Wednesday, November 29/2017

Oranges 🍊🍊 at breakfast sweeter than yesterday, because of the rain Sevket says. But sunny today and warm. Twenty? More in the sun of course. In the square in front of the cathedral cum mosque dogs lie basking, reminiscent of he old saying "Mad dogs and Englishmen lie out in the noonday sun". Not that these dogs are mad; quite the opposite. They refuse the slices of ultra-bland soft white cheese J has saved from breakfast, as did the thin feral cats encountered earlier. 

Sun is good news for the local businesses, and café tables and wares are moved into the sun in the squares and narrow cobbled streets. J counts sixteen tour buses, and we pass a class of local children, aged about fourteen, paying half-hearted attention as their teacher holds forth at an historic spot. But we know from being here in March that the old city can be alive from ten to four and then become a semi-ghost town as the last bus leaves. There is everything from local crafts to designer handbags on sale, but only six short hours to market them. 

We eat supper at dusk in a small kebab place around the corner from us that serves mainly locals, we have noted. It's built beside the medieval walls of the old city and serves a somewhat more traditional version of the ubiquitous kebab style dishes. We order sheftalia (beautifully seasoned little Cypriot sausages made locally all over the island) and Adana kebabs - long grilled shapes of minced meat. They come with pitas, salad, freshly cut and fried chips, and, interestingly, a very large dollop of strained yoghurt. This used to be typical of Turkish cuisine but has almost disappeared from the cafés, though it may survive, along with dishes of stewed aubergine or pulses, in home kitchens. In Turkish cooking yoghurt is often found on the plate beside meat or stewed vegetables. Excellent meal.

Tuesday, November 28/2017

                      Photograph by Fehmi Tuncel, Famagusta

Rain begins at breakfast, not immediately obvious as it's still sunny- just with vertical lines of rain. And probably a rainbow if we were to run out and look for it. Breakfast always the same here. Would say that grows tiresome, and it rather does, but ironically at home I eat the same slice of wholegrain toast with peanut butter six days out of seven, obviously without complaint. Here it's olives (quite nice black ones), village bread, an egg, tomatoes and cucumber, and cheese. Two kinds of cheese - a round slice of soft white cheese of truly astonishing blandness and two slices of absolutely delicious grilled halloumi (hellim in Turkish). The coffee is instant, but really nothing to complain about. 

Our host, proprietor of the hotel - or probably more accurately the proprietor's husband - comes to the table to present us with his most recent publication, a book of Cypriot legends written in Turkish but with complete translations to English and German. And he has inscribed it. He teaches mathematics at the university in Nicosia, so this is a sideline, from the other side of the brain. Again, the relational - and cultural - North Cyprus. 

Avoid showers going over to see Fehmi but spend ten minutes in consultation and about forty-five minutes discussing everything from photography (he's a very interesting photographer) to historic houses. No way to avoid the showers going back, and, as always when it rains in Cyprus, torrents of water in the streets.

Monday, November 27/2017

Ulus arrives at nine, just after we've finished breakfast. Quite an amazing person in so many ways. He retired from teaching this autumn, and has tears in his eyes as he talks of leaving his students. It's an elementary school and some of the children he had taught for three years - as well as being confidant and advisor. They were an interesting lot - many of them refugees - and Ulus grew very close to them. Post retirement he is as busy as ever, heavily involved in bicommunal cultural and co-operative activities, many of hem peace related. He has recently returned from a major cultural event in Paphos (in the South), where he was born and spent his childhood, before the division of the island. The visit was obviously a very moving one for him in many ways - among other things he visited with people who had known his parents and grandparents, all of whom were educated people with deep ties in both Greek and Turkish communities. In fact he talks of his grandmother fostering the baby son of a close friend, a Greek woman, who had died in childbirth - a man he still thinks of as an uncle. 

Sadly, we have to excuse ourselves, as we have dental appointments with Fehmi, our wonderful dentist, whose daughter was taught by Ulus many years ago. The old walled city here is a small and highly relational world. Fehmi greets us like old friends, spends a great deal of time on my mouth (which involves some rearranging of local appointments - extreme kindness on his part and on theirs). And persuades the lab technician to complete some work for us this week while we're still booked to be here. There is a lovely old world feeling about staying here which is a very unusual accompaniment to dental visits!

Sunday, November 26/2017

Return to Famagusta 

Sunday morning wake to sun and breeze and bougainvillea blossoms. Late November isn't prime time for flowers, but the olives are ripe for picking ( and some are already in jars on the counter). Breakfast outside - as it should be. Bill's made bacon and egg and mushrooms. We turn down Jane's kind suggestion that we start with cereal, aware that we're going to Cambanella's for traditional English Sunday lunch at noon. 

As we do. Three courses and the wife and hostess at the carvery as disappointed as any European grandmother if we only sample two of the four roasts (though we steel ourselves against her entreaties, knowing how good the desserts will be. 

From there we drive to Famagusta and the Altun Tabya Hotel. They remember us, and the room is much like last April's - basic but clean and quite OK. Oddly, there are mothballs in the sink and shower drains. I google and yes, people (especially Asians it seems, although this establishment is clearly not Asian) do sometimes use mothballs to discourage fruit flies and small flies that live around damp drains. Mothballs toxic to inhale and presumably carcinogenic, as well as neurologically damaging - though in all fairness probably somewhat short of fatal during a week's exposure when one thinks of all the years of winter woollens stored in closets. Anyway, the scent is pretty powerful so we wrap them and put them in the bathroom bin with the lid on. 

Message Ulus, whom we met last spring, and he answers that he will meet us for coffee at nine, before going offline. No chance to say that we do have dental appointments shortly after ten.

Saturday, November 25/2017

Lying half awake thinking, pleasantly, that six o'clock is taking a decently long time coming, when J announces that it's ten to seven. Fortunately all packing done and recycling disposal and garbage to the bins across the street last night, so we leave at 7:10. Actually, ridiculously early by most standards, but on flight days we always allow for plan B. 

Train from St Pancras - and somebody's plan B going into effect on the opposite platform as there is an announcement that one of the trains going north will be approximately forty-two minutes late (only the Germans can match the precision of the British). There's even an explanation, though we don't quite catch it. The advantages of going on a Saturday are clear even before we board. We're not competing with the commuters for standing room only - the train is nearly empty. As evidenced by the animated graphics on a screen inside the car showing our location, number of cars, how empty or crowded each carriage is, and the location of each toilet (as well as whether it is occupied and in working order!). Does lead us to some speculation on what VIA Rail's top brass would make of it and whether they have ever travelled on trains outside North America. 

Longish wait, self inflicted, at Gatwick, though EasyJet check in surprisingly efficient, including fully automated baggage drop which actually recognises that we are travelling together and that my 18 kilo case more than balances J's 20.5 kilo one. It allows us 40k jointly rather than 20 each. 

Gatwick itself not UK send off at its best. Endless shiny pathway snaking hypnotically through glitzy duty free before reaching departure seating. Ninety minutes free wifi but no charging points in evidence. Water bottles fillable only from fountain immediately after security (water in loos hot), so back through duty free, snaking against pedestrian traffic this time, to fill ours. Obvious that locating free drinking water near passenger seating would be considered a hostile move by shops selling it in plastic bottles. 

Flight about four and a half hours and fine, although we're startled to be met by wet tarmac and lightning. Arrivals in Cyprus have always meant descending through clouds into sunlight and citrus and birdsong. Though at eight pm we weren't really expecting sunshine. Jane and Bill looking sunny enough though. They collect us and take us home with them for g&t and a lovely steak and kidney stew that's been in the slow cooker for hours, and a good night's sleep.

Friday, November 24/2017

For some reason the smaller the suitcase the more time it takes to pack it. Not really odd maybe, as there is a Chinese puzzle quality to the effort. Last day in London. A good visit, though notably colder than usual. Temperature supposed to be six tomorrow. Time to go. Genie very kindly tells us that almost all her rooms are now let by the week - so let her know as soon as possible when we will be coming back in the spring.

Thursday, November 23/2017

J and I to Embankment where we change Canadian currency to sterling - interestingly at a better rate than the bank would have given us if we'd used a cash point to take it out of our home account. 

Then we separate, he to enjoy central London and I to visit Jean in West Harrow. I leave via Charing Cross Station, a place that always makes me remember Kieran, aged six, observing rough sleepers bedded down in its long foot tunnels, saying nothing as his eyes widened. Charing Cross underground tunnels often have as strong a smell of urine as the streets of central Paris, but it's not bad today. I pass a single empty sleeping bag, then four together, two of them occupied, looking relatively cheerful. The effect is multicoloured (although I'm too discreet - and too decent - to photograph it). There are miscellaneous clothes and bits of bedding as well as magazines and newspapers. Well, everyone needs reading material, and the newspapers probably serve a dual purpose as insulation, and are, in any case, free. The magazines maybe a bit more aspirational - I spot a brightly covered motor car  publication. You don't have to have a home to dream about fast cars.

Wednesday, November 22/2017

Budget day, UK. Have to say that I prefer Philip Hammond, the Chancellor, to most of the rest of the cabinet, but suspect my reasons are more stylistic than political. He's low key, low ego, low drama. Having said which, I frequently disagree. His cancellation of the stamp duty for first time buyers of houses worth under £300,000 will, I suspect, serve mainly to raise the price of houses. There will be beneficiaries, of course, but not necessarily the poor. Not even a particularly partisan position on my part. Similar measures were taken when Alistair Darling was (Labour) chancellor with little effect in terms of making housing more affordable, and of course a substantial loss to the tax payer. 

The British are almost unable to mention first time buyers without referring to "being able to get on the property ladder". Which seems to be a part of the Anglo (Canadian, American, Australian, English - but not Scottish) view of housing as capital asset more than home. Rental is often more cost effective and is much more common in continental Europe, and also in Scotland. 

Sadly, the government's economic growth and debt projections are depressing. Hammond tries arguing that the problems are global, but unfortunately for him the picture is rosier in the rest of the G8 and in the EU.

Tuesday, November 21/2017

Have a list for the day, which we get started on fairly early, as the wifi dies at Starbucks mid-morning. Down Goldhawk Road to buy more corduroy - my favourite fabric and becoming inexplicably difficult to find. Not so difficult this time, as we remember which of the many fabric shops (almost all run by Sikhs) actually had black corduroy last year and start there. So mission accomplished almost instantly, which gives us time for a quick look at Shepherd's Bush Market and a sample of the spring rolls at the busy food stall at the corner. 

Second errand is buying the train tickets for Saturday's run out to Gatwick. So to King's Cross/St Pancras, where we follow the wheelchair route - establishing the location of the lifts for next weekend with the luggage. St Pancras has pianos in the hall, one of which is being played, as usual by someone with talent. Fortunately no chopsticks players here. The girl who sells the tickets says that on Saturday we'll have to go from London Bridge not St Pancras as there will be weekend works. But at London Bridge, surely? No, but she's already on the phone. Yes, yes. That would be Sunday - on Saturday you can go from St Pancras. Which leaves me unsure whether to be pleased that I checked online for weekend planned engineering disruptions - or worried that the girl's new information still seems not quite right, as I'd thought the London Bridge works were longer term than a day. As usual, we'll leave early enough to deal with most eventualities. 

Errands on Kilburn High Road, include buying low dosage aspirins. They're much cheaper at Savers than anywhere else, but oddly enough there is a regulation (everywhere, not just at Savers) preventing the purchase of more than two packets at a time, each packet containing 28 tablets in blister pack. So the winter's supply involves J and I each buying our two packets on more than one occasion, without actually having to pretend we don't know each other.  Does seem odd. Surely anyone attempting suicide could find a more efficient method. Don't know if the blister packs would slow down a determined child, but they would have been a definite deterrent to my mother.

Monday, November 20/2017

First Ania arrives, Jenny's cleaner who has been living with her elderly Auntie Vera. She's Polish and very cheerful, but looking forward to Christmas when she can go back to Poland. Lots of family in Edmonton, she tells us. Then J goes with Doug to inspect the flat he's done up to sell, in Surbiton. Quite impressed. Jenny collects Cody and brings him home before he's picked up for lunch at a friend's. Friend's foster father is a bit late so we pass the time with him demonstrating judo holds and charades. He's bright, and funny, and very busy. So goodbyes until April, and we're off to the train. Not cold, but darkish and on the edge of drizzle.

Sunday, November 19/2017

To Thames Ditton, as we've been invited to dinner while Jenny's brother Andy is visiting. We've never gone there in the dark before and are invited for five,  but sunset is pretty early at this time of year, and London is farther north than Sioux Lookout - though warmer. Andy lives in Cornwall (we visited a few years back) but has been spending quite a bit of time in Cyprus, before and after Sam, their father, died this summer. Good to see him again - he's always interesting to talk to - thoughtful, informed, and low ego. Emma is here too, and we have a happy, leisurely dinner. Lovely of Jenny and Doug, who have quite a bit else on their plate, between grandchildren and Jenny's mum, now in a care home. And Doug doing up a flat to sell, as well as looking after the ones let to students.,

Saturday, November 18/2017

A man at a nearby table at Starbucks leaves behind his copy of The Times, having stayed over two coffees - quite long enough to have read it all. And I'm happy to acquire it, though I probably wouldn't have paid the £1.70 ($2.85 CAD) cover price for the pleasure. 

The Saturday Times has a good weekend section, as well as The Review, with theatre and book reviews as well as several puzzles, which the previous owner has kindly left undone. 

And in one of the book reviews (of Patronising Bastards by Quentin Letts) there is a reminder of the gender neutral loos at the Barbican, encountered by us earlier in the week and actually  labelled "gender-neutral toilet with urinals" and "gender-neutral toilet with cubicles". The ones we visited were in a little frequented subterranean corner and were toilets we remembered from past visits and sought out for their quiet cleanliness. In the event, we just walked in to the loos we had always used in the past, in Js case without actually reading the sign - happily unaware that he might have been sharing the "with urinals" with unexpected mixed company.

Sent from Yahoo Mail for iPad

Friday, November 17/2017

To the Saatchi Gallery, one of our regular stops. It's been closed as they set up new exhibitions, but the wait has been worth it. There are a number of pretty shocking displays of contemporary Russian protest art, featuring Pussy Riot and also artists that we're not familiar with. 

The shock effect begins immediately in the first gallery with the work of Pyotr Pavlensky. What we see is photograph and sculpture, but his passion is clearly for performance art. And so we have Carcass, a record of the naked artist wrapped in layers of barbed wire at the seat of the St Petersburg Assembly, intended to represent the individual's position in the legal system, forced to comply as a silent animal. In the next room is the small but horrifying sculpture Fixation commemorating the occasion, on November 10, 2013, when Pavlensky, again naked, nailed his own scrotum to the pavement of Red Square, remaining until police covered him with a white sheet - and then arrested him. Thus the police became unwitting actors in the drama, proving the individual's fixation in the face of police power. 

After this, the Pussy Riot exhibit is both more familiar and, oddly enough, less shocking, featuring mainly film clips (as well as small masked matryoshka dolls behind bars. 

Then back to shock effect - and it's considerable - with Damir Muratov's group photos, highly satirical and sparing no political feelings. 

Even the less compelling works in this show would be central to a lesser exhibition. We finish with a series of wall graffiti posts above television screens showing only "snow", helpfully hand labelled "Art" on a sheet of A4 paper, featuring slogans like "the revolution belongs to you". 

And including a moral challenge from Desmond Tutu: "If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor". If this seems educational, or even didactic, it is, in an old-fashioned 60's way. There are even handouts labelled "homework" - suggestions for fighting injustice to be read later. 

Stop at the lower ground floor before leaving, in order to use the loo, and are intrigued by one last piece. It's the classic Uncle Sam Wants You picture, but done as a mosaic, every piece cut from an American comic, the background cut outs of words and the figure from comic book pictures. And done so cleverly that it takes a minute to realise what you are looking at!

Thursday, November 16/2017

They're working on the corner next to where we stay. Unspecified sewer operations plus extensive recurbing. Fascinating from the point of view of a Canadian, all four corners are fenced off, while men in high vis vests and digging machines do their thing but road and pedestrian traffic is never impeded. The whole procedure does take a matter of weeks, but no longer than it would do if, Canadian-style, they had closed the road. The fencing is moveable, of course, and is frequently rearranged to suit changing bits of excavation or paving, occasionally more than once in a day. But calm carrying on is indeed what is happening.

Wednesday, November 15/2017

We have tickets for a talk by Dr Ben Broadbent, deputy head of the Bank of England, at the London School of Economics. The talk is free, but they're expecting more people wishing to attend than there will be seats, so they've been allocated randomly. At least that's the theory. It's in the Hong Kong Theatre at Clement House, which is not a very large auditorium, but there are still empty seats when the talk starts, so our both having tickets is down to over optimism on their part, not good luck on ours. The topic is Brexit and Interest Rates, and unfortunately we're rather more interested in the Brexit bit than the interest rates. But still currency exchange is important and this is Mark Carney's 2IC. 

Well, those who didn't apply for tickets may have known something we didn't. The event is an hour, including fifteen minutes for questions, and that's more than enough. The worst is that the man is difficult to hear, and this doesn't seem to be down to the sound system. We're in the second row, probably within thirty feet of him and he is using the Mike, but we probably catch no more than fifty percent of what he says. J has the advantage of being better educated than I in economics, but this advantage is more or less negated by his having worse hearing. Not the first time we've encountered this at the LSE, and not down to old age either. There seem to be quite a lot of people with a great deal of knowledge and no presentation skills at all. In all fairness, Dr Broadbent may not have to present his ideas to an audience very often. But he does engage in a great deal of mumbling, punctuated by muttered asides. Would have been worse if it hadn't been for the natural non-committal reticence of the professional economist, so no great loss. 

I tell J as we leave that I do know a very good pub nearby - just round behind the Courts of Justice, but fail to spark any interest. He simply doesn't regard this as beer drinking weather and the lure of real ale is ineffective.

Tuesday, November

Finally (one hopes) deliver as much corroborative material as possible to our tiny HSBC branch at Charing Cross where we are now on first name terms with the affable Hassan, who probably hopes that his friendly "see you" as we're leaving is inaccurate. Photograph the pedestrian crossing light at Trafalgar Square. We cross when it's green but can't imagine what the code is. Green light for ménage à trois?

Monday, November 13/2017

To the Barbican library for the first time in ages, maybe years. It's so peaceful and civilised, helpful people going about their work with an almost monastic quiet and efficiency. And the VPNs work here, as they have unhappily ceased to do in most public venues. 

So take advantage of the opportunity to check in for the flight to Cyprus Saturday week and download boarding passes. Only five allowed per device, which seems reasonable. When we boarded in Fredericton they were unhappy about two boarding passes on one device, citing Transport Canada. Intended to check this as it seemed unreasonable. What about the passenger accompanied by small children or an elderly blind parent? My baby has dropped his smart phone and my mother can't see hers? 

Make copies of phone bills for UK bank in the continuing interest of proving J's identity and residence, although they say not to use online billing. It is an exact copy, though a downloaded one. They also say full first name, and Bell has used Joe instead of Joseph. On reflection, the only other utility bill we receive is from Sioux Hydro, which does the same. Do I detect an urban bias here? J has lived in the same community for 65 years and doesn't have what HSBC considers proof of residence. Electric bill addressed to Joe, water pumped from lake by us. Heat is wood, delivered in 16 foot lengths without a written bill. It's a different world, although there may be similar arrangements in small communities in the Scottish islands. Driving licence does have full name and address, but they seem only to want it if it's EU. Wonder if Brexit will broaden or narrow the requirements. 

Stop in Kilburn on the way home (which it isn't) to pick up a few things at Aldi. And pass Roses, which, surprisingly on a Monday, is featuring lamb kleftiko. So, unexpected supper stop. Only a couple of tables empty this time, and kleftiko falling succulent lay off the bone as always.

Sunday, November 13/2017

It's cold. Not cool, not chilly, cold. Bitter wind. OK, not as cold as much of Canada, and no snow - though temperatures in much of the UK outside of London will be below zero tonight. Robin Lustig, in his blog on Friday, laments the "real human misery" attendant on a welfare crisis and increasing homelessness, noting "last night, there were eight homeless people shivering beneath a railway bridge close to where I live in north London" whereas "a year ago, there were none". And this morning there is someone lying in a sleeping bag (which doesn't look thick enough) outside Bayswater tube station. A not uncommon sight in central London streets or in the long tunnels leading to Charing Cross tube station, but we've never seen it here before. Add it to the beggars regularly stationed outside Tesco's and McDonalds. The takings don't look very impressive, and the bits of blanket and newspaper seem pretty poor insulation on days like this.

Saturday, November 11/2017

Meet up with Jenny at the National Theatre, an excellent spot for meeting as its lobby is large and quiet and comfortable and you can get coffee - or for that matter something stronger. So we have a good chat and then head down the South Bank to the Tate Modern, which none of us have been to for a while. 

Enter via the Turbine Hall, where there is usually a large, often multi-storey installation. And need there is one now - a huge brightly striped carpet (the colours of British bank notes the sign informs us helpfully) with a large reflective pendulum swinging overhead. Children playing happily on the carpet and beyond it on triple swings. The thought being vaguely philosophical, re grounding through gravity and commerce. Jenny takes the same view of galleries as we do - view a small number of exhibits and leave before over saturation. 

And there are a number of new works to see. The Tower of Babel, for example  tall tower made entirely of electronic sound devices - transistor radios, cassette players, etc. The room is darkened and the sound track too confused to disentangle - mainstream media at its most unclear. 

And then there's a huge canvas by French Communist artist André Fougeron, caricaturing Americanisation as well as French colonialism. Plenty of hits here, from exploitation of the underprivileged to the electric chair, as used in the execution of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg. 

Then we're back to the National Theatre. On the other side of the river we spot what we quickly identify as the Lord Mayor's annual procession, bands, Cinderella style golden coach and all. Pretty chilly for outdoor picnicking but we have a nice sandwich lunch inside, and more chat. Pretty quiet lounge except when theatre goers are arriving or leaving. 

Realise quite late in the day that we met up just before the Armistice two minutes of silence. And weren't silent.

Friday, November 10/2017

After stopping at the bank we cross Trafalgar Square to the Canadian High Commission. Cross is not quite the right word for the circumnavigation up past the pavement artists in front of the National Gallery. The square itself is blocked off as preparations are made for the U2 concert on Saturday night. Seven thousand free tickets disappeared within hours. 

Stop at the high commission mainly to lament the changes over the past ten years or so, from the time it was a home away from home for Canadians and you could read a slightly outdated Globe and Mail or join the short queue of backpackers waiting to check their email on one of three rather slow computers. Nice clean loo as well. Now the primary function of those guarding the entrance - who never seem to be Canadian - appears to be keeping the likes of us out. There is still a small gallery and the exhibitions are open to the public, but J's suspicion is that their primary interests are commercial rather than diplomatic. 

This began under Harper of course but sadly doesn't seem to have been reversed by the current administration. In fact quite the opposite. When diplomatic staff were already lamenting the scrapping of diplomacy for commerce and hard nosed confrontation there were still cultural events at Canada House. As ordinary citizens we registered and attended a discussion of multiculturalism and Islam by journalists Doug Saunders and Yasmin Alibhai-Brown. Even a glass of wine and some civilised conversation first. The man on security detail (ex Greek army) is sympathetic but clearly thinks we haven't kept up with the times. Someone was stabbed just over there he tells us, pointing down the street. You know what it's like now - you read the papers. And just try going to the American embassy - they'll make you stand well back while they point a gun at you. Not sure that times are much more dangerous than they were for citizens on the street, although we can see that terrorist incidents are more frequent and embassies are obvious potential targets. However, not convinced. Soft targets have featured prominently lately, not only because they are less well guarded but because they increase public fear by suggesting people are not safe anywhere. 

Our friendly Greek offers to take our photo (declined), provides us with little Canadian/UK flag pins (albeit described as Canadian/English flags) and points out that we could resort to the embassy in the event that we lost our passports. (Has fortunately never occurred, although many years ago I did wash my jeans with passport in pocket). But he's not really the right person to regret the loss of a legitimate cultural rôle for an embassy.

Thursday, November 9/2017

First visit with Jean this autumn. We were actually in Fredericton at the same time in September/October but ironically getting together here is simpler. Better public transport and fewer other calls on our time. Cool, but not wet. And dark, of course. London considerably north of our "northern" Ontario home, and the end of summer time makes for very early nightfall. As usual we're overly greedy with the Bombay mix before we even reach the meal. Good chat and we're joined by Shanthi, whom we haven't seen for a couple of years now. Inevitable political gossip as International Development minister Priti Patel is being replaced as we speak.

Wednesday, November 8/2017

No complaints, but Starbucks noticeably less busy this stay. Good for us, because desirable corner table usually free, queue not too long, etc. Suspect it's not down to the quality of the coffee - which we like but may not be to everyone's taste - or to complaints about tax avoidance, as other coffee shops in the area don't seem over-full either. Too many coffee venues spreading the custom too thin? Also there seems to be a shortage of the more eccentric customers - those talking to themselves (without benefit of microphone) or opening packets of toast, or using the downstairs seating area as a changing room. An improvement in tone of course, but a bit of a loss in colour.

Tuesday, November 7/2017

Alexander is in London (he lives just south of Cambridge) and collects us, as he has to be in the area of Paddington Station anyway. He's found a restaurant in Notting Hill to try for our now traditional lunch date. It's called The Shed, and is an unprepossessing building well disguised by vines. A young woman is smoking (quite legitimately) in the outside porch where there are a couple of tables and A comments on how nice this is. I have to assure her that both A and J are inhaling deeply before she is relieved to find this is not sarcasm. 

A long unpretentious room with small tables, and a short menu with dishes designed for sharing. The owners, three brothers, have their own farm and vineyard and we have a carafe of their bright, floral tasting white wine as well as choosing one "fast" and one "slow" dish each for the sharing. A salad, battered cauliflower florets with almonds (and a bit of curry heat?), venison ragout, beef sirloin, hake with "sea vegetables", and slip sole, as well as their own thickly cut seeded bread. Portions not large (and not underpriced) but the food is lovely and we're more than satisfied. 

Gives us a chance to catch up as well. Alexander voluble as usual on any number of topics, from British politics to Mendelssohn's period living in Notting Hill (not then a part of London) to the merits of various electric cars. He's been busy still occupied with tuning and transporting instruments, as well as regaining his pilot's licence. Accused of not slowing down, he says that he works as hard as ever when he's working, but works fewer days in a month. Fair enough. He also tells us about burying Flora's ashes next to their baby son, as she had wished, and shows us a photo of the grave stone, beautifully simple and graceful. 

Mobile needs charging by night. So the charged battery with which we arrived lasted almost six days of admittedly light use. Not bad, as it's the original battery in the mobile we bought in Damascus just before the Syrian war.

Monday, November 6/2017

Down to our bank - HSBC Charing Cross branch - who want an update on our profile. Fair enough, as it seems we've had the account for a mildly surprising fifteen years. 

Just off Trafalgar Square, so we take a bus to Camden Town and check out the shops along Camden High Street for future reference. Just our imagination, or is the street becoming slightly seedier? It's never been rich, but there's something a bit depressing about Inverness Street market, where the veg were fresh and the stall owners rough and cheerful in a there-you-go-luv sort of way, being replaced by long queues at Poundland and Lidl, where the prices seem to have risen slightly without the variety or quality of the offerings improving much. So another bus to Kilburn High Road, which still a multicultural energy about it. Once Irish, as the name suggests, it's now a bit of everything, with lots of Middle East and African in the mix, though you can still buy Irish newspapers.

Sunday, November 5/2017

Up before dawn for the annual London to Brighton Veteran Car Run. Can't remember now how many years we've been doing this - several, anyway. It's a rally that celebrates the passing of the Locomotives on the Highway Act in November 1896. Sometimes known as the Red Flag Act, it required that automobile drivers be preceded on the road by a man carrying a red flag in warning. Every time I set the alarm for six o'clock a small part of me thinks that it might rain, we might not really have to be up in the cold darkness. 

But at the first sight or sound of a veteran car  the adrenaline starts. Some cars are trailered in buty some drivers have stayed at hotels on our side of Hyde Park and head out along the Bayswater Road, two and three (sometimes even one) cylinder cars audible before we spot them in the dark. And brave drivers as many of the old cars have no lights at all. One pretty noisy little car we see loses power at each red light along the road and the driver has to pedal furiously until the engine catches when the lights turn green. Probably all right once on the open road, although like many of the entrants not too speedy. Cars are deemed to have completed the run (it's not a race) if they reach Brighton, some sixty miles away, by 4:30 in the afternoon, about a nine hour window. We enter the park while cars are still arriving, but it's a longish walk along the Serpentine where the vehicles are marshalled, admiring as we go, and the first cars are off before we reach the start point. 

A pity in a way, as the lead car is a treasure - an 1893 Peugeot constructed only seven years after the world's first car. There's plenty to feast the eyes on, though, with some 450 cars in the event. They're all pre-1905 and come from as far away as Australia and Argentina. No two alike, and some must barely meet the definition of car, with tiller in place of steering wheel and bare boards construction. 

Many are three wheeled and the passenger, when there is one, sometimes in front of the driver rather than beside or behind him (or in a few cases her). Totally delightful and the participants, many in period dress, are visibly thrilled. A little over an hour from the time the first car leaves at 7:02 until the last is on its way. By this time we're pretty chilled. The sun is up, but we've been standing watching for a long time, so home by tube to put a kettle on.

Saturday, November 4/2017

Invited to Jenny and Doug's for Laura's fortieth birthday. The day starts oddly, as the small container which I take to be shampoo proves, as I pour the thin gold liquid over my hair, to contain olive oil. A poor substitute, even when combined with soap, but too late now to do anything other than carry on with the conditioner and hope for the best. 

Raining, but not hard, and really not at all by the time we arrive. London lush as always, even in November. As J has noted, if it were in a warmer climate it would be jungle. 

Laura looking super and accompanied by three boys and two dogs. Lovely Arabic food and some twenty people there, mostly family. Which we practically feel we are now. The smallest children now six. Happily busy, but Jenny and I do get a little catch up time in the kitchen. 

Friday, November 3/2017

No jet lag, and 14 degree temperatures pretty easy to take. J beginning his regular walks round Hyde Park in the morning, and says it was very busy this morning, everyone out enjoying the lovely weather. 

After coffee we begin our search for a charger for the mobile (as I have managed to come with phone but no charger). A quote yesterday at a Queensway shop for £10 ($16.50 CAD), which I rejected. Another this morning in the little warren of Russian shops for £8 - not much better, and J tells the man, without much exaggeration, that he could buy a new phone for that. Sad note here - the many layered and pyramided junk and curiosity shop in here   seems to have closed.  

At the northern end of Queensway, the man who appears to have sublet a small corner of the pound shop to sell mobiles and accessories would be willing to sell one for £5, but can't actually find the right sort. Further down the road there's a busy shop with plenty of second hand mobiles (some for as little as £15, making  J's quip on price pretty close to the truth). But no loose chargers, and it seems rather pointless to buy a phone just for the charger without going upscale at all. 

In the afternoon we go up Kilburn High Road and check the little mobile unlocking spots as we go. This time lucky, as we're offered a new Nokia charger for £5, and take it. Amazon would sell us one for £3 and no delivery fee, but the inconvenience of waiting for it to arrive from Asia. This way it's possible to make calls without fearing each might be the last. No need to tell the caller to talk faster. 

The price discrepancies are, in fact, not uncommon across London. More affluent neighbourhoods have higher prices for the same products, in part, probably, because rents are higher, even the rent for corner pitches, but also because the customers are willing to pay more. This is most noticeable in the fruit and veg stands, where in less expensive areas quite high quality produce may be less than half the supermarket price. In accordance with which we pick up some grapes like small, sweet plums on the way home after a fish and chips supper at Roses, where the owner remembers us and comes over to shake hands. 

Large lighted sign on the platform at Paddington advertising RT and suggesting that we watch the Russian channel to learn who they're going to hack next.

Thursday, November 2/2017

Due to land at Heathrow at 7:30, having left Montreal at 21:10. The flight itself is more like six hours, as there's a four hour time change. Normally Montreal is five hours ahead of Montreal, but Europe resumed winter time two weeks ahead of North America. In any case, we don't land but spend a good half hour in a holding pattern as we work our way up from sixth in the queue. Impressive air traffic control as we circle, the stewardesses in the seat behind us (we're second from the back) laughing with delight as the other planes appear, sometimes in the distance, other times unnervingly close. As one of them says, it's like whale watching. And the photographs as elusive. 

First stop Starbucks. Largely because we would otherwise arrive at the Baron a little too early. Double virtue of letting us know we are genuinely awake and getting the day's wifi fix - email, newspaper opeds , etc. 

Out in the late afternoon to reacquaint ourselves with our street. Initial look suggests that the difficulties of the pound have had little effect on high street prices. Pick up 250 grams  of cherry tomatoes for 72p ($1.22 CAD). As well as loose fair trade bananas from Waitrose, where they're 76p a kilo - equivalent to 58 cents CAD a pound. (Yes travel good for mental arithmetic). 

We're heading back down Queensway when we hear a siren behind us we turn instinctively and then laugh. This is the city - there are always sirens. But this is a wee bit more than that. We start by counting six large fire trucks and police rescue vehicles, but that's just the beginning. We lose track of the number of responders, but a seemingly endless stream of police cars and emergency vehicles pour in, with attention centred on the Bayswater tube station, which has closed to the public but is being entered by numbers of flak jacketed police. Lights still flashing but there's no smoke and the fire fighters are just standing around observing. No one seems to know what is going on but it seems enormous. Bomb threat, hostage taking? Surely a suicide on the line - which is, regrettably, not an infrequent occurrence - doesn't tie up that kind of police resources. A man working at the food shop next door but one seems unconcerned, and suggests that there is often a fair bit of drama that ends up sound and fury signifying nothing. And, in support of his thesis, there has been no attempt to reroute the usual crowds of pedestrians walking on the pavement in front of the tube station and despite the congestion caused by emergency vehicles normal traffic is still crawling along Queensway. And no mention on the six o'clock news.

Wednesday, April 26/2017

Tube to Heathrow. J had packed the scales , so good to find we're both under twenty kilos. Actually, much more and I couldn't carry it on stairs anyway. Flight nearly full, but I've booked us a bank of two seats in a plane that mainly has sets of three or (in the centre) four. The advantage of having booked in July. 

Discover the advantage of leftover extra old cheese and sundried olives. Cajun chicken gone by the time the stewardess reaches the back of the plane. No objection to vegetarian, except that we've had their pasta before. Defies trade description legislation. Pasta with creamy tomato sauce, mozzarella and vegetables. Two pieces of carrot, neither as large as the paring from a baby fingernail, and necessary to take their word for the tomato sauce. Those allergic to tomato need not necessarily worry.  But not at all bad with extra old cheddar and black olives added. Nuts with the wine afterward. 

Toronto airport almost unfunctionally slow. Those with connecting flights do have a separate queue, but they haven't picked up the system familiar to patrons of Heathrow - and any bank - of the person at the head of the queue goes to the next available desk. There is a man pointing out the line that looks most likely, but nothing to prevent one standing behind the person who has an outdated passport. Liquor from duty free all scanned at security and resealed, not rapidly. Good to see Susan and Ian in Winnipeg. Nearly home. Have seen the webcam images of Sioux Lookout snow, but it can wait a day.

Starting to sound bitchy. Been a long day: twenty-three hours from getting up to going to bed. No record, but enough. That's it for this year.

Tuesday, April 25/2017

Last day. Odds and ends. And I to West Harrow to see Jean one more time while J takes a walk in Hyde Park. Then packing. Jane said it should be easier than in Cyprus - and it is - but still the Chinese puzzle aspect of fitting everything into one small suitcase (each). Did we really need it all? And of course there have been small acquisitions. Why do we still have sundried olives and cheese and nuts left? We can't take them into Canada. One o'clock. Think it's all done.

Monday, April 24/2017

This is the day! J has been to Stratford-upon-Avon before, but I haven't. Unfortunately, to get a good price on the train we've had to book a few days ahead. This gives us tickets for about £12 each instead of £59 each, but doesn't really allow us to take the weather into account. So, for the first time in twenty-three days here rain is predicted - wintry showers to be precise. 

Umbrellas called for. We take the train from Marylebone station, which is really handy. Train turns out, conveniently, to have wifi aboard - slow but welcome. Change at Leamington Spa for Stratford-upon-Avon, which is at the end of a spur line. The station there has, as we'd hoped, leaflets with 2 for 1 vouchers for the houses we want to visit. Regular price £26 each, so we're pleased. Ten or fifteen minute walk into the town centre, which is nearly as compact as it was in 1600. There's more than enough to do, so we find ourselves skipping short videos and recitations that are probably worthy of more attention, consoling ourselves with the thought that the passes are good for a year - we can come back for the things we've missed. 

Our first stop is the house in which Shakespeare was born, actually a building that became in Shakespeare's own time three houses. A moving thought, though actual appreciation slightly impaired by group addicted to selfie taking. The building is pretty large, consisting of three houses joined together, which Will later cannily let out as a hotel. Also stop at his later home, New House. Here the house no longer exists, though the gardens do. 

And then Holy Trinity, Shakespeare's parish church. Obviously a functioning parish now but also the place where Will was presumably baptised and definitely buried, along with most of his family members. As well as the grave stones in the church, there is a memorial relief of WS, donated by his friends a few years after his death. Interesting in that, as the info points out, presumably it actually resembles him as his wife and daughters were still alive at the time it was installed. 

Our last stop is Half House, home of Shakespeare's elder daughter, Susannah and her husband Dr John Hall, a physician who had a reputation as a diagnostician and was apparently much sought after by those who could afford his services. In some ways the most interesting of the houses. It's large and clearly the former home of a prosperous upper middle class family. And we've been learning as we go about the implications of the class system. Not subtle. Everything from the colour and fabric of one's clothing to the number and content of one's daily meals prescribed by law. There is a copy of an edited version of Dr Hall's case notes. Not discreet politically or otherwise, it seems, and so, four hundred years later we know that his wife suffered from constipation. Still some diagnoses and remedies that make sense four hundred years later. I pick up a copy of the book. Astonishingly heavy for a paperback. Worse, our beautifully informative guide tells us, it's out of print and the original plates seem to have been lost. The exhibition room here has period medical equipment, including a disturbing needle for pushing aside the clouded lens in cataract patients. A saw for amputations (though the only anaesthetic must have been alcohol) and an artificial nose - handy for one who had lost his original in battle or, less gloriously, through syphyllis. [OK - this doesn't look right, but I'm on an airplane and my spellcheck pretends it doesn't know the word at all and thinks no nice girl should either]. 

Just beginning to rain, but we're ready for the warmth and stimulation of Starbucks, which owes us two free large coffees due to past purchases. Train back to Marylebone. A handy station for future reference, as it's only twenty minutes exactly from leaving the train to arriving via tube, at our hotel room. Compare with trains arriving at King's Cross or Waterloo. Though there are a finite number of destinations from Marylebone. Mainly Birmingham (but why?) and Coventry (ok, there's the cathedral). So may do again.

Sunday, April 23/2017

Shakespeare's birthday, and Feast of St George. Westminster Cathedral. Had thought of last week, but joined Jenny and Doug and family in Thames Ditton instead for Easter traditions. Not quite as full today, and sadly the boys' choir has the week off. Well earned, as they will have sung at both Easter Vigil and Easter morning masses last weekend. They're replaced by an excellent choir from Salt Lake City, obviously on tour. There are quite a lot of students from the same American institution in Church, kids between ten and sixteen wearing school blazers. Resist impulse to ask if they're really from Salt Lake City as we thought Mormonism was obligatory.

Saturday, April 22/2017

Haven't been to Covent Garden yet this year, so we go. Possibly a mistake on a Saturday. Under the false impression that most of the London visitors had gone home. In fact they're all still on the underground. Given to holding map reading conferences at the bottom of escalators. J heard to mutter bloody tourists at one bottleneck. Covent Garden pretty full too. But always fun, particularly the crafts. Fall for - but don't buy - intriguing pendant featuring old-fashioned watch works. Really no genuine bargains to be had, but lots of enjoyment. Then Northern line from Leicester Square to Camden Town. The high street much as usual, and suspect mainly locals. Market area a sea of humanity. Not unusual. Camden Tube station on Saturdays is exit only. Slow bus to Kilburn and home.

Friday, April 21/2017

Despite having seven day tube passes, we actually don't go any further than our own neighbourhood, having started with errands that made longer trips pointless. It's an interesting area - central, very near Hyde Park, well connected by tube and bus. Its chief problem is that it's too heavily touristed, which drives prices up, so that there are no downscale pubs and café, as there are in Kilburn and parts of the east end, or probably Brixton, though there are the standard fast food outlets - McDonald's, Burger King, and Subway - in an absolute pinch. Basic filter coffee very cheap at Starbucks - 75p ($1.28 CAD) if you bring your own cup and fairly generous filling of same - but everything else there highly overpriced. Which leads a few of their less easily embarrassed - or more socially unskilled - customers to bring their own snacks and buy only coffee, and occasionally not even that. Not us, obviously, but some of the semi-homeless who exist in London uneasily adjacent to those for whom money is there to spend.

Thursday, April 20/2017

Visit the Canadian war memorial in Green Park. It's really quite attractive - red granite with sheets of water streaming over bronze maple leaves. As the leaves are bronze they've aged in reverse fashion to real maple leaves - going from brown to bright green over time. 

There are three or four wreaths laid next to the memorial, including poppies commemorating the hundredth anniversary of Vimy Ridge.

Our first  time in Camden Town this spring. Enjoy looking in and out the charity shops, although we're usually most tempted by the books but this time know better than to acquire any more. Then catch the 31 bus to Kilburn and are in luck - the Thursday kleftiko isn't finished so we enjoy it for the last time this spring.

Wednesday, April 19/2017

The serendipitous nature of London. We decide to go down to St James's Park and also take a look at the Canadian memorial near Buckingham Palace Gate. But somewhere between High Street Kensington and Gloucester Road the underground train comes to a complete stop. A couple of widely spaced announcements that there is a difficulty that should be solved soon, apologies proffered. Forty-five minutes later the train returns to High Street Kensington. Major signalling failure at Earl's Court, affecting both Circle and District lines. 

So we explore around High Street Kensington station, not having been there for years. Most interesting store is an enormous whole food market, covering two huge floors, with organic and natural foods and drink, at astronomical prices. There's a buffet where you can fill a container with hot foods for £1.95 a hundred grams - so £19.50 ($33 CAD) a kilo, though they wisely don't advertise it that way. And we note that this is regardless of the dishes chosen. It's one thing to pay that price for rosemary lamb and another to shell it out for mashed potatoes, even granted they're buttery. Fascinating place, though, with spices, cheeses, a wine bar, almost anything you might want. 

By now it's a bit late to look for a bus to St James's Park. We're on the south side of Kensington Park, though, and it's sunny, if a little cool, so we walk back past Kensington Palace and stop for a while on a park bench to watch the ducks and swans on the pond. Plenty of retirees, mums with little children and young lovers. Walk home from there. Pass Bayswater tube station about 5 - Circle and District lines still not running.

Tuesday, April 18/2017

We assume that the English school holidays are over - certainly Jenny and Doug's grandchildren will be back in class today - and think it's a good uncrowded museum day. But when we get off the tube at South Kensington, nearest stop to three of the best museums there are throngs of people, many of them children. So we opt for the Victoria and Albert, as less likely to be a child magnet than the Science or Natural History Museums. 

As usual, we confine ourselves to a couple of areas rather than trying to take it all in. So we admire altarpieces from the early 16th century. And near them a set of stair ends from Florence, circa 1500, with various animal carvings, one showing an indeterminate beast biting the tail of another. 

In a nearby room are antique Iranian carpets, interestingly including one showing several pairs of animals with one attacking the other. Particularly surprising as most Muslim art avoids the representation of animals. The largest carpet here takes up the centre of a large room and is (dimly) lit only ten minutes out of every thirty to protect it from deterioration. Known as the Ardabil carpet, it was commissioned by the shah of Iran in 1539-40. It has white silk warp and weft and a pattern of knotted wool, with an astonishing 304 knots per square inch. 

The V&A has an inner courtyard with a shallow pool and today it's sunny, though there is a cool breeze. Not chill enough to deter a couple of children who are paddling - which is allowed, though a sign tells us that sitting in the pool and taking off one's clothes are not. We're not tempted, but the kiddies seem to be having a good time. Evening meal at Roses in Kilburn. We're torn between fish and chips, which we know are excellent, and chicken curry (the Tuesday special) which we haven't had before, so order one of each and trade bits. Both are keepers for future reference, and either could easily have fed us both, accompanied as they were by large (and v good) salads. In fact we can't finish. £13.45 ($22.60 CAD) for the two of us, including tax as all UK prices do.

Monday, April 17/2017

Stroll down Oxford Street and look - but don't actually buy. Looking in Selfridge's Food Hall is an exercise in appreciating food porn. Everything from a moving sushi bar to game to pastries. Surprisingly there is a special display of Heinz beans, obviously part of a brand promotion. We check the price - £2, exactly four times the sale price at Tesco's at the moment. Pop in and out of stores as far as Regent Street- then back by tube. 

Last window shopping is in the little warren of shops in behind the store fronts at the south end of Queensway. These have changed over time, with the latest being a shift from East European to Brazilian (though there is a very small Uzbek restaurant). And the little curiosity shop is still there, with its sign prudently warning anyone who may be looking for a fence that goods will be bought only from sellers with valid passports.

Sunday, April 16/2017

Invited to Jenny and Doug's for Easter. We've done this many times before, and it's started to feel rather like what Easter should be. Leave just before nine, which turns out to be as the flower sellers at the corner are finishing setting up. We buy a bunch of purple tulips and wonder if they subscribe to the old superstition that the first sale of the day is lucky. Easter weekend is, unfortunately, the traditional time for repairs and upgrading on the transportation system, with changes and cancellations. District tube line to Wimbledon is fine but it takes two, not one, trains to Thames Ditton, changing at Surbiton, where the carriage is suddenly full of Germans, tourists on their way to Hampton Court, the stop after Thames Ditton. We've thought sunglasses a bit too optimistic, so of course the sun comes out full on the flower gardens we pass along Station Road. Lovely. 

Jenny and her daughters and granddaughters have made their family's traditional Palestinian Easter fare, the date rings and semolina cakes. There are also the hard boiled eggs with traditional onion skin colouring, and a conker style competition to see whose egg can crack the most shells - or survive the most hits. There are twelve of us, so lots of battles. Jenny's mum, now in a nursing home is here, and Emma and Laura and families. Emma hides small chocolate eggs for the youngest children, Cody and Jasmine and Leila. Much hilarity and then they're rehidden outside in the garden. When they've been found again the children kindly decide to hide some in the dining room so Grandpa can find them later. After the others have left, we stay for catch up talk and supper with Jenny and Doug. Lovely. 

Trip home should be straightforward - and nearly is. Except that when we're waiting on the usual eastbound platform we do notice that the sign announcing the next (eastbound) train from Hampton Court is on the far (normally) westbound side of the tracks. Just as the train approaches a man on the other side calls to ask if we're going to Surbiton and says "It's over here!" I say shit, we'll never make it, and the three of us - there's also a young man whom it now seems we have misinformed re the train's arrival - all run like crazy down the path from the wrong side, under the train bridge, and up the path to the right platform. And make it only because our kind informant has delayed the train a couple of minutes by standing in the carriage door so it can't close. Rest of trip uneventful.