Tuesday 30 August 2011

All the leaves are brown...


Dear Mum,

As August retires and September awakens, it is clear we venture into Autumn. The change in temperature, sunrise and sunset triggers much discussion over ‘The Best’ season.

Generally, Summer and Winter are favourites among my friends.

Summer, for its warm and sunny outlook, which undeniably sparks optimism, plus its opportunities for a more varied social scenes – fewer knitted jumpers, more bikinis at the beach.

In the other corner we have Winter. From what I gather, Christmas is a large justification for the favouritism of this season, along with snow. But cosy nights in front of the fire, and warming mugs of soup or roast dinners are also winning reasons.

While my preferred season is Spring, I know yours is Autumn. These cousin seasons are transitions. They prepare us for the extremes of Summer and Winter.

In my opinion, they are the most beautiful.

After the wet, dark and leafless Winter, Spring is guaranteed to ‘spring’ from nowhere. It offers sunshine, trumpeting flowers, a crisp edge to the air. As more greenery appears, and birdsong is once more notably audible, one can abandon the Winter coat and settle for a solitary scarf.

The cliché of ‘new beginnings’ is not without cause.  It is always a relief to see the end of the troublesome snow and greet the sun once more.

As for Autumn, it is like a constant sunset. The sun casts a golden glow to echo the changing colours of the Summer’s forgotten trees. The sky seems sunken, as if a great hand has cupped itself over the clouds protectively and shaken the leaves from their mothering branches.

There is nothing more satisfying than kicking up fallen leaves or stepping on a particularly crunchy one. And that feeling of excitement in heading home to a cosy home as the nights draw in.

As a nation, we are very fortunate to have four such varied seasons, each offering a different experience, a new temperature, a unique scene.

Now, Mum, you can revel in the warm sunshine and heart-warming glow of these Autumnal days. x

Friday 26 August 2011

Birds of Grey

Dear Mum,

If there’s one thing I like less than an untrained dog and its worshipping owner it’s a pigeon.

Sadly, London is swarming with these ghastly creatures.  They differ from the country pigeon that struts about your garden before Dad yells ‘Gun’ or ‘Pie’ at them and they swoop off in fear.

Country pigeons are, I would argue, more sightly. They’re plumper than the scrawny urban pigeon and their coats are smoother.

They also display definitive blocks of colour whereas the city pigeon always appears smothered in slime, as if it’s taken an extensive bath in an oily puddle. Which it most probably has.

The major difference, however, is their intelligence. The country pigeon is thick. If I had a pound for every time I’ve seen one panic as it slides off the sloping roof of our bird house, too rounded and forgetful about previous landing experiences, I could pay off my maintenance loan.

London pigeons, on the other hand, are streetwise. They aren’t afraid of passers-by. If anything, I reckon they aim to freak us out.

If walking close to one, it will quickly give one flap of its wings but will continue by foot, suggesting “Oh-ho-ho, you thought I was going to fly off, my naive friend, but no no no, I’m continuing alongside you.”

Tourists only encourage them. In the public parks of London, we have Canadian geese, coots, even pelicans and yet pigeons and squirrels attract cameras like they’re celebrities.

And why do people think crouching and making that clicking noise out the corner of their mouths will attract the creatures, like ogling sailors flocking to a siren? When has this technique ever succeeded?

On one occasion, a colleague and I were heaving a hulking Eurobin and had to stop. A tourist was blocking the path as he took photos of a pigeon on a railing. On realising we stood waiting, he asked “What bird is that?”

A pigeon. A pigeon. A shrivelled, sooty, scavenging pigeon.

Why can’t Trafalger Square be residence to heart-warming robins or, better still, flamingos? Why must pigeons insist upon pecking around your feet when you just want to drink your coffee of a summer’s morning? Why must they fly so low and near the heads of London’s occupants?

Because, when they do, some s**t is about to go down.

Welcome home Mum x

Friday 19 August 2011

Underground, overground, grumbling free


Dear Mum,


The person who coined the phrase ‘manners cost nothing’ was rather narrow-minded. They can cost you a great deal.

I stayed at Kate’s last night and we caught the tube together in the morning. As the carriage slowed before our chosen spot on the platform, a well dressed man strode toward our position but nearer the platform edge, making it abundantly clear it was critical that he boarded the tube first.

Indeed, the train arrived, the doors opened and our pushy platform pal had boarded.

No excuses – this was rude. It’s not that two girls were, according to tradition, entitled to go first. It’s not even that we’re English and we queue.

It simply denies courtesy, which is the ambassador of one’s morality. He could’ve been a charity worker who homes rescue dog and knits for the homeless. This was still rude.

As you well know, she may be by sister but I coax the Kate’s motherly intuition from its place of rest. She ushered me into a seat before anyone claimed it. She was battered about the carriage, by bags and shoulders alike.

When the seat beside me came available Kate prepared to make a move but, from the other side of the glass that divided the seats from the doorway, a bottom swept around the corner and threw itself upon the seat.

It soon arose and the rumba of rumps continued as the bottom’s girlfriend artfully curled her body around the glass and occupied the seat. Clearly this was well rehearsed.

Kate and I rolled our eyes, Kate having to hold my shoulders to balance her sea legs. I couldn’t help but giggle as we cosily mirrored the train’s turbulence and felt mutual bemusement.

“It’s not the end of the world,” he told his girlfriend before asking if we were upset about the seat situation. Kate was dazzling. “Don’t worry about it,” she replied and flashed a charming smile, retaining all dignity. His girlfriend was blushing.

I got off at the next stop and made my way through the barriers. When replacing my Oyster in my bag I elbowed a hooded youth. We both immediately turned to one another shrieked, “I’m so sorry!”

The irony. It was my elbow that struck the individual and thus caused the collision, yet here was a polite individual aware of what had occurred and wanting to correct it in some way.

It was both forgettable and alluring. It made my morning. X x x

Sunday 14 August 2011

Tears before bedtime


Dear Mum,

I knocked my head on the corner of a locker door yesterday. It bloody hurt. I was in a hurry to get back to work and stood up too quickly from my crouching position.

Thwack. Searing pain. It took me a minute to register what had occurred.

Of course it hurt but it was largely just shock. I had that feeling of a lychee materialising in my throat and my eyes glazed with tears.

I was sent home and John, a colleague (gay, I add), walked me to the station, his arm through mine, chatting comfortingly about trivial matters.

In my experience only gay men know how to comfort a girl. Straight male friends stand with widened eyes glancing anywhere but at you, patting your shoulder at arm’s length.

Because John was so thoughtful, I cried all the more. You’ll empathise – when you’re vulnerable or in a fragile emotional state it’s the kind people who make you bawl uncontrollably.

I received many looks on the way home. I’ve been there myself – it’s poignant to see someone crying in the street or on a train.

I always want to go over and ask if they’re alright but, obviously, they’re not. English reservation, or fear I’ll be rejected, or a more intense fear I will do more harm than good by not being able to comfort them makes me continue to gawp at a distance.

On the train I sobbed on the phone to Kate. When I hung up, the guy next to me asked if I was ok. A blessing in disguise – he was rushing home because his wife had gone into labour. His excitement was infectious.

I cried when he got off at the next stop purely because I missed him. The flood gates were not just open, a sign had been erected reading “open for business 24 hours.”

On arrival at our home station, however, another bloke asked if I was in a sensible condition to drive home and asked whether I wanted a lift. This was slightly ominous – a middle aged man asking a vulnerable young woman for a drive at dusk.

What I really needed was a night in with a gay friend. A glass of wine and ibuprofen was second best. x

Monday 8 August 2011

Graduate Shmaduate...


Dear Mum,

Earlier this week I met a policeman.  We started ‘chatting.’ By ‘chatting,’ I mean he asked the one-line questions, I answered and he grunted a reply. In the words of my mother – how rude...

His first question was “Are you at uni?” Reasonable enough. I explained I’ve just graduated.

“What did you study?”

“English” I sung out.

Grunt. “You didn’t speak it good enough before then?” he smirked.

I appreciated his irony – a native English-speaker learning a subject entitled with their language’s name. But his irony transgressed to sarcasm, the everyman’s wit. Furthermore, only I appreciated the irony of his comment, it being poorly phrased with terrible grammar.

“Are you living with your parents?” he asked, his beady squinting eyes piercing through me.

I explained I was house-sitting for you but do have accommodation for the summer. This seemed to receive some approval from him. 

When asked the dreaded question, “What do you want to do next?” however, I replied I wasn’t sure.

He snorted and shook his head. “What was the point in going to uni then?”

Needless to say I was not impressed.

I apologised to him that I did not have a job but if he knew of any available, an internship even, I would be over the moon if he could inform me. As for graduation from uni he was right - it’s an absolute bugger it doesn’t promise a job at the end of it. But, as I explained, I’d made many new acquaintances, learnt how many drinks is one too many, learnt the trials of renting properties, paying bills, paying debts, living independently and was fortunate enough to gain an education alongside this.

As for his previous insinuation regarding those still living with their parents, I think it’s fair to say all of my friends would rather live in their own property. Not that they don’t enjoy being at home, but that freedom they tasted at uni had sadly been consumed by time.  But those students debts mean a job comes first, saving comes second, and moving comes third.

I needed more conclusive answers to his questions, something to diffuse the sharp edge to my voice and satisfy the bigot.

I also thought, being a policeman, a solid profession would be preferable. Excluding pet psychotherapist and cruise ship magician, therefore, I settled upon a secondary school teacher.

Another snort. “Good luck to you. I was a nightmare when I was a teenager.”

“I bet you were,” I said, no sarcasm intended.

Love from your useless graduate of a daughter. X

Monday 1 August 2011

Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake

Dear Mum,

Yesterday was the boyfriend’s birthday and I felt it was my obligation to bake him a cake. I have made many a cupcake and many a biscuit but never before a single, plump, glorious, must-be-good-else-everyone-chomping-on-your-creation-will-know-you’re-a-fraud, cake.

I turned to your classic Victoria sponge recipe. Simple enough – flour, sugar, eggs, margarine, baking powder. Done.

In actual fact, mine was a little over done. I followed every recipe instruction meticulously, including preheating the oven beforehand - something I usually forget.

I painstakingly measured every ingredient, remembered to grease the tins, and in the meantime the oven grew roasty toasty.

The timer tooted after the twenty-five minutes the recipe specified. Sadly, the two arches were a little dark and crispy on the curve.

I flipped them to hide their imperfections. I even made buttercream to accompany the raspberry centre and sifted a little icing sugar on top.

I teased you a few weeks ago during your scone-making operation. But the chaos in the kitchen was reasonable – fifty beautiful scones, a batch of coffee and walnut cupcakes and a Victoria sponge.

And yet my single sponge created mayhem. Butter and margarine greased every surface, the countless utensils and bowls I employed stacked to the height of the overhead cabinets and I burnt my finger on one of the cake tins.

The conclusion was a slightly off-colour teetering cake. And I’ve never been prouder of myself.

On presenting it to the boyfriend, adorned with candles and a flushed girlfriend he was suitably touched and impressed.

The great thing about the boyfriend is he appreciates food and will eat just about anything. He continuously ‘mmmed’ over the cake and nodded while he chewed. And they say men can’t multitask.

“It might be a little dry and burnt around the edges.” But he would hear none of it.

I am far from being a domestic goddess. Yet with the plant watering, ironing and baking I’m doing in your absence I would say I’m a goddess-in-training.

I hasten to add I’m exhausted. On which note, I’m off for a brew and a lie-down. x x x