Meantime, here is the news

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Years ago, in South Africa, on the Pip Freedman Show, one of his running gags was sending up a radio newsreader: “Here are the pips, it is now one o’clock Greenwich, meantime, here is the news”. I thought about all of that, and the news of the EU referendum, on Wednesday.
Glenn and I went to London for a couple of days, doing things we intended to do when we visited that fascinating city as tourists but failed to do because we ran out of time. And looking at the international date line, and the many clocks and chronometers at the Royal Observatory was top of the list.
Top tip for anyone planning to do this: wear very comfortable shoes. The Observatory is at the top of a steep hill. We stopped often, partly to enjoy the amazing view, and partly to catch our breath!
Getting there involved catching a tube to Canary Wharf, walking to Heron Quays and catching and the DLR – Docklands Light Railway – the journey was part of the pleasure.
Things that struck me whilst walking through the various rooms were how many children died young, the intense and nasty competition between the various scientists, that there was one portrait of a woman astronomer amongst those of men, how beautiful the architecture was and how respectful the various tourists were of each other’s space – until a group of schoolchildren arrived and all that British and international politeness (heard American and Portuguese accents) was pushed aside as teenagers charged about, being noisy.
On the tube, there had been another group, primary school age, and I found it astonishing and annoying that they remained seated as adults stood; their teachers did nothing to encourage them to develop manners. Tsk, tsk.
Later, outside in the courtyard, Glenn and I sat on a low wall eating ice-cream and watching the huge red ball on the roof of the Observatory. At 1pm, it slowly rose up to the top of the metal spike, then fell down again. That is how mariners on the Thames used to set their watches so that they could use Greenwich Mean Time to calculate their longitude instead of having to wait for a cloudless night to calculate their position based on the stars. Watching the ball was about as exciting as waiting to see the Glockenspiel in Munich’s Marienplatz. So don’t stress if you miss it!
In the museum’s shop, I saw a book called Longitude and remembered reading it when Jo and Mary lived up north. It is about a Yorkshire clockmaker, John Harrison, who was brilliant and whose work was not only ignored but actively thwarted by some of the establishment. Its full title is Longitude: The True Story of a Lone Genius Who Solved the Greatest Scientific Problem of His Time, by Dava Sobel. I recommend it.
We had bought our tickets to enter the Royal Observatory combined with tickets to explore The Cutty Sark – a good discount, plus extra discount for being OAPs – Old Age Pensioners – whilst I don’t enjoy the words, I do enjoy the discount. We decided not to become members of all the museums in Greenwich because many of them are free anyway.
The Cutty Sark was most enjoyable. Loved the smell of the wood, the well-designed exhibits, and the man who talked about the boat’s history with such passion. After seeing the lower deck, the midsection, and the top deck, we went down under the tea clipper where we could see its copper-plated bottom and photographs of how it had been restored after a fire. We sat at a table right beneath the stern and had tea. One pot that yielded two scant cups of tea cost four pounds and fifty pence. Rip off!
Another top tip: Pack sandwiches to eat when you are out being a tourist; only pay for drinks. We also really enjoyed a pint each of passionfruit and soda at a pub just outside the gates to Greenwich park because it was a warm day, and very humid.
The area has a slogan – It Takes More Than A Day – and that is the truth. We didn’t see the market, the National Maritime Museum or the Peter Harrison Planetarium. So another trip to Greenwich is something to go back onto the list of “things to do”.
We retraced our steps using the DLR and tubes to emerge near Trafalgar Square. The memorial for Jo Cox, the Member of Parliament who was stabbed and shot by a man who may possibly have mental problems, was going on. It was moving to see that huge square so packed – literally standing room only. Wednesday would have been her 42nd birthday. How her husband and their two young daughters are going to miss her. And how shocking that someone killed her, apparently because of her political beliefs and actions. But although it was emotionally moving, we kept on physically moving because we had 20 minutes to get to where we were meeting Jo and Mary in Strand Street.
In Britain, it is called a Sat Nav. In South Africa, it is known as a GPS – Global Positioning System. But whatever it is called, it makes reading maps passe. I prefer to peer at a phone, as everyone else is always doing, rather than identify yourself as a tourist by looking at a printed map. But there is no doubt that following a map will give a simpler and more predictable route between points A and B. We took a really strange circular route, past St Martin in the Fields’s crypt and along Church Lane, then past the Metropolitan Police, to get to a coffee shop where we’d arranged to meet. After a pause to regroup, we went out to dinner.
Top Tip: Dawaat at the Strand Palace Hotel serves delicious Indian food. I love eating out because my taste for the mildest of curries (always a korma) doesn’t impinge on Glenn’s liking for the hotter the better – and this time, hotter was also really flavoursome, the best combination; he had the Grandma’s curry and said it was excellent. Jo and Mary both chose Rogan Josh and were very happy with their dishes. Mine was delish.
The desserts were magnificent. Unfortunately, I’ve forgotten the name of the tender little round balls of dough floating in syrup, served with pistachio ice cream, but I am sure the very attentive staff would know what to offer if you asked for it. Glenn chose chocolate filled samosas and those were delish too.
The restaurant is close to the Adelphi Theatre, which is where you can see Kinky Boots – a fun show filled with lots of great singing and dancing.
Back in Swindon, on Thursday, Glenn and I cycled over to the North Swindon library to vote. Today we’ll be hearing whether Britain has chosen to be in or out of the European Union. My vote was to stay in. It wasn’t a simple choice but the ballot paper didn’t allow for any “yes, but … ” options so I put my cross down next to what I believe to be the best.
Time will tell which option the majority of people chose. I really hope that whichever way it goes, the nastiness of the campaign will start to fade. I’ve felt as if I am living in a time warp – as if this is the 1930s with its strong talk leading to lots of violence. I hope I am wrong about the direction the world is heading towards.

Travels in Spain – getting there – some views on Brittany Ferries

Before we went to visit Spain, I took travel guides out of the local library. Quaint, right? I know, but I don’t like reading my iPhone, iPad or even worse my MacBook Pro before I go to sleep. A good book in bed is best for me. However, although I’d read up on Seville because, apparently, it was going to be the only city we would visit, thanks to Storm Katie, our return trip was postponed by a week. Yay! Glenn is retired and I’m self-employed so there was no need to dash through France as our son Daniel and daughter-in-law Natascha had to do to be back in paid employment on the date they had filled in on their leave forms. They paid the equivalent of 500 pounds in toll fees to reach the port they needed, whilst we spent our funds on driving along Spain’s excellent roads, booking into a variety of accommodation, and seeing sights we would otherwise have missed. Over the next few posts, I’ll share my top tips for visiting lovely places in Spain.

First a word about Brittany Ferries. Although it may be quicker to fly to Spain, we made the  trip by sea because Tash is a member of the Reading Rowing Club and she and Daniel were towing the boats on a trailer behind Dan’s truck. (For South African readers, it is a double cab bakkie known as Frik Skrik “want dit skrik vir niks” and it has a pair of dangling orange “balletjies” bought for Dan by his sister Jo who thought he’d appreciate the joke as the bakkie’s brand is Animal.)

Tash did the ferry booking well in advance and we chose inside cabins because they are cheaper.  The trip from Portsmouth to Bilbao, via Roscoff, took about 36 hours.

Yet our return trip was less than 24 hours and non-stop.

And, without asking, we had been upgraded to a cabin with a “partially obscured” view because we’d had our return delayed. I loved being able to watch the sea from the huge porthole and might consider the extra cost next time.

Will there be a next time? I certainly hope so because we adored Spain and would love to revisit some of the places we saw so unexpectedly because we didn’t see all they offered. We have suggested that if the club goes back to Seville for another traning session, we drive Frik and tow the boat trailer so Dan and Pud would be able to use their motorbikes. But time will tell.

Talking of time, the ferry keeps to British time.

You can pay in pounds or in Euros. There is a cash machine onboard. The free WiFi was useful, although rather slow (I know, I know, another First World Problem!)

We enjoyed hearing a talk by members of Orca, a charity that keeps track of dolphins and whales in the Bay of Biscay, delivered in the lounge shortly after we left port. Afterwards, Daniel and Glenn spent some time on deck looking out to sea but weren’t rewarded with any good sightings this time. But it is good to know people are taking care of sea life.

We chose to dine in the restaurant and found the option of two or three courses offered good value for money, considering the excellent taste and presentation of the food. The “standard breakfast” the next morning was, Glenn, Tash and I all agreed, rather expensive for what it was. But it does have the distinct advantage of being able to sit at a comfortable table and have your tea or coffee out of china cups. I’m not fond of having to drink my first cuppa out of paper! For those with big appetites, like Daniel, the full English breakfast is good value.

Probably the best thing about Brittany Ferries is their staff. All announcements are in English, Spanish and French – in that order – and the multi-lingual crew are very helpful.

On our return voyage, we’d decided to buy wine because we hadn’t bought much in Spain. An announcement that there was wine tasting reminded us of this but we waited a while before going to the duty-free shop. A charming young Frenchman guided our tasting and we believe we scored an absolute bargain by being able to buy six cases (36 bottles) of the one we liked the most, La Vieille Ferme red, for 100 quid – and someone even carried the boxes down to our car for us.

Normally there is no access to your vehicle once you have been guided into position by the very efficient crew. So, another tip, pack what you’ll need during the trip into a cabin bag. We had one each and my next purchase will be to replace mine with one that has four spinner wheels instead of just two wheels for dragging behind you. During our unplanned extra trip, we never spent more than two nights in one place so it was so convenient to have our toiletries and a couple of changes of clothing in small suitcases.

Another example of the helpful crew: On the outward voyage I loved the thrum of the engines but on the return trip, the ferry seemed to be rolling a lot although the sea was so calm there were no “white horses” topping the waves. This, plus a bug that left me feeling feverish, contributed to me wanting to spend time alone in our cabin. But the keycard simply would not work. I’d got as far as the wide stairway between decks, and was about to try to find Glenn who had gone to watch football on the telly in the lounge, and was feeling very woozy when a voice said: “Are you alright, my lovely?” I looked up to find a crew member who came with me to try to get the keycard to work. She soon discovered what the problem was. I’d slipped it into the inner pocket of my mobile phone’s holder so the phone had changed the charge on the metal strip. Another tip – put the keycard somewhere else! She took the faulty key card away and brought me a replacement. It only took minutes but what a relief not to have to do that myself. She made sure it worked and I was settled before she went off about other business.

Overall, I would recommend Brittany Ferries as a good start to the holiday. I found being able to sit in a lounge – or on the return trip in our cabin – and watch the sea a very soothing alternative to sitting about in airport lounges waiting for something to happen, the part of air travel that I always forget to factor into the real time it takes to get to and from your destination. And on a ferry, if there is a crying baby, you can get up and walk away.

One final thought: there are pet-friendly cabins. Could Sindi Stagg continue being an international traveller? Certainly we saw a lot of dogs in Spain and I think she would really enjoy it.

 

 

 

Springing forward – changes to our lives

It has been months since my last blog but not because nothing has been going on in my life – quite the opposite. There were significant birthdays in November for Glenn and me, fun with family and friends over Christmas, our first SA visitors Lindie and Lije, a quiet but happy New Year, another significant birthday in February when Daniel turned 40 and we spent the day together at the Natural Science Museum in London, a visit from our Austrian friend Regina,  Daniel’s official birthday party, and now here we are, in March, with an early spring making a stop-start appearance. And there has been a big change in our lives.
My sister Louise, her husband Faure, and their two dogs, Jack Russell terriers Peanut and his daughter Honey, have come to stay with Glenn and me, our dog Sindi and two cats Sharma and Cleo. They have been here since Friday and today, Wednesday March 2nd, I am looking back over a few hectic days of settling in and giving thanks for how smoothly it is all going.
The biggest surprise is that Sharma has not been stressed by a change in her routine.
When we lived in Durbanville, every time my darling friend Lindie came to visit with Lije and their dog Billie, Sharma would run away from Billie, which he thought was a fine game. She would hide up a tree until he left, then do a wee on our bed.
Is there anything more pungent than the smell of cat urine soaked into your bedding? I doubt it! We discovered that to get rid of the smell, vinegar needs to saturate the area that has been marked, then use a biological washing powder or liquid to remove all traces of it.
Once we moved to Swindon, we bought a slow-release cat pheromone that seemed to keep her calm. Until we had an overnight visitor that Sharma didn’t know. And a kinder animal lover than Regina you couldn’t find but nevertheless Sharma marked her displeasure at a disruption to the routine in her usual way. (Sorry, Regina, absolutely not your fault, no criticism implied!)
Next, I went through to London on a couple of occasions to help Joanne as she was battling a deadline to complete her dissertation for her Executive Masters Degree. I loved being able to help her editing and proofreading – and the reward was knowing it made a small contribution to her passing her MBA with merit. But as far as Sharma was concerned, bad human, going away overnight needed to be punished.
So when the two Jack Russells arrived, I was concerned.
Lou and Faure had been staying with mutual friends in Cornwall but one of their dogs, a young Dachshund, attacked Peanut, leaving him with a torn ear and Faure with a bitten hand.
We arranged for Sindi, a mixed breed about the size of a German Shepherd, to meet Peanut and Honey on neutral ground – a nearby park, in the dark. But it paid handsome dividends because Sindi enjoys having new friends to go for walks with and to share treats with.
Cleo, the little cat who has survived so much, and has “houding” (attitude) to spare, just looked at the newcomers as if to say, “Hello, who or what are you, hmmm?” When Honey barked at her from outside, Cleo walked closer to the glass of the French doors and stared until Honey stopped.
We kept Sharma in our bedroom and gave her lots of love and attention. We were considering buying a child gate to make that her safe zone but by gradually introducing them, we now find Peanut is too nervous of Sharma to walk past her on the stairs! And Honey is not barking at her so, phew! What a relief.
Having Lou and Faure stay with us until they are able to sort out the red tape involved in their move to England is a joy for me because my Mom always used to urge me to “look after Louise when I’m gone” and I now have the opportunity to do so.
Lou and I are so different in so many ways but she has always been the kindest and most generous sister.
And I’ve been amazed to hear my normally introvert husband chatting away to our brother-in-law.
On Saturday, we left the cats at home while four humans and three dogs drove to Reading to watch Pud rowing in a race. Jo and Mary met us there too and after cheering Pud as she and the team pulled strongly up the Thames, we all departed to a pub with Daniel’s friend Sam.

A pub lunch with good friends and family, fabulous! The Packsaddle just outside Reading is well worth a visit for top quality food at reasonable prices and efficient, friendly service.
Today we went to Ikea in Birmingham to buy things to make our top floor rooms more comfortable. We have a few days of admin to deal with then on Sunday, Jo & Mary, Dan & Pud will come through to Swindon so we can all go to The Tawney Owl for lunch because it is “Mothering Sunday”.
I am thinking about my own mother, Granny Sue, and hoping she is looking down on the latest developments and knows how glad I am to be able to do what she wanted.

All the single ladies … don’t call the marines

Some time ago I received a series of friend requests on Facebook, apparently from men in the USA armed forces. As I have a friend whose husband used to be a soldier, I looked at the first home page to see if either of them were there as mutual friends. But no, very few friends on the page and not much content, so I deleted that request and immediately deleted all the ones that followed. Last night on the BBC TV news, I saw similar faces of men in uniform and that heard one woman had been conned out of 1.5 million pounds.

The news report was excellent. After announcing the core of the story, it showed a man who looked nothing like those pictures that are posted on social media sites He was young, black, and pretty fleet footed as the camera followed him running away from the court building with the reporter yelling his name and asking what he had to say to his victims.

Then there was an interview with a woman, filmed so viewers only saw the back of her as she sat on a bench chatting to the reporter. She said she felt she had been turned into a puppet that had its strings pulled by someone else and although she would recover, the harm to her self-image worse than the money she had lost.

Next a sympathetic policeman explained the faudsters are professionals – they make a living from what they do and they are very good at it.

Then an actress posed as a potential victim. She responded to one of those friend requests and asked for a phone number to contact this “new friend”. Fortunately for the BBC reporter, she got a response from a clumsy conman because as soon as she phoned him, he told her what a lovely voice she had (“Wow!”) then immediately said he had a problem and asked her to send him 50 pounds. Ka-ching! As soon as the reporter took over the call saying he was from the BBC and it was obvious this was a scam, the phone clicked off.

So there we are, single ladies, all though all the nice girls love a soldier or a sailor be on your guard.

Paris and what it means for me

On Friday afternoon I downloaded some forms from a site because I was planning to volunteer there. That evening after watching some TV programmes, my husband and I switched over to watch the news before going to bed. The scenes in Paris were on screen but details were sketchy so we stayed up much later than planned as news came in about the various terror attacks in a city we’d visited several times.
Over the weekend I puzzled about what to do about the organisation I’d been planning to assist. I’d heard about the Harbour Project because one of its trustees was a guest speaker at my Rotary club the week before last. She explained that when people apply for asylum in Britain, the Home Office sends them somewhere to be housed until their application is thoroughly assessed. They don’t have a choice about where they go. Some of them are sent to Swindon, where the council supplies a place for them to stay and pays for three staff to run a centre, where various church and volunteer groups assist.
The asylum seekers are not allowed to work until their case is completed. So they get five pounds and twenty eight pence a day to survive on. Those who arrived with the clothes on their backs have a tough time. Yet among my close family and friends are people who resent that money coming out of their taxes and going to strangers when there are local people who also need help. But, to me, the choice isn’t either/or it is both/and.
Because I have spent most of my adult life surrounded by violence, I understand how random it can be – it isn’t bad people who are hurt, it is absolutely anyone whether they deserve it or not. We moved to England to be closer to our children but the brutal killing of my youngest brother-in-law, friends who were hi-jacked, burgled, robbed and held at knifepoint, all contributed to my feeling of being vulnerable. The rand’s declining value, electricity blackouts and huge amounts of unemployment made me wonder if the future held any promise in South Africa.
How lucky for me and my husband that through accidents of birth we have the right to be here. And how fortunate we are to have the physical, psychological and financial help of our children and their spouses.
Until the Paris attacks, I had been planning to be one of the volunteers so that the asylum seekers – and refugees once they reach that status – can seek assistance with filling in forms, join an art group, or just drop in for a cuppa and a chat to fill up the empty hours.
But when the news broadcasts announced that one of the men who was responsible for the despicable killing of innocent people had entered Europe through Greece among asylum seekers and was using a Syrian passport, genuine or not, I wondered if I should really continue with my plan to help at the Harbour Project. Could I unwittingly be helping a future terrorist?
But that uncertainty was dispelled after I contacted Rotarians from my club to seek guidance. The terrorists win if the 99.99% of innocent people are judged as guilty without cause. So my help would be needed now more than ever. The people who are surviving on a meagre amount of money a day will not be absorbed into the English way of life if they are kept at arm’s length and no one befriends them. And after spending a decade in court listening to criminals try to lie themselves out of taking responsibility for their actions, I recognise the ring of truth when I hear it. I need to trust my instincts.
On Saturday night, I was at The Last Night of the Proms – a fundraiser organised by two of the five Rotary clubs in Swindon. The funds are going to Prospect Hospice and Swindon Young Musicians – two very worthy causes.
Among the songs I belted out with gusto were Rule Britaniana, which contains the line “Britons never, never, never will be slaves” and Old Lang Syne, which says “We’ll take a cup of kindness yet”. That sums up why it is great to be in Great Britain. People here are proud of their history but many of them are kind too.
So later today I’ll go and hand in that application to become a volunteer. I’d like to offer a cup of kindness to people who have been terrorised and are making a new start in a new place. I am doing that too but I am blessed to have a huge support network, which they lack. Maybe by offering to set up a knitting circle, or just letting someone talk about what is on their mind, I can help and instead of feeling alienated, a fellow human being can feel included and heard.
The French believe in liberty, fraternity and equality. So do I.

Battle of Britain and being British

Source: Battle of Britain and being British

Hello Halloween and Black Magic joins our lives

Source: Hello Halloween and Black Magic joins our lives

Hello Halloween and Black Magic joins our lives

This was our first Halloween in England. Little kids didn’t go knocking on doors in Cape Town in the 17 years we lived there, although I saw lots of costumes and masks in gift shops; I assume parents organised private parties. Here, if you want to take part, you let people know by putting something in your window or on your door. I did both. And I’m glad I did.

A few weeks in advance I bought a stash of sweeties. They remained in a canvas shopping bag so Glenn and I didn’t catch sight of them and be tempted to dip into the supply before October 31. Yesterday morning, Saturday, I packed the sweets into sandwich bags, three types per bag, five of each sweet. That worked out to 15 bags of 15 sweets, which I put into a wooden bowl so I could easily take them to the door.

In the evening, I painted a pumpkin onto a paper plate and stuck that on the front door. The thought of carving a real pumpkin, which Mary assured me is as hard as cutting through a butternut, had seemed like far too much work.

I have five storm lanterns that hold candles. I can’t find shabbat candles here so I bought the thinner, longer, dinner candles and, using a knife heated in the flame of the gas stove’s plate, cut them in half. More about how successful that was later.

When we used to go down to Ons Huisie to have a drink while our house was on show and we needed to let our estate agent friend Claire get on with it, I was a sucker for all those goodies made from wire. It was partly because I genuinely think they are lovely, partly because I wanted to support the black men with foreign accents who were trying hard to make an honest buck. I bought two, one of which I kept — a bunny with long ears that has dark blue lights threaded into it, which work off three penlight batteries. (Why three, why not two or four, so annoying to have one spare battery!) That went into the lounge window.

It is pretty dark outside our front door, despite having bought two solar pillars that I’ve pushed into pot plants, so the storm lanterns went out there, plus a couple of tea lights carefully balanced on the pot plants, well away from where the kiddies would walk.

There was a dreadful accident here last year, publicised by the child’s mother, a celeb. The little girl’s witch costume, bought in a gift shop, caught alight when she brushed past a naked flame. The synthetic fabric kept on burning and burning despite two adults doing their best to hit out the flames. The little girl is recovering well but she was very badly burnt. Now there is a move to have costumes registered as clothing, not gifts, which would ensure the same safety standards as PJs, nighties and dressing gowns would be applied.

The first group of kids, three little girls and a slightly older boy, were accompanied by two adults. I pretended to be scared when I opened the door, jumping back and giving a little gasp, then handed out the sweetie bags. The man said “very good” indicating my display. I felt so pleased. Quite silly, really, but I am a child at heart. The children were delightful, giggling girls and a serious boy, all very polite.

About half an hour later, about 7.30pm, there were two sweet little witches with an adult woman. And around 8pm, two older children, unaccompanied, who were so polite. “Thank you very much and happy Halloween,” the boy said. “Pleasure,” I replied, and it was.

Glenn and I had watched the Rugby World Cup final, and Strictly Come Dancing. As we searched for something else, I decided it was late enough so I went outside to bring in the candles. Ah, ha! No wonder no one else had knocked on the door – the candles had all gone out and the area was pitch dark. So I stepped out into the misty night and brought in the very cold storm lanterns. It had been a lovely sunny day, about 16 degrees, and the night had been mild until then. Can you tell I’m becoming a true blue Brit? I’m obsessed with the weather; I’m one of the people who write a daily report for BBC’s Weather Watchers, a service where you can check what is happening a few miles down the road by reading other WW’s reports.

It was a lovely evening. Apart from really enjoying it, there were other upsides. Sindi got used to being told not to bark and to go to her bed each time someone knocked on the door. We gave her a treat each time so I hope this repeat training will stick. Another was there were lots of sweets left over for Glenn. Maybe that’s why he stayed up so late playing computer games: the sugar rush!

And finally, we have bought a car – a black Kia Cee’d. I think we should call her Black Magic because it is going to be magic to have our own transport again.

Hair, hair and pear cider

At first I thought it was only in Swindon but since we’ve driven through several London suburbs and visited Reading too, I’ve been struck by the number of hair salons – almost as many as the number of restaurants.

It seems women in England spend a lot of time, effort and money on their hair. I’ve seen such stunning haircuts on women of all generations – especially those geometric cuts that only look great if each strand is perfectly straight and in place.

Most salons are unisex but that doesn’t mean there aren’t lots of barbershops too. My son Daniel goes to a barber and I love the way his hair and beard look. Neat. Fashionable.

One of the big benefits of moving to Swindon is I knew Joanne would introduce me to the woman who has made Jo’s hair look so great for so many years. Yay, Pasq! One day I hope my dear friend Peter Fourie comes to visit and I could get them together. Peter cut my hair for decades and we had such fun playing with styles and colours. Now I’ve decided to let my hair be its natural grey, ironically the height of fashion at the moment.

On to my other topic, pear cider. This is a totally delish drink and great for when we are watching some tense sports match on TV. Glenn, of course, sticks to beer. I still love my glass of wine with a meal but I try not to have more than one glass a day. As my winemaker buddy Pieter de Wall warned me, cheap wine in the UK tends to be nasty stuff so I am hoarding my good SA wine for special occasions.