Christmas in England

The night after our arrival in London we went to the caroling at Royal Albert Hall, where the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, Royal Choral Society, and National Youth Choir performed—with the audience joining in on the carols. Four hundred people singing joyful carols is a glorious and transformative experience and if you ever find yourself in London during the Christmas season, I highly recommend going to this event. Thanks, Julia, for arranging it.

The next morning we took the train down to Plymouth to spend Christmas, plus a few days, with Julia’s family. Getting to know Julia’s parents, Khim and David, in a more personal and relaxed way was helpful in coming to know Julia better. Their essence is one of hospitality. Friends drop in late at night and are fed. They’ve recently renovated their kitchen and their new table is the heart of the household. I would also say that they maintain a calm aspect. A clock is not the law and its hands can be ignored. The work will get done when it gets done. A spill is not a tragedy. This tranquil perspective is something to aspire to, so I shall channel Khim and David next time I feel myself knotting up inside. Thanks you two, for welcoming us and showing us such a wonderful time.

We returned to London on the twenty-eighth. Overall, it’s been a packed trip. Some great restaurants—Indian, Vietnamese, and Malaysian cuisine; oh my gosh, the best fish and chips in the world; The Duck and Waffle on the fortieth floor of some building overlooking the Thames. Sightseeing: As we lived in Bucks County for three years, we’ve seen most of the touristy stuff in London, but we hadn’t seen St. Paul’s Cathedral, so there we went. It was breathtakingly majestic—only in my wanderings I somehow got separated from David, Sam, and Julia; and the battery in my phone was dead.  I spent half an hour sitting in the nave expecting that eventually they’d come through looking for me. Finally, growing impatient, I walked a complete circuit, down through the crypt, outside to see if maybe they were waiting for me out there, then back in through the main entrance; and then I did the circle twice more—until finally I stopped and asked a kind woman in a uniform how I could find them. She called her buddies in the crypt and described my tribe just as the three of them were passing by in front of the downstairs security station. The crypt guys stopped them for me, and I went on down—and it turned out we’d been walking the same circular route at differing points. I’m glad I asked for help because that could’ve gone on for hours. 

Another attraction in London is the shopping. Some don’t like to shop, but that’s not me. I hit the fabric floor of The Liberty Store twice and purchased several yards of their lovely cotton. It was quite expensive so I’ll have to use it wisely. Also, Marks and Spencer’s twice, where I bought two pairs of stylish trousers—one says trousers in the UK, never pants. But I didn’t feel like I’d be paying proper homage to one of my favorite cities if I didn’t go to one of their famous department stores. So we trooped up Oxford Street and joined the masked throng at the entrance to Selfridges. You know how sometimes you think something’s going to be grand, and then it falls flat? Well that’s what happened with Selfridges. From past trips, I remember that there were amazing after-Christmas deals to be had; and though this time they still had their fifty-percent-off racks, asking three hundred-and-fifty pounds for something that was once seven hundred pounds, but looks like it’s worth, at most, a hundred pounds, is offensively audacious. And I wasn’t the only one who was disappointed. Customers were there. People were looking. Nobody was buying.

Before we left the states for this trip, rain was forecast for every day of our stay. And that simply didn’t happen. We got caught in a light rain only once for a few minutes. Honestly, there were times when the rain stopped as soon as we stepped outside and started again when we returned inside. It’s important to recognize when serendipitous things like cooperative weather happen, so I’m taking a second to be thankful for that. 

Yesterday was our day to explore Greenwich. We started out with lunch at a Vietnamese restaurant where we shared spareribs, spring rolls, prawns, a prawn crepe, and a salty egg yolk lobster. Yum. Then we walked through Greenwich Market, a festive grid of booths set up within a square that’s lined with eclectic shops. We wandered from there to the banks of the Thames, passing the famous vessel, Cutty Sark, on our way to the grounds of the old Royal Navy College; and then we walked beyond the navy gardens to Greenwich Park, which is extensive and is the home of the stunning Royal Observatory where, historically, mean solar time was calculated.

“Where’s this pub you promised?” I grumpily asked Sam. By this time we’d walked about four miles and my feet hurt. 

He obligingly led us from the park with its ups and downs, out on to the street where, half a mile later, we arrived at a pub. I ordered a Guinness and got off my feet with a satisfied sigh. It was exactly what you’d expect from a neighborhood pub. Men in corners hovering over their pints and solving problems. The publican with a joke and smile for everyone. And the crazy smelly man who wandered in, speaking loudly, touching all shoulders, and making everyone cringe. Julia and I were the only women, which begs the question—is pubbing a men-only pastime? When I was about halfway through my Guinness, I looked around for the restroom. “I think it’s that way,” David told me, pointing beyond the bar. I got up and headed in that direction—and many men shouted out from their different tables in different corners, “No! It’s over there!” Surprised that they were so mightily invested in my achieving the correct destination, I laughed and thanked them all in a voice every bit as booming as their collective instruction. My philosophy is, if you inadvertently end up being the center of attention you might as well embrace it. 

One final stop along the way—a trip to Sainsbury’s because the flat was out of food and alcohol. Sam demonstrated the store’s new system, which certainly grabbed our attention—he claimed a wand upon entry and scanned the barcodes as the items went into his bags in the basket; and then at checkout the wand communicated with the register so all there was left to do was pay and leave. Cool, right?

By the time we arrived home we’d walked six miles and sixteen thousand steps. Julia conjured up chili for dinner and then we all settled in front of The Witcher. Sadly, only one more episode left of the new season.

Our night of caroling at Royal Albert Hall—you should try to make it next year!

The Bravo Eugenia. What is Jerry Jones’s yacht doing at Canary Wharf?

London is a beautiful city, but some of the architectural choices made along the way have been questionable. This building hulks over the Thames like a massive hideous sea slug.

The Tower Bridge from the London Bridge.

The Royal Observatory perched over Greenwich Park. From there we were off to the pub for a pint.

Sweater Elegy

A couple of weeks ago I bought a quirky sweater in a cramped booth at the Fredericksburg Trade Days, which is a massive flea market offering everything from rusted yard art to antiques, and cow hides to caramelized pecans. I enjoy eccentric clothing and the sweater had qualities that appealed. It’s baggy with bat sleeves and, while the current style is to have sweaters and other sorts of tops longer in the back (big butt coverage), this sweater hangs long in the front and rides up in the back—a contrary article of clothing indeed. Also, the sweater is mixed media—in the front are inserts of colorful netting, and the fabric is composed of two different entities, mohair and soft wool, which combine to offer an interesting texture while at the same time making it cuddly. 

The woman who sold it to me told me I had a good eye for the unusual. Her flattery didn’t impress me. I’ve dealt with the Romani before and I know one when I see one. She did, however, say something that grabbed my attention: “This is a truly unique sweater, one of a kind, and it’s the last one I have in stock.” Seriously, who could walk away after that?

New subject: I’ve belonged to many organizations and clubs over the years—charities, American ex-pat societies, special interest groups, the PTO. And one thing all these assemblages have in common is that they all have meetings; and during these meetings the powers in charge would like for attendees to pin or stick a name tag on to their front upper quadrant, which is understandable because name tags are a helpful tool when trying to navigate a populated meeting. 

This is the time of year when different organizations pull their people in to celebrate the holidays and their end-of-year successes. Last night we attended the annual Master Gardeners’ meeting, which is one of the many organizations David belongs to—and congratulations to him for being recognized for over a thousand hours of volunteer service at the community garden this year. We’ve been going to this event for five years, so I wasn’t walking into a room full of strangers. But there are always new people or returning people, so it makes sense that name tags were waiting at the sign-in table. 

However, just because I see a use for them doesn’t mean I like them. I’ve had delicate clothing pierced and ripped by name tags that pin on. And I’ve ended up with permanent rectangular discolorations on beloved silk from the stick-on tags. 

So, fearing that my sweater might suffer, I tried to sneak past the name tags; but the sweet-faced woman behind the table, wanting to do her job well, and wanting me to do things the right way, was smilingly and firmly insistent. Gazing around the room, I saw that every person who had entered before me was wearing a name tag. Not wanting to seem like an anti-social non-conformist bitch, I scribbled my name, pulled the tag from its backing, and pressed it above my left breast. 

There have been times when I was one of the powers. I remember one group where, because of my resolute disdain for pinned or stick-on nametags, we went to a great deal of trouble punching holes in cards and knotting yarn through the holes, so that people could hang the tags around their necks. And the women in their silks and finely woven knits were appreciative of the effort.

In the car on the way home, I tried to peel the name tag away from my sweater. It wouldn’t come off. All the fine mohair fibers were stuck, and pulling caused breakage and stretching. I’m going to take it to professionals later today to see if they can get it off without ripping the fragile threads. 

Why did I wear the sweater in the first place? To be honest, I gave it very little thought. I don’t think about what damage my clothing might incur before going out. It was appropriate for the occasion, and it looked good with my slim black pants and high-heeled boots. Still, I’m disappointed by this outcome. Also, a name tag is optional and pressing someone to wear one is just wrong. 

On the upside, one of the toughest things for a fiction writer to do is to come up with realistic names that suit the character and the area. So every time I go to an event where people’s names are listed in a program, I save the program and harvest the names. Because of the Master Gardeners’ meeting last night, I now have a new source of Texas names, which is pleasing—though losing a sweater and gaining names doesn’t seem like a fair trade-off. 

The sweater.

The damage.

The names.

Indian River in Marble Falls

Occasionally I like to showcase a local business that’s pleased me by offering great service, wonderful items, or excellent food—so let me introduce a lovely shop on Marble Falls that enchants me every time I walk through the door. 

On Main Street, Indian River is the kind of gift shop where, if you want to buy a gift, but you’re not gifted at gift-giving, well, it’s the place you go. Here’s what I found when I went inside: 

Art: local paintings and stained panes or painted glass items. 

Jewelry: handmade, native, or quirky. 

Fabric goods: clothing, trendy and comfortable; cuddly blankets, carpets and rag rugs, tablecloths and runners. 

For the house, necessity or decorative: elegant lazy Susans, pottery, dishes; and oh, the bowls that’re arranged on the first display you see when you enter are exquisite.

And every item is presented and lit so attractively that you’ll want to buy everything you see. There’s not a kitchen item, artsy knickknack, or length of fabric in the entire store that doesn’t draw the eye and that I wouldn’t enjoy having in my life. The prices are reasonable and every object I inspected was well-made, which makes me think that the owner, Rick Scrimshire, has an eye for quality and craftsmanship. 

Rick hails from Pampa, a town of about twenty thousand that’s an hour northeast of Amarillo, which is where I’m from. Pampa hosts tornados and an annual rodeo. The thing about the panhandle is that the land is flat, and the constant wind blows right across it with no barrier to slow it town. And the grit swirls and rises up to form dust devils; and this flying dirt forces its brown hue on everything—the fresh green of spring leaves, the red crests of fat cardinals, and the eye-stinging blue of the sky—so that the only true color is beige.

When I meet someone else from that part of Texas I’m always curious as to how northwest Texas formed them; and somehow this monochromatic background has brought us an inspired local business owner, Rick, who offers Marble Falls an aesthetically stunning, unique, and also conveniently located gift shop. 

So, Indian River. Check it out. 

Down on My Birthday

Today is my birthday. I usually love my birthday. I celebrate for the whole month. And I tell everybody I come across what day it is so they’ll have an opportunity to tell me that they’re glad I was born. I’ve been known to throw myself a party. But I haven’t felt like celebrating lately. For one thing, it turns out that someone I thought liked me doesn’t like me at all, which is always demoralizing. But this sort of revelation occurs, it happens to everyone, relationships are tricky, and blah, blah, blah—though knowing and believing these truisms doesn’t make it any less hurtful.

Also, the writing isn’t going well. In the last year-and-a-half I’ve completed two novels which I regard as my best work—family dramas with endearing characters and, of course, humor. And my agent’s trying to sell a quirky and charming mystery series which, if a publisher ever buys it, will most certainly take off. The problem is that what I’m currently working on isn’t any fun. Ordinarily, in my morning writing session, when I produce something that’s meaningful or evocative, or when I put words together in an imaginative or witty way, I get a surge of endorphins that puts me in a good mood that’ll last all day. But with this book I’m just not feeling it. I suppose I could drop it and start something that does inspire, but with no manuscripts selling, and nobody reading the stories that I write for the specific purpose of being enjoyed, what’s the point? This begs the most depressing question of all—have I fallen out of love with writing? 

So yeah, I’m feeling low and dwelling on morbid things like this: Both my parents had Alzheimer’s—my father began doing and saying inexplicable things when he was in his seventies; and my mother started showing signs of it in her late sixties which, frankly, isn’t that far off for me. Being closer to my mother than my father, I witnessed each step of her decline. At first she repeated herself—and the time between repeats grew steadily shorter until she said the same thing every fifteen seconds. One time she got it in her head to tell me, “This is the fattest you’ve ever been.” And she said it again and again and again. I couldn’t decide between screaming at her or crying. And she began to laugh when everyone else laughed, pretending that she knew what everyone was laughing about. She lost words every day—first the names of things, then the ability to voice her needs—until there simply were no more words left. Thinking that there might come a time when I can no longer play with words is scary as hell. And every so often I’ll forget the name of something. Or I’ll find myself in a room and wonder why I’m there. Also, I sometimes become disoriented. I worry about Alzheimer’s to the point of obsession. 

And why am I thinking about this crap today, when ordinarily I’d be dancing around the house singing Happy Birthday? I’m stopping it right now by putting something upbeat on my screen. 

I had a great conversation with my son, Sam, this morning. He and his wife, Julia, work and live in London. They just bought a flat in Greenwich, which we will get to see when we visit over the Christmas holidays. He told me a funny story about his job, which is that the people he works with are all named Sam—six or eight of them. And we discussed plans for David’s and my upcoming trip. I love Harrod’s and plan to spend a day there. Also, we’re going to the caroling at Royal Albert Hall, which I recall as being glorious. We’ll spend Christmas in Plymouth with Julia’s parents—so nice of them to invite us—and then do some sightseeing in Cornwall, home of two of my favorite literary writers, Daphne Du Maurier and Virginia Woolf. So there’s something to look forward to, and thinking about it has indeed made me feel better. 

Another uplifting thing is that, even when I’m feeling unappreciated and disheartened, people come through. I got a wonderful gift from a friend that I didn’t expect—and a surprise is always nice. And I’ve had many well-wishing texts, cards, emails, and phone calls to remind me that, in my life, I have people who do like me and who care enough to let me know it. So thanks, everyone, for giving me happy thoughts to hang on to when I’m feeling sad. 

The card I got from Curtis. Inside was a nice note and a gift card from a very nice spa, Milk and Honey—Yay! Will I have a facial or a massage?