love those cupcakes

I have never

.....learned to swim.  Yet somehow I produced a fish-like Boy who competed at national level.

 

.....mastered the handstand.  Or the cartwheel.  Or roller skates.

 

.....climbed a tree.   Fortunately for our garden, other people have and still do.

 

.....visited any part of the continent of Africa.  For a number of reasons, I probably never will.  Ditto Australia/Oceania.  Although isn't there a saying, 'Never say never'?

 

.....properly gotten over my fear of dogs.   Lovely Boo (who, by the way, seems to be showing some signs of improvement but there's another trip to see the vet later today) doesn't scare me but many other dogs do.  This can make for very interesting dog walks. 

 

.....willingly parked my car between two other vehicles.  Just. Can't. Do. It.  Even though said car is not an Aston Martin.  Even if it means I end up parking miles away from where I'm meant to be and having to get the bus in.

 

.....danced on a table.  I've danced on a variety of stages but a table?  None that I remember.

 

.....read an entire play by Shakespeare.  I was meant to read Romeo and Juliet as part of the English Literature syllabus at my girls' grammar school but I didn't get very far into it at all.  It was a similar story with Julius Caesar and other writers' works including  Wind in the Willows and The Grapes of Wrath.  I did read Cranford and Northanger Abbey, though many years after I was supposed to.  Needless to say, my GCE exam resulted in a big fat fail.

 

.....ridden on a motorbike.  Scooters, yes, and a particularly memorable ride on one whilst spending the summer on a Greek island, when a young donkey with an impressive set of gnashers inexplicably took a fancy to me, or, more accurately, my rear end.  It was traumatic.  For both of us.

 

.....driven an HGV.  I always fancied having a go with a Class 1 truck but, given my less than skilful reversing, it's probably best I didn't.

 

.....gotten a tattoo.  My dad and my much older brother each had one on their forearms, which used to fascinate me when I was little, but I never took the plunge.  None of my friends have one, either.  None that I can see, anyway.

 

.....dyed my hair a completely different colour.  I've always been blonde.  Various shades, some more flattering than others (I'll never forget the time I looked in the mirror in the dodgy hair salon and Myra Hindley stared back at me), and occasionally with a scattering of reddish hued highlights, but always blonde.

 

.....taken a holiday on my own.  I've travelled on my own but there has always been someone at the other end to join up with.  Unlike my brother who, apart from the several times he took me with him, was always a lone traveller.

 

.....lived on my own.  Even when I went to university the boyfriend-turned-mister tagged along and we shared a flat (well, it was more an attic space with a Baby Belling) in Leamington Spa for three years.

 

.....been as old as I am now.  I love birthdays, me.  Especially when they involve a vegan brownie topped and dripping with caramel cake.

 

Passage To India, part 2

After the whistle stop tour of Mumbai, it was time to go in search of wildlife.  After a  short-ish flight, we hit country roads for six hours and then travelled by jeep for the final stretch to reach the edge of the forest in Gujerat. 

We arrived, miraculously unscathed.  Traffic in India is unbelievable and probably best experienced as a passenger (maybe even as a driver) with eyes closed.  Roads outside of the big cities are, at best, just wide enough for two vehicles travelling in opposite directions to pass each other. 

There are lorries, cars, overfull buses, bullock driven carts, motorbikes (no-one wears a crash helmet and often families including babies ride pillion), bicycles, tricycles and the ever present cows.  Road markings (where they appear), traffic lights and the usual rules of the road are 'optional'.  Basically it's a free for all.  Road users do as they wish.  And that can mean driving head on towards oncoming traffic on single lane roads and holding your nerve, trusting that the driver rapidly closing in you from the opposite direction will lose theirs and veer out of the way at the last minute.  Oh, and drivers flash their lights and honk their horns.  Constantly. 

So, Gujerat, India's westernmost state, with protected forest areas providing a home to a variety of wildlife.  Sambhar and spotted deer, langur monkeys, jackals, more than 200 bird species, crocodiles, elusive leopards, snakes and so much more.  

A new routine was quickly established.  Days beginning before sunrise, being driven by jeep through the forest for five or six hours, returning in the afternoon and staying until dusk, heads turning in all directions, eyes scanning for any movement.

The forest is also home to the Maldharis, the tribal herdsmen and their families who live alongside the wildlife, tending their cattle, occasionally losing some to predators, earning a living from the sale of milk.

But undoubtedly the biggest draw to this part of India is the chance of spotting an Asiatic lion.  Smaller than its African relative and hunted almost to extinction, there is currently a small population of several hundred lions living in the forest, the last remaining in the wild, subjects of conservation attempts but still hugely at risk, from disease, from poachers, from tribesmen protecting domestic cattle.

With high hopes and little expectation of seeing any (this wasn't an African safari), patience was rewarded late one afternoon when we were treated to  the spectacle of a sleepy lioness and her cub, resting in the shade of the undergrowth.  

Did I cry?

Er, do lions poo in the forest?

 

Passage to India, part 1

Gallivanting around a huge country in search of wildlife takes its toll.  The old body clock is still adjusting, what with time differences and days that begin in the middle of the night.   But the post holiday laundry basket is empty and the contents of suitcases and bags have been put away. Well, mostly.

This was a second visit to India but a first to Mumbai, our starting point.  This is the country's largest (with a population of about 21 million) and most wealthy city (there are more millionaires here than anywhere else in India), its financial and commercial centre, and, of course, the home of Bollywood.  A short stay, just a couple of days, but long enough to get a real flavour.

Our base was the hotel which was subjected to a terrorist attack in 2008 and where security arrangements are now extremely tight, with airport style checks and scans at the entrance and armed guards within.  Opposite the Gateway to India (built to commemorate the 1911 visit of King George V and the archway through which the last British soldiers left the country in 1947), and with a view of the Arabian sea, the hotel is well placed for a spot of people watching, whatever the time of day.

Chhatrapati ShiBvaji Terminus, formerly the Victoria Terminus, is Mumbai's iconic railway station.  Opened in 1887, it showcases an over the top mix of turrets, spires, gargoyles, statues, arches and other ornamentation and was another target of the 2008 terrorist attacks in the city. 

Mumbai also boasts the world's largest outdoor laundry, the Dhobi Ghat, where hotels, hospitals, spas, and families send an estimated  half a million items every day to be washed and pounded in concrete pens, wrung out by hand, dried on lines and finally ironed by washermen, the dhobis, who work 18 hour (and more) days.  Never again will I moan about a full laundry bin.

Every Sunday at the Oval Maidan recreation ground, so many games of cricket are played simultaneously,  it's difficult to work out who is playing in which one.  

Mani Bhavan, a two bedroomed house owned by a friend and now a museum, was Mahatma Gandhi's headquarters whilst he was living in the city. His books and papers are stored here and on the second floor is his bedroom, complete with his spinning wheels, the only room in the house to remain exactly as he left it.  Elsewhere is a series of small glass fronted boxes, detailed dioramas of the significant events in his life which were sadly too dark to take pictures.

Still called Bombay by some though always written as Mumbai, this is a city of stark contrasts.  Flashy modern skyscrapers rise up between decaying buildings left over from a colonial past.  There is evidence of great wealth whilst half the population struggle to survive in the most appalling slums or, even worse, on the streets. It's diverse, busy, noisy, with a faster pace of life than you find in other parts of India.

There's nowhere quite like Mumbai.

 

Signing off

I've travelled as far south as I could get.

I've been as high as I could get.

Now it's time to head here.

Well, as near as I can get.

Back soon-ish.

 

Over and out

The latest book at bedtime, admittedly chosen largely because of the cover, turned out to be an unputdownable read.

Early 1890s New England, Turn of the Screw ingredients:  two orphaned half siblings (Flora and Miles are now the titular Florence and Giles), an absent and disinterested uncle, a run-down mansion (Bly has turned into Blithe House), a housekeeper (Mrs Grose has become Mrs Grouse), a governess or two. Throw in a bit of sleep walking, ghostly goings on, a sister's love for her younger brother and you have the recipe for a gripping story.

Florence, our twelve year old narrator, has been forbidden any education (her uncle has his reasons) and taught herself to read, and in doing so has developed her own private language (in the way, she explains, Shakespeare 'barded the language' by making up words when the ones he wanted just didn't exist)

So adjectives and nouns become verbs ('All I could do was Lady of Shalott my way through the days'; 'I captain's chaired me and spent a few moments wistfulling the drive'), verbs become nouns ('a twiddlery of thumbs'; a weepery of frustration'; the sneezery of books').  Not in every sentence, that would be downright annoying, but enough to be easily understandable, at times endearing, at others maybe just a little bit creepy.

Oh, as Florence might say, this book atmosphered me from the very beginning, as it Gothicked its twisty way towards a chilling (but not in a sleep with the lights on kind of way) end.  Highly recommended.

****************

  

It will be quiet here for a little while as the diary is unusually (and frazzlingly) full.  Back later in the month with tales of a little jaunt.

 

Week in verbs

Watching the consummate showman doing his stuff at Sunderland Empire. Not as dark as previous tours but even front row seats didn't reveal any 'so that's how he does it' secrets.  Recommended if you like the world of illusion.  And Quality Street. 

Taking two more compliant than usual cats for their annual examinations and booster jabs and being advised that the new eating regime (basically trying not to give food on demand which kind of works though one kitty has a habit of helping himself whilst the other just fills up on the dog's crumbs) is paying dividends as Bea, the flabby tabby, has lost a kilo in weight.

Wondering why humans can be immunised for life yet cats and dogs have to be topped up every year. At considerable cost to their owners.

Learning a new skill in the company of some lovely ladies at a workshop in Saltburn.  Yep, I can now knit in the round.  Using two colours.  I foresee woolly tubes in my future.

Popping into the shop next door at the end of the workshop and buying more yarn for another project. 

Accidentally buying a new jacket.   I lie.  The purchase was entirely intentional.

Discovering, whilst measuring myself for afore mentioned jacket, that my waist is two and a half inches smaller than I thought it was.  Might explain the 'Look, I can take my jeans off without unfastening them' party trick.

Finishing the rainbow blanket with an unconventional 'I have no idea what stitch this is and am just making it up as I go along' border.  Far from perfect but there is less wonk.  Possibly.

Deciding to crack on reading the current book at bedtime (from the bookshelf and bought in the days when a brand new Penguin cost £1.99), despite initially feeling decidedly underwhelmed, and ending up really enjoying it.  Sometimes, you just gotta stick with it.

Booking a short break in a cottage by a river.  Just up the road and then turn left.  More or less.

Observing a regular visitor to the back garden.  He's sometimes accompanied by his body double.

Thanking you for all of your comments on the last post which are very much appreciated.  There have been no further signs of the, erm, uninvited house guests but we remain vigilant.  Yesterday, the Boy and I were greeted by Aunty imploring us to buy more crisps whilst the food we'd stocked her with the previous week remains untouched.  At least she'd taken a new dressing gown from the wardrobe, where it had been languishing complete with tags, and was actually wearing it.  Tiny steps.

 

In the Land of the Thunder Dragon

 After brief stopovers in Qatar and Thailand, we arrived in the eastern Himalayas for a stay in the tiny landlocked Kingdom of Bhutan.  

 Random stuff 

• The total population numbers about 750,000
• It feels like there are as many street/feral dogs as people.  There are dogs everywhere
• The street dogs are very well fed by restaurants and local people
• The national animal is the Takin, Budorcas taxicolor.  Created, so the story goes, by the Divine Madman who ate a whole goat and a whole cow and then, using the leftover bones,  stuck the goat’s head on the cow’s body and, tadah! - the Takin
• Bhutan is a constitutional monarchy 
• The current king is the country's fifth, referred to as K5
• The current king's dad, K4, married four sisters in the same ceremony
• Bhutan is the world's only officially Buddhist country
• There are monastic orders throughout Bhutan with boys as young as seven, usually from poor families, entering monasteries
• Usually associated with a spartan lifestyle, Bhutan's strand of Buddhism allows monks to own a range of possessions and they are frequently seen using mobile phones and iPads
  
• Most people enjoy eating meat and fish but there are two meat free 'auspicious' months
• Chillies are regarded as a vegetable rather than a seasoning and red patches of drying chillies can be spotted in every village
• The national dish is chillies and cheese
• Bhutan has the world’s highest unclimbed peak, Gangkhar Puensum (7570metres/24,836 feet)
  
• Mountaineering on any peak above 6,000 metres (19,685 feet) is banned
• The cost to visit Bhutan is set very high to discourage influence from outside and to protect  national culture and the environment
• Travelling the country independently is not allowed
• Television and internet access have only been available since 1999
• The national sport is archery.  The target is small which the archers aim at from a distance of 120 metres
• Tall visitors, like the mister, attract attention. 'How high you?'  'He look very good'
• The selling of tobacco is banned
• Bhutan is the only country whose largest export is renewable energy (hydroelectric power)
• Progress and the success of governmental strategy and policy is measured by happiness - Gross National Happiness rather than GDP
• Thimphu is the only capital in the world with no traffic lights
• Every Tuesday is dry day and alcohol sales are forbidden
• As part of the effort to preserve its culture, citizens are required to wear national dress in public, men wearing something resembling a knee length dressing gown with long socks, and women a full length skirt and short jacket 
• About two thirds of the population work in agriculture, the majority as subsistence farmers, and the aim is to be the first organic country
• One of the largest statues of Buddha in the world is being constructed on a hillside overlooking the capital, Thimphu

 

There and back

We were in London most of last week.  No special reason, just a short break doing touristy stuff with the Boy.  We travelled by rail, rented a lovely apartment in a narrow little street in Spitalfields, hopped on and off underground trains and, mindful of the mister's still impaired mobility and differing interests, fitted in:

• an hour or two in the company of some celebrity vehicles
• a night at the theatre (yes, a different production to the one we had tickets for but a cast change and temporary closure meant some last minute rearranging)
• lots of coffee and cake breaks
• an evening meander along Brick Lane and being hassled every couple of steps by restaurant touts which had the opposite effect to the one aimed for  
• half a day browsing, tasting and spending at the market
• a linger by the river
• a moment to reflect alongside the poppies
• a visit to the Imperial War Museum and remembering that a much missed dear friend used to attend the school opposite
• about 5 minutes in Camden which was long enough, thank you very much 
• a ride up the city's (and apparently western Europe's) tallest building and a glass or two of champagne at the top
• a walk across a bridge and some landmark spotting

Now we're back home and have mostly caught up.  Animals have been collected from their respective holiday homes, cases have been emptied, clothes washed, ironed and put away, the garden has been tidied, a couple of recorded TV programmes have been watched and I'm sitting here asking myself:

• why, when it's so easy to jump on an East Coast train, don't we visit the capital more frequently?
• how come we brought back so much stuff - fruit, veg, bread, cereals (it isn't granola, it isn't muesli, it's granuesli), chocolate, cakes, coconut in various forms, cheese, oils, spices, Turkish delight - to eat?
• what the hell is going on with Lady Mary from Downton's accent?  

Blast from the past

Comics were a big part of my childhood.  I loved them and the associated annuals (some of them, neatly covered in sticky backed plastic, still grace the bookshelves here) which appeared under the tree every Christmas.  It probably had a lot to do with my mother.  I don't remember ever seeing her read a book but she had daily newspapers (two on Sundays) and weekly magazines (Woman and Woman's Own) delivered to the shop she and my dad had and which was also our home, and at some point she added comics for me.

It started with Bunty, which would arrive on Tuesdays, and Judy on Wednesdays.  But my appetite for comics grew and so the order at the newsagent's (Tunnels, which, thinking about it, we could easily have walked to as it was just at the end of our street) was expanded over the years.  Eventually,  Mondays meant Diana, Thursdays brought School Friend and later Girl, Sunday was Princess.  Sometimes there was a free gift inside (oh, that Bunty bracelet with the black plastic Scottie dog charm) and even pen friend clubs to join (which I did and ended up writing to girls in Germany, Australia and the USA).

In my teens, the comics were ditched and I moved onto the wonderful Petticoat magazine.  Every issue included interviews with Famous People and short stories but it was the fashion pages I, and no doubt everyone else who read it, pored over.  This is where I found ideas for outfits and where I discovered names like Biba, Quorum, Clobber, Foale and Tuffin, Ravel, Bus Stop.  

Unsurprisingly, none of the clothes were ever available in the shops in my home town, where Chelsea Girl and C&A reigned.  If I couldn't buy by mail order (Anello and Davide managed to make me a pair of shoes based on cardboard cutouts of my feet) I relied on my brother, armed with a magazine cutting,  to stop by the King's Road or Way In en route from Heathrow and whichever holiday he was returning home from.

Mostly, though, it was Aunty M, who had worked as a tailoress and was exceptionally skilful, who would step up. All I had to do was show her the picture in Petticoat, choose the fabric and she would set to with her sewing machine. She could make anything - skirts,  dresses, trousers, jackets - which never ever had that homemade look. A burgundy crushed velvet coat was a standout.  I kid you not, it was absolutely fab.

Wasting a half hour browsing eBay recently, I came across a listing for a copy of Petticoat  (it had made its way to New Zealand) which I bid for and won.  

It was something on the cover which set a bell ringing.

I remember ordering this ready to sew kit in the turquoise and green colourway, which Aunty M duly stitched in time for a holiday my brother, who was 16 years older than me, was treating me to.

 And here I am wearing it.   Aged 15.  In Nassau, in the Bahamas.  Looking nothing like the model but probably thinking I was the bee's knees.  Probably reading a copy of Petticoat.  Possibly with sellotape sticking down that hair under the hood.

I came across the photograph in an old biscuit tin full of all sorts which I brought from my parents' house and which also contained the postcard I'd sent at the time.

Clearly written before we were invited one night to listen to some singer who was performing in an airport hangar.

I'm not sure my friends believed me when I told them I'd seen Aretha Franklin.

 

Lately

Outside: Garden tidying has continued (where do all those twigs come from and how do we stop next door's cats using one of our borders as a litter tray?); the cherry blossom has finally put in an appearance at the front of the house; lambs are now in residence in the field at the end of our road.

Inside: The sewing machine has been dusted off and a skirt of sorts has been made (yes, it fits and no, I won't be wearing it); cheap and cheerful flowers from the supermarket are still filling the vases; the Boy has evidently been whipping up frittata for packed lunches.

In other news: A deliciously long lunch enjoyed with a friend; the bedside cabinet renovation has gone from bad to downright embarassing (this has to be the worst paint job in the history of, well, paint but, by hook or by crook, it will receive its wax finish); a charity shop drop off resulted in buying stuff (a couple of books, one of which I suspect was probably mine originally, a necklace, a glass vase) that really isn't needed and kind of defeats the whole decluttering effort here; watching a gripping ('Captain Phillips: There's got to be something other than being a fisherman or kidnapping people.  Muse: Maybe in America, Irish, maybe in America') film ; managing an umbrella on a windy day.

Oh yes, and a holiday has been booked.  More on that later.