Lets All Go Down The Strand, Have a Banana

Open House. I decided I wanted to see St Mary Le Strand - a church I've stood outside many times waiting for a bus and never been in. Felt too lazy to go and stand in massive queues for what may have been some of the more popular buildings - thinking the Gherkin, St Pancras Hotel etc.

I love that part of Fleet Street where the modern roads split and run round central island buildings like streams.

St Mary Le Strand is small and filthy on the outside from centuries of pea-soupers, coal dust and modern day pollution. Due to its location it doesn't have a great deal of space for its churchyard. Vaults are built into the outside walls of the church. There's a lovely chuch garden inside the fence with colourful flowers that edge the old paving stones leading up to the mossy semi-ciruclar steps to the door.

Inside its small but beautifully ornate with coloured glass windows (no stained glass pictures however). Needlepoint prayer cushions. If I was religious its the kind of church I'd like to come to. Quiet, old, dark. Welcomed by a church lady with a big smile and an informative leaflet. The vicar was holding fort at the tea and biscuit stand. A whole other world. Visions of parish meetings, helpful spinsters bustling round organising events and fundraisers and things for the children. Weak tea and cheap coffee and butter biscuits. Gentile and old fashioned. I'm so far from there.

Also popped into St Clement Danes where they do the poppy wreath thing (and famous for its bell ringing from the rhyme Oranges and Lemons - say the bells of St Clements). Just because its behind St Mary's on its own island. Not so sure it was participating in Open House, think it may just have been open. A clean white space by contrast. I didn't stay long. Its the Central Church for the Royal Air Force and it felt more clean cut and military.

I expect they've got rid of them now but there used to be a homeless person encamped at the back of this church - they had a massive tarpaulin stretched between some railings and a tree and would hang a line of clothes out sometimes. They've probably been evicted.

On the way back I noticed the old Strand Tube Station, ex-picadilly line. And some anti-bush graffiti on the sandblasted windows of Kings College. Amazing what you see when you actually take time to look around you. Not sure I've ever walked along this stretch of pavement. Just been past on the bus. Nipped into Somerset House courtyard as well (never been in there either) and looked at the fountains which in winter are turned into an ice-rink.






If you are curious about the title its from a song I learnt at school but these are the only lines I remember. Old cockney song I think (unless of course its a playground bastardisation of an old cockney song, can never be sure).

Previous years I have visited: Lloyds Building (great view into the atrium), Canary Wharf (fab view off the 50th floor), Mary Ward Centre (arts and crafts movement building), Midland Grand Hotel (building over St Pancras Station - amazing inside with wallpaper and carpets designed specially for it - this year is the last chance to see it before its refurb).

Drink Outside the NFT After Work

Man on a unicycle in the evening sun. Its not a regular unicycle - it has the wheel of a mountain bike.

A tiny old black man in a millet outfit plays the guitar and sings the blues. He has a maraca taped onto one foot and taps a tambourine with the other. "hello gorgeous have a nice evening" he blends into his song to a passing lovely.

The sun dips behind the white buildings on the north bank.

Mr Bean and the Delegate List

He's organising the meeting. This involves a highly complex number of tasks including collation and handing out of papers to all attendees, name labels for all attendees, arrangement of refreshments. He has a blue box. Out of the blue box he pulls a stack of photocopies. The Chair of the meeting asks, "have you organised the name badges?"
"I've got to do this first"
"No, the name badges are really important we need them," replies chair.
"I can't do everything at..."
"I'm happy to hand out papers if you will organise the name badges," offers chair. Chair hands out papers. This has messed up his mental plan of what he has to do and in which order. He busies himself with card inserts, sticky labels and clip-on plastic name-badge holders. He's shaking nervously, has a label stuck on the end of one finger, while trying to get a card insert into the badge holder. Once he has achieved this he slams the finished badge down on the table.

I collect my badge from the designated place, it is in the holder back to front so when I clip it on my jacket it faces inwards rather than out and the bottom edge is ripped across rather than cut.

So the meeting begins. He is now taking the minutes. He does this by writing furiously on his pad of paper holding the pen in a manner that is not quite right and his knuckles are white with the pressing. He also sets up a tape recorder to record the meeting. This requires much fidgeting. Batteries being changed. Checking that the tape is winding. Checking for tape to run out. Changing the tape direction. Making sure the microphone is pointing at the appropriate person (i.e. the one who is talking - this becomes more and more complicated as the discussion warms up). After a while when everything seems to be sorted he stares vacantly into space, his face resting on one hand, until Chair asks him to ensure that something is minuted at which he holds up the tape machine and busies himself with it again.

At the end I overhear him moaning to another attendee about the terrible refreshments, "its very mediocre coffee - nescafe". The other attendee complains about the lack of biscuits. "Oh I don't do biscuits," says he. Methinks he is forgetting the reason most people attend afternoon meetings - to get a better quality of biscuit than at the office.

Dentist

I've got good teeth.

13 years ago I went to the dentist because the wisdom tooth that was cutting through was tearing the inside of my cheek. He pulled it out (not enough room in my mouth). He asked me if he could send the tooth to the dental hospital for dental students to study with becuase you seldom got such a good specimen out. I consented (flattery gets you everywhere). He then said I had two others coming through that would have to go as well. One was easy. The other wasn't fully through and I had to go to the Eastman Dental Hospital for it to be taken out. They sawed my jaw bone to get to it and pulling it out was no mean feat - I thought they were going to push me through the floor before the root snapped and it came out. I was ill for a week. They gave me some of those extra strong pink pain killers - I ate a full weeks supply in three days. The taste of blood and chipped away bone hung round in my mouth for ages. That was my last visit.

Subsequently our dentist retired and his practice was taken over by his son. His son has a terrible tick where his whole upper body shakes. Well thats what my dad reports, I never wanted to go see him, even though dad says he has very still hands.

So time goes by and recently I noticed that I have a crack in one of my front teeth and it appears to be crumbling away at one corner. I get nervous. I contemplate going to the dentist. I contemplate it long enough that the dentist's son leaves the practice.

I think of the Marathon Man scene where the dentist drills Dustin Hoffman's teeth without an anesthetic. Its something about the drilling sound and the lack of control...

So finally someone from work recommended a dentist close to our office, I made a spur of the moment appointment and fretted about it all weekend. I had visions of fillings in all my teeth, long lectures and tellings off about my lack of regular visits, lots of tooth wrenching scraping with the metal thing that would leave my teeth feeling loose for two weeks.

Actually it worked out alright. She was thoroughly impressed with my teeth, although mildly worried about my receeding gumline (too much hard brushing). An examination, three x-rays and a clean. Out of pocket by £83. Eighty Three Pounds. When did going to the dentist get so expensive? I figured out by not going for 13 years I've saved over a grand (not that I'd recommend such reckless behavoiur of course). I shall try to go more regularly in future, just so as to avoid the stress but I can't believe the cost.

Bendy Buses

So its upon us. The Bendy Bus. The public transport of 21st Century Europe. I've listened to 1,560 complaints (I'm exaggerating for effect!) about them and 1 positive comment (but this is a true figure).

The positive comment is that you can wheel your buggie onto the bus without having to fold it up (which I might add you're also able to do on the more modern double deckers) but its a fair point for parents and wheelchair uses.

Bendy bus complaints include:

• When I was a kid they weren't called Routemasters they were simply known as Double Deckers. In a world of public transport the double decker is a rarity (its equally thrilling to ride those double decker trains in Europe). One of my favourite things is to sit on the top deck of a double decker bus and watch the world go by beneath you. People stepping on and off the bus below - tops of their heads, weird angle to see people from. Buildings' first floors, decorative flourishes seldom seen at street level (where you concentrate on where you are going, not bumping into others, not stepping in dog mess, not tripping). Easy to see the height of things, the colour of the stone, the sculptures, window trimmings, clocks, signs, and stuff. A view that is above the people. You don't get that on a single decker. Single Deckers are just NOT London.
• They may have the turning capacity of a regular bus but they are 18 metres long (or is that feet?) and on nice wide european roads that may not be a problem but it is a problem on the tight curves of narrow london streets. While the 149 on its largely straight route doesn't meet this problem the 73 has a very hard time turning on several points on its route - from Pentonville Road round the one way system to avoid the junction with St John's Street and turning from Pentonville Road by the corner of the Scala (where the bus has to pull out across three lanes in order to make the turn) to name a couple.
• They hold more people therefore there are fewer on the route. So they are always crowded and you can never get a seat. They have capacity for tonnes of people to stand, which they do. Its neither easy for those that need to sit down to be offered a seat or for them to get through the crowd to get to it if you do.
• You can enter at any of the three doors along the bus provided you don't have an oyster card or a pack of saver tickets, in which case you have to enter through the front doors.
• They are so long they take up more than the whole bus stop. Fine if this is the bus you want to board, but not if you are trying to get one of the ones coming along behind and you happen to be at a request stop.
• They are supposed to be faster but there are fewer of them on route so you have to wait longer, they can't overtake one another so get stuck behind each other.
• Some people standing in or near the consetina'd rubber bit complain of getting headaches (this may of course reduce as the rubber gets older and stops emitting a 'new' smell).
• Smooth journeys were promised over the chugging of the routemaster, but instead of the chugging you get that swinging sensation as you go round the corners.
• Character: 0

Accessibility in this day and age should be a right and a matter of equality, but double deckers are a symbol of london (along with the red pillar box and the red telephone box), I mourn the loss of the Routemaster just because its old and gives me a childish thrill to get on one but worse than loosing the routemaster will be if the double decker disappears completely.


Bendy Bus Information
Bendy Bus Routes
Guardian Letters Extra: Routemaster
73 Bus Stories - the final ride
Little Red Boat on bendy buses
Diamond Geezer on the routemaster
Goodbye Old London Bus
Save the Routemaster
Routemaster Association
Routemaster and other bus stuff

Stream

A warm wind blows across the carpark, it moves my hair but I can barely feel it on my face because the temperature is the same as my body. Shattered car window glass sparkles on the tarmac like diamonds. The lights are out and the street is dark. I walk. Slowly. Two men talk in the dark behind macdonalds. A ragga girl dripping with gold chain strolls up the street towards me. Man parked on the main street lays back in his seat listening to bad techno that uses a carnival whistle like a musical instrument. He's outside the gents hair salon that I always misread as saloon. The Gents Hair Saloon. Its full of Turks, not cowboys. The man from the shop that sells brooms, washing up bowls and bins made of bright plastic is clearning his goods from the pavement where they tower all day creating an obstacle course between the shop, the hideous orange telephone box and the men standing around. Mourn the loss of the red telephone box. Wonder if the double decker will go the same way. A man sits in the corner of Ye Olde Ale Emporium drinking a dark beer and smoking a cloud. Pass the second employee of Sainsbury's on the way to work. Open all night. Brown leaves scatter in the breeze. Like autumn descended today. Blowing round in circles with plastic bags and newsprint. Better Haringey, says a green recycling box strewn across a front entrance to a house. I'm not so sure. A few last blooms of a lilac in the lower sheltered part of the bush, all the rest are brown and dying. Light streams from my door as I open it and go inside.

Your Haircut Sir?



Man in a suit. Shortish blond hair. Not shaven, not long, not curtains-style fringe. Just sort of two and a half inches all over. Not quite long enough to get in his eyes.

He had two hairpins holding the fringe back from a centre parting. What I wondered was why he didn't just get a haircut.

Back to School

Me and the Yoof are at the bus stop. I'm on my way to a meeting. They've just got out of school. Its a new academic year. There are newbies in perfect, crisp school uniforms, blazers and everything. All oversized - for growing room. Big rucksacks, laiden with books, quiet(ish). The others, second years and over, all broken voices, loud out of school playing-out after being trapped in a classroom all day (especially difficult after a long summer break).

"When are you going to start growing?" says a tall one to a short one, "when you're 15 or sommat?"
"When are you going to stop being annoying?" comes the retort, "And when are you going to start shaving that fluff here?" (finger laid over top lip)
The "conversation" blusters on like this for an age.

One boy in the group falls for his kid sister's trick question, which is heavier a kilo of feathers or a kilo of bricks? She's eager and bright eyed. Trying to get one of the brother's mates to play cat's cradle with her. Her bro is not impressed by being caught out.
"They both weigh the same!!" she exclaims. He shushes her.

The bus arrives, a scrum ensues as school kids scramble for the top deck, all back of the bus people I should imagine without going up to check. Its that time of year when the buses after school stink of BO (too soon for winter school uniforms with jumpers, haven't covered personal hygiene in biology or citizenship yet).

Hell is the top deck after school.

The Goss

"So Pip was telling me about this memo that went round to all the female shop assistants at Asprey's warning them about a man who was getting a reputation for needing lots of help in the changing rooms. He'd take some trousers to try on and then find he needed another size - he'd call one of the girls to go get it for him and when they got back he'd be standing there with his cock out and ask them if they wanted a shag. I mean really, in Asprey's! Apparently he did it in lots of exclusive department stores. Can you imagine?!"

Monday's Life Class



I been getting rusty with all the trips and bank holidays.

While I was away I looked at a book in the flat where we stayed by an artist called Cesar Bobis - his drawing was beautiful - dark with flashes of colour. He had a fascination with flowers and brutalist men. I wanted to find a copy somewhere but so far have been unable to unearth anything - I think he must be a little-known spaniard.

I'm also looking forward to the Boucher Seductive Visions exhibition at the Wallace Collection. I'm feeling in need of some inspiration to continue and move the drawing forward.


Candid Arts Trust: open access sessions and more formal taught courses in both life drawing and painting. Behind Angel tube, Islington - first left down City Road. Contact: The Candid Arts Trust, 3 Torrens Street, London EC1V 1NQ, Tel: 020 7837 4237.

Way to Work

Two eastern-european gypsy women go down into the tube.

On the bus just before they were talking to each other across the aisle, the language deep and gutteral, lots of 'boi' sounds. At one point a spital hit my cheek, I wipe it away without her noticing. The one sitting inside of me talks the most. She has brown skin. All but her front incisors are capped with some very red-gold, its either very red gold or it looks coppery. At Manor House they get off. They are wearing long very full skirts which were last fashionable in Victorian times. Odd to see such fashions, or maybe they are just clothes, rather than fashions. One has a baby in a buggy. They look like those women who beg on the tube, a baby in their lap, an outstretched palm and pleading eyes that burn intensly from their faces. Eyes that seem to have seen too much.

These women disappear down into the tube entrance, carrying the buggy between them. Perhaps to beg all day on the tube. Perhaps to travel somewhere. Who knows.

My Last Routemaster 73 Bus Ride Ever





The beautiful girl paws at her boyfriend, "why do you need to wear your glasses now? Take them off!" He rattles his newspaper. She leans some weight on the hand that rests on his knee, "so you are are reading the paper? Thats for the day, its night now. Reading the paper AND wearing glasses." She pouts. He folds up his paper abruptly. Its crinkly because its Sunday's, its been in the bathroom - its pages have that steamed wrinkliness. He takes his glasses off and puts them away. Beautiful girlfriend smiles - she has her own way. And his full attention. She talks. Or rather babbles. A constant stream of consciousness based on things she sees. He listens.

A couple of seats back a couple of women have caught the bus going the wrong direction.
"Where do you want to get to?" boyfriend asks. Victoria comes the answer. "Oh, you want to get on the tube. Much faster." He's a man. He knows best.

The women aren't so sure. They'd rather not get on the tube again. A woman behind pipes up - just get off at the next stop and walk across the street and catch a 73 going back the other way.

"Oh well then, you want to see some lights and scenery? Jump off here or at the next stop, cross the road. Yeah simple" boyfriend says (reiterating what the woman behind said) patronising the out-of-town women gently. They are working class. Like he once was, but he's rich now. He turns to the woman who's directions he stole and tells her she should work for London Transport, patronising her gently too.
"Oh I used to," she says.
He and beautiful girlfriend laugh.

Later they start talking to the bus spotter sitting in the far left hand front seat. Its the last 73 routemaster tomorrow. Boyfriend gets his digital camera out and starts taking pictures. "This is officially the fastest driver in the garage," bus spotter says. I have a feeling he may work on the 73 bus route. His long hair is familiar.
"So is the 73 ending forever?" asks beautiful girlfriend.
"No, they're just replacing the routemasters with those bendy buses," says bus spotter.

At Angel boyfriend and beautiful girlfriend alight. He runs towards the front of the bus so beautiful girlfriend can take a picture of him with the bus. When he turns to face us he looks a bit like a younger Cliff Richard. All toothy smile, tanned brown skin and purposefully ruffled hair. He flashes a toothy grin at the fastest driver in the garage and he & beautiful girlfriend melt into the crowd.

In the Last Rays of Summer

A policeman opposite the bus stop on Seven Sisters road under the railway bridge at Finsbury Park is digging in a bin wearing blue rubber gloves. A tramp comes by and gives him a dirty look like he's stepping on his toes or moving in on his patch. The policeman pretends not to notice and tries not to heave.

A seagull eats macdonald's out of a bag in the carpark, his head twisting oddly to reach right inside.

The sun hangs low in the sky. Rays shine directly into my eyes. The last roadworks of summer haven't quite been finished - holes in the side of the road are protected by light reflecting barriers.

A man has a row into his phone standing in the middle of the road. He's really pissed off, sucks his teeth and hangs up without saying goodbye. I follow another man in shorts and sandals up my street, he's carrying a couple of stalks of tiger lillies in a cellophane wrap.

Sitting quietly in the kitchen surrounded by fruit flies I contemplate opening the pineapple.

Writing

I maybe ought to write something but its all been a bit personal and introspective recently. When I got back from holiday I was asked to come to an interview and was then offered the job (this makes you feel good because they want you). My sister had a baby yesterday evening so I have a nephew to add to my auntie duties now. The sky is blue. And I don't feel like I have anything to say.

Its a round and round kind of thing. I have goals. I know what they are but at the moment while working towards them it feels circular like chasing your tail - you never quite catch it.

And then I get delusional. Like wouldn't it be nice to do something that really made a difference. That you would be remembered for. Or, wouldn't it be nice to buy a house or building that needed rennovating and making it into the place of your dreams. Or, wouldn't it be great to have a really fast car and flash around all over town. Or, wouldn't it be great to own your own business (I have for the last 10 years been trying to think of an appropriate venture but my ideas aren't quite right yet) and it make you millions of pounds (or maybe just a couple hundred thousands).

And sometimes I think it would be nice to own a small cottage overlooking the sea with a plot of land to grow vegetables out the back. Only I think I'd get very bored very quickly with this dream.

Having been in a constant state of flux for the last 10 years I don't know how I haven't come any closer to narrowing down my ambitions. There is silver coming through my dark brown hair now, not visible to anyone but me (unless they look really hard), and I'm worried about running out of time!

Things to Do and See

Its been a packed weekend so far:

• Saw Carnesky's Ghost Train (my review)
• Watched The Chronicles of Riddick (my review)
• Accompanied a pal to buy a sofa at DFS - it seems the fashion is for white leather and extreme salesmanship
• Popped into Camden Lock and stayed for several hours (definite improvement in the quality of jewellery available since last time I was there some time ago, but probably won't go back for some time - too touristy

Rainy Morning

A travelling funfair in the rain before it opens is one of the most dreary looking things in the world. The rides look old and crummy, paint peeling, false smiles painted on everything. No lights are flashing. No tinny music blaring. No screams. You can feel the ground underfoot soggy, when all the punters arrive it will become muddy. A collection of cheap thrills huddled together in the park.

Harriet Lives with Janet and John

Or at least that would be nice, instead I live with John and all his waifs and strays - one from spain, one from hungary and one from brazil who only stays periodically. There isn't a strong common language, so there's a lot of spanish, portuguese and charades. Having a conversation knackers me out.

Harriet looks forward to only living with Harriet (which should be happening in September when John goes to Scotland and the waifs and strays move out).

Weirdest Olympic Spectacle So Far

Keirin Cycling. There's this man called a 'durney' (or something like that) who looks a bit like a clown in an all in one black lycra suit sitting very upright on a motorized bicycle (like those popular in France). He is put-putting around the track with the competitors following on their non-motorized bicycles, he's gradually getting faster and faster until lap 2.5 when he drops out and the string of cyclists behind fight it out for positions. Nudging and leaning into the opponents seems to be allowed. In the second semi-final there was what one commentator referred to as 'a sensational crash' where the Greek 'lost a lot of bark' (tore his shirt and shorts and scraped his skin off on the velodrome surface) after the Netherlander elbowed him out the way causing him to crash. So, its sort of like watching a race while expectantly waiting for a crash to happen.

Very strange.

Go For It Gels

An old man in a trilby hat with a feather, a flight jacket, shades and a single tooth watches two buggy pushing braods wimmin run up to the doors of a 43 who's driver attempted to pull off without them. They had shouted and then took their buggies into the street to acost the driver. They activated the door from the outside (used to be secret bus driver info) and shouted abuse though the open door. A door fight ensues, driver shuts them, they open them, he shuts them etc. Eventually they launch the buggies into the bus.

"Gowan gels get in there!" the old man says encouragingly, out of earshot, "these bus drivers are a pest."

So they're on the bus, and it disappears into the traffic. The man turns away from the scene approvingly, "I like to see the gels do that. That wuz good!"

Monday's Life Class



Tough class - haven't been in an age and have gotten really rusty and we had to draw the model who just won't do anything interesting.

Before class I had a cup of tea in the Candid Cafe. A bohemian long narrow low ceiling'd affair. Under the huge painting of a nude a man lay across the lap of his companion rattling his keys discussing with her something that had challenged his thinking that day. Two women behind the parlour palm leaned together conspiratorially over a small table. The sun was going down, the light fading through the dirty windows. A brazilian and a man with a Bergerac smirk talk over coffee. The brazilian does most of the talking. And all the smoking. Bergerac is listening his crows feet creased from smiling. Wafts of conversations "...I passed out downstairs but she was fully clothed so I don't think anything happened...so why do you want to take the test?...I walk somewhere and I find a baths and I went in and have a turkish bath...I know it suits her very much. She's very good. Its great to draw, you know, the nude..."

Candid Arts Trust: open access sessions and more formal taught courses in both life drawing and painting. Behind Angel tube, Islington - first left down City Road. Contact: The Candid Arts Trust, 3 Torrens Street, London EC1V 1NQ, Tel: 020 7837 4237.

The Olympics

A sports event that even those who aren't particularly interested in sport watch. We've always been really into it. That and Wimbledon. I preferred it when the winter and summer olympics were in the same year though.

So far:

• I've been glad that the little american (Carly Patterson) won the individual gymnastics over the anorexic-looking russian (Sventlana Khorkina). Still doesn't quite feel like a sport when the competitors wear glitter in their hair and blue eyeshadow (just a little bit too come dancing). And there's something really unnatural about the bends in their little spines and jerky arm waving between tumbles on the floor.
• I've been in awe of the massive Phelps in the pool. And sorry the team GBR were such a bunch of whingey whiners. Appalled by Sharon Davis' interviewing technique (asking the Scot who had just failed to make the final if she was going to hang up her goggles and make babies from now on).
• I've watched the weird spectacle of the table-tennis doubles - minute studied serves and massive overblown gestural strokes. Bouncing around the tiny table full of pent up aggression.
• I've listened closely to the sweaty badminton and discovered there is no sound apart from the squeak of tennis shoes on plastic flooring.
• I've ogled the strutting pumped up peacocks that run in the men's 100 metres. Big Testosterone. Fluff themselves up. Stare down the straight. Flex unbelievably enormous thighs. [Even the women's race is the same - these women have better six packs than most men - bodies pared down to bone and muscle]. Massive burst of running. And at the end lots of standing around pounding their chests (with a bit of real men hugging thrown in - arms round, big slap on the back, no chest contact).
• I've caught the end of the rowing, the win (just) and the tears of joy. And laughed at the fact they are racing in the waters of Skinny Ass [Schinias].
• I've questioned whether some of the events actually are olympic sports - they may be nice to look at but are they really sport - I'm thinking sychronised swimming, rhythmic gymnastics, beach volleyball (and yes I do understand that its not really about the sport but about the bikinis and bronzed bodies of the lithe female players), to name a few. Perhaps the next introduction could be pole dancing (its difficult, has a degree of skill and keeps you fit, no reason why it couldn't be marked out of ten for execution and difficulty).

Signs of Love No.1
The Hickey

Loved by the school-aged teenagers who need a visible symbol of their 'dating' (much as the ring has become for the engagement of adults) that will last for approximately the same amount of time it takes for them to become bored with one another (two weeks perhaps).

On my travels this week I have seen two adult (late 20s, early 30s) men with hickies on their necks. Worn with pride, no attempt to cover them up. Nasty oval red bruises with yellow outsides, fading speckledly back to skin colour. Definite sign of damaged flesh.

So what is it about these men that their women folk (I'm making a massive assumption) seem to want to eat them alive? Is this a sign of passion, or a gross insecurity which requires them to mark their territory? Resurgence of vampirism?

I suggest a clove of garlic, cut in half, the open side rubbed on the neck. Protect yourselves before its too late.

Smears

Arriving at the doctor's in a torrential downpour, summer coat soaked through, sandals ruined and red hair dye running down the middle of my face (tis a flawed method of colouring that I use but its the only way to get it to be bright and striking enough), the horrible receptionist asked rhetorically, "are you wet?". I managed a no-eyes-smiling sneer in response.

I hate the doctors and it isn't really the doctors themselves its the receptionists. Fascist gossipy old cows the lot of them.

So anyway, during the smear test you normally grit your teeth and think of the cracks in the ceiling until its over. Yesterday the practice nurse (who I think is a little nutty) treated me like I'd never had one before and gave me a very detailed scenario to think about to help me present my cervix in an easily-reachable manner. It went like this:

Imagine you step into a lift and find a gorgeous guy in there but suddenly realise you need to fart (I'm telling you, this would never happen, or if it did you'd actually have to leave the lift) - so what you do is relax your bum and legs so you can let the fart slide out silently (& would you really want to deal a silent, but violent, one into a lift with a gorgeous guy?)

So I'm lying on the bed with a lamp shining up where the sun doesn't usually shine trying hard to get the scenario right but stopping before the actual farting bit and becoming very confused with which muscles are supposed to relax. I end up thinking how high the ceiling is. I was relieved to take my soaked and cold self back out into the street so I could dispense with all the make-believe.

Question?

I want to find some webspace to hold my pictures and perhaps some other stuff which I can link to from my blog. Who knows a good service? Is webspace what I am looking for (I don't want a hosted domain I don't think)?

Portrait of a City

The Return

An elderly gay couple take a turn in the midday sun on the shady side of the street. They link arms despite the 38 degree heat.

A street person bathes in the switched off fountain. Taking a towel from her shopping trolley load of possessions to dry with.

We, laiden with bags, suitcases and a mirror, wait on the side of the Gran Via Ferdinando for a libre cab to whisk us back to the airport.

Not looking forward to the hours of stale still air, cold or hot cabins, plastic wrapped food to be eaten with tiny plastic cultery and the remains wiped away with chemical-laced freshening up towels. When we will be back from our lifestyle fo sleeping late, strolling to get breakfast in a cafe, wandering around town looking at buildings and streets and popping to the beach after lunch, showering sand out of our hair and suntan lotion from our bodies before walking into the old town for a late night drink. Back to a variety of realities - new job; honest straight talking in the current job; and the mundainity of regular life. Back from a brilliant blue intense sky that heightens colours. Buildings painted brilliant yellow, ochre, red or green and not looking over the top. Back from balconies dripping wiht trailing plants, cactus' and blinds hanging over the edge to protect the room inside from the sun's heat. Back from sleepless nights tossing and turning getting tangled up in the sheet unable to promote a breeze from strategic opening of windows, no breeze but the smells and noise of neighbours drifting in from the tiny shaft all the windows open onto - ones alarm, ones discussions, ones radio, ones first cigarette of the day, ones meaty breakfast. Back from the sandy beach, swims in a warm sea, sun bleached hair coarse with salt and sandy to the scalp. Back. Sigh.

And in Madrid waiting for our connecting flight my eyes are killing me from the assault on the senses the airport has become - lights, flourescents hard and harsh, shopping frenzy to rid yourself of the last of the euro coins that can't be changed back, acrid smoking points drifting all over the place adding to the dry membrane of my mostrils, people, people, people, voices in english - don't drift into the background like a hubbub - all conversations register in the brain because its the first time in two weeks when I understand those around me, endless cavernous airport malls tiled in away to enhance perspective. Eventually with a headache pounding in the back of my eyes I take off my glasses and shut my eyes against the world, when I open them I am in a blur but its the only way to drown out some of the noise.

Cathedral De Valencia

Tucked between streets and buildings and smaller seeming on the outside than the inside stepped into the Cathedral de Valencia onto a stone floor highly polished through thousands of feet smoothing it as they walk. Windows high up let a warm light drop onto the congregation. Not glazed they are filled with thinly sliced veined marble.

Around the outside of the main area smaller alters where people pray to their particular patron saint, iconography, paintings and sculptures, and in the one to St Martin a relic - a mummified arm.

The lighting of candles has been replaced by a system of dropping a coin into a box which automatically lights one of the electric candles by the side of the chosen alter. I sometimes light a candle in the memory of my mother but this doesn´t seem quite the same so I don´t do it.

Nuns run the postcard shop. In a side chapel an amazing vaulted ceiling and huge chains hung around the room.

Later sitting eating paella at a roadside restaurant watching a mother and daughter together at the next table I feel sad that I will never know my mother as an old woman. Dad sometimes says he is glad not to know her all withened [not sure how to spell this] and old but I don´t know, I think there were years of knowing still to be had.

Motorcyclist

From the bus I see a couple on a motorbike pull up. The guy is sittingh behind as his girlfriend drives the bike. She has long plated extensions and is wearing a pair of those running shorts that curve up at the outer leg seam. Her boyfriend has his big hands on her tiny waist and a big toothy grin from ear to ear. At the lights he sits back and she balances the bike by resting her feet on the ground. He flicks her braids out of the way and runs a finger down the back of her neck. She turns her head to talk to him. They laugh. She rests her hand on her thigh which is clenched from supporting the bike. He slaps her leg and then grips her waist again. He´s loving it. She´s loving it.

Evening Drink

Sultry night spent in the Old Town. Streets with ornate buildings, balconies & shutters, sometimes painted seaside town colours, sometimes cracked and falling down netting on the outside to catch debris, wrought ironwork. Narrow streets linking churches and squares. Bathed the orange streetlight glow.

Sitting outside the bar there is a light babble of a foreign tongue trilling off the tongues of groups of people enjoying leisurely drinks. It rained this evening but it hasn´t cleared the air. I´m sitting still and am still beaded with sweat.

The waiter knows more English than we do Spanish. He has hair slightly longer than chin length centre parted, thick eyebrows, gentle seeming open expression. Two middle aged women are drinking some kind of orange cocktail from wide-mouthed cocktail glasses. Two stories up a couple sit facing each other on their balcony. He isn´t wearing a shirt. They have dry-land plants growing from pots and a string of CDs hanging off their awning to scare the birds. Two beardy men sit down next to us, black hair, glasses, beards. One is drinking coca cola (universal fizzy pop), the other something medium brown in a wine glass with ice - he´s wearing a communist teeshirt and is smoking slowly, the smoke escaping form his nostrils and mouth as he speaks in a deep resonant voice.

There is only noise, no conversations because of my lack of understanding. I interest myself in visual things - what people look like, how buildings and streets look, writing. Having started to read without understanding I keep asking Bails pronunciation questions and grammatical questions about word differences (like a child with a million whys) but she doesn´t have the answers yet.

A young man walks he baby past in a perambulator, not shirt on, baby playing with the rattly thing strung across. A couple on a scooter, she´s wearing a red and white printed shirt with a string bag over her shoulder, the shirt billows in the back draft.

Four gay men sit down. They are smoking and laughing. Out of the corner of my eye I see the one with his back to us pull his lime green teeshirt low and slip his trousers off and quickly pull some shorts on. He was either not wearing any pants or has a g-string on but in the flash the quick change took its hard to be sure. I´m drawn back to our conversation. Then he changes his shirt. One of his companions sees my wide-eyed glance and says with broken English, "he´s hot".

And finally at the end of the evening we are chased from our bar by the man HS had been watching for weirdness who suddenly lowered the newspaper he was holding at an odd angle to reveal his willy that he had been rubbing while watching her watch him.

Whore Count

Don´t know why it is when you travel as a londoner (perhaps its just me) but I notice the scummy stuff as well as the beauty of the place I´m in - pickpockets, homeless, piles of rubbish etc.

On the way to El Saler beach today we saw 6 prostitutes standing on the side of the road. On the way back (at 8pm) we saw 24. All of them young and black. Tarty with peacock green eyeshadow, gold shoes and exposed nipples. Sad.

How to Get a Suntan

• Aim to arrive at the beach at 15.30 (too hot sooner).
• Scout a position on the beach, hoping that its far enough away from the carpark so as to deter people from sitting right next to you but close enough to the sea.
• Towels laid out in a row.
• 3 basted bodies (not really - suntan lotion applied, factors 8-30 depending on skin type).
• Front roasting 20mins.
• Turn.
• Back roasting 20mins (plus reading book).
• Cooling sea dip - wave jumping, bit of a swim.
• Suntan lotion slathering, trying (unsuccessfully) not to get sand mixed in.
• Front roasting 20mins...

Spanish Lessons

Sadly there will be no more Spanish Lessons because we lost the phrasebook. We are seriously stuffed linguistically. Living in a bubble.

Friday Night Saturday Morning

White clouds pass slowly over a black sky. The air is cooler now, not cold but not hot enough to draw a sweat either. Six floors down on the street cars race frantically up and down the road. Wheels on tarmac. Friday night frantic. The fountain outside the flat was turned off hours ago. A homeless man sleeps on a bench beside it, all his worldly goods packed into a shopping trolley. Our windows are thrown wide open and the shutters are up, the breeze is lovely against my skin. Fresh like is never is in daylight. Crickets. I´m finally yawning with tiredness at 2.30am. I can see the two towers of the Quart in the close distance. Old city gates. And shacks built on the roofs of the buildings opposite with a cluster of TV aerials on top. One star glints in the sky above the orange glow of the city. As I stand at the window to lower the shutters (to avoid morning heat) I see the moon bright in the night sky. Half a moon. Cut exactly in half.

I lay awake listening to the sound of the road. Hopefully it will lull me to sleep. Usually the TV does that. Cars accelerate from the stop lights and just manage a gear change if the following ones are green at the other end of our block. A street washing truck is going down the EMT Taxi lane (taxis are liable to stop in it but I don´t know what it stands for). I know if I went and looked that I could see up and down the Gran Via Ferdinando with its stop/starting traffic held for blocks by traffic lights.

The Spanish Hooker

From the yellow bus on the way back from the much more pleasant El Saler [el seler] beach (the sea was how the med ought to be with a strip of green by the shallow and blue after that, it didn´t taste of oil and there weren´t fag ends instead of shells) there in the middle of a roundabout in the middle of nowhere standing just in front of the long golden grass drinking from a water bottle wiht her head tipped all the way back was a local whore. Enormous breasts squeezed into a red and black lace up corset bustier, white hotpants with her buttocks hanging out. We couldn´t decide whether she would provide services in the long grass or perhaps in a nearby carpark.

Spanish Lesson No.3

Sitting in a cafe outside the internet shop a pregnant woman came up and started talking to me about the telephone [telefonica]. After much blank looking and her trying to explain and point it transpired she wanted to borrow my pen:

¿Puedo (can I) coger prestada (borrow - with the female a ending) su (your) bolí (pen - shortened version)?
[apologies for no pronunciation lesson today]

So having lent her my pen, she went over and had her telephone conversation, wrote down her number and returned it to me.

Spanish Lessons no.2

On the second day after we shopped at the supermarket, ate lunch at the flat, rode the bus to the beach (aside: we took the wrong bus and ended up at a beach which wouldn´t win the cleanest beach in Europe award - had tonnes of fag butts and the water tasted like oil. Tomorrow we are looking for the much nicer El Saler), laid in thesun, swum in the sea, looked at the beachside market and listened to the worst-band-in-the-world practicing we came home and ate dinner.

After dinner we felt like a drink. It was coming up to be 11.45 but bars open late here. Strolling over to the Old Town we found plenty of bars. Picked out one. Sat down. On a hot and sultry evening at 1.00am in the morning the drink of choice has to be asked for thus:

una ginebra [hinebra] con tonica [toneeka] (a gin & tonic) (and then say please which I can´t spell although I know how to say!)

Spanish Lessons no.1

When setting out to the supermarket for the first time in the general direction a woman with supermarket bags appears to be coming from it is a good idea to swot up on some phraseology. Our route took us along a tree lined avenue called Erudito Orellana where we followed the apparent direction of other similar shopping bags. When the supermarket still didn´t appear to be jumping out at us, Bails (who has been learning spanish for about six lessons since being in Argentina) asked someone. The ´conversation´ went something like this:

¿Puede decime [pwedeh detheermeh](can you tell me) donde esta [dondeh esta](where is the) suupermercado [soopermerkado] (supermarket)?

None of us had a clue what he said in reply because he talked very fast but we got the gist of what he said from his gesticulations.

Sleeping

Footsteps in an unfamiliar apartment. Footsteps with sand underneath them. Carefully treading as if not to make too much noise. They are coming from either next door or upstairs.

I turn the light back on to reassess where I am. I spend some time looking at the ceiling. Square around the edge, cornicing very intricate but not flowery more ancient greek influenced. The circle in the middle of the room used to have a candelabra hanging from it, the hook is still there. Electric light was introduced and fed through a drilled hole in the ceiling off-centre at the edge of the central piece. All the rooms are like this with the electric overheads jutting through like they were done yesteday, unfinished and off-centre.

I listen to the road. Cars - familiar but these are spanish sounding ones. They are the same cars but they sound foreign. Or maybe the road sounds foreign. Interspersed with the urgent sound of scooters bombing up and down the street. Very spanish. Boys in t-shirts and shorts but no helmets. Throwing limes at pedestrians.

Its too hot to sleep. Stifling even at 1.00am. The thin white cotton sheet feels heavy on my body. Haven´t had time to acclimatise yet.

Clouds Over Spain

Clouds build like huge mountains out of the sky below. Water vapour becomes tangible entities that look like stalactites and stalagmites. Cloud falls off a ledge or is covered by wisps of cauliflower florrets. Ever increasing fractals. Sun shines on them like white gold and in the shade they become irridescent blue, eerie like glaciers or icebergs.

And travelling down the plane cuts into it and mist wicks past the window instantly instangible again lacking any body or form. Descending from clear blue daylight into night dusk below.

And looking up at the cloud above it is dark and grey, layered and flat. I was told off for taking pictures out of the window. Sort of feel like everything is being forbidden now. Not allowed to capture the weird view only seen when up above the clouds in a plane.

Arriving in Valencia was a relief. Travelling took all day literally, mammoth queues and endless stuffy airports.