Drinking White Wine In the Sun

 Merry Christmas!

There's nothing I can say about 2020 that's not been said with more eloquence, style or wit by others so I won't even try. It's been... unusual.

Celebrating Christmas with just the five of us used to be a rare treat. Grandparents want to see grandkids and vice versa, cousins want to play, so that inevitably meant packing up and heading to North Wales of a good chunk of the holidays - pet care permitting. I used to fantasise about being Just Us - no packing, no complicated cat/hen/rodent/lizard rota with local friends, no fitting in with blended or distant family and their work/custody/travel commitments in a scheduling challenge that would stump lesser souls. The years we were home were fun, partly for the novelty, but mostly Christmas is Family.

Mum was very very into Christmas. In some ways, the rest of us were drawn along in her wake - she was the mover and shaker, the one around whom we'd orbit. It's our second Christmas without her; it's far more bearable this time but I still feel her absence sharply at the oddest moments. Memories crash through.

Christmas 1981: I was 12 years old. I'd loved ballet since lessons age 3 - and was a spectacularly incompetent participant of lessons for many years - but had never been to see one live. The National Ballet of Canada was celebrating its 30th Anniversary with a tour of The Nutcracker nationally so Mum bought tickets for the two of us at Hamilton Place (now First Ontario Concert Hall).

First of all we went to The Sirloin Cellar in downtown Hamilton.  This was possibly the most grown up I felt until I was around 25. First you descended the pokey staircase to enter the dark restaurant. As you entered it was a dim room dominated by dark wood and old photographs of Hamilton. To the left was that most macabre of restaurant trends, the aquarium. The twisted swine thought actively choosing which lobster to have boiled alive for your dinner would be fun is surely in one of the more baroque circles of hell. "You look nice, I'll have you murdered." It was a grisly fascination.

The thing that I most loved about the Sirloin Cellar was the starter - Swedish meatballs. A good 15 years before IKEA's ubiquity, these glorious creations were served above a sort of fondue arangement with a small flame to keep them warm. Sharing a dish with Mum as we discussed main course choices was brilliant. Just us women out on the town.

A short stroll away was Hamilton Place; a rather unusual looking brick and concrete structure that I knew more for the annual Lionel Blair Panto (yes, really! He spent every panto season in Hamilton Ontario) than the arts.  We were in the First Balcony, only a couple of rows back - a wonderful view. 

Now there's something you need to know about Mum - she took her disaster films VERY seriously. After Jaws she wouldn't go more than knee deep in the ocean for years. After Towering Inferno she took the location of Fire Escapes extremely seriously. 

We took our seats and Mum started. "Jackie, I want you to listen carefully;: if there is a fire you need to know how to get out. Look here - how many rows of seats to the front of the balcony?" "Three, Mum." "That's right. So if there's a fire you go forward THREE rows and climber the barrier. Smoke rises so there might not be a clear view up here, which is why it's important to know the count." "But Mum..." "No, listen, this is important. You climb over the barrier. See how it lines up with the aisle below? You wait until you can see it's clear and you drop. then make your way down the slope to that Fire Escape." "Yeah, but Mum..." "NO, Jackie, Listen to me. How many rows? "Three." "And then what?" "Climb over, wait for a gap, drop, head down the slope to the Fire Escape, but I could..." "No, just make sure you remember. Panic is as dangerous as smoke. You've got it?" "Yes Mum." "OK. What was it you wanted to say?" "Mum, there's a Fire Escape at the end of this row."

38 years. We teased Mum about that at ever theatre visity for thirty eight years. She took it in good heart, but I never see a theatre Fire Door without thinking of it.

The ballet was pretty much the most brilliant thing I'd ever experienced. I thought my heart would burst with joy - the music, the dancing, it was beyond my wildest dreams.

The Nutcracker's  Russian dance - the Trepak - is well known, but not to 12 year old me. I'd never heard or seen anything like it. Mum had to put a hand on my knee as it was positively bouncing. The dancers leapt impossible heights, did the splits midair - all perfectly normal choreography in the crowdpleasing juggernaut the Nutcracker remains. But for a first time viewer? My world expanded that day. I didn't know bodies could do that, and that such exhuberance was possible.  

When the music came onto the playlist in the kitchen on Christmas Eve, I was straight back there. Feeling like a Grown Up, out with my Mum as a co-participant and not a little kid, had laughed long and hard about what would become a family joke, and so swept up by the glory of the ballet I thought I'd burst with joy.

And I miss my Mum. 

I'm lucky to have such strong and wonderful memories. I'm lucky she showed me my favourite thing - and Ballet Weekend is always one of my annual highlights. I'm glad that for many years I could invite her here to Leeds to watch Northern Ballet's Christmas production, sometimes with her grandchildren too. 

NB - There's a link from that day and place to this day and place: a young second soloist of that production, David Nixon, has been the Creative Director of Northern Ballet since 2001. Check out the smart/casual vibe! 

The other strong memory that hit me was this afternoon. 

We'd quite regularly go on holiday with our kids and my parents to Doña Lola, between Malaga and Marbella. My brother and his girls would come too. It wasn't always easy - a large group with different interests, food preferences and ideas of how to have fun. Mark and I like restaurtants and galleries,  Mark hates beaches, I love swimming in the sea and hate pools. The younger kids all love the pool and endless ice creams, eldest like pools or video games and quiet, Neil likes games and home food but thinks cities are boring, Dad's mobility was reducing thanks to his arthritis. You can't please everyone. Sometimes it would be frustrating, sometimes harmonious. Families  - love them, but also argue with them like a teenager. 

However, there was one perfect time every day. As the sun would dip low, Mum and I would carry a pair of chairs, a pair of glasses and an ice cold bottle of white wine down to the ocean's edge and we'd watch the sun set together. Best bit of my holidays in Spain by far. When the low sun hits my face I thinbk of those warm seashore moments.

Today Christmas dawned clear and mild. After so much rain it was a gloriously sunny day. I thought it would be foolish to miss it all so as Mark chatted with his parents I popped out to enjoy the last 10 minutes of winter sunshine. It's Christmas, so obviously Tim Minchin's beautiful White Wine In The Sun was a perfect accompaniment. "My brothers, my sisters, my gran and my mum..."

Idiot. 

That was it - floored because I really do miss my Mum. And drinking white wine with her as the sun set over the Mediterranean really was one of our happiest rituals. I honestly hadn't thought about it; I felt blindsided. 

Christmas is Family. I'm lucky to have mine, even if I can't see some of them right now. I hope you are with yours, and that you are all as well and safe as you can be.

Take care.

J

PS - my full name is Jacqueline. My family called me Jac, and Jackie was for teachers or being told off. You know, like when I'm not paying enough attention to a fire briefing. I've been Jay for 30 years because it suits me better,

Present or correct

Here we are at the start of February, having seemingly skipped winter altogether. The weather in Yorkshire's been a long wet autumn and the garden's still flooded.  It may not be the drama and catastrophe of the Australian fires, but our weather pattern is deeply messed up. The water in the poultry drinkers has only frozen 3 times. It used to be a regular occurrence.

My plans of a wildflower meadow may be doomed this year - having carefully collected yellow rattle seeds in August, the bottom of the garden has been either sodden or actually under several centimetres of water and we haven't had the succession of cold snaps needed to germinate the seeds.

Less a garden, more a swamp

Yellow rattle is a semi-parasitic plant that draws much of its energy from hijacking the roots of grasses, so it's a useful tool when wanting to diminish a lawn's vigour and allow native plants to flourish. I was so pleased to find some in a meadow to harvest, in the hopes of making the garden a more wildlife friendly habitat. Ah well, we'll see how it plays out.

My wildlife camera has been a bit of disappointment so far. Plenty of action, almost all of it Gonzo. Just the occasional clip of Isaac, or rain heavy enough to trigger the motion sensor. I'm hoping spring will bring a little more variety.

Not the wildlife we were hoping for

Ballet Weekend rolled around again and if anything it surpassed itself. On Friday I took myself to see the uplifting and delightful Come From Away. It's basically a hug in theatre form. Saturday afternoon I treated my Very Excellent Mate Bon to her first trip to see Hamilton. New cast for the third year, so I got to see some different interpretations of the roles, and Bon was (obviously) absolutely smitten. It was brilliant. Then Bon treated me to The Red Shoes at Sadler's Wells. I actually enjoyed it more this time - having never seen the original film I was a bit lost on our first viewing. All in all the weekend was a wonderful break in an otherwise challenging month,

Sitting in The Room Where It Happens once again

I confess I loathe January and am glad to see the back of it.  It's got too many birthdays. Typically, I've used up all my gift ideas (and money) at Christmas. However from December 23 to January 29th I have a stretch with my father-in-law, daughter, eldest niece, younger niece, brother, mum and son to buy for - and celebrate with - where appropriate. Mum's birthday was difficult but at least we're past it now. Zach's was lovely - deferred celebration until his mock exams were over, and he has such a lovely gang of friends.

So here we are, the plethora of birthdays over until the April cluster (me, Dad, Luke) and the days lengthening enough for the hens to start laying.  This is good. Spring's not far away, and everything is better in the spring.

Something odd happened last week. I was fannying about on an internet forum - OK, Mumsnet; I came for the radical feminism and stayed for the craziness of the AIBU board - and responding to something about mothers, I wrote "My Mum loved that too."

Loved.

Past tense.

That's the first time I used the past tense without having correct myself from the present. It jolted me. I've been saying "Mum's got those shoes; Mum hates risotto; Mum sews her own clothes; Mum likes musicals but not opera so much..."  for months now. Yes, obviously I know she is dead - and I had to write to the people who hadn't heard when the Christmas cards to "Kate and Bri" arrived. But I hadn't  - oh hell, I don't know - adjusted to it? Acknowledged that she's in our past not our present, maybe? Each month that takes me further away from her feels like a betrayal. I'm not sure by whom, her for dying or me for living.  Grief isn't terribly rational.

But suddenly there is was, a past tense. An admission that Mum's not here, that it's memories not current events. I think it's probably healthy. I'm sure it's normal. But I'm not sure how I feel about it yet.

Ballet Weekend!

It's my favourite weekend of the year!

I abandoned my children and Mark with nary a backward glance and high-tailed it to London on Friday for the start of my glorious weekend away. I had everything ready for the perfect train journey as you can see -

Coffee, crochet (using my lovely new hook from Marion) and earphones so I could listen to my Radio 4 podcasts.  It was a nice way to relax.

After dropping my bags at the hotel I went straight to the TKTS booth at Leicester Square to see what was available. I was utterly delighted to get a ticket to Women On The Verge, starring the fabulous Tamsin Greig and one of the heroes of my teen years, Haydn Gwynne.  She played Alex in Drop the Dead Donkey, and was all the things I wished I were. So double YAY getting tickets for that.

My main goal for Friday was to find the perfect red leather handbag. Remember back in July when the house was broken into and my bag taken? I put the insurance money on one side so I could buy a suitable lovely replacement in London while the sales were on.

I don't know about you, but I find it hard to buy things like that online.  I'm a tactile soul; I need to feel things like cloth or leather before I can decide whether I want them.  Quite a few things that looked lovely when I saw them online weren't nice to the touch when I found them in the shop. And if I'm only going to have one handbag, it ought to be a decent one.

So, having done some research I had a list of shop names and addresses and a sensible route covering all of them so I could make my choice.  First up - Regent Street.

I had no luck along most of it - the Liberty sale was down to dregs and most places just didn't have anything I loved.  I got a nice 2 course lunch in a little French cafe and went in search of a shop called & Other Stories. It's the more stylish part of the H&M chain, apparently, and has several branches in Scandinavia and the Benelux, bur only one in the UK. They'd had some nice bags and ankle boots on their website, so seemed worth a look.

The boots were quite narrow fitting, so I didn't get the rather dashing pair I'd being eyeing up online. However, a petite satchel-type bag - originally £95, listed at £45 on the website - was down to £28 in the shop.  The leather was soft and supple, the shoulder strap a good length and I thought it would be great for when I don't need a massive bag full of stuff.  It's this one here. At 70% off, it would have been rude not to buy it, surely?

This first purchase made, I met my Very Excellent Mate Laura for a coffee.  Laura and I used to see the ballet together - especially when Bon was living in Saudi - and we've known each other more than 10 years.  However, her job, finishing her PhD and having a baby (now a toddler, the gorgeous Sylvie) meant we hadn't met up in about 3 years.  It was so lovely to spend time together. She's such a fab person.

When we parted I stepped up the bag hunt.  I detoured briefly to buy some clothes for Luke - damn those kids and their growing! - but otherwise blasted through the accessories section of every department store and boutique like a guided missile.  My penultimate stop was that home-from-home for the white middle class English woman, John Lewis.

Oh boy. They had MASSES of bags in the sale.  Masses.  And loads of them were red.  Red is the best colour for bags, by the way, because it goes with all the usual base colours - black, navy and brown.  It is also my favourite colour. The lad in John Lewis laughed as he saw me, complete in my red woollen coat, stacking 15 red handbags in front of the mirror to try them all on.  "I'm sensing a theme..."

I thought I'd found a PERFECT mix of everything I wanted, until I realised it was by Mulberry and was £849 in the sale.  Perhaps not.

Eventually I whittled it down to 2 - a leather crocodile print satchel by Osprey and a soft, less formal bag by Donna Karan.  The Osprey bag was utterly gorgeous but rather impractical - not very capacious, not shoulder strap (and I like the option of one) and quite formal.  The DKNY bag had fab curved pockets, super soft leather, a removable shoulder strap and was much more 'me.' But ohhh that crocodile print was pretty.

I went to House of Fraser to browse there and have a think.  I happened upon a pair of zebra print Vans for £16, and snaffled them immediately.  My scruffy, comfy shoes are nearly falling apart so I had an excuse to buy the Vans.

A cuppa and a coin toss later (always helpful when you want to find out which outcome you were hoping for) I knew it had to be the DKNY.  Formal and fancy is nice for weekends away, but this will be the bag on my arm most days for the next few years.

Isn't it nice?

I dropped off my shopping and went to the theatre, where Tamsin made me laugh and Haydn made me cry. I loved the production - bright, vibrant and thoroughly good fun. However, the theatre's Circle levels have very steep sloping ceilings, so the back 2 or 3 rows can't see the upper level of the stage.  Some action does take place there, leaving those of us at the back sliding down in our seats, cricking our necks in an attempt to see. On the off chance you are likely to go, I wouldn't sit further back than G, H at the most.  Luckily I was able to move forward into an empty seat after a bit.

Yes, I DID stay behind to get autographs and photos and no, I'm not going to show you.  I took them for the amusement of Bon and my Very Excellent Mate Alison, who was so amused by the Matthew Mcfadden picture last year.  Suffice to say they are hopeless pictures but I was delighted to meet such ace women. I have the heart of a groupie and I'm not ashamed of that.

On Saturday morning I opted out of the torrential rain and stayed inside with a book. Once Bon arrived we headed to the shops and cafes in a cold wind but thankfully no further precipitation.  I shopped a bit, I bought coffee beans to get me through the (mostly) dry January we're having for  (mostly) pecuniary reasons but the main activity of the day was talking. And talking. And some more.  I was hoarse when we paused to get ready for the ballet. (Although in fairness I was rather hoarse to start with - my throat is still ropey).

Matthew Bourne made us laugh and cry, again.  Was this the 4th time I'd seen Edward Scissorhands or the 5th? Not sure, but it was still magical. We had a marvellous time.

Incidentally, should you ever be in the vicinity of Sadler's Wells, I recommend The Gate vegetarian restaurant which is next to the traffic lights.  We've been for the last 3 years and found it delicious. As a pair of pescetarians, it's nice to have a whole menu to choose from. (The aubergine with the horseradish sauce is my favourite)

On Sunday we were up and out early to meet my ace sister in law Elif. We met at Trafalgar Square, where there was an impromptu memorial to the victims of the attacks in Paris.

A security guard said there would be a demonstration that evening, with the French flag projected against the building.

 Mark's brother Drew is a good natured but pretty vague soul.  He did have the sense to marry an ace woman, however. in addition, he works at the National Gallery, which is ideal for visiting culture-vulture sisters-in-law wanting to cadge free exhibition tickets. Drew had sorted us out with free passes to the Rembrandt exhibition, bless him. I don't think he's a fan himself - when Elif asked him what Rembrandt was like he apparently told her "paints brown pictures."

Daft sod.

I was blown away by the paintings we saw. The difference between the reproductions I'd seen in books and the real paintings was incredible - like the difference between a pressed flower and a fresh one.  They seemed to pop right out of the painting - a 3d trompe d-oeil. Elif's favourite was a tiny sketch of Abraham preparing to sacrifice Isaac, and Bon loved the technique of the Alexander the Great painting, but my favourite was the first self-portrait in the exhibition, from around 1650. He looked as if he was someone I'd know, and want to talk about things with. 

I think we were united in our lack of admiration for the Jewish Bride. The blurb talked about the loving and intimate caress. All I saw was a woman with a slightly pursed mouth trying to move her bloke's hand, saying "Will you take your hand of my tit, damn it? The portrait painter's here!" The portraits and the guild painting were more my taste.

After lunch at the gallery Elif went to work, Bon and I wandered around and browsed in the shops. I really value the time to chat; I wish we lived closer together. She headed off for her train, I seemed to have misplaced a good hour or so and Waterstones, and the weekend was winding down gently.

Before the train home I joined those gathered at Trafalgar Square to show solidarity with Paris and all those facing violent attacks. I'd never seen so many French people gathered anywhere outside France before. The memorial had grown in size during the day and, as I watched, ever more people came to place their pencils and pens in the circle of candles. The atmosphere was thoughtful and reflective. It was a moving experience.

I'll confess to feeling a little bothered by the focus on the events in Paris. They were undoubtedly dreadful and a real threat to a world I know and understand.  But in the same few days 2,000 bodies were found in Nigeria. As if Boko Haram felt they hadn't been vicious enough, they then did the single most twisted thing I've ever heard of: they strapped a bomb to a 10 year old girl, sent her into a busy market and detonated it from afar. 

They turned a child into a bomb.

I agree Nous Sommes Tous Charlie. But surely we are all Nigeria too.

A brief hiatus

Hello again! I hope your Christmas and New Year were all things splendid and pine-needle-scented and you are facing the return to normal life feeling refreshed and invigorated.

I'm not.

I've not blogged throughout December for 2 reasons.  The first is this -

I wanted to crochet a blanket for Miss B in time for her birthday (which is near Christmas.)  My grandmother could produce amazing works of crochet and embroidery; I wanted to make something of an heirloom for my child to keep with her as she grows up the way I did with Grammy's things.  However, it was a much larger project than any I'd undertaken before.

It took me 3 weeks of crocheting pretty much every spare moment of the day. If I was sitting down there was a hook in my hand and the blanket growing across my lap.  I took it on the bus, to appointments that I knew I'd be waiting for, to cafes and I didn't watch a moment of television while not simultaneously crocheting like a woman possessed.  I certainly had no time for blogging when there were rows to finish.

I am delighted with the result.  So is Miss B who carries it around with her to watch TV snuggled with, and drapes across her bed each night. Many thanks to Lucy of Attic 24 for the pattern and the crochet-along encouragement,

The second reason is much less fun. I've been ill. Not anything serious, just unendingly poorly.  

Mark and the kids had a nasty virus in November - fevers, sore throats and coughing.  The kids had 3 or 4 days off school each, except poor Luke who attended every day because of mock GCSE exams. I caught it on Thursday December 4th - the day I was supposed to be baking for the school fair.

I bailed on the school fair and only made it to the ballet of Lord of the Flies with Luke the next night because I was heavily medicated and Mark kindly drove us to and from Bradford. (He's a top bloke, isn't he?) I spent the weekend and most of the next week in bed. Feverish, achey and weak, I felt very relieved I'd done the Christmas preparation early. Even making mince pies felt exhausting.

I had about a 6 day period of being well during which I slipped away from chores for the day and went to see The Hobbit on my own. It was great, although casting attractive men as dwarves has made me feel a bit funny with each instalment. Richard Armitage and Aidan Turner are too sexy to be dwarves.

Sadly, the few days feeling fine didn't last and the virus reasserted itself. This also happened to Miss B, who missed much of her last week in school.  I was laid low by the 20th, got even worse across Christmas Day and Boxing Day and have continued to be raw of throat and coughing fit to die ever since.  It's been a full month since I first came down with the thing and it's wearing thin I can tell you.

So, no exciting news to report, no new skills to share and not much time for reflection either. 

However, I can share a picture of our tree, complete with the traditional Christmas Lizard inspecting some of the decorations:

And here's the craft bag I made for my niece Cara from old jeans, lined with a sundress B outgrew. I'd give you instructions if I had any - I just sort of made it up.  I filled it with projects and kits for Cara to try. She's very creative.

I hope I'm fighting fit by Friday, when I head off for my annual ballet weekend. It's pretty much my favourite event of the year.

Best wishes to you and yours for a happy and peaceful 2015.

J xx

Looking for the bright spots

It's important to have something to look forward to, I find, particularly at this time of year.

Spring is easy. The willow tree in my garden goes from bare branches to a yellowish blurring of outlines to a pale green fuzz and then proper leaves. Each stage has me looking towards the next, and the new buds are just so hopeful and full of promise. I know which neighbours have the early blossoming trees in their gardens and which patches of my own will produce flowers next.  It's much easier to feel good about the world when the days are lengthening and the world is coming back to life.

Summer - well, that all depends on the weather.  A decent bit of warmth and sunshine and I think my cup runneth over. There are vegetables to sow and tend, fruit growing on my trees, and long evenings sitting outside chatting.

Autumn and winter are hard going.  I like the quality of light on sunny autumnal days, with that crisp feel to the air and strangely comforting smell of dead leaves.  I love snow, and loads of it.  But the dark days, the dampness so much a part of this climate and the way the world is painted in a palette of mud tones and grey  - it's a tough gig.

So, things to look forward to is my coping strategy.

My best and most reliable thing to look forward to is my annual ballet weekend with my Very Excellent Mate Bon.  She's my mate of longest standing in the UK - the first friend I made when I moved here and the only schoolfriend apart from Mark I kept in touch with.  The third weekend in January is our usual date but Matthew Bourne's production of Edward Scissorhands finishes early this season, so we're moving it forward a week.  I have never yet had a less than lovely time (except when I was 37 weeks pregnant with Miss B and in terrible pain, but that wasn't anyone else's fault.)

I'm browsing hotels for it already and will be able to book my train seats next week.

I am also looking forward to another Matthew Bourne ballet - Lord of the Flies. Luke and I are going together in early December. He studied it for English Lit last year and is keen to see it. I love that my son is interested in all forms of story telling, not just movies or games.  We share a lot of films, books, graphic novels and radio programmes together, and it's brilliant. Luke is great company and has an original perspective on things.  I am VERY much looking forward to our outing.

Back in early September when East Coast Rail were having a lightning sale I booked train tickets for Miss B and I to go to London together on our own.  That's coming up in a month. The plan is to ride the London Eye - which the lads have done but B hasn't - and do everything B is interested in.  I expect sweets and toys may be involved. We'll have 5 hours on the train to chat and play and make plans, or reflect on all we've done - and I do love travelling by train. We'll have a brilliant day, and it will be ace to watch her discover her London. I already know the lads' London, and my own.

I am also very much looking forward to one particular aspect of Christmas.  I think getting the tree, decorating it and then putting While You Were Sleeping on while I wrap presents in front of it is my all-time favourite part of Christmas.  It's that smell. The pine needles may shed and it can be a faff getting the thing upright in the stand, but a real tree is pretty much as good as the festive season can get.  Each decoration is an old friend - some made by Mum and me when I was a kid, some by our kids when they were little, some reminders of trips or events in our lives.  And lavish amounts of tinsel. And red or silver baubles.  I can picture it in my head now and it's fabulous.

The soonest thing I am looking forward to is Sunday, November 2nd at 7pm.  At that time my lovely Z will get home from his week-long trip to Germany with Youth Club.  He'll be tired out and bursting with all the stories of what he saw and who he met. The house will have all its people home again. I will sit on the couch, probably sharing take away pizza with everyone and listening to Z share all his enthusiasm and pleasure in new things with us while his brother and sister try to talk over him. And it will be brilliant.

How to have a perfect weekend (if you're me)

Hello webby mates!

I am in such a wonderful mood. Every year my Very Excellent Mate Bon and I go to London for the third weekend in January to see Matthew Bourne's ballet. I go down early for a day to myself. It's my favourite weekend of the year - like a private Christmas with none of the hard work before it.

This year it was especially great. Somehow everything worked out Just So, with happy accidents, great artistry and people being lovely all conspiring to leave me glowing with happiness for 3 days.

 First I met up with my internet pal London Heather (as opposed to my friends Leeds Heather and Heather-In-New-Zealand) and as is so often the case with internet friends, we were Real Life friends right away. She took me to the British Museum exhibition on Columbian gold. If you do get a chance to visit it, I recommend it.  It was fascinating.

I spent more time in the British Museum after the exhibition. I just love the enclosed courtyard with its glass diamond roof. I have been a visitor long enough to remember it before the renovation and it still thrills me every time I enter.
I said hello to old friends in the Museum - those things I pop by to see whenever I'm there - and headed out into the rain.

My evening plan had been to spend time with my Very Excellent Mate Alison. However, we'd got our dates confused and decided to meet for breakfast on Saturday instead.  I wanted something great to do that evening on my own - ideally something other than a trip to my beloved Everyman cinema - but everything I wanted to see was so expensive.

I thought I'd wander down Shaftesbury Avenue and along to the Leicester Square ticket kiosk to see if I could find something affordable. Excellent decision, Jay!

The English National Ballet's production of Le Corsair had two of my favourite things - ballet and pirates. How could I go wrong? The £55 ticket was available for £30 and at that price it would be rude not to.

I walked up the side streets from Leicester Square to Carnaby Street and then into Liberty. I'd seen the most wonderful fabric there 10 weeks ago and hadn't bought any. I decided to splurge on 1/2 a metre. It's so lovely. I feel happy just looking at it.

From there I went back to the Covent Garden area to have dinner for one at Poplo. I don't know if you've ever been but I HIGHLY reccomend it. Each little plate of food was so delicious I decided it was my favourite - until I tasted the next one.  However, I think my Limoncello martini won on points.

The ballet was just lovely. 

It's been a while since I saw a ballet by a company other than Matthew Bourne's New Adventures. I love his ballets for the storytelling - they get right to the emotional heart of things and make me feel heartbroken, ecstatic, full of longing or so full of joy my heart hurts my chest. I can't help but give them my heart to play with for the evening. They aren't 'traditional' in choreography - not so much pointe work and lifts and leaps - but have a more muscular, expressive style.

In sharp contrast are the Russian ballet companies.  All of those that I've seen have been technically excellent but dead. The point of them seems to be exercises in athleticism and craft rather than emotion.  They manage astonishing feats of endurance - ballerinas posed on pointe for unimaginable lengths of time, lifts higher, backs arched deeper - but it demonstrates technique rather than soul.  After seeing about 8 of them I gave up.

English National Ballet are different again. The dances were astonishingly beautiful and difficult.  The only sane explanation for how the men could leap so high and so fast is that they have springs in their legs, while the two principle ballerinas seemed to hover in the air thanks to sky hooks or electromagnets.  But these were beautiful, graceful sights rather than Olympic standard exhibitions.  The story was silly (Lord Byron is a nut-bucket. "Look, they're finally safe. Oops, no, can't have that, let's drown everyone in the last 2 minutes") but it allowed for wonderful costumes and set pieces.  I wasn't emotionally engaged but I was entranced.

During the interval I got chatting with two lovely women seated near me.  We hit it off so well that we stood outside the theatre afterwards chatting for another 15 minutes. Hello Immi and Nicci! I wish I'd known them before Emma was about to head back to Australia by way of New York, but the internet makes all friendships possible.

Here comes the dumb luck. ENB perform at the Coliseum. Across the road is the Duke of York theatre, where Mark and I had seen Jeeves and Wooster: Perfect Nonsense a few days before.  It was utterly joyous and I urge everyone to see it.  It is perfectly cast with Stephen Mangan as Bertie and Matthew Macfadyen and his perfect diction as Jeeves. That man makes every word in the English language sound beautiful. He is immensely charming, was marvellous as Tom in Spooks and also my favourite Mr Darcy. (I love Colin Firth in many things but I hate that lake-jumping nonsense. Darcy never would.)  I carry such a torch for him.

Having lingered to chat with Immi and Nicci, I crossed the road to walk up to the cash machines a little further along. There was a tall bloke in a flat cap outside the Duke of York. Matthew Macfadyen. I managed not to actually swoon, but only by a hair's breadth. He was utterly lovely and friendly. I took the most dreadful photograph of us because I was still saying "I'm SO sorry about this" as I took it. But I don't care, I'm going to post it anyway. Matthew Macfadyen spoke to me in that beautiful voice and I was done for. Stupidly, ridiculously happy.

I must confess I have spent the last two evenings re-watching Pride and Prejudice. Told you, done for.

The next morning I met VEM Alison at Carluccios for breakfast and a massive chat. Then Bon arrived - cue more chat and hugging - and we talked and grinned until even my jaw was tired. Which takes a lot, believe me.

Alison and me

Bon and I spent the afternoon walking, chatting, browsing in shops, having cuppas and cake, chatting some more, and generally catching up on a whole year's news. I really miss her in the gaps between hanging out each January.

Ticket, and some stranger's shoes

The evening was our Main Event - ballet at Sadler's Wells. It was Swan Lake again - I think this was either my 9th or 11th time seeing it; I've rather lost count. I think it is about as perfect as art gets. Bon and I were both looking forward to it.

But it was different. The choreography had changed. Not massively, but enough to affect the whole ballet.  At the interval we were each trying to avoid saying it - "It's not as good."  Yikes.
The thing that sustains us as our hearts break for the poor prince, so isolated and alone, is scene of the tenderness between him and his Swan at the riverside. Saps that we are, we are so desperate for him to receive comfort that their time together is crucial to us. Too much unkindness and alienation is too hard to bear. (That's why Dumbo is such a horrible film)

This Swan was wilder. He physically struck the prince several times - through his untamedness rather than viciousness - and their dances together were more cautious. The chemistry was very different and the the prince's euphoria after made a little less sense.This continued with The Stranger - always cruel, now even more sadistic in his taunts and sexuality. Oh that poor, poor boy.

Some of the new aspects added much to the story, and the final section had us shuddering with suppressed sobs as we cried our mascara towards our chins. It hit us more powerfully than it ever done. We were both wrecked by it.

Bon said it's our old age. I think it was that tweaking of choreography - less relief of the prince's agony in the first act made the second even more tragic.  Just amazing. But why? Why take that little bit of joy from the audience?  He is Matthew Bourne's creation but after this many visits he feels like he belongs to us, the audience, too. The humour - and there is so, so much that is extremely funny - doesn't take away from our (well, my at least) need for respite for the prince.

So, utterly utterly wonderful by the end but the world's a little colder for a while.

After dinner at The Gate - delicious vegetarian food! Do go if you're ever in the area - and a restorative glass of wine to bring us back down to earth (and fix that mascara) we headed back to our hotel for another chat, then bed.

On Sunday we met Bon's niece Em for breakfast. She took us around The Stables market in Camden. So much of it looked just as markets did when we had student digs in the late 80s. Tie dye, sandalwood, old movie posters, geeky T shirts:  le plus ca change... Anyway, it was good fun. I took a picture of the crazy robots outside Cyberdog for my steampunk enthusiast son and managed to stop myself buying a My Neighbour Totoro back pack for Miss B.

After leaving Camden and Em behind, VEM Bon and I went to Islington to browse the little shops and cafes. We HAD to go into Loop. Bon couldn't get over the beautiful yarns there. It's a lovely shop, although they stock extremely expensive things I couldn't afford this time. Last year I bought two skeins of alpaca yarn and made myself a wonderful cable knit scarf. This year I resisted. It was hard, though - the staff are wonderful and the stock so tempting.

Bon having a browse

Bon left to catch her train. I walked on to Ray Stitch, where owner Rachel sells more beautiful fabric than I knew existed.  I mean, look at it. Doesn't it look lovely?

Temptation lies this way

There were fabrics from all over, although the Japanese printed cottons were particularly tempting.  All the restraint I'd shown at Loop and Camden market crumbled in the face of a fat quarter bundle. Oh dear.

After that, I remembered I'd not had lunch. I had a lovely coffee and peanut butter brownie on the way back to the tube, grabbed my bag and headed to the station. I was spent up (and then some), footsore, and riding high on the most wonderful, exciting and happy weekend.

Last of the sunlight lighting up St Pancras

I hope your weekend holds something just as lovely for you, full of whatever floats your boat - I know ballet, cake, fabric and chatting aren't for everyone. (Matthew Macfadyen is, of course)

Be happy,

J x