’s your turn, cry, run over to your mum and then change your mind after the judges have made their decision and cry some more, you will invariably win something.) [These girls tend to grow up into women who do not return home an hour earlier than planned so that their boyfriends can catch the second half of a football match].

arts news

2006-03-03T12:36:00.000Z

Following a phone conversation with Ploni last night to find out her news (she reads the blog, so no need to tell her mine…) it transpires that she has put two and two together and arrived at five. Basically, the recent reference to the Valentines Day card (and no doubt the flying mug fiasco) plus a week’s absence from blogging equals R.x must be too busy playing boys and girls to blog. Actually, not so. I’ve been busy. Not working (obviously) but making the most of London. I get the urge from time to time to go all Mariella Fostrup and see a bit of culture. London can be such an irritating place to live sometimes – it is ridiculously expensive, congested, polluted, full of Londoners etc, that I feel the need to react by taking excessive advantage of its positive side.

So in recent weeks I have been to Sadler's Wells (get me, I’m even on the mailing list) to see the wonderful Sara Baras. She is a flamenco dancer and was in town as part of the London Flamenco Festival. I went with my obligatory GBF (that’s a gay best friend for those who don’t take their stock abbreviations from Sex and the City) who booked the tickets expecting to see gorgeous scantily-clad Latino men strutting their stuff on stage. I reminded him that he was thinking about Tango, not Flamenco, and so he wasn’t overly keen at first.

But Baras took our breaths away. She moves like an athlete but at the same time is remarkably graceful, and the costumes were stunning (so GBF was pleased after all), designed to move as part of the choreography. Brilliant. It was probably the best live performance I’ve seen in London for months. In fact, I was so blown away that I immediately booked tickets to see the same show the following night.

I’ve also been to the Barbican to see the fabulous Sophie Solomon. She’s the violinist from Oi Va Voi and was taking part in an evening billed as Genius of the Violin. The show began with the full orchestra (long black dresses, tails and bow-ties) playing something or other (you can tell that classical music really isn’t my thing) followed by some miserable looking chap (suit and tie) playing American Seasons. Then Sophie came out wearing plunging sleeveless v-neck, black leather mini skirt and fish net stockings. I could imagine the wife of the Barbican Managing Director ordering her husband to ‘close your mouth dear’ [a la Pretty Woman]. Sophie rocked. She looked like a rock star and played like a god. And if that wasn’t enough, she only went and brought on Martha Wainwright to accompany her on vocals. Yes, Martha Wainwright. Sister of Rufus . Daughter of Loudon .

My concert companion had never heard of Sophie, Martha, Loudon or Rufus so I had to conceal my excitement and squeal silently. But if you fancy listening to electrifying klezmer, check out Sophie’s new album “Poison Sweet Madeira”.

In case you think I’ve disappeared so far up my own arse that I won’t be seen for weeks, I’ve also been enjoying more mundane cultural visits. I went to see the Jonny Cash film, Walk the Line. I spent most of the week telling friends that I was going to see the Pat Cash film which indicates that I’m not exactly a Jonny Cash fan. In fact, the only thing I like about Country and Western music is the soundtrack to Oh Brother Where Art Thou? (Actually, I also like that gag about the cowboy who says “I like all sorts of music. I like Country AND Western”) It turns out that Jonny Cash’s wife, June Carter Cash (played spectacularly by Reece Witherspoon, by the way. If she doesn’t get the Oscar it’ll be a disgrace) was from the famous (well, in Nashville, at any rate) Carter Family that features on the Oh Brother soundtrack, and so it was nice to make the connection.

And for someone who really doesn’t like C&W music, I have to admit that I was gripped by the movie. If you’re wondering what to watch this Saturday night, that’d be a great place to start.

So, why am I telling you all this?
a) so that I look all cultured and interesting
b) having promised you-know-who that I wouldn’t mention him, I’m finding that I don’t have much else to blog about
c) to assure Ploni that silence does not necessarily mean too much you-know-what with you-know-who

Weekend in Wales

2006-03-02T14:08:00.000Z

So, a weekend away in deepest Wales. And a week (well almost) in London to recover. Considering that I spent my entire childhood, up to the age of 18, on the Welsh doorstep, you’d think I’d be adequately prepared for a trip across the border. But the truth is that I was totally blown away. I know that I mocked before I set off and hinted at past expeditions to the Gulag-like Colomendy. But I couldn’t have been more wrong. We weren’t sleeping in freezing wood cabins after all. (Which is a shame in some ways, since I schlepped my sleeping bag with me and consequently spent most of the car journey curled up in the fetal position with my sleeping bag rolled up in the footwell).

The accommodation was fantastic. The hostel is a converted stately home and the building was simply fabulous. We were given massive rooms with en-suite bathrooms (which is more than I can offer guests – or even myself – in my own flat) complete with tea/coffee making facilities and TV/Internet. And if you don’t believe me, take a look at this…

Now, you have to agree, compared to Ablution Blocks and communal dormitories, that’s the high life.

Even more amazing than Man’s handiwork was the natural environment. The view was breathtaking. I’m no photographer, so you’ll have to make do with this fairly grainy image…

…but even given my ropey photography, you can tell that this is pretty special scenery. On Saturday morning I woke up, opened the balcony doors in my bedroom (yes, I had a balcony!!) and listened…to absolutely nothing. Apart from the odd sheep bleating (well, I was in Wales after all) and some birds in a near-by tree there was total and utter silence. No trains. No cars. No people.

I started to wonder why on earth I choose to live in polluted, congested London.

I think part of the answer lies in the fact that Wales (or, at least, the bit of it that I visited at the weekend) really is in the middle of nowhere. Beyond the back of beyond. It took us four hours to drive there. Admittedly, we were travelling in the height of rush hour on a Friday. And yes, we probably would have got there sooner had we taken an up-to-date map with us. Unfortunately, my friend C (who was driving) had a map of Britain that was over 15 years old and had been drawn before the new Severn Bridge was built. So what had been the M4 was now the M48 and what had been The Severn Bridge was now The Old Severn Bridge. All this meant that what had been three competent adults following the signs with a trusted road map was now three lost, slightly hysterical adults travelling through the Welsh countryside without a clue of where they were or how to get back to where they needed to be.

We crossed the New Severn Bridge (£4.99) only to discover that we’d crossed the wrong one. So we had to cross back into England (no charge) and find the Old Severn Bridge and cross that one instead (£4.99). We tried explaining to the man in the toll booth that we’d just paid £4.99 crossing the other bridge in error only to come straight back again and did we really have to pay again? After he’d comprehended our position, (“Let me get this straight madam. You crossed the new bridge at a cost of £4.99. Then immediately turned your car around and crossed back again. And now you’re crossing for a third time? Only you want to cross free of charge? Is that correct?”) He just laughed and told us that was our lookout. He sits in a 2m by 2m metal booth all day handing out 1p in change to strangers thrusting fivers at him. This is the only bit of work-related entertainment he’s likely to get this month.

What made our map-reading difficulties all the more galling is the fact that I was specifically asked NOT to read the map. This is because I have a notoriously bad sense of direction. I’ve turned down dinner invitations because I know I’d not be able to find my way to the host’s house. I’ve been on my way from Mill Hill to Elstree and ended up in Whetstone. This is like trying to get from France to Germany and ending up in New York. In fact, the situation has become so awkward that I’ve recently invested in a sat-nav system. Unfortunately, I forgot to bring it along with me for the journey to Wales. No problem, decided C, because her colleague A, who was travelling with us in the car, is a whizz at map reading. In fact, he’s a qualified navigator who served in the Israeli army in exactly that capacity. He is a militarily trained map reader. And we still ended up crossing the wrong bridge and giving some shmock who works the toll booth the biggest belly laugh he’s ever had on the job.

But it’s not just the remoteness that made me feel out of place in Wales. It’s what the remoteness makes you do. I’d hazard a guess that, had I spent the weekend on a Leadership Training Course in London, the atmosphere would have been totally different. We’d have discussed the agenda, chatted about leadership techniques and compared different management theories. But locked away in the countryside, miles away from home, with the nearest farm half a kilometre away, people start behaving a bit differently. They start emoting. Opening up. Discussing feelings. And what should have been a leadership training course became a weekend of free therapy and group sharing. You may be surprised to learn (since I reveal so much on this blog) that I hate all that communal sharing. You tell me your hang-ups and I’ll tell you mine. It encourages people who have a safe keep-me-at-some-distance relationship to become confidants and counsellors. And the result is invariably messy. Some woman will cry. Some bloke will lose his temper. And the next morning everyone feels awkward and embarrassed and worried that they’ve revealed too much. It reminds me of that scene in Awakenings when Robin Williams wakes up all the comatose patients and suddenly the silence is shattered by a stampede of neuroses; a cacophony of jabbering, clapping, whittering maniacs. Of course, the people on the course were neither jabbering or whittering or maniacs. But the comparison still stands. If you herd a group of strangers together in a remote location for long enough, ply them with a little wine and suggest they chat openly, the floodgates of emotion invariably open. I squirmed in the corner, arms folded, resolutely British, and resisted the urge to share. No uncomfortable self-revelation for me, thank you very much. This isn’t the Oprah show. I was determined to get through the whole weekend without once starting a sentence with the phrase “Thank you for that” or “I hear what you’re saying”. I wasn’t about to tell a group of 9 people I’d only just met my innermost dreams, hopes and fears. I’ve got a freely accessible web-site, visited by strangers around the world, to do that.

It's all about identity...

2006-02-22T12:44:00.000Z

Sometimes you need to be careful what you wish for. There I was, last week, complaining about the lack of Valentines Day cards and picturing myself dying alone with my cats, when out of the blue a card arrived. Well, not so much a card arrived as a card was handed to me in a pub. It was, admittedly, given to me as a tongue in cheek gesture (which, by the end of the evening, was a rather fitting metaphor…) but I was bloody delighted to receive it. My delight was dampened slightly by the fact that the sender of the card bet me a fiver that I'd receive one by the end of the evening. I took the bet - any other year I'd have been five quid up - only to see said sender dip into his briefcase and take out the tell-tale red envelope. (I hate gambling with a passion. This is why. The odds are always stacked against you.)

So far so lovely. But there is a snag. I have promised said card-sender that I will not blog about him. The temptation is strong, but it seems the right thing to do. It's all very well setting myself up for public ridicule but it wouldn't be fair to do that to anyone else. (And anyway, I work bloody hard penning these entries, trying to put a farcical gloss on my daily life. If he wants to make himself look an arse he can do it himself.) So I find myself with lots to write, but unable to share. Which is a shame, because I reckon you'd laugh out loud if I told you about how I split open his nose with a mug that managed to fly off a shelf in my bedroom in the early hours of Friday morning and soaked us both in the process. But, as I say, a promise is a promise.

So, instead I will have to dwell on more weighty matters. I am off to Wales on Friday for a Jewish Leadership Training weekend. I've been invited to run a couple of sessions on Jewish Identity and Being A Jewish Woman. I cannot for the life of me understand why I've been chosen to do this. You know that the community is in trouble when I am held up as a beacon of Jewish Womanhood. But I will take the opportunity to spread the word. If the women on the course are not putting on tephillin by Sunday morning and insisting on their right to wear a tallit while saying kaddish in a mixed minyan I will suggest that they demand their money back.

The other mystery is working out why the weekend has been scheduled to take place in Wales. In February. Not only will it rain incessantly, but we are staying in a wooden built, vegetarian hostel, so there won't even be a nice warm meaty meal to look forward to while we shiver our way through each session. My good friend C is running the programme and her last words to me at the planning meeting were "bring warm clothes". Not a good sign.

I had flash backs of Colomendy . An outdoor recreation centre in North Wales that has been imprinted on the memory of every Liverpool school pupil since the 1940's. Think Russian Gulag with a little bit of Sobibor thrown in. If you think this sounds flippant, take a look at this.

I recall that the bathroom (which was communal - naturally) had "Ablution Block" written on the door and the campus as a whole was made up of rows upon rows of long wooden dormitory buildings. Every year, the lower 6th form (aged 16) would be sent to this Belsen-esque facility for 5 days of 'group-bonding' and 'personal growth'. But it's surprisingly difficult to grow, personally or otherwise, when your sleep has been interrupted by nightmares about SS guards in jackboots knocking down the dormitory doors.

I have been assured that, vegetarian status notwithstanding, the hostel that we'll be staying at this weekend is actually delightful, if basic. There will be single rooms, which is just as well, since my days of sleeping in dormitories are well over. Some even have a sink in the corner - so no need to trample outdoors in the dark, wearing flip-flops and bathrobe, trying to find the "Ablution Block". And the view from the communal areas is stunning, apparently. C has warned me to leave my cynicism at home and attend the scheme with an open mind. She obviously senses my fear that it will be all kumbaya, group hugs and camomile tea. Which is better than jackboots and outdoor toilets I suppose.

VD!

2006-02-14T10:36:00.000Z

It is Valentines Day. Or, as I like to abbreviate it, VD. (This year, it falls one day after Tu Bishvat which, by rights, I should abbreviate to TB, but that would be silly.The analogy ends there. Whereas TB passes by without anyone trying to forcefeed me fruit, I cannot move in London today without being bombarded with flowers, roses and heart shaped chocolate.)

Anyway, last year I complained bitterly about the shoddy service provided by Her Majesty's Royal Mail which managed to lose ALL the Valentines cards that had been sent to me. Luckily, someone seems to have taken notice, because this year, the Mail has been fined a whopping £11.4m for losing thousands of items of post. And I'm hanging on to the deluded notion that my many VD cards and love letters are lost with them.

Just in case the delusion is exactly that (and I have the M&S dinner for one ready, just in case) I have decided to send myself a card. I've whittled it down to these two. It's currently a toss up (no VD pun intended) between this one...

and this one ...

Let me know which one you prefer…

Duvet dilemma

2006-02-10T15:59:00.000Z

I am not a particularly superstitious person. I have no qualms walking under ladders. I have never felt the need to throw salt over my shoulder and I do not wince at the thought of putting shoes on the table. And yet I found myself in a particularly awkward situation this week.

My mum has recently had the rather unenviable task of emptying my late grandpa's flat of all his stuff before the flat is sold. She spent three days boxing up anything that was worth keeping, throwing away anything that wasn't, and hauling everything in between to the charity shop. Or, as she calls it, the 'good as new'. 90 years on this earth and it all comes down to boxes and bin-liners.

This week my folks were down in London for a flying visit. While they were round at my brother's house, my Dad called to say that he was going to 'pop over to drop something off.' I immediately assumed it was a Folio Society book that he had ordered for me which I will not read but which will look impressive on my book shelf. But I was wrong.

Twenty minutes later I opened my front door to find my Dad standing on the doorstep holding what looked like a pile of washing. Rather puzzled, and without asking him what he was doing, I stood aside to let him in. And so he dragged the bundle up the stairs and plonked it in the centre of my lounge.

Me: What's that?
Dad: A double duvet. Mum and I have twin beds so we don't need it. We thought you might like it.
Me: (Trying not to concentrate too much on my parents' sleeping arrangements) Well, why did you buy a double duvet if you don't have a double bed?
Dad: We didn't buy it. It's from the flat.
Me: Which flat? (Pause) (Realisation) You mean, Grandpa's flat?
Dad: Yes.
Me: You've brought me Grandpa's duvet??
Dad: Well, it's a perfectly good duvet. And we don't need it because we have twin beds.
Me: Yes, I get the bit about twin beds. I'm just not sure what you expect me to do with the duvet of my dead grandfather!!
Dad: Well, you can use it.
Me: You want me to sleep in my dead grandpa's duvet?
Dad: It's been washed.
Me: I don't care if it's been fumigated by pest control. Grandpa died in bed for God's sake!
Dad: No, he died on the bed. Not in the bed. He wasn't actually in the duvet. He was just lying on it. And the cover's been washed.

So, here's the dilemma. Do I throw out a perfectly good double duvet (which I need, since mine is falling apart and is not quite warm enough for winter) just because it once belonged to my Grandpa, who has since died? Or do I resist the urge to fall prey to superstition and use the duvet, bearing in mind that a new one costs about fifty quid and if there was one thing Grandpa hated it was needless waste?

Writers Block Party

2006-02-10T15:18:00.000Z

For months (years?) now, I have been telling myself (and anyone else who'll listen) that I am going to write a book. This impresses some people. They coo wide-eyed and say "How amazing!!" and encourage me into believing that I really am the next big thing about to be discovered. What they don't realise is that it's easy to say "I'm going to write a book" - anyone can do that - but actually sitting down and writing the bloody thing is a completely different matter. In fact, when I say, "I'm going to write a book" what I'm actually saying is "I haven't written a book yet" which, when put that way, is far less impressive.

My friend N can see right through the "I'm going to write a book" claim. Firstly, he's a published author so, unlike any of my other friends, he can reply "Done that". Also, he knows better than anyone that just saying "I'm going to write a book" is an empty boast. If I really wanted to do it, I'd have done it by now. Or at least I'd have mapped out the skeleton outline and figured out a basic plot. All I've done is had imaginary conversations in my head with Mark Lawson for Newsnight Review. (He loved the book by the way).

So, seeing right through my empty claims, and realising that I needed a kick up the arse, N kindly invited me to join his writers group. It's a smallish group of wannabe writers who meet once a month to read each other's work-in-progress and comment on it. All criticism is constructive and friendly and the idea is that a clean pair of eyes (or eight clean pairs of eyes) will shed new light on the writing and improve it before it is sent to an agent or publisher.

They added my name to their email list at the beginning of the week so that I could take part in the pre-meeting discussion. The first thing I noticed as the emails began flying back and forth was the other names. I have never seen such as set of quintessentially English names in my life. It was all Emma Johnson and Jennifer Clark and Anthony James and Richard Bellamy. These are people who have never had to repeat their surname when trying to get through to a switchboard operator ill- versed in Anglicized Russian surnames. They have never been told to spell out (again) their first name by an officious doctors' receptionist who asks "and how are you spelling that?" with such derision that you wonder if you'd rather prefer to go home without the prescription and sod the symptoms.

I was fairly certain (though I hate to make generalizations) that these are not people who have many Jewish friends. Not that there's anything wrong with that; why should they? It's just that I hate being somebody's first Jewish friend. Firstly, you get the "Funny, you don't look Jewish" comments. I've had this all my life. The blond hair and blue eyes don't help. If I'm in a particularly mischievous mood I will reply "Oh? What do Jews look like then?" and watch them squirm as they try to reply without using the words 'nose' 'hook' or 'swarthy'. Or else you get the well-meaning "I hope you don't mind me asking, but do you eat potatoes?" or the less well-meaning (and, in my case, unnecessary) "Don't you miss bacon?" (3000 years of rich culture and it all comes down to not eating sausages). Secondly, the problem with being somebody's first Jewish friend is that you find yourself instantly elected as official spokesperson for the Israeli Government. You know that as soon as your new-best-friend asks for your views on, say, the recent disengagement from Gaza, you are going to be quoted every time that topic arises at any dinner party or pub conversation that he/she takes part in. "Well, my friend R.x is Jewish and SHE says 'blah blah blah'" ….and you find yourself the mouthpiece of every shade of Jewish opinion ever mooted.

Still, I needn't have worried. Despite my reservations about the names there were no cultural exchange questions and I didn't find myself having to justify Ariel Sharon's foreign policy. In fact, it was a scarily nice evening with a frighteningly nice bunch of people. The conversation took constructive criticism to a whole new level. I always thought that constructive criticism was when you basically told someone that their work is shoddy, but you did so in a polite way, indicating how they can improve. So, for example, you might say "The plot of your story is good, although I suspect that William Shakespeare might have got there before you. And when you do a re-write, you might like to adopt some of the basic rules of English Grammar and punctuation." I mean, I've seen those guys on Newsnight review and when authors get the knives out for other authors, they can be really cutting. But there was none of that at this particular writers' group. It was all "Thank you so much for sharing!" and "It's such a pleasure to meet these characters again - we've missed them!" There was no sarcasm. No Sniping. No backstabbing. Only two and half hours of mutual creative masturbation and counter-congratulation. In fact, I was half expecting a group-hug and a pairing off to give each other head-and-neck massages and eat lentils before we left the pub at the end of the evening.

Perhaps all this over-the-top loveliness is just as well, because attending the writers' group was clearly not enough of a kick up the arse in N's opinion. He saw fit to suggest that, for our next meeting in a month's time, I prepare some writing for the rest of the group to read. And since they were all too nice to say no, they promptly agreed. And I was basking in their reflective niceness and so didn’t feel able to object. So I have one month to prepare at least 5 pages of A4 double-spaced typing to share with the group. They say that you should start by writing about what you know. So I might write a short semi-autobiographical piece about a Jewish single-mother who dreams of writing a novel and suddenly finds herself out of her depth among real writers with real talent. I think I might call it "I hope you don't mind me asking, but do you eat potatoes?"

The source of the sauce gag

2006-02-09T10:41:00.000Z

Since writing my last post, seven (yes, 7!) readers have emailed to tell me that the 'may the sauce be with you' (at the end of the post) is quite possibly the worst joke they have ever heard. They didn't comment on the blog because that would be hurtful. But they felt the need to email and register their disapproval. Standards are slipping, it seems.

And so I feel the need to explain. You see, weekday posts are generally written at my desk. Luckily my work involves reading and checking manuscripts on screen all day so penning the odd blog posting can be easily concealed. However, weekend posts are obviously written at home. I tend to sit on the sofa with the lap top on my knee while Scrappino mucks about around me. He is usually either watching Dr Who, sticking stamps in his album (bizarrely, not nearly as dull a hobby as you might imagine) or painting an AirFix plane (amazing how that's the first reference to the planes on this blog. I might well have to come back to those). What it means though is that posts written at home at the weekend can be seen by Scrappino.

The post about Star Wars was written while Scrappino was still suffering the tail end of his flu. So I sat on one side of the sofa, laptop on knee, and he sat on the other, head on my shoulder, nose sniffling and his throat breathing heavily like Darth Vader (appropriately enough). As I wrote, he had one eye on the TV screen and the other on the computer screen. He read the conversation we'd had earlier that day, recalling my inability to follow the plot of the Star Wars films. And about his Yoda impersonations. And then I (very proudly) recounted his (yes, his) gag about the tomato sauce. Because, you see, it was Scrappino's gag. It went something like this:

Me: Where's the tomato sauce?
Scrappino: On the table, it is.
Me: Can you pass it to me?
Scrappino: Yes. (He gets up and fetches the sauce - then hands it to me) May the sauce be with you.

Now, I must admit that I laughed out loud. Because, for an eight year old, that's really not a bad gag at all. I mean, it's quite a clever play on words and given the fact that, at the very moment he said it, Anakin Skywalker was in the process of transforming into Darth Vader, it was quite a topical gag too. So I have to admit that I was very proud of him. For someone who likes to make others laugh, it's brilliant when your offspring show that they can do it too.

So, when I was writing the post I included Scrappino's gag and wrote how proud I was of it. But Scrappino, reading over my shoulder, wasn't happy. He was adamant that I shouldn't put it in the post. In fact, he wasn't that keen on the whole Yoda impersonation thing either. So, mother and son reached a compromise. I'd include the Yoda conversation but would take out the sauce gag. But when we read the finished post it didn't seem to have a particularly strong ending. Scrappino thought (everyone's a bloody critc) that without the sauce joke there would be no 'end' to the story, and he knows from school that every story has to have a 'beginning' a 'middle' and an 'end'. Except Star Wars, which has an 'end' a 'beginning' and a 'middle'. So I tentatively suggested that we put the sauce joke back in. He agreed, reluctantly, on the condition that I pretend that it was my joke and not his. I asked why he didn't want the joke attributed to him but he just shrugged and said 'dunno'. As good an answer as you often get from an eight year old. So, we doctored the story somewhat and the gag became mine.

What is amazing is that, when I explained to the seven critics (the ones who'd emailed to say that the joke was the worst they'd heard in a long time) that the joke was actually Scrappino's joke, suddenly it became the gag of the week. My god, isn't he hilarious.! How funny! What a great sense of humour! This about a gag that seconds before had been so poor it would have been rejected from a Jim Davidson routine. So the question is this. Why is a joke funny when Scrappino makes it, but terrible when I make it? And should I be encouraging him to write more of my material in future? Or should I just throw in the towel and put the kid on the stage instead of me? Answers gratefully received…

In the (star) wars...

2006-02-04T20:14:00.000Z

The runny nose/sore throat/tickly cough that has been making its way through North West London finally arrived in Mill Hill this week and both Scrappino and I have been suffering the winter sniffles. We both woke up feeling like our heads weighed ten tonnes on Thursday morning and neither of us could complete a sentence without hacking our guts out. So we had no choice but to take the day off school and work respectively.

Do you remember when you were off sick from school years ago? It was brilliant, wasn’t it? Your mum would make a bed on the couch with pillow and duvet, and you’d snuggle under the covers with a bowl of macaroni cheese and a hot ribena watching day time telly. It was the days before Fern and Philip of course. (If I remember rightly, it was the days before Richard and Judy. I think we had to make do with Pebble Mill at One and Crown Court.)

Anyway, Scrappino and I decided to take the day off on Thursday. I hid under my duvet on the big chair while he snuggled up on the couch. I made myself a mug of tea and a huge cup of hot chocolate for Scrappino and we took the phone off the hook and watched….Star Wars. I’d bought Scrappino the Star Wars box set (both of them – this year’s Mother of the Year award is practically in the bag) for doing so well with all the legal shenanigans recently. And this week was the perfect time to watch them. (Not least because, with our blocked noses and tickly throats, we both sounded like Darth Vader every time we opened our mouths.)

Now I have to admit to something which will no doubt baffle all my male readers, but which I’m sure all female devotees will fully understand. Basically, I have never (ever) been able to sit through an entire Star Wars film without falling asleep. And that’s when my head has not been pounding with flu and I’ve not been up all night coughing. So you can appreciate how tricky it was to stay awake while I was under the weather. But, as a single mother of a young boy I find myself having to do things that I’m not particularly equipped for. It’s something of a daily learning curve. I have had to master skills I never knew I had or feign an interest in activities that I’ve never experienced before. Understanding the rules of test cricket, for example, or building AirFix models of Spitfires. And now, I can add watching Star Wars to the list.

I tried my hardest to follow the plot and not fall asleep. But it was impossible. Scrappino had no such difficulty. He was hooked. From the minute the opening credits rolled at the beginning of Episode IV A New Hope to the very last moment of Episode III Revenge of the Sith (via Episodes V, VI, I and II) he was gripped. Admittedly, Scrappino is now something of a Sci-Fi junkie. He drops words like ‘hyperspace’ and ‘teleport’ into a conversation with uncanny ease (almost as though they were real words which actually mean something) and not a day goes by without some reference to Dr Who (as you all know only too well by now). But I must admit that I struggled with it all. I kept drifting off and then waking up, only to discover that the story had moved on by a matter of decades and I had no idea who anyone was or where they were. I was the most annoying DVD companion. The conversation went something like this:

Me: “Is that Princess Leia?”
Scrappino: “No, Mum, it’s Padme”.
Me: “I see. But then how can that be Obe-wan Kenobe? I thought he already died?
Scrappino: “He did. But this is the young Obe-wan”
Me: “Oh, so is that Luke Skywalker?”
Scrappino “NO! It’s Anakin Skywalker”
Me: “Oh right, are they related?”
Scrappino: “MUM!!”

Scrappino was not the only one left exasperated. The feeling was mutual. He’s an eight year old boy and he’s started doing what all eight year old boys who are newly introduced to Star Wars do. He has started to say every sentence like Yoda. Later that day, (after he agreed to talk to me again once I had promised not to ask any more questions about the plot) we had the following conversation:

Me: “How is your throat feeling now?”
Scrappino: “A lot better, my throat feels”
Me: “Would you like some supper?”
Scrappino: “Some pasta and cheese, would I like.”
Me: “Are you feeling well enough to eat it at the table?”
Scrappino: “Eat it on the sofa, I would prefer.”

He wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t complete a sentence without stopping to cough or blow his nose, so I let him have his fun. But once I made the pasta and brought it to him on the sofa I asked if he’d like some tomato sauce to go with it.

Scrappino: “Yes please”
Me: “On the table, it is. May the sauce be with you”.

Hustings....again...

2006-01-30T17:13:00.000Z

There’s good news and bad news.

The bad news is that I did not manage to get through to the final round of voting in the Best Humor (sic) Blog category of the JIB blog awards. Although, if this is anything to go by, maybe that’s just as well. (If you’re not into pressing the links, an article in this morning’s Independent [it isn’t – are you?] reveals that men are not attracted to funny women. We frighten them, apparently. Poor lambs.)

However, the good news is that I am through to the final round of voting in the Best New Blog category. (Thanks to Z for pointing this out. I’d not noticed…) So it’s time to get voting. Again. You can vote for me here. Just find the list for Best New Blog and click vote! Oh, and you can re-cast your vote once every three days. I’ve not a hope of winning. But it’s fun to be in the running. And since I’ve no interest in rent-boys and do not have a drink problem, I’m unlikely to find myself canvassing for political votes any time soon.

Thanking you all in advance. And don’t forget to spread the word…

Ten go mad in Calais

2006-01-25T19:35:00.000Z

My good friend Z celebrated her birthday last Saturday by organising a day trip to Calais. When I say organised, I mean she arranged every detail, from downloading the route from London to Folkestone, booking the train tickets, reserving a table at a fancy restaurant near Calais and even factoring in an hour’s duty-free shopping. When it was my birthday I barely managed to send out a hasty email to everyone in my Outlook address book inviting them to my flat for a drink. So I take my hat off to Z for her military precision planning.

Among those present were Rx, Tx, TC, G, Big J, Little J and ZW. (I’m rather regretting making a promise to all my friends and acquaintances that I wouldn’t expose them on the blog. As a result, I can’t give away any real names, which means that this story is going to resemble a complicated algebraic equation. I hope you’ll be able to keep up. Single initials make it very difficult to distinguish between different members of the group. The only consolation I can offer is that we are all young Jewish adults from North West London so the need to distinguish between us is not vital. We’re all pretty much the same, anyway).

Friday 20th January

22.00 Rx arrives at Tx’s flat.
22.15 Tx gets out his AA Bumper Road Atlas of Great Britain and plots route from Swiss Cottage to Folkestone. Tx whitters on about the M20, the Blackwall tunnel and the A2 becoming the A20. Rx nods knowingly, not listening to a word Tx is saying. (Rx actually thinking to herself “hasn’t Tx got lovely eyes”.
22.30 Tx asks Rx if she understands the route because Rx is going to have to navigate.
22.35 Rx begins to panic. Tx shows Rx the route. Again. Rx tries to concentrate and NOT think about Tx’s lovely eyes. They are lovely though. (Tx wonders if the rumour that Rx has a Double First from Cambridge is true because she clearly has an attention span of less than a couple of mi….they really are lovely eyes.).
23.00 Tx sets alarm for 7.30 a.m.
23.05 Rx cracks joke about not realising there is a 7.30 a.m. on a Saturday.
23.10 Tx doesn’t laugh. He has heard the joke before.

Saturday 21st January

07.00 Z, TC, G, Big J, Little J and ZW meet at 7.00 a.m. sharp in Edgware. They divide into two cars for journey to Folkestone, armed with print-out of route and time schedule for the day. Rx and Tx are scheduled to meet the rest of the group in Folkestone at 8.30 a.m.
07.30 Alarm goes off in Tx’s flat. Rx and Tx faff about for half an hour before finally leaving the house. Without print-out of route or time schedule for the day.

08.00 Tx and Rx now en route to Folkestone.
08.15 Z phones Rx – “Big J wants to know where are you?”- Rx lies “nearly there”
08.30 G phones Rx – “Big J wants to know where are you?”- Rx lies “nearly there”
08.45 Everyone (except Tx and Rx) arrive in Folkestone
09.00 TC phones Rx – “Big J wants to know where the hell are you??” – Rx lies “nearly there”
09.15 Big J threatens to leave Folkestone without Rx and Tx
09.30 Z phones Rx – “Big J wants to know where are you?” – Rx (truthfully) “nearly there”
09.45 Tx and Rx arrive in Folkestone.
09.50 Big J looks at his watch and hurrumphs. Tx asks if there is time to have breakfast. Rx admires his audacity. And his eyes. They’re really lovely eyes.
10.00 Suddenly, ZW screams. “I’ve forgotten my passport”. Big J wants to hit her. Panic ensues.
10.10 Rx and Tx spot their opportunity and head off to buy breakfast. Tx buys a croissant. Rx thinks “coals to Newcastle” and buys a banana.
10.15 Every member of the group (except Rx and Tx, who are eating bananas and croissants, respectively) offers an opinion as to whether a UK driving license can serve as a passport on Euro tunnel. Not one of the group is in any way qualified to give this advice. None of them has any training in immigration law. None has studied the rules for Channel crossings. This does not stop them offering their opinions.
10.30 Big J suggests that Z and ZW phone the EuroTunnel info-line to ask if a UK driving license can serve as passport.
10.35 Little J suggests Big J takes a Zantac
10.40 Euro-Tunnel info-line chap says yes – UK driving license can serve as passport. ZW is white with worry. Big J looks at his watch and demands, for the sake of his health, that we get in the sodding cars and get to the train. NOW!!

10.45 Ten young Jewish adults split into two cars and queue up to board Channel Tunnel train. The noticeboard ahead reads “Les Passeports”
10.50 ZW asks if we are going through passport control.
10.55 Big J asks ZW what the hell she thinks “Les Passeports” means?
11.00 ZW reminds Big J that she doesn’t speak French so how is she supposed to know??
11.05 Ten young Jewish adults board the train and park their cars.
11.10 Z takes out the home-made (i.e. downloaded from the Internet) sing-a-long book (think standard Karaoke catalogue plus Naomi Shemer favourites) that Big J has rigged up especially for the trip.
11.15 Message is relayed over tannoy: “May we kindly remind patrons that smoking and drinking are strictly prohibited on all Euro Tunnel facilities”.
11.20 Ten young Jewish adults begin singing the entire first act of Joseph and his Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat at the tops of their voices.
11.25 Message is relayed over the tannoy: “May we kindly remind patrons that smoking, drinking and singing Andrew Lloyd Webber classics out of tune and with no regard for other train users is strictly prohibited.” Or words to that effect
11.30 Ten young Jewish adults disembark train and begin drive to St Omer (near Calais.) Rx makes jokes about counting the way to St Omer and taking 49 days to get there. Tx doesn’t laugh. He hasn't heard the joke before. But he knows he'll probably hear it again soon.
12.15 Arrive in restaurant an hour earlier than table is booked for lunch.
12.20 Nine Jewish adults laugh at Big J for worrying about being late for restaurant.
13.20 Big J reminds nine Jewish adults about the one-hour time difference.
13.30 Nine chastened Jewish adults and one smug Jewish adult sit down for lunch.

13.35 Waitress arrives to take order. Rx wonders if she should order freedom fries. Rx decides against.
13.40 Rx wonders if she should order vegetarian/fish option or risk ordering treif
13.45 Tx orders fish.
13.50 Rx decides to order fish too.
13.55 Z, Big J, Little J, ZW and TC all order meat
13.57 Rx orders meat too.
14.00 Rx reads Tx’s face for any signs of disapproval. None found. His eyes are lovely though.
14.15 Lunch is served. Cuisine is gorgeous and the wine is fabulous. Ten Jewish adults sit around table laughing, joking, eating, drinking and toasting Z’s good health. It’s just like a barmitzva. Only Danny Shine is not crooning in the background.

15.15 Lunch is over. The bill is split ten ways and each card is charged separately a tenth of the bill. It takes forever to pay. Everyone has to enter their chip and pin. Rx makes gag about using frite and pin since they are in France. Tx doesn’t laugh. He has heard the joke before.
15.30 Ten stuffed Jewish adults decide how to spend the next two hours.
15.35 Big J reminds the group they must be back in Calais by 6.30 pm
15.40 Big J reminds the group that he means 6.30 pm local time.
15.50 TC suggests a trip to the war cemetery.
15.55 Nine Jewish adults roll their eyes in disbelief. This motion is not carried
16.00 The girls suggest a shopping trip. The boys suggest the girls suggest something else.
16.10 Z suggests the group all go on a nice walk in a French village. It is Z’s birthday so this motion is carried.
16.20 Z asks waiter if there is a nice French village near by.
16.25 Waiter points out the window and walks away.
16.30 Ten young Jewish adults mutter ‘bloody French’ under their breath and put on hats and coats for nice winter stroll.

18.00 After nice (but surprisingly chilly) stroll in local park, ten young Jewish adults arrive at Carrefour for a spot of duty-free (well, almost duty free) shopping.
18.05 Big J reminds group that they must be back at the entrance of the shopping mall at 6.30 pm.
18.10 Big J reminds group that he means 6.30 pm local time.
18.15 Rx and Tx head off to buy perfume (for Rx), whisky (for Rx’s dad) and wine (for Tx)
18.17 Rx finds favourite perfume (Issey Miyake should you be wondering) within 60 seconds. However, Rx then sprays both palms, the back of both hands, her gloves and her scarf with various perfumes just in case she finds something nicer.
18.20 Rx buys Issey Miyake, marvelling at Tx’s patience. And his lovely eyes.
18.25 Tx asks Rx if Issey Miyake is her favourite perfume. Rx says yes. Rx takes question as a very good sign.
18.30 Tx and Rx dash to wine and spirits section of supermarket to buy wine and whisky.
18.35 Rx and Tx bump into seven young Jewish adults all buying wine and one young Jewish adult hurrumphing, looking at his watch and telling the others they HAVE to get back in the car or they’ll miss the train.
18.40 Various young Jewish adults pick random bottles of wine off the shelves without any clue as to what they are buying or how much they should realistically be paying.
18.50 Ten young Jewish adults, weighed down with perfume, whisky and wine, load the cars and make their way to the train.
18.55 Big J tells the group they are cutting it fine.
19.00 Group arrive at train too late for next crossing.
19.02 Big J explodes and screams that the next train is not until 7.45 p.m.
19.05 Nine young Jewish adults ask if that means 7.45 local time?

Suburbanhymns on tour...

2006-01-20T13:49:00.000Z

No words of wisdom or comedy gems today, I'm afraid. The events of this week have taken their toll and the ink has run dry. Plus, I was out with friends last night, celebrating Wednesday's result, and my head is just a tad sore. So, I've decided to take a day off. However, fear not. If you really need your suburbanhymn fix you can get it from my guest post for Jameel of the Muqata.

The post that I left there is a little more serious than I tend to be over here - and a lot more personal - so grab a Kleenex before you start. And do me a favour. Please don't mention it to my face. It's bad enough divulging your teenage crush to strangers - I don't need my nearest and dearest raising the issue.

Tomorrow I am off to France for the day to celebrate the birthday of my good friend, Z. I have no euros and my passport expires on 16th February. So I may well find myself stuck in France with no money and no means of getting home without calling the Consul and asking him to sort it out.

But if I get back in one piece, I'll tell you all about it on my return. Have a good one. R.x.

A few words of thanks...

2006-01-19T12:51:00.000Z

Today's is a very personal posting. And, for that reason, I've had to ensure that it's fairly cryptic too. In fact, all things considered, it's actually rather pointless, because the people who know me personally and who therefore know what I'm referring to, have already been told this news (via the tens of emails and text messages that I sent out yesterday) and so they don't need to be told again via the blog. Meanwhile, the casual passers-by and blog-pals will have no clue what I'm talking about and, since I'm keeping the news as vague as I can, they will not be able to work it out from this post. So, those who already know don't need to read this and those who don't know will be none the wiser for doing so.

That said, I can't let the day go by without blogging about this. I started this blog just over a year ago and have (surprisingly, considering how easily I give things up when the novelty wears off) managed to maintain a fairly regular diary for the past 12 months. I have blogged about good times and bad dates; made you laugh and made myself cry; taken you all on a journey through Scrappino's obsession with Dr Who and the longest bathroom installation in living memory. And, though I say so myself, it's been a lot of fun.

But throughout it all, in the background, there has been a silent drama playing out. I've never blogged about it. I've not even referred to it in passing. The only impact it has had on the blog is that, on occasion, the situation has left me feeling so low and deflated that I've not really felt like blogging at all. Remember those times when I went for a week without posting, and then had to begin the next post with yet another apology for my absence? That was down to this situation. Sometimes, you're just too low to be funny.

But now, finally, after eighteen months of worry, stress, tears and not a little anger, I can finally reveal that it's all over. You can't begin to imagine how happy I'm feeling right now. And how relieved. For legal reasons I'm not going to divulge details here. But, suffice to say, a very wise judge made a great decision yesterday. A great decision for me. And, more importantly, a great decision for Scrappino.

Personally, I feel vindicated for making a stand on Scrappino's behalf, proud of myself for seeing it through to the bitter (or, as it turned out, not so bitter) end and amazed that I managed to carry on living a semblance of normality with all this going on in the background. I'm incredibly proud of Scrappino too. He's continued to thrive, to achieve at school and has remained cheerful and positive throughout. Not a small feat when you're only eight years old. And I'm unbelievably grateful for all the support I've received from my family and friends. You have been nothing short of wonderful. I've cried on your shoulders, phoned you at all hours for help and advice, and no doubt bored you witless with the 'he said - she said' minutiae of every twist and turn. I would not have been able to get through this without you. And I thank you all.

Cast your vote!

2006-01-11T14:23:00.000Z

I have been shamelessly canvassing for votes all day. Via telephone, in person and by email. And now I'm going to blog for them as well. I have been nominated in three categories in the Jewish and Israeli Blog Awards. You can cast your vote for me by choosing suburbanhymns in the dropdown menu in the Best Jewish Humor Category, the Best Personal Blog Category and the Best New Blog 2005 Category. Vote from as many computers as you have access to - and feel free to send to as many of your friends as you can. I have no hope of winning. Firstly, the competition is hosted by the Jerusalem Post and, surprise surprise, Jerusalem Post sponsored blogs are racing ahead in the votes. Secondly, while my blog is (at the time of posting) coming up to 10,000 hits, I am competing with blogs which have an average visitor rate of 1,000 hits a day. So it's an uphill struggle to say the least. That said, it is fabulous to have been nominated (thanks mc…) and who knows where it might lead?? So cast your vote and make blog history….

Meanwhile, we are now 11 days into the new year, so here's my resolution update. Results so far:

1. Give up smoking. I am still 100% nicotene free. It is bloody difficult - I've had three sleepless nights when a crafty fag would have been very welcome. But willpower and Radio 4 sent me back to sleep smoke-free.

2. Watch less TV. An hour a day of TV is a little tricky. I'm probably still averaging more than that. But since most of it is Dr Who videos courtesy of Scrappino I'm inclined not to judge myself too harshly.

3. Lose half a stone. No weight loss whatsoever. Bugger. Though I'm told that losing weight while giving up smoking is scientifically impossible. Must remember to ask Robert Winston if that's true at the next Limmud. I'm sure he'll appreciate that.

4. Entertain more. Does making pasta and cheese for Scrappino and his friends count? If so, I'm on my way. If not, nope. I've still not dared to don the oven gloves and actually cook a meal from scratch for any guests over the age of 8. I told you I'd find this one difficult. Although I did order a smashing take away for my good friend L last night. Does that count?

5. Find love. Rather regretting making this resolution public. Let's just say, there have been developments. That's as large a bone as I'm willing to throw at this point.

Don't forget to cast your vote. I'll be kissing babies at a shopping centre near you soon....

A meme from me-me to you-you

2006-01-06T13:27:00.000Z

I have been "tagged with a meme". I know. Complete gibberish. (Why can't bloggers use the Queen's English for god's sake?) Anyway, for those as uninitiated as I am, let me explain. A meme is like a game of verbal tag. Someone (who?) has an idea for a blog post - for example "my ten favourite officially-recognised phobias" - and then 'tags' a random selection of bloggers who then each have to write a post on the same theme. I'm not sure exactly how this encourages diversity of content and originality of ideas, but we'll park that reservation for the moment. For the time being, the meme (nope, no idea where that word comes from. Any ideas? I first thought it was short hand for Me!Me! - frankly, ideal for this self-obsessed blog - but that's not it), anyway, the meme is Four.

Now, obviously, my favourite Four is The Fab Four. But apparently I don't get off the hook that easily. Nor, it seems, can I get away with making crass gags like 'my favourite four is fourplay' since the joke doesn't really work when it's written down and is pretty ropey when read out loud. So, I'm going to have to do this properly.

The idea of this meme is to provide four answers to a list of questions. I've had no say in devising the questions - but I'd hazard a guess that whoever did has once worked on a teenage pop magazine. These are the kind of questions that Duran Duran et al used to get asked by the staff of Smash Hits. ("So, you're top of the charts, your latest single went platinum and you've just released your seventh album. What's your favourite colour?") Anyway, provisos and reservations notwithstanding, here's my list of fours….

Four jobs I've had
Researcher
Editor
Mother
(That's only three and one is un-paid. Disgraceful.)

Four films I've walked out of
Hand that rocks the cradle
(That's it - well, once you've paid…)

Four films I could watch over and over again
84 Charing Cross Road
Moulin Rouge
Dangerous Liaisons
Big Lebowski

Four places I've lived
Liverpool
Jerusalem
Cambridge
London

Four TV shows I love
Dr Who (The Eccleston Years)
Phoenix Nights
Angels in America (does that count?)
Cold Feet

Four most recent holiday destinations
Athens
Rome
Texas
Barcelona
(Not the planet Barcelona, the city Barcelona….)

Four websites I visit daily
BBC
Ebay (my name is suburbanhymns and I am an ebay addict…)
Amazon (I should just set up a direct debit and have my wages sent straight to Amazon)
The Clock's Loneliness (it's a poetry thing…)

Four books that I absolutely love
Middlemarch (desert island choice)
Brideshead Revisited (love, hope, despair)
Pride and Prejudice (because every time is like the first time)
The Great Gatsby (jazz, intrigue and rorbert redford)

Four books that I will never ever read again
Jude the Obscure (unremittingly despressing)
Great Expectations (I don't care if it's Dickens - it's shite)
The Information (I physically flung this across the room when I'd finished - and vowed never to read Amis again)
Anything with 'self-help' or 'how to' in the title

Four of my favourite foods
Grilled haloumi cheese
Roast chicken
Hot pecan pie
Pink Lady apples
(but not all together. that would be disgusting)

Four of my favourite songs
Your mother and I - Loudon Wainwright III
Shine - David Gray
Volcano - Damien Rice
Watching the Wheels - John Lennon
(These change daily - so ask me again some time…)

This meme was tagged from A Whispering Soul and Jameel Rashid. I'm supposed to pay it forward to four new bloggers. But I don't really know any who've not already been tagged. So I'm afraid the chain stops here. If this was a pyramid scam, I'd be out of pocket round about now….

Happy New Year

2006-01-04T23:50:00.000Z

Happy New Year to one and all. (Or, for my Jerusalem-based readers, Happy Sylvester). Well, we’re now five days in and so far the year has not been too bad at all. I didn’t exactly bring it in with much style. I was down in Bournemouth with my parents who started the year as they intend to continue by going out to play bridge. So I was left on my own (plus ca change) with Scrappino (and Jonathan Ross) to see in 2006.

To be honest, I wasn’t too upset. New Year’s Eve parties are always a staggering disappointment. The weather is invariably freezing; you can never decide which party to attend and whichever one you do eventually go to, you spend the entire evening wishing you’d chosen another. On New Year’s Eve, it always seems like everyone else is having a great time while you’re dragging yourself through the crappest party since the school after-panto disco. So, I was actually quite happy to stay in with Scrappino and the TV. Unfortunately, Scrappino wimped out at 10.30 and begged to go to bed. I did my best to keep him awake with offers of chocolate and Dr Who DVD’s, but the role reversal just got too ridiculous, even for me, and I eventually relented and let him go to sleep. So, I was left with Jonathan Ross and an array of celebrity luvvies, who were recapping on the best TV moments of 2005. Sad to say, and heartbreaking to admit, I remember most of the TV moments like they were yesterday. Clearly, I have watched far too much telly this year (for which, see below) as I could recall almost every clip that was shown, down to the finest detail. But it was something to do til the clock struck midnight. At which point, I turned off the TV and, sober as a judge, but not regretting my party venue decision, I went to bed.

Now, I have made five New Year Resolutions. I realise this might sound over-optimistic. All the experts (by which, of course, I mean, the recently graduated freelance journalists who write the obligatory New Years Resolution stories in the glossy magazines) advise that you should make one resolution only so that you can realistically stick to it. I, however, know myself fairly well, and I am confident that I will almost certainly fail to keep at least two of them. So I figured if I made five resolutions, fail at two, I’ll end up keeping three. Which is better than opting for just the one in the first place. (See, now I’m a New Year’s Resolution expert. I should be sending this in to Bella, I really should).

New Year’s Resolutions – 2006 – in no particular order:

1. Give up smoking. I have to point out, for the sake of close family members who are, at this very moment, no doubt jumping up and down with rage, that I’m not exactly a 60-a-day person. In fact, I don’t smoke at home (Scrappino’s lungs being little and clean and quite precious), or at work (regular fag breaks make employees look lazy) or in the street (where do I begin? It’s common, litters the street with fag-ends, makes your hands freeze or your gloves smell, the list is endless). So, I frequently go for days, if not weeks, without smoking at all. That said, I must admit to lighting up in company, at parties or if I’m out for a drink. But not any more. Despite the various stresses and strains looming in the coming months, I am determined that I have now smoked my last cigarette. I’m not even going to cadge a crafty one off strangers in order to start up a conversation. My name is Suburbanhymns and I have been free of nicotine for five days.

2. Watch less TV. I have a dream of one day writing an award-winning TV drama. It’ll be funny and thought-provoking and challenging and dramatic. One of those must-see, seminal TV ‘events’ that define an age. (So, not a ridiculously over-ambitious dream, then). I’ve even practiced my BAFTA acceptance speech. (Ooh, I hope Christopher Eccleston presents it). Anyway, this pipe-dream allows me to forgive myself whenever I watch too much TV because I’m able to convince myself that it’s all in the name of research. However terrible the programme, I can usually argue that it’s all good preparation and that it serves as a lesson in characterisation, scene building, dramatic tension and story development. This is, clearly, bollocks. Watching crap TV does nothing but addle my brain and it has to stop. So, starting from now, I’m allowing myself 1 hour a day, maximum. Radio 4, it goes without saying, will be available on a 24/7 drip-feed loop. I’m not going completely cold-turkey.

3. Lose half a stone. See, I tell people that I need to lose weight and they reply (bless their hearts) that I look fine. Which, if I’m honest, I probably do. The only problem with the people who give this kind advice is that they haven’t seen me naked. I mean, I know I look fine in jeans. It’s just that once I’ve stepped out of the jeans, things go a bit, well, sort of, wobbly. I know I don’t need to shed bucket loads of weight. But a half-stone would be perfect. So, I’m not going to go mad or anything. No Cabbage Soup Diet or F-Plan for me. Just slightly less chocolate and a bit more exercise and I should be back to a size 10/12 in no time. (For American readers, that’s an English size 10/12. Not an American 10/12. I’m not that wobbly.)

4. Entertain more. I don’t mean, tell more, or better, jokes. I mean, invite people round to the flat more often. I’ll let you into a secret (and this is 100% true) I have an irrational fear of inviting people round to my flat for dinner. I love it when friends pop in unannounced. I’m great with the ‘come round for a drink and a DVD’ scenario. But actually sitting people round the table and cooking a meal for them makes me go cold. I just can’t do it. But I am always being invited to dinner by friends and family, and it’s got to the point where I simply have to return the invitations. I’m not yet sure how I’m going to stick to this resolution. I may have to wean myself in slowly by requesting that guests bring a salad or a dessert with them. But I’m determined to crack this. Face the fear and fight the phobia. As the self-help industry would say.

5. Find love. I have been happily single for a few years. I’ve done things I’ve wanted to do, when I’ve wanted to do them, and I have loved the independence and freedom that it’s brought. It’s been a wonderfully liberating and empowering experience. And the icing on the cake is that I’ve been able to spend time with Scrappino that I simply couldn’t have done if I’d been bogged down by the nitty gritty of a relationship. But I think the time has come to think binary. This is the year to double up. I’m going to keep myself open to opportunities and offers. When friends suggest colleagues and cousins for me to meet, I’m going to say yes. When strangers ask me for my phone number, I’m going to give it to them. And maybe, who knows? If I do find love in 2006 I won’t need the cigarettes, I’ll be too busy to watch TV, I’ll have an incentive to lose that half a stone and I’ll have a helping hand in the kitchen when folk come round for dinner? Sorted.

Limmud Update

2005-12-28T12:06:00.000Z

My apologies for the long silence. I am at Limmud (feeling much better by the way) and it has taken me four days to find the computer room. Probably just as well, because I’m not sure that a blow-by-blow account of what lectures I’ve attended and which films I’ve watched would be of much interest. As it is, four days in, I can give you a more generalised overview of the Limmud experience.

For those who don’t know, Limmud is a five day Jewish conference, now in its 25th year, and attracts over 2000 attendees from all over the UK (and some from abroad too). There are academics, writers, artists, politicians, comedians and poets here – all presenting sessions on a range of themes from Bible, History, Film, Comedy, Art, Cooking, the list really is endless.

People who attend come from every walk of life – from very orthodox thru traditional streams of Judaism to no observance at all. And everyone is welcome and nobody is judged. (In public, at least). So the range of people is vast. That said, the delegates tend to fall into a number of major stereotypes. Or Tribes.

1. The Happy Clappies. These are the chaps who wear very colourful Bukharan kippot, stripy ponchos bought in Peru in 1974, fringed scarves wrapped at least twice round their necks. They all carry guitars. Some even carry balalaikas. They attend the sessions with ‘meditation’ or ‘mysticism’ in the title and they queue up for the vegetarian option in the dining room.

2. The Academics. These are, unsurprisingly, the visiting Professors from universities around the world who take Limmud very, very seriously. They do not attend a single arts based session the entire time they are here. On the contrary, they attend the heavy text-based, PhD thesis sessions back to back and rush around the campus like mad people, with the glasses on string flapping round their necks. They attack the week like Japanese tourists – they know exactly where they are going to be any given time on any day. I have no clue when I’m having lunch today. They know what session they’re attending in four days time at 3.40 pm.

3. The Harrassed Parents. They were told that Limmud was ‘a fantastic place to bring the kids’ and, more incredibly, they believed it. So they have dragged their kids to Nottingham and have spent the past four days tying to placate them for missing out on all the Christmas telly. They are trying to make Limmud a Christmas substitute, which is fitting, since everytime you see them, out of breath running from the kids play room to the kids dining room and back again, having a thoroughly miserable time, all they can say is ‘Limmud, it’s for the kids, innit.’

4. The Ladies Guild Road Trippers. Dressed in identical twin sets and big hair, they are on a session loop. Cookery demonstration (where the name of Evelyn Rose is uttered in hushed reverence) then Musical Interlude (Klezmer, preferably) then an exhibition of Chagall paintings. And then back to Cookery again. (You can never have too much Evelyn Rose).

5.The Students. They do not attend any sessions. They have not come to learn. They are on the pull.

Personally, it’s been a wonderful time. Firstly, I have drunk far too much and have flirted outrageously. Possibly casting myself into Tribe #5, but what they hell. I’m on holiday. The good news though is that, alcoholism notwithstanding, my hair is looking fabulous. You know how it is when you go away. You always worry that it’s not going to look as good as you can do it at home. It’s a girl thing. But luckily, no worries at all on that score.

I’ve not been able to attend all the sessions I’ve wanted to. It’s just not possible because there are so many. So I’ve had to choose which to attend and which to avoid. I’ve used the session ‘explanation’ in the guide book to help me choose. Anything with ‘kabbalah’, ‘audience participation’ or ‘journey’ (preceded by the word personal) is out. I know when I’ve made a mistake when the session begins with the presenter saying “Okay, let’s move the chairs to the back of the room and stand in a circle”. Time to make a sharp exit.

My only other major activity has been avoiding various ex-bad-dates that are wandering around the campus. As soon as you get the conference pack (which contains a list of all attendees) all under-35’s scan the list of names to see which dates from hell are here. Luckily, only 2 are here and I’ve managed to avoid them so far.

Well, my next session is about to start – I’m off to watch the film “Walking on Water”. I’ll update again soon – or when I’m back in London.

Passenger Blues

2005-12-20T16:57:00.000Z

Well, as much I’ve tried to fight it, with industrial strength lemsip and my own body weight in oranges, I am now suffering my first proper cold of the winter. I am dosed up to the eyeballs with various sickly sweet remedies, all of which ‘may cause drowsiness’ and there is a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit, that is making it rather difficult to swallow. I am fighting the urge to shut down the computer and just go home. But I don’t want my boss to think I’m skiving off to go Christmas shopping. Plus, when you’re under the weather, travelling on the tube is a nightmare and so I’m putting off the dreaded moment for as long as possible.

I hate travelling on the tube at the best of times. It’s dirty, unreliable and expensive. It forces us to get up-close-and-personal with the great unwashed (often, literally) of London, and brings out the very worst in all of us. I leave the house every morning in a good mood, raring to enjoy the new day, and after an hour on the tube I am snappy, irritable and ready to stab someone. I’d consider raising this with Mayor Livingstone, but he’d probably accuse me of being a Nazi.

There are dozens of reasons why the tube is a microcosm of hell on earth. Here are just five of them.

1. Tube commuters with out-of-credit Oyster cards.
There is nothing more annoying than queuing up to go through the electric barriers and finding yourself behind someone whose Oyster card is out of credit. They press the card on the scanner but the barrier doesn’t open, and instead the display screen tells them to “Seek Assistance”. At this point, two things happen. Firstly, you slam into the back of the said commuter because you expected them to walk through the barrier and so carried on walking at full speed behind them. They stop still and you crash into them, chin first. (If they are wearing a ruck sack this can be bloody painful.) The second thing that happens is that the commuter reads “Seek Assistance” and assumes it means “Try Again”. He places the card back on the scanner, but (surprise surprise) it still doesn’t open the barrier and the display still reads “Seek Assistance”. This time, the commuter thinks it means “Go on, give it another go. There are only 12 people behind you. And nobody’s in any kind of hurry”. After the third failed attempt the commuter finally realises that barrier is not going to open and tries to get out of the queue. He does this by pushing you out of the way (so that you now find yourself flung into the face of the person behind you) and swearing obscenities at you, like it’s your fault.

2. The battle of wills to sit down.
During rush hour tube seats are scarce. Unless you are pregnant, or live at the end of a line, you are not going to get a seat on the tube until at least half past nine. Your only chance of sitting down is to be in the right place at the right time. So you have to watch the other commuters and try to work out who looks like they’re getting ready to leave at the next station, and then position yourself in the right place to jump into their grave the minute they get up to leave. Anybody fiddling with their bags, putting on gloves or folding up a newspaper is a safe bet. You need to stand next to them and cling to the spot like glue. But while you’re doing this, you also have to keep half an eye out for the other standing commuters. Because there is nothing worse than eyeing up a potential empty seat, only to have it taken by somebody else while you are politely letting the previous occupant leave the train. So there is a constant battle of wills going on for every potential seat. Sometimes, if you position yourself cleverly enough, you can grab a newly vacant seat ahead of people who have been on the train for longer than you. This is great because most commuters think that the tube operates on a first-come-first-served basis, so if you manage to grab a seat before them the victory is even sweeter. Unless, of course, you’ve been on the train for ages and some jonny-come-lately gets the seat ahead of you. In which case, you give him daggers for the rest of the journey and hope that his Oyster card is out of credit.

3. London Underground Speak
Or, in other words, the inane and totally made-up English that tube staff insist on using, purely to bring out the Lynn Truss in everyone. For example, nobody travelling on the underground ever refers to the carriages as ‘cars’. This is because they are not cars but are, in fact, carriages. And yet you can guarantee that the platform staff will tell you to “Move right down inside the cars” whenever the train is particularly busy. What are they talking about? “Move right down inside the cars” is something they advise British journalists to do when travelling through a check-point in Baghdad to avoid sniper fire. We, on the other hand, are making our way through Camden Town. Another favourite of mine is the word “reduced” which is used by tube staff in its sense of “shit”. So, when they announce that “A reduced service is currently operating on the Jubilee line” what they actually mean is “A shit service is currently operating on the Jubilee line”. Not only do they use the wrong words but, on occasion, they just make words up, such as the verb “to non-stop”. So, tube announcers will never tell you that “This train will not be stopping at Kings Cross”, because that sentence makes perfect sense and shows an accurate command of the English language. Instead, they will explain that “This train will be non-stopping at Kings Cross”. This is not pure coincidence. There is a marketing theory that all negative messages should be worded in a positive way. So, instead of a train “not stopping” (negative) we are actually told that the train is (positive) non-stopping. Soon, we will no doubt be informed that the escalators are non-moving and the lifts are non-opening.

4. Service updates
You can only travel on one line at a time on the underground. Occasionally, you might change from one line to another in a single journey but, generally speaking, you use one line only. So, if the line you want to travel on is delayed, you derive absolutely no pleasure at all from the knowledge that “A good service is operating on all other lines”. If the line that takes you home is buggered, you are going to be late home. They could be serving a five-star silver-service meal with wine and providing an in-flight movie on all other lines for all you care. It makes no difference to you – you are still going to be late home. So, when you are standing on an over-crowded platform, trying to keep from falling onto the track, and the platform attendant is announcing that the next train is due to arrive in 17 minutes, how on earth does it help you to know that a good service is operating on all other lines? If anything, it just rubs salt in the wound. They might as well announce “Your journey home will be delayed by 24 minutes today. All other commuters are already at home, in their slippers and are currently watching Coronation Street”.
I once heard a station manager announce “There is currently a reduced service on the Piccadilly and Northern Lines. The Victoria and Bakerloo lines are part suspended, in both directions. The Central line is running a Saturday service due to essential engineering works. A good service is operating on all other lines.” Oh good. Because we wouldn’t want the capital’s entire travel network to grind to a halt, would we?

5. Reasons given for poor service.
A delayed journey is bad enough. Being told that all other lines are running perfectly doesn’t help. But when the tube announcers try to explain away the delay by making up any old rot they think we’ll swallow, I see red. Often, they just make the excuses up. We’ve all been in the situation of starting a tube journey in, say, Golders Green, grinding to a halt in a tunnel four stops later, only to be told that the delay is due to engineering works in the Golders Green area. When you know for a fact that there were no such engineering works at all. Sometimes, not only do they make up the excuse, but they change it as the journey progresses. So, a delay that is initially caused by engineering works in the Hendon area becomes a delay caused by flooding in Kentish Town. By the time you finally arrive (late) in Waterloo, you’ve been held up by signal failure in Kings Cross, a power cut in Hammersmith and a fire in Euston. And you don’t even travel through Hammersmith or Euston.
And, when they finally run out of excuses, they play their joker – the excuse that really makes my blood boil. “Passenger Action”. Because, at the end of the day, it’s all our own fault, isn’t it? I’ve never actually discovered what they mean by “Passenger Action”. But if a commuter has been slammed into a fellow passenger in the barrier queue, been left standing while someone has taken the last available seat, had to endure umpteen fictional excuses to explain away the poor service, only to be reassured that all other lines are fully operational, I’d hazard a guess that the said passenger action is probably justified. And I hope that it’s absolutely spectacular.

And with that in mind, I am off home, via the tube, to make myself a hot Ribena and put myself to bed. I’ll be back (in a less grumpy mood) when the Lemsip Max-Strength kicks in.

Musical musings

2005-12-16T14:08:00.000Z

As a parent I worry constantly about Scrappino. It's only natural. I try not to, but I do. As soon as you give birth, your capacity to sense danger around every corner increases ten-fold. Every electric socket is a potential fire hazard; every driver a hit-and-run waiting to happen. All logic and reason disappear and irrational fretting takes their place, to the point that when I'm not worrying about something specific I'm worrying that I've been kept in the dark about something worth worrying about. And so I worry even more. Basically, I'm with Roger McGough on this. His poem, entitled (appropriately enough) Worry is one of my favourites.

Where would we be without worry?
It helps keep the brain occupied.
I once knew a man
Who couldn’t care less
And he died.

As our children grow older, the worry doesn't decrease - we just worry about different things. I know this because my parents have an almost God-like talent for worrying. In fact, I'd say they have a genetic predisposition to it, which I have clearly inherited. The dangers facing their single daughter in the heaving metropolis of modern London are not lost on them. And they are permanently anxious that I am safe and well. (If I'm honest, it's actually quite comforting to be worried about by your parents - I wonder if Scrappino feels the same?)

Given this tendency for anxiety I decided not to tell them that I had bought a ticket for a concert at the Brixton Academy. The words 'Brixton', 'Stockwell Tube Station' and 'Night Bus' are not ones to offer them much comfort. And so, without a word to the folks, I set off last night into deepest South London, with my good friend A, for the said concert.

As it turns out, our stealth was not warranted. Brixton tube station is now well lit and almost totally rebuilt, with windows in the ticket hall and a plethora of smiling (yes, can you believe it, smiling) tube staff. We felt 100% safe as we walked to the Academy and made our way to the back of the queue.

Our sense of safety was perhaps bolstered by the fact that this was a David Gray concert. Hardly at the cutting edge of the teenage music scene. In fact, looking at the people waiting behind us in the queue, we noticed that there were more mums and dads than rebellious kids. (A very refreshing feeling for me - finally, I'm not the only one in the audience rushing home at the end of the night to pay the babysitter). I don't know what the residents of Brixton must have thought of all these middle-aged middle-class white folk descending on their manor.

When we were finally ushered inside and made our way through the bag check (and not a CST volunteer in sight) it became even more apparent how middle-class this gig was going to be. This was Easy Listening night at the Brixton Academy. At the bar we both ordered a beer and were given the obligatory plastic bottles. The woman alongside us asked why the bottle was plastic. Clearly, she was a Brixton Academy virgin. And she wasn't alone. A had her huge work bag with her so we asked some random woman if there was a cloakroom. She pointed us in the direction of a door at the end of the foyer. It was only when we reached it that we realised that she'd sent us to the Ladies toilets. Bromley Village meets Brixton Central - the loo is not called a cloakroom south of the river. Perhaps she'd thought that the Brixton Academy was a posh secondary school?

Eventually, we found the cloakroom, checked in our bags and were given tickets to reclaim them after the gig. As we walked towards the hall, holding our pink tickets, a 40-something year old woman asked us "Oh, is there going to be a raffle?" ("Yes, love, there's going to be a raffle. All the major pop concerts have a raffle, didn't you know? At the Rolling Stones gig they have Mick Jagger running a tombola and Madonna gives out bottles of Pomagne in a lucky dip")

We managed to drink through the support act and made our way towards the standing area in front of the stage, while the roadies set the stage and tuned the guitars for Gray and his backing band. Roadies are, without exception, the most ugly blokes you could ever meet. I'd hazard a guess that being fat, tattooed, over-pierced and sporting long hair and a straggly beard are now essential job requirements for a roadie. And this includes the one female roadie who was there yesterday. Think Janice from Coronation Street meets Eric Bristow. Not a sight you want to pay good money to see.

Eventually, the lights went down, the crowd cheered and David Gray made his way on-stage.

Now, I know my own literary limitations. And being a music critic is not within my capabilities. I don't have the vocabulary or the musical understanding to do it justice. And, more crucially, I am completely biased. So I will simply say that he was terrific. He was clearly enjoying himself the entire night (unlike the last time I saw him - two years ago at Earl's Court - the venue was too big and he was pissed off at the audience who didn’t know any of his new material and kept calling out "Sing Babylon. Sing Babylon". Which he refused to do). Not so last night. He fired his way through the best of Life in Slow Motion (his most recent album) and then treated us to the best of White Ladder - "Sail Away", "This Year's Love" and, of course, "Babylon". He wore a fabulous dark brown Italian suit (a sign of White Ladder's commercial success) and I thought that Mum would have approved (she never forgave the Beatles for ditching the Pierre Cardin and opting for Afghan coats).

Now, I know that David Gray is not the coolest chap in the pop world. I know that some think he's corny, derivative and samey. But you know what? I don't care. I just think he's brilliant. And I've found that one of the most wonderful things about being 30+ is that you stop caring about what other people think and just enjoy the things that you want to enjoy without worrying about any potential damage done to your street cred. This is made easier by my acceptance (finally) that not everyone shares my passions and so I managed to resist the urge to earnestly compel A to "listen to the words!" whenever he sang a slow ballad. (It was during these slow numbers that the middle class audience came into its own. Instead of the obligatory waving of the cigarette lighters the audience held their mobile phones aloft instead - a sea of little blue lights).

And so A and I swayed, jumped, sang and cheered our way through the very best of David Gray. He was on stage for almost two hours - moving from electric guitar to piano to acoustic guitar and gave his all to every track. He ended the set with a fabulous rendition of Babylon (a sign that he's comfortable with his previous glories and can celebrate them without fearing about his future output) and the audience roared.

He and the band walked off stage leaving the audience baying for an encore. This always makes me laugh - everyone knows the band is going to come back. Their instruments are still on the stage for Christ's sake and the lights are still down in the hall. But we all have to play the game. So we screamed 'MORE' and eventually he jogs back onto the stage with his "Oh, okay then - if you insist" expression. And sang "Shine" (my personal favourite Gray song) with more passion and more guts than I've ever seen him do it before. Worth the cover price of the ticket on its own. Finally, with the audience fired up he ended the evening with a cover of the Cure's "Friday I'm in Love", and brought the bloody house down.

Yule Blog

2005-12-15T00:16:00.000Z

Oh dear. This blog is rapidly becoming a weekly, rather than a daily, update. My apologies to regular readers who have turned up for the past 6 days only to find an out of date post. But the week has been a tad hectic, and not without excitement. It began with a bang. Literally. I was rudely awoken on Sunday morning at 6 a.m (I didn’t even know there was a 6 in the morning on a Sunday) by the most frightening BOOM that I have ever heard. It was so loud it almost knocked me out of bed. I thought at first that my front door had blown open in the wind and had been slammed shut again by the chain. I have a dodgy lock on my front door that has a habit of opening at the slightest movement outside. Not the safest security measure for a single mother, I know, but it is on my DIY to-do list. Or, more accurately, not my Do It Yourself list, but my Get A Man In To Do It list. I’ll get round to sorting it. Eventually.

So, bleary eyed and not quite fully awake (I hadn’t got to bed the previous night til gone 2) I rushed downstairs to check that everything was okay. What was odd, I thought a few moments later when I was back in bed, was that there was no wind outside, so how had the door blown open? It was only hours later, when I put the radio on, that I heard about the massive oil depot blast just a few miles up the road. Raging fires, fuel drums blazing, huge plume of thick black smoke filling the sky. The day was then spent checking that friends and family were okay. Or rather, chatting to friends and family to find out if they had heard the explosion. My brother said that he’d heard it and had assumed that the shul had been blown up. Funny how we see everything through our own personal prism. You hear a blast that sounds like a bomb and immediately assume that they’ve come for the Jews.

Luckily, Scrappino wasn’t at home that night so he had been spared the ‘ordeal’. I’m not one to advocate wrapping children in cotton wool. We can’t protect them totally from the real world. But I do worry about the effect that constant news items about terrorist bombings and security threats must have on our kids. This isn’t made any easier by the fact that his school employs three full time security guards who patrol the school grounds and stand at the gate monitoring everyone who comes in and comes out. What’s even more ridiculous is that, at the beginning and end of the day, the parents have to do security duty too. When Scrappino began at the school five years ago the rota was relatively low key. Each parent did one slot per term. And really, the only role they played was to stand at the gate with the guards to verify that parents or guardians were who they said they were and to translate the guards’ dreadful English. (The security guards are all Israeli. Young chaps of 21 or 22 who leave Israel after 3 years army service to see the world. And end up in North West London back on security duty. Mind you, that’s not quite as sad as those who end up on Golders Green road selling falafel. Can you imaging their disappointment? Moving away from Tel Aviv to travel the globe and confront a different culture, only to end up serving falafel and shwarma.)

To be honest, my relationship with the security guards began a little embarrassingly. I took Scrappino along to school on his first day, to be met by a young, and rather good looking, Israeli. He looked at me and then at Scrappino and then back at me. In halting English he asked me “Are you his sister?” I smiled in a flirty way and laughed and said “Oh, aren’t you sweet.” He then looked at the list of kids’ names that he was holding and said “No, I just need to know the name of every person who brings in a child to the school”. Ah well, worth a try.

But since 9/11 the security has become a lot more serious. In fact, the security rota has become something of a cottage industry. Now, there are three parents on duty, morning and afternoon, in addition to the professionals. We are given walkie talkies and a whistle (a whistle?? How on earth is that going to protect us if Al Qaeda decide to strike at the heart of Mill Hill?) and we have to walk up and down the roads on either side of the school wearing the most hideous, and embarrassing, fluorescent yellow jackets. Talk about moving targets. They might as well give us tattoos to wear on our fore-heads - “Neurotic Jewish Mother” and be done with it. Personally, I think it’s all a bit overboard. I honestly don’t think that it protects the kids at all. And, more worryingly, it raises them to believe that they are in constant danger, that everyone is trying to kill them and that the only way to stay safe is to create a little bubble (ghetto, perhaps?) and to keep the rest of the world out. The only outburst of anti-Semitic hostility I’ve ever witnessed while doing my security rota is the abuse meted out on parents by angry neighbours who find themselves blocked in by the parents’ carelessly parking their 4x4 cars in front of the neighbours’ driveways. And to be honest, I reckoned the neighbours had a right to be annoyed. I’m not saying that there is no anti-Semiticism in the UK. But since Ken Livingstone never ventures further than zone 2 I reckon our kids are probably safe enough.

Mind you, the school is not the only place where you encounter DIY security these days. You can’t go to any Jewish function anymore without battling your way through a barrage of security bouncers. At every synagogue they are out in force – the dreaded CST. I probably shouldn’t mock. They do a great job, are all volunteers and stand outside in the cold and the rain for hours. (Though, considering some sermons and services I’ve sat through, maybe they have the right idea?) The only thing about the CST is that, being volunteers from the community, they just don’t look the part. Let’s face it, as a nation, we are not renowned for producing tall menacing men-folk. In fact, the CST is often the nearest our short, bald accountants get to playing at being macho. The CST, it strikes me, is what the film ‘The Matrix’ would have looked like had Danny DeVito been given the lead role.

Meanwhile, back in the real world, everyone is getting ready for Christmas. I’ve already received six Christmas cards. This always amazes me. Everyone I know is aware that I’m Jewish. And yet every year they send me a card for a festival they know I don’t celebrate. (I exclude CK and LA from this list who always wish me a Happy Chanucka which is really lovely of them). But why send a Christmas card to someone who isn’t celebrating Christmas? It’s like sending all your friends a Get Well card whenever you’re ill yourself. Just doesn’t make sense. To make things more PC we have the Happy Holidays industry. But I’m not sure this is the answer. It dilutes the message of Christmas for those who are genuinely celebrating and promotes Chanucka to the most important (or, at least, the most widely known) Jewish festival, when really, it’s only a minor event in the calendar. Personally, I’ll be spending Christmas Day at Limmud. I mentioned this a couple of times at work until one of my colleagues asked me if Limmud was Hebrew for Christmas. Which, in a way, I suppose it is.

Still, for all this Bah Humbug, I do actually enjoy this time of year. The street lights and the decorations in the shops are great and there’s a warm feeling that shuts out the grey and the cold. And you don’t have to be Christian to be open to the message of goodwill to all men. It also means presents, and I’m as happy as the next person to join in with the giving and receiving of gifts. I took Scrappino to Hamleys on Sunday to have a look round and to choose his Chanucka present. He wanted a remote controlled Dalek. (We have the DVDs, the books and the posters – now we can live with a real live Dalek too). But the current price is £49.99 so I think he’s going to have to wait for the January sales and my winter pay rise. Hamleys is a great store – five floors of toys, toys and more toys. The stair way is decorated to look and feel like a trip through Narnia and is worth the trek into town for that alone. Scrappino, having seen the price of the Dalek, decided to choose some arts and crafts material. So we checked out the floor plan and noticed that ‘Arts and Crafts’ were on Floor 3 in the Girls section. Scrappino asked me why arts stuff had been put on the girls floor. “Some of the best artists in the world were men, weren’t they, Mum?” That’s my boy. He may be susceptible to the Dr Who hype but, happily, seems to be totally impervious to any kind of gender stereotyping. Which is good news. At least I won’t find him volunteering for the CST in ten years time.

The day the music died

2005-12-08T17:53:00.000Z

There is a Wendy Cope poem that I absolutely adore. Actually, there are many Wendy Cope poems that I adore, but one is particularly relevant today. It’s called “Two Cures For Love” and goes like this:

Two Cures for Love

1. Don’t see him. Don’t phone or write a letter.
2. The easy way: get to know him better.

I like Cope’s work because it is unpretentious and witty and manages to convey in a few short lines what we lesser mortals would take reams of space to explain. All the disappointment of dating, the let down of discovering the ‘real person’ as opposed the original ideal we had in our head, is succinctly expressed in two brief lines.

Every woman who’s ever been dumped can instantly identify with Cope’s “Going Too Far”, another of my favourites.

Going Too Far

Cuddling the new telephone directory
After I found your name in it
Was going too far.

It’s a safe bet you’re not hugging a phone book,
Wherever you are.

Brilliant. Let’s face it, we’ve all done it. Not hugging the phone book, necessarily, but lingering over a failed relationship long after it’s dead and buried when we should have marched on to pastures new. See, that took me a ridiculously long-winded sentence, complete with two metaphors and an opening qualification, while Cope successfully describes the whole scenario in a few short lines. Genius.

L, a friend of mine with an English literature degree, has tried to convince me that Cope’s poems are really little more than clever wisecracks. Maybe so. But as I told L, the line between clever wisecrack and pithy epigram is a fine one. Maybe it’s a girl thing? Cope certainly manages to describe the inner workings of the female mind (particularly the single female mind) with frightening accuracy. And, in just a few short lines, she is able to reduce me to uncontrollable laughter or tears so, despite L’s misgivings, Wendy Cope’s place in my top-five poets of all time is pretty much secure. (I’ll be honest with you, I don’t know enough poets to have a top-ten list, so top-five will have to do).

I have digressed wildly off the point. The thing is that I have been thinking about “Two Cures for Love” a lot this week, and especially today. On Saturday night, in anticipation of the 25th anniversary of John Lennon’s death, Radio 4 aired “The Wenner Tapes”, an extensive interview that John Lennon gave to Jann Wenner in New York in 1970. The interview was the basis of a Rolling Stone article that year, but has never before been broadcast in the UK. It was an eye opener, to say the least.

Much has been said and written about John Lennon over the past 25 years. Most of it ridiculously over the top, to the point of idol worship. I was never one to believe that he was a saint or a hero or a prophetic genius. But I was a bloody big fan. I spent most of my formative years listening to the Beatles and trying to convince my school friends that they really were better than Wham and Duran Duran (at least I had the last laugh there.) There are Lennon lyrics that never fail to move me. “Beautiful Boy”, “In My Life” and “Across the Universe” still make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I can’t listen to “Being for the Benefit of Mr Kite” without smiling and thinking of H, or “Girl” without waiting expectantly for the heavy intake of breath at the end of the first chorus, and yet being surprised by it at the same time. And I defy anyone to listen to “Help!” or “I’m a Loser” without feeling some of Lennon’s pain and despair.

So, without overplaying the point (apart from one year when I lit a yizkor candle with my school friend Jayne in the girl’s toilets and got sent to the headmaster’s office – a fire hazard, apparently) John Lennon has been a constant feature in my life and I have always silently marked the 8th December as the day that he died. I know that the man wasn’t a saint or a working class hero (he wasn’t even working class) but he did write some great songs that have made me laugh and cry and think for almost 30 years and, on the day that he died, I always think of him.

But this year, Cope’s warning that getting to know a man better might well cure you of love has proved prophetic. The Wenner interview exposed a man who was clearly neither saint nor hero. In fact, rather disappointingly for this die hard fan, he was the very opposite. Lennon came across as a self-opinionated, self-important, vindictive, jealous git. He admitted to being convinced of his own genius from a young age, spoke about the other Beatles like they were dirt on his shoe (“I carried George. He’s an average guitarist at best”) and criticised Bob Dylan and Mick Jagger as old hat and an imitator, respectively. He even suggested that the only positive memory he has of the early years, touring with the Beatles, were the freely available “groupies and whores” who used to visit their hotel room.

Previously, I had been naively prepared to overlook his anti-Semitic, misogynistic and homophobic remarks as a sign of the age in which he lived, but I can’t square those feelings any more. In short, a man I had admired and respected for years turns out to have been a thoroughly unpleasant individual.

And yet. And yet. He gave me (not personally, obviously, but when I listen to his songs I can’t help feeling that he is singing just to me) some of the most constant and enduring songs of my life. His voice is still raw and alive when he sings “Mr Moonlight” and to this day, whenever I can’t sleep, I listen to the second side of Abbey Road and it calms me down and shuts out the dark silence like no other music ever can.

And so, today, 25 years after he was shot, I find myself, for the first time, with very mixed emotions. I can’t say that my admiration or respect for him is as strong as it was. He was more than merely ‘flawed’, as some commentators have written in the press today. He was clearly a disagreeable and unpleasant person. But he was also a gifted artist, a talented musician and a brilliant lyricist. And I know that, in spite of it all, I will continue to listen to his music when the mood dictates. Getting to know him better has not cured me of my ‘love’ for John Lennon, but it has certainly tainted it somewhat. “The dream is over” he once sang. Now it’s time to see the man for who and what he really was. And maybe, knowing what I know now, I can grow to love him more realistically, warts and all.

shhh...it's a secret

2005-12-01T18:02:00.000Z

Preparations are now underway to organise my Dad’s 70th birthday party. You would think that, between the seven adults who comprise his children and children-in-law (yes, I am responsible for the odd number), this would be a relatively simple event to arrange. After all, we are all intelligent, computer literate people with a good sense of what Dad would enjoy on his big day and what little extras we can throw in to surprise him. You’d think that we could arrange a little get-together in a London restaurant without too much difficulty. Send each other a few round robin emails to confirm dates, times and venue, make the reservation and each book a babysitter. This is not rocket science.

But, three weeks after the suggestion was originally mooted, we have made very little progress. To begin with, this was largely my fault. After a phone call from brother #1, I got the ball rolling by sending an email to all the ‘siblings’ suggesting that we pencil in Sunday 18th January. Half an hour later brother #1 replies, pointing out that there is no Sunday 18th January. At least, not in 2006 there isn’t. The problem is that I have a new electronic diary. Actually, it’s one of those hand held mini-computer things, and it looks amazing, but the diary function is really fiddly. It’s not always clear what month you’re looking at. So what I thought was the 18th January was in fact 18th December. This wouldn’t happen with a paper diary and a pen – but it’s not my style to take the Luddite approach. Plus it’s lovely to be using a diary that doesn’t interrupt your annual flow in the middle of September with a glaring advert for WHSmith “Buy your new diary now while stocks last” – when what they really mean is “Buy your new diary now while the price is extortionate” because you know that if you wait until February they’re practically giving the bastards away.

Anyway, that’s not important right now. The point is that because of my attractive but rather confusing diary I suggested a non-existent date to hold the party. Unfortunately, I’m not the only one to be slightly fazed by all this modern technology. Brother #1, in his haste to point out that 18th Jan does not exist, pushed the ‘reply’ rather than the ‘reply all’ button. (Well, it’s a very easy mistake to make, and let’s face it, we’ve all done it. Although, compared with the horror that can ensue if you press ‘reply all’ instead of just ‘reply’ I guess this is only a minor problem).

The upshot was, however, that nobody else saw his reply. Cue five more replies over the next three hours, all pointing out that there is no Sunday 18th January, and did I mean Sunday 18th December or Sunday 15th January or what? Not a great start.

Actually, that’s a slight exaggeration. Not all of the siblings replied immediately. Mainly because not all of them have a job, like mine, where you can sit at your computer without moving from the minute you arrive in the morning til the moment you put on your coat and leave at the end of the day. Now that I don’t have to send any faxes (remember them?) I can easily sit at my desk without moving for the entire working day. If it weren’t for the fact that the snack machine is on a different floor, I’d get absolutely no exercise all day. Though I’m not sure that it really counts as exercise if you only get up to buy a snickers. My siblings all have busy lives with proper jobs – they have meetings and everything – and they don’t have the luxury of hitting the reply button the minute a message is received. So it took about a week before we’d verified the date, all checked our diaries, confirmed with our spouses and then with the rest of the group, and finally pencilled in the 15th January for the big day.

There then followed a lengthy email exchange of venue ideas. Should we have a tea party at home? Book a restaurant for dinner? Go to the theatre? Should we bring the kids along or stick to grown-ups only? The messages went back and forth and slowly the plan emerged – afternoon tea at home with the kids (Dad’ll love that) followed by dinner later on in a restaurant for the adults (ditto).

Now as you (may or may not) know, my sister lives in Jerusalem, and we decided that it would be a terrific surprise for my Dad if we arranged for her to come over for his birthday. But in order to do that we had to be 100% sure that they would be free on the 15th before she booked her flight. And so I called my parents to try to speak with my mum and arrange with her to keep the day free and the secret safe until the 15th. The problem is that phoning home (funny how I still call it home even though I left my parents house almost 15 years ago) runs the risk of having to talk to Mum about this surprise visit while Dad is in earshot. I had to think of a ploy to chat to Mum without my Dad cottoning on. Luckily, Mum answered the phone. The conversation began something like this:

Me: Hi, is Dad there?
Mum: Yes, I’ll just get him.
Me: NO NO!! Don’t call him. Just tell me if he’s there?
Mum: Yes. Why?
Me: Okay, I just want to chat about his birthday. We’ve got an idea for a surprise. Just pretend that we’re talking about recipes.
Mum: Okay, I’ll just go and get my recipe book.

This year’s Oscar for Best Actress goes to…my mother. She not only got her recipe book out, but she opened it up on the desserts page and carried on the whole conversation as if she was giving me a recipe for apple pie.

Me: We’d like to have a tea party with the kids in the afternoon of 15th Jan.
Mum: Measure out one basic mixture of Evelyn Rose sweet pastry. Divide into two.
Me: Can you keep that day free? Are you sure you’re not playing bridge?
Mum: Refrigerate for half an hour before using.
Me: Then, in the evening we’ve booked a table for just the adults.
Mum: Chop four large baking apples into cm squares.
Me: And the piece de resistance is that H is going to come over. As a surprise. Just for a couple of days.
Mum: Add 100 grams caster sugar and 3 tablespoons of cinnamon.
Me: So will you make up an excuse to come to London that day and we’ll organise the rest?
Mum: Pour apple mixture into pastry-lined tin and cover with the other half of the pastry.
Me: Call me later when Dad’s in shul to confirm that it’s okay.
Mum: Bake on regulo 4 for 45 minutes.
Me: What the hell is regulo 4?
Mum: About 220 celsius.
Me: Oh.
Mum: Have you got an electric or gas oven?
Me: Why?
Mum: Because 220 celsius is gas mark 4.
Me: I’m not really making the apple pie.
Mum: Well it’s a very easy recipe if you do ever need to make one.

All this subterfuge and role-playing clearly went to Mum’s head because, later that day, I came home from work to find a message on the answer machine. It was from my mother and she was whispering. In a very faint, breathy whisper she’d said “Hi. It’s Mum. I’m whispering because Dad’s in the lounge. I’m in the toilet on the mobile. Anyway, the 15th is fine. I’ve told him we’re going to go down to see you all. Nothing special. He doesn’t know about H. I’ll call you with any updates.” Then there was a slight pause. “By the way, I forgot to mention. If you do make that apple pie, you should glaze the pastry with egg yolk before baking and prick the top with a fork.”

Operation Apple Pie to mark my Dad’s 70th is GO!

Why is life never simple?

2005-11-29T17:51:00.000Z

Well, it’s been a bizarre couple of days. On Saturday I went for lunch at a good friend’s house (she’s in her 50’s but with a young head – one of the most positive and forward-facing people I know) and there were three other women there. Plus Scrappino. (Psychologists would have a field day. When he’s older and finds a girlfriend he’ll have the most finely-tuned feminine side known to man). Anyway, my middle-aged friend being the young-in-spirit person that she is, the other women at the table were all aged under 23. I felt middle-aged myself in their company. But it was lovely to meet them and chat about the things 20-something girls chat about. I resisted the urge to give them my wise, world-weary advice. Let them figure it out for themselves.

Lunch lasted until tea-time and we talked and laughed and cried in the way you can only manage in a female-only environment. Half way through the afternoon I had to pop out for quarter of an hour (well, if you must know, I’d made an appointment at the beautician at 4 o’clock – nothing special – just the eyebrows – because I’d been sure that we’d have finished eating by then. As it was, we’d not even cleared the plates for the main course). One of the girls said she’d walk down the road with me and so she and I left the house and went on our way.

Once we were out of earshot of my friend she asked me “So, erm, can I ask you a personal question?” (Note to self – the next time a perfect stranger asks you whether they can ask a personal question, say no). “Sure” I replied, “fire away”. Slight pause from my walking companion. “How do you find it, being a Jewish gay single-mother?” Slightly longer pause from me. Followed by a short intake of breath. And possibly a foot stumble. “Actually, I’m not gay”

Now, I can’t quite remember what I said next, but I think I may have followed it with something along the lines of “not that there’s anything wrong with being gay” or “some of by best friends are gay”. Both of which are true, but which smack of ‘methinks the lady doth protest’ and were almost certainly uttered because I was worried that my inquisitor might think that I answered too quickly and was therefore homophobic.

She was clearly very embarrassed and apologised and mumbled something about jumping to conclusions and hoping she’d not offended me and next time she’ll check her facts before she tries to ask a girl out. I assured her that I wasn’t in the slightest bit offended. But I was incredibly curious. And if she’d not been so mortified I’d have asked her why she’d thought I was gay. It’s not the first time this has happened. A colleague once asked me if I was gay a few years ago. But at the time I put that down to the fact that my hair was dyed red and cut within a half-inch of my scalp. A cross between Annie Lennox and Sinead O’Connor. It was an easy mistake to make. But now that I have long blonde hair and whitter on incessantly about finding a decent bloke the reasons for this assumption are more difficult to discern. I spent the whole evening mulling it over and trying to work out what gay-vibes I must be giving off.

The next day I went out with a chap I’d been on a couple of dates with. He’s the one I bored rigid with gasps of “It’s Captain Jack!!” a few nights back. We had a nice day – pub lunch, chat at the flat, you know the score. And by the evening I was feeling pretty confident that this might turn out to be something worth pursuing – rather than the usual shambolic fiasco that my dates tend to be. In fact, I was feeling so up-beat that I risked mentioning it to my family. (Generally speaking not a good idea because a) my mother rushes out to buy hats and b) as soon as I’ve ever mentioned a bloke in the past it has all gone pear-shaped within hours.)

I should have learnt from past mistakes. Sure enough, the following day, I got the phone call. I will spare you the details, but it was a variation on the “it’s not you it’s me” theme. Truth is, he was in a bad place and, in fairness to him, didn’t think it was right to drag someone through that with him. In fact, he was feeling so down that he’d had to take a day off work. (A new low for me – two and half dates and I make a man physically ill.)

So the gender that doesn’t do it for me is politely trying to ask me out and the gender that I’m after is vomiting at the mere thought. I’m stumped. And single. Again.

Greener grass?

2005-11-24T12:57:00.000Z

A short story about a conversation overheard on the train.

Yesterday evening, I went into town to help A celebrate her birthday. A is a friend and work colleague who wouldn't ordinarily get a mention, if it weren't for the fact that a) it's her birthday and b) she's only just started reading this blog and I'd like to keep her keen. Anyway, she arranged a birthday get-together at a lovely bar/restaurant just minutes from our office. Perfect. What could be simpler? A day at the office followed by a post-work drink just steps from the front door.

The problem is that drinks on a school night are a little bit complicated for me. You see, I leave work at 2.30 in order to get back home in time to pick up Scrappino from school. Then, once I've helped him with his homework, given him his supper, run his bath and tidied up his toys, there is just 20 minutes left for a quick shower before the babysitter arrives. I then have to do a 360 degree about-turn, and make the journey back to the office to meet my colleagues for that post-work drink. As a result, I tend to spend most of the evening cursing my lot, questioning my life choices and swearing at the likes of Rachel Hunter and Liz Hurley ("Being a single mum is so empowering" - Empowering?? Is it buggery! It's an exhausting logistical nightmare).

Anyway, I digress. It was about 7.15 and I was traveling on the infamous Bedford to Brighton Thameslink service. It's the kind of train service that makes you want to look up the word 'service' in the dictionary, to see if it does actually mean shambolic fiasco. So I'm sitting on the train hoping that the fact that I rushed like a mad banshee to get into town on time isn't too obvious, and in the seats opposite me are a couple of young(ish) women traveling from Elstree back towards town. I knew they were coming from Elstree because that's where the BBC studios are and these two women were the epitome of tv/meeja types. They had that lazy boho style of dress that looks thrift store but actually costs a fortune. You know the kind of thing. The woolly hat with the ear flaps from Peru. The chunky silver rings on their middle fingers. The jeans with the skirt to the knees on top. And they had the conversation to match the style. They chatted away about various producers they'd worked with, the Christmas shows they'd been involved in, the foreign locations they'd be filming at this year.

And all the time I sat there, with damp hair (no time to dry it before I left), make up in my handbag (no time to apply it at home) and I thought about the pile of unread (but oh so dreary) emails that were waiting for me at work the following day. And I don't mind admitting I was just a tad jealous. I eavesdropped on their conversation, and all the time I was thinking to myself - I want their life. I want the easy chit-chat about production companies and the foreign location shoots and the TV scheduling meetings. And I want the journey home from work at 7.30 without having to factor in babysitters and homework.

Twenty minutes or so later we arrived at Kentish Town and one of the women got off the train. The other remained behind and as the train pulled away from the station she took out her phone and dialed a number. The conversation (of which I only heard half, obviously) went something like this:

"Hi. It's Mum. How was school?"
"Have you done your homework?"
"Well, when will you do the other half?"
"Okay, well make sure you do. Have you had your supper?"
"Good. Did you tidy up your room?"
"Well when are you going to do it?"
"Fine. I'll be home in about an hour"
"Okay. Bye"

And suddenly, I didn't feel so dreary single-mother with dead-end job. I didn't mind that I'd had to execute a plan of military precision in order to have one drink in a bar in town after work. Or that, however much I enjoy my job, it will never induce pangs of jealousy in eavesdropping commuters. In fact, I stopped wanting their life and started appreciating my own. Because even the glamorous Guardian readers with faux-Oxfam wardrobes and foreign location schedules have to worry about homework and kids' suppers and tidying bedrooms. Why would I want the life of some trendy media exec when it turns out our lives are not so different after all?

Well, it is for charity...

2005-11-20T00:26:00.000Z

So, another year, another Children in Need night. Five hours of non-stop entertainment. I use the word ‘entertainment’ in the loosest sense. (In the sense that watching Bruce Forsyth teach John Humphreys to do a two step shuffle is entertainment.)

The evening kicked off with a performance by Madonna. Now, I’m not one to knock charity giving. Generally, on the scale of human activity, charity does score pretty highly. And I know that raising money for disadvantaged children has to be applauded. But I can’t be the only viewer to feel a little queasy when Madonna starts imploring the Great British public to give generously. She earns more in half an hour from the royalties of ‘Like a Virgin’ than was raised by the entire Children in Need event. Later in the evening, we were persuaded to put our hands in our pockets by Paul McCartney (estimated worth £500 million) and Sharon Osborne (£100 million). Financially, I’m really not doing too badly – I have a lovely flat, a car that gets me from A to B without breaking down and I have a holiday once a year – so I’m not going to plead poverty. But it does seem a little topsy-turvy that multi-millionaires are begging me for cash.

Mind you, at least Madonna was using her god given talents for good use. She’s a singer and she sang. Fair enough. It’s when the weather girls start performing a musical number from Chicago and the news readers all don the spandex for a rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody that the world seems to be spinning in the wrong direction. What does this say about the British public? I like to think (and maybe I’m being over optimistic?) that people will give generously for a good cause. When the tsunami hit the far east a year ago people put their hands in their pockets and donated what they could. I don’t recall anyone saying “there’s been a terrible natural disaster in Indonesia and millions have been left homeless. So let’s all sit in a bath of baked beans to raise some funds. If we don’t do a sponsored bike ride dressed as chickens the kids out there are gonna starve.”

Equally nauseating were the amount of times the men in the audience pledged cash (one chap offered a grand) if Natasha Kaplinsky would give them a kiss or flash them a bit of leg. Yes, it’s a good cause. Yes, the kids need our help. But should we really, as a nation, be asking professional, intelligent (if unbelievably attractive) women to prostitute themselves on national telly before we’ll dig deep and donate some money?

As well as the cringe-worthy performances from journalists who should know better and the boy bands shamelessly using the event to promote their latest cover version (“We wanted to do something to help the kids – we felt we just had to come along and sing our latest single from our new album which is in the shops from Monday” – sadly, an almost direct quote) there was the obligatory ‘meet the audience members holding unfeasibly large cheques’. I felt so sorry for one woman who had the misfortune of presenting her cheque to Wogan after the chairman of HSBC.

Wogan: Who are you Sir?
HSBC man: I’m from HSBC and we’ve raised £500,000.
(Huge applause from studio audience)
Wogan: And who are you Madam?
Woman: I’m from Pat’s Café in Bolton and we’ve raised £56.

Still, there were some highlights – even for an old cynic like me. Scrappino and I sat poised at 9.00 with bated breath and the video set to record, for the special Dr Who preview. It was only ten minutes long, and considering the tat I’d had to sit through to get to this point it could so easily have been a disappointment. But it was well worth the wait. The dialogue was witty, Rose looked terrific and the new Doctor sparkled. As the end credits rolled I was almost tempted to ask “Christopher Eccleston? Never heard of him”. And later in the evening I was thrilled to watch the cast of The Archers make utter prats of themselves live on TV. (There are some avid listeners – and there are few more avid than me – who deliberately avoid watching the cast of The Archers on TV because they don’t want to spoil the mental image they have of the characters in their heads. But I’m not one of them. I was glued to the set).

And at the end of the evening, the total amount raised was in excess of 17 million. Loose change perhaps to the likes of Macca and Madge, but enough to transform the lives of children all over the UK. And that has to be a good thing. (Though next year, let’s not invite Bruce Forsyth and John Humphreys back. These kids have suffered enough).

About time

2005-11-18T14:22:00.000Z

Last night I came face to face with an intergalactic time traveler. And it's not often you get the chance to say that. To be precise I went to the theatre last night to see "A Few Good Men", starring Rob Lowe, Jim Fenner (Bad Girls) and Karen McDonald (Corrie). Female readers will be pleased to know that Rob Lowe is still gorgeous and still looks no older than 25. Meanwhile Jim Fenner (no idea what his real name is) is just as terrifying in the flesh as on G:Wing. Now, I've not seen the film "A Few Good Men" (I was probably revising when it came out) and so I had no idea what the story was about. So it was pretty gripping theatre. The only bit I knew was the famous "You can't handle the truth", which, in fairness, was delivered very convincingly by Fenner. It can't be easy delivering a famous line that's already been immortalized by another actor. (I once saw Judi Dench play Lady Bracknell in "The Importance of Being Ernest" and, to avoid any unfair comparisons with Edith Evans, she just mouthed "a handbag" instead of trying to compete. Chicken.)

Anyway, half way through the second half we get to the court-room scene. Rob Lowe is defending the two marines and the prosecuting attorney is a rather attractive, chisel-boned chap who looks frankly fabulous in uniform. The prosecutor begins interrogating one of the witnesses and my ears prick up. I've heard this voice before. This voice is very familiar to me. In fact, so familiar that I'm convinced I know this voice from real life. And then I suddenly realised. This is a voice that has been whittering with abandon in my living room for the past 6 months. Not literally, but via Scrappino's Dr Who DVD collection. This is the voice of Captain Jack Harkness.

For the uninitiated - you lucky people - Captain Jack Harkness is a time agent who bumps into Dr Who and joins him on his adventures, eventually being exterminated by a Dalek and then brought back to life by Rose who has the entire time vortex coursing through her veins after looking into the heart of the tardis and ingesting its symbiotic power (now do you have an inkling of what I've had to put up with this past year!?!)

Anyway, a little too loudly for the people sitting near me, I very excitedly shouted (well, not exactly shouted, commented really - but in a silent theatre auditorium with excellent acoustics the sound does travel unexpectedly well) "Oh my god!! Look!! It's Captain Jack!!" I am not sure whether Captain Jack heard me but I was certainly sitting near enough to the stage for him to hear. (The terror dividend is cheap theatre tickets in the stalls any day of the week). If he did hear, he was incredibly professional. Not a flinch. Exactly what you'd expect from a time agent.

I spent the rest of the performance staring at Captain Jack and boring the pants off my theatre companion with a repeated mantra of "Scrappino is gonna be SO jealous" and "Just wait til I tell Scrappino about this". I also managed to surreptitiously pinch the program of the chap next to me and read Captain Jack's biog. His character in "A Few Good Men" was Jack Ross. As well as playing Captain Jack he's played a character called Jack in the film version of The Producers and a character called Jack in "De-Lovely" with Kevin Kline (excellent film by the way - especially if you like Cole Porter). I'm not sure if he only plays Jacks or if he does other names too. (If he sticks with Jack his panto currency is going to be a bit limited.)

Anyway, we sat through the end of the trial (the marines go free - hurray - Rob Lowe is a hero - hurray - and Jim Fenner gets his just deserts - hurray). To be honest though, by this time I was too excited about getting a copy of the program for Scrappino and rushing round to the stage door for his autograph to really concentrate on the plot. Which, considering what we've learnt about Guantanamo Bay since the play was written is probably not the attitude a globally-conscience person should have. But then, this is Captain Jack!

After the performance was over I rushed to the foyer to buy a program (£4). I resisted the urge to buy a poster (£8) but did pick up a flyer for Cinderella, the Panto, in which he's playing the Prince (Prince Jack presumably). After waiting outside the stage door for five minutes in the arctic frost we decided to forego the autograph hunt (well, my friend physically pulled me away by the scarf) since it was far too cold to be standing outside waiting for a time agent to take off his make-up.

Scrappino was asleep when I got home so I had to wait til this morning to tell him who I'd seen. I can't convey in words the child's excitement. After he'd ascertained that I wasn't making it up ("Really?" "What, really?" "THE Captain Jack?" "No, really, the actual real Captain Jack for real in real life actually really???") he almost shook with excitement and was breathless with the sheer exhilaration of it all. Then came the hundreds of questions. "What did he look like?" "How tall is he in real life?" "Does he look the same?" "Does he sound the same?" "What was he wearing?" "What did he say?"

On retelling this to my work colleagues, one of them asked where Scrappino gets his obsessive excitability from? Really, she said, he should learn to calm down and chill a bit. It's only an actor for god's sake. It's not like he's a real time agent.

Not like he's a real time agent?? Honestly, some people really can't handle the truth.

scattered showers

2005-11-15T13:14:00.000Z

I am going to have to be terribly British and blog about the weather. I wouldn't normally be so nationally stereotypical, but in the absence of much else to report (no comedy gigs this week, sadly) I have nothing left to comment on but the weather. Having said that, it has suddenly turned absolutely freezing. In the space of a weekend it went from balmy Indian summer to sub-zero, scrape-yer-windscreen-in-the-morning, opening scenes from ER series 2 (the one with the snow under the railway) freeeezing.

You can always tell when the weather turns cold because the weather forecasters start treating the entire British public like sub-normal, geriatric idiots. After a brief spell in Autumn, when they insist on giving us gardening tips and bird-watching updates (I just want to know if it's going to rain - I don't give a shag about the bloody heron!) they start using their meals-on-wheels-lady voices to do the weather. They can't just tell us it's going to be cold. They have to remind us that, because it's getting cold, we'll have to "wrap up warm" and "don't leave the house without a hat". Because if the weather forecaster didn't remind you, you might pop out in a blizzard wearing nothing but a t-shirt. When did the weather forecasters become your mum?

And, while I'm ranting, why do they have to use such babyish language? These people have geography degrees and work for the British Meteorological Office (well, not the dollies on GMTV, but the other forecasters do). So why do they have to bombard us with terms like 'spits and spots of rain' or 'nasty squawly showers'? Is 'spits and spots' a technical term used by the International Meteorological Society? I'd hazard a guess that it isn't.

Truth is, the forecasters don't have time to tell us the weather properly anymore because they're too busy giving us a list of utterly undecipherable numbers. What is a pollen index exactly? And is a pollen count of 5 good or bad? And if it's bad, what exactly are we supposed to do about it anyway? I appreciate that the odd hay fever sufferer might want to know. But this summer the BBC forecasters were giving us grass pollen, tree pollen and weed pollen counts. For what? The odd half a percent of the population who sneeze a lot? Just tell them to buy a handkerchief and be done with it.

Mind you, I never actually listen to the weather forecast. Not because I don't believe in them. But because once I'm up and dressed and have put the telly on, I'm not going to change my clothes just because the care-worker-cum-meteorological-expert tells me to "wrap up warm". If my jeans don't match my warm coat, I'll wear my thin jacket, irrespective of any potential spits and spots of rain. I simply rely on that magical method of climate control - fashion. Because somehow, if what you're wearing looks good, but is not appropriate for the weather, you don't care. You just assume that the power of fashion will shield you from the sub-zero temperatures and the driving rain. When you go out on a Saturday night with a thin jacket and tiny clutch bag (no room for umbrella or warm hat) you just tell yourself that it won't rain on you because fashion dictates that you wear a jacket without a hood and carry a bag that holds nothing more than your bus pass and a fiver.

What we really need is for the forecasters to be more precise. Get rid of the vague "wrap up warm" and introduce a specific instruction. "Tonight the weather is going to be too warm for your parker with the fur trimmed hood but not quite cold enough for that new cotton jacket with the big buttons". Less "pollen count" and more "layers of clothing count". Then maybe I might pay more attention.

Of course, my favourite weather forecast ever was on the Today programme years ago. When Brian Redhead still ruled the roost. He told listeners "and now the weather. Bright in the north. Dull in the south. A bit like the people really."

If you're local - don’t forget to wrap up warm. It's getting nasty and squawly out there.

onwards and upwards

2005-11-10T17:36:00.000Z

My apologies for another week (well, almost) without blogging. There are a few reasons for this.

i.) I returned from my week away in Athens to be greeted by a Kilimanjaro sized mountain of emails at work. This morning I finally got the tally down from 187 to 13. 10 of which have been sitting in my inbox since early September. If I ignore them for just a week longer they’ll be out of date and I’ll not have to action them. (Don’t you hate it when office jargon takes a noun, such as ‘action’ and turns it into a verb? I used to get all Lynn Truss about things like that. But if you can’t beat them, as they say…)

ii.) I came home from the Mediterranean warmth to a near-freezing London and had to make an emergency dash to Brent Cross for some winter knitwear. I took Scrappino with me. He stepped into Next with me and we were there for less time than it takes to get from here to ………………………………………here before he got bored and started asking “can we go now?” I did manage to stock up on a couple of basics with a promise that if he just let me get on with it I’d take him to Borders afterwards to buy a Doctor Who book (yes, ANOTHER one). I had my sweet revenge because we’d been in the bookshop for less than five seconds before I started whining “can we go now?”. But we both left the shopping centre with plastic bags full of goodies so nobody was complaining.

iii.) I gave my first ever, live, stand-up performance as a compere/comedienne in front of a paying audience. My god, that sentence sounds good. In fact, I’m so proud of it, I’m going to say it again. I gave my first ever, live, stand-up performance as a compere/comedienne in front of a paying audience. To put things in perspective, I compered the Limmud Live event on Sunday evening. There were only about 250 people in the audience, and, this being Limmud, the audience was hardly likely to heckle or indeed respond with anything less than thunderous applause and 100% support. But Rome wasn’t built in a day. And we all have to start somewhere. And, since this is something I’ve wanted to do since forever, I was delighted to have the chance.

If you’ve been reading this blog for some time, you’ll have recognised much, if not all, of the content of my ‘set’ (a rather grandiose term for what was really just two five-minute slots in between the ‘real’ acts). But I was a bag of nerves before I went on stage and since I managed to do the whole thing without alcohol and without making any mistakes, I was pretty damn pleased with the whole thing. It’s not the Paladium. Or even the Comedy Store. But a fee paying crowd is a fee paying crowd. And I’m mighty pleased to be able to say, in the spirit of comedy’s rule of three, that I gave my first ever, live, stand-up performance as a compere/comedienne in front of a paying audience.

And you can tell your children, in years to come, that you heard me first, at Suburbanhymns.

Greek myths

2005-11-07T13:33:00.000Z

Well, I'm back in Blighty after 6 wonderful days in Athens. I did (fleetingly) consider blogging while I was away but figured that I (and possibly you) deserved a break.

I won't bore you with a blow-by-blow run down of what we did/what we ate/what we saw etc. You can read Michael Palin et al for that. But here are my initial, unrehearsed thoughts on Athens.

1. It looks just like Jerusalem. I feel very provincial (in a Jewish kind of way) saying that. I'm reminded of an old Jewish man who once told me that he didn't bother going abroad (other than to Israel) because Israel had everything the rest of the world could possibly offer. Snow in the north, desert in the south, antiquity in Jerusalem, modern metropolis in Tel Aviv. I tried pointing out that, while certainly diverse, Israel doesn't quite have everything. It lacks the rennaissance art of Florence, the natural wonder of Ayres Rock, the breathtaking wildlife of Kenya. But he was having none of it. That said, Athens is exactly like Jerusalem. The buildings are constructed with the same off-white stone, the rocky mountains in the distance are identical, the pavements have the same habit of suddenly disappearing into a heap of sand half way down the street and then re-appearing 100 yards up the road for no apparant reason. And everywhere you look there are olive trees. Plus, slap bang in the middle, are the ruins of an ancient building, a wonder of the ancient world, slowly crumbling but still a vestige of past glory, now surrounded by beggars and touts selling tourist souvenirs.

2. There are no blondes and no black people in Athens. I couldn't quite put my finger on what was so strange at first, and then it suddenly hit me. No blondes. No blacks. The only blonde I saw in five days was Scrappino. And the only black face was a tourist from the US staying in my hotel. It's the most ethnically un-diverse place I've ever visited.

3. Athens boasts some of the dullest museums known to man. They have yet to discover the concept of the interactive exhibit or education-through-play. We visited a war museum (rows of glass cases containing antique pistols), a maritime museum (rows of glass cases containing model ships and canons) and an archeology museum (rows of glass cases containing rocks). For some bizarre reason, Scrappino loved it. I can almost hear my mother making a "kids today don't need playstation - just give them an empty box and a wooden spoon". Or something like that.

4. All Greek women over the age of 45 look Jewish. I'd thought it was only Olympia Dukakis, but no. We kept seeing groups of Greek women chatting in coffee shops and I was sure they were all out for the Ladies Guild AGM.

5. Athenians love children. Maybe this is just in contrast with Brits, who like their children unseen and not-heard. But in Greece, people were falling over themselves to chat to Scrappino, help him buy his ticket on the Metro, serve him in restaurants. Maybe they were all so amazed to meet a blonde child? Scrappino, obviously, milked it for all he's worth and is now a life-long fan of all things Greek.

And now, after six days away, I'm back in the UK, with grey skies and drizzly rain. I wonder where that old Jewish chap would head for in Israel to capture the feeling of London in November....

Hot chocolate

2005-10-28T00:10:00.000+01:00

I have debated over the past 24 hours as to whether or not I should blog this. It’s a rather personal story (nothing new there then), not just about me, but about Scrappino as well. Indeed, it reveals far more about Scrappino that the usual ‘he loves to play cricket/he watches too much Dr Who’ than is generally found on this site. For my part, I’ve willingly entered the egotistical, self-revelatory arena of blogland and I have to take any uncomfortable exposure that comes with that. But Scrappino hasn’t. He’s only here by default, and I am conscious that it’s not fair to expose him to too much public scrutiny.

That said, I really do want to share something that happened over the past couple of days. So, with the requisite advance apology to Scrappino, here is the story.

On Tuesday, I took Scrappino to the O2 centre in Finchley. It’s a small(ish) shopping centre with a lot of restaurants and cafes, a cinema and a branch of ‘Books etc’. Scrappino and I go once every couple of months and, Scrappino being a creature of habit, we enjoy the same routine every visit. First we have lunch at Nandos, then we watch a film and then we pop into Books etc on the way home and treat ourselves to a book. It’s the same thing every time. Lunch, film, book, home.

So, on Tuesday, we went to the O2. We had lunch at Nandos, watched a film (Wallace and Gromit) and then went into Books etc and had a browse. I chose a guide book to Athens (have I mentioned that I am going on holiday to Athens next week?) and Scrappino chose a Dr Who novel (yes, they make books of the bloody thing too). I paid for the books and gave the bag to Scrappino to hold while I went to sort out the ticket for the car park. And then we went home. So far so good.

We’d been home for about an hour when I decided to check out the Athens guide book, so looked in the bag for the book. Inside the Books etc bag was my Athens guide book, Scrappino’s Dr Who novel and a bar of chocolate. I was puzzled. Scrappino often asks me to buy chocolate if we’re at the supermarket or in a shop queue, (shopkeepers always leave the chocolate on a shelf perfectly placed for kids to see them). But I knew for a fact that he hadn’t asked me for any chocolate that day, and I certainly hadn’t paid for any. How did the chocolate bar get there?? It would have been simple for Scrappino to quickly knock a bar of Galaxy into the bag while nobody was looking. It was the only possible explanation.

I know that all kids go through a stage of stealing sweets. We’ve all done it. It’s part of growing up. A right of passage. But it’s also part of parenting to come down like a tonne of bricks the minute you first catch your child stealing. You have to make them realise the consequences of their actions; drum home that there are some misdemeanours that are just not acceptable, which go beyond the odd sarcastic aside to the teacher or forgetting to do your homework. And stealing is one of those. You have to stamp it out from the start.

And so I asked Scrappino, quite calmly, given my horror/anger/shock/disappointment. “How did this chocolate get in here?” Scrappino looked shocked. “I don’t know” he replied, and looked me straight in the eyes. I recall reading somewhere that you can tell when a child is lying because they look straight at you and their eyes don’t blink. Scrappino was wide-eyed, unblinking and definite in his answers. I knew he was fibbing.

“Scrappino” I explained, “I’m not going to shout. I just want to know how the chocolate ended up in the bag”. Scrappino, still maintaining eye contact, replied “I really don’t know. I’ve never seen it before”.

I began to feel exasperated. “Okay, look” I said, “I know how much you love chocolate. I guess you saw it there and really wanted it. And you knew I’d say no because we’d just had lunch and so you thought you’d just, you know, take it. Is that what happened?”

Scrappino didn’t flinch. “No. I don’t know how it got there”.

I started to worry. Not only has my pride and joy nicked a chocolate bar from right under my nose, but he’s doing a brilliant job of lying about it. I tried changing tactics and opted for the old George Washington approach.

“Look Scrappino. I’m really not going to get cross. I’m not angry that you stole the chocolate. Well, I am, a little. But I’m more upset about the lies. Tell me the truth. Did you steal the chocolate?”

“No” said Scrappino, “I didn’t steal the chocolate”.

I was clean out of ideas. I’d tried gentle persuasion, accusation, reverse psychology, the lot. And he still wouldn’t own up.

“Fine. Well, until you tell the truth, and admit what happened, the chocolate is going in the bin. And you can’t read your new Dr Who book. Okay?” and I took the Dr Who book out of the bag and put it on the top of my cupboard out of Scrappino’s reach.

All that evening I thought about the chocolate. About Scrappino stealing it. And about his refusal to own up, even after being caught red-handed. And all night the new Dr Who book sat in the top of my wardrobe, unread and the chocolate lay in the bin, uneaten.

The next day Scrappino and I went to shul (we do occasionally) where we met some friends. They invited us to join them that afternoon at the O2 centre to watch a film. Scrappino and I gave each other knowing glances, but agreed to tag along. And so, 24 hours after the great chocolate robbery, Scrappino and I found ourselves back at the O2. (Nanny McPhee this time). Before the film started Scrappino’s friends decided to pop into Books etc and we went along as well. I noticed a book that I’ve been trying to find for a while and so, while the kids were mucking about in the ‘Kidz Zone’ I went to pay for the book. The chap behind the counter took my card, and as I was signing the credit card slip, he put the book in a bag. He then took a bar of chocolate from behind the counter and put it in the bag. “We’re doing a special promotion this week. A bar of Galaxy with every purchase. Enjoy”. And he handed me the bag.

I was struck dumb. Then mumbled “erm, thanks. Excuse me a moment. I have to apologise profusely to my son….”

During the entire film I couldn’t help thinking about the whole episode. What does it say about me? That I jump to conclusions? That I can’t tell when Scrappino is lying (or, as it turned out, when he’s telling the truth). That I was so convinced that I was right that I couldn’t hear what he was saying? And what does it say about Scrappino. That he’s not a thief, clearly. But also, I thought quite proudly, that he stuck to his guns. He knew he’d not nicked the chocolate. It would have been so easy for him to just admit it to stop me going on about it. Or to get his new Dr Who book back. But he knew he’d not done anything wrong and, as it happened, was much better at sticking to the truth than I’d given him credit for. There was no bending under pressure or faltering or saying what he thought I wanted to hear. He doggedly stuck to the truth.

He accepted my apology very gracefully. “Told you” he said. “Oh, and does that mean I can eat the chocolate?”

“Yes” I replied, “you can eat the chocolate.” And he did.

And I ate humble pie.

"...you will dwell in booths for seven days..."

2005-10-21T14:17:00.000+01:00

I am feeling rather the worse for wear today after a very late night building a succah. I know, we're already four days into the festival - this should have been done last week. But I'm not talking about a real succah (be fair - I live in a first floor flat with no balcony or garden). I'm talking about a model succah for Scrappino's school succah building competition.

I thought it would be a piece of cake. After all, when we were kids, we used to build our model succah in less than an hour. Take one shoe box, cut out a door and a couple of windows, lay a few random twigs on top, draw some miniature pictures on the walls and plonk a few lego men inside. And hey presto - a scaled down tabernacle fit for a king!

Not any more. Nowadays succah building is a lot more sophisticated. An old Clarke's box just doesn't cut it. The models on display in the school hall are nothing short of state-of-the-art. I saw one yesterday morning with a sliding roof, complete with fully functional pulley system that slides the roof off to reveal an immaculately laid table with real food. I kid you not. Marzipan chicken on the plates and marzipan wine in the tiny silver (foil) cups. Another had a battery stuck to the back wall which operated real coloured lights in the s'chach.

Kids today are so competitive. Or, more accurately, the parents of kids today are so competitive. Years ago, our parents would put some old loo rolls, a packet of felt pens and some tissue paper on the dining room table and just leave us to it. Now, the parents are hands-on and fully involved. One of the mums told me this morning that she had started work on their model succah in mid-September. That's over four weeks ago! Admittedly, the final result was a masterpiece, with home-made model people holding miniature lulav and etrog and curtains that opened and closed in front of real (well, cellophane, but still definitely see-through) windows.

What used to be a competition for kids to build a model succah out of scraps of rubbish left round the house has become a lucrative business for the local stationers and art shops. Shoe boxes are out. Sparkly hologram boxes with tinsel edging is in. A couple of twigs and a handful of leaves for the roof is out. Silk bouquet stems with miniature fruit and flowers is in. And this stuff isn't cheap. If you want to build a winning model succah you have to be prepared to put your hand in your pocket.

Personally, I think it's a real shame when the kids' efforts are so obviously the work of their parents. And the sad thing is that the one kid in the class who actually does make the model himself doesn't have a cat in hell's chance of winning because, frankly, compared to the others, his succah looks crap. Who'd vote for the shoe-box with random dinosaur model inside (well, not everyone has lego, and Scrappino went through a very long dinosaur fixation) when the competition is fully carpeted throughout, with understairs storage space and a moveable roof?

As a result, Scrappino decided that his entry into the competition needed a bit of updating, so he took it home again on the sly yesterday and revamped it somewhat. Out went the dinosaur and the matchbox table. In went pipe cleaner people (some standing, some sitting down), a table with real material tablecloth (one less handkerchief for me to use when bird flu hits London) and, the piece de resistance, rolled up leaves snipped off my birthday roses to serve as hollishkes (you can't have a succah without hollishkes, can you?). He managed to sneak it back into the school hall this morning without anyone realizing that it had been and gone overnight.

I'm not sure that Scrappino is going to win. Our last ditch attempt to improve the original version is unlikely to compete with the Foster-inspired tabernacle architecture on offer. But at least we gave it a go. I had to stay up late putting the finishing touches on the model which is totally against the spirit of the competition. But if you can't beat 'em, you've got to join 'em. It's a dog eat dog world out there.

The parental meddling in the Succah competition was not the only cruel introduction that Scrappino has received this week into the unsavoury side of adult life. He received a letter yesterday from a firm of insolvency lawyers, inviting him to a creditors meeting. It seems that a small publishing firm (I can't even remember the name, they're that small) has recently gone bankrupt. Not groundbreaking news in itself. But this firm happens to publish a kid's magazine called 'Find Out' for Dorling Kindersley. I bought Scrappino a year's subscription to the magazine for his birthday. Well, I figured it was better than the Simpsons comic, less terrifying than Dr Who Monthly and it is (well, it was) delivered to the door. And Scrappino loves getting post. Unfortunately, six months on, we found out that 'Find Out' has gone under. Scrappino is still owed six issues and so has been invited to the creditors meeting to discuss the insolvency arrangements. I'm not particularly confident that he has much hope of recovering his £13.80. I suspect the Inland Revenue might have a heftier claim to settle first. Still, that money would have come in handy. Think of the model succah we could have built with that cash.

Dr Who?

2005-10-19T21:34:00.000+01:00

Q. When is a heart throb not a heart throb?

I may have mentioned that our home has recently become a shrine dedicated to the religion (and it really is just that) of Dr Who. Scrappino has never been a sci-fi fan, and I have only vague (and frankly terrifying) memories of watching Dr Who as a child. So it was with only mild interest on both our parts that we sat down earlier this year to watch the new series of Dr Who, starring the rather lovely, but at that time almost unknown (to me, at any rate) Christopher Eccleston.

By the time the end credits rolled 45 minutes later, Scrappino and I were both hooked. He was smitten with the fantasy, the story telling and the adventure. I was smitten by Eccleston’s smack-yer-mother good looks and hard Salford accent. The next week we were both ready and waiting to watch the second episode, and then the third. We were Dr Who addicts for 12 long, glorious, Gallifreyan weeks.

Now the people at the BBC are very clever. They know how to keep addicted viewers supplied with their sci-fi fix. Within weeks of the series’ end, the DVDs were on sale. Not the whole series in one go, obviously. BBC pushers are too clever for that. They released the DVDs one by one, over a period of four months, so that we could experience the same anticipation, the same excitement, the same rush of fulfilment with each release that we had enjoyed during the series. (And it only cost me £12.99 a pop).

Now the thing about kids is that, if they like a particular TV programme, they’ll happily watch it over and over again, regardless of how many times they’ve seen it. And Scrappino really likes his Dr Who. So he began watching them on a loop, to the point of being able to recite whole scenes, whole episodes almost, off by heart. Whenever my friends called and asked what I was doing, I replied “watching Dr Who”. Before long, they stopped asking what I was doing and instead inquired “what episode are you watching now?”

So, slowly but shortly, in 45 minute increments, Christopher Eccleston seeped into my psyche. He may have notoriously protruding ears and a ridiculously (some would say Semitically) long nose, but compared to the Daleks, Autons and other alien competition, he began to appear extremely easy on the eye. Obviously, I had to get over the slightly paedophilic relationship between the 900 year old Dr and the 19 year old Billie Piper (not easy, considering that the last time I’d seen her she had been dancing in the street with a bunch of 12 year olds singing “Because we want to! Because we want to!”). But relationship age-gaps and CGI effects notwithstanding, Eccleston became a constant feature in our living room. And who can blame me? I defy any red-blooded, single, 30-something woman to spend hours watching Eccleston in leather jacket and hob-nail boots, staring broodily at the Dalek fleet, and not feel at least the slightest heart flutter. Put it this way, the fantasy was not restricted to alien invasions and stellar landscapes. While Scrappino stared at the green monsters, I stared at Eccleston. And on some nights, after a glass or two of red wine, I could have sworn that Eccleston stared back.

Anyone who knows me well will testify that I am not one to do things by halves. If I do something, I like to do it properly. When I went through my Beatles phase (does 20+ years and still going strong count as a phase?) I didn’t just own every LP (remember them?). I collected every song, every book, every photo, every newspaper article I could find. Others might accuse me of being obsessed. Personally, I like to think that I was just being thorough. It happened again when I discovered David Gray. I don’t mean ‘discovered’ in that sense. I’d not have just spent three months fitting a standard MFI bathroom if I’d discovered David Gray. But you know what I mean. When I first became aware of his music I had to own every CD he’d released. I scoured record shops for his entire back catalogue. Owning White Ladder wasn’t enough. I had to own his entire output. (Some might say that, in the case of David Gray, owning one CD is pretty much tantamount to owning them all, since all his songs sound the bloody same. But people who say that have no soul.)

Anyway, I am digressing. The point is that when I become fixated with something, or someone, it doesn’t take long for fixation to become obsession. And that’s exactly what happened with my Christopher Eccleston fixation. First off, I searched the internet for information about what he’d appeared in. I bought DVDs of TV shows he’d starred in. I started with ‘Our Friends in the North’. (A masterpiece, by the way. Admittedly, there is a hell of a lot of dialogue about housing policy, but it sweeps through forty years of British history, taking the viewer on a journey of four decades of love, betrayal, dreams, despair; all of life is there. It’s the kind of TV you can watch on a mid-week evening and not feel remotely like you’re wasting your time. And Eccleston, it goes without saying, is magnificent in it.)

Next, I watched ‘Second Coming’. Written by Russell T Davies, it tells the story of the 2nd coming of Jesus, who returns to earth in the form of a 30-year old chap from Manchester. The basic premise is this: if you believe that Jesus will one day come a second time (and, let’s face it, billions do), he’s likely to look and sound like one of us. So, what would happen if he looked and sounded like, say, a 30-year old chap from Manchester. Or, put another way, what if he looked and sounded like Christopher Eccleston. Now I’m not saying that Christopher Eccleston is a god. Not even I could be that blasphemous. But that’s the premise of the drama. And it’s very cleverly developed. Interestingly (and I use that word advisedly. I mean, of course, interestingly for Christopher Eccleston addicts who have also watched every episode of the ninth Dr Who), the writer of ‘Second Coming’ wrote most of the Eccleston episodes of Dr Who. And the two have a very similar style. Christopher Eccleston’s Dr Who does, on occasion, sound like Jesus delivering the Sermon on the Mount before he saves all of mankind forever. Which, seeing as he is about to destroy the very last surviving Dalek in the galaxy, I suppose he is.

And so, in the space of a week, I treated myself to 14 hours (it didn’t seem like that at the time, but now, reading the DVD inserts, I see that that’s what it was) of total Christopher Eccleston immersion.

Like any addict, I had to have more. I knew he had starred in Cracker. But after a hard day at work I couldn’t face the thought of wallowing in such misery, not even to catch a glimpse of Christopher Eccleston. Though I’m told his murder scene is terrific. Plus, in our house at least, Robbie Coltrane is one thing and one thing only. And that’s Hagrid. I can’t risk Scrappino stumbling into the lounge and being confronted with the sight of the loveable giant wizard drunk and swearing and cursing every woman he’s ever known.

I had similar misgivings about watching Christopher Eccleston in the film Jude, an adaptation of Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure. I’ve only read two books by Hardy. The first was Tess of the D’Urbevilles, a book so utterly depressing that it’s enough to plunge the most elated of readers into the depths of despair. I thought, erroneously, that this was a one-off and so I then tried Jude the Obscure. I have never read a book so unremittingly miserable as this. Just when you think the plot can’t get any more gloomy, you turn the page and it’s even more awful than the last one. Every character endures a fate more terrible than the last, so unrelentingly desperate that by the end of the book, the reader is ready to slash his (or her) wrists just to forget the plot. There was no way I was prepared to sit through 120 minutes of such desperation, no matter how fixated I might be with the lead actor.

A cursory search on Google then led me to reviews of ‘A Price Above Rubies’. The reviews, I’m sorry to report, were almost universally negative. They admit (happily for this die-hard fan) that Eccleston’s performance was excellent, but the film as a whole, its plot and its premise, were slated by all the reviewers that I came across. The story, it seems, revolves around a Jewish woman, played by Rene Zellweger, who is married to an Orthodox Jewish man (from the photographs I suspect he’s Lubavitch) who falls in love with, and eventually has an affair with, her equally Orthodox brother-in-law. (I wonder if he had her after Shalom Aleichem). The brother-in-law is played by Christopher Eccleston. And this is when my Christopher Eccleston fixation started to falter. One film site generously posted a huge number of still shots from the film. There, in full technicolour glory, was Christopher Eccleston, dressed in hat, suit, tzitzit, tallis and, in one photo, massive black velvet kippa. There is even a photograph of Christopher Eccleston holding a silver cup, about to make Kiddush. And so, with one click of the mouse, the Eccleston pack of cards came tumbling down. How is a girl supposed to fantasise about a ruggedly handsome Northern hero when he’s dressed in tallis and tephilin? The Eccleston fest is officially over. Fun while it lasted, but now, very definitely over. As I stated when I began this post.

Q. When is a heart throb not a heart throb.

A. When he looks uncannily like every rabbi you have ever known....

Filling the gaps

2005-10-18T13:34:00.000+01:00

I feel I should explain my 10 day absence from blogging. I won't give you a blow-by-blow account (sadly, no pun intended) as it's just not possible to fit 10 days into a single post. So, instead, here are the edited highlights.

1. It was Yom Kippur. Given my frank and oft-repeated admissions of religious guilt on this site, you will appreciate that I needed every one of the 25 hours of the Day of Atonement to do justice to a year's worth of sins and misdemeanors. And, considering how difficult I find it to stay in synagogue for two hours on the occasional Saturday morning, an entire day spent in shul is more than enough to afflict my soul. I must admit that I didn't manage to attend all five services. Of course, not even I could miss Kol Nidrei. In fact, I actually turned up, with the correct shoes and prayer book, on time. I also did something that I never normally do in synagogue. (No, I didn't pray, don't be ridiculous); I made Scrappino sit next to me in the main service while the Chazan (well, actually it was a Chazzanit, but that's a whole other story) sang the Kol Nidrei prayer three times. I'm not sure why I forced him to stay in for this service. Nostalgia perhaps? I remember sitting next to my mother, squirming for the entire service on the wooden chair (why is synagogue seating so bloody uncomfortable?) and thinking we'd got to the end of the prayer when suddenly the Chazzan would begin all over again from the beginning.

Don't get me wrong. Kol Nidrei is a beautiful prayer with a stirring tune. And it would be a shame for Scrappino to miss out on this as he's growing up. But I have to admit to being quite pleased that Scrappino found the whole thing so interminably dull that I am confident it will have put him off shul for another year. Which leaves the way clear for 52 weeks of lying in on a Saturday morning, with a mug of tea and Home Truths, without an excited eight year old tugging off the duvet and nagging me to take him to the children's service.

On Yom Kippur itself I wasn't able to stay in shul for the whole day. I arrived just in time to do my maftir and haftara and left early enough to miss the rest of the service. There is a special tune on Yom Kippur which I do not know. Fortunately, my brother (something of an expert in these matters) kindly offered to record it for me on tape. Unfortunately, in these days of MP3 players and CD surround-sound systems, the only tape recorder he has is a Fisher-Price bright yellow 'My First Radio', complete with microphone shaped like a space rocket and the sound quality of an early 78 gramophone player. This was compounded by the fact that my brother and I share a genetic inability to hold a tune and by my decision to leave it til the night before Kol Nidrei to learn the whole thing. As a result, some of the notes were a bit wobbly to say the least. This might not have mattered in most synagogues where the person leading the service has to compete with a congregation chatting incessantly about who's wearing what, why they look dreadful, and trying to cadge free professional advice from the person sitting next to them. But in my synagogue, where there were less than 130 people, all of them earnestly following the service in silence, you could hear a pin drop. Sadly, you could also hear every flat note, every mumbled chord change, every dropped verb. Of course, when I finished everybody said it was excellent. But then on Yom Kippur, what are they gonna say?

I went home during the afternoon and came back just in time to break the fast. I missed Neila - the concluding service. It means "Locking of the Gates" which sounds dramatic, but to be honest, is the dullest lock in I've ever attended. I know. I should sound more contrite so soon after the Day of Atonement. But at least I'm honest. So, if nothing else, 'thou shalt not lie' is covered.

2. It was my birthday. 33 - since you ask. I didn't want to make a big thing of it. It's not young enough that I'd want it advertised or old enough that I'd need commiserating. In fact, I was more than happy to let the day pass without a thought. But a conversation with A at work convinced me to at least invite some friends round for a drink on the day. I sent out a hasty email, a week before the big day, inviting folks to join me for a drink or two. Almost everyone emailed back to say they already had plans. I forget what it's like to have a full social calendar with stuff arranged for months in advance. I'm lucky if I know what I'm doing this time tomorrow. But luckily I have enough friends with similarly empty diaries that I didn't start my 34th year feeling like an utter billy-no-mates.

Scrappino loves a party. He still remembers my thirtieth. Whenever he has a particularly late night (we're talking half nine sometimes!) he always asks me "Do you remember the time you had a party and I went to bed at quarter past midnight" and his eyes are wide open like it's the most amazing thing he's ever done. At the time he could hardly conceal his excitement. As the clock struck twelve (well, as the LCD display became 00.00) he dashed from guest to guest shouting "It's tomorrow! It's tomorrow" like a kid possessed. This memory made it very easy for me to sweet talk him into helping me prepare for this party. So Saturday afternoon was spent pushing the trolley round the supermarket and filling the basket with dips, nibbles and wine.

I think the indication that you're getting old is when the food:alcohol ratio in your shopping basket starts to favour food instead of drink. I was practically crippled trying to push the trolley round the aisles. I'd packed it fit to bursting with guacamole, salsa, crisps, nuts, fruit, cake, biscuits, crackers, snacks, chocolate, cheese and French bread. But it was only while we were queuing at the check out that I suddenly thought "wine!" and rushed back to get a couple of bottles each of red and white. Proof, if proof were needed, that I'm turning 33 rather than 23.

On the day of my birthday I laid the table with all the food I'd bought. It hadn't really hit me until then, but as I looked at the table, with the dips and cakes and crackers for egg salad, I suddenly felt very middle aged. Less 33 and more 53. I'm not sure where I'm going wrong, but I'm sure your 33rd birthday party table is not supposed to look so much like a kiddush?

As it turned out, the party was fine. Scrappino managed to contain his emotions when we got to 11.45 pm and I still hadn't told him to put on his pyjamas. My friends were in fine form and it was great to celebrate (if that's the right word) another year older and wiser. And possibly, best of all, I was able to show off the brand spanking new, and finally completed, bathroom. They say that all the best parties end up in the kitchen. This one ended up in the bathroom. Not as kinky as it sounds. When you get to 33 years of age, and you have a party spread that would make the ladies' guild proud, with one bottle of wine happily serving 20 guests, you don't expect kinky bathroom party stories. You expect everyone to be commenting on the border tiles, the style of the taps and the swivel mechanism of the mirror. Which is exactly what they did. Welcome to middle age.

New Year digest

2005-10-07T17:36:00.000+01:00

Happy New Year to one and all. I had a lovely Yom Tov, thanks, although it wasn’t exactly restful. I managed to arrange an invitation for every meal – except for second night dinner which I had at my flat with my brother’s family. So basically, it was two days of none stop eating, with a frantic rush from the synagogue to lunch to dinner to home to synagogue. For two days. I’d like to say that there was some prayer and self reflection thrown in, but I have to be honest, I’ve never really been big on praying. I did get to hear the first 30 blasts of the shofar though, so it wasn’t a completely wasted effort. And I must admit that after all the food of the first day and a half I was tempted to put in a prayer on the second day to ask for some relief from the over indulgence.

As is traditional we had some apple and honey on the first night. The thing about apple and honey is that it’s great in theory but in practice is not nearly as sensible. First of all, it’s absolutely impossible to get runny honey onto a piece of apple and then pass it along the table to the people sitting at the far end of the room without dripping honey all over the table cloth. I’m not sure why, but there seems to be a tradition at every Jewish festival for eating food that is bound to spill or stain the tablecloth. On Pesach we’re told to drink four cups of red wine late into the night when we are at our most exhausted after a week of non stop cleaning. So there’s always one cup that spills and ruins the white table cloth. On Chanucka it’s traditional to eat jam donuts at five o’clock when the kids are still in their white school shirts. Cue yet another edible spillage.

The tradition for honey at this time of year is doubly ridiculous because we have to carry on eating it until Succot. Who had the idea of telling an entire community to eat their meals outside, in autumn, when the bees and wasps are at their most violent, and, to put the icing on the cake, tell them to take a big pot of bloody honey outside with them? Every wasp in the northern hemisphere makes a beeline (no pun intended) to the Succah to eat your soup before you do.

Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. No need to worry about Succot yet. Back to Rosh Hashanah. As well as the apple and honey I also enjoyed the other Rosh Hashanah tradition, which is comparing shul services. As soon as I arrived at my friends’ house for lunch on the first day the tradition began. We all began asking the obligatory questions that everyone finds themselves asking, despite not really caring about the answers. You know the kind of thing. How many people did you get at your shul? What time did you finish? Who blew shofar? Was he any good? And everyone gets very competitive about their shul to see who had the most people and who finished the earliest. It’s the same conversation every year and always reminds me of my grandma who always wanted the gender breakdown of the congregation. She would ask “How many people were in shul?”. “About 400”. “Was that just the men?”. Then she’d ask about the overflow. “How many in the overflow?” “About 150”. “Was that just the men?”

Talking about overflow, I haven’t updated about the bathroom for a while, so here’s the latest news on the longest bathroom installation in living memory. The bathroom is now pretty much finished – the bath is in, the shower is plumbed, the sink is connected. There is a new floor and all the tiles are in place and the grouting is done – only 3 months after the builder first started. But there is a downside – the toilet. The builder has discovered that the waste pipe feeding my toilet is made of lead and so we have to get a specialist chap to come in to remove the lead pipe and connect some environmentally friendly piping in its place. I’m hoping this is the last fiasco that we’ll encounter on this job otherwise I’ll probably be coshing my builder on the head with the lead pipe in a cleudo-style murder. And that wouldn’t be a great start to the New Year.

New Year - and the same old stories...

2005-09-30T18:53:00.000+01:00

Well, unsurprisingly, the Irish doc didn’t call (but then they never do, do they?), which is possibly just as well because to be honest I’ve been too busy these past couple of weeks to go out with anyone (medically trained or otherwise). It’s Jewish New year next week and I have been swamped with pre-New Year organising at my synagogue. All the things I love about my little intimate community (the informality, the hands-on organisation, the small numbers) are also the things that make it bloody hard work on the big occasions. There is no luxury of simply turning up on the day and finding the hall ready, the books in place, the prayers prepared. It all has to be done by the members in advance. So I’ve been rushing around for two weeks ordering chairs, shipping books from the States, preparing newsletters etc. I’d suggest that I’m feeling like a headless chicken but, given the ancient tradition of using a chicken before Yom Kippur to expel our sins, it’s perhaps a dangerous analogy to use. Although, in my almost-vegetarian household there will be no chickens laying down their lives for my misdemeanors. And I doubt that the Almighty would be impressed with a nut cutlet offered for a year’s worth of religious transgressions.

Of course, it’s great to have a festival to look forward to, even though Jewish New Year is not exactly the celebratory knees-up that it may sound like. New Year’s Eve on December 24th is a world away from Rosh Hashana. No wild parties and excessive alcohol consumption for us. We have a slice of apple dipped in runny honey and two days of synagogue attendance in store for us, with interminable sermons and the fire and brimstone warnings of what will happen if we don’t repent. The New Year liturgy, while certainly stirring and very moving, is not for the faint hearted. I dare anyone to sit through ‘Who will live and who will die; who by fire and who before his time’ without feeling a little humbled and a tad concerned for the future. Auld Lang Syne it certainly isn’t.

Perhaps I’m overplaying the serious side to Jewish New Year. It is a Jewish holiday after all, so there is the obligatory over-eating to factor in. I have already managed to wangle three invitations for dinner, two for lunch and one for afternoon tea into a two-day festival. That’s on top of the mountain of honey cake we’ll be eating in shul, the apple and honey on the first night and the new fruits on the second. By the time we’ve also had our four courses – meaty on the first night, dairy on the second (it’s the rule) we’ll be looking forward to the fast just to get back to our ideal weight.

In between the various New Year preparations I had Scrappino’s Chaggigat Hachumash yesterday. It’s a new ceremony that has been instituted at his school. Roughly translated it means ‘Bible Celebration’ and the children in Scrappino’s class were celebrating receiving their first Bible. Basically, it involved the children receiving a book they can’t read from a Rabbi they don’t know who addressed them in a language they don’t understand. So, your typical Jewish ceremony really.

All the parents arrived at school at 8.40 am and the kids went straight inside to get changed. The show began at 9.00 am. Or rather, it should have begun at 9.00 but we had to wait 20 minutes while the parents all waved, blew kisses and gesticulated wildly at the children they had last seen less than twenty minutes previously. By the same token, none of the children could stay still in position until they had made eye contact with their parents in the audience. The children performed a presentation on the story of Creation, where each day was explained via a song, a small sketch and a traditional Rabbinic parable. Given that each day took about eight minutes to cover, and there are six days of creation plus the Sabbath, we were in for the long haul.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to follow the story or the explanations properly since the children had been given absolutely no training in either throwing their voices when singing or holding the microphone far enough away from their mouths so that we could hear beyond the static hissing. Scrappino tried his best, but his microphone skills leave a lot to be desired. He held it so close to his mouth that he sounded like a gangsta rapper.

The visiting Rabbi sat in the audience alongside the proud parents while the kids danced, sang and mumbled their way through 45 minutes worth of Hebrew songs and Bible stories. It was bad enough for us parents; at least we could watch proudly from the hall as our little darlings performed for the crowd. And it’s amazing how educated and intelligent adults suddenly lose all sense of proportion as soon as they see their children perform on stage. I lost count of the number of parents who told me afterwards “I’m thinking of sending him/her to drama classes. He’s clearly got a natural talent for acting”. But the Rabbi had no such excuse and the whole thing must have seemed interminable for him. Still, he got his own back by launching into a ridiculous story in his pre-presentation speech that lasted almost as long as the kids’ show. For some reason he thought that a bunch of 8 year olds born in the final years of the 20th Century, would be interested in a story about a King and his trusted advisor Yankel. I could see all the blank looks on the kids faces as they looked at each other as if to say “What name??”. You can’t move in Scrappino’s class for Zaks and Ethans and Harrys. What the hell are they going to do with a story about a chap called Yankel?

By the time the Rabbi got to the part in the story where the king dresses up as a poor peddler the childrens’ eyes had glazed over. And frankly, I was ready to lick my own eyeballs from boredom. Poor peddlers? Houses in the forest?? Why do Rabbis always tell stories about merchants and fish and old women living in forests? Has nobody told them that we don’t actually live in Eastern Europe anymore? And that nobody we know who’s alive today remembers anyone who ever did. Why does every religious message worth spreading have to revolve around some Lithuanian outpost and a herring that swallowed some diamonds?

After the Rabbi had finished his Slovakian folk tale the parents and children were treated to cakes and biscuits. Lots of them. The table was positively groaning with food. All in all, I thought, the whole celebration was the perfect preparation for the High Holy Days. A Rabbi sermonizing on a different way of life for a different time; the congregation sitting on the most uncomfortable chairs possible for an interminable amount of time; children spending half an hour singing songs they don’t understand before over indulging on cake. It pretty much sums up the festival.

If you’re celebrating – have a sweet and good one!

What's in a name?

2005-09-21T14:38:00.000+01:00

Okay. I have been debating whether or not to update the blog with this particular bit of news. Some readers (specifically, those related to me) are almost certainly going to be a bit annoyed/hurt/upset by this, but it's the only bit of exciting news I have to report. And in the world of blogging, no news is definitely not good news. No news is the road to blog suicide.

Of course, that's partly my own fault. When I set up this blog I made two fatal mistakes. Firstly, I started the blog as nothing more than an online journal, in the (what I realise now was ridiculous) belief that my life warranted the kind of daily exposure that a blog demands. What was I thinking?? Did I really imagine that I could fill a daily blog with tales of wild parties, encounters with celebrities and pearls of contemporary wisdom? If only! What on earth prompted me to imagine that my daily work-childcare-TV-sleep routine would be at all interesting to others? Secondly, I told all my nearest and dearest about the blog which is great in the first couple of months, when the hit-counter is king and you need all the visitors you can get to keep up the momentum and avoid the blog from self destructing. But now, nine (yes, nine) months on, it does make things all rather awkward. How much do I reveal? How much do I disguise? Do I really want people I know to read this stuff? Is it time to pack it all in and start again (only next time, keep it totally confidential?)

But it's too late to worry about that now. In for a penny, as they say. And, if need be, I can always claim the whole thing is wishful thinking and pure fiction. Let's face it, we could all do with some at one time or another. So, here goes. On Saturday night, I had a date. So far, so good. In fact, so far, so very good indeed. The chap in question was (presumably still is) a good-looking, tall, intelligent, doctor (consultant no less), who speaks fluent Hebrew and laughed at my jokes. What more could a Jewish girl (or her mother) wish for?

We met via a certain Jewish dating site that will remain nameless. (Remaining nameless is what the site does best. Every Jewish singleton in London knows about the site. They are almost all registered on it. And those who are not registered secretly surf it just to see who is registered. But nobody ever mentions it. It's the new love that dare not speak its name.)

The said doctor sent me an email via the site and asked me if I would like to meet him for a coffee. And in e-dating protocol, I ignored his message completely until I had checked out his profile, downloaded his photographs, emailed them to a couple of friends for their thoughts, and dissected what he'd written, line by line.

He opened with the classic line "I am not your typical Jewish man". This immediately set alarm bells ringing because pretty much every man on the site describes himself as 'not your typical Jewish man'. Which is ironic, because over 60% of them are lawyers, 75% live in North-West London and 80% are bald. There's even a chap called Jeremy in Borehamwood who scores for all three. And even he describes himself as "not your average Jewish chap". So, needless to say, I was a little wary of his claims to individuality. But there was no reason to doubt. It turns out that he really is 'not your typical Jewish man', mainly because he isn't actually a Jewish man at all. He's a man. Just not a Jewish man. In fairness to him, he did make this clear in his profile. (And his full head of hair and 6"1" height should have given the game away too). But I must admit I did think it was rather odd. I mean, why post your profile on a Jewish dating site if you're not Jewish? What sane Anglo-Saxon male would specifically try to date a Jewish girl? Who are the role models that these men are inspired by? Ruby Wax? Edwina Currie? Monica Lewinsky? (Well, okay, I can see the attraction of a quick Lewinsky on a first date, but you get my point). What on earth would prompt an eligible English bachelor (and a doctor, to boot) to try to find a Jewish girlfriend.

I'm not one to ignore emails (least of all from tall, handsome, doctors asking me if I'd like to go out for coffee) so I replied to his question with a question (well, if he's dating Jewish girls he's gonna have to get used to that). I asked, quite simply "What are you doing on a Jewish dating site?" to which he replied "Having a fabulous time". Well, at least you can't accuse him of dishonesty.

So, we got emailing, and we asked each other all the usual pre-date email stuff - Where do you live? Where did you go to school? What are your brothers/sisters called? And the most amazing thing happened. I realised that I was asking these questions but had genuinely no idea what the answers would be. Usually, when you ask these questions, you don't really read the replies because you can guarantee a combination of 'I live in Hendon/West Hampstead/Edgware', 'I went to school at Habs/UCH/City of London' 'My brothers/sisters are called Simon/Michael/Sarah'. But this was different. There was no second guessing or same 'ol same 'ol about his replies. He's from an area of London that doesn't have 19 synagogues, 4 kosher bakeries and a Jewish primary school. He went to a school that has the word Saviour in the title and his brothers are not all named after Old Testament heroes.

Actually, it was the names that really brought home to me how 'other world' this all was. You think you're an integrated, assimilated member of British society, and then you go on a date with a non-Jewish chap and you realise that there's a whole other world out there. I'm not going to give his name here. I have enough misgivings about all the self-revelation; I'm hardly going to start exposing others. But let's just say that his name was, ethnically, along the lines of Seamus O'Malley. Or Eamonn O'Brady. You get the picture. And when we discussed the names of our brothers and sisters he came up with names like Brendan, Siobahn and Ciaran. Needless to say, there are no Ciaran's in my immediate family. And, by the same token, I doubt he is related to anyone with a gutteral letter in their name.

That said, he was a thoroughly charming person and I had a lovely evening. Would I like to see him again? Possibly. Will it all end in tears? Probably. But was it better than the date I had recently with a Jewish chap introduced to me via a professional Jewish matchmaker? Definitely.

And at least it got me out the house, and, in blog terms, writing about dates with Irish strangers beats updating on the progress of my bathroom or Scrappino's fixation with Freddie Flintoff any day.

No present like the time

2005-09-15T11:45:00.000+01:00

Oh, I do love a good pun. "No present like the time". Geddit? In case I'm not being clear enough, my five-year service award arrived today. You may remember (see post for August 3rd, '05) that I recently had to choose an 'award' in recognition of completing a half-decade of loyal service at work. Amid the competition for my affections were wooden carriage clocks, cheap ball-point pens, bird-watching binoculors and china figurines of Georgian urchins (the kind that your mum has on her mantlepiece). I chose the silver (plated) ladies watch and it arrived this morning, complete with 'Congratualtions' (sic) sticker on the tin and the company logo etched onto the side. My boss gave it to me this morning while he was handing out the FedEx boxes and the overnight faxes.

I hope I'm not sounding ungrateful. It really was a very nice gesture on the part of my employers and the watch is actually lovely. And I also know that the trick to successful living and a happy heart is to find the positive in any given situation and avoid the lure of the 'if only's and the 'what if's. But I must just say that whenever I have day-dreamed and imagined someone giving me a present of a silver watch and saying 'Happy 5th Anniversary', this wasn't quite what I had in mind.

Cricket update...

2005-09-13T18:42:00.000+01:00

Oh, me of little faith! We did it - we bloody did it. Far from having to placate an inconsolable 8-year old, I found myself having to calm down an uncontrollable one. By the time Scrappino got home from school, victory was pretty much in the bag. But that didn't make the final couple of hours any less exciting. And when confirmation finally came that we'd won the match, the two of us screamed with delight. No, really, we did. If this was an audio-blog I'd prove it to you by talking in my now nearly-hoarse voice.

Already, the tabloid souvenir pull-outs, DVD replays, and commemoration posters are on sale in the shops. My boss arrived at work today with a "We won the Ashes" T-shirt. And Scrappino noticed in the high street window an advert for a playstation cricket game with Freddie Flintoff on the front of the box. I'm not sure playing computerised cricket is going to teach Scrappino to play as well as Flintoff. It's playing the game for real that counts. And, as if to prove the point, this morning on the radio there was an interview with kids from Freddie's old junior school who were being coached in 'little cricket' by the same teacher who'd taught Freddie. That's how to get the kids playing the game. Even Sid Perks knows that (oh, an Archers reference. And it's only taken me eight months...)

I asked Scrappino if he plays cricket at school. The answer, unsurprisingly, is no. Although, he proudly reminded me, the school now has a multicoloured ladder and hoop thing in the hall. Great. That'll be just fine. Who needs dedicated coaching and early skills training in a world class sport when the kids can jump off monkey bars onto a rubber mat??

Howzat!

2005-09-12T12:57:00.000+01:00

It is impossible to concentrate on work this morning. I am trying not to think about the cricket but it's proving hopeless. I resisted the urge to install the bbc desktop test update thingy in a bid to get my head down and do some work. But my colleague is following the game religiously and keeps jumping up out of his chair whenever the tension gets too much for him. I can keep track of the score by counting the number of times he leaves the office; every time a wicket falls he dashes out for a cigarette. So he's had 5 fag breaks in one morning. So much for sport keeping you healthy.

Meanwhile, I am already worrying about what state Scrappino will be in when he comes home from school and discovers that we are heading for another classic England batting collapse. Yesterday we sat glued to the box. I could hear my mother's voice in my head "It's a beautiful day. What are you doing stuck inside??" But we just couldn't budge. And when Australia were finally bowled out we jumped for joy. Literally. Not an easy thing for a 30-something female to admit to. Mind you, I did have to raise a smile when the crowd at the Oval cheered when the Umpires declared bad light and halted play. Imagine spending 100 quid on a ticket to watch a live match and then cheering when play is suspended. Still, if the sun keeps shining, our wickets keep falling and Warne keeps spinning there's not going to be much to cheer about tonight. Watch this space...I may need some emergency tips for placating an inconsolable 8-year-old...

Nothing to report

2005-09-09T12:47:00.000+01:00

I feel I should update. Sadly, there is (as the title suggests) nothing to report. I have had no reply to my email to Jonathan Freedland, inviting him to join my shul (August 10th post), though he seems to manage to respond to invitations to whitter on with abandon on the Today programme (3 times this month?!); my bathroom (August 5th post) has still not been fitted. The builder was delayed by some dodgy pipework that needed to be replaced and a bit of aggro from my neighbours who were unhappy with the noise. But it's all right now because he (the builder, not the neighbour) is currently enjoying a week's holiday in Antigua while Scrappino and I brush our teeth in the kitchen sink and shower in our friends' houses like refugees; meanwhile my five-year service award (August 3rd post) has still not arrived. Call me churlish, but how long does it take to dispatch one imitation-silver ladies watch? I'm tempted to ask one of those convoluted maths questions "If it takes an American 6 days to send a convoy from Washington to New Orleans, how long does it take to send a watch from New York to London". Or would that be in poor taste, given the circumstances?

But, after the long summer, life is getting back to normal, pretty much. Scrappino is back in school and seems to be enjoying himself. So far he's had no homework other than being told to back his exercise books with sticky backed plastic. I did the first one for him, but with little success; I managed to stick the front side of the book to the carpet, crinkled the back so badly that it looks like an old lady's veiny thigh and ripped the first couple of pages clean out when they got caught on the sticky plastic by mistake. He insisted that I leave the others for him to do himself. Kids today are so ungrateful.

On Tuesday I went to a 'Meet the Teacher' evening. She was lovely (actually she was gorgeous - if Scrappino was a few years older I'd be looking for the tell-tale signs of his first crush). She's a northener, and endeared herself to me by referring to the school "class" (rather than 'clarse'). Scrappino still finds it hysterical that I tell him to have a "bath" instead of a "barth". I wonder how he'll cope with a double-pronged northern accent attack from mother and teacher?

After we'd met the teacher we sat in the assembly hall for a talk given by the headteacher. I'd expected an in-depth discussion on the curriculum for the year, what period of history they'd be learning, what books they'd be reading, what maths level they would be attaining. Instead we were treated to a half-hour demonstration of the new PE equipment. (All the parents have been religiously collecting Sainsbury's vouchers for the past year and finally the money was spent on a new gymnastics system for the school hall. I say gymnastics system. It's really a couple of ladders, a wooden hoop and monkey bar. Oh, and I think there's a rope too. Thousands of pounds worth of kit kats and yogurt and this is what we had to show for it.) So instead of telling us what academic level the kids will reach this year, we were assured that PE is now the school's number 1 priority. Who needs basic arithmetic and the ability to spell when you can land safely, remembering to bend the knees? Perhaps I'm being unfair? After all, there is more to school than just books and lessons. And they do say a healthy body makes a healthy mind. But it's not exactly going to look good on his secondary school application. "Scrappino is unable to spell but can shimmy head first through a wooden hoop and balance for five minutes on a rope ladder." (I don't think shimmy is the exact gymnastic technical term they used)

When he's not doing sport at school, Scrappino is watching it at home. He has caught the cricket bug from my Dad, although it seems to be taking the whole nation by storm, and I can't escape it for a moment. Yesterday, he watched the test match from the minute he got home from school and even tried to do his homework while Richie Benaud prattled on about silly-mid-off and inside-leg. Unsurprisingly, he couldn't concentrate on the ball-by-ball coverage and on covering his books with sticky backed plastic and so managed to make as much of a pig's ear of it as England made of their first innings. That'll teach him.

A fond farewell to my Grandpa

2005-09-02T18:21:00.000+01:00

Thank you to everyone who called, emailed and wrote to me over the past couple of days. Your very kind thoughts are much appreciated.

When I started this blog I hadn't intended to include so much personal information. I'd wanted to keep a discreet distance, not letting on my name, whereabouts or personal comings and goings. But it's taken on a life of its own and I've found myself disclosing more personal thoughts than I had anticipated.

So, I'll beg your indulgence one more time. My wonderful Grandpa passed away on Wednesday. I had the amazing good fortune to spend much of last week with him in Bournemouth and we had a fabulous time. The sun shone and Grandpa, in spite of his 90 years, was in wonderful health, as he'd always been. We played crazy golf, sat on the beach, treated ourselves to a traditional Dorset cream tea, and took lots of photos. My brothers and sisters were there too, with their children, and he was so thrilled to spend time with his grandchildren and great-grandchildren. And it's such a comfort to us to have such happy - and recent - memories to hold on to.

On Tuesday he called and told me that he'd played a round of golf that morning and was just about to go out and play bridge. And on Wednesday morning, he passed away peacefully, at home, and with dignity, healthy and vital to the very last. What a blessing to live so well, so long, and so happily.

It's tempting to wax lyrical about him now. But since we only ever speak well of the dead I'm reluctant to go overboard, for fear of readers assuming that my thoughts are the usual platitudes that are offered after a death. What really matters is how we are regarded in life. So, for the real affection and love that I had for Grandpa - read my entry for March 7th 2005. That's how I'll remember a much loved, and greatly missed, Grandpa M.

Yes, I am still alive...

2005-08-30T19:22:00.000+01:00

I know I know. It's been two weeks and not a word. Mea Culpa.

In my defense I have been on holiday. And, if that was not enough, I have been holidaying at a Travelodge which has yet to drag itself into the 21st Century and provide internet connection as standard. So I have been blogging off-line (now there's commitment) and will post a link to all my pearls of vacation wisdom just as soon as I can.

Thanking you all for your patience....

While the cat's away...

2005-08-17T17:27:00.000+01:00

I haven't blogged for a week and I'm starting to feel guilty. Some friends have already commented that this site is becoming 'too Jewish' (you can take the girl out of the ghetto…) - if I now introduce an element of guilt as well, they'll hit the roof.

So, a quick update. Scrappino is still with my folks by the sea-side and I am still making the most of being childfree. I've been to the theatre ("Tom, Dick and Harry" at the Duke of Yorks - dreadful, since you ask) and the ballet. Again. Where Adam Cooper is concerned, once is not enough. And I've met up with friends for that elusive drink that never seems to happen when you're juggling work and home and kids and everything else.

Being child-free has been a revelation. I didn't work before Scrappino was born and so juggling work and parenting is all I've ever known. I've become used to the panic of missing a train and spending the rest of the journey frantically trying to invent realistic-sounding excuses with which to explain my lateness to an irate school secretary and a crying child. When a colleague suggests a drink after work, I don't need to get my diary out to make an arrangement for three weeks time or phone a babysitter. I can say yeah, that'll be lovely, and off we go. And I don't have to jump every time my phone rings, just in case it's the school on the line, calling to tell me that the boiler has broken down and will I come and collect Scrappino right now?

But for all that life is different with Scrappino away, there are some things that remain the same. Not least because I've found myself adopting his hobbies. I'm not sure when or how this happened. But, to prove the point, on Sunday night I watched four episodes of Dr Who back-to-back after spotting the latest DVD in Tesco that afternoon. I bought it for Scrappino, obviously, and I put it on his pillow as a surprise 'welcome home' gift. It lay there for all of seven minutes before my inability to delay gratification got the better of me and I ripped off the plastic, sat down and was gluded to the telly all evening.

As if that's not embarrassing enough, I am starting to take on some of Scrappino's other, less street-worthy, past-times. I spent three hours on Saturday loading a new CD-Rom he'd bought - a virtual model railway. It's made by Hornby, the same people who make the real model railways. For the sad railway enthusiasts. You know the type. The middle managers who spend every waking hour in the loft, fiddling with microscopic points and reduced-to-scale steam engines. Well, we don't have room in the flat for a huge model railway. And I would be failing Scrappino as a parent if I encouraged this kind of bizarre pursuit. So a virtual railway on CD-Rom seemed the perfect compromise. It also turns out to be highly addictive. I spent three hours laying track, choosing engines, building stations and operating signals. All from the comfort of my living room. I managed to stop myself before I started making microscopic sandwiches 2 days past their best-before date or a virtual terrorist blew the whole thing up.

Scrappino is still blissfully unaware of both the Dr Who DVD and the railway CD-Rom. They are patiently waiting for his return - tomorrow. Meanwhile, he is being spoiled and indulged by my parents - as is every school boy's right - during his summer holiday. I did worry that my Dad's ideals might influence Scrappino in a direction that I've chosen not to follow. My Dad has strong values that he wants Scrappino to adopt and I've decided that they are not for me. Sadly, my concerns have been justified. Despite my own life choices, Scrappino has been unable to resist the urge of his grandfather's influence. He has become an obsessed cricket fan.

During the test match, he spent 90% of our daily telephone conversations discussing the players, the teams, the scores, the tactics. This is not as easy for him as it sounds. For starters, he's only eight, and Trescothick is a bloody difficult name to pronounce when you haven't got all your adult teeth. Plus, he's not quite mastered all of the terminology. One evening he asked me, in a voice of hope mingled with quiet despair, "Mum, do you think the Australians will avoid the follow-through?" I know that some of the cricket commentators have suggested that Shane Warne is secretly crapping himself, but this is taking things a bit too literally.

Rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous

2005-08-10T12:17:00.000+01:00

I've just emailed Jonathan Freedland and invited him to join my shul. How ridiculously impulsive is that? Well, I read an interview he gave to Jewish Renaissance - Magazine Of Jewish Culture in which he laments the fact that he and his wife don't go to shul, mainly because they can't find one that is both 'traditional' (i.e. sings the Hebrew prayers to tunes we remember from childhood) and 'progressive' (i.e. considers the participation of women in the synagogue to stretch to something slightly more demanding than cutting cake and spreading chopped herring).

So, armed with a bit of chutzpa, and the wonderful anonymity that comes with email, I dropped him a line. I begged him not to press shift+delete before he got to the end of the first paragraph, but kept it 'light and breezy'. I think I managed to tell him all about the wonderful Kol Nefesh Masorti , the only (can you believe that?) traditional egalitarian shul in the UK, without sounding too much like a cold-caller. After a couple of sentences liberally dosed with words such as 'egalitarian', 'welcoming' and 'challenging' I signed my name, and pressed send. So watch this space.

Actually, you might have to wait a while before the space is worth watching, because his auto-reply tells me "I'm away and unable to check emails until August 22nd, but I will get in touch once I get back. Best wishes, Jonathan Freedland". Firstly, that's a downright lie, because I heard him this morning on the Today programme. And secondly, just how long IS his summer holiday?? [£11.89 of which I paid for, courtesy of Jacob's Gift - A Journey into the Heart of Belonging].

Still, it's nice to rub shoulders with a celeb (kind-of). It must be the week for it. Last night, I was on the tube on my way home from work, frantically avoiding all eye contact with other commuters (in case they think that I think they're bombers) when I noticed that the chap sitting in front of me was Stephen Merchant. He's the goggly eyes chap from the Office and Extras. Ricky Gervais' side-kick. [Or, as Merchant puts it, 'writing partner']. Anyway, my immediate reaction on seeing his face was to burst out laughing. Well, you would, wouldn't you? He didn't seem to mind. I suppose it must be better than being asked 'What's Ricky really like?' by smitten groupies. But afterwards, once my giggles had subsided, I felt a bit disappointed. Here I am, dreaming of one day penning a comedy masterpiece as my stepping stone into the good life, and there's Stephen Merchant, co-creator of the biggest-selling British comedy EVER, and he's going home on the Jubilee Line. Reading a discarded Metro with the Su Doku already filled in. What's there to aspire to??

Tears before bathtime

2005-08-05T13:06:00.000+01:00

I am off to the sea-side today for a (hopefully) relaxing weekend. Scrappino is there, spending his summer holidays being looked after by my folks and I've been left behind in the smoke so that I can go to work. Or, more accurately, I've been left behind in the dust.

My plumber-cum-builder (not the one who quoted me seven grand for old rope) is currently in the process of gutting my old bathroom and fitting a brand spanking new one. He's spent three days ripping off old tiles, tearing down wallpaper, dismantling cisterns and covering the flat with a thick layer of dust in the process. I hate to be flippant - but my home is now not unlike the nuclear wastelands of Hiroshima the day after they dropped the A-bomb. (Although, perhaps today is not the best time to make this comparison?)

I've been looking forward to the new bathroom for ages. And although I knew there would be a bit of upheaval during the fitting process, I felt I was prepared for the disruption. In fact, I expected it to be quite fun. You know. All reckless spending from the Dolphin catalogue and inappropriate jokes about ball-cocks. But the reality has been a bit different. Every day since starting work on the bathroom, the plumber has called me at work to let me know of another disaster. First it was the state of the walls. When he ripped off the tiles and wallpaper he discovered that the plaster underneath was crumbling in his fingers and he's had to strip the walls to the bare brick. Cue two extra days added to the Estimated Job Length. Next, he called to say that there was a delay in taking out the old bath. He can't turn off the water to the flat because of some problem with the tap on the mains and he might have to call out the Water Company. (The same company who were responsible for this fiasco, so I'm not holding my breath.) So that's another two days added to the Estimated Job Length. Finally, he called yesterday to let me know that the cowboys who fitted the central heating to my flat have used some kind of twisted piping system that will need to be pulled out and replaced. Unfortunately, he can't do this himself as he's not a 'Registered Heating Consultant". Luckily, he has a friend who is on the register (presumably not in the sex offender sense) and he can fit the job in next week. But I'm beginning to wonder if it was all worth it.

My tolerance levels are decreasing in inverse proportion to the Estimated Job Length. Every time the phone rings at work I have to brace myself for another plumbing catastrophe. My nerves are shattered. I'm starting to feel like a walking game of Buckaroo. I'm taking on all these DIY calamities one at a time and I never quite know which one is going to make me flip. What I could really do with is a nice long soak in the bath. But of course, now that the walls and floor have been stripped, I can't do that without flooding my downstairs neighbour's flat with hot water and Radox bubbles. So I am off to my folks for a dust-free weekend and a long dip in their lovely new bath. I've even phoned ahead to make sure the immersion heater is on. And I might well have to extend the Estimated Soak Length.

(Un)happy anniversary

2005-08-03T13:51:00.000+01:00

Shoot me now. Yesterday I got the following email from my employer (automatically generated, naturally…)

"Dear X [they did insert my name, but I decided to delete it for blogging purposes],

Happy Anniversary! Thank you for your 5 years of service with [I know better than to blog my employer's name!]

We are pleased to present you an award in recognition of this achievement. In an effort to make this event meaningful, please choose an award you will value. You can view the choices at the following website: [you guessed it, the website was listed here…]

Five years!? Where did the time go? And what do I have to show for it?? Mind you, it's not often that people get to email me a Happy Anniversary message (well, not any more…) so I suppose I might as well make the most of it. But I have to admit to feeling a little uncertain as to whether this is really a moment worth celebrating. I think maybe it's a moment to stop, take stock and make some BIG decisions. (P45 anyone?)

Still, my employers clearly think this is a milestone worth celebrating. And to help me do this, they have kindly offered to present me with an 'award' of my choice. Now, before you all shout me down for being ungrateful and unnecessarily critical, here's the deal.

Firstly, the website has a list of options to press, 5 years, 10 years, 15 years etc, with each button taking you to a different page. The pages display 30 or so 'awards' that I can choose from. I picked the '5 years' button first. There were two biros (posh ones, I'll admit, but biros all the same), a couple of vases (which even my mum would say no to, and she rarely says no to vases), some cuckoo clocks (no, I don't work for a Swiss company, so I have no idea either…) a penknife (useful, but if they check my bags at the tube station on the way home from work the police will confiscate it) and some binoculars. I don't mean to sound disparaging and it was a very nice gesture, but I can't help commenting that the quality of the goods displayed was less John Lewis and distinctly more TJ Hughes.

Secondly, no matter what button you press (5 years, 35 years, 50 years, whatever) the selection is exactly the same. It's the same batch of vases, photo frames and ceramic figurines. How disappointing; imagine working for the same company for 50 years and, on your final day, being offered a pen knife as a reward? You'd want to use it to slit your wrists, there and then.

Mind you, the thought of spending 50 years at the same office, doing the same job for the same company is utterly terrifying. To be honest, I'm finding it hard to come to terms with my 5 year anniversary. I have to admit that the congratulations being showered on me by my boss are not quite as deserved as he suspects. What he calls my 'loyalty and dedication' are actually utter inertia and laziness. I'd rather stay put and do my time than actually try to find something else or something better.

And so, with that in mind, I felt I should revise the rather flowery Note of Congratulations that I received from my MD. I won't show you what he actually sent me. Here is what, I feel, he should have sent me. You can decide for yourselves…

Congratulations!

Dedication and loyalty are attributes not found in every individual, and indeed, we struggled to find any devotion to [company name] evident in you. Nonetheless, we sincerely thank you for your commitment to our company and the laziness intrinsic to your personality type that has prevented you from pursuing an alternative career. We credit our successes to individuals like you who recognise a good deal when they see one, and opt for an easy life for low pay rather than aspire to excellence.

It is always a pleasure to recognize our employees' achievements, but it is especially gratifying to acknowledge those who have attained recognized terms of service. Think of us as a jail term or an unhappy marriage - best referred to by the number of years under your belt. As a thank you and reminder of our great appreciation, please select a service award from the following choices. You might like to choose the binoculars, to help you find your missing career. Or a watch, to slowly count the hours, minutes and seconds of the next five years. But choose carefully. We scoured the very best offers from the Argos summer clearance catalogue to come up with this selection of goodies. Your award will include the company logo, for which design we paid a jumped up 'creative' more than we've paid you during your five years service so far.

Again, congratulations on this great accomplishment and thank you for your continuing inability to face the Guardian job pages on anything like a regular basis. Together, we can continue to achieve the level of excellence to which we have all grown accustomed.

Don't read this if you haven't read Harry Potter book 6 yet...

2005-08-01T17:00:00.000+01:00

On the train this morning there was a woman sitting in an aisle seat, reading Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. She was about half way through the book and she had a large bag with her, which she'd placed on the floor in the aisle. (I was sitting opposite her, playing Su Doku) At Hendon, a huge crowd of people got on the train and the aisle filled up with standing commuters. One of them very politely asked the woman if she would kindly move the bag, either onto the over-head rack, or put it on her lap. The woman refused. The gentleman explained that her bag was in the middle of the aisle and that it was getting in the way of the people standing up. "I don't care" said the woman, "I'm not moving it." "Fine!" said the man. "Leave it. Oh, and by the way, just so you know, Snape kills Dumbledore at the end."
Perfect. I wish I'd thought of that...

Going out on a school night

2005-07-28T13:47:00.000+01:00

So THIS is what single life is like when you don't have kids. I'd always wondered. Scrappino is staying with my folks for six weeks, and while the cat's away….

Tuesday night I went to see the wonderful production of Les Liaisons Dangereuses at Sadler's Wells. Yes, a ballet version of the book/play/film. The book is fabulous and if you're stuck for holiday reading this summer, that's my recommendation. It’s funny, clever, sarcastic, romantic and tragic. And you don't often get all that in one book, rrp. £3.99.

The film (Dangerous Liaisons - translated from the French for American audiences who couldn't work out Les Liaisons Dangereuses for themselves) is a masterpiece, and the choreographer of the ballet had clearly used the movie as his blueprint. To be honest, if it hadn't been for the fact that the film is one of my all-time favourites, I doubt I'd have gone to see the ballet at all. It was impossible to separate the film from the dance production. Reading the programme, I wondered if others in the audience felt the same. Maybe, instead of printing "The part of the Marquise de Merteuil will be played by…" they should have said "The part of Glenn Close will be played by…"

I had planned to watch the ballet with my friend D. We booked at the last minute and could only get hold of tickets in the upper second circle, which, for someone with mild vertigo, is not ideal. On the way to find my seat I felt like that chap in "Touching the Void" as he slowly climbed to the summit. I half expected to find the abandoned bodies of ballet enthusiasts whose legs had given way, or who had run out of oxygen, before they made it to row U. By the time I found my seat I wouldn't have been surprised to find snow on my head. Unfortunately, a couple of hours before the performance, D phoned to say that she was poorly and wouldn't be able to make it. Despite a frantic attempt to sell the ticket - or bribe someone to come along with me - I ended up going on my own, which is a shame. There's only one thing worse than sitting in crap seats up in the gods. And that's sitting on your own in crap seats up in the gods.

I tried to put a brave face on it. Bought a drink, for myself, in the bar, and read the programme. Tried to look like I take myself out on dates all the time. I must admit, there was the odd attempt at a little theatre-auditorium flirting, but it was pretty hopeless. If there were any heterosexual men there, I couldn't spot them. Well, this is Sadler's Wells after all. And, let's not forget, the star attraction of the performance was Adam Cooper.

Ah, Adam Cooper. Did I not mention him earlier? Yes, the OTHER reason why I wanted to see the ballet was that the star, director and choreographer was Adam Cooper. If you've not heard of him before, he's the one who plays the grown up Billy Elliot at the end of the film. In the final scene he leaps across the screen, playing the lead role in the all-male Swan Lake, and takes everyone's breath away. And once you've seen him dressed in nothing but make-up and feathers, you simply have to see him dancing in 18th century frilly shirt and silk breeches. Even if you do have to climb three flights of stairs and sit on your own to do it. There are worse ways to spend a mid-week evening.

Blog flash

2005-07-25T12:48:00.000+01:00

I don't normally post twice in a day. It takes me a near miracle to post twice a week. But I had a sudden moment of blog pride and had to make a comment. Do you remember how I whittered on for weeks about Su Doku, long before any one else was interested, and then suddenly it was the talk of the town? Where I blog, millions follow. Well, it's happened again. As soon as I moan about the inappropriateness of flip-floppery in the work place, the issue goes global. Do you think President Bush is a closet Suburban Hymnster?

School's out for the summer

2005-07-25T10:01:00.000+01:00

I am now back in the office after taking a day off at the end of last week. Scrappino is spending the summer holidays at the sea-side with my parents. You know how it is. He has six weeks summer holiday and I have 20 days a year. You do the math. So I have no alternative but to pack him off for six week’s indulgence while I stay home and pay the mortgage. It’s not a bad deal. My folks love having him. He loves going. And I get to keep my job. Everyone’s a winner. Kind of.

He was off school on Friday, so, as it was our last day together before he goes away, I decided to take the day off work and spend it with him. Just the two of us. We had wanted to go to the Science museum. I say ‘we’ but obviously, it was Scrappino’s choice really. But in the end, the situation on the tube convinced me to make alternative arrangements. I wasn’t scared to take him on the tube. I am determined to carry on as usual. Unfortunately, the Piccadilly, District, Circle and Northern lines were all either suspended or disrupted and after 10 minutes trying to figure out a viable route (an exercise resembling the Mornington Crescent game from I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue) we gave up and went to the picures instead. If you have a young child in need of entertainment, I can heartily recommend Madagascar.

After we came back from the cinema I packed his suitcase ready for his holiday. Cue frantic search for a pair of tzitzit for him to take with him. We almost turned the flat upside down looking for them so that by the time the case was packed the place was a tip. Saturday was busy so there was no time to tidy up. So yesterday morning I was up with the lark, rushing about the flat in a frenzy trying to make the place look tidy before my parents arrived to collect Scrappino. I may be 32, an independent working woman and mother of a young child. But as soon as my mum arrives I revert to being 12 again, hoping that she doesn’t notice that my bedroom is a tip.

In all the excitement of tidying the flat I missed most of what is usually the highlight of my week - Broadcasting House and the Archers omnibus. I know. You’re jealous of my dizzy lifestyle, aren’t you? But life is about small pleasures. And a cup of tea, a lie-in and Radio 4 is hard to beat on a Sunday morning. (Well, it is if you’re single…) I miss the great Eddie Mair, of course. But he’s gone on to greater things. And Fi Glover is a very close runner up. It's always a pleasure to hear a woman mastering sarcastic asides aimed at unsuspecting politicians.

The nervous clean-up was worth it. No comments from my folks about the state of the flat. And Scrappino was excited and ready to go when they came to collect him. So now I’m back at work. The flat is empty and I’ll be on my lonesome for six weeks. If you know me, and we keep making vague arrangements to meet up for a drink, now would be a great time to call. Although you might want to leave it a day or so. I’ve been out of the office for one day so I’m going to need a couple of days just to clear my junk emails. I arrived this morning to find 76 new messages. Only 35 of which were work-related. Two were from Amazon who contacted me to tell me that “People who bought James Blunt also bought Willy Mason” and would I like to buy it also? I hate it when they do that. It reminds me of my primary school teachers. “If James Blunt told you to put your hand in the fire, would you do it?” There were also 2 phishing emails from Barlyes (sic) Bank, advising me to hand over all my personal information or my bank account would be frozen. I've had similar messages from Lloyds, HSCB and Bank of America. But the latest from Barclyes was clever. Here's the opening paragraph:

"Barclyes Bank PLC. always look forward for the high security of our clients. Some customers have been receiving an email claiming to be from Barclays advising them to follow a link to what appear to be a Barclays web site, where they are prompted to enter their personal Online Banking details. Barclays is in no way involved with this email and the web site does not belong to us. Barclays is proud to announce about their new updated secure system. We updated our new SSL servers to give our customers a better, fast and secure online banking service. Due to the recent update of the servers, you are requested to please update your account info at the following link."

How clever is that? A phishing email warning you against phishing emails. What baffles me is that, despite the strongest firewalls and spam filters in the business, I am still offered Viagra and dodgy university degrees on an almost daily basis. And yet perfectly legitimate messages are blocked. A friend called last night to ask why I’d not replied to her invitation to join her for Seuda Shelishit. I told her I’d not received the invitation and she explained that she’d sent it via email. So this morning, while deleting offers of penis extensions I checked my junk mail folder and found this notice from her ISP:

"NOTICE: 'Block Abusive Language': CONTENT: Body contains 'shit'. ACTION: Quarantine email and alert sender."

If you are up for that drink, do get in touch. But if you send the message by email, keep it clean.

Potter, Parties and Puke

2005-07-19T17:03:00.000+01:00

Apologies (again…) for the long silence. Did you miss me? It’s been a busy few days and I’ve hardly had a chance to update. Firstly, I had a visit from Baldricka who’s visiting the UK for her annual shopping trip. It may sound extravagant, but I once bought clothes in Jerusalem and so I understand her logic perfectly. Then, I had my work’s Annual Summer Party and I was too drunk, and then too hungover, to blog. Finally, Scrappino brought home his excellent school report (did you expect anything else?) and I simply had to take him out to celebrate. But now, he is the proud owner of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (belated birthday present) and he is hiding in his room, nose in said book, lost in Hogwarts. He will probably not resurface until some time next week, which gives me time to catch up here.

Actually, I should make clear that he’s already finished reading the book cover to cover. But that’s not enough. He immediately started back at the beginning the moment he finished. It’s just like Simchat Torah. Only he decided not to dance round the room, holding the book aloft, singing Torat Hashem Temima and drinking alcohol on an empty stomach.

Talking of which, Friday night was my Annual Summer Party at work and I did drink a fair amount of alcohol on an empty stomach. I have been (repeatedly) advised not to mention anything about work on this blog. It’s good advice, if this is to be believed. So I will not tell you about the party itself in too much detail. Other than to say that a terrific time was had by all. And that working for a company where the MD plays guitar in a rock band and performs a two-hour set for the employees isn’t half bad. Less pleasant was the long journey home. I was originally going to get a cab home. But in the spirit of the “We are not afraid” campaign, I felt it would be a fitting statement to travel home on the tube and train. Don’t let the bombers scare us off public transport. And how difficult can it be getting home from central London on a Friday night? Famous last words; the journey was simply awful. They should bottle it and sell it as an instant hangover cure. The tube to Kentish Town was not too bad. A little overcrowded, but plus ca change. But then I took the Thameslink from Kentish Town and it was like Bedlam.

There was a Scouser (and I feel entitled to make this point) who was drunk out of his skull, singing LFC football songs at the top of his voice. Singing in the Kop is one thing. Or singing together with a group of friends. But sitting on your own, on the 23.35 Brighton-Bedford Thameslink, singing “Champiowneys Champiowneys” at the top of your voice is quite another. And to add insult to injury, he kept trying to provoke the chap sitting in front of him by asking “How many times have Arsenal won the Champions league, eh? Never, that’s how many”. I (obviously) have a soft spot for LFC. But there’s a time and a place, mate. And the night train home from Central London isn’t it. (Although I have to admit that it’s marginally better than the other least-appropriate-occasion-for-singing-football songs that I can recall. When Scrappino was born, 4 weeks early and not quite able to manage on his own, J came to visit him at 2 days old. As he (Scrappino) lay there in his little incubator, his tiny hands connected to monitors and a feeding tube inserted in his nose, J leaned right up to the glass, smiled at the sleeping Scrappino and sang “Who’s that lying in the tarmac? Who’s that lying in the snow?....” Like I say, time and place.)

As if the drunk Scouser wasn’t bad enough, there was a woman sitting next to me who had also had far too much to drink. Half way home I could hear her groaning to herself. Then she started holding her head in her hands. Finally (how unpleasant is this?) she threw up in her bag. But not in her handbag – that would be far too classy. She threw up in a plastic bag. One of those really small Boots ones that they give you if you buy a lipstick. And to make matters worse (yes, matters can get worse) there was a hole in the bag through which her alcoholic liquid sick was slowly dripping. I didn’t want to point it out to her myself. I am English and I don’t talk to strangers on the train. But the Scouser had no such qualms. He interrupted his rendition of You’ll Never Walk Alone to call across the aisle to the barfing blonde, “Yer pewk is leeekin. It’s drippin on yer shoooes.” Next time I’ll get a cab. Never mind “We are not afraid”. I’ll leave the grand gestures to those who don’t mind travelling home next to caterwauling scousers and chavs dribbling vom.

Babies and bazaars

2005-07-11T22:24:00.000+01:00

Heartfelt thanks to all my far flung friends for the texts/emails/phonecalls received over the last couple of days. I am fine. Shaken but not stirred, as they say. (Who says that??) And life here in London is getting back to normal. I came into work this morning on the tube as if nothing had happened. There was a moment when the train stopped for no apparent reason in the tunnel between Westminster and Waterloo and I could sense my panic levels rising slightly. Then I recalled that the tube is constantly stopping in between stations for no apparent reason and took it for a sign that everything really is back to normal. When the Thameslink is delayed and then cancelled some time later on in the week (as it surely will be) I’ll know for certain that things are once again as they should be. The only discernible change is that people (especially the media) are constantly repeating clichés such as ‘life goes on’ and ‘they won’t change our way of life’ and marvelling on the united spirit of Londoners. If anyone else comments that Londoners are displaying the Blitz spirit or the courage of Dunkirk I think I’ll scream. Even her Majesty has drawn parallels between the bombing during the blitz and Thursday’s terror. She made her comments while she was visiting the wounded in Hospital – as if they haven’t suffered enough.

But , cliché or not, life does go on. And the weekend was hot and sunny and crowded with children. In the morning we had my nephew’s 5th birthday party. Scrappino is very proud of his younger cousins – especially as he’s the oldest of the bunch – and he had a great time. I have to admit though, I was less than keen. Don’t get me wrong. I love my nephew. I love all my nephews and nieces. They are terrific. It’s all the other kids at the party that I can’t stand. I adore my relatives’ kids and my friends’ children. But strangers children? Dreadful. Just can’t stand them. The only benefit I can see from spending time with other people’s children is that it reminds you just how much you love your own. Of course, life is never simple. After convincing myself that I was in no hurry to return to sleepless nights and dirty nappies I went to the second birthday party of the day – a friend’s daughter’s first birthday. No hoards of strange children. No toddlers demanding extra jelly and a bigger slice of cake. Just the (very cute) birthday girl in her party dress. It’s enough to make a girl broody.

Sandwiched in between the two parties was Scrappino’s school bazaar. Or should that be bizarre? For some inexplicable reason, I was asked to help out on the face painting stall. Odd, because I have no experience and little artistic talent. The other woman running the stall was an expert. She had her own set of professional face paints (Who has their own set of face paints??) and she’d brought books of face painting designs with her. It wasn’t long before the kids waiting in line realised that I was the short straw. As they reached the front of the queue they’d point to the “I’ve brought my own face paints” lady and ask “Can she do mine please?” Nobody wanted me to do their faces. Which is not surprising. The first little girl asked to be a flower. So I applied a light shade of pink all over her face with the idea of painting petals on each cheek. But I kind of overdid the pink so that by the end she looked like she was either back from two weeks in Tenerife or had just had a screaming tantrum. Which is fitting, because as soon as she saw her face in the mirror she had a screaming tantrum and her dad had to take her home. Undeterred, I started work on the next little boy. He wanted to be a tiger. (A tiger?? Is he having a laugh?) So I started by applying a layer of orange, with the idea that I’d paint black and white stripes over the orange. Unfortunately, the white didn’t show up over the orange and the black just ran with the base layer to make a dark orange. The poor kid looked like he’d been tangoed. I saw him later in the yard, frantically trying to wash it off. Four quid that cost him. A month’s pocket money to look like the love child of Judith Chalmers and David Dickinson. Still, it’s all for charity as they say.

Scrappino tends to be a bit wary at fairs. He likes to check out every stall before he’ll buy anything or try any of the games. He wants to make sure he makes an educated decision on what to spend his tokens on. We had to do a full circuit of the entire playground to see what was on offer before he would do anything. I took him round the brik-a-brak stall but he wasn’t sure he wanted anything. He considered buying a ticket for the raffle but decided to think about it first. He wasn’t sure if he should play ‘beat the goalie’ or try his luck at the lucky dip and I couldn’t convince him to just make a decision and do something. Finally, I asked him if he’d like his face painting. Without any hesitation he said “definitely not”. Ah well, life goes on.

The morning after the day before

2005-07-08T13:45:00.000+01:00

I can't let the terrible events of yesterday pass without making some comment. I am reluctant to offer words of advice or wisdom. I'm not that kind of person and this isn't that kind of blog. But I was in the center of London while the bombs were going off. I do know people caught up in the chaos and some who witnessed the horror. And I did have to make a slow journey home amid the crowds of bewildered commuters. And so, in that light, here are my personal reflections.

The emergency services were staggeringly efficient. My office is next door to the Ambulance center for South London. Within minutes of the second bomb going off, the police arrived in large numbers and cordoned off the street. Soon, the road was packed with ambulances, paramedic units and mobile clinics. Throughout the day, the emergency services worked with a quiet, organized determination that was apparent to us all. Their professionalism and calm control was incredibly reassuring. I'm sure I'm not alone in feeling comforted that the professionals knew what they were doing and were in command of the chaos.

Similarly, the ordinary people of London were quite remarkable. It may be a cliché to say it - the papers this morning can't stop making the same point - but there was a real sense yesterday of everyone making the best of this terrible situation and doing what they could to help. Even if that was holding on to terrified strangers or just sitting tight to let the emergency services get on with their job. I know that much has been made today of the swift mood change overnight; from jubilation at winning the Olympics to devastation at the terror. But in truth, these are two sides of the same coin. It was the same unity of spirit and sense of community in London that won us the games that got us through the day yesterday.

Throughout the day, the Internet proved crucial. All over London, office workers were constantly updating the BBC home page, sending each other links from Sky News and Guardian Online, fuelling the rumours and the speculation that were spreading like wildfire through the City. Without the Internet, we'd not have known what was going on, where the latest explosions had been, what the travel situation was or how we were going to get home. I did wonder how on earth people coped with terrorist atrocities before the advent of the world wide web?

The mobile phone networks failed almost immediately. Rumours spread that the police had cut off the networks to prevent potential bombers using mobile phones to detonate bombs. Later we were told that it was the sheer volume of calls that caused the networks to fail. Who knows which is correct? While mobile phone calls were impossible, text messages were still feasible and all day txts were sent back and forth to family and friends. Everyone desperately trying to find out if their loved ones were alright. And updating each other on new explosions and the latest information about which stations, roads and bridges were closed.

Later, once I got home, the phone calls kept coming. From friends in London, elsewhere in the UK and abroad. By that time, it was clear that I was fine. But the calls kept coming, not because people needed to know if I was safe but because we just wanted to talk. I think we all felt a need to make contact with everyone we know and love. If only to show that we're thinking of each other. And wanted each other to be safe and well.

This morning, 24 hours on, the city is almost back to normal. I came into work, with thousands of others, on the train and the tube, as if nothing has happened. Life goes on. If it didn't, the terrorists win. Today, the calls from concerned friends are still coming. But now, it's not to find out if we're safe. It's just to talk. Everyone is talking about where they were, how they found out, how they got home. I get the sense that we all have a need to explain our part in this tragedy. What our role was and how we fit in.

And my personal feelings? Well, I made a promise not to reveal too much about myself on this blog. It's not a narcissistic exercise, after all. But I hope it's not too ego-focussed to say that I have an amazing circle of friends, and a terrific family network who looked after me yesterday, physically and emotionally. I couldn't get by without them. And when I got home last night, safe and well, if a little shaken, and secure in the knowledge that my family were all fine too, I was even more delighted and grateful than usual to see Scrappino's smiling face as I walked through the door.

Celebrating (three times over)

2005-07-06T19:59:00.000+01:00

I went out for a slap-up meal last night. Scrappino and I were enjoying a double celebration. I was toasting my recent promotion at work. (You are now reading the blog of a Managing Editor. How grand does that sound??) I told Scrappino about the promotion and asked him if he knew what that meant. He asked “Is it a bit like an upgrade?” That’s the computer generation for you.

And Scrappino was celebrating his success at the school sports day. He came second in the running race. And, as he explained on the way home, “the boy who won is really tall and has longer legs than me, so it doesn’t count.”

It seems fitting that he should be celebrating his sporting victory the same week that London has won the 2012 Olympics. The government is keen that the Olympic win will inspire young kids to take up sport. If he does become inspired by the Olympic fever it’ll be no thanks to me. Sport has never really been my thing. Personally, I couldn’t even run a bath, let alone a marathon. I’m strictly an armchair participant. Which is just as well. My wonderful colleagues kindly pointed out that I’ll be 40 by the time the Olympics are staged here, so no hope of a medal for me.

But it’s certainly going to be an interesting seven years while the Olympic village is built. I guarantee that, within the next couple of days, the euphoria of the IOC announcement will give way to British cynicism on an Olympian scale. It’ll be the Millennium Dome all over again. The Evening Standard will list every council tax rise in every borough and attribute it to the Games. And you won’t be able to buy a drink in a London pub without someone moaning that “come 2012 it’ll be £4.50 a pint”.

But I’m determined to avoid the cynics and look forward to the Games. Try to see it through Scrappino’s eyes. He’ll be 16 when the Olympics arrive. Who knows, maybe he’ll be winning the running race then too? I wonder if he’ll explain to the TV commentators that he won the silver medal, but the person who won gold has longer legs, so it doesn’t really count?

It was twenty years ago today...

2005-07-03T22:34:00.000+01:00

I spent most of today in a semi-daze, due to a lack of sleep after watching the G8 concert into the small hours. Not live in Hyde Park obviously. My days of standing up in a field for 10 hours, hemmed in by a crowd of swaying teenagers and being deafened by an array of state-of-the-art amplification are over. To be honest, it was never really my thing. I’ve only been to two outdoor gigs. One was Paul McCartney Live at the Liverpool Docks and the other was watching our school Wind Band play in the International School Orchestra competition at the Liverpool Garden Festival. Not exactly Woodstock, is it? I even sold my tickets for the Cambridge Folk Festival at the last minute. In the days before Ebay, when selling concert tickets wasn’t deemed despicable. But I was intent on at least watching Live 8 on the box. If only to see if it lived up to my memories of Live Aid. It may be a cliché, but it really was a seminal moment of my childhood. I was never a huge fan of Queen, but Freddy Mecury was a demi-god in my eyes after that concert.

I mentioned this to a colleague on Friday; I told her that, ending world poverty aside, my main motivation for watching was to see how it compared to Live Aid. I asked her if she thought it would be as good.
“I wouldn’t know” she replied, “I didn’t see the original.”
I was horrified. “How can you not have seen the original?? Everyone saw the original”
“I didn’t” she said “I was two”.
Two!? I am working with a woman who was two in 1985?! If I’d wanted to work with children I’d have gone into teaching. And she’s not alone. Another colleague let slip, just before Charles and Camilla’s wedding, that she was born AFTER his wedding to Diana. How is that possible? No-one was born after Charles and Di’s wedding. Apart from William and Harry of course. And they’re hardly likely to get a job in my office. Or indeed, any office.

I couldn’t see the entire concert. I had to dip in and out as Scrappino insisted on playing Game of Life with me. And he hates pop music so I couldn’t even have it on in the background while we played. But once I’d finally managed to get him to bed at 8.00 pm I was able to sit back and enjoy the final couple of hours. It was a tremendous achievement. Normally he’s not in bed until 9.30 at the earliest. And the concert was a terrific achievement too. I know his idea of sending a flotilla of dinghies to France to pick up people to take to Edinburgh was a bit wacky. But Saint Bob’s ability to galvanise public opinion and highlight a situation thousands of miles away, that otherwise we’d not give a damn about, has to be applauded. I know the cynics doubt the concert will have much of a concrete effect. But the very fact that everyone is talking about Africa is a result in itself. The papers are full of Africa this morning. The sentence that caught my eye was this. It will cost the world 3 billion dollars to educate every child on the planet. Which is roughly the same as the USA spends every year on ice cream. How bad do you feel now?

Actually, I shouldn’t really call him Saint Bob. I don’t think he is a saint. He’s too vulgar and in-yer-face and earthy to be a saint. I was chatting to friends on Saturday morning and we decided that actually Bob is not a saint at all. He’s a prophet. In the traditional Old Testament fire-and-brimstone sense of the world. Consider the evidence. He looks and dresses a bit odd. He expects people to behave in a way that is, at first glance, either ridiculous or impossible. But on closer inspection you realise that actually he’s not talking nonsense at all, and you could emulate his ideals, if you put your mind to it. He screams at us in an uncontrollable, almost insane manner, but what he’s saying is uncomfortably true. It’s just terribly unpalatable. If Elijah was alive today I reckon there’s every chance he’d also wear ill fitting jackets, never wash his hair and tell us to ‘give me your f**king money’. Or something like that.

The highlight of the concert, for me, was seeing the ‘Who’s gonna drive you home’ video from Live Aid and remembering the horror of the Ethiopian famine from twenty years ago. When they brought on stage the beautiful woman who had survived the famine and introduced her to the crowd against the backdrop of her own emaciated face as a starving child I welled up. Granted, it doesn’t take much to make me cry. But that was a truly moving moment. Less moving was Madonna’s confession, in an interview after her (admittedly brilliant) set that she had never been to Africa. She qualified this statement by reassuring us that she knew people who had been so she was very aware of what was going on. But I couldn’t help thinking, what a waste. I mean, what is the point of earning 200 million and being the most famous woman on the planet if you don’t put that money and fame to some altruistic good? What has she been doing for the last twenty years? There has to be more to life than vogue and papa don’t preach.

My first (musical) love remains the Beatles, so I was delighted to see that Paul McCartney hasn’t lost it. His voice didn’t quite carry over the electric guitars, but I sang along, in my flat, to the Hey Jude chorus. And I couldn’t help smiling when Pink Floyd, average age 59 and with faces looking the worse for years of drug abuse, sang “What do you do when your heroes turn to ghosts?” I’d always taken the lyric to be a rhetorical question, but watching their drug addled and wrinkled faces staring at me, I half expected the crowd to shout back “You have turned into bloody ghosts”. I can’t claim to be a huge Floyd fan. In fact, if I’m honest, Brick in the Wall is the only song I really know. And I’ve never much liked it, ever since I once had a cup of tea in a filthy greasy spoon café in Manchester and saw the thirty-odd year old waiter wiping down a table and singing along to the track on the radio. As he mopped up spilt coffee with his dirty sponge and sang ‘We don’t need no education’ I remember thinking to myself, actually, an education might have been a good idea, don’t yer think??

But the highlight of the weekend for me was the return of my good friend P, who is back in the UK after her great US adventure. It’s been a long three months. It seemed fitting that she came back this weekend. She was part of my seminal Live Aid moment. Everyone remembers where they saw that concert. Well, those of us who weren’t two at the time. And I watched it, with P and her Grandma, at her Grandma’s flat. We laughed as we had to tell her who each of the acts were, and looked at each other as if to say ‘how can you not know who Paul Young is??’ I didn’t feel quite as smug yesterday as I tried to work out who the hell the Kaiser Chiefs are. Twenty years is a long time in popular music. But not quite as long as three months when your oldest friend is away from home. So you’ll forgive me if I take this opportunity to welcome P home. It’s great to have her back.

Water Water Everywhere

2005-06-26T18:20:00.000+01:00

It has been a very sobering weekend. Not literally, obviously. You know I like a cold beer on a Sunday afternoon. But it’s been a humbling couple of days. Quite fittingly, I feel, just a week before the G8 summit I have been made rudely aware of how crucial a regular supply of clean water is to normal living. And how, without it, life can be incredibly uncomfortable.

For reasons best known to themselves, Barnet Highways Agency – or some such group – saw fit to re-surface our road during the hottest week in June since the infamous summer of 1976. So all last week there were boiling hot oildrums of bubbling tar on the pavement while the road surface was dug up and relaid. You can picture the scene, rubble everywhere and semi clad workmen walking up and down the street with flasks. The sunburnt British workman, wearing nothing but hard hat, sleeveless orange jacket and shorts is not a pretty sight first thing in the morning. Or indeed any time of the day.

Apparently, a letter was sent out to all residents to let us know of the impending work and to ask us to move our cars off the road by 8 am. I’m not sure if there actually was such a letter because I didn’t receive it myself. But I luckily saw them starting work on Thursday morning before I took Scrappino to school and moved the Skoda just in time.

I knew something wasn’t quite right on Friday morning because when I went to take my shower there was only cold water – no hot water at all. The taps were turning but nothing at all was coming out. I figured it was due to the road work and had a cold shower. It was 30 degrees out side so I didn’t really mind.

But on Friday evening, when I was getting ready to go out to dinner with friends there was no water at all. No hot and no cold. The only water in the entire flat was a couple of bottles of Evian and the contents of the loo. Which I was too scared to flush in case it didn’t re-fill. It turns out that the workmen were so busy drinking their tea and working on their suntans that they had forgotten to turn the water back on. They’d had to turn it off to lay the road. Don’t ask me why they had to turn off the mains to lay down tar, but they did.

One of the neighbours called the council on Saturday morning to ask them to sort it out. They were told that a representative from Three Valleys Water would call round to explain the situation. He wouldn’t be able to switch the water back on. But he would be able to explain why we’d have to spend all weekend pishing in a bucket and washing our bits with baby wipes.

Living for 48 hours without running water is incredibly unpleasant. I had to pop over to a friend to take a shower. And I ran out of juice after a couple of hours and had to do an emergency shop for some bottled water and a crate of coke. Before I did any cooking I had to work out what I could cook without using any water. The plates are still standing in the sink ready to be washed up. And Scrappino’s school uniform is in the laundry basket, unwashed.

It was a horrible annoying uncomfortable experience. But in reality, I didn’t really suffer too much. If I’m honest, I was inconvenienced a little. But I wasn’t in any real danger. And I’m confident that by tomorrow morning normal service will be resumed and the toilet, washing machine, shower, bath and kitchen sink will all be back to normal. In some ways, it was a very sobering experience. And, if only for two days, gave me a small insight into what it must be like to live somewhere where you cannot rely on there being water available when you need it. How do they manage? Day after day, week after week?

To make matters worse, when the workmen had turned off the mains they had set up a stand pipe in the road. But the handle wouldn’t turn and it also had a massive leak, so all weekend (while we’ve been popping over to friends’ houses to shower and brush our teeth) gallons of water have been pouring out of the pipe and running down the drain.

Which is where the G8 summit comes in. I’m not one to get cross about world politics. It does no good. And we have Bob Geldof to do that for us. But it made me so annoyed to think that millions are marching to prevent poverty in Africa caused, in no small measure, by the lack of a clean reliable water supply. And yet here we are in suburban London with literally gallons of the stuff running down the street unused. I won’t try to make a gag out of this. It doesn’t hurt to have a serious posting once in a while. And if you want a funny reaction to drought in Africa and waste in the West you can always watch Comic Relief. They have dancing newsreaders and singing weather girls.

How hot??

2005-06-22T22:41:00.000+01:00

It’s hot. Too damn hot. I recall writing a post not so long ago about light dustings of snow disrupting the trains and closing the school down. And now the sun is cracking the flags and there isn’t a woman in London who isn’t wearing a vest top for work. Where does the time go? If this was a musical blog, I’d be inclined to break into a rendition of ‘Is this the little girl I carried’.

Actually, I don’t mind the sun. Or the vest tops. The only summer fashion I really can’t stand are the flip-flops. When did flip-flops become everyday wear? When I was young (get me! how grumpy-old-man do I sound? I blame the heat) but when I was young, flip flops were for the beach. Now, you see women (and the odd fella – Australians, probably) on their way to work wearing linen power suits and flip-flops. My office is full of women wearing them. Am I the only one that thinks this is inappropriate dress for the work place? Not only do they make the slimmest ankle look fat (check out this week’s Heat magazine. Kate Moss – size 8 – looks like she’s been struck down with elephantitis) but they make the most irritating click-clacking noise with every step. If you close your eyes, it sounds like someone chewing gum, very loudly, right into your ear. My desk at work is on route the kitchen and all day my colleagues walk past on their way to make cups of tea. And I sit by my computer with the click-clacking tip-tapping going by all day. How am I supposed to concentrate on surfing the net with that racket going on?

Maybe it’s the heat that’s making me grumpy. I doubt anyone in London has slept properly since the temperature soared. Scrappino finds it unbearable. He’s taken to walking round the flat wearing nothing but his pants. Typical man. The trouble is, his pants are bright red and running around the flat dressed like that he looks like a blonde Mowgli out of the Jungle Book. I expect him to start singing and doing that ‘oobi doo – I wanna be like you-oo-oo’ dance.

Of course, I should have known there would be a heat wave this week, as it’s Scrappino’s first week back at school after half term. Most schools were off a couple of week’s back, but as Passover was late this year all his school holidays were postponed. Passover wasn’t really late. It’s the same date every year. But you know what I mean. And whatever the reason, Scrappino’s now back at school and to ease him and his friends gently back into his final term, the powers that be decided to send a 30 degree heat wave. Lovely. As if going back to school after a holiday isn’t torture enough.

Scrappino doesn’t exactly make it easy for himself. I try to teach him basic skills in forward planning, but he hasn’t quite mastered it yet. After a whole week off, he remembered at 9.30 on Sunday night that he had some spellings to learn. So I put the TV on mute, turned on the subtitles and tested him on his list of compound-nouns while I watched Big Brother Update with one eye on the screen. After making sure he knew them well enough to pass the test I sent him back to bed. Half an hour later, he’s up again. He forgot to write his holiday diary. The teacher had asked the children to write two sentences every day about what they were doing on holiday. Two sentences every 24 hours sounds easy enough, doesn’t it? Fourteen sentences, hastily scribbled at ten past ten on a Sunday night is slightly more difficult. We tried to keep it accurate, but Scrappino couldn’t quite remember what he’d done. In the end we just made it up. But the teacher will think I’m a great mother. It turns out that during half-term Scrappino went on two museum trips, made paper mache models of trains, updated his stamp album, read three Biggles books from cover to cover and wrote a postcard to a pen-pal in France. This year’s Parent of the Year award goes to…

I have to admit that Scrappino’s ability to plan ahead is pretty much matched by my own. Monday morning we both woke up late. The heat. Obviously. Scrappino tries to find his uniform and I remember that I’d washed it the previous night but forgot to hang it out to dry. So he has to make do with a slightly damp uniform for his first day back. Well, it’ll help him to keep cool, I tell him. I then go to make his lunch and discover that his lunch box has not been emptied. And it was last used before the half term holiday. Lovely. Have you ever wondered what a 10-day old peanut butter sandwich looks like? Or a spilled Scooby Doo yogurt, left to fester in a hot plastic container? Not the best way to ease yourself into the week. It was a revolting mess, but somebody had to clean it. And that lucky somebody was P’s cleaner, who’s still covering at my flat while P is away. As I said recently, worth every penny. Finally, we leave the flat, lunch in a plastic bag, school trousers nearly dry, homework completed (if dishonestly) and walk to school. Half way there Scrappino suddenly screams out “Swimming Kit!” and we have to head back again to find a towel (laundry basket), trunks (ditto) and goggles. Maybe that Parent of the Year award was a little premature?

The feast of weeks

2005-06-15T13:07:00.000+01:00

So, I'm back at work today after two days Shavuot. I know. Who am I kidding? Close friends will know full well that I've been at work all week. But my family occasionally read this blog and I don't want to intentionally offend. It's all part of the on-going pretence. They don't ask me what I did on Friday night, and I kid myself that they have no idea. Everyone is happy. And I do feel that I've partially celebrated the festival. I even nipped out at lunchtime yesterday and bought a slice of Fruits of the Forest Cheesecake from Marks & Spencer. That's practically haimish.

For those who don't know, here's a brief explanation. Shavuot (afore-mentioned festival) commemorates the moment that the Children of Israel received the Ten Commandments from Moses at Mount Sinai. There is a custom to eat cheesecake and other dairy foods on Shavuot. The reason is rather convoluted and involves various myths and legends surrounding the law to separate milk and meat. I won't go into any further detail here. It's not really necessary. There is a Rabbinically-sanctioned custom to eat cheesecake for two days. Who needs a reason??

As well as cheesecake, some people celebrate by eating blintzes. These are thin pancakes filled with sweet cream-cheese and topped with a thick pouring sour-cream called smetna. I'm not 100% sure what smetna is. Is it a Yiddish word? Or does everyone eat smetna? It's one of those grey-area foods that you're never quite sure are Jewish or not. Like Mrs Elswood's cucumbers. And Langley Farm cottage cheese? I mean, is it just us, or what? Either way, smetna is one of those instant taste-bud triggers that whisk you back to childhood. It also reminds me of the time in primary school (and this is 100% true) that we were told to write 100 words about smetna. I waxed lyrical about blintzes, pancakes and Shavuot. Only to discover the following day that we had actually been asked to write about Smetana, the Czech composer, in preparation for a visit from a touring production of the Bartered Bride by The Childrens Opera Company. An acutely embarrassing moment. Although not quite as humiliating as when I was asked, by the same teacher, to name a moveable feast. I suggested Meals on Wheels. Well, how was I to know??

Less enticing than a guilt-free sweet cheese danish, is the custom to stay up all night studying Torah. It's called Tikkun Leyl, and it's the quid-pro-quo of all that wanton cheese consumption. The Rabbis are happy for us to laud it over the lactose-intolerant for two days. But there is a price to pay. And you have to pay it at 3 in the morning, desperately trying not to fall asleep while you pore over a badly photocopied sheet of small Hebrew writing. It is very difficult to make astute points of logical deduction when you are tired, cold and stuffed full of cheese pastries. It takes all your powers of concentration to stay awake and hold the photocopied sheet in your hands. Luckily, since Shavuot is so late this year the sun rises in time for morning prayers by 4 am. And watching the sunrise is always moving. Probably the last significant movement I'll enjoy for days. There are gastrointestinal consequences of eating nothing but cheese for two days. The Rabbis don't warn you about that though, do they?

Cleaning up

2005-06-09T14:21:00.000+01:00

My good friend P is still away, traveling across North America. She occasionally stops by the blog to catch up on my news, so you'll forgive me if I take this opportunity to say how much I miss her. Much more than I thought I would. But I can't begrudge her a single day away. And by all accounts she's having a wonderful time. I know this because I am following her progress on her travel-blog. So she's reading my news and I'm reading hers - both courtesy of blogspot. We need never meet face to face again.

While she is away, her cleaner has been working for me at my flat. It seemed the obvious solution. P retains her cleaner while she's gone, the cleaner keeps earning without having to find a new job and I get the use of a cleaner for three months. Everyone's a winner.

Having a cleaner is a new experience for me. And I don't mind admitting that I am loving it. It always struck me as a bit extravagant. An unnecessary luxury for someone who lives in a small flat and works part time. But I'm only sorry now that I didn't get one sooner. It's marvellous. Every Monday I come home from work and it's like a little angel has visited the flat. The carpets are hoovered, the bath is spotless, the furniture is polished, the laundry is ironed.

It does take a little getting used to. On the morning after her first visit I wanted to wear a pair of brown linen trousers that I had worn a few days previously and had left hanging over the back of a chair. I searched everywhere for them. They weren't in the laundry box, they weren't hanging on the clothes horse, they weren't in the pile of clothes lying on the floor. They were nowhere to be found. I wondered for a moment if the cleaner had taken them home. Well, you do hear stories. Finally, I gave up and decided to wear something else and so opened the wardrobe for something clean. And there were my brown linen trousers. The cleaner had (quite rightly) hung them up in the wardrobe. But the wardrobe was the last place I thought of to look. Wardrobes are for clean clothes. Once something has been worn it is flung over a chair or folded at the end of the bed and then just sort of stays there til it needs washing.

It's been the same with my post. The post arrives while the cleaner is still in the flat. I tend to leave the post scattered randomly around the flat, (opening letters and putting them down wherever I happen to be at the time). But the cleaner put all the letters in a single pile on the dresser. Perfectly sensible. But far too organized for me. So I didn't even notice they were there. As a result, I failed to open bills sent by BT, Orange, British Gas, Three Valleys Water and Powergen. By the time I received the red reminders I had missed the deadline and was starting to panic.

So last night I sat down and paid up for various utilities and services. (No take-aways for me til pay day.) Luckily I was able to pay most of the bills over the phone. Except for the BT bill (How ridiculous is that? The only utility you can't pay for over the phone is BT?) So, utterly skint but (thankfully) now out of debt I then got a call from the Polish builder. He has prepared a quote for the bathroom. (Just the bathroom. He's going to quote me for the kitchen separately.) He should have asked me sit down before giving me the quote. I won't give you the exact figure but let me put it this way. It had four digits, and the first digit was a 7! What kind of madness is that? Seven grand for a bathroom that's so small you can't brush your teeth in front of the mirror without closing the door and moving the towel rack out of the way. So it looks like I'm going to have to find a plan B for the kitchen/bathroom redesign. I could try to save up by economizing. Get rid of unnecessary expenses and luxuries. Maybe I should get rid of the cleaner? No, that would be madness.

Old friends

2005-06-06T13:18:00.000+01:00

I had a really lovely day yesterday - for all the wrong reasons. CJD, and his wife FD [nee FM] (that really doesn't work in abbreviations, does it?) were in town. You remember them. I went to Texas a couple of months back for their wedding. I don't normally mention real people by recognisable abbreviations on the blog (that way libels lie). But, for CJD I feel I can make an exception. Firstly, despite constant reminders, prods and hints he has STILL not actually read this. So the chances are that he'll never know what I say here. Secondly, we are both notoriously bad at staying in touch. We can easily go for months without a single phone call or email. So I figure, if he does ever get round to reading this, at least I will have told him my news without having to remember to contact him directly.

I must admit that the reminders and prods to read the blog seem to have done the trick. He even jotted down the address yesterday. When I say 'jotted down' I actually mean that he inputed the data on his blackberry. All very hi-tech. He is the epitome of PDA-man. While I have become PTA-woman. But that's a whole other story. The point is that CJD might well be reading this right now. Which is oddly heartwarming. Friends in far-off places, and all that.

He was in town due to a death in his family. I was delighted to see him, of course, but it was difficult to be too effusively happy, given the circumstances. I mumbled all the right things, I think. Happy to see you, but sorry it's because of such a sad occasion. That kind of thing. I managed to avoid saying "Only at simchas". It's SO Maureen Lipman. And reminds me of my uncle who once explained that what people really mean by "only at Simchas" is, "We can't stand each other. So let's not keep in touch voluntarily. If we have to see each other, so be it. But only at Simchas!"

Meeting an old friend that you don't see very often is all very well. But it's not so easy to do in a shiva house. There should be a book about acceptable behaviour in a shiva. I mean, is it inappropriate to scream "Oh My God!" across the room (in front of the mourners), fling your arms round someone's neck and tell them they look amazing? I thought so too. So I played it cool and hoped that CJD and FD knew how pleased I was to see them.

I managed to avoid any obvious Shiva-house faux-pas. Unlike my friend C who, at a recent shiva we both attended (which, admittedly, was very crowded and very hot) rushed passed the mourner (wife of deceased) and shouted "Let me out of here. I'm gonna die".

Luckily I popped round during the afternoon, rather than in the evening so I avoided the Prayers. (Have you noticed that people never refer to the Evening Service at a Shiva. It's always Prayers). I find the prayers so awkward. You never know where to stand. You try to stand at the back of the room because it's so embarrassing being at the front. But people who arrive later than you try to slip in behind you. So the crowd gets further and further away from the chap leading the service. Or worse, you think you're at the back, but then the Rabbi arrives and says "East is this way" and everybody turns round and you're at the front again. And if that's not bad enough you spend the whole service trying to think of something appropriate to say to the mourners. "I wish you long life" is so cliched. "I'm so sorry" is frankly bizarre - it's not your fault. In the end I either avoid talking to the mourners completely, which is hardly comforting. Or I just give them that Shiva-house smile. The one that looks like Miss Elly from Dallas. I use it when I want to convey "I know how you feel. Even though of course I don't really know how you feel. But I'm terribly sorry. Even though obviously this isn't my fault. Is there anything I can do? If I was less awkward I'd put all this into words. Is this at all comforting to you? I'll just leave now". You know the kind of look.

But, thankfully, no prayers for me yesterday. I was there for an hour or so in the afternoon, with a huge crowd of people. Standing room only. And relatives walked round the room handing out cups of tea and finger food. In fact, it was pretty much exactly the same as CJD's engagement party. 100 or so family and friends, standing up in their best clothes, making small talk with people they don't know and eating chopped-herring bridge rolls and fish balls.

It's the circle of life, I guess.

Changing Rooms

2005-06-01T18:30:00.000+01:00

My life used to resemble a soap opera. I used to enjoy love-life ups and downs to match Kat Slater. Now I have settled down into a middle class cliché that makes me feel more Charlie. I’ve become less Eastenders and distinctly more Archers. And, as if to prove a point, I spent much of the bank-holiday weekend in MFI. How settled-down, suburban clichéd is that?

The reason for the trip to MFI is that I am on the lookout for a new kitchen and bathroom. I’ve been in my flat for nearly five years and, apart from the lime green anaglypta wall paper, which frankly just HAD to go, I have not decorated at all. But I feel that the time has now come to do some serious DIY. Well, not so much do it myself as getting a man in and paying him to do it himself.

I have collected quotes from various plumbers and builders, all Polish, of course and now just have to decide how much I’m prepared to pay for all this interior re-design. I’ve realised that I can really only afford to push the boat on either the kitchen or the bathroom, but not both. I’m going to have to settle for something fairly ordinary in one room so that I can buy something fabulous in the other. After much thought, I think I’m going to splash out on the bathroom. No pun intended. My logic being that if cooking in a fairly ordinary kitchen gets me down I can cheer myself up by soaking in my fabulous state-of-the-art bathroom. It doesn’t work the other way round. After taking a dip in a very basic Homebase tub I’m not going to feel any better by cooking an omelette in an Aga.

I mentioned to my dad that I’m buying a new kitchen. He kindly offered to help me pay for it on the condition that I keep it Kosher. I told him if he gets me a Poggenpohl I’ll go Glatt. He didn’t take the bait. But it’s a very kind offer. I wonder if the same applies to the bathroom. I must try to find some kind of mikve angle. Anyway, the Polish plumber promises to start work in August, which gives me just 3 months left to eat kid-goats cooked in their mother’s milk.

Wasting no time at all, Scrappino and I went to McDonalds at Brent Cross on Sunday. I know I know. But it could be worse. We could have gone on Saturday. Although that might have been preferable. Had we been there on Saturday we wouldn’t have bumped into the Rabbi’s wife on the way out of the restaurant. She tried not to look too disapproving as she saw us holding take-away bags. I mumbled something about looking after it for a friend, but I don’t think she believed us.

So when I’m not avoiding the moral majority at McDonalds, I seem to be spending every waking moment eating, sleeping and breathing new kitchens and bathrooms. I have virtually memorised the MFI catalogue by heart. I can tell you the width of every kitchen cupboard, the depth of every toilet, the pressure of every shower. I’ve memorised the prices too. I saw a jacket in Brent Cross that cost £45. I immediately worked out that was worth two chrome bath taps. Or a carousel pan drawer. Not that I’m getting obsessed or anything. I am assured that all the worrying and decision making, not to mention the upheaval, will be worth it in the end. It had better be. I’ll need something to make up for giving up the burgers.

We are the Champions!

2005-05-26T12:20:00.000+01:00

Nothing is going to get me down today. The sun is shining, the sky is blue and Liverpool are European Champions. I watched the match with Scrappino. He isn't exactly football mad. At one point, AC Milan had a throw in and Scrappino shouted "HAND BALL". He must have heard it from his friends. But despite it being a case of the blind leading the blind, we enjoyed watching it together. Scrappino was happy to be given an excuse for a late night. And I must have been having a good time because I missed Desperate Housewives. And it's the final episode next week - double bill - so hopefully some kind soul will fill me in on what happened before next wednesday.

Luckily, I have a group of friends who watch it religiously. Until recently I went to a discussion group on a Wednesday evening. It was a "By Women For Women" thing. I stopped going because I've decided to limit my nights out to events where I am in with a reasonable chance of meeting a bloke. So the Feminist love-in had to go. But it did make me smile that every week, without fail, these women would passionately discuss the leading feminist issues of the day, arguing about female empowerment and our identities as independent women. Then, at quarter to ten on the dot, they would get up and leave so that they'd be home in time for Desperate Housewives.

The powers that be were obviously doing their best to test my good mood. It took me two hours to get to work today. The Jubilee, Metropolitan and Northern lines were all down. The replacement buses were sent to the wrong station. And the overland train was running a Saturday service. So, I waited 25 minutes for my train. Then sat on a tube going nowhere for twenty minutes. Then stood for half an hour in a queue for a bus that never came. The pavement was more packed than the stadium last night in Turkey. In the end I gave up and got back on the first train to try another route. But despite the coming and going, pushing and shoving, I'm still smiling. I felt like shouting out, "Let me through. I'm a scouser". I bet they would have done.

When I finally got on the train I called work to let my boss know that I was going to be late. He's an Arsenal fan and begrudgingly wished me Congratulations. I tried to assure him that I really was stuck in traffic. "I know it looks suspicious. Being a scouser - you probably think I'm hungover. But I really am on my way". After I ended the call the (very nice looking) chap next to me leaned over and asked "Are you from Liverpool?". I told him I was. He put out his hand to shake mine. "I am from Milan" he said, and smiled.

We are the Champions, my friends.

Nil points

2005-05-22T13:54:00.000+01:00

So, another year, another Eurovision. I don't know why I watch it. I wince the whole way through. And I tell myself every year that this time, I'm not going to bother. But then May comes around and I'm glued.

Of course, since the Iron Curtain came down, there are 39 countries competing, so the competition is not the same as it was in the glory days of Dana and Jonny Logan. The Communists should have warned us back in the late 90's that when the Soviet empire collapsed there would be an outpouring of high-pitched euro-pop music, set to synthetically programmed jungle drums, swarming into the West. Maybe we wouldn't have been so keen to see the spread of democracy. But it's too late now. Eurovision has gone Balkan.

Of course, it was never 100% a Western European competition. What IS Israel doing in Eurovision?? There has to be more to it than providing Jewish primary schools with new Hebrew songs for their choirs to sing each year. (Do you remember the acute embarrassment of singing "Abanibi" and "Kan Noladati" in front of our parents every year?) And where would we be, as a community, without "Hallelujah" and, my personal favourite, "Oleh Oleh"?

Actually, I shouldn't complain too much about Israel's place in the contest. Firstly, it puts paid to the myth that Jewish girls are a bit plain. (Let's face it, she won 4th place on Saturday because she looked stunning). And it gives me an extra country to support. Which is just as well, given the past two year's UK entries. (Just don't tell Norman Tebbit. Dual loyalties, and all that). I'm not the only one to hedge my bets this way. LB called me before he went out (toasting the Arsenal, of course) and asked me to text an extra vote for Israel for him. Before he'd even heard the song. (What do you mean Jewish conspiracy?) It's our little way of waving the blue and white flag without having to stick our necks out too much. And I love watching the fallout in the Israeli press when Israel wins. All that squabbling among the religious lobby as they try to ban the evil secularists from using public buildings to stage the contest.

Crucially though, backing Israel as well as the UK immediately doubles your chances of backing the winner. Thinking about it logically, now that Eurovision is completely pan-European we should make more of our geographical heritage. On the basis that my great-grandparents were, between the eight of them, from Lithuania, Russia, Ukraine, Poland, Romania and Latvia I'm in with a massive chance of backing the winner. And we're only talking three generations. Okay, it has to be said that there are now no remaining links with any of those countries. And my family didn't exactly part company on positive terms. But maybe that's all the more reason to back them now. They owe us. And the music is frighteningly familiar. Was is just me, or was the Croatian entry this year bizarrely similar to Yom Zeh Mechubad. The one you sing in a round?

In the end though, the bookies favourite won. So despite my national/religious/familial links with eight participating countries, I can't claim any connection with the winning country. Although, I think my Dad might well have an A level in Ancient Greek. Does that count?

Eight year's old today

2005-05-17T13:20:00.000+01:00

The world has gone Su Doku mad. I tell you - where I lead, millions follow. But this is frankly ridiculous. It's been discussed on Newsnight, the Today programme (Humphreys is not a fan - even more reason to give it a go, I'd have thought), Radio 4's Womans Hour, everywhere. And now it's published in every broadsheet and red top you can buy. It'll peter out eventually. All crazes do. But I'm determined to stay loyal, despite the hype.

As a general rule, if I beat the crowds to something that later becomes a craze I tend to lose interest. I first saw Damien Rice play live at the Borderline in October 2000 when he was a virtual unknown. There were only about 40 of us in the audience. In the five years since then he's played sell out tours across the UK, had his music used for blockbuster movies and been described as the greatest singer/songwriter Ireland's ever produced. He's even dated Rene Zellweger. (He had her after 'top of the morning to yer', no doubt). And though I still love his music ('O' is a masterpiece) I'm a little sad that the secret is out. Maybe I just don't like to share. But I think I liked him better, before the hype and the bandwagon-jumping, when he was a singer and not a superstar.

Meanwhile, hype or no hype, the real superstar of the day is Scrappino, who is eight years old today. He has been counting the days to his birthday, as have I, for the past four weeks. And finally the day has arrived. I sent him off to school today, happy as larry, dressed in his own clothes (a birthday treat) and with a bag of biscuits to share with this classmates. When he gets home from school he will open the growing pile of presents that's waiting for him. We'll have a special birthday tea and, as a treat (for me just as much as for him), we're going out for dinner. I let Scrappino choose the restaurant and he's opted for our local Tandoori. He loves Indian food. And because it's his birthday I've told him he can have as many drinks as he likes. Usually, it's one pineapple juice and then water for the rest of the evening. But since it's his birthday I thought we could splash out and go for three pineapple juices. When you're eight, that's pretty darn exciting.

Luckily, I don't have to arrange a party today because that is safely done and dusted. After much thought regarding the party theme (the days of pass-the-parcel and jelly are over) and a process of elimination (Scrappino doesn't like football or swimming, and Arts and Crafts is too "girlish") we decided that he should invite his closest friends for a sleepover. So, on Saturday night I realised a fantasy and spent the night with 6 young men. Unfortunately, they were all 8 years old. I will spare you the more gruesome details of six boys, in sleeping bags, playing burping games in the middle of the night and bundling on top of each other whenever one of them farted. Suffice to say, despite putting 'sleepover' on the party invitation, there was not a huge amount of sleeping going on. But the boys seemed to have a great time. And Scrappino enjoyed being the centre of attention.

I thought that the boys would be homesick and miss their mums. But as it happens, all but one of them were absolutely fine. Just one little boy cried so much that, despite my best attempts and gentle persuasion, he refused to go to sleep and demanded that I call his dad (at 12.45!) to collect him. Scrappino was suprised to wake up in the morning and find that his friend wasn't there. But as I explained to him, sometimes you think a young man is going to stay all night, but in the early hours, when the fun's over, he changes him mind and goes home. Welcome to my world, Scrappino. And Happy Birthday too.

Su Doku - bringing people together

2005-05-13T13:08:00.000+01:00

Some mornings, London is a bloody horrible place to live. The sky is grey, the air is polluted, the train is filthy and the streets are overcrowded. And that's just the journey into the work.

But, once in a while, a lovely 'London Moment' comes along and brightens your day. Well, they used to be 'London Moments'. They are swiftly becoming 'Blog Moments'.

So I'm on the tube this morning - Jubilee line from West Hampstead to Waterloo - and I'm doing the Su Doku (what else?). It's Friday, so it's Fiendish. I've filled in a couple of the obvious squares and I'm doing the mental calculations to complete the rest of the grid. Then, I sense someone looking over my shoulder. I turn to the chap sitting next to me who smiles and points to one of the squares. "I think that's a 6" he says. I ask him how he worked it out and he explains, a bit too quickly for me to quite get it (I told you, I'm rubbish at the Fiendish ones) and smiles again.

He has a cracking smile. He also has bright ginger hair. Properly ginger. Not strawberry blonde or summer auburn. But in-yer-face, the-sun'll-come-out-tomorrow-Annie ginger. Now, I've nothing against ginger hair. Some of my nearest and dearest relatives are ginger. Family legend has it that I was ginger myself when I was born. So I felt like we already knew each other. This was helped by the fact that, ginger hair notwithstanding, he was clearly a Jewish boy. Don't ask me how I know. Sometimes, you just know. I resisted the urge to raise the cossack-rape theory of genetics. Neither the time nor the place.

So, the Jewish-ginger chap and I get talking. About Su Doku. Well, you have to start somewhere. I tell him that I find the fiendish puzzle on Friday a little tricky. He tells me he doesn't do The Times Su Doku. He does it in "the other paper". I ask him which paper he means and he replies "The Telegraph". You have to admit, that's a nice touch. To a Telegraph reader, chatting up someone holding The Times, there really is only one other paper. It's like telling someone you went to "The Other University".

So we chat about Su Doku and newspapers and eventually the tube pulls into Waterloo. And I leave the train and walk the rest of the way to work with a spring in my step. I didn't ask his name (he didn't tell me his). I didn't give him my phone number (he didn't ask for it). So I mentally put it down as entry #85 in the List of Missed Opportunities. But I did think how nice it is to chat to strangers on the tube. When was the last time you did that? Sober?

As a footnote, it transpires (after telling this story to C) that The Times and The Telegraph are not the only papers to publish Su Doku. Apparantly, where I lead millions follow and it's now published in the Guardian and the Independent. You can buy books of Su Doku puzzles too. And even have a daily Su Doku sent to your mobile phone. But it's not quite the same as solving it on the tube with a handsome stranger on a grey morning in London, is it?

Many Happy Returns - almost

2005-05-11T06:54:00.000+01:00

Apologies for the long(ish) silence. I have been shopping. Don’t roll your eyes and wonder ‘what for THIS time?’ It is Scrappino’s birthday next week and since he was out all day on Sunday (with you-know-who) I thought I’d take advantage of the freedom to get him some birthday presents. So first thing on Sunday I was parking my Skoda in the Brent Cross car-park (again!) for a fun day’s shopping.

Firstly, what the HELL has happened at Brent Cross?? I counted 9 stores that had their metal shutters tightly locked, with big posters on the doors “This store is closed until further notice.” I’m not sure what’s going on, but something is happening. I will have to check the Hendon Times on Thursday to read all about it. There is always an article about Brent Cross in the Hendon Times. It’s in their regulations. Every week there has to be 3 articles about pensioners being mugged, 2 stories about charity fundraising at local schools, a story about a driver being unfairly clamped and something about Brent Cross. I’ll let you know what the scoop is on Thursday.

Despite the big close-down at Brent Cross I managed to get some presents for Scrappino’s big day. He’s going to be eight and I had the idea of buying him eight little presents rather than one big one. Partly because I think unwrapping a pile of pressies is more exciting than receiving just one parcel, no matter how terrific the gift itself might be. And also because, to be honest, I’ve no idea what he wants. The obvious solution would be to ask Scrappino himself. But, as luck would have it, he’s as clueless as I am as to what he wants. So I took a gamble and bought him a few things I think he’ll love.

The gift list is as follows:
1. DK encyclopedia of archaeology – well, he’s into the Romans, loves history and is glued to Time Team every Sunday at 5.00.
2. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – he’s been blissfully unaware of the Potter hype for years. But over Pesach he caught the Hogwarts bug and read books 1-4 in a week. So book five is waiting for him.
3. Magnetix – it’s like Meccano (remember that?), Lego and Knex all rolled into one.
4. Trivial Pursuit: Kids – I know, a bit spoddy. But he loves Trivia games. And since it’s a Kids version I should beat him hands down. Learning to lose gracefully - it’s an important part of growing up, I think. (Though I admit, celebrating when I beat a seven year old at Monopoly is a little worrying.)
5. Cluedo: Simpsons version. Scrappino loves Cluedo. But he always rushes to guess Whodunnit before he’s eliminated enough options. And then promises that he’s forgotten who was in the envelope anyway so we should carry on playing. He has many fine talents. But Poirot he ain’t. I think the Bart and Homer angle might help things along.
6. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban: Playstation 2 game – see #2. Oh, and bear in mind that I love playing on the Playstation as well. Always good to take an interest in your kid’s hobby, isn’t it? Even if it does mean he doesn’t get a look in because I’m hogging the controls and I end up going to bed at 3.30 am after spending 6 hours trying to get Scooby Doo out of the House of Hidden Horrors. But I digress.
7. Dangermouse DVD – remember Dangermouse? Pure TV magic. Forget Darling Buds, Fools & Horses and Frost. Dangermouse is without doubt David Jason’s finest hour. It’s probably one of the few things that Scrappino and I both genuinely love in equal measure. If you’ve never seen it, you’re life is poorer for that.
8. A picture. Well, more of a cartoon really. I drew it myself. That sounds silly, doesn’t it? But I thought I should add a personal touch and decided to get creative. I won’t divulge what it says. You’ll take the pish.

So, that’s the list of birthday presents. Laid out in a list it looks a bit extravagant. But I think he deserves it. He’s had a tricky year, for one reason or another. Well, one. And I wanted to spoil him for a change. Do you blame me?

The only problem now is where to hide the boxes. Scrappino and I live in a fairly small flat and there are no out-of-bounds areas. He comes and goes in and out of my bedroom all the time. And since his room is too small for a bed AND a wardrobe, all his clothes are in my closet. So he quite happily opens up my cupboards and drawers to find his own stuff. So under the bed, in my wardrobe or in the chest of drawers are all out.

I spent more time trying to find a secure hiding place for the presents than I did buying them. As I searched the flat for a fool-proof (well, Scrappino-proof) hiding place, I was reminded of an old friend of mine who once admitted that he had a fairly extensive collection of porn on DVD that he had to hide from his wife. The only place he could think of to hide it, where he could be sure she’d never discover it, was in his tallit bag. Brilliant. He only goes to shul three times a year (twice on Rosh Hashannah and once on Yom Kipppur) so it seemed a safe decision. But I do sometimes have visions of him turning up at shul and the security guard asking him to open his tallit bag only to discover his porn stash. Can you imagine the CST annual meeting to debrief the community on synagogue security? “Yes, we turned away three suspicious men in Edgware, discovered a couple of dodgy looking mobile phones in Stanmore and a copy of 'Look Who’s Porking' in a tallit bag in Hendon". Sadly, my friend tells me that he never gets a chance to watch the DVDs anyway. How humiliating is that? To be a three-times-a-year shul goer, and still get more use out of your tallit than your porn collection?

Anyway, thoughts of porn aside, I had to find a secret hideaway for Scrappino’s pressies. In the end, I stuffed them into his old pram which is still lying in the corner of my bedroom. I have no idea why I’ve still got it. It’s one of those massive Silver Cross things. Ridiculously impractical. Even if I had a baby (or was in a position to realistically plan for one) I doubt I’d use that pram. But I can’t bring myself to sling it out. And I can’t be arsed taking it to a car boot sale. So there it is in the corner of my bedroom gathering dust. Although at the moment, it is snugly concealing eight colourfully wrapped gifts for one very excited seven (soon to be eight) year old boy.

Six days to go and counting. Yes, you’ve guessed it. I’m as excited as he is….

Back in Blighty

2005-05-05T12:29:00.000+01:00

I am now back in Blighty after 10 wonderful days spent in Jerusalem. I toyed with the idea of updating the blog every day. A kind of Holy Land travelogue. But to be honest, that was far too much like hard work. And I was on holiday.

In retrospect, a daily update might have been a better idea than trying to cram a fortnight's worth of sights, smells, aggravations (there are always aggravations on a trip to Jerusalem) into a single post. But there we are.

The first thing I noticed - almost immediately - was the lack of mangy cats. Not a complete lack. There are still stray cats wandering around most streets. But far far fewer than there were when I spent a year in Jerusalem in 1991-2. Back then, the cats would jump out at you from every corner and spring out of the public dustbins when you walked past. They would even curl round your legs in outdoor cafe's. Mind you, for obvious reasons, the outdoor cafe's have largely disappeared too. I'm not sure where the cats have gone. I hadn't heard about any feline extermination plan. Maybe they've been frightened by the heightened security risk. Or maybe the women's fashions have scared them away.

Israeli women, or more correctly, religious Israeli women, have taken the latest gypsy look to a whole new level. Here in the UK, the ethnic/gypsy/can't-find-the-iron look is the trend of the summer. Celebrities are spending millions trying to look like they dress at Oxfam. But in Jerusalem, the fashion trend has reached epic proportions. It's difficult to properly convey the sight of hundreds of women wearing eight layers of clothing all at once. Kaftans over short skirts over long skirts, with their heads covered in colourful, knotted scarves. At times, I felt like I'd wandered onto the set of Moses the Lawgiver. During the holiday, I took Scrappino to a hands-on museum, on the site of an original Roman settlement. The children were able to weave carpets, make mosaics, press grapes, paint frescoes etc, all according to the original Roman methods. To make the experience even more authentic, actors wandered around the site, dressed in 1st Century AD/Jesus style clothing. The only problem was that all the women visitors were also dressed in this bizarre flowing-robe craze and I couldn't tell who was an out of work actor (paying off their student debts to the Israeli equivalent of RADA, no doubt) and who was a ridiculously gullible fashion victim. I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt and stood out like a sore thumb.

A trip to Jerusalem wouldn't be complete without a visit to the Western Wall. I will spare you my more radical views on the Western Wall, but they touch on my fears that the Wall feeds religious superstitions, is actually little more than a pile of old rocks and has been hijacked by a misogynistic orthodox establishment. Apologies if that offends. But I'm not the first to feel that way. Superstitions notwithstanding, I did want Scrappino to see the Wall. (Hypocritical? Moi?) The security was tight. Very tight. We were frisked, electronically and physically, on the way in and scrutinised by policemen in shades on the way out. But the Wall itself is an incredible sight and Scrappino was suitably impressed. He asked me why the lower stones were so much bigger than the higher ones and I explained that the bottom of the Wall was built by Herod 2000 years ago while the top of the wall was added by the Crusaders. Or was it the Ottomans? Either way, they added much smaller bricks than the original Temple era stones and the addition is not at all in keeping with the original style. It's the kind of building extension that would never have been passed by Barnet Council Planning Department.

Of course, you can't visit Israel without considering the security situation. Especially when traveling with children. For the most part, I felt safe and secure at all times. But the holiday was not without incident. Walking down the road towards my sister's flat one afternoon I heard gunshots. Have you ever heard actual gunfire? It's a lot louder and scarier than you think. And as you get nearer you can almost feel the reverberations. Scrappino and I stopped still and waited to see what was happening. A policeman came over and told us that someone had thrown out an old suitcase and a passer-by had worried that it was a suspicious package (for which, read bomb) and had called out the bomb squad. They closed off the street and sent in a little robot on wheels that's programmed to shoot at the suspicious article. That was the gunfire that we heard. A small yellow robot shooting at an abandoned Antler hold-all. It's not exactly the Wild West. But it did unnerve me. On the way back I wondered if I'd done the right thing bringing Scrappino to Jerusalem after all. Then, two hours later, reading the BBC website, I found out that a man had been shot dead in the back of his car on Hale Lane. Literally, yards away from where I live. On the same road as Scrappino's school. Maybe Jerusalem isn't so different from NW7 after all.

Being away during the election campaign was an added bonus. It was wonderful to escape all that childish bickering and point scoring. When I was at university I went to a couple of Union Society Debates. It struck me that they were little more than an excuse for public school boys (and the odd public school girl) to argue banal points of irrelevant crap (which they referred to as 'tosh') and laugh hilariously every time one of them makes a quip (which we referred to as 'bollocks'). The houses of parliament - and the BBC news studios - are just an extension of that. In some cases, it's the same public school boys and girls, still bickering over nonsense after twenty odd years. But this morning, there was the obligatory embargo on political debate. Fabulous. Did you notice how interesting the news was this morning? Listening to the Today programme was a real pleasure, which makes for a welcome change. No squirming politicians avoiding questions and giving answers that only just touch on the truth. No interviewers with egos the size of Argentina interrupting every fourth word. Just the news. From all over the world. Marvellous.

It's good to be back.

Seder statistics

2005-04-24T19:20:00.000+01:00

Adults present: 11
Children present: 6
Number of separate renditions of Mah Nishtana: 7
Number of answers given to the Four Questions: 0
Afikomens hidden: 4
Afikomens found: 3
Total number of cups of wine drunk: 68
Cups of wine spilled: 2
Table cloths ruined: 1
Children bursting into tears for no reason: 2
Adults bursting into tears for no reason: 1
Children falling asleep before the end of the seder and missing the songs: 3
Adults commenting on how nice it is not to have to make two seders: 9
Adults asking why we don't have egg in salt water more often because it's so delicious: 3
Successful trips to toilet since eating own body weight in matza: 0
Days of festival over: 1
Days to go before end of festival: 6

Happy Pesach one and all....

On my travels again

2005-04-21T20:24:00.000+01:00

I haven't been blogging for a week. No excuse. Other than a string of hectic social engagements. And a date. Kind of. I hope you've not missed me too much.

So in all the excitement I forgot to tell you that I'm on my travels again. I have arrived in Jerusalem today for Pesach/Passover (delete as appropriate). For one reason or another I've avoided the large family Seder for the past few years. But this year we are doing the full paschal shabang, en famille. At the last count, there will be 11 adults and 9 children. That's a helluva lot of cinamon balls.

For those who don't know, Pesach is a 7/8 day spring festival. I say 7/8 because it lasts 7 days in Israel and 8 outside of Israel. I'd love to explain this discrepancy but I can't. Mainly because the reason is illogical and rather convoluted and involves smoke signals and donkeys. And if I went into all that you'd think I was mad. No, much better to concentrate on the festival itself. That makes perfect sense. Basically, we stop eating bread, or any other grain-based product, for the length of the festival.

Actually, it's not so much grain that is forbidden as leaven. I'm not 100% sure what leaven is. It sounds like a Jewish-Gay nightclub. Leaven is one of those English words that Jewish kids are taught to use from a young age but which nobody else ever says. Like 'hearty'. You can't wish someone Mazal Tov - you have to wish someone a 'hearty' mazal tov. But have you ever heard anybody wish you a hearty happy birthday? Another favourite is concubine. We are all taught in Cheder that Hagar was Abraham's concubine. (Are Social Services aware that 8 year olds across north-west London are being taught about concubines?) But nobody else uses this word. It gets to the stage when you begin to think we are talking a different language altogether. Maybe we are. I was convinced for years that 'aggravation' was actually a yiddish word.

Anyway, I digress. Basically, we can't eat leavened grain. This means that only supervised and authorised products can be consumed. Everything has to be bought new, in advance. And the old stuff has to be slung out. So the kitchen cupboards are stripped bare and restocked. But not just restocked with the basics. Every conceivable edible item on the planet (as long as it doesn't contain grain) is squeezed into the last nook and cranny of the house. Every possibility has to be catered for. You can't run the risk of running out of a vital foodstuff during the festival. Can you imaging the calamity if you woke up on day 4 and realised you'd run out of chocolate spread? So my sister's flat (where I am staying for the festival) is full to bursting with packets of food of every shape, size and description. As I write, there are four boxes of ground almonds on the floor next to me, two tins of coconut macarroons on the desk and my bed has 12 (yes 12) jars of pickled cucumbers underneath it. And that's just the back bedroom. I will spare you the horror of the kitchen.

And I simply daren't tell you about the gastrointestinal horror that is seven days matza consumption. Think Immodium. Double it. And then double it again.

But, bonkers though it may be, it is lovely to be here, with my family, for the full 7/8 days. You just can't beat Mum's coconut pyramids to whisk you back to Passovers past. One bite and you are hurled back to the mid-80's in a haze of paschal nostalgia.

If you are celebrating passover - have a good one and go easy on those tea-matzas. If you're not, remind me to explain that thing about the donkey and the smoke signal.

Chag Sameach to one and all...

Dilemma of the week

2005-04-15T13:51:00.000+01:00

Have you read The Dice Man? It's excellent. In a nutshell, the author, one Luke Rhinehart, decides that he's made such a cock-up of his life so far that he's not going to trust his own judgement on any future decisions. Instead, he decides to be guided purely by the luck of the dice. And so begins his journey. He gives himself six options (give up job, buy plane ticket to Peru, beat up girlfriend, etc) and throws the dice. He promises to be guided by the luck of the dice and accepts whatever the dice choose. Whatever number the dice land on, that's the course of action he takes.

It's a wonderfully scary and very entertaining read. But I mention it here because I am wondering whether or not a similar course of action might be suitable for me. I have spent the last week trying to make a decision about something but am very wary to trust my own judgement.

Let me explain. As has now become clear to all readers of this blog, I have not had the most successful track record in dating men. In fact, it's been nothing short of a shambolic fiasco. The ones I like don't call. The ones I don’t, do. The ones I really like are already married. The ones I marry, well, you get the point. The truth is that, when it comes to dating man, I have an uncanny knack of choosing wrong. I simply cannot be trusted to make the right choice. My judgement has been relied upon in the past, and has been found wanting.

Now, I'm not saying that Luke Rhinehart's method would be any more suitable. Juggling six potential options is far too terrifying a thought to realistically consider. So, throwing the dice is not an option. (Which is just as well. Despite owning heaps of board games and backgammon sets, I can never find a dice when I need one. Every time we play Monopoly, Scrappino and I have to trawl through every box of Cleudo, Buckaneer and Yahtzee just to find the bloody thing. And yet, when I'm getting dressed in a hurry and putting my shoes on while running out the front door, there's always a fecking dice in the bottom of my shoe that digs into my foot all the way to station.)

No, I am going to have to settle for a more simple yes/no situation. A straightforward "do I" or "don't I". And here's where you come in. After fielding advice from friends and acquaintances over the past week - and after receiving some unsolicited advice on the matter too - I have decided to open the field to readers of this blog. What I need is a bit of audience participation.

So, here is the dilemma. The question that I have been struggling with all week and which I cannot trust myself to answer on my own.

Do I email the nice lawyer that I met at the wedding in Texas? (If you don't know who I'm talking about, what were you up to when I wrote this?) MS advises yes. CK says absolutely not. The situation is as follows: we met at the wedding. I made him laugh out loud. He convinced me to dance in public. So a good start all round. Before he left, he took my number (mobile, naturally,) and said we'd "hook up" in London. (Don't let the awful Americanism sway your vote, he was only American-ish.)

Well, I've now been back in the UK for two weeks and still no call. No txt. Nothing. What's a girl to do? No, really, that's not a rhetorical question. What am I to do? To put it bluntly, do I email this guy or not??

By way of background I should point out that he didn't actually give me his email address. But I Googled him on my first day back and within minutes I'd located his work email. So it wouldn't be too difficult to send him a quick "Let's hook up" message. But, as with every decision, there are pros and cons. These can be clearly outlined in the following table. Obsessive? Moi?

[For some reason, unknown to me, you have to scroll down a bit for the table. Don't ask me why. I'm new to this web thing. But my HTML man is on the case and normal formatting will be restored as soon as....]

Pros	Cons
Sending an email would be a pro-active thing to do and would show that I am an independent, confidant woman who is genuinely keen on meeting him again	He didn't give me his email address so he'll know that I Googled him to find it. This will make me look pushy and desperate. And borders on stalking.
His email was listed on a public access website so it can't be a private one restricted for personal use.	The message will be read by his secretary, his PA, his trainees and a myriad other minions. But possibly not by him.
Maybe he lost my phone number and would be delighted to receive a message from me.	Who am I kidding?
Nothing ventured nothing gained	No (wo)man no cry
I have absolutely nothing to lose	Except self-esteem, dignity and pride.
I would actually be doing something, other than wallowing in self-obsessed what-ifs and maybes.	Self-obsession is not all bad. And what-ifs and maybes beat out-and-out rejection every time.

So there we have it. One decision. Six compelling arguments for and against. Enough to throw a dice and let lady luck decide. If I could only find one. (Where the hell is that box of Sorry?)

Shhh

2005-04-08T16:59:00.000+01:00

I took Scrappino to the library yesterday. Scrappino is a voracious reader. He is always reading; fiction, non-fiction, comics, anything. You rarely find him without his nose in a book. And I’m not referring to The Hungry Caterpillar or Where the Wild Things Are. I’m talking proper paperbacks. [Would it be obscenely “my son the doctor” of me to add that, at his recent open night at school, his teacher told me that she had assessed his reading ability and found that he has the reading age of 12?]

The problem is (and I recognise that it’s a lovely problem to have, but still, the problem is) that Scrappino is invariably drawn, as if by some unseen force, to books that are part of a series, rather than stand alone books. His first love was the Horrible Histories series. They are a terrific set of books, written for children, each one dealing with a different era of British History. The gimmick is that the author concentrates on the nasty, gory parts of history. So you find titles such as The Slimy Stuarts or The Vile Victorians. And although the idea might have begun as a gimmick, the outcome is that Scrappino has an incredible knowledge of history. (I don’t mind admitting it, it’s much better than mine.) But if you start a series with The Scary Stone Age and work your way up to The Blitzed Brits you end up with a lot of books. At the last count, there were 22 in the series. And the author is still going strong.

So my initial purchase of one book (rrp. £4.99) has escalated beyond all expectations. One book led to another, and then a third and a fourth. And so on. A fiver a time, over twenty books in the series. You do the math.

And it’s not just non-fiction that plays this trick on unsuspecting parents. Fiction is just as wily – if not more so. Scrappino’s favourite set of fiction titles is the Roman Mysteries series. They tell the story of four children living in Ancient Rome who solve mysteries. A bit like the Famous Five, only with togas and no lashings of ginger beer. There is a dog though. I bought him the first book in the series without realising that it was the first of 15. Only 8 have been written so far, which at least gives me time to save up. But still, 15 fivers works out at a fair old outlay. And there’s no guarantee that the author will stop at 15. Would you, at £4.99 a pop?

Without fail, Scrappino manages to find books that inevitably lead to others in a set. While his classmates collect football stickers, and badger their mums for new packets of Panini stickers each time they go to the supermarket, Scrappino is on the lookout for titles he’s not read in whatever series of books is the current favourite. I have tried to steer him to stand-alone one-off titles. But with little success. At a recent trip to Smiths, he chose a copy of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. As I was paying, I decided not to tell him that the book is the first in a series of six. But a child with a reading age of 12 is quite capable of reading the “Other books by CS Lewis” page, and so he is now badgering me for the next five.

I suppose the fact that CS Lewis is no longer alive to charge me a fiver for new paperbacks is some comfort. But a dead author is not necessarily a guarantee that the required outlay will be small. I dread the day that Scrappino discovers Enid Blyton (45 Famous Five books and 37 Secret Sevens). Luckily, once you’ve read one Famous Five, you really have read them all. But it takes at least four books before you realise that fully.

The upshot of all this reading is that Scrappino is the proud owner of a lot of paperbacks. Unlike most adults, myself included, who read a book once and then never look at it again, he does make the most of every title. He will read, re-read and then re-re-read every one. Often, if I’m reading out loud to him at bedtime, I will catch him reciting the words under his breath, without looking at the page. He’s got it down pat, off by heart. So he does at least make the most of every purchase.

But, be that as it may, I have decided that enough is enough. I explained to Scrappino this week that we just can’t keep buying every title in a series of 20. We are going to have to economise. And so I suggested a trip to the library.

I haven’t taken Scrappino to the library for years. I used to take him to the library when he was much younger, for “Song Circle with Debbie”. But I soon gave it up. It was full of unbearably pushy mums, who would interpret a slight jiggle when the music started as a sure indication that their baby was ‘very musical’. The kind of mum who treats parenting as a competitive sport. “Is Scrappino walking yet? Our Jonny was walking at 3 months and talking at 10 months. Our Minnie is taking her 11plus next week and she’s only 5”. You know the kind of parent. [The kind that boasts about their 7-year old’s reading age, perhaps??]

But needs must, and so off we went yesterday to the library. As it’s been a while since we were last there, I stopped before we walked in and reminded Scrappino how libraries operate. “First off” I said, “you have to be really quiet. Don’t run around, don’t shout, whisper, and try not to drop anything”. I opened the library door, took one step inside and was hit by a loud wailing. Song Circle was just finishing and the place was overrun with very musical toddlers. The children’s section of the library was full of screaming kids demanding juice, boisterous toddlers trying to snatch tambourines out of Debbie’s hands as she packed everything away, watching the clock and no doubt cursing under her breath. And, inevitably, there were the children desperate for the toilet. (There are always children desperate for the toilet.) For reasons best known to Barnet Council, there is no toilet in our local library. Well, there is, but it is for staff use only. So this huge library, with a massive kids section offering daily children’s activities, has no kids loo. Round the side of the building there are always frantic middle-class mums, letting their kids wee against the wall, hoping that their neighbours don’t see them. They smile weakly to each other and mumble, “oh well, only natural, perfectly natural” and dream of the days before they had kids when an afternoon on the Broadway involved buying shoes and drinking coffee rather than allowing over-tired two-year-olds to pish in the street.

At the desk, I asked the assistant if we could borrow a book. She asked me for my library card which I duly handed over.
“It’s out of date. You’ll have to get a new one”.
“Okay”
“You’ll need three lots of ID.”
“Three lots of ID? But you know who I am. You issued that card to me. Two years ago”
“But it’s out of date. You’ll have to get a new one”
“Yes, I’m happy to get a new one. But I don’t see why I need ID. You know who I am. You gave me that card”.
“But it’s out of date”
I can’t be bothered to argue.
“Okay, forget the card. Can we sit in the library and read the books here?”
“Certainly”

Once the throngs of toddlers had dispersed, Scrappino and I had a bit of space to take a look around. He inspected the books on one wall while I looked at the other. I found fiction first and then spotted The Roman Mysteries. “They’re over here” I said. And then, like the voice of God out of nowhere, came a huge rumbling. “SSSSHHHHH!!!!!”. In the corner, sat the most officious librarian you’ve ever met. “Please keep the noise down. This is a library”. I looked over at the door where, at that very moment, a mother was changing the nappy of a screeching 1-year-old, but I resisted the urge to point out the obvious.

Scrappino picked up the book I’d spotted and sat down to read it.
“You can’t sit there. That’s the Information Technology Suite. It’s reserved for pupils doing GCSE revision. You’ll have to sit somewhere else”. The information technology suite was a large table with four computers on it and four empty chairs round it.
“But there’s nowhere else to sit” I replied.
“He’ll have to sit over there” and she pointed to the toddlers play area.
“What, in the fire engine??”

Scrappino did his best, but it isn’t easy trying to concentrate on a book when you’re squashed into a red box, designed to look like a fire engine, with your legs hanging over the doors and your head cocked to one side because of the wooden ladder. “Tell you what,” I said “let’s go into the adults area.”

If Scrappino had expected a more relaxed reading environment in the adult’s library, he was disappointed. We found chairs that didn’t require the skills of a yoga expert to sit in. But it was the noisiest library I’d ever visited. It had that quiet noise – where you can hear every radiator hum, every light bulb buzz, every chair creak. And noisiest of all, were the librarians themselves. Despite the kids’ librarian’s shushing, I could hear all her colleagues chattering in the corner, with that half whisper half shout sort of voice.
“What time are you on til Jean?”
“I’m on late today. You?”
“Off at five. Do you want a cup of tea before I go?”
“Lovely”

Scrappino asked me, “I thought you said you can’t talk in a library”. Both librarians turned to us and “SSSSHHHH!!!” at Scrappino.

And it wasn’t just the staff making a noise. After we’d been sitting down for ten minutes or so, Jean started pushing the library trolley round our chairs as she re-stacked the shelves. Is there a carpentry business that specialises in wooden library trolleys. They must attach special wheels that screech as they move along the carpet, or make a loud click with every turn. And Jean was not happy just placing the books on the shelves. She had to throw them down with a thud each time. And yet when Scrappino sneezed she glared at us and pointed to the Quiet Please notice.

We soldiered on for about twenty minutes. Scrappino had read a quarter of his book and I had wandered up and down the aisles, looking at all the Catherine Cooksons and Maeve Bincheys. Then suddenly the doors open and it’s like the AGM of the local WI. Fifteen or so old women arrive with a young man and make their way towards us. I once saw a David Attenborough documentary where he placed a camera in the way of a herd of stampeding elephants and just let it roll. The footage was terrifying. And not unlike 15 elderly women charging towards you carrying ring binders, reading glasses and pencil cases. Jean rushed up to Scrappino and me and told us that we would have to leave. Our chairs were now needed by the old dears who were enrolled in a ‘Computers for the Retired’ course. I stood and watched in horror and disbelief. The modern keyboard was not designed to accommodate the arthritic hand. And there is little more pitiful than the sight of an eighty year old lady staring at the computer screen, first at a distance then close up, first with her glasses on and then without, and asking her neighbour, “Is that the cursor or is there a mark on the screen?”. And then wiping the screen clean with the wet corner of her hanky.

Perhaps I shouldn’t be too harsh. It is amazing to learn a new skill later in life. And the t-shirt that their instructor was wearing “Learning for Life” with the byline underneath “studying shouldn’t stop at sixteen” is certainly noble. But as Scrappino couldn’t get a chair anywhere in the library because of teenagers surfing in chat rooms and OAP’s looking for lost cursors I did wonder whether he might have to wait til he was sixteen to begin learning.

So we came home empty handed. I’ll be back to Smiths in the morning. It may be pricy, but I don’t need three forms of ID, they won’t make Scrappino sit in box and they won’t look at us like we’re evil if we sneeze. It’s a shame, but doing things the cheap way isn’t worth the effort.

Y'all wanna know about the wedding?

2005-04-02T23:59:00.000+01:00

Since posting my last entry I’ve received 7 emails from concerned friends (for ‘concerned’, read ‘nosy’) who have asked me why I’ve not written anything further about the wedding. Am I sunning myself on the luxury yacht of an oil tycoon? Have I been buying white cowboy boots and matching white Stetson for a Texan wedding of my own?

Sadly, no. The dull but truthful reason is that, despite being away for just four days, I appear to have returned to three weeks worth of emails and I’ve been frantically trying to catch up. It’s a good job I didn’t go away for five days. But the emails have now been returned or deleted and so I’m able to get back to the matter in hand.

First things first. I did not meet an oil tycoon. Although, and I didn’t know this until I was put straight by a very nice cousin of the bride, they’re not called ‘oil tycoons’. They are ‘oil men’. An ‘oil man’ needs no other description other than ‘oil’. If a man is in oil, it goes without saying that he’s a tycoon. ‘Oil’ says it all. But whatever the correct term, I did not meet an ‘oil man’. In fact, I hardly saw a Stetson hat, checked shirt or rope tie the whole time I was there.

The nearest I got to catching a millionaire was dancing with a very nice New York lawyer – now based in London (I checked, of course) - who’s a friend of the groom. We talked about our careers (he has a great one), our homes in London (his is in a very exclusive part of town) and our divorces (at last, something I can compete with on a level playing field). Unfortunately, he had to leave the wedding early as he was rushing back to the UK for a very important meeting with some very important clients. I commiserated him on having to spend 9 hours sitting upright on a plane before his meeting. He looked at me like I was an idiot and replied, simply, ‘I fly flat’. That’s code. It’s like saying ‘I drive a Mercedes’ or ‘I wear Gucci’. I felt stupid. And poor. But put a brave face on it and told him ‘I fly fetal’. He laughed and took my phone number.

I should point out now, before I receive another 7 emails demanding further information, that, at the time of posting, he has not called me. Maybe he’s lost my number? Or his voice? Or just his mind. (Well, he may have a nice flat and a good job, but I’m funny and intelligent and good looking, so who’s the fool?)

But I still haven’t told you about the wedding itself. Well, I’ve now been to 36 weddings in my life, one of which was my own. And I have to say (apologies to all readers whose weddings I have attended) that they are all pretty much the same. The bride smiles all day and looks fabulous. The groom starts off looking nervous, then relieved and then, finally, elated. The parents look stunned and the assembled married guests avoid the temptation to tell the happy couple that the novelty soon wears off and before long they’ll be bickering like the Duckworths and arguing about whose turn it is to load the dishwasher.

So I will avoid the temptation to bore you with every wedding detail. You’ve been to a wedding before. It was a bit like that. But I should tell you what is wasn’t. It wasn’t loud and brash TEXAN or in-yer-face JEWISH. It wasn’t over the top Alexis Carrington meets Maureen Lipman, despite my expectations to the contrary. The Texan guests were friendly and funny and welcoming. The English were made to feel at home and part of the Houston family. One couple invited me to spend the summer in their home in San Antonio. Another offered to arrange funding for me for a course in New York that I’ve wanted to study for years. And a very nice lawyer from London took my phone number. Well, two out of three ain’t bad.

Reader, she married him

2005-03-30T23:15:00.000+01:00

The bride dazzled, the groom grinned and both sets of parents looked relieved. In short, the wedding was fabulous. I say wedding, but it was more than just the ceremony on Sunday. The whole weekend was planned with military precision – there was hardly a moment that wasn’t pre-arranged. From Friday night dinner to a trip to the local art gallery to the rehearsal dinner on Saturday night. It was like summer camp, for adults. There was even a room laid on by friends of the bride’s parents, where guests could enjoy cake and coffee round the clock.

But I should start at the very beginning. I packed the case on Thursday night. After I’d zipped it closed I found the photocopy of my leyning [Hebrew text from the weekly Torah reading] that I was asked to sing at the Shabbat service. I had planned to carry it in my hand luggage. But then I thought that the American immigration authorities might be suspicious and wonder what it was. Maybe they’d assume it was some kind of terrorist tract or underground code. So I re-opened the case and packed the photocopied page in there instead. I felt like one of those women who used to visit refusniks in Russia under communism. Only, I was visiting the free west. Well, kinda free.

The journey to Gatwick was brilliant – Good Friday meant there was little traffic and I arrived 3 hours before my flight. Unfortunately, the flight was overbooked and even though I was at the front of the queue, the nice lady from BA told me she couldn’t guarantee me a seat on the plane. I resisted the urge to cry and I didn’t threaten to sue (I’ve seen Airline – the blubbers and the legal arseholes never get a seat). Instead I smiled sweetly (I can when I want to) and fibbed – I told the chap at the customer service desk that I was the best man and simply had to get on the flight. He upgraded me to world traveller plus (it’s the same as economy but you get a pair of socks and an extra movie).

I love the way aeroplanes are so unashamedly class conscious. First, business, club, world traveller plus, world traveller. Every class has its standard and every traveller knows his/her place. The airline forces all the passengers to board the plane from the front so that you have to walk through club and world traveller plus before getting to the cattle truck seats at the back. You are forced to see how the other half live before eventually finding your seat and fighting for a 10x10 inch space in the overhead bins. It’s like the airline are telling you “here’s what you can’t have”. Like Moses looking at the promised land from the other side of the River Jordan.

There is a certain routine that all passengers have to go through, as if by pre-arranged choreography. First, you walk up the aisle of the plane and tut loudly if someone blocks your way while they are putting their stuff in the overhead bins. (Why are they called bins?). Then, when you finally get to your seat, the shoe is on the other foot, and you resolutely refuse to let anyone pass until you’ve stored away all your crap (ah, that’s why they’re called bins) and are ready to sit down. Often, you have to get up at least twice before you can get comfortable. Usually so that you can get things from your hand luggage that you think you might need. Like the glossy magazines that remain unread, and the pack of cards that you won’t play with and will leave behind in the pouch in the seat in front of you. Then, when you’re comfortable, you have to blindly flick through the duty-free magazine, check that there’s a sick bag, press all the buttons, entirely at random, on the seat recline and the tv handset and finally, check out the other passengers.

I was sitting next to a young couple who unpacked all their things without saying a word to me, or each other, and began reading the bible the moment they sat down. The chap on the other side of me was also clearly a very nervous flyer. I was tempted to start doing the crossword and then lean across and gently ask, “Excuse me, how many ‘m’s are there in plummet?” But I resisted the urge.

Lunch was served at 11.00 am. (honestly – it’s like being in hospital) and the food was reliably grim. I didn’t order a kosher meal since I don’t really keep kosher any more. Which is faintly ironic. After years of eating kosher airline meals at university, it did strike me as odd that I shouldn’t order a kosher meal when actually on board an airplane. But I can’t face them. I still remember the feeling of acute embarrassment when my kosher meal, still on its airline tray, arrived at formal hall and all the other students would ask me what it was and why the hell I was eating it. And to make matters worse, the meals came in a double layer of heavy-duty plastic wrap which I’d roll into a ball and put on the table. Throughout the meal the ball of plastic would very slowly, and very noisily, unravel, getting bigger and bigger and knocking over the glasses and pushing the cutlery out of the way. Unbearably humiliating.

If revolting food on a plastic tray did not smack enough of being in hospital, after the meal the stewards turned the lights off so that we could all have a mid morning snooze. The air conditioning was so fierce that the cabin was freezing so we had to cover ourselves with the blankets. We looked like an airbourne old age home. Full-up on over-cooked chicken, sitting with blankets on our knees while we had a little nap and the nurses, sorry – flight attendants, brought us all cups of tea on a trolley.

But the heavy lunch (and the two glasses of red wine that I had with it) seemed to do the trick and I managed to sleep for a couple of hours. So I wasn’t too knackered by the time we landed and went through customs. For all the scare stories, it was not at all uncomfortable. My fingerprints were taken and a scan of my irises too. But nothing too invasive. There was a women in uniform at the front of the hall who walked up and down the queue of non-US travellers asking “Semen? Semen anyone? Any semen?” which I thought was taking things a bit too far. But it turned out she was looking out for naval personnel.

After a few cursory questions from the customs official - “what is the nature of your visit, ma’am”, that kind of thing, I was welcomed to the United States and invited to find my luggage. Which was waiting for me at the carousel. So no clichés about planes to Texas and luggage to Bangkok. Within minutes of walking through customs I was walking out into the Texan sunshine and on my way to the hotel and the first day of the wedding weekend. Of which, more later…..

Just one day to go...and counting

2005-03-24T14:31:00.000Z

So, the bags are packed and I'm ready to go. 'The dress' has been folded inside four layers of tissue paper and then wrapped inside a dry-cleaning bag. If it creases I shall not be a happy bunny. I have packed two alternative outfits for each meal - just in case I've gauged the weather and/or the dress code incorrectly. And I have made four reminder lists - things to pack in suitcase; things to pack in hand luggage; things to switch off before I leave the house; things to buy at the airport. I should possibly make a note to remember to read, update and action the lists. But that would be bordering on the neurotic.

This morning I did a quick Google search of Texas to see what was news. First I read that there's been a massive explosion at an oil refinery. 14 people killed so far. Investigators have ruled out terrorist involvement.Then I see that the state of Texas is one of three to ban a documentary about volcanoes because the film suggests that there might possibly be some validity in the theory of evolution. (What happened to 'the land of the free'?) So if the pollutors don’t get me, the bible bashers will. Good to know.

Still, it hasn't put me off. I am all set. I take off tomorrow morning and will land, 10 hours later, at George Bush International Airport. I had always thought that the terms 'George Bush' and 'International' were mutually exclusive. But that's what it says on my e-ticket.

If I don't manage to find a PC while I'm in Texas I shall tell you all about my trip when I get back. In the meantime, Happy Purim/Easter [delete as applicable] to one and all.

Because I'm worth it

2005-03-21T22:13:00.000Z

This weekend saw the finishing touches to the plans for my trip to Texas. I made a list of everything I need to pack, printed out my e-ticket, booked the cab to the airport and, most importantly of all perhaps, went to the hairdresser.

I should have had my hair cut months ago, but I just couldn’t face it. I hate going to the hairdressers. I’ve always hated it. I just don’t ‘get’ that whole hairdressers thing. I know most women see having their hair cut as a real luxury. Something to look forward to. Something that they treat themselves to every week. But I can’t think of anything worse.

The thing is, I have pretty rubbish hair. It kind of looks okay. Never terrible but never fabulous either. It’s fine hair. In any other walk of life, ‘fine’ is a compliment. “How are you?” “I’m fine”. Fine is usually a positive attribute. But not when it comes to hair. Fine hair is terrible. It’s something to be ashamed of. Girls with fine hair whisper under their breath about having “flyaway” hair. But it’s not flyaway. It’s just rubbish. I get terribly jealous of girls with thick curly hair. Of course, they all moan about it. “It’s so uncontrollable. I can’t do a thing with it.” They should try standing in my shoes for a day. Or under my hat.

So I get nervous the minute I walk into the salon. The stylists intimidate me with their perfect hair styles, full makeup and tiny waists. (How do they manage to look so sophisticated first thing on a Sunday morning?) And they must be all of 17 years of age. And yet, despite being old enough to be their mother (well, some of them. Just.) I feel five years old the minute they start talking to me.

Hair stylists have three types of question. And they all unnerve me.

1. Inane Questions. These are the questions that I can answer without any difficulty. The problem is, I just can’t be bothered. These are the “Are you doing anything nice this weekend?” questions. Or the “Are you going on holiday this year?”. I could answer. But I figure, why bother? She doesn’t really want to know if I’m going somewhere nice. And I haven’t the heart to whitter on about Texas to my 17 year old hair dresser who has no idea where Texas is. So I just mumble, “no, not really” and pretend to read Glamour magazine. (Not easy, given the picture to text ratio.)

2. Girly Questions. These are seemingly straightforward questions that I should know the answer to, but don’t. They are questions that you’d think would be easy to answer, but totally flummox me. Like, “Is the water too hot?” or “Do you want conditioner?” All the other clients in the salon know whether they want conditioner or not. It’s a simple yes or no thing. But I don’t know if I want conditioner. I have no idea. I wonder if it’s a trick question. Should I be using conditioner? Is my hair too fine for conditioner? Will conditioner affect the colour? If I say yes and the answer is no, I’ll be rumbled. Exposed as a salon fraud. And so, while I faff about wondering what to say, the stylist just carries on regardless. She’s applied, lathered and rinsed out the conditioner before I’ve managed to collect my thoughts and garble some half baked reply.

3. Accusing Questions. These are the questions that on the surface seem straightforward, but in actual fact are hidden accusations. Questions such as “What shampoo do you use?” or “When did you last have your hair cut?” The stylist is not just making random small talk when she asks what shampoo I use. She’s brushing my hair, looking at the shocking condition it’s in and wondering, out loud, what the hell do you use to wash this?? As she’s cutting it, she’s staggered by the split ends and the uneven lengths and can’t believe my hair has had any contact with a professional pair of scissors in months. (The truth is, she’s right. I trim my own fringe and last had my hair cut properly some time in early 2004. But I don’t dare admit that. It would be hair-salon suicide) So, when she asks me “When did you last have your hair cut?” I just mumble again. And smile. And she knows.

Hair salons are a whole miniature world that I just don’t understand. They even have their own hierarchy. Hair salons are tiny feudal societies in microcosm. At the bottom of the heap is the girl who washes the clients’ hair and sweeps the floor. (I say ‘clients’, but that’s my terminology. In the salon, everyone is referred to as ‘my lady’, as though we are all starring in an episode of Thunderbirds) The hairwashing/floorsweeping girl is the general dogsbody, at everyone else’s beck and call. “Can you wash my lady’s hair for me?”; “Can you make my lady a cup of tea”. She hurries about the place all morning, rushing from the sinks to the reception to the ‘back’, constantly being called aside by one of the stylists for another chore to do.

Just above the hair washer are the stylists. They are graded in rank also. There are junior stylists and senior stylists. There isn’t a great deal of difference between them. Until you come to pay the bill. At which point, the difference works out at roughly £20.

Top of the pops are the hair colourists. They are the girls to smile at and keep sweet. They wield bleach and heated lamps and have the power to turn your hair a terrible shade of orange. Or worse, burn your scalp to blisters. (We’ve all seen the pictures in Woman’s Own). They, more than anyone else in the salon, have the ability to totally unnerve me. They can spot a salon novice at twenty paces. The hair colourist who did my hair on Sunday knew immediately that I was feeling like a fish out of water and within seconds, she’d gone in for the kill.
“Hi. Are you having your hair coloured for a special occasion?” (Inane question)
“Erm, no, not really”.
“Okay, so what would you like done? Highlights? Lowlights? Semi-streaks?” (Girly Question)
“Erm. Well. I think. Erm. Sort of. Erm”
“Okay, so blond highlights with a soft brown tint on the roots” Pause. Then, “So, who normally colours your hair for you?”(Accusing question. She knows full well I’ve dyed it myself)
“Erm, actually, I dyed it myself. With one of those home-dye kits. Clairol, I think”. There is a pause. Then a ‘tsk’. Admitting you colour your own hair is like claiming to perform a tonsillectomy on yourself. Without anaesthetic. Only a fool would try it. Hair dying requires the learned skills of a highly trained professional. The hair colourist looks at me with a mixture of derision and sympathy. She views home dye kits in the same way my GP would view an over-the-counter cure for cancer. She tells me that, as a result of dabbling with home dye kits, my hair is in terrible condition and that I need to apply a weekly ‘treatment’. She says the word treatment in a way that makes it sound like mafia code. I have no idea what she is talking about. Treatment? What on earth does she mean? I wait, hoping she’ll explain. But she doesn’t.
“Erm, when you say treatment. Like, what kind of treatment?”
“Oh, any treatment”.
(Any treatment?? Is she doing this on purpose? How unhelpful is that? Any treatment?? What, like toothepaste? Ketchup? Cilit Bang?)
She watches me squirm, then walks over to the reception and comes back with a small bottle of shampoo and a tub of conditioner.
“Well, I’d recommend a salon professional shampoo like this one. It has a nutrient building formula”.
It is £37.50.
“And this conditioner. You need to use the two together. They work in harmony with your hairs natural oils” (Did I say that, as well as its own hierarchy and social structure, the salon has an entire language which, in the real world, is utterly meaningless.)
The conditioner is £22.50. So basically, for salon professional hair, I’m looking at spending sixty quid.

I manage to resist the hard sell and tell the colourist that I will ‘think about’ the shampoo and conditioner. She gives me a look that says ‘it’s your hair’, and asks the floorsweeper to take ‘my lady’ to the stylist.

In the end, in fairness to them, the colourist and stylist did a great job. The brown tint and blond highlights covered the fading red of my home-dye experiments beautifully. And the cut the stylist gave me is, though I say so myself, pretty damn terrific. It was worth the hour and half of nervous tension to walk out the salon looking, and feeling, fabulous.

Next stop, Houston, Texas. Operation Oil Tycoon is go.

Love is in the air.

2005-03-17T20:36:00.000Z

Love is in the air. Not the air I’m breathing, sadly. I’m still singularly single. But I seem to be the only one who is. Despite the statistics you hear about in the media – 50% of UK children born out of wedlock and a third of all marriages ending in divorce – Scrappino is one of only a tiny handful of kids in his school who have divorced parents. His school seems to be an oasis of the nuclear 2.4 in a wilderness of family breakdown. Of the 27 kids in his class, only one other child (let’s call her Child A – that’s how they do it in the news reports) comes from a ‘broken home’. (I use that phrase reluctantly. Our home may not be perfect, but it’s far from broken.) And in the year above him there is one other child (Child B) whose parents have split up.

But all that is about to change. The mother of Child A told me last week that she is engaged. Mazal Tov. I smiled widely (Too widely? Did I look like I was forcing it?) and tried not to look too selfishly disappointed. Of course I am delighted for her. But it’s hard not to see this from a personal angle. When you are one of such a small minority, you start to view other single women as allies. They help support your life choices in the face of all the smug-marrieds who constantly ask if you’re dating and make that awful “I can’t believe you’re not with anyone” comment. Or worse, tell you in those patronising tones, “I’m sure you’ll meet someone eventually. And he’ll be lucky to have you”. When you start to feel low about being alone (it doesn’t happen often, but there are moments) you regard other single women as members of the same club. You’re not alone. Lots of women are single mothers. There’s Child A’s mum. And Child B’s mum.

Oh yes, Child B’s mum. Barely two days after admiring Child A’s mums engagement ring, Child B’s mum tells me that she’s also engaged. She met a chap at a Christmas party and apparently he’s The One. I smile again. And do another quick mental calculation. How many are there of us left?

And then I realised. None. I am now the only divorced single mother I know at Scrappino’s school. And at work. And among my circle of friends. In fact, I think I might well be the only single divorced mother left in the UK. Even Kerry McFadden has got a new bloke.

There was a time when being a single mother was something to be proud of. My smug-married friends would tell me, when their husbands were out of earshot, that they were actually a little jealous. Being a single mother was a bit rebellious. It was different. It was cool. But not anymore. Single motherhood is over. Being a single mother is distinctly last season.

I wail to M that there must be something wrong with me. Everyone is getting married and I’m the only one left. I used to know loads of divorced mums, but now I don’t know any. They’ve all remarried. Except me. I’m the last woman standing. Or rather, I’m being stood up. I’m going to be left on the shelf. M tells me to stop feeling sorry for myself. At 32, she says, you’re hardly on the shelf. (Ah, how easy it is for 26-year-olds to utter these platitudes.) And anyway, she continues, even if you are on the shelf, it doesn’t really matter. As long as you get taken down and dusted once in a while. But this is a family blog so I'm not going to go into that now.