Category Archives: Talk Amongst Yourselves

Love Labors, Lost

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tichy-love-lost

The sound first caught my attention while I was preparing breakfast. I have grown used to the sound of the neighbor’s baby wingeing now and then, but this was different, this was sobbing, heavy sobs. And this was no baby. I went to the window and scanned the courtyard, parking lot and balconies looking for the source.

Finally, across the courtyard, on the top balcony, I saw her. She stood at his door, as I had seen her countless times before, but now she was wracked with sobs and with the flat of her palms she knocked at his door. Her hair fell in damp strands across her face, her shoulders heaving up and down with the sobs, her mouth moving as if she were trying to speak, but only the sobs emerged. She slapped at the door with both hands and then just let them slide down the door as her whole body leaned towards the door, her face against the window pane, and slid down in resignation.

She gave up knocking on the door and slowly, as though her legs were made of rubber, she turned away. Her face was all grimace and anguish. She pulled at the hem of her sundress and brought it up to wipe the tears from her face in an awkward way. As her shoulders continued to heave with sobs the left strap of the dress slip off her shoulder and fell down her arm. She slowly collapsed to a seating position on the stoop and sat on the stairway, half naked, burying her head in her hands. Quiet.

In a moment she lifted her head, absently pulled her bodice back up, arose slowly. Staggering almost drunkenly she trudged down the stairs and out of the courtyard. Utterly, magnificently dejected.

I hope she can find whatever comfort she needs. It wasn’t waiting for her here, at his apartment. Not anymore.

Sadness in Tavistock Square – 7/7 Memories

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Listened this morning to interview with a man who lost his girlfriend to the 7/7/2005 terror bombing of a bus in Tavistock Square in Bloomsbury, London. She would normally have been on the tube, but was diverted to the bus.

Unfortunately for her the terrorist was, too.
She called her partner, and as they spoke he suddenly heard screams, then the line went dead. “I knew then that I’d lost her,” he recalls. News of the three earlier tube bombings was already on telly.

I have fond memories of Tavistock Square from my recent visit to London. It was just a block or so from my flat, and I visited there frequently. The square is a memorial to peace, ironically enough. One charming aspect to the square, which I got to witness after theatre one night, was the formally robed bell ringer whose job it is to sweep through the park at closing time, barring and locking each gate, calling out “One and all, the park is closing” as he rang his bell and moved from gate to gate.

Fourth Plinth: One & Other

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Any visitor to Trafalgar Square cannot help but notice the four large plinth or platforms which mark the corners of the square.  Erected in the mid nineteenth century, these hold statuary of the lion and Generals type.  All but one, that is.  The plinth in the northwest corner, directly in front of the National Galleries stands empty, or has for most of its existence.

A couple of years ago a contest was staged which solicited ideas for what to put on the fourth plinth.  This is really rather difficult at this stage, as London have gotten quite used to it being empty.  Many responses to the challenge were received, and a select group of these have been getting their day, as it were, for the past year.  When Pawn visited Trafalgar this past May there was a sort of post-modern deconstructivist piece up there, involving metal and perspex and some lime green stuff.  Rather distasteful if you ask me.

Anthony Gormley has a different idea.  His piece, One & Other invites regular folk to mount the plinth, assisted by a cherry-picker, for an hour each, 24 hours a day, for 100 days.  These 2400 people were selected by lot, and within reason are allowed to do what they wish with their time on the plinth.

Jill Gatcum, above, made an eloquent gesture with a baloon release.  She had solicited 60 of her friends and family members to each make a donation to charity which they would not normally have done.  She then assembled 60 helium baloons, each bearing a card comemorating her friend’s donation and soliciting whomever eventually found the baloon to similarly make a donation they would not otherwise have made.  During her hour up on the plinth, cheered on by her friends and family below, Jill released one baloon every minute, and then came back down to earth.

The Independent Online have published a photo gallery celebrating the begining of this audacious project.  Check it out.

Red Hair

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Across the courtyard I spied her

Her red mane of hair falling

across broad shoulders

She stood before the stove

Her over-sized Tee shirt

slipping off her right shoulder

and riding, enticingly, up her left hip

She was oblivious to any onlooker

as she dipped her fingers into the pot

she pulled up a big bundle

of “straw and hay” as the

Italians would have it.

A great fistful of pasta,

and then threw her head back;

that great red mane of hers

flowing down

She dropped the pasta

into her mouth

I longed, in that moment,

to be that pasta

to have that final moment

to know where I would go

to go into her throat

I still miss that

now

London 2009 – Day 17 – Pawn’s Fortune

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As I strolled into Petticoat Lane Market today I was approached by a well dressed man wearing a cobalt blue turban and a dark brown suit.  He wore a full, thick, lush beard, and had penetrating brown eyes.  He bore them into mine, and said:

You are a very lucky man
Next month will be very good for you
You will become famous in your field
You are a mastermind
You have one story in your head
Write the book.

I thanked him and walked on, a little bewildered but feeling generally compliant.

London 2009 – Day 10 – Cheese Toastie, Pottery and X is Right

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Pawn must adjust his opinions to match reality. Cuisine can conquer. Appearances may deceive. Strangers can be trusted. Sunday is for Sunday roast. And sometimes a pot is just a pot.

On any normal day, starting out with a cheese toastie may well mean that you are starting at the top and things can only go down from there. This, my friends, was no normal day. I awoke at about 6:15 and after giving up on returning to sleep, got up, made some tea, and then a cheese toastie, using up the Buffalo cheddar and a goodly portion of the Edam. It was cheese-toastie-licious! While I worked and wrote, X slept in for a change (not).

Part of my exercise this morning was to determine the proper disposition of our recyclables. Once X arose, I loaded up our largest carry-bag, the one with the reinforced shoulder strap and rip-proof nylon, and made my way, clanking like the tin woodsman, tottering up Tottenham Court Road the three blocks to the recycling point. Thankfully the only other people out on the streets at that hour were still out, rather than on their way to church, likely as not.

That properly sorted, we set about planning the day. I purchased a vase for £68 ($100) on Ebay a few weeks back, and as luck would have it the seller is located in Hemel Hempstead, Hertfordshire, just about 25 minutes north-west of London, not far from North Harrow, Pawn’s birthplace.

dressler-victorian

Today we had planned to go fetch it.  We had debated whether or not X would join me on the quest.  There are still some things (like Picasso at the National Galleries) which she wants to see, and it was just an errand.  “Maybe they’ll invite us in for tea,” X offered.  “I wouldn’t count on it,” I replied, “You know the Brits, polite to a fault, but not very friendly.”  On the train I rang up Jayne, the seller, to let her know we were on our way and that we planned to stop for lunch first, as we were quite early. She said not to worry, recommended the Fishery Inn, and said to feel free to pop in either before or after dining.

The Fishery Inn is across the road from the train station, over a moor and a canal. We enjoyed the brief stroll there, and were really looking forward to taking a sit-down overlooking the canal while dining on Sunday Roast, or some other item from their tempting menu. When I approached the bar to order, however, I was informed by the flustered barmaid that the tills (cash registers) were down, and they couldn’t take any orders. “It’ll take 5 minutes to sort, and I’ll come and take your order then,” she said.

Fifteen minutes later, we finally went and got some wine, at least, and continued waiting…

Okay, even we have our limits, and 45 minutes was it. We were expected at Jayne’s at 2:00, and it was already 1:45 when we finally gave up, settled with the staff for our wine, and trudged off still starving and with a little buzz from the wine on an empty stomach.

We strolled along the footpath between the moor and canal and marvelled at the bucolic beauty of it all. There are several permanent residents on the canal, their house boats moored along the banks. Cooking out on barbecues and playing with their dogs.

After a short stroll down the canal we crossed over to the other side of the moor and the rail tracks. We walked through a lovely old tunnel, again on a footpath,

and when back out on the main road proceeded another couple hundred yards down the road, up a short walkway, and then rang up again to tell Jayne we had arrived. Tony, her husband greeted us in the forecourt and lead us into the house, an assortment of dogs (Roy, the Shepherd/Rottweiller mix, Blossom, a little mutt, and Lilly, a chihuahua) all barking and sniffing, tails wagging merrily.

When I had corresponded and spoken with Jayne I had envisioned a right proper British matron. The woman was selling me a Victorian vase, and her voice was all Upstairs/Downstairs proper and all. Well, was I in for a surprise. Jayne stepped out of the back lounge in a flowing black floor length skirt and tight black bodice, bare armed, slender and well muscled. She looked more like an extra in a Tori Amos video than the right proper country lady I had imagined. Next to Tony, himself a svelte man, they made quiet the striking couple.

We settled in the lounge, and I couldn’t help but notice the lovely pottery all around the place, and the stunning Art Nouveau cabinet in the corner. As I complimented her collection, Jayne asked if we would like some wine. We had already explained that we had tried to stop for a meal a the Fishery Inn, as she had suggested, and that we still hadn’t eaten. This did not deter them, and we soon each had a nice glass of white wine, and were chatting like old friends and examining their entire collection of vintage pottery, glass, majolica, etc. as well as some lovely furniture.

Well, before you know it we were getting along famously, the wine flowed, the pottery was shown, and we were invited to join them for their traditional Sunday Roast. “Dinner won’t be for a couple of hours,” said Jayne, at about 2:30, “but I can assure you it will be worth the wait.” She explained that as hectic as their lives get, they always sit down to dinner together; her, Tony and her three adult kids.

Over the next several hours we got to know these people, but it seemed we had always known them. We discussed politics and immigration, art and pottery, Ebay and Internet culture, Libraries and motor cars. Frequently throughout the afternoon and evening Tony or Jayne would pop out to the kitchen to tend to the dinner and retrieve another bottle of wine.

And

Time

Passed

It was 7:30 when we finally sat down for dinner, five bottles of wine later, and good friends to be sure. Oh, and what a dinner! We had:

  • Roast chicken, pulled from the bone
  • Home made gravy
  • Cranberry sauce
  • Yorkshire pudding
  • Onion and rosemary English stuffing
  • Sweet peas
  • Green beans
  • Asparagus
  • Broccoli
  • Roast potatoes
  • Roast Parsnips

Oh, and for desert? Fresh strawberries dipped in chocolate!

It. Was. To. Die. For!

Then came the coffee and some spectacular port wine.

By now it was after 9:00 and we had to beg our leave. The last train would be through at 10:00 or so, and we dare not risk missing it. It was hard to say goodbye to our new friends. We exchanged vows to stay in touch. I will come to visit them again, for certain. One doesn’t easily make friends in England, they are a very private people, but Tony and Jayne had truly welcomed us with open arms. I am sure that had we missed our train, they wouldn’t have batted an eyelash at putting us up for the night, either.

More photos here.

Ta!