South of the Border

In true confessional style, bless me readers, for I cannot believe that it is almost a month since my last post. Shameful.

But I am determined to make amends. Right now. This summer, for one reason and another, I explored new (to me) areas along England's South Coast and found some gems. And a horror or two.

For starters (I'll stick to the positives for now), there was a truly old-fashioned Italian ice cream parlour, Fusciardi's, in Eastbourne.



Definitely NOT on a par with anything I have tasted in Italy (sorry) or even elsewhere in the UK - Gelateria Danieli in Richmond (near London, not Yorkshire) was pretty amazing - but I still really enjoyed sitting down to absorb all that Fusciardi's had to offer. I guess it's a cross between Ponti's and Marine Ices. I used to visit Ponti's as a child - whenever we went to John Lewis in Oxford Street. Then it seemed something special and a treat. Getting a real Italian coffee was much harder in the '70s and Soho was too far when there was a school uniform to be purchased. Now I find the same place mildly depressing. Last time I popped into Ponti's (more out of curiosity than anything else), it seemed to be full of people who wanted to escape (perhaps to Italy?) - or just ground down by long-working hours (quite a few retail staff were taking shelter in the booths). But Fusciardi's has gone big on the decor - quite OTT in parts - so I think it's determined that every customer will be cheery. At all times.



Here you can see the full display of Venetian masks:



This was a Caribbean Rhapsody, which I didn't sample but the woman enjoying it told me it was her favourite:

Out of the Loop

Bexhill-on-Sea - on a summer's day

Whoa! Things have been totally topsy turvy at my end. I've conducted two domestic moves from different parts of the country (within two weeks) and had a spell of depression, which always makes life more challenging.

It's hard to explain but essentially, if there is sunshine, I will see clouds. And no amount of positive thinking will shift it. Sometimes, I just want to smack myself and say, 'snap out of it' but the blues are the blues and whether it's a chemical thang or just feelings running riot, I seem to be in the backseat - cowering - rather than driving forward and taking action.

There was definite grieving for the hound - it seemed to strike in the evening, particularly around bedtime. I would find myself sobbing nightly into my pillow, hoping she hadn't gone. But she has.

Then I would trawl the internet - long into the night, looking for other rescue Chocolate Labradors (now that is just unhealthy, isn't it?) that needed a home. Of course, I am totally NOT in a position right now to give any dog a home. But I kept on searching. For her doppelgänger.

Almost two months on and the crying has stopped. Phew. Now when I see photographs of her, I cannot believe she isn't here but whereas there was zero acceptance of the situation some weeks ago, now it's just a residue of sadness. And much sighing.

I've had 24 enforced bed rest (that makes me sound very old, I know) keeping a chest infection with aching limbs at bay and it's somehow made the depression lift and real life should resume shortly. Hooray.

Miss World

I'm still in Devon, finalising things for my ma's move. Sunday is d-day (for departure). I've got a return train ticket just in case her car is so full that I can't fit in (with the pets, plants and last-minute items).

Most of my stuff (ie mementos from childhood and beyond) are at my own house. In the loft. But, somehow, a few items remain in the South West. Today we discovered my International Doll Collection (as opposed to my domestic girls - Sindy and Daisy, the latter with her supersize sunglasses), which truly began with one of my mother's own dolls - Minnehaha - fully clothed, with baby, in a real leather dress and moccasins.



Or maybe it was her Hallmark Dolls of the Nations Collector's Album?




Even though I lived in the centre of London as a child, there was something so very glamorous about international travel. Even a trip to Mallorca seemed exotic. Of course, these were not my journeys but the adults in my life. If they came back with a doll, it was always an exhilirating moment. And, there is no gender bias - I have Mr and Mrs Dolls from faraway shores...

Sadly, I can no longer identify some of the dolls' nationalities. Maybe you can help? I'll let their national dress and make-up do the talking. Here come the introductions...(drumroll please):

Very much Miss Portugal




Miss Spain (I just adored her in all her flamenco finery)




Miss Mallorca (please note bread in hand and looking more like Sophia Loren than Miss Italy below)



Miss Italy (Not like any Italian woman I know but definitely a safer bet for someone in a similar position to Mr Berlusconi...I don't think she would have caused diplomatic sensitivities at the G8)




Mr and Mrs Singapore (they were a significant addition to the collection - now it was truly global)




Mr Greece (sadly, minus one of his shoe decorations)



And now for the mysteries...

She wants to shake you by the hand but where is she from?



I'm thinking somewhere along the Silk Route...



A latecomer to the EU?



PS Just for the record, I don't display my dolls anymore. In fact, I haven't seen them for at least a decade. Observing them now, there is a definite creepiness in the blank expression in the eyes. One doll that never, ever looked fake was the Sasha Doll. I still have mine and a quick search on the internet has revealed she could be worth several hundred pounds. Blimey. I could have a romantic weekend in Rome for the same money. Hmmm. Have doll, will travel.

Disco is Back

So, Disco is back. Did it ever go away? Really?

Thanks to The Times, they've listed "15 classic disco floor fillers" , from Love Train by the O'Jays right through to Deee-Lite and Moloko. Everyone will have an opinion about a list like that. Good and bad.

Number 8 is Can You Feel It by The Jacksons. I guess with Michael's recent demise, this may get played more frequently on the dancefloors. But for me, it conjures up one memory and one memory alone; Jane Fonda and her aerobic workout. I can even remember the moves and her instructions over the music. Sadly, I find I can never dance to it now. Bad memories. I didn't have Jane's figure or studio style at the time. But there was lycra. Definitely lycra. Probably more Victoria Wood than Ms Fonda. Oh dear.




Anyway, back to now and what's important. Sister Sledge recently played Ibiza. OMG! Whatever age those sisters are, they'd be worth seeing anytime. I wonder if they are coming to the UK? I saw them at Paradise Lost, Watford. And believe me, it was fabulous. Not quite Studio 54 fabulous but definitely disco. Real disco.

Glorious Glastonbury (3)

Can't believe we were sweltering at Glastonbury - less than a month ago, particularly on a day like this - non-stop rain. In July. Aha. Have just realised...it's St Swithin's Day.

When tired and hungry...this was the place to go:




You can buy anything at Glastonbury. Even vintage clothing (and feel virtuous at the same time):




Perfect when things get muddy:




Strumpets with Crumpets (accept no imitations):




The Knicker Parlour was usually doing a brisk trade:




The Green Police keeping order at The Glade:



Musical Bingo in The Snug (sooo wished I had stayed to play):




I liked these guys' gear:




Fresh fruit lollypops under a parasol:




Served with music from a Gramophone:




Cupcakes and coffee:

The World’s Your Oyster

What would you tell teenage girls – preparing to take the first set of public exams that could dictate the trajectories of their lives – about the world of work?

I recently participated in a careers day at one of the UK’s last remaining grammar schools. I do it as a favour for a friend who works there.

There was a particular slant on the careers day – it was all about languages – and how they are an important part of your skills portfolio.

I was paired up with a French engineer and we had to demonstrate how foreign languages had affected our careers. Were they essential? A waste of time? Or, a nice-to-have note on the Additional Skills section of the CV?

Although the engineer and I work in completely different environments, it was soon clear that we were giving the students the same message. When we started out, as fresh-faced graduates, the workplace was competitive but with the languages feather tucked firmly in our caps, we definitely had some sort of advantage. The City was the exception; being multi-lingual was seen as perfectly normal and therefore nothing special.

By the time these girls are ready to work, full-time, they will be competing with an even more diverse workforce. They will be competing against international candidates for whom English is not their first language and they will also be fluent in several other languages. (I'm too depressed to comment on how this government has been responsible for an appalling decline in the teaching of languages in state education.)

Although the day’s theme was languages, I wanted to leave the girls with positive messages about their future. I wish this interview , with author-turned-MP-in-waiting, Louise Bagshawe, had been published earlier. My parting words would have been hers:

… "never allow your self-worth to be caught up in your job, because you can always be sacked from your job, but you yourself remain."

Of course, I’m not sure teenagers would have the confidence and self-belief to appreciate just what an important message this is. But I would have said it nonetheless.

Glorious Glastonbury (2)

Of course, anything and everything goes at Glastonbury. The wardrobe stakes are not high. And thank goodness for that.





Wedding dresses were big this year...






I coveted these silver Hunters:




Gold Man - a friend of a friend:



Evening wear (or just wench-wear?):






I like the cut of his jib:

An English Country Garden (flowers from)

In spite of the continous rain here in the South West, we managed to take these flowers from my mother's garden. The hydrangea is just coming out now and those roses that haven't been battered by the storms are simply glorious right now.





Verging on the peachy side of the pink spectrum but not quite...(with cat in the background)



This is more like it...

Dogs' Day Out

No, definitely not more tales of Houdini hounds. I was given a gift today - by my mother - of some new pyjamas with a doggy motif. I think they are super cute. They even come in their own little cloth bag:



It's not a brand I know - Feijoa Aotearoa - but a little searching on the net reveals that they are a New Zealand-based company.

These PJs were purchased from Brimblecombe in Dulverton, Somerset. It's such a gorgeous shop; I wish I had some photos of it. If I have time during this visit, I'll pop in and take some shots. Sadly, they don't have a website otherwise I'd be directing you there, PDQ!

What was once a house (as many shops in Dulverton are), they have used the space very cleverly. Household goodies are sold from the kitchen, which has a cream Raeburn. Gardening gifts are sold from the shed. The main part of the shop sells clothes, gifts, perfumes (including Creed) and...bedwear.

The only shot of the shop that I could find on the net was from the Dulverton by Starlight website:



It's cute but not cutesy, if that makes sense. A bit like my new pyjamas.

A Happy Tail

Excuse the doggy pun. Even when I try hard NOT to write about dogs, something happens. Today, I got the train back down to Devon to be greeted by pouring rain and my mother standing on the platform with a new dog (see above).

Both were soaking wet. The dog had a makeshift lead (thanks to the kindness of Parkway Pantry staff at the station) because she didn't have a lead...

It turns out that - en route to pick me up - my mother had had to slam on the brakes to avoid this pretty pooch on a major road (the Exe Valley Road). Several cars had swerved to do the same. She was almost roadkill (the dog, that is).

She had a tag but not with the owner's details included. It required a scanner - found at the vet's or with the local dog warden. We came home, I tweeted about the lost dog - you never know, the right person may have seen it - she met our one remaining Labrador before we set off back into town to our lovely vet.

Can you believe it? They recognised her. She was so friendly - yet very nervous after her traffic ordeal - and extremely curious. The pretty pooch was indeed registered with them so we could leave her in their capable care. The owner's details are, apparently, never given out. My mother was still incredibly anxious about the dog but their vet of choice meant that they are good owners.

Fast forward a couple of hours and the vet rang. The owner had come to be reunited with their pet. Apparently, she had done a runner while out with the dog walker, leaving walker, owner and family distraught and distressed. The owner thanked my mother profusely.

Of course, if you are a dog owner/lover, what else can you do but stop and help? It's instinct. We had one particular dog who would disappear. Not frequently enough to warrant being walked on a lead permanently. But sufficient to create heart-stopping anxiety for a few hours. Several times over.

This story, I'm relieved to say, has a happy ending.

Extreme Ironing

I'm leading such a peripatetic existence at the moment; in fact, I've seen more of the UK in 2009 than I have in my whole life.

But one thing remains - chores still need to be done. Wherever I am. This week, I managed to criss-cross the country more than once, even though that was not the plan.

I ended up in the same place as my husband (a lovely surprise) but he has been too busy to attend to matters domestic, such as laundry, cleaning and anything else you can think of in the (temporary*) home department. Not so lovely. So it was my turn to turn things round. Which I did. Sort of. Well, I made a start.

My good wifely deed of the week was to iron 11 shirts (10 for work, one for fun). In one go (well, almost). I've managed to aggravate an old back injury (perhaps it was the camping?), so I stood in front of the ironing board with a hot water bottle strapped to me. I alternated standing with sitting on a silver space ball, which just made the whole job more tricky and time-consuming.

But but but it did give me a chance to listen to the radio. I heard Harvey Goldsmith on Desert Island Discs (why, oh why, can't they put it on iPlayer? I know, I know...it's something about copyright.), snippets of Woman's Hour, including a piece about a new play called Dust, based on June Hancock's victory against the J W Roberts asbestos factory, based in Armley, Leeds. By the time June was diagnosed with cancer, she had already lost her mother to the malignant lung disease (usually caused by exposure to asbestos) and wanted justice for others. The June Hancock Mesothelioma Research Fund's website will tell you more.

The ironing marathon (well, for me it was) ended with listening to Front Row, about celebrity memoirs. My favourite moments were Alan Carr's throwaway comment about a gay font and Julie Walters' anecdotes about filming, She'll Be Wearing Pink Pyjamas. Catch it while you can on iPlayer.

My husband used to make his own drama out of his weekly shirt ironing - even when we were dating. It was an event. One that had to be planned (and accommodated), every single weekend. It drove me insane. So I started to do it (once we were co-habitating) - to circumvent the West End musical theatricality of it all. Soon, ironing became just another item on the never-ending to do list. But on Friday, I really didn't mind. It gave me a bona fide reason to listen to the radio - guilt-free.

* He works away, Monday - Friday, and lives in a 'luxury apartment' ie a flat.

Glorious Glastonbury

Glastonbury 2009 was fantastic. It had everything - sunshine, showers, mud - a run on cider and a distinct lack of Michael Jackson hysteria. (And I'm a fan.) Instead, performers remembered him for his music - Dizzee Rascal did him proud.

One of the things that made me smile every day was passing these tyre creations:





It was usually after visiting the 50p Tea Tent, a 24-hour hangout haven:



The Tea Tent


View from the pew