Gramercy!

Just a little vieux anglais to thank people for the very kind things they have told me the last few days. One writes for a variety of reasons, but deep within, a little acknowledgment - even praise - spurs one ever onwards.

Having just opened my diary at random, I came to the Oxford & Cambridge boat race day. I have no direct connection with either university, but for some reason have always cheered on Oxford. I do, however, have strong rowing connections. My brothers both row, and very well, for my old school. My father rowed in Australian Surf Life Saving competitions. And friends here have rowed at Henley Regatta (possibly my favourite event in the English calendar) and even for Great Britain in the Commonwealth Games. So I naturally have tried to take an interest, and usually eventuate with a strong desire to look every bit as fit as they do. Then I remember how early they rise and the temperature thereat. And despite the fact I tell anyone who will listen that the Thames is one of the cleanest city rivers in the world, and has welcomed back marine life including sea horses, it remains the Thames.

But I wish to tell no more of rowing. The day preceding this world-famous event, was much more peculiar. On arrival in this country, I made a varied assortment of friends, as I think one does. This happened to include some South Africans. Goodness knows why, but I rather enjoy the lilting accent some of the posher SA's seem to have. The proper Afrikaans leaves me rather cold. One of the better-spoken ones returned home not long after we had met. Naturally, one says in a very well-meaning manner "Oh yes of course, do keep in touch, must catch up if you're ever back again etc. etc."

Imagine my surprise to receive a text many months later. "Hallo, it's *such and such*, how are you? I'm back in town, do you fancy catching up?" Naturally I accepted. I find it difficult to refuse anything at the best of times, and I genuinely thought it might be nice to share a cup of tea, Rooibos of course. Come the time to leave, an eerie, black cloud was bearing down upon Londres. I should have known then and there. Still I carried on; TfL this, replacement bus service that. Meeting in Vauxhall with no Victoria Line is incredibly painful. And dull. Finally I arrived, late of course, with my phone ringing.

"Hallo!" I trilled.
"Hallo?" Blatant unease there.

Quickly I became aware that the voice on the other end of the line was wrong, and for several reasons. One being that the voice was English, another that it was wholly unfamiliar and latterly, it was coming from the man standing next to me - staring and slightly colourless.

"Well you're not the *insert name here* I was expecting! How hilariously awkward." I don't think I was quite so articulate, but then I'm allowed some artistic license.

 "Oh. I was very worried *insert name of friend who had failed to mention she was giving out my number to chaps when they asked for hers* had had a sex change."

Worryingly, he looked genuinely concerned as though this could have been the case. At this point, the heavens chose to open, featuring golf ball sized hailstones. As we could both appreciate the comedy of the situation, we decided that, rather than remaining outside, amongst the weather, we should have that cup of tea after all. It turned into a rather funny afternoon. Howsoever could I have been so foolish! To lazily assume that nobody else, similarly named, would mistakenly contact me, asking to take tea. The first twenty minutes was spent laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing. Shame that didn't last, because he then became frightfully dull and nouveau riche. Yacht this, broken marriage that, celebrity party this, negative equity that. Dull, dull. Little wonder my friend gave him un faux numéro. How irritating that she should have chosen mine. Why not one of the many people she truly dislikes.


Bored, I made my excuses and dashed into the maelstrom.


What I do cherish is that this and other bizarre modern tales can and do happen. Sometimes they might bring unexpectedly welcome surprises, others... Little more than stories for a dying dinner party. They remind one of the possibilities of life and equally, it's abject pointlessness. For years, my brothers and I have rolled our eyes at our Mother's incessant use of positive affirmations. Irritatingly, I may be doing some unrolling.

No-One Expects A Spanish Inquisition

One of my guilty film pleasures would definitely be the Rom-Com genre, Brit-Rom-Coms in particular. I am sure I can in part thank my Father for this, the man who counts Notting Hill and Love Actually amongst his favourites. Our tastes diverge once the Westerns are reached, which is fine. In fact, I should probably be grateful as I usually used the television void for reading.

One of my favourites would have to be Sliding Doors. I think it is often overlooked as a film... Unsure in itself where it fits into the genre. For me it has everything: London, Gwyneth, Calvin Klein, a thought-provoking premise and an ending left for us to draw our own (hopefully happy) conclusions.

It is the premise that most fascinates me. The what-ifs of life can be all-consuming. The idea that the chance missing of a train/tube/bus/ plane/meeting/whatever could have such an impact upon one's life. The infinite copies of me who enjoyed better (or worse) fortunes than me throughout all the daily minutiae. I think it resonates particularly for Londoners. We all hurry, ignoring our fellow commuters (unless you're a potentially deranged Scot) rushing from A-B-C-A or worse.

Last night I had some very pleasant cheese and mulled wine at The Providores on Marylebone High Street, enjoying people-watching beneath the rather naff Christmas lights. We watched with bemused horror at rather hairy incidents of road rage (definitely not pursuing a career in taxi-cabs now), middle-aged, middle-class ladies falling off the kerb completely trolleyed and blatant attempts to ignore the polite queuing system.

Returning to Islington late in the evening led me to Bond Street station, where an infuriatingly inaccurate timetable board left me waiting amongst the vomiting (and probably worse) late-night passengers for far longer than tolerable. Finally, on the way to my connecting station, I knew I would be cutting it fine for the last Victoria Line tube.

Jumping out and navigating the jostling crowds, filthy looks from enormous, security-guard sized men, squeezing between people and the carriages and then a mad-dash though a labyrinth of tunnels amongst dozens of like-minded others. Breaking into a sprint up the stairs to the platform, there it was! The last train. And a seat too, so civilized. Of course I had to get through the closing doors first. Naturally it is not a wise idea, and is very bad for the trains apparently. Well-practised though, I sneaked through, only for the train to pull away from all the people who didn't quite make it.

It is quite iconic. The doors closing, and that very wicked sense of schadenfreude. Well possibly that is just me, but it certainly gave me something to ponder on the journey home (very unattractive passengers). What if I had missed it, how would I have got home, at what time would I have finally made it, would any good come of it, or something bad? The same for the journey I actually made, would I discover something awful, be mugged, lose my keys... Infinite possibilities for mayhem!

Thankfully, I returned safe and sound and even had a brief chat with my youngest brother. But one never really knows what will or will not be, which is - for me at least - a huge part of the joy. And the infinite possibilities this city possesses. Good AND Bad, but always exciting.