Conscious of not having blogged for way too long despite having promised to do so. Sorry, dear reader . . .
I've been in Spain - not an excuse as such but what with the weather, my sister, my nieces, nephews, great-nieces, great-nephews, Royal Wedding, bullfights, Holy Week processions (mostly cancelled due to rain - yeah! In Spain while you lot were basking in some kind of climate swap) every time I sat down to write something happened and I had to get up again!
I'm working in earnest on NOW! The New Older Woman which is going well and my agent said there was plenty of interest at London Book Week recently, but the most exciting news (I shouldn't even be sharing as it might not come off) is that the BBC are looking to make a documentary about an older woman who used a throwaway line on a radio programme about wanting to dance burlesque . . .
I shan't elaborate until it's further down the line but I've already been on stage at the Cafe de Paris and may I tell you: it's not for the faint-hearted!
My children will obviously disown me once and for all. I haven't dared mention a word about it and part of me rather hopes it won't come off. If it does, that won't be the only thing coming off as I'm not sure how one can perform authentic burlesque in a twinset and pearls with a tweed skirt and 20 denier stockings on - not that that's my usual mode of attire but the sight of all that young, firm flesh parading itself before my very eyes made me realise that I must be totally insane to even think about trying to 'compete'.
I want them to laugh with me not at me. I'm not going to bump and grind, as on a woman of my age that will look ridiculous. I wish I'd kept my big mouth shut in the first place, yet another part of me is shouting: Bring It On! because after all, how many more chances to do something this outrageous am I going to get?
Gotta get ready for a date now - he's nearing 40 so not exactly a TB but still 25 years younger than me - yippee! By the way, lace top hold-ups don't stay up if you've just moisturised your legs. Just thought I'd share that, ladies, or gents if that is your proclivity.
I'll keep you posted on the rest. Promise.
Friday, 6 May 2011
Sunday, 20 March 2011
SHIPS IN THE NIGHT
Holiday romances are a terrible cliché and should not be taken seriously at any cost but I’ve just come back from a Nile cruise followed by 3 nights in Cairo and guess what? I fell in love.
Having steeled myself never to allow another man anywhere near my heart ever again (my body is another matter . . . ) this Prince of Egypt with his devastating good looks, liquid eyes, batwing eyelashes and thick black locks swept me off my feet the second my gaze lit on him.
I didn’t seek it - I didn’t want it - I didn’t need it! - but there it was: heart fluttering like a trapped butterfly, breath catching in my dry throat, clammy palms, nervous giggles – the whole nine yards.
Of course when I say ‘in love’ I actually mean ‘in lust’. He was – and is – drop dead gorgeous.
For the first few days we flirted: little flashes of eye contact, secret smiles, looks than lasted longer than was strictly necessary. A tentative dialogue began: about the temples and the tombs at Luxor, the camel ride to the Nubian village, the felucca boat near Aswan and all the wondrous wonders of his amazing ancient world.
Almost subliminally, he began to materialise wherever I happened to be: on the sun terrace, round the pool, in the lounge, the dining-room, the reception area, the Panorama Bar. Late one afternoon at sunset, when everyone else had gone to their cabins to get ready for the Galabaya Party, I stayed writing up on deck. A lone figure lingered near the prow gazing out as the languid river drifted slowly past.
My concentration deserted me. I closed my laptop and wandered over to where he stood. And when he looked at me directly, up close for the first time, I drowned . . . drowned in the eternal well of his smouldering chestnut eyes.
What quirk of fate is this? I thought. To come away with my sister to a country no one wanted us to go to and find this magician, this weaver of spells, this legend of the Pharaohs right here in my face?
“Hello again” he whispered, as if we’d known each other long ago in another place and time. The words felt like warm treacle being spread across my breasts.
With very little more passing between us, we contrived to spend more time together. Intimate glances became our private language and I knew – as a perceptive woman – that something special had begun.
We snatched an hour on the last night, up on deck beneath a lemon moon - talking, teasing, our voices thick with promise. I told him (rather cleverly I thought) that my mobile was not receiving calls and would he mind dialling it. So now he had my number.
When time ran out, we said goodbye. He took a step towards me . . . then shook my hand instead. The kiss hovered unfulfilled between us in the air, the power of the visceral more intense than the carnal. We had our chance but didn’t take it. Nothing as base as cabin-hopping for the likes of us!
The minute I left, the texting began. I miss you. I need you. When will we meet again? How can I survive without your smile?
God knows what my bill’s going to be but you know something? I don’t care. Connections like this don’t come along that often and although I’ll probably never see him again, it was a lovely interlude.
He’s 41.
And a little bit married.
So now I’m going to get on with my life and not cry because it’s over but smile because it happened.
Having steeled myself never to allow another man anywhere near my heart ever again (my body is another matter . . . ) this Prince of Egypt with his devastating good looks, liquid eyes, batwing eyelashes and thick black locks swept me off my feet the second my gaze lit on him.
I didn’t seek it - I didn’t want it - I didn’t need it! - but there it was: heart fluttering like a trapped butterfly, breath catching in my dry throat, clammy palms, nervous giggles – the whole nine yards.
Of course when I say ‘in love’ I actually mean ‘in lust’. He was – and is – drop dead gorgeous.
For the first few days we flirted: little flashes of eye contact, secret smiles, looks than lasted longer than was strictly necessary. A tentative dialogue began: about the temples and the tombs at Luxor, the camel ride to the Nubian village, the felucca boat near Aswan and all the wondrous wonders of his amazing ancient world.
Almost subliminally, he began to materialise wherever I happened to be: on the sun terrace, round the pool, in the lounge, the dining-room, the reception area, the Panorama Bar. Late one afternoon at sunset, when everyone else had gone to their cabins to get ready for the Galabaya Party, I stayed writing up on deck. A lone figure lingered near the prow gazing out as the languid river drifted slowly past.
My concentration deserted me. I closed my laptop and wandered over to where he stood. And when he looked at me directly, up close for the first time, I drowned . . . drowned in the eternal well of his smouldering chestnut eyes.
What quirk of fate is this? I thought. To come away with my sister to a country no one wanted us to go to and find this magician, this weaver of spells, this legend of the Pharaohs right here in my face?
“Hello again” he whispered, as if we’d known each other long ago in another place and time. The words felt like warm treacle being spread across my breasts.
With very little more passing between us, we contrived to spend more time together. Intimate glances became our private language and I knew – as a perceptive woman – that something special had begun.
We snatched an hour on the last night, up on deck beneath a lemon moon - talking, teasing, our voices thick with promise. I told him (rather cleverly I thought) that my mobile was not receiving calls and would he mind dialling it. So now he had my number.
When time ran out, we said goodbye. He took a step towards me . . . then shook my hand instead. The kiss hovered unfulfilled between us in the air, the power of the visceral more intense than the carnal. We had our chance but didn’t take it. Nothing as base as cabin-hopping for the likes of us!
The minute I left, the texting began. I miss you. I need you. When will we meet again? How can I survive without your smile?
God knows what my bill’s going to be but you know something? I don’t care. Connections like this don’t come along that often and although I’ll probably never see him again, it was a lovely interlude.
He’s 41.
And a little bit married.
So now I’m going to get on with my life and not cry because it’s over but smile because it happened.
Saturday, 5 March 2011
Wouldn't you like to fly...?
Did I mention I've decided never to say 'No!' to anything again? I’m not talking about that third helping of tiramisù or paddling across the Pacific on a plank, but turning down opportunities which may not arise again. After all, how many more chances am I gonna get? And it’s never too soon to start ticking off boxes on your bucket list cos before you know it the bucket’s gone rusty or you’ve kicked it before your time. The point is not to be frightened and never to think - let alone say: “I’m too old to do that.”
This musing was prompted by an invitation, as previously mentioned, to go hot air ballooning. Wow! I thought. Offers like that don’t come along every day and it’s something I’ve always wanted to do. So I accepted with delight and gratitude but when I started telling people, some tried to bring me down with comments like: “Is it safe?” and “Won’t you be terrified?” which only compounded my desire to go.
The Festival International du Ballon takes place every year at Chateau-d’Oex, a picturesque village in the Swiss Alps. That's where we headed along with hundreds of other enthusiasts and spectators who flock to the town to marvel at the myriad of brightly-coloured balloons of all shapes and sizes taking to the skies.
Everyone ooh-ed and aah-ed as the aeronautical displays took place: paragliding, freefalling, sky-diving and a daredevil stuntman looping the loop in his busy, buzzy biplane. Could this be the famous Jean-Pierre Camembert who always goes down in flames? I wondered - and I knew it was him when I saw his cheesy grin.
The weather was perfect: cornflower blue sky, diamond white snow and billows of impatient inflatables straining to take off. We watched fascinated as the long limp lengths of cloth laid out on the piste were pumped full of air until they rose up like perfect soufflés.
We propped up the Champagne Bar while awaiting our flight and our names were eventually called. Rope handlers controlled the eager vessel as we clambered clumsily into the basket and were then released to soar . . . up, up and away in our beautiful balloon.
The landscape below soon diminished into Dolls' World as we floated freely above the earth – free to breathe the pure fresh air and reach out into the wide blue yonder, no metal wing or plastic pane shielding us from the atmosphere.
The pilot kept the craft climbing with powerful gusts of hot air blasted into the balloon’s body from the onboard gas cylinders. Hot air rises, cool air falls – that’s how it works. I feared my hair might catch fire such was the power of the flames but luckily the tanks were far enough away.
We reached our cruising altitude then drifted lazily across the valley over fields, forests and farmland - on the north side white with snow, on the south, a peaceful patchwork in varied shades of green. Cattle grazed, deer ambled, rabbits scampered homeward as foxes prowled around. It was fascinating to watch from above and you couldn’t help but wonder at this serene and silent world you’d never seen before.
After an hour or so, we landed lightly beside a cow shed, bending our knees as instructed to absorb any impact. The balloon was kept inflated so the pick-up truck could find us then they folded it away, stashed the basket in the back and returned us to our base. If I was asked to describe the experience in one word, I'd have to say'tranquil' for that is the enduring quality of a balloon flight.
Had I said ‘No’, I’d have missed out on a beautiful adventure so I'm glad I ignored the scare-mongers and did what I wanted to do.
I'm ignoring them again on Monday when I leave for Egypt - Gawd 'elp me. Camouflage patterned swimwear is all packed for the Luxor-Aswan trip and sequinned flak jacket and harem pants for Cairo! More about that next time.
This musing was prompted by an invitation, as previously mentioned, to go hot air ballooning. Wow! I thought. Offers like that don’t come along every day and it’s something I’ve always wanted to do. So I accepted with delight and gratitude but when I started telling people, some tried to bring me down with comments like: “Is it safe?” and “Won’t you be terrified?” which only compounded my desire to go.
The Festival International du Ballon takes place every year at Chateau-d’Oex, a picturesque village in the Swiss Alps. That's where we headed along with hundreds of other enthusiasts and spectators who flock to the town to marvel at the myriad of brightly-coloured balloons of all shapes and sizes taking to the skies.
Everyone ooh-ed and aah-ed as the aeronautical displays took place: paragliding, freefalling, sky-diving and a daredevil stuntman looping the loop in his busy, buzzy biplane. Could this be the famous Jean-Pierre Camembert who always goes down in flames? I wondered - and I knew it was him when I saw his cheesy grin.
The weather was perfect: cornflower blue sky, diamond white snow and billows of impatient inflatables straining to take off. We watched fascinated as the long limp lengths of cloth laid out on the piste were pumped full of air until they rose up like perfect soufflés.
We propped up the Champagne Bar while awaiting our flight and our names were eventually called. Rope handlers controlled the eager vessel as we clambered clumsily into the basket and were then released to soar . . . up, up and away in our beautiful balloon.
The landscape below soon diminished into Dolls' World as we floated freely above the earth – free to breathe the pure fresh air and reach out into the wide blue yonder, no metal wing or plastic pane shielding us from the atmosphere.
The pilot kept the craft climbing with powerful gusts of hot air blasted into the balloon’s body from the onboard gas cylinders. Hot air rises, cool air falls – that’s how it works. I feared my hair might catch fire such was the power of the flames but luckily the tanks were far enough away.
We reached our cruising altitude then drifted lazily across the valley over fields, forests and farmland - on the north side white with snow, on the south, a peaceful patchwork in varied shades of green. Cattle grazed, deer ambled, rabbits scampered homeward as foxes prowled around. It was fascinating to watch from above and you couldn’t help but wonder at this serene and silent world you’d never seen before.
After an hour or so, we landed lightly beside a cow shed, bending our knees as instructed to absorb any impact. The balloon was kept inflated so the pick-up truck could find us then they folded it away, stashed the basket in the back and returned us to our base. If I was asked to describe the experience in one word, I'd have to say'tranquil' for that is the enduring quality of a balloon flight.
Had I said ‘No’, I’d have missed out on a beautiful adventure so I'm glad I ignored the scare-mongers and did what I wanted to do.
I'm ignoring them again on Monday when I leave for Egypt - Gawd 'elp me. Camouflage patterned swimwear is all packed for the Luxor-Aswan trip and sequinned flak jacket and harem pants for Cairo! More about that next time.
Sunday, 6 February 2011
SOME DAY MY PRINCE WILL COME . . .
IS IT ME... or is a bloke terrific company until that moment when he falls asleep and starts snoring – the moment when all the cooing and wooing in the world would not be sufficient to stop you wanting to put a pillow over his head or sit on his face but not in a good way?
For all the blokes already bristling as they read this, I suppose some women snore too but not like a herd of hogs at an International Hog Snoring Festival. I could possibly have woken myself up with a gentle purr once or twice in my life but that’s not a capital offence. Someone obliviously asleep while I lie there gritting my teeth is.
The latest incident occurred when Prince Harming arrived after a long-planned preamble laden with foods and flowers and proceeded to wreck my kitchen in the nicest possible way cooking me a sumptuous meal.
Many intimate hours followed: coupling, clearing up, coupling, conversation, coupling, Scrabble, coupling, bubble bath, coupling, massage, coupling - but not necessary in that order.
(As an aside, sometimes all that coupling can be excessive what with the 30-year age gap and his energy levels being slightly higher than mine! Add to the mix a few interruptions from my children asking for maternal advice and recipes and focus can become diverted . . . One has to learn to switch off and on again very quickly in this game!)
Anyway – back to the snoring (if we must). After the last bout of whatever it was we were doing, the prince finally fell asleep. Aaah! I thought. Bless! And actually Phew! But then it began...
I tolerated it for about half an hour. Every time I tried to zone out, give him a gentle nudge, a tut, a sigh, a wriggle, a poke and a prod, it stopped for a second or two then resumed again in earnest. The thing is if I don’t get my beauty sleep, I am less like a purring pussycat and more like A GRUMPY TIGER!
So what to do? The only thing possible: I woke him up and asked him very politely if he would like to go and sleep on the sofa. I offered him pillows and a goose down duvet but NO. He decided to call a cab and go home. At 3.30 in the morning! I confess I was secretly delighted: I could have a shower, take off my make-up, put on my Clarins, stick a couple of rollers in my hair, remake the bed and GET A GOOD NIGHT’S SLEEP!
But when he actually left, the relief turned to recrimination. Poor chap being turfed out of my nice, warm bed into the cold, dark night after all that cooking and caressing... Would I ever hear from him again? (I did). And how much did I care? (I did).
I’m going down the local shooting club to buy some ear defenders before he comes again. ‘Cos that was pretty noisy too!
I'll tell you about the hot air ballooning next time. It was COOL!
For all the blokes already bristling as they read this, I suppose some women snore too but not like a herd of hogs at an International Hog Snoring Festival. I could possibly have woken myself up with a gentle purr once or twice in my life but that’s not a capital offence. Someone obliviously asleep while I lie there gritting my teeth is.
The latest incident occurred when Prince Harming arrived after a long-planned preamble laden with foods and flowers and proceeded to wreck my kitchen in the nicest possible way cooking me a sumptuous meal.
Many intimate hours followed: coupling, clearing up, coupling, conversation, coupling, Scrabble, coupling, bubble bath, coupling, massage, coupling - but not necessary in that order.
(As an aside, sometimes all that coupling can be excessive what with the 30-year age gap and his energy levels being slightly higher than mine! Add to the mix a few interruptions from my children asking for maternal advice and recipes and focus can become diverted . . . One has to learn to switch off and on again very quickly in this game!)
Anyway – back to the snoring (if we must). After the last bout of whatever it was we were doing, the prince finally fell asleep. Aaah! I thought. Bless! And actually Phew! But then it began...
I tolerated it for about half an hour. Every time I tried to zone out, give him a gentle nudge, a tut, a sigh, a wriggle, a poke and a prod, it stopped for a second or two then resumed again in earnest. The thing is if I don’t get my beauty sleep, I am less like a purring pussycat and more like A GRUMPY TIGER!
So what to do? The only thing possible: I woke him up and asked him very politely if he would like to go and sleep on the sofa. I offered him pillows and a goose down duvet but NO. He decided to call a cab and go home. At 3.30 in the morning! I confess I was secretly delighted: I could have a shower, take off my make-up, put on my Clarins, stick a couple of rollers in my hair, remake the bed and GET A GOOD NIGHT’S SLEEP!
But when he actually left, the relief turned to recrimination. Poor chap being turfed out of my nice, warm bed into the cold, dark night after all that cooking and caressing... Would I ever hear from him again? (I did). And how much did I care? (I did).
I’m going down the local shooting club to buy some ear defenders before he comes again. ‘Cos that was pretty noisy too!
I'll tell you about the hot air ballooning next time. It was COOL!
Friday, 14 January 2011
UP, UP AND AWAY!
Considering I'm going to be 65 in 4 weeks' time (how in hell did THAT happen!!) I think it's an opportune moment to take my first hot air balloon flight at the annual tournament that takes place soon in Chateau d'Oex in the Swiss Alps.
I nearly dared in Aspen on my 50th with my then 28-year old long-term live-in lover (yes, that's retrospective boasting!) but it was sooo expensive, and this time I've been invited! : - )
After a blissful Christmas spent in peaceful solitude, I set off early next morning for Montreux where I was treated like a queen for 8 whole days. My hosts had planned a programme of events which included skiing, toboganning, skating, sleigh rides, a fondue in an Ice Hotel (brrr!), lunch on 31st December in a revolving restaurant atop the mountain with the sun shining and a glorious azure sky, sightseeing, shopping and a lorra lorra eating.
On NYE, we laid out a terrific spread, watched the fireworks over Lake Geneva then played charades till 3 a.m. Wot larks!
Back to a world of unnatural disasters: the Brisbane and Brazilian floods on the back of last year's volcanic eruption, unseasonal snow and weird weather fronts makes one a little uneasy about the future.
It's probable that these devastations have been taking place for millenia but with the lack of media and no cities where they're currently happening, who knew?
So far this year, one friend's son suffered a fractured skull falling down a flight of concrete steps, another friend's daughter has been diagnosed with breast cancer and another one has lost all her money due to a bad investment.
My heart goes out to them. Don't sweat the small stuff guys. Do as I do. Count your blessings ...
I know this blog is short but my resolution is to write little and often. Tell me off if I don't!
I nearly dared in Aspen on my 50th with my then 28-year old long-term live-in lover (yes, that's retrospective boasting!) but it was sooo expensive, and this time I've been invited! : - )
After a blissful Christmas spent in peaceful solitude, I set off early next morning for Montreux where I was treated like a queen for 8 whole days. My hosts had planned a programme of events which included skiing, toboganning, skating, sleigh rides, a fondue in an Ice Hotel (brrr!), lunch on 31st December in a revolving restaurant atop the mountain with the sun shining and a glorious azure sky, sightseeing, shopping and a lorra lorra eating.
On NYE, we laid out a terrific spread, watched the fireworks over Lake Geneva then played charades till 3 a.m. Wot larks!
Back to a world of unnatural disasters: the Brisbane and Brazilian floods on the back of last year's volcanic eruption, unseasonal snow and weird weather fronts makes one a little uneasy about the future.
It's probable that these devastations have been taking place for millenia but with the lack of media and no cities where they're currently happening, who knew?
So far this year, one friend's son suffered a fractured skull falling down a flight of concrete steps, another friend's daughter has been diagnosed with breast cancer and another one has lost all her money due to a bad investment.
My heart goes out to them. Don't sweat the small stuff guys. Do as I do. Count your blessings ...
I know this blog is short but my resolution is to write little and often. Tell me off if I don't!
Saturday, 25 December 2010
BAH HUMBUG OR BAH BADOS?
On what is probably the most stressful morning of the year for most women, I am still tucked up beneath the duvet enjoying a delicious breakfast with a day of tranquillity stretched out ahead of me. Deep pleasurable sigh...
After an intensely busy and draining couple of months, I have finally managed – this Christmas Day - to achieve the promised Peace on Earth at least on the little Piece of Earth where I reside.
With two daughters, two sons-in-law and five grandchildren taking it in turns to be ill all winter, it’s been an angst-y time all round, I've been dashing across town with vats of healing chicken soup while being afraid to answer the phone or open texts in case they heralded another drama or disaster. Add the task of emptying out two homes in different countries which have been in the family for five generations, and you’ll have an idea why I’ve been off the radar for a while.
The physically and emotionally draining job of clearing out the flat in which I grew up is something I’ll be glad to put behind me. Having recently sorted out and redecorated my own living-room, I now find it re-cluttered with stuff I don’t want but simply cannot get rid of. A lesson to us all: keep your possessions to a minimum so those whose job it will be to tidy up after you don’t lose control of their lives doing so!
Yet how do you throw away love letters between your parents dated 1942? Birthday cards and telegrams sent to me when I was a tiny tot? My father’s call-up papers into the Argentine army and discharge papers with commendation ribbons when he left the Merchant Navy? My Russian great grandparents naturalization papers dated 1910 signed with a X as they clearly couldn’t write ... and the photos – oh the photos...who were all those forbidding-looking ancestors with frozen faces? Didn’t anyone smile for the camera in those days?
Add the filthy weather into the mix and instead of welcoming snow in future, we shall dread it forevermore! My poor sister who lives in Spain tried to get home several times last week and ended up making a dawn dash from London to Gatwick back to Victoria then to Euston and eventually to Manchester where she finally caught a flight to Malaga after her London departure had been cancelled for the 3rd time. What a trooper!
As for me, not a word of writing has passed my fingers these past 2 months but as from today, I’m determined to remedy this. My New Year Resolution comes a little early but I WILL finish my book edit during January and I WILL resume blogging.
I’m off to Switzerland tomorrow for a well-earned rest. I may not have the energy to ski but I can always ‘après’. Either way, I’ll recharge my batteries and come back fighting fight, I hope.
SEASON’S GREETINGS to you all and a stupendous 2011, folks. Be good to yourselves or better still, find someone else to do it for you!
After an intensely busy and draining couple of months, I have finally managed – this Christmas Day - to achieve the promised Peace on Earth at least on the little Piece of Earth where I reside.
With two daughters, two sons-in-law and five grandchildren taking it in turns to be ill all winter, it’s been an angst-y time all round, I've been dashing across town with vats of healing chicken soup while being afraid to answer the phone or open texts in case they heralded another drama or disaster. Add the task of emptying out two homes in different countries which have been in the family for five generations, and you’ll have an idea why I’ve been off the radar for a while.
The physically and emotionally draining job of clearing out the flat in which I grew up is something I’ll be glad to put behind me. Having recently sorted out and redecorated my own living-room, I now find it re-cluttered with stuff I don’t want but simply cannot get rid of. A lesson to us all: keep your possessions to a minimum so those whose job it will be to tidy up after you don’t lose control of their lives doing so!
Yet how do you throw away love letters between your parents dated 1942? Birthday cards and telegrams sent to me when I was a tiny tot? My father’s call-up papers into the Argentine army and discharge papers with commendation ribbons when he left the Merchant Navy? My Russian great grandparents naturalization papers dated 1910 signed with a X as they clearly couldn’t write ... and the photos – oh the photos...who were all those forbidding-looking ancestors with frozen faces? Didn’t anyone smile for the camera in those days?
Add the filthy weather into the mix and instead of welcoming snow in future, we shall dread it forevermore! My poor sister who lives in Spain tried to get home several times last week and ended up making a dawn dash from London to Gatwick back to Victoria then to Euston and eventually to Manchester where she finally caught a flight to Malaga after her London departure had been cancelled for the 3rd time. What a trooper!
As for me, not a word of writing has passed my fingers these past 2 months but as from today, I’m determined to remedy this. My New Year Resolution comes a little early but I WILL finish my book edit during January and I WILL resume blogging.
I’m off to Switzerland tomorrow for a well-earned rest. I may not have the energy to ski but I can always ‘après’. Either way, I’ll recharge my batteries and come back fighting fight, I hope.
SEASON’S GREETINGS to you all and a stupendous 2011, folks. Be good to yourselves or better still, find someone else to do it for you!
Saturday, 23 October 2010
BRIGHTON BEACH MEMOIRS
Not sure if I ever told you, but just after I was born, my family emigrated to America, the land of opportunity where the streets were ‘paved with gold’. Although I’ve been back many times since, earlier this month my sister and I decided to retrace our childhood steps and set off for Brooklyn, Noo Yawk to see if we could find the ancestral tenement.
The year was 1946. Dad had gone on ahead - Mum to follow with Marilyn aged 4 and I, aged 5 months. Decked out in her newly-purchased post-war undergarments: brassiere, liberty bodice, panty girdle, seamed stockings and suspenders, hand-made wool dress with matching coat, high-heeled shoes, hat and gloves all specially designed for her grand arrival into the New World, she didn’t reckon on the flight taking almost four days...
We set off from our home in Tottenham where all the neighbours had turned out to wave us goodbye and wish us luck. We reached the Croydon Aerodrome for the first leg of the journey to Shannon only to be told that the aircraft would not be air-worthy until the following day. Trooped back home again. Our grandmother, with whom we’d lived, had already let the rooms.
Off again the following morning with slightly less pomp and ceremony, we eventually reached Shannon only to be told (in great confidence) that the aeroplane on which we were due to fly the Atlantic was deemed ‘unsafe’. Women and children were advised not to board. Everyone else was!
They put us up that night in a boarding house on the west coast of Ireland in a single room with another mother and her two babies, one of whom had whooping cough. Mum sat up all night shielding our delicate rosebud mouths and button noses with pieces of muslin to distract the ambient germs.
By morning, she’d run out of nappies and was obliged, according to family legend, to use scrunched up toilet paper (of the rough Izal kind) plus sheets of cardboard for my delicate little tush. Her elegant costume, as well as her mood, was by now somewhat frayed around the edges. Our Dad meanwhile, in the absence of adequate lines of communication, cast a worried eye across the empty skies.
We finally took off in a tin box held together with spit and sealing wax and rattled across the Atlantic for 21 hours finally coming down with a flop of relief in Newfoundland. They put me in a drawer for landing. The pilot thought it would be safer than wobbling about on my mother’s knee when she already had a fractious 4-year old to contend with.
Onwards to Manhattan, and from there to Los Angeles. Mummy didn’t take to the sun-drenched, sprawling, unstructured city with no public transport whose only redeeming feature was a pubescent film industry in a suburb called Hollywood. We settled nearby and stayed for 8 months. There I spoke my first words and took my first steps.
Back to New York where my mother reckoned she was halfway home. We moved in with Aunt Miriam (who weighed 24 stone) and her Polish immigrant husband, Uncle Mike, who hardly spoke a word of English. Our address was 3085 Brighton 13th Street , Brooklyn, an address imprinted on my mind ever since from the airmail letters with a $5 bill inside that Aunt Miriam used to send us for our birthdays after we’d returned to the UK in 1950.
And so, in October 2010, my sister and I arrived in NYC after an effortless 7 hour flight and set off to find 3085 Brighton 13th Street. It was a Sunday. We took the subway from Times Square but were turfed off halfway due to ‘works on the line’. Shame shit. Different continent. We boarded a shuttle bus (slightly less traumatic than our mother’s journey 60 years before) and watched the street names rumble by until one said Brighton 10th Street where we leapt off.
As we walked towards 13th Street, my sister, who generally has little memory for distant detail, suddenly began to have flashbacks. “OMG! That’s where Daddy used to go to phone home!” she said excitedly, pointing to a small news and candy store. At the back of the shop had been 2 telephone booths where you’d book a call through an operator and go back 6 hours later to see if it had come through!
We walked on wondering whether our building would still be standing. The other side of the road was seafront – the famous Boardwalk (...under the Boardwalk, out of the sun, under the Boardwalk, we’ll be having some fun...) that leads all the way to Coney Island.
3085 was indeed still standing - a 5-storey, brick-built Victorian block much grander than I expected for our then humble circumstances. It’s now mostly occupied by middle-class Russians. We followed a couple inside, found the janitor and told him our story. He listened fascinated then showed us around. My sister again began to remember stuff: the rubbish chutes hidden in a small cupboard on each floor, the laundry room in the basement that housed the washing-machines into which our Dad would place his dime – the dime he’d drilled a hole in and tied a piece of string around so he could retrieve it to use again!
The building’s manageress had joined us by this time and asked if we remembered which number we’d lived at. We didn’t but by description she said it must be 2C and when she knocked on the door and asked the lady if we could look around, my sister freaked out.
It was exactly the same – the layout, the view from the bedroom window down to the yard where she used to play (remind me one day to tell you the story of my beloved panda...) the bathroom - in this apartment still unmodernised – where Marilyn reminded me I was sitting on the loo one day aged two and the ceiling fell down on my head! This may explain certain things...
The lady now occupying the flat had a china plate of Noah’s Ark on her wall. Later we walked along the Boardwalk and stopped for lunch at a Russian restaurant called Tatiana – 2 of my grandchildren are called Noah and Tatiana! Later I went to the loo in a branch of Wendy’s!
All in all, it was a wonderful re-affirming experience I was so glad to have been able to do with my sister. Ah ...Memory Lane ... take trip down there sometime.
(BTW HE arrived and we've met but out of respect, I'm not going to talk about it!!!!)
The year was 1946. Dad had gone on ahead - Mum to follow with Marilyn aged 4 and I, aged 5 months. Decked out in her newly-purchased post-war undergarments: brassiere, liberty bodice, panty girdle, seamed stockings and suspenders, hand-made wool dress with matching coat, high-heeled shoes, hat and gloves all specially designed for her grand arrival into the New World, she didn’t reckon on the flight taking almost four days...
We set off from our home in Tottenham where all the neighbours had turned out to wave us goodbye and wish us luck. We reached the Croydon Aerodrome for the first leg of the journey to Shannon only to be told that the aircraft would not be air-worthy until the following day. Trooped back home again. Our grandmother, with whom we’d lived, had already let the rooms.
Off again the following morning with slightly less pomp and ceremony, we eventually reached Shannon only to be told (in great confidence) that the aeroplane on which we were due to fly the Atlantic was deemed ‘unsafe’. Women and children were advised not to board. Everyone else was!
They put us up that night in a boarding house on the west coast of Ireland in a single room with another mother and her two babies, one of whom had whooping cough. Mum sat up all night shielding our delicate rosebud mouths and button noses with pieces of muslin to distract the ambient germs.
By morning, she’d run out of nappies and was obliged, according to family legend, to use scrunched up toilet paper (of the rough Izal kind) plus sheets of cardboard for my delicate little tush. Her elegant costume, as well as her mood, was by now somewhat frayed around the edges. Our Dad meanwhile, in the absence of adequate lines of communication, cast a worried eye across the empty skies.
We finally took off in a tin box held together with spit and sealing wax and rattled across the Atlantic for 21 hours finally coming down with a flop of relief in Newfoundland. They put me in a drawer for landing. The pilot thought it would be safer than wobbling about on my mother’s knee when she already had a fractious 4-year old to contend with.
Onwards to Manhattan, and from there to Los Angeles. Mummy didn’t take to the sun-drenched, sprawling, unstructured city with no public transport whose only redeeming feature was a pubescent film industry in a suburb called Hollywood. We settled nearby and stayed for 8 months. There I spoke my first words and took my first steps.
Back to New York where my mother reckoned she was halfway home. We moved in with Aunt Miriam (who weighed 24 stone) and her Polish immigrant husband, Uncle Mike, who hardly spoke a word of English. Our address was 3085 Brighton 13th Street , Brooklyn, an address imprinted on my mind ever since from the airmail letters with a $5 bill inside that Aunt Miriam used to send us for our birthdays after we’d returned to the UK in 1950.
And so, in October 2010, my sister and I arrived in NYC after an effortless 7 hour flight and set off to find 3085 Brighton 13th Street. It was a Sunday. We took the subway from Times Square but were turfed off halfway due to ‘works on the line’. Shame shit. Different continent. We boarded a shuttle bus (slightly less traumatic than our mother’s journey 60 years before) and watched the street names rumble by until one said Brighton 10th Street where we leapt off.
As we walked towards 13th Street, my sister, who generally has little memory for distant detail, suddenly began to have flashbacks. “OMG! That’s where Daddy used to go to phone home!” she said excitedly, pointing to a small news and candy store. At the back of the shop had been 2 telephone booths where you’d book a call through an operator and go back 6 hours later to see if it had come through!
We walked on wondering whether our building would still be standing. The other side of the road was seafront – the famous Boardwalk (...under the Boardwalk, out of the sun, under the Boardwalk, we’ll be having some fun...) that leads all the way to Coney Island.
3085 was indeed still standing - a 5-storey, brick-built Victorian block much grander than I expected for our then humble circumstances. It’s now mostly occupied by middle-class Russians. We followed a couple inside, found the janitor and told him our story. He listened fascinated then showed us around. My sister again began to remember stuff: the rubbish chutes hidden in a small cupboard on each floor, the laundry room in the basement that housed the washing-machines into which our Dad would place his dime – the dime he’d drilled a hole in and tied a piece of string around so he could retrieve it to use again!
The building’s manageress had joined us by this time and asked if we remembered which number we’d lived at. We didn’t but by description she said it must be 2C and when she knocked on the door and asked the lady if we could look around, my sister freaked out.
It was exactly the same – the layout, the view from the bedroom window down to the yard where she used to play (remind me one day to tell you the story of my beloved panda...) the bathroom - in this apartment still unmodernised – where Marilyn reminded me I was sitting on the loo one day aged two and the ceiling fell down on my head! This may explain certain things...
The lady now occupying the flat had a china plate of Noah’s Ark on her wall. Later we walked along the Boardwalk and stopped for lunch at a Russian restaurant called Tatiana – 2 of my grandchildren are called Noah and Tatiana! Later I went to the loo in a branch of Wendy’s!
All in all, it was a wonderful re-affirming experience I was so glad to have been able to do with my sister. Ah ...Memory Lane ... take trip down there sometime.
(BTW HE arrived and we've met but out of respect, I'm not going to talk about it!!!!)
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