wendy house

I hate French men, they’re all animals

Spoken by anyone other than Jane this might not have seemed so suprising. Jane adored France. Studying business studies in French, recently returned from a year’s work experience in Paris. I listened, hoping my silence would draw out answers to the whirlwind of questions running through my mind.

Jane is one of the most beautiful young girls I know, palest china skin, amber glowing eyes, natural ring-curls, high cheekbones and a ski-jump nose. Even in this anger she maintailed a doll-like beauty. Our silence continued. Jane clearly had something to say about French men, but didn’t know how to continue

Do you want to talk about it?

Tears fell. Even for the most skilled coordinating crying, breathing, nose-blowing and conversation, is a tricky operation. Jane was skilled.  I listened.

I was raped

it wasn’t my fault

he was an animal

I didn’t report it

I’d invited him into my flat for a coffee

who’d believe the foriegn girl

french police are men too

they’re all animals

The only real suprise to me was her bounding this experience to focus on French men. Alas, she’ll learn that rape’s internationalised without me pointing it out.

The orchestra emerges from door 27

The crash barriers help stop the rather untamed orchestra from rushing out and hurting any unsuspecting passing pedestrians.

The orchestra is normally kept underground, in a bunker, they are let out for fresh air on national holidays. One day I noticed a lot of people gathering around this door, waiting for a glympse of the orchestra. The atmosphere was electric and slightly damp. Crackling air

I’m on a roll with the making of changes. I’ve moved my current and credit accounts to the Co-op bank. Hoorah! I love their values and helpful staff. I leave NatWest with a fabulous sense of relief and freedom.

In 1982 a girl I’d been to school with opened my Natwest Bank account in my local village. As one of the less than 10% of people that went to University I was a valued customer, a potential high earner. They promised me a free £5 for opening an account with them. One third of the cost of a pair of Levi 501s (£14.99).

In the 1980′s Natwest was small and friendly, my whole family and most of the village either banked or worked there.  Natwest saw me through my BSc, PhD, my first job, first car, and first mortgage. Some bumps, but generally they were supportive and I stuck with them.  In 1992 I lost my job. I wrote to Natwest to let them know (a condition of the mortgage). They told me that they were going to put my house on the market and charge me for a valuation and sales services.  I had not defaulted on my mortgage. I had sufficient savings to live on and pay my mortgage for months and they could see that by looking at my accounts.  This was an outragoeusly insensitive and unsupportive act. Also, they were not legally allowed to do this, this was bullying!  I replied telling them that they did not have my permission to spend my money on selling my home when I had not broken the conditions of the mortgage agreement.  I got a job, changed cities, changed home, changed mortage provider.

Things really spiralled downhill in the naughties.  After they were purchased by RBS the service standard nose-dove into corporate solelessness and ignorant, if cheerful, front of house staff.  Luckily I missed experiencing the gradual decay because I was living and primarily banking in the USA. Since returning to the UK they’ve actualy reduced me to tears twice, by aggressively trying to sell me services.

Today they treated me with their normal intrusive and condescending rudeness. AaarggGHH. The last straw. I calmly asked the informations desk for advice on the most efficient and effective way close all my acounts with them.  It felt good to stride out of the shop upright, hanky still in my pocket, knowing that I wont be going back.

David Bowie sang Changes

Decomissioning one battered home laptop and replacing it with another one is not an easy process. The key players involved – hardware and software manufacturers are not very good at removing the blockers to replacing their equipment which is quite ironic when they try to sell you new stuff.

Last time that I replaced my laptop I moved from Windows XP Professional to Windows Vista Home premium. I asked the shop assisstant whether this would affect the fact that I synchronise My Docs with a remote network drive, I still wanted to use the ‘Offline files’ feature, could I use this with Windows Home Premium. Oh Yes the salesman inaccurately replied. I made the mistake of believing he knew what he was talking about and didnt spend a couple of hours trying to find out if this was true.  I purchased a machine with Windows Vista Home Premium, took it home and used the awesome file and setting transfer wizard thing to move stuff from my old computer to my new computer.

Windows Vista Home Premium doesnt work with offline files.  The file and setting transfer wizard did attempt to move my settings from a version of windows where they exist to a version of windows where they dont exist. The result was that the documents link in the start menu simply ignored me.  It’s never worked. I’ve tried all sorts of things, but its never worked.  Eventually I gave up on having the benefit of offline file sync and I manually back-up new files by moving them to my network drive. 

I’ve bought a netbook.  It’s got a different version of Windows on it.  Windows starter. Wow, I feel a bit insulted,  just because I want a small cheap laptop they’ve already labelled me a astarter.  I’ve been using computers for years,  why couldn’t they call it something like ‘windows light’ or ‘winodws streamline’ that highlighted that it probably doesn’t have a load of features rather than insult me by telling me I’m a started.  Puh! 

Now the challenge is whether I use the windows ‘easy’ file settings and transfer wizard to transfer my settings that once worked on XP professional, that partly work on home premium, to windows starter?  I suspect there will be problems. What do you think?

I feel a bout of procrastination coming on.

talking to a Heathrow security guard from South Africa (Durban) while we wait for the Reading Railair coach

South African: where are you from?

wendy: west England

South Afircan: I’ve been trying to place your accent, it doesn’t sound just English

wendy: I did live in the USA for 7 years

South African: Yes, that’s what I’m hearing

Turns out that the South African security gaurd lives less than 500 yards away from me in Reading. I feel safe.

My journey to Paris today was all a bit exciting

electronic checkin:  we cannot check you in please go to an Air France Desk

Air France desk: are you on one of the plane’s that’s been cancelled?

Apparantly I was. Luckily they got me on another flight in the emergency exit seat with more leg room than I could reasonably justify even when waggling my skinny legs around enthusiastically.

At Charles De Gaulle airport the first train wasn’t going exactly where I wanted to go.  What the heck,  I got on with the intention of changing when the routes differed. This tactic got me where I needed to be in time.

I did notice the signs on some platform,  information signs, saying no trains….   …I managed to get where I needed to be without realising that Paris had been immobilised by industrial action

want

before tell

ending in need

wendy: excuse me, do you know if the bus drivers give change here?

Stranger: yes they do, it’s not like Reading

wendy: OH, MY! I’ve just come from Reading today, that’s where I live!

stranger: I used to live in Reading, I moved here 11 years ago, I’m visiting Reading tomorrow

wendy: oh, OH! I used to live in Southsea for 7 years, I’m just visiting, I’ll be back in Reading tomorrow, I’ll keep an eye out for you, nice to meet you and thank you!

Medici: Godfathers of the Renaissance, by Paul Strathern

Recommended for people who love reading history books or are fascinated by the Medici family.

  one smile. Ratings explained

On the good side the journey through the family’s history we meet Michelangello, Botticeli, Galileo, lots of Popes and all sorts of kings and queens of France and Spain. Murders, double dealing, cunning plans galore. Lots of fascinating goings-on. 

My brother started reading this book and gave up one third of the way through. Mumzie read it and loved it. I was determiend to get to the end, hoping it would get a bit more gripping and less like a History course text book.  Though other reviewers cite it’s strength as being the non-academic writting. Academic writing must be deadly tedious. This book was a bit too dry given how fabulous the story actually is. I started reading this 400 page tome in December 2008 and finally finished in August 2010. Way too long.

I have not seen the PBS TV production, I suspect it is probably a much more rewarding experience to watch this series than read the book.

When my neighbours house was built in what used to be the substantial Wendy House garden they were given the on-street parking permit for the Wendy House. They were required to build a tandem double driveway for the Wendy house and the Wendy House is no longer entitled to an on street parking permit. Every year the Council sends me two application forms for on street parking permits that I am not entitled to.

I’m considering applying despite my lack of eligibitiy, incase they actually give me a permit. Then I will be able to park near my home when another car blocks my driveway.

lady: does anyone know what Ludlow’s like?

wendy: its cute and its got a Castle, my dad was evacuated there as a child during World War 2. When we were children he took us to visit to see where he used to live and play.

• walnut and carrot cake
• Peanut butter
• wendy house kitchen
• wendy house bed sheets
• wendy house

Neverland is collecting symptoms of aging, the sort of symptoms that make me consider replacing a computer. 2 years old and is very well travelled. And worn.

Wear and tear includes but is not limited to:

1. In Italy she took a bit of a beating and parts of her hinge and lid case fell off.  I managed to push them back on but her lid has been a bit ‘rattly’ ever since.
2. Tonight I accidentally trod on the power-chord connector pushing the metal protuding plug into the rubber casing.  A pair of pliers have temporarily solved this problem but the power cable keeps falling out of the socket when its plugged in on my lap.

Of course there is always the lure of something special and new, perhaps an ipad, a netbook, a Dell Streak, an Acer somethingorother?

 Walking to the train station I watch the car drivers sat in the rush hour traffic jams.

Mainly men in executive accessory cars. The BMW’s drivers wearing reflective wrap-around sunglasses as the drizzle obscures the light. Most of the cars are single occupancy. I see a few girls driving older, smaller cars.

On the train station I see this advert. A subtler form of the classic 1970′s advertising. The girl isn’t wearing a bikini and isn’t draped across the bonnet in high heeled red shoes. It feels like the world is stepping backwards to those 1970 values covering them in the  gloss of a slightly different spin. I might have aspired to owning an Alfa Romeo if they hadn’t irritated me with this advertising campaign.

Why even try to sell new cars to girls when they can’t get the jobs to afford such expensive products. Adverts for men where girls are little more than entertainment and adornment. Popular TV programmes promote girls in this secondary role, reinforcing looking good, marrying well. I mourn the optimism of the 1980′s when for a few years I believed that things were changing for the better.

If you ignore details like during a job interview I was asked if I was sleeping with one of my job referees because the reference was so good. Obviously it couldn’t be accurate….  I didn’t get offered the job, my references were suspiciously good…

Or there was when I took my car into a garage to be serviced in 1993 and they asked me when my husband would be turning-up to pay for the service. Sigh. I guess things never really did change and I’m just staying sane by living in a dream world…

I knocked on about 10 different doors asking if anyone in the house drove a small red Vaxhall Corsa. No-one did, but everyone gave me very helpful advice, telling me which houses I didn’t need to ask and which houses were strong contenders. One house was high on everyone’s list, the house with the jungle growing out of the window. The one hidden behind a sizeable hedge. The one with a sign advertsing a room vacant for a student.

I knocked, I asked. No, no-one in the house drove a red Vauxhall Corsa. I moved on.

The tiny Corsa was parked in a position that effectively blocked 2 driveways, which is illegal.  The car was also parked over one foot away from the curb and across a road parking space. These were not signs of a skilled driver, a careful or consderate person.  A baby seat was strapped in the back, a St. Georges flag decorated the rear window.

Poor Tanking thomas couldn’t get into the Wendy House drive and I don’t have a street parking permit.  One of my neighbours kindly offered to let me use her drive.   I didn’t have to find a place miles away, outside of the restricted parking zone and catch a bus home.  My favourite Fiesty neighbour started ranting on my behalf about how inconsiderate and ignorant the Corsa owner was. Fiesty neighbour offered me her spare street parking permit.

I photographed the Corsa, its parking permit, and got into Thomas to move him into my neighbours drive. As I started Thomas, a large blond lady come out of the jungle house, briskly walked up to the Corsa and got in.  I jumped out of Thomas and ran up to the Corsa before she pulled away, tapped on her window. She said nothing, just nodded as I explained that she had blocked my access, that I couldn’t park on the road and asked her not to park there again. She nodded, pulled away and drove the wrong way up a one way street. Both my neighbours watched.

Fiesty nieghbour: you were much more polite than I would have been

wendy: she knows where I live and could make life really difficult for me if she wanted – I told her all she needed to know and have photographic evidence

Fiesty neighbour: you should report her for driving the wrong way up a one way street

wendy: I think she would guess it was me, wouldn’t you guess it was me, and she might want to take revenge.

Fiesty neighbour: yes I’d guess it was you if it was me, you’re right, but she broke the law and is a pest

wendy: she’ll suffer for it because of who and how she is, I dont need to be the instrument or a focus of her suffering

Talking Heads sang Electric Guitar

Come and look at my garage,  look at my workbench and tools

My brother proudly shows me his work bench, chisel sets and other thoughtfully organised tools.  He’s recently cleared a space in the garage so he can make things. He’s always liked making things.  This hobby was temporarily interrupted by having a job selling electronic stuff in Asian countries to make big money.  Now he’s changed jobs, downgraded his income in favour of having time to do stuff he loves. On a budget.

This is my first guitar, it’s English Oak, its not common to use Oak to make Guitars, it is a bit heavy

I’m now in full audience mode. Something my father and brother have taught me to do well.  I’m mainly here to make appreciative noises and ask questions that help them tell their stories. I like the role, its fun to watch people talk about the things they love, dad and his Pylons, Bros and his making things.

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This is the first Guitar he’s made from scratch.  He looked less happy when he realised he wouldn’t be able to make a living by making guitars because it was so time consuming. I remember the first (Bass) guitar he renovated in his teens and sold for a profit over the purchase price and materials. Not profit on the labour.

His home has always been full of guitars he’s bought, renovated or upgraded.  His garden shed is a production studio for local bands, often full of people playing his instruments. 

The environmental health are investigating him,

the shed,  

for noise pollution….  …my Brother may get an ASBO….

On the way to an evening of BBC Proms in the Royal Albert Hall, walking along Kensington High Street,  we passed two Police people carring large guns.

Walking through the Louvre in Paris, we passed several people in army uniform carrying large guns.

I feel no more safe than before armed services patroling. I feel more scared, scared that I may be mistaken for a potential terrorist. As if we all lost freedom when governing powers felt the need to increase the arms on the streets and laws to control people who might be a threat.

A bridge over the river Siene is decorated with messages of love.

Padlocks.

On the barrel of each padlock is a message of love, some in black pen, some in red varnish.

Beautiful art emerging in one place, bought by so many lovers.

It’s visual, community poetry, in action. Sculpture. Very moving

He looked like I imagined Heathcliffe, all those years ago when at 12 I lost myself in the book. Even a stream of famous actors had failed to live up to my imagination.  That day in our brief conversations I found him to be softly spoken, not self-preposessed,  considerate of the other people around him. The serenity round him was reminsicent of Gregory Peck. 

The collar on his large white shirt had frayed through wear. It reminded me of my sweet smelling  ruffled white bedding, softened through use, always inviting. Together the rugged good looks, slightly neglected look and serenity had a powerful gravitational force on my heart. Alas, I wasn’t looking like Lauren Bacall or Audrey Hepburn. For a moment I felt terribly tatty, wishing I had practiced the socially acceptable art of girliness so that I could do all those things that are meant to be attractive, bat long dark mascara laden eyelashes at him, step forward confidently in high heels, smile with reddened lips and glance sideways at at him though contact lenses rather than spectacles. Luckily, this suprise moment of intensley painful insecurity passed quickly with thoughts of my resemblance to the fabulously beautiful Patti Smith.

When we parted I took his hand in both of mine, smiled into his deeply dark eyes, and told him that I was certain that we would meet again.

The luminous green net tutu and orange tights wobbled by, closely followed by the stripey tights on inturned knees.

This dress-non-sense temporarily baffled me. Why so garrish? But when I noticed the big smile on my face.  Thank you for brightening my cloudy day!

The views from this Kensignton Palace building must have been severely hampered by the modern Hotel building behind. At first I was horrified that town planners had let this happen, surely people vociferously complained when they saw the plans?

Then the sheer perversity of the juxtaposition began to work a subversive magic on my taste. The smaller building looked so much more cute because of its unassuming presence in the shadow of a large and ugly Hotel.

Happy Frog and I recently quoted:

The greater part of our happiness or misery depends on our dispositions, and not our circumstances.  Martha Washington

Had I been one of Martha’s collection of slaves, my circumstances would have made a BIG impact on my disposition.  I’d be effing miserable rather than just occassionally a tiny bit grumpy.  But I could do something about it, I could escape and become free and that would change both my circumstances and disposition.

I suspect that Hippy Frog and I is suggestung that we should not just accept circumstances, we can change them for the better with the force of thought alone…  …which can lead to words… …and action…

The rain it never stops and I’ve no particular place to go…   …for me this song captures profound sadness so beautifully. 

Japan sang Ghosts

Looking good in an empty pocketed tairored blue pin stripped designer suit on a sunny day.  Strolling the canal bank to the equally dressed up fancy city offices of a new client.  Without a word, the receptionist buzzed me into the building, then asked  

you’re here for the interview, right?

Luckily no-one else was standing near enough to me to hear the rush of air as I deflated. The receptionist noticed my smile slip and fixed me up with a nice big mug of tea.

David captures a fictionalisation of the moment when the French Emperor Napolean crowns Josephine Empress of France. It’s a BIG picture. This version hangs in a room at the end of the Versailles Hall of Mirrors.

I rather liked that a tourist in the foreground is wearing a triangular crown made from newspaper. Very versataille: read or wear as oppose to ready to wear..

This is the end of short trains,

they will be terminated,

only long trains from now on.

Those French are both assertive and sizist.

The homeless slept on the streets by the monuments. Belongings stocked in supermarket trolleys. The open-top sightseeing tourist bus roll by as the rain clouds gather and the homeless sleep in the warmth of the daylight.

I saw several cardboard cities around the inner Paris suburbs, groups of homeless helping each other. Hiding from the weather, not from the public.

At pedestrian crossings the homeless sat silently on the floor holding out used paper cups containing a few coins.

Early evening In Paris, in the company of a recently married couple, leaving our hotel in search of the Tour Eiffel. Will we walk? Will we ride bus 63 then 24? Will we take the metro? Do we want to get there quickly or have a beer first?

The map with the metro and bus routes rustles she checks routes and numbers. The map never leaves her hands yet the decision making is clearly mutual. I chip in ‘Hoorah’ when having a beer is thrown into the mix then comment that I don’t mind how or when we get there.  

The discussion takes minutes, it’s like an elegant dance. If alone I would already be sat in that bar drinking a beer, watching the world go by, listening to people and relaxing. In their company I am happiest to be stood on the street corner listening to the uncovering of each others values, finding out what works best for both of them,  together.  It’s sensible, practical, sometimes funny, time consuming. It’s love. I am watching love happen and glad to be temporarily touched by it’s closeness.

My understanding of a couples’ love has been changed by not having lived in it for over a decade.  I’m not speaking of the love of family, friends, my recently departed Matrix or her remaining companion. I’m speaking of the sharing and merging of selves. In my last decade there was the too-sluggish death of a rejected love, skirmishes into sexual relationships, the love of close friends and cats.  My view on the love between a couple is now mainly drawn from strong memories of my 4 very different loves from the last century, watching and listening to others, and the stories told in books, films, blogs and newspapers.

The loves that I see shining brightest is in sharing the detail of living. Things like shopping for food, preparing a meal, deciding how to spend the evening. All show love. Maybe those of you who are living in love find this odd when the passion and joy in the laughter, warmth, smiles, praise, sex, and scents can be so wonderfully intense and engulfing.  I can find laughter, warmth, smiles, praise, sex and scents in my life. When I’m with friends and family there is also the mutual knowledge of sharing the detail of life with someone who has gradually built an understanding of what works.  When the passion and the detail meet with another single person, this is the couples love. Not part of my life.

We stopped for some golden beers before taking the Metro to the Tour Eiffel. We danced through the park basking in the glory of the tower’s golden night-time plumage.

This post is dedicated to Paris, the traveler, her first love, her husband, and the memory of Matrix.