I've had a lot of cleaning related thoughts in the last couple of days.... family and friends can stop laughing now, I said thoughts not actions. I tried to put the ideas together in an article but they didn't relate well so I've split them up.
So first up is the concept of quiet vacuuming... or as we would say in Ireland, hoovering. As soon as I elaborate you will instantly recognise the concept but I must give credit for the succinct definition of this familial power play to my friends, Sandra, Brian and Jennifer.
When you're little Saturday mornings are about jumping out of bed, making sugar sandwiches (which your mother went nuts about) and watching all the cartoons on TV. One friend told me that she remembers thinking when she was a little girl that she might grow up but she would never tire of cartoons. But as you get a bit older, bed is the king, and this is never truer than after a night out on the beer with mates.
In my house, Dad left on Saturday mornings at the crack of dawn to play golf... and the only challenge was to be out of bed and dressed before he got home. Considering that gave me until 1.30 - 2pm it wasn't a mountain to climb. But the evils of drink and the cosiness of my bed could sometimes seem insurmountable. And that's where the quiet vacuuming stepped in. Mam had been up and about since sparrows fart and was either feeling lonely and wanted a chat, or was cheesed of that I was still wallowing in my pit and felt it was time for some affirmative action. So although our carpets were spotless (as always) out came the vacuum cleaner and the dance begins.
The first stage of quiet vacuuming is the "central pass"... this is where the antagonist runs the machine down the central portion of the carpet/ rug passing the bedroom door of our hero. It wakes you but you can fight it, actually with a pillow placed carefully over your head to drown out the more strident tones, you can almost enjoy the rhythmic ebbing and flowing.
No movement or signs of life from the bedroom in response to stage 1, so its time to step up the game. Stage 2 required Mam to repeat the cleaning pass, this time making sure to clean right up to the doors... yip, stage 2 is also know as "The door bang". Bang!!!! Bang!!!! You're already awake but would more likely suffocate than drown out this noise with a pillow over your head. If a hangover is in play, Stage 2 is usually the killer. Mostly I would call out, stumble out and beg for a cup of tea. But occasionally, the hero in me stayed strong through this stage, hoping that if I could just live through this then peace would once more reign. Sometimes, it worked. Mam gave up. Other times.... well it was war...
Stage 3 escalates quiet vacuuming to new levels of mental and physical torture. It takes it from quiet to really bloody loud actually. It is also known as the "open door" technique. At this point, my mother had decided that her "gentle" promptings were getting her nowhere and would head back down the hall, humming vacuum in hand to really shake things up. I knew what was coming, so had my happy face prepared, always best to meet defeat with a smile. The door opened with Mam announcing "I'll just hoover where I can see carpet"... nice double whammy eh, I'm a mess, the rooms a mess, message received loud and clear. On the face of it I did have options. I could have growled grumbled and refused to budge but some victories are so pyrrhic. Mam usually backed up her entrance with the smell of cooking from the kitchen. Sneaky but very effective.
99% of the time, victory was Eithne's without a cross word ever being spoken and a spotlessly clean house into the bargain. At least I got some freshly baked biscuits and a bottomless cup of tea to gently ease me into a brave new weekend.
hugs
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Nom du Plume
I've been working freelance for a charity recently developing their social media strategy. One of the tools we're using is wikipedia. I've suggested setting up a wiki page for the company and editing some topics to reference the charity's work in that area. All fine and dandy or so I thought until I tried to create the page... I expected something similar to this, create login, choose background, layout and write away. Not so fast, not so simple.
The first hurdle to clear was the creation of a login... my nom du plume. The instructions are straightforward and there are some tips about considering how visible and recognisable you wish to be. As I'm editing a charity's page and references, I reckon visibility is just fine. I'd reconsider if I was going to be working on the personal pages of some celebrity cos they like to sue if, regardless of its validity, the statement is not for public comsumption.
So I started with some variations of my name and clicked 'next'; mmmm seemingly I am not very unique, actually not only am I not unique, my family pet names for me aren't unique... must try harder family, else how am I to stand out from the crowd. At the same time as I was grapling with various spellings of my name, a rerun of Friends was playing in the background. I imagine that somewhere in the world every episode of Friends is playing on syndication. Its not sad that the actors haven't really had a career beyond it cos who needs one, they own the golden goose. But I digress.... In the episode, Chandler/ Joey's TV has stuck on a porn channel... Fantastic idea, I'll use my porn star name as my login... bet no one with have that... at last I will be unique.
I learned the rules for determining your porn name while travelling in Australia. You take the name of your first pet and either, your mother's maiden name or the street you lived on. Some of the names proposed that day were Fifi LaPlanche and Rusty Meadows Lane. Fabulous aren't they. So what about me then. Well my first pet was a gerbil... and I'm from the country so no street address, will have to be my mother's maiden name. So are ya ready........ drum roll please........
Sacha Healy, oh my god, even my porn star name is dull. She could have sat beside you for intercert geography. Its probably just as well that I've never considered a career in the porn industry, clearly I'd fall at the first hurdle.
On a more positive note, as far as wikipedia is concerned it is unique so Sacha Healy is now my nom du plume.
hugs
The first hurdle to clear was the creation of a login... my nom du plume. The instructions are straightforward and there are some tips about considering how visible and recognisable you wish to be. As I'm editing a charity's page and references, I reckon visibility is just fine. I'd reconsider if I was going to be working on the personal pages of some celebrity cos they like to sue if, regardless of its validity, the statement is not for public comsumption.
So I started with some variations of my name and clicked 'next'; mmmm seemingly I am not very unique, actually not only am I not unique, my family pet names for me aren't unique... must try harder family, else how am I to stand out from the crowd. At the same time as I was grapling with various spellings of my name, a rerun of Friends was playing in the background. I imagine that somewhere in the world every episode of Friends is playing on syndication. Its not sad that the actors haven't really had a career beyond it cos who needs one, they own the golden goose. But I digress.... In the episode, Chandler/ Joey's TV has stuck on a porn channel... Fantastic idea, I'll use my porn star name as my login... bet no one with have that... at last I will be unique.
I learned the rules for determining your porn name while travelling in Australia. You take the name of your first pet and either, your mother's maiden name or the street you lived on. Some of the names proposed that day were Fifi LaPlanche and Rusty Meadows Lane. Fabulous aren't they. So what about me then. Well my first pet was a gerbil... and I'm from the country so no street address, will have to be my mother's maiden name. So are ya ready........ drum roll please........
Sacha Healy, oh my god, even my porn star name is dull. She could have sat beside you for intercert geography. Its probably just as well that I've never considered a career in the porn industry, clearly I'd fall at the first hurdle.
On a more positive note, as far as wikipedia is concerned it is unique so Sacha Healy is now my nom du plume.
hugs
Friday, November 13, 2009
From the Beatles to Bowie
There is a great photographic exhibition running at the National Portrait Gallery until the middle of January, called From the Beatles to Bowie.
I headed along last night with 2 friends... I can't remember the last time we laughed quite so hard. There were so many reasons that I'll have to take each one separately.
Firstly.... the tour guide..
We landed in just as a guide was taking a group around the exhibition. I'm a fan of guides and regularly hover at the back of the crowd. Didn't take me long to work out that this wasn't going to be one of those times... She was an American... not a sin in itself but it the American accent does have a tendacy to carry... and it did, all over the gallery. It shouldn't have been a problem except that she was the most clueless guide ever... The band, members and photographer were clearly labeled to the left of each picture but that didn't seem to help her. She stood in front of an early photo of the Rolling Stones and stumbled thro the members... its not like they are a one hit wonder... We fell about the place laughing as she gestured at the photo and said "eh, mmm,..yes.. he was in the band too..." The he she was referring to was Bill Wyman.. a bit of research wouldn't have gone a miss. She wasn't a staff member cos she wasn't in uniform so I've no idea where they got her but I only hope the crowd following her weren't paying... time to demand a refund if they were. The other thing that bothered me was her attempt to be edgy in the startorial stakes. I'm all for not following the herd but that usually requires that you have some sense of yourself and what you like. The poor cow followed the herd right to the doors of All Saints. Nothing edgy about replicating a All Saints mannequin.
The One Hit Wonders
Well maybe they had more success than that but they certainly didn't trouble the Beatles, Stones etc for longevity and lasting fame. These are the days before Photoshop, Celebrity Styling and most importantly a marketing budget. There was one picture, think it was the Trogs and it was a shrine to the Christmas jumper... the most evil exhibitions of knitwear and worn without any sense of irony. I have no idea how they got talked into it... and they weren't the only ones. Seemingly Scott Walker was a sex symbol, I couldn't see it myself but I must say he was cast into sharp and happy relief by his band mate who's hair channelled the lego people.
The Music Press
Each section of the exhibition had cases with samples of the music press coverage, album artwork and promotional material. All opportunities for the hapless bands to further embarrass themselves with daft poses and even dafter clothing choices.
There were some fantastic photos that I would love to have been able to purchase a copy of... unfortunately the copyright on the really great ones didn't belong the the Gallery so the exhibition shop didn't have the ones I wanted. My fav, the Beatles in about 1963, looking thro a beautiful red door that's slightly ajar.
hugs
I headed along last night with 2 friends... I can't remember the last time we laughed quite so hard. There were so many reasons that I'll have to take each one separately.
Firstly.... the tour guide..
We landed in just as a guide was taking a group around the exhibition. I'm a fan of guides and regularly hover at the back of the crowd. Didn't take me long to work out that this wasn't going to be one of those times... She was an American... not a sin in itself but it the American accent does have a tendacy to carry... and it did, all over the gallery. It shouldn't have been a problem except that she was the most clueless guide ever... The band, members and photographer were clearly labeled to the left of each picture but that didn't seem to help her. She stood in front of an early photo of the Rolling Stones and stumbled thro the members... its not like they are a one hit wonder... We fell about the place laughing as she gestured at the photo and said "eh, mmm,..yes.. he was in the band too..." The he she was referring to was Bill Wyman.. a bit of research wouldn't have gone a miss. She wasn't a staff member cos she wasn't in uniform so I've no idea where they got her but I only hope the crowd following her weren't paying... time to demand a refund if they were. The other thing that bothered me was her attempt to be edgy in the startorial stakes. I'm all for not following the herd but that usually requires that you have some sense of yourself and what you like. The poor cow followed the herd right to the doors of All Saints. Nothing edgy about replicating a All Saints mannequin.
The One Hit Wonders
Well maybe they had more success than that but they certainly didn't trouble the Beatles, Stones etc for longevity and lasting fame. These are the days before Photoshop, Celebrity Styling and most importantly a marketing budget. There was one picture, think it was the Trogs and it was a shrine to the Christmas jumper... the most evil exhibitions of knitwear and worn without any sense of irony. I have no idea how they got talked into it... and they weren't the only ones. Seemingly Scott Walker was a sex symbol, I couldn't see it myself but I must say he was cast into sharp and happy relief by his band mate who's hair channelled the lego people.
The Music Press
Each section of the exhibition had cases with samples of the music press coverage, album artwork and promotional material. All opportunities for the hapless bands to further embarrass themselves with daft poses and even dafter clothing choices.
There were some fantastic photos that I would love to have been able to purchase a copy of... unfortunately the copyright on the really great ones didn't belong the the Gallery so the exhibition shop didn't have the ones I wanted. My fav, the Beatles in about 1963, looking thro a beautiful red door that's slightly ajar.
hugs
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Michelin Star-struck
As I've said before I'm new to this city so I'm a bit of a novice on the "in" restaurant front. Of course I've heard of The Ivy or Fat Duck but I couldn't give you directions to it from my house...
I love food... I was raised by a mother who loves food. Eithne's porn is a cookery book. She reads them like others read novels. My mother will describe her holidays in terms of the meals she's enjoyed... hence Spain didn't really appeal cos she found the penchant for olive oil just a little too much. So I'm a tough customer when it comes to food. When I was about 2 my mother was chastising me for being naughty... my response was "I'm just not impressed...." And its been my food moto ever since. I don't care if the meat is by royal appointment and the carrot manure can be traced back thro 3 generations... I like taste and I like fun. I'm not impressed by pomp and ceremony.
And so we arrive at the point of the story. My friend decided to celebrate her birthday at a Michelin starred restaurant in town (will leave nameless cos don't wish to be sued). I was the first to arrive.. and my heart sank as I walked thro the door. Yip... the receiving line was out in force to greet me. A mater d', hostess and assorted waiting staff ranged out to welcome me, take my coat, take my friend's present, my bag, the flowers... I thought I was going to have a fight on my hands to keep my dignity cos these folks were determined to divest me of my every burden. I was escorted to my table, followed by the receiving line carrying my presents, bag and flowers. I ordered a gin and tonic, more for a way to distract at least 2 of the staff, and waited for the others to arrive.
Next hurdle to clear was the food. We were on a special menu so the choices were limited to 2 per course. As is usual with these places, the menu lists every ingredient so that if you wanted, you could recreate the dish at home... why why... I ordered the fish something or other to start and the venison for main. I mentioned to the waiter that I didn't eat meat rare or even medium rare. He was suitably vague and didn't respond to my clear promptings. Its one of the many things that irritate me about these places.. the staff are more concerned with not upsetting the prima donna in the kitchen that the customers who are mortgaging their first born to afford desert.
Having chosen the food, the team of food waiters took a pace back to reload like musket-bearing soldiers in the civil war and the wine team stepped up. The sommelier treated us to a witty little story about the wine grower and his arthritis.. okay I'm exaggerating but seriously, just pour already, I'm here to see my friends. I was on the verge of asking the mater d' to check the booking... table for 5... and there are 5 at the table so butt out...
The amuse bouche arrives.... my bouche is not amused but I'm hungry so I tuck in.. well I take a bite and its over cos this is Michelin so portion control is an anorexic's dream.
Next stop the starter.... next pet peeve... please don't introduce me to my dinner. I ordered it and I am of standard intelligence so I think I can join the dots and establish that this is my fish soupy thing with scallops and a liberal sprinkling of paprika. Again, tasted fine but only just. Eithne you have a lot to answer for.
Main course... the menu had detailed the venison would be accompanied by "a variation of tomatoes". I was really quite looking forward to this cos I'm not a big venison fan. So the dictionary definition of variation is "a difference or deviation in structure or character from others of the same species or group" and boy did these guys take this literally. On the plate was some undercooked meat (possibly not undercooked but I'd specifically stated that I didn't like rare meat) and some raw tomatoes. The variation was in the presentation.. I think. Some of the tomatoes were sliced and some where quartered but all were raw and completely unadulterated by a dressing, sauce or something that could take the baldly look off them. I was then (personally) introduced to the other vegetables, all had met a similar fate, wafer thin slices deep fried into tasteless crisps and of absolutely no leaven to the nutritional stodge that was my fate.
Of course a new course means a new wine so that sommelier stepped up with a new and equally uninteresting story about the history of the vineyard and the grape variety... pour man, just bloody pour.
I wont drag you through the desert and coffee.
I can't say that I didn't enjoy the evening because I had great fun with my friends... but there was a distinct element of Dunkirk spirit. I don't understand why people book months in advance in order to eat food that would look well in a museum but is a triumph of style over taste. And maybe if you were raised with servants then the obsequious behaviour of the front of house team might appeal but I wasn't and it doesn't. There are so many restaurants in this town. So many great evenings out to have with friends, without the waiters hitching a ride! And as for the food.... I wasn't so much struck by a Michelin star as smacked with a Michelin starred bill.
I love food... I was raised by a mother who loves food. Eithne's porn is a cookery book. She reads them like others read novels. My mother will describe her holidays in terms of the meals she's enjoyed... hence Spain didn't really appeal cos she found the penchant for olive oil just a little too much. So I'm a tough customer when it comes to food. When I was about 2 my mother was chastising me for being naughty... my response was "I'm just not impressed...." And its been my food moto ever since. I don't care if the meat is by royal appointment and the carrot manure can be traced back thro 3 generations... I like taste and I like fun. I'm not impressed by pomp and ceremony.
And so we arrive at the point of the story. My friend decided to celebrate her birthday at a Michelin starred restaurant in town (will leave nameless cos don't wish to be sued). I was the first to arrive.. and my heart sank as I walked thro the door. Yip... the receiving line was out in force to greet me. A mater d', hostess and assorted waiting staff ranged out to welcome me, take my coat, take my friend's present, my bag, the flowers... I thought I was going to have a fight on my hands to keep my dignity cos these folks were determined to divest me of my every burden. I was escorted to my table, followed by the receiving line carrying my presents, bag and flowers. I ordered a gin and tonic, more for a way to distract at least 2 of the staff, and waited for the others to arrive.
Next hurdle to clear was the food. We were on a special menu so the choices were limited to 2 per course. As is usual with these places, the menu lists every ingredient so that if you wanted, you could recreate the dish at home... why why... I ordered the fish something or other to start and the venison for main. I mentioned to the waiter that I didn't eat meat rare or even medium rare. He was suitably vague and didn't respond to my clear promptings. Its one of the many things that irritate me about these places.. the staff are more concerned with not upsetting the prima donna in the kitchen that the customers who are mortgaging their first born to afford desert.
Having chosen the food, the team of food waiters took a pace back to reload like musket-bearing soldiers in the civil war and the wine team stepped up. The sommelier treated us to a witty little story about the wine grower and his arthritis.. okay I'm exaggerating but seriously, just pour already, I'm here to see my friends. I was on the verge of asking the mater d' to check the booking... table for 5... and there are 5 at the table so butt out...
The amuse bouche arrives.... my bouche is not amused but I'm hungry so I tuck in.. well I take a bite and its over cos this is Michelin so portion control is an anorexic's dream.
Next stop the starter.... next pet peeve... please don't introduce me to my dinner. I ordered it and I am of standard intelligence so I think I can join the dots and establish that this is my fish soupy thing with scallops and a liberal sprinkling of paprika. Again, tasted fine but only just. Eithne you have a lot to answer for.
Main course... the menu had detailed the venison would be accompanied by "a variation of tomatoes". I was really quite looking forward to this cos I'm not a big venison fan. So the dictionary definition of variation is "a difference or deviation in structure or character from others of the same species or group" and boy did these guys take this literally. On the plate was some undercooked meat (possibly not undercooked but I'd specifically stated that I didn't like rare meat) and some raw tomatoes. The variation was in the presentation.. I think. Some of the tomatoes were sliced and some where quartered but all were raw and completely unadulterated by a dressing, sauce or something that could take the baldly look off them. I was then (personally) introduced to the other vegetables, all had met a similar fate, wafer thin slices deep fried into tasteless crisps and of absolutely no leaven to the nutritional stodge that was my fate.
Of course a new course means a new wine so that sommelier stepped up with a new and equally uninteresting story about the history of the vineyard and the grape variety... pour man, just bloody pour.
I wont drag you through the desert and coffee.
I can't say that I didn't enjoy the evening because I had great fun with my friends... but there was a distinct element of Dunkirk spirit. I don't understand why people book months in advance in order to eat food that would look well in a museum but is a triumph of style over taste. And maybe if you were raised with servants then the obsequious behaviour of the front of house team might appeal but I wasn't and it doesn't. There are so many restaurants in this town. So many great evenings out to have with friends, without the waiters hitching a ride! And as for the food.... I wasn't so much struck by a Michelin star as smacked with a Michelin starred bill.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Endgame.......
So it was with much trepidation that I approached the latest West End production of Samual Beckett's Endgame. I can't claim to be a Beckett fan or hater cos I just don't know enough about him. Somehow I'd always avoided the restagings of Waiting for Godot cos it just didn't appeal. I can't explain why except to quote an Australian satirist Rob Sitch who said in an episode of Hollowmen, "Once you realise Godot isn't coming, you're just really waiting for it to end". Yes, I'm a philistine.... but a very happy philistine.
So why did I agree to go... well many reasons. My primary reason for doing anything is that it beats sitting indoors watching the telly. Although I am very fond of the telly as a medium, every evening at home.....????? Unconscionable. And so out I went to a production that I was very unsure of. I'd experimented with a similar decision making process last week and ended up at Raoul at the Barbican... outstanding but more on that later.
This production of Endgame was directed by Simon McBurney and featured Mark Rylance, Tom Hickey and Miryam Margolyes. And its was outstanding. I love voices. I find them very seductive. Its probably why Sean Connery who I don't find physically very attractive although I completely see why folk are weak at the knees...for me its his voice. And so it is with Mark Rylance. I've read lots of articles about this man and heard great reports but it wasn't until I saw him in full fight that I understood. He has the most beautiful voice, in the wonderful traditions of Richard Harris, Richard Burton and my personal favourite James Mason. His performance was wonderful and I really engaged but it was the voice that swung it for me.
Miriam Margoyles deserves a Bafta that she will never get cos she was only on stage for about 10 minutes. As a Paddy (I can say it cos I am one... it follows that same usage rules as "nigger"), I freeze as soon as a non-paddy tries out a paddy accent. In recent cinematic history Tom Cruise and Gerard Butler spring to mind as the great offenders but there are many undocumented who have continued the shame. So when Miriam (I feel like she's one of ours now... adopted like) started up, I had that sinking feeling that we were about to tour the provinces.... but she was magnificent. She was note perfect... she wont be formally honoured for her achievement but she should be... she was wonderful.
Tom Hickey spoke in Irish at one point... I don't know the Endgame well enough to know if its in the script, considering when it was written I'd find that hard to believe..... I felt like I was in on a joke that no one else in the Duchess Theatre was getting and it was bizarrely, very special.
So £29 well spent. I'll be making more forees into the wonderful world of London culture and commenting on this and anything else that springs to mind.... right now I'm formulating my thoughts on Michelin Starred restaurants.
Hugs and kisses.
So why did I agree to go... well many reasons. My primary reason for doing anything is that it beats sitting indoors watching the telly. Although I am very fond of the telly as a medium, every evening at home.....????? Unconscionable. And so out I went to a production that I was very unsure of. I'd experimented with a similar decision making process last week and ended up at Raoul at the Barbican... outstanding but more on that later.
This production of Endgame was directed by Simon McBurney and featured Mark Rylance, Tom Hickey and Miryam Margolyes. And its was outstanding. I love voices. I find them very seductive. Its probably why Sean Connery who I don't find physically very attractive although I completely see why folk are weak at the knees...for me its his voice. And so it is with Mark Rylance. I've read lots of articles about this man and heard great reports but it wasn't until I saw him in full fight that I understood. He has the most beautiful voice, in the wonderful traditions of Richard Harris, Richard Burton and my personal favourite James Mason. His performance was wonderful and I really engaged but it was the voice that swung it for me.
Miriam Margoyles deserves a Bafta that she will never get cos she was only on stage for about 10 minutes. As a Paddy (I can say it cos I am one... it follows that same usage rules as "nigger"), I freeze as soon as a non-paddy tries out a paddy accent. In recent cinematic history Tom Cruise and Gerard Butler spring to mind as the great offenders but there are many undocumented who have continued the shame. So when Miriam (I feel like she's one of ours now... adopted like) started up, I had that sinking feeling that we were about to tour the provinces.... but she was magnificent. She was note perfect... she wont be formally honoured for her achievement but she should be... she was wonderful.
Tom Hickey spoke in Irish at one point... I don't know the Endgame well enough to know if its in the script, considering when it was written I'd find that hard to believe..... I felt like I was in on a joke that no one else in the Duchess Theatre was getting and it was bizarrely, very special.
So £29 well spent. I'll be making more forees into the wonderful world of London culture and commenting on this and anything else that springs to mind.... right now I'm formulating my thoughts on Michelin Starred restaurants.
Hugs and kisses.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Thames Festival 09
I've decided that after all, its time to start keeping a blog on my experiences of moving back to London after an absence of 10 years. I'm not working at the moment so as funds are tight I'm not living the high life. Of neccessity for the moment, this will be the ramblings of an itchy mind rather than a searing account of life in the fast lane.
So I'm just back from the Thamas festival. Londoners don't know they are born... there is so much cool free stuff to do all the time. Landed in Tower Hill and even just crossing the river (via Tower Bridge) is a thrill. Not quite so thrilling to have to wait in a crowd while the bridge lifts for a passing boat. Got to the south side and followed my ears to the swing dance band/ djs. I'd arranged to meet Michelle there so started to circle the dancefloor looking for her. Not much point in calling someone who's in the process of executing the lindihop, tends to need all one's focus. Sure enough there she was, out on the floor. V. impressed that she was attempting some seriously tricky moves in hiking boots. Tough to stay on the balls of your feet with rigid soles. But she was managing it. Stood on the sidelines taking it all in. There were some fantastic dancers and even better outfits doing the rounds. Bizarre thing is the range of eras represented.... there were the charlston kids, war brides and rockabilies... hair, clothes, shoes all perfectly in keeping with their chosen era. And then, as always in these cases, there are the folks that dance to beat of their own drum.... in some cases, to the endangerment of those around them, quite literally.
The music ended and we decided to head up to the Carabosse fire garden outside the Tate Modern. If you ever get a chance to see one of these exhibitions in your town, GO. Its was absolutely beautiful. Its amazing how mesmerising fire is... its really is alive. If you're planning a winter city break, find out where these guys are exhitibing and go see......
So I'm just back from the Thamas festival. Londoners don't know they are born... there is so much cool free stuff to do all the time. Landed in Tower Hill and even just crossing the river (via Tower Bridge) is a thrill. Not quite so thrilling to have to wait in a crowd while the bridge lifts for a passing boat. Got to the south side and followed my ears to the swing dance band/ djs. I'd arranged to meet Michelle there so started to circle the dancefloor looking for her. Not much point in calling someone who's in the process of executing the lindihop, tends to need all one's focus. Sure enough there she was, out on the floor. V. impressed that she was attempting some seriously tricky moves in hiking boots. Tough to stay on the balls of your feet with rigid soles. But she was managing it. Stood on the sidelines taking it all in. There were some fantastic dancers and even better outfits doing the rounds. Bizarre thing is the range of eras represented.... there were the charlston kids, war brides and rockabilies... hair, clothes, shoes all perfectly in keeping with their chosen era. And then, as always in these cases, there are the folks that dance to beat of their own drum.... in some cases, to the endangerment of those around them, quite literally.
The music ended and we decided to head up to the Carabosse fire garden outside the Tate Modern. If you ever get a chance to see one of these exhibitions in your town, GO. Its was absolutely beautiful. Its amazing how mesmerising fire is... its really is alive. If you're planning a winter city break, find out where these guys are exhitibing and go see......
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