Tag Archive | Oxford

More National Gallery, A Jo Malone Facial and a Mayfair Walk

Jan14

Wednesday, January 14, 2009
London

I had a lovely day to remember. Despite the fact that the sun was nowhere in sight, it was mild enough to make walking pleasurable and I stashed a variety of experiences into my day. I haven’t yet gotten over jetlag and I did awake at 3. 30 am once again, tossed until 4, 30 am, then spent an hour in bed finishing up The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga. I have to admit that I find the book sorely disappointing and simply cannot understand why it received the Booker Prize. Amitav Ghosh’s Sea of Poppies was far more impressive in its sweep, its historical perspectives and its literary achievements, I think.

I lost internet connectivity this morning, so decided to make myself some breakfast before I had a shower and left at 9. 45 am for the National Gallery where I hoped to cover the six rooms that comprise works from the 16th centuries. The huge canvasses by Paolo Veronese and Titian were quite marvelous indeed and The Four Elements by the Belgian artist Joachim Beuckelaer featuring Earth, Air, Fire and Water were a revelation. Since I got there early in the morning, I found the galleries quite deserted–a fact that made my contemplation of them much more enjoyable.

Then, I took a bus to Brooke Street just off Old Bond Street where I had a 12 noon appointment for a Facial Workshop at Jo Malone. I was really looking forward to this session as I do love Jo Malone products very much and it is always interesting to discover her new lines and fragrances. I was offered a choice of champagne or tea and, of course, no marks for guessing that I chose the former.

As I settled down to my one hour session that included a complimentary facial and a hand massage, Ranjeeta, one of the Sales Associates introduced herself to me. Together with Caroline, her beautiful black colleague, I felt thoroughly pampered. It was no surprise to me that “Jo’s” Avocado Cleanser and Rosemary and Mint Toner would feel divine. I am quite familiar with her fragrance line, of course, my own favorites being Grapefruit, Pomegranate Noir and Orange Blossom. However, when Ranjeeta slathered my face with a luxurious White Nectarine and Honey Mask and gave me a relaxing massage, it felt quite blissful indeed.

While the mask did a deep nourishing job, she worked on my hands, massaging them with the exfoliating Vitamin E Scrub that contains sugar crystals and salts and almond oil and then treating them to the Vitamin E Gel for which Jo Malone is famous. When she was done, she sprayed a combination of Pomegranate Noir and Orange Blossom colognes all over my hands and then returned to my face.

When the mask was wiped off, she slathered on a small amount of the magical Vitamin E serum and a goodly amount of the Jojoba Cream and mixing them together, she applied them lovingly to the contours of my face. I have to say that my skin glowed and felt like a million quid!!! So heavenly! I noticed then that all the tiny black scabs that had formed after my face was cauterized in Bombay to remove a collection of minuscule skin tags and warts on it have entirely disappeared. After the beating it took during the cauterization, this was really the best time to pamper my complexion and nourish it and hopefully the little red spots that have clustered around my face in their wake will disappear completely with time. I am glad I had the courage to go ahead with the cauterization process in Bombay and I am glad that I chanced to come upon this promotion at the Jo Malone salon–indeed it could not have come at a more opportune time for the cauterization and the pollution in Bombay have done a number on my skin and it is time to get it back on the road towards healing. As if all this were not enough, I was presented with a small bag containing a sample of the Vitamin E gel and the newest fragrance, Sweet Lime and Cedar, in a small purse spray. As the treatments were being carried out on my face, I sipped my chilled champagne and felt as if I could not have asked for a more delightful treat.

Then, I browsed in a few stores in the swanky Mayfair area. Everything is the stores is heavily discounted and were I someone who enjoyed shopping, I guess I could have had a field day. As it is, I prefer to window shop. When a bus came along, I hopped into it as far as Marble Arch from where I intended to launch on another one of my self-guided walking tours. I am resuming them a long time after becoming diagnosed with plantar fasciitis, so I chose a rather easy one based on the heart of the Oxford Street area.

The walk is entitled “Hangings and Hoaxes” and when it left the bustle of Marble Arch behind–interestingly, the site was once known as Tyburn Street and was the venue of grizzly public hangings that attracted countless spectators–it took me into the quietest mews. I passed by the blue plaques that proclaimed the sites of former homes of famous authors–Wilkie Collins, author of The Moonstone and The Woman in White, the first detective crime fiction ever produced; T. S. Eliot; and American patriot Benedict Arnold. Passing by a couple of hotels in the vicinity, I learned about Victorian murders and subsequent hangings. There were a couple of interesting stories associated with parliamentary conspiracies as in the Cato Conspiracy and a hoax associated with Lady Tichborne’s family. I particularly enjoyed visiting a pub called The Windsor Castle on Crawford Place which was filled to the ceiling (quite literally) with royal commemorative memorabilia such as plates and mugs and bowls and busts that were piled in the windows and on the walls and in specially constructed niches on the ceiling. Indeed every inch of space inside is taken by this amazing collection and I was very glad that I asked the bartender’s permission to browse through the rooms and marvel at their treasures.

Then, quite by happenstance, I found myself on Portman Square passing right by the premises of Habibsons Bank, in which our family friend Bande Hasan is the CEO. On impulse, I decided to pop in and, if he were free to see me, to say Hello to him. As it turned out, he had just finished his lunch and insisted I have a cup of coffee and some biscuits before I set out once again on my tourist route. We caught up on the happenings of the past few weeks and I was particularly intrigued by his accounts of the many shoots he has undertaken. As someone who has recently taken to shooting, he talked about his success with stalking and shooting pheasants, partridges and pigeons and about the feasting that is a part of this very English tradition. After exchanging pleasantries for a good twenty minutes, I was on my way again arriving on Edgeware Road, at the end of the walk.

I hopped into buses that took me slowly back home. Indeed it was excruciatingly slow along Oxford Street and I couldn’t for the life of me see why the bus crawled the way it did as there wasn’t the sort of frenzied crowds that were in evidence prior to Christmas. By the time I arrived home, darkness was falling over the city (the sun now sets at about 4. 30 pm) and I was relieved to discover that I did recover internet connectivity and was able to retrieve my email. A couple of hours spent with my PC gave my feet a much-needed rest before I decided to do a bit of cooking–a Sausage and Feta Cheese Frittata and a Stir-Fry with Mixed Vegetables.

Then, it was time to eat my dinner while watching some innane commentary by the “Fashion Police” on th red carpets outfits worn at the Golden Globe Awards. By the time they were half way through it, I was nodding off on the couch.

It was that darn jetlag playing up again!

A White Connecticut Christmas!

Dec27

Monday, December 22, 2008
Southport, CT

If I had been dreaming of a white Christmas in Connecticut, I would not have been disappointed. Snow is piled up about 6 inches thick and the driveway at Holly Berry House is a skating rink. Not having driven for four months, I am a nervous wreck behind the wheel as I try to coax our Toyota Camry to climb the slight incline towards our garage. I have a bit of shopping to do—gifts for folks in India and ingredients for our Christmas meal. But this evening, I will be meeting my pals at dinner at Bangalore Restaurant in Fairfield.

It turns out that my friend and world travel companion Amy Tobin initiated the move that would bring a few of her closest Fairfield friends together for a Reunion to coincide with my visit home. After much mass-emailing, the group finally found a mutually convenient date…except that in the morning, Llew called to tell me that the volume at work was so intense, he seriously thought he would miss the meal altogether. I called my friend Amy de Lannoy and asked her for a ride and she came with husband Dan promptly at 7. 20 to pick me up.

What a lovely raucous reunion we all had at Bangalore! There was Mary-Lauren and her husband Brett, Bonnie and husband Art, Amy with Dan and, of course, Amy Tobin with her Significant Other Rothschild whom, except for Llew and myself, none of the others had met. In fact, they had almost begun to believe that Rothschild–more elusive than the Scarlet Pimpernel –did not exist beyond Amy’s imagination. The folks at Bangalore gave us a private room which allowed us to be even more raucous all evening long as we caught up on all our news. I was so thrilled to have been able to see so many of my Fairfield friends again at one go and I am very grateful to Amy Tobin for setting this up and to Amy de Lannoy for coordinating the effort.

Llew, of course, was missing, and as the resident ‘India Expert’, I was invited to order our meal. Amy de Lannoy, who knows Bangalore and Indian food better than the others, consulted with me and we settled for Lamb Biryani, Chicken Tikka Masala (Amy T’s must-have), Navratan Korma, Shrimp Chemeen Curry, Chicken Tangdi Kebab—and all of the food was delicious. Every one of us relished the meal to the very last morsel, so that by the time poor Llew turned up, the dishes did not require washing! However, he was able to join us for a glass of wine while a few of us opted for masala chai. Conversation never stopped for a second as we discussed everything—from Chriselle’s engagement and wedding plans to Amy de Lannoy’s new dog, from Halle’s job to The Factoras’ Christmas plans…on and on it went, and of course, I talked about my new life in London and how much I love it—trying hard all the time not to gush too much! Everyone was delighted that Llew was able to join us even if for a little while. It was a lovely end to a lovely day!

Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Southport, CT

With only two days left to Christmas, I have finally surfaced to start to think about gift wrapping. I multi-tasked, retrieving boxes from our basement, measuring wrapping paper and decorating parcels with Christmas ornaments. I also put together a number of gift bags for Llew to take to his colleagues at BNP Paribas. After he left, I set about trying to mail out our annual Christmas greetings via email. I started off okay, but somewhere also the way I messed up and ended up losing connectivity to the Internet. This turned out to be my inadvertent installation of a Firewall which has stopped us accessing the internet and there went my project for the year. It seems as if a few of the folks on our mailing list did get the letter containing a round up of our family news, but most of the others will now have to wait until January 14 or 15 when I will be back home in London and am online again.

Since I have no internet connection at my parents’ place in Bandra, Bombay, Chriselle talked me out of carrying my laptop to India and I think her suggestion was very sound indeed. Not having my PC, will give me the chance to truly interact with my parents, spend quality time with them and my cousin Blossom and her kids and generally make for a more fruitful stay in India. I will, of course, continue to keep a travel journal as I always do, and I will resume blogging retrospectively,

Here in snow-ridden Southport, I still seem to be keeping London time for I am awaking at 5 am and by 8 pm, I fall comatose on the couch. Llew is keeping extraordinarily late hours at the bank and doesn’t get home until 10 pm. but he does have the day off tomorrow. And so I finally turned to the matter of a menu for our Christmas dinner. Hard to believe how long grocery shopping and running bank errands takes, but I was only able to get back home at 11. 30 am to start cooking. I have to say that everything feels a little odd including donning my apron and starting to cook. It’s not as if I have forgotten how to wield a laddle—it’s just that for almost three months now, I have barely cooked at all in London and though I realized that I love it and miss messin’ around a kitchen, it still felt a little strange to have to start chopping and peeling and re-discovering that the burners on my cooking range do not light spontaneously but need to be manually lit with a match!

I spent the afternoon making Chole, Stuffing Mushrooms with Bacon and Caramelized Onions and pouring a cheese sauce over the lot. I also made my mother’s Cucumber-Coconut Salad and the Koftas for the Kofta Biryani. By 5 pm, I was tired and went off for a short nap only to come down to the kitchen again to start preparations for the Rajpipla Chicken (Parsi-Style, another recipe from my mother’s vast repertoire of favorites) which I marinated in a ginger-garlic paste. Suddenly, conjuring culinary magic felt fabulous again and I was thrilled to have all the pots and pans and utensils I needed for a large meal of this kind.

When Llew got home, we watched the Jay Leno shows and Britcoms that he had TIVO-ed for me. He was also keen for me to view the Saturday Night Live installments that he had saved in which Sarah Palin had been so mercilessly parodied. We laughed till our sides ached. It was like old times again—two (old) Couch Potatoes who thoroughly enjoy dinner and the telly. Then, we were watching New Tricks, a British mystery series. Only I fell asleep on the sofa at the very climax, just as I used to do until four months ago! Put me in front of a TV after a good meal and I am out like a light!!!

Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Southport, CT

Llew had taken the day off so we luxuriated all morning, eating a big breakfast and lingering over coffee. He had a doctor’s appointment in the morning, which left me enough time to complete the chicken that had been marinating overnight in my fridge. After frying it till it was golden brown, I made the yogurt sauce flavored with tomato ketchup and Worcestershire sauce that drowns it in a yummy bath!

By the time Llew got back, the rain had started to fall—freezing rain and sleet and I wanted to stay cooped up at home, except that Llew persuaded me to get into the car with him and drive up to Clinton Crossings to the designer outlets so that I could get all my shopping for India done in one fell swoop. Llew had been up there himself with our Canadian friends at Thanksgiving and had informed me that the prices were unbeatable. He wanted to buy a few pairs of trousers, I need a few gifts for my loved ones in India and overall, it made sense to schlep up there and kill as many birds as we could with one stone. So much as I wanted to stay homebound, I complied with his suggestion and off we went.

Driving conditions were pretty awful and visibility was very poor indeed, but when we arrived at Clinton, it was fabulous. We went into stores like Geoffrey Beene and Van Heusen that appeared to be closing down completely. Merchandise was pretty much being given away and I found great clothing for my relatives in India, Llew found the trousers he wanted, I got a bunch of Argyle patterned socks and feeling exceedingly pleased with ourselves, we returned home in time for showers and to catch the 6 pm evening Mass at St. Thomas Aquinas Church, our parish in Fairfield.

At 5. 30 pm, the church was already half full—it is always a mystery to me how so many folks seem to crawl out of the woodwork only at Christmas and Easter! Where are all these people during the rest of the year? Fr. Martin was in great spirits—in keeping with the season. A few mornings ago, when I went to the Rectory to pick up some additional calendars for my brother Russel in Bombay, I had bumped into Fr. Martin and received a warm and very hearty welcome as well as a hug and a kiss! He was so pleased to see me again and wanted to know all about my life in London. That’s one of the nicest things about coming home to a small Connecticut town–everyone knows everybody else.

Mass was very interesting indeed. There was a Nativity Pageant put on by the kids—a lovely attempt at recreating that first Christmas except that Mary was taller and probably older than the slightly-built Joseph. Wonderful singing from our choir (though I was disappointed by the absence of the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ from Handel’s Messiah) and the bringing out of the cake, fully lit with a gazillion candles that were blown out as all the kids in church sang ‘Happy Birthday to Jesus’, make the entire mass very special indeed.

Then, at the very end, when I was returning from Communion, I spotted our neighbor John Donovan sitting with his family, three pews behind ours, and waving enthusiastically to me. Of course, then, after Mass, I had a fabulous reunion with Trish, his wife and my walking partner, who tells me that she misses me sorely because she has no one to walk with anymore! She commiserated with me over Plantar Fascittis and informed me that she had it a few years ago, brought on by running. It took her two to three months, she said, to get rid of it, which is much less time than it seems to be taking me to lick it. From everything I have heard since arriving in the States, I must keep up with the exercises and not give up doing them even when it seems like I am healing. Trish suggested yoga (she is a huge yoga afficionado) and gave me all the news about our new neighbors next door, who moved in while I was in London. Gosh, it really seems as if I will have a lot of catching up to do by the time I arrive in Connecticut next year. “You’ll really like them, Rochelle”, said Trish about the Trottas, who have moved up north from Florida and are thrilled about all the snow and ice as they’ve never truly experienced a white winter, Trish tells me!

Meanwhile, my friend Rosemary Harding in Cincinnati (to whom I chatted on the phone) and Mary Jo Smith in Connecticut both told me to continue doing the exercises as stretching the plantar is the only way to make the condition disappear for good. Not having done the exercises for more than three weeks now, I feel awful, but have resovled to resume my exercise routine right away! I am amazed at how many people tell me that they have had plantar fascittis or know someone who had it. Mary, my dental hygienist, told me that her mother had it ten years ago!

Llew and I returned home to one of our traditional Christmas Eve dinners—Roasted Shrimp with Garlic and Tomatoes served with crusty bread and a green salad. This is what I most miss. Being at home with Llew, eating a home-cooked meal, sipping a glass of wine, having something terrific on the telly. By the way, I’ve discovered that Ina Garten, aka The Barefoot Contessa, has a new TV series on—it’s called Back to Basics and is accompanied by one of her fabulous books—which I hope I will find in my Christmas stocking! When I get back to London, I will start watching her show again as I am sure they will show the newest episodes based on the latest book.

Thursday, December 25, 2008
Southport, CT

Christmas Day dawned crisp and clean, the land covered by a blanket of glistening snow. I swear that for the first few moments when I opened my eyes, I had no idea where I was. The silence was complete and added to my sense of bewilderment. Was I in London? Was I in Bombay? Opening one of my eyes, very slowly, I spied the navy blue down comforter draped around me and I realized then that I was home in Southport, Connecticut. It was the strangest feeling in the world.

Because we had been to mass the previous evening, we had the morning to laze around and eat a big brunch. I always fix us a Seafood Brunch Strada on Christmas morning with shrimp and crabmeat, sautéed onions and three cheeses all bound together with an egg custard. It’s always scrumptious and since I bake it in a huge casserole, Llew will have plenty of leftovers!

Llew pottered around on our computer trying to disable the firewall and get internet connectivity again but he wasn’t able to succeed. I began assembling a salad that involved the use of pomegranate seeds and we all know how long it takes to get those little rubies out of those canvas shells! I decided that since we have so many bottles of champagne at home, I would fix Peach Bellinnis when Chriselle and Chris arrive later in the afternoon–a way of celebrating their engagement! Chriselle spent Christmas Eve with Chris’ folks in the Hamptons and attended mass with them this morning. The drive from Long Island to Connecticut should take them about two hours. We expect them by 1. 30 or 2 pm.

I pureed the peaches for the Bellinnis, juiced the pomegranate to make the syrup for the cocktails and assembled the rest of the ingredients for the salad—romaine lettuce, mandarin oranges, honey roasted peanuts, goat cheese in a parsley-flavored dressing—a variation on a recipe that was given to me years ago by my friend Liz Stiles. I also began to parboil basmati rice for the biryani and put the finishing touches on the table—we had English crackers at each place setting and all of these little touches made me feel so very festive. I love Christmas because it makes me feel like a kid again and this year is extra special because I am spending it with the loved ones whom I have crossed an ocean to see!

Chriselle and Chris arrived on cue at 2.00pm in Santa guise for they did enter hauling what looked like a huge sack of gifts! They were delighted with the Bellinis. Of course, we took a few pictures by the tree before we settled down to catch up with everything that has happened in their lives since I left in August—not the least of which is their engagement and wedding plans! I admired Chriselle’s diamond solitaire before we decided to begin our meal. Chris loves Indian food and couldn’t wait to tuck in. The Salad was a huge hit and was followed by the Chicken with Chole and Mushrooms served with Naans. When that was done, I brought out the Kofta Biryani and the Cucumber-Coconut Salad. We decided to take a break and have dessert only after we’d finished opening gifts.

Chriselle loved the outfits I got her from Oxford Street and quite happily modeled them for us as she opened each box. For Chris, at Chriselle’s suggestion, we got a zipped sweat shirt and an ornament from the Metropolitan Museum. I had brought Llew a DVD of the French and Saunders Still Alive Show that I had seen alone at Drury Lane Theater in London. When I had tried to buy a ticket for him when he was with me in London, every single one was sold out. I was delighted that he could at least enjoy it through DVD. I also got him the twin set of Cliff Richard’s 50th anniversary DVD with which he was delighted. He said he would download it on to his Ipod at once. Chris looked bewildered, never having heard of Cliff Richard and we had to inform him that Cliff Richard was only one of the most popular singers in the UK (and maybe the world!) and had been for 50 years!

As for me, I was perfectly pleased with my Ina Garten Back to Basics Book—it was exactly what I wanted and I couldn’t wait to browse through it, but, of course, I know that this pleasure will have to wait until I return to the States next year. Chriselle squealed when she opened a present from Chris to discover the DVD of Mamma Mia, a movie she hadn’t seen. Since Llew hadn’t seen it either, we decided to spend the rest of the afternoon watching it and singing along, much to Chris’ amusement.

Half way through the movie (which I had seen twice inflight across the pond), I went into the kitchen to fix coffee and dessert. This was my piece de resistance—a Limited Edition vintage Christmas Pudding from Harrods which came with silver pennies to pop into each serving (so that everyone came out a lucky winner) and a jar of brandy butter. I sent Llew out into the garden to snip off a sprig of holly to decorate the top (our home is not called Holly Berry House for nothing!) and turned it over on a plate. Needless to say, the pudding had been steaming for two hours on the stove while we were at dinner and was still wonderfully warm. I poured a generous quantity of rum over it and then set it alight and we all watched with glee as the blue flame enveloped the pud in a warm light. I also set out Mince Pies (Chris thought they were filled with ground beef not realizing that mincemeat in the UK is candied dried fruit!) With cream and coffee, we enjoyed our lovely English treats that came in a ceramic pudding basin with Harrods emblazoned on the side of it—a true keeper and one in which I know I will make Christmas puddings in the years to come!

With the movie having come to an end and dessert consumed, the Christmas festivities came to a halt. It was a very different Christmas from the ones we usually have—we have combined with our close friends Ian and Jenny Sequeira and their kids to have a joint celebration for several years and last year, there were fifteen adults at Christmas at our place! This year was just the opposite—it was quiet and relaxed–with just the four of us. We had loads of fun, we did pull crackers, I did insist that we wear our hats throughout the meal, we did keep the champagne flowing and we did watch a movie and enjoy a great meal together.

But for me, most of all, this Christmas was one in which I had an epiphany of sorts. It was one, perhaps because I have been so far away from my loved ones, in which I learned the true meaning of the season. Christmas, I now realize, is all about compassion for those who have so much less than we do and it is about giving till it hurts. In faraway Belfast, I was taught the lesson that my Dad has been trying to teach me for years—that there is greater joy in giving than in receiving. I learned this lesson from a lone accordionist in Belfast who blew on his blue fingers as he stood on the sidewalk all day trying to earn a few pennies to keep his four children fed. I could not get the image of this Eastern European immigre out of my mind—far from the impoverished fields of Rumania which he has abandoned to seek a better life in Ireland for himself and his family, this man taught me how fabulous it can feel to fill a face with sudden and unexpected joy. Fernando’s face lit up like a candle when I placed a note in his hand. It was the largest pound note I had in my wallet at that time. I left Belfast holding close to my heart that extraordinarily warming feeling of having brought some joy to a few very poor people at this special time of year when so many folks are reeling from job losses. Tears filled my eyes as I walked away from Fernando–but they were not tears of sorrow at all. They were tears of the purest joy at how much happiness I had brought him by one small spontaneous gesture. Throughout Christmas Day, I kept thinking of those four poor Rumanian kids who, I hoped, would have a slightly better Christmas, because I had been moved by the sight of their hardworking father who stood on the street in the sleet and freezing rain of an Irish winter’s day in order to make a few pennies by playing his accordion.

For these gifts—the gifts of being with my nearest and dearest this holiday, for the peace that passeth understanding and for the happiness that came from my giving a small portion of my excess of possessions—I am truly grateful this Christmas.

A Christmas ‘Panto’ in Richmond and Hyde Park’s Winter Wonderland

Dec18

Thursday, December 18, 2008
London

My guests arrived when I was beginning to despair–close to noon. I had expected them at least an hour earlier, but used the time to finalize my own packing as well as seeing to the last-minute items on my To-Do List.

With little time to spare after we said our first Hellos, I ushered Jenny-Lou and her daughter Kristen to the underground station for our long ride to Hammersmith from where we changed lines to get to Richmond. I was afraid it would take us much longer to get there and was relieved when we arrived at Richmond with a good 45 minutes to spare. This left us time to pick up sandwiches from Tesco which we ate while overlooking Richmond’s spacious Green, right behind the bustle of the shopping area which is called The Quadrant. Then, ten minutes later, we were inside the theater, picking up tickets that were held for me at the Box Office.

No one was more surprised than I to find the theater packed to the rafters with the tiniest little school kids out on a field trip with their long-suffering teachers. Every seat was occupied and the little ones were squirming in their seats with excitement. Peter Pan was the perfect play for this age group–most under seven years of age. I had such a blast sitting in the midst of these lovely innocent angels and watching their reactions. From everything I had read about this typically British tradition of the pantomime, it is a highly interactive form of drama in which the audience participates fully, warning the hero and heroine about the approach of the ‘baddies’ who hide behind the rocks or shows their appreciation not just by clapping their hands but by stamping their feet as well and shouting till they’re hoarse. Bonnie Langford’s Peter Pan was wonderfully lively and her flying through the stage, though now technologically old-hat was still marvelous enough for the little kids to stare open-mouthed in amazement. As for Captain Hook, played by the one and only Simon Callow, he was superb and seemed to be having the most fun. I was delighted to find an old song I had learnt when I was myself in primary school, “We’re following the Leader” as well as, most unexpectedly, Elton John’s “Crocodile Rock” both featured in the show –the latter with slightly different lyrics!!! Overall, I had a superbly entertaining time at the theater and was glad that my very first British ‘panto’ was a resounding success. Jenny and Kristen loved it too and were as charmed as I was by the vigour with which the audience got involved.

Back on the Tube, we got off at Hyde Park Corner, which made it very convenient for us to visit the Winter Wonderland about which everyone has been raving. Each time I have passed by Hyde Park in the past few weeks, I have been attracted to the giant ferris wheel and the lights in the trees and the general mood of merriment that surrounds the park. Entry to the park was free, but as soon as we reached the first stall, we knew we were in for a rare treat. The Wonderland turned out to be a German Christmas Fair complete with food stalls, shops selling distinctively German Christmas handicrafts and a variety of awesome rides that were most unusual and extraordinarily tasteful. Jenny and Kristen went on the Big Scream Roller coaster and Kristen walked through the Maze of Mirrors. We picked up steaming hot Gluhwein (hot mulled wine) and hot chocolate for Kristen,and walked with our glasses as they warmed our hands effectively. Not that they needed much warming. After weeks of awful weather, it was unseasonably mild tonight which made our stroll in the park very pleasurable indeed. For dinner, we chose to eat a variety of items–all German, all carb-heavy. Kristen opted for bratwurst in a long toasted roll, Jenny was attracted to a plate of hot boiled potatoes seasoned with bacon and I chose a big bowl of sauteed mushrooms served with a garlic sauce. For dessert. we picked up a paper cone filled with crisp honey roasted cashew nuts and almonds–so yummy! We walked right to the very end of the fair to take in the bungie jumpers and the huge ferris wheel that was beautifully lit up and filled the entire area with a festive spirit.

When we’d reached the banks of the Serpentine, we turned around and talked towards the exit, then hopped into a bus that took us to Marble Arch from where we caught another bus that went along the lengths of Oxford and Regent Streets. This gave us all a chance to marvel at the holiday lights which everyone says are more spectacular than usual this year. Shoppers still crowded the streets and the stores and since everything is handsomely discounted, hopefully Christmas this year will not be as doleful as the economists predict.

When the bus arrived at Aldwych, we jumped off and walked the short distance along Waterloo Bridge to get to the South Bank where I had heard that a Continental Market was on. However, by the time we arrived there, it was winding down and the stall owners were calling it a day. It was time for us to think about getting home. My guests had arrived from the New Jersey and were starting to feel the difference in time zones get to them.

Back in my flat, Jenny and I sat down to chat for a bit over cups of tea before I made up the sofa bed for them in the living room and we decided to call it a night. It had been a memorable day and I was pleased that I had their company as I covered two more Must-Do items on my holiday list–a London pantomime and the Winter Wonderland at Hyde Park.

Now I must turn my own thoughts homewards and start to think of all the things I need to do to get well and truly ready for Christmas in Connecticut.

More Of the BL’s Treasures and Christmas Shopping on the High Street

Dec17

Wednesday, December 17, 2008
London

With most of my packing done, my laundry all folded away and placed in my suitcase, I put together the documents I needed for the Membership Renewal and set out for the British Library. It was such a gorgeous day…yes, I did actually say that! A gorgeous day in London in the winter is as rare as rare can be, so I was determined to enjoy it to the fullest! I didn’t have to wait too long before my documents were scrutinized, passed muster, an ID photograph clicked and my new 3-year Readers Card placed in my hand.

I set off straight away to the Riblat Gallery to see the rest of the Treasures of the British Museum (half of which I saw yesterday) and spent about an hour scrutinizing the cases devoted entirely to spiritual and religious manuscripts. Every religion was represented from Sikhism to Shinto. I saw ancient Bibles, including the Guttenberg Bible and Gospels, including the Lindisfarne Gospel. There were Persian illuminated manuscripts, Moghul ones, Maratha and Deccan ones, Sanskrit ones, Hindu and Jain texts–some in the shape of tortoises and cows. All of it was deeply fascinating. There was also a whole room devoted to the Magna Carta and I’d like to go back again, sometime in January perhaps, to study that carefully.

But retail therapy beckoned and since I haven’t shopped on the High Street at all since I first arrived here, and with so many gifts still to be purchased, I decided to hit Oxford Street and join the throng of Christmas buyers. I did find some very stylish things indeed for Chriselle and something that I hope Llew will like and then for me…though I did not intend to buy myself anything, it was just irresistible. In the HMV store, where I stopped to buy some audio visual material as gifts, I spied the entire Inspector Morse Collection, yes all 33 episodes of the series at less than 1/3 the price. The Complete Works normally cost 200 pounds and I was certainly not willing to pay that. But when I saw that it was specially priced, for a limited time only, at 65 pounds, well I have to say I succumbed and snatched it up.

My museum jaunt and my shopping spree tired me out and so I stepped into John Lewis (where the Christmas decorations are spectacular) and in the Coffee Shop, I ordered a pot of Fresh and Fruity Herbal tea which I sipped slowly with honey at a window seat while overlooking a lovely garden that stands behind Oxford Street. The skies were a clear beautiful blue and I had to pinch myself to believe that I was actually gazing out of a London window on a wintry day at such an uplifting sight. When I had quite lifted my spirits, I stepped out again and took the bus back home.

Some more packing was accomplished as I had to fit in the luxury Christmas crackers I bought to take home to Southport for our Christmas table. Then, when I was fairly sure that the 50th Golden Jubilee Commemorative tea set that I found for 10 pounds in a charity shop in Scotland was well wrapped and reasonably secure in my suitcase, I sat down to watch Reservation Road which Love Film.com has mailed me despite the fact that I have suspended my account for the month that I will be traveling.

And, I could not have watched a more appropriate film. I mean two days before I am back in picture-perfect Southport, I watched a movie that was set on the Connecticut coast. It prepared me for home and made me realize how much I’ve missed it. Last summer, when my neighbor Trish Donovan and I were on one of our daily morning constitutionals in Southport village, the entire Trinity Churchyard had been closed to the public as a film unit was in town shooting at various locations around the harbor. Trish had informed me that the name of the movie was Reservation Road and I had vowed to see it at that time.

The plot kept me spell bound. It is based around a hit and run accident that take places one dark night. A little boy is killed in a flash and the driver, who hesitates for just a little while, meaning to stop, then thinks better of it, drives away. The driver happens to be Dwight, a lawyer (played by Mark Ruffalo) who ends up taking on the case when the father of little Josh (played by Joaquin Phoenix) goes out to seek justice. As in almost all the movies I’ve seen and stories I’ve read about couples who attempt to resolve loss after the death of a child, the marriage goes through a dark patch as the father becomes obsessed with finding his son’s killer. With some superb acting and direction, the movie pulls at the viewer’s heart strings. You want justice for Josh’s parents but because you know that Dwight is not a bad guy and is dealing with his own set of emotional issues (a messy divorce and the shared custody of his son), you don’t want him to get caught either. It is certainly a movie worth seeing and one that I think I can include in my course on Grief-Management in Cross-Cultural Fiction. Be prepared to be reminded of another movie with the same theme also set on the North Atlantic coastline–In The Bedroom, which was based on the short story ‘The Killing’ by Andre Dubus III which is set in Maine and was shot in Camden.

Connecticut formed the perfect backdrop for the film. Not only is it cinematically spectacular, but the quiet suburban lifestyle is shattered by the turmoil created by this tragedy which succeeds in destroying so many lives. I can’t wait to tell Trish that I have seen the film, though I am sure she would have seen it herself by now.

And now with only two days to go before I arrive in Southport, I am looking forward tomorrow to the arrival of my friend Jenny-Lou and her daughter Kristen from New Jersey. We have tickets for a Christmas ‘panto’ (short for ‘pantomime’) in Richmond–Peter Pan, with Simon Callow (one of the country’s best-known actors playing Captain Hook). It should be a really good second last day of the year in the UK.

Christmas Past and Present at the Geffrye Museum

Dec13

Saturday, December 13, 2008
London

Even at the end of a dreadful day–weather-wise–I am still asking myself this question: How come I had never heard of the Geffrye Museum until a month ago?” For someone who has always loved English Country Style and has decorated her home in that aesthetic, I cannot believe that I had never been to this amazing place before. It was only quite by chance, while surfing the web to find Christmas-related London activities, that I discovered the existence of a place called the Geffrye Museum that is devoted to English Interiors Through the Ages. At Christmas, they decorate each of their rooms in a manner that is historically appropriate. I have been telling myself for days that I must not miss this–I simply cannot return home to the States next week without seeing this once-in-a-year exhibit.

So, despite the fact that the weather made me want to curl up and stay in bed (it poured ALL day), I decided to set out. I went first to the Holborn Library to return my books on Ireland, then on to 48 Doughty Street to the home of Charles Dickens as I wanted to pick up a Christmas present for a Victorianist friend of mine from the gift shop there. In and out, it took me less than five minutes in each place to run these errands

Then, I hopped on the bus to go outdoors to stay indoors–because, once you enter the Museum, you are taken right into the intimate space of people’s homes and the lives they lived in those spaces. It was a great way to escape the rain and still do something worthwhile as well as seasonal. Bus 242 from right outside my building took me straight to Shoreditch in East London where the museum is located and in less than 20 minutes, I was there.

First of all, a word about the building itself which is a quite magnificent 18th century structure, now Grade I listed (i.e. protected as a historical site). It is a long brown brick building, three sided (built like the letter E without the middle prong) enclosing expansive grounds with lovely trees (which, undoubtedly, would give the place a completely different ambiance in the summer). Right in the center of the building is a sculpture of Robert Geffrye after whom the museum is named. He was elected Lord Mayor of London in 1685 where he became an eminent East India merchant. As Master of the Worshipful Company of Ironmongers, he constructed this building to house the widows of the ironmongers among whom he worked. Hence, these came to be known as the Ironmongers Almshouses. Though each widow was initially meant to have a single unit (or house) in the building, demand grew so quickly that several shared spaces and at the height of its popularity about 150 people (men were included later) lived in 14 houses. There is a tiny chapel in the center of the building and the attendance at services was mandatory. Behind the building is more land, today used for the design and creation of period gardens, each one reflecting the style of the room that precedes it. For someone like me, who loves interior decor and gardening, this place was Paradise and I spent far more time in the museum than I had intended.

I was also surprised to see how many people had braved the pouring rain to visit the museum, many with kids and some with babies in strollers. As you proceed through the building, you come upon vignettes–each reflecting a middle class living room–through the ages. The English middle class (or middling class, as it was first known, when the word came into use) were neither the aristocracy (the landed gentry) nor the working class (what, in America, we would call blue collar workers). They were the professionals (what, in America, we would call white collar workers) who practiced professions such as law and medicine, banking and religion (as clergymen or ministers). They did not live merely in imitation of the more privileged aristocracy but developed their own values, customs and traditions and contributed hugely to the economic success of England through the ages. The Geffrye provides a peep into the way they lived through what we would call living rooms, but they called Great Rooms, Halls and Parlors through the years. As I walked through the museum, I learned about the earliest timber frame houses (that stood in London before the Great Fire of 1666) to the creation of the terraced houses (that we now call “Georgian’), to the arrival of the loft-style home so favored by contemporary Londoners. It was simply fascinating and I enjoyed every second there.

The exhibit began with the year 1630, the Great Hall in a Tudor home. The Christmas decoration here was subdued–just a few bay leaves strung together to form a vine that was thrown over the inglenook fireplace and a kissing ball that hung from the center of the room–(a very early cousin of today’s mistletoe). Then, on to the Parlor of the 17th century where the interiors became more elaborate–more furniture, more accessories, curtains, carpets. Christmas decoration too became more pronounced as time passed by.

They exhibit presented extracts from the diairies of people who lived in those epochs detailing the manner in which they would spend the days before and after Christmas as well as the day itself. There was card playing and visits to the theater, the cooking of all manner of things, the entertainment of guests who were served “two jellies and a glass of wine”, for instance, a goose to be stuffed and cooked, cards to be written and sent early (early for the Victorians meant December 24!) and all sorts of interesting and humorous facts that kept me spellbound.

When we came to the high Victorian Age, we could see the excess in interior decoration, the fussiness of grand curtains and lush carpets and the loads of dark furniture. Then, of course, came the Arts and Crafts Movement, the reaction against Victorian excess, that promulgated clean crisp straight lines that ended with Art Nouveau and Art Decor Movements of the late 19th and early 20th century. It was also a wonderful refresher crash course in English history as seen through furniture and domestic accoutrements from rush matting to shield-back chairs, from the arrival of tea and the customs that evolved around tea-taking to the arrival of the Christmas tree, a tradition that came to England through Queen Charlotte (wife of George III) from her native Germany though it was popularized by Albert in the Victorian era when every home followed suit and brought a fresh-cut tree indoors and decorated it.

The cafe divides the space rather effectively and takes the viewer into the 20th century where more vignettes captured homes from the Edwardian Age to the present. This was a fun portion of the museum as I began to recognize Christmas decorations and baubles that I still see in my parents’ home in Bombay! Chinese lanterns and buntings that were so popular in the 50s gave way to the minimalist design of the current loft apartment with its open floor plan s and its high tech stainless steel appliances featuring spaces for DINKYs (Double Income No Kids Yet)–couples who set up home and postpone kids!

It was all so beautifully integrated–the spaces, the Christmas decor, the interior design, the history and the lifestyle that for anyone interested even remotely in Design and Decor, Sociology, History or even Urban Planning, this is truly the place to go! Needless to say, I intend to visit again in the summer when the gardens will be lush and compelling and when I will learn about the history of landscape design and gardening in this country. The shop in which I browsed briefly also contained items I have never seen anywhere else–lovely old-fashioned wooden toys and building blocks, antique cards, gift wrapping paper in incredibly rare patterns, reprints of old books (100 Things that Every Boy Should Know) and all manner of charming things that take one back in time to an era when life was simpler and far less frantic. And the icing on the cake is that, like most of the best museums in London, this one too is entirely free!

I took the bus back home and had myself some lunch with a few bits and bobs that I could find in my fridge (I am trying to finish things in my fridge before I leave next week), then rested briefly before I got ready for my ride to St. Paul’s Cathedral. Michael and Cynthia had invited me to A Celebration of Carols by Benjamin Britten. I arrived at their place at Amen Court only to find it filled with folks comprising three generations–there were grandparents and their grandkids and parents in-between! There were kids who spoke English with a French accent and South Asian kids who spoke with an English accent! It was amazing! It turned out to be one large family, the family of the current Bishop of Kensington who was simply introduced to me as George. He turned out to be a delightfully friendly man who was born and raised in Belfast, Northern Ireland, and graduated from Queens University. He lived right across the street in the very place that is today occupied by the University’s bookstore. When I told him that I visited the book store and browsed through its collection, he was thrilled! Then, the boyfriend Paul Lisboa, of his daughter Gael, turned out to know some friends of mine in Bombay–the family of Winnin Pereira who lives in Bandra and whose daughters Aruna and Vinita are friends of mine!!! It was all rather odd indeed but very merry and we had a good time over lovely mint tea and cake before we all trooped off to the Cathedral to hear the Choristers and Vicars of St. Paul’s treat us to a magnificent display of their musical talents. A harpist named Sioned Williams playing plaintively while the boys enchanted us by their voices. Conducted by Andrew Carwood, the program was built around 12 medieval carols (now long forgotten) that Britten set to his wonderful music and, in a sense, revived for our generation. It was wonderfully arranged and superbly performed and I enjoyed every bit of it.

Then, since it was still only 6 pm when we emerged from the cathedral, I decided to take a bus down to Trafalgar Street to see the Christmas Tree there and listen to the carollers because the web had also informed me that there are carollers each evening on the Square. How delighted I was when I actually was able to enter one of those old historic Routemaster buses–Number 15. These are the buses that have been preserved by public demand and are still plying on the streets after they debuted in 1954! They are older than me, I thought, as I scrambled up the stairs at the back to the approving nod of the conductor (yes, each bus still has an accompanying conductor just like the red double deckers in South Bombay) and found a seat at the very front. I took many pictures of the bus and the conductor (much to his delight), then got off at Trafalgar Square.

I was very disappointed indeed by what I saw there. I had imagined a tree on the lines of New York’s Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, all emblazoned with thousands of twinkling lights. Though the tree is towering (an annual gift from the people of Norway to the UK in recognition of help granted them during the war), there were a few paltry strings of lights on it that looked as if they had just been thrown on sloppily. A few carollers stood in the rain, their umbrellas held up high, singing carols as if they had never sung a note in their lives. They were members of the Epilepsy Foundation and their members walked around with boxes collecting money for their cause. The singing was just pathetic. The guy who was conducting the singing did not even stand at the mike when singing. We could barely hear them. Though the onlookers were also invited to join in, their voices were even sadder than those on the stage. The whole thing was just such a let down after the splendour of the performance I had just heard at St. Paul’s that I left as quickly as I could and decided to get home and get some work done.

I was caught in the worst traffic jam you can ever imagine as one of those abominable Bendy buses seemed to have broken down in the middle of Charing Cross Road just as it was making a turn from one street into the main road. This blocked up the entire road. All traffic came to a grinding standstill and a cacophony of impatient horns started as motorists blew off steam in protest! It was madness! After I sat there in the bus talking on my cell phone to Chrissie, for about 20 minutes, the driver opened the doors to let people out and I jumped off and started to walk to New Oxford Street from where I hopped into another bus and got home. What an evening!

I stayed up until after midnight transcribing two interviews I had done several weeks ago as I am determined to finish all pending work assignments before I leave for my month of family fun and revelry in the States and India. I had a very late dinner (more bits and bobs from the fridge), hit my bed and was asleep in less than five minutes!

Belfast’s Queen’s University–and Homeward Bound

Dec10

Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Belfast-London

On another bleak morning, I awoke to potter around my backpack, shower, dress and check out of the Youth Hostel where I had spent four rather interesting and very comfortable nights. If you do not mind your bed sailing each time the occupant of the upper bunk moves, if you can deal with the occasional outbreak of snores, if you do not object to late-night chatter, you will find no better value than that offered by Hosteling International. I feel as if I have come upon the girl I used to be, 25 years younger, reclaiming my grad student days when I backpacked all over Europe and used Youth Hostels for affordable housing as I scoured the Continent.

I ordered a waffle for breakfast–large, warm, sprinkled with powdered sugar and drizzled (make that bathed) with chocolate sauce. It was so yummy to look but so disappointing. It was studded with tiny black bits of plastic and I can only conclude that they were pieces of the non-stick coating on the waffle pan that had detached themselves as the waffle was baking and had stuck to the dough and baked right into it. Yuck!!! There went my breakfast!

In the aftermath of a shower and under an overcast sky, I set out to explore Queens Quarter, that part of the city of Belfast that is dominated by the red-brick Tudor structure (reminiscent of Magdalen College, Oxford) of Queens University whose most famous alumnus is Seamus Heany, the Literature Nobel Laureate. Charles Langford who designed the university building used, as his model, the great medieval colleges of Europe and created a site for learning based on the cloisters situated around a quadrangle. Needless to say, a library and a dining hall would be part of the design.

It is lovely to visit educational institutions when they are still in session. The place buzzes with intellectual energy as students mill around–backpacks thrown carelessly across their backs, books in hand–making their way from one class to the next, one lecture hall to the other. I joined the throngs and arrived at the Black and White Hall with its dominant sculpture of Galileo by Pio Fredi. In the quadrangle a large canopied tent was being cleared and dismantled–remnants of a formal party held last night perhaps. I wandered into the Great Hall whose walls were covered with oil-painted portraits of the many eminent men and women who have called the university their alma mater. There was a High Table and a stone fireplace right behind it and a rather eye catching ceiling but it had none of the aura of the medieval halls of Oxford or Cambridge–perhaps because it lacked their venerable age. On exploring the library, I found that I had strayed into a ‘Coffee Morning’ at which several faculty and administrative staff had gathered for a mid-morning chinwag. There were mince pies and shortbread and coffee at hand and people were nibbling while purchasing tickets for a dozen food hampers that would be raffled later that day. English hampers come into their own twice a year–at summer picnics and at Christmas when they are filled with the most exotic eats like cornichons and candied stem ginger.

Across the street, I visited the book store and spent an idle quarter hour browsing through its offerings. I almost bought a signed copy of an autobiography by Cheri Blair for Llew but thought better of it. I was certain it would be badly misshapen by the time it made its way home in my backpack and I know how anal Llew is about the condition of a book–it must remain pristine if he is to value it! So there went that idea!

Then, I was back at the Hostel, retrieving my backpack from storage, taking the Bus 600 to George Best Airport (the only airport in which Ryanair lands that is within the very heart of the city as opposed to the other airports that are always several godforsaken miles away). I was there in 15 minutes, and with my boarding pass and security formalities all done (after the ordeal I went through at Stanstead airport, I was taking no chances with time), I had loads of it to kill in an airport that was singularly lacking in enticements such as duty-free shopping–but then I wasn’t really leaving the country, so I could not expect to travel duty-free. It just felt as if I had visited another country because I had crossed the Sea!!!

On the flight, once I had settled down again in the bulk head seat, who should I see climbing up the stairs but Marina! Of course, she sat right by me and we kept each other company throughout. I was delighted to fly right over the Isle of Man and then to see Liverpool clearly reveal itself itself below me, the Mersey snaking its sluggish way, a hefty river indeed, and the Three Graces standing solidly on its banks. I still thrill to the view of the world from so many thousands of feet above sea level–it is about as unique a perspective on our world as one could ever have!

We reached before schedule, much to Ryanair’s pride, and I caught the early Easybus back home to Baker Street. Nothing much to report expect that I had dozens of email messages to trawl through and a camera full of 120 pictures to download before I was able to unwind and call it a night after eating a sandwich and a mince pie and washing it all down with cider.

Tomorrow I give a final exam and have a stack of papers to grade before I can focus on my next trip–home to Southport and the ones I most love!

Belfast–Northern Ireland’s Capital

Dec10

Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Belfast

I awoke to another dismal day. It was wet and it was cold–hardly the kind of weather in which one could go out joyfully to explore a city. Thanks to the Hop On Hop Off Bus, my day was saved in that I was actually able to salvage it. I purchased a ticket for 12 pounds from the Belfast Tourist Center and caught the 11 am bus–upper deck, front seat, of course! I enjoyed the tour so much, I took it twice for the same price, each time in a different bus with a different tour guide and I wasn’t bored!

It was cold and my fingers ached. As the bus wound its way through the City Center towards the Alfred Clock Tower (named for Victoria’s beloved husband), I tried every way I could think of to warm them, but to no avail. Finally,I just sat on them and that did the trick!

Commentary was provided by those Irish tour guides known for their wicked sense of humor. His name was Ivan and our driver was Ciaran. About six other people shared the bus with me. You could tell it was decidedly off-season. In fact, a few days previously,I had heard an Irishman comment upon a tourist who was lugging a suitcase through St. George Market: “Imagine a tourist coming to Belfast in the winter!” He clearly thought the lady was nuts. As I tried to get warm, I thought I was nuts too!

Soon we were crossing the Lagan Weir and heading towards the ship-building yards of the renowned company known as Harland and Woolf that once ruled the world–or at least Ireland. Responsible for building some of the most famous ships in history–the Titanic, the Olympic, the Lusitania–they once employed 34,000 people. Their giant cranes, affectionately nicknamed Samson and Goliath, tower above the city’s skyline, a silent reminder of the glory that once was navigation. Today, they linger idly waiting to be restored to, as some have suggested, a five star restaurant! At the deserted dry docks, we saw the Pump Room close to where the Titanic was once docked as she went through the final stages of construction and decoration. Though many cities host Titanic exhibitions today (Liverpool, for one), Belfast claims that this honor should go to her alone as the ship was fine when she left Irish shores!

On to Stormont, a massive mansion made of Portland Stone that sits on a hill approached by a mile-long alley lined with lime trees–one for each of the workers who built it. This is Northern Ireland’s Parliament Building where affairs of state are still debated and laws passed. The area around it is elite, with lovely terraced housing and the campus of Campbell College not too far away.

Then, it was time to enter the most notorious parts of Belfast, known for the infamous strife between Protestants and Catholics that kept the country in a state of high tension through most of the 70s and well into contemporary times. The bus took us through Shanklin Road, Protestant stronghold, where all the fallen sons of the Loyalists are remembered in large size murals painted on the sides of the houses and stores that line the narrow streets. We passed through the Court House where the scales of Justice are missing from the hands of the Goddess perched on the pediment. They turned up recently on ebay! Right across the street is the Crumblin Jail, a tunnel linking the two buildings underground. Some of the most notorious political prisoners were held in this jail which today is used only as a memorial to the country’s troubled history.

In the distance, the guide pointed out a Linen Factory, another remnant of Irish history that has gone with the wind. Once the mainstay of the economy, the creation of linen from flax is a long and laborious process and involves a great deal of manual work. No wonder the industry fell by the wayside as synthetics flooded the market. Today, it serves only the luxury market and a few consumers able to pay the vast sums it costs to make the fabric wearable. I know that I will never look at linen again without appreciating the time and trouble that went into its creation.

On Falls Road, we saw the other ugly side of religious warfare–this is the Catholic side, home of the IRA or the Irish Republican Army manifested in the offices of Sinn Fein that sits on a rather nondescript street in a modest brick red building. This was the place that Bill Clinton visited in his attempts to broker a peace agreement with Gerry Adams. The Peace Agreement is holding tenuously (so far, so good, everyone says, but they’re clearly not holding their breath!) as seen in the ease with which one can now travel from the Protestant to the Catholic side. The Peace Wall still stands, though, dividing the town and the people. It snakes around the residential streets in brick red decorated with a few black details. The murals here remember the Catholic martyrs such as Bobby Sands who starved himself to death in the Thatcherite era to gain dignity for political prisoners held in British jails. There are other murals–loads of them–featuring Bush sucking away all the oil from Iraq and reproductions of Picasso’s Guernica. The people of Northern Ireland are passionate about their politics–I will say that much. No wonder so many of them came to America where they entered politics. No less than 23 American presidents can trace their roots to Ireland including, of course, the most famous of them all, the Kennedy clan!

We passed through Queens University next, the educational institution that produced Literature Nobel Laureate Seamus Heany whose portrait, together with several others, adorns the walls of the Great Hall inside. Built by Charles Langdon in imitation of Magdalen College, Oxford, this red brick Tudor building brings tremendous dignity to Queens Quarter with its funky clubs, lively restaurants and smoky taverns. Indeed, Belfast is known for its historic pubs and I downed a swift half in two of them: Magner’s Irish cider in Robinson’s and Guinness in the Crown Tavern, that sit cheek by jowl on Great Victoria Street. The latter is a confection of Victorian embossed tiles and a plasterwork ceiling, mirrors and carved counters and booths–the most ornate of the country’s pubs. No wonder it is managed today by the National Trust–one of only two pubs that the Trust runs.

Of course, we passed the bastion of the City Hall, built in the manner of St. Paul’s Cathedral, with a towering dome and the statue of the Queen looking glumly over her city. Near at hand is Belfast’s newest attraction–the Wheel–a huge ferris wheel that provides good views of the city. Not that it would work on a foggy day and there are many of those in Ireland!

In the City Center, there are churches and cathedrals and shopping malls of which the city is very proud indeed. In these days of credit crunches, the streets were still thick with shoppers who found relief in the Continental Market being held in the grounds of the City Hall where shoppers could feast on everything European from French crepes and baguettes to Spanish paella, from Greek mezes to German marzipan. There was also a carousel and games of skill to add to the festive revelry.

I took the bus tour twice. It was the only way to escape the cold and receive a bird’s eye view of the city at the same time while being entertained by the tour guides whose humor never faltered. I spent an hour browsing through books on Ireland at W.H. Smith and sipped Ginger and Ginseng tea in the tea rooms of Marks and Spencer where I also indulged in a warm mince pie! I stopped to appreciate the attempts to instill holiday cheer through music as a lone accordionist from Romania named Fernando played Jingle Bells outside Clarks from where I purchased two pairs of shoes at bargain prices! Alas, people were too frenzied filling their stockings to support his attempts to make an honest living in the midst of his poverty.

Visiting Belfast at Christmas might have been idiotic in terms of the weather, but it offered me a glimpse into the holiday spirit of a city that is slowly recovering from its decades, if not centuries, of religious war mongering and trying to extend a hand of friendship towards diversity. Harmony, the Ring of Thanksgiving, a sculpture that towers above the weir, is a testimony to the possibilities of friendship.

Belfast has none of the gaiety of Dublin. I realized that almost immediately. It still seems to be covered under the dark shroud of doubt and religious fanaticism and though it is making frantic attempts to be respectful of religious difference, I found that it lacked the kind of happy and joyous spirit that the Republic of Ireland seems to possess so effortlessly. Of the two major cities, I found Dublin infinitely ‘happier’ but I am glad I visited Belfast. I achieved an understanding of the kind of harm that radical religious politics can do as well as saw for myself how difficult it is to recover from such dogmatism when one has made it a way of life.

Return to Oxford!

Dec2

Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Oxford

On another day on which I felt as if I was in the North Pole rather than in London, I headed at 7.15 am to catch the 8 am Megabus to Oxford. I was excited. I hadn’t returned to Oxford since I arrived here in September as I was waiting for some official meetings to fall into place before I made the trip. As it turned out, I discovered, on visiting the Oxford Tourism website, that the famed Ashmolean Museum was due to close for a year on December 23. This meant that if I didn’t grab a look-see while I could, I would not have the chance to review its collection at all. There was no time to be lost. I hastened to make the arrangements that would ensure that the people I wanted to meet were free to see me and then before you could say ‘Elias Ashmole’, I was booking a ticket to get going.

I was a little apprehensive about finding the Megabus terminus; but then when I stopped to ask the Oxford Tube driver where it was, he informed me that Megabus and Oxford Tube were partners in the Stagecoach company and I could hop into his bus with a Megabus ticket. Well, that took the stress off my mind and into the bus I went, climbing to the upper deck and making myself comfortable on the front seat while it wasn’t quite dawn yet outside that huge picture window.

I had the upper deck almost to myself for the length of the two hours it took us to get to Oxford. I cannot recall having made a visit in the autumn before and the farms and fields we passed en route looked almost forlorn in the watery sunshine. Because–thank God for little mercies–the sun was actually trying valiantly to poke through the clouds and often did succeed, the landscape was prevented from appearing completely desolate.

That same forlornness dogged me throughout the day for Oxford’s trees without their foliage are a rather sad sight indeed. The bus dropped me off at the High and without wasting any time at all, I walked through Radcliff Square to the Tourist Information Bureau on Broad Street to find out if there were any special activities in the town that day that I ought not to miss.

Then, I hastened to the Ashmolean Museum having just two and a half hours in which to take in the Highlights of its collection. Though it is an imposing Neo-Classical building, the Ashmolean has none of the grandeur of the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge and when I walked past the doors, that lack of splendor became even more evident. For the lobby of the Fitzwilliam is jaw-droppingly opulent while the Ashmolean is far more subdued. The lower floor still holds the Greek and Roman works, but you need to climb a curving staircase to get to the first and second floors for the bulk of the collection.

It was with feelings of disappointment that I discovered that construction work had already begun, which placed the items in disarray. But rather quickly, that disappointment turned to relief for I made the discovery that the ‘Treasures of the Ashmolean’ had all been grouped together and were on display in just four rooms. This meant that instead of having to search through the vast expanses of the building for the highlights, all I needed to do was focus on those few rooms and I could see them all.

Of course, I started with the Alfred Jewel which inspired an entire episode in the Inspector Morse series entitled ‘The Wolverhampton Tongue’. This item, said to be at least a thousand years old, is smaller than my little finger. It is the ornament that would have adorned a small instrument used to point to letters on a manuscript when one was reading from it. It is truly exquisite in its detail, featuring the head of a man holding a few flowers in his hand. I was then taken by a mantle that once belonged to Powhatan, father of Pocahontas. How that item arrived from the New World to the Ashmolean is anyone’s guess…but there it was, made of deerskin and adorned all over with tiny white cowrie shells. In terms of paintings, there was Pietro di Cosimo’s The Forest Fire which Marina Vaizey enumerates among her 100 Masterpieces of Art and it is remarkable because in its depiction of animals, it is the first significant painting in the history of Western Art that does not make man the central figure of a canvas but places him in a rather minor role. Another very important work was Paolo Uccelo’s The Hunt, a rather detailed and very lovely painting on wood that was meant to adorn the side of a marriage or dowry chest. The portraits of Elias Ashmole (who donated his collection to the University to start the Museum in the 18th century) is placed in an elaborate frame that was carved by the great Grinling Gibbons himself whose work I have admired ever since I saw his mantle carvings at Hampton Court Palace a few years ago. There were several other exquisite pieces featuring textiles, glass, jewelry, sculpture, furniture, etc. and because they were all grouped together, it was so easy to view the collection. I felt extremely fortunate to have been able to see these works especially since I cannot recall having seen any of them even though my journal entries of 22 years ago tell me that I did spend one morning at the Ashmolean.

At 12.30 pm, having satisfied myself that I had seen everything of importance, I walked along Woodstock Road towards St. Antony’s College where I had a 1.oo pm appointment with Julie Irving who administers the Senior Associate Member Program at the college. I hadn’t met her before though we had been in email contact for a long while. She volunteered to introduce me to Dr. Nandini Gooptu, a historian at the college with whom I had recently made contact. We met at the Buttery and I spent an hour with Nandini over a beef casserole and pecan pie lunch talking about her work and my intended research project on Anglo-Indians on which I intend to work when I take on the position of Senior Associate Member at St. Antony’s next summer.

An hour later, I was taking a tour of the college in the company of Julie who introduced me to a number of the senior staff such as the Warden, Margaret McMillan and her assistant Penny. I also saw the Library, the dining hall, the computer facilities, the Porter’s Lodge where SAMs have their pigeon-holes for mail, and a lot of other places of interest. Though I will be working at St. Antony’s as an independent scholar next summer, I will be in contact with a lot of administrative staff and it was nice to get to know them.

When my work at St. Antony’s was done, I decided to seek out Norham Road where I would very likely be staying for a few weeks in a bed and breakfast while I am attached to St. Antony’s. The owner of the B&B, a lady by the name of Elizabeth Longrigg, had been in correspondence with me and I thought it made sense to check out her house while I had the opportunity. Norham Road looked particularly deserted on this freezing December afternoon and with rain having fallen while I was in the Ashmolean, the streets were slick and shiny.

A few minutes later, Elizabeth Longrigg who happens to be a retired Oxford academic, an expert in Anglo-Saxon, Old and Middle English, was giving me a tour of her home and showing me the two rooms I could have if I decided to stay at her place. It had the old world feel of a Victorian home, was filled with all sorts of family memorabilia, furniture that looked as if it had been in the house forever, a very large and spacious dining room where a Continental breakfast was served every morning and two small rooms–a tiny sun room with a delightful view overlooking the main street and a larger room on the second floor. Both rooms had lovely roll top desks and good reading lamps because, as Elizabeth informed me, she only takes on academics as lodgers–academics whose research interests bring them to Oxford on short or long stays. After I had taken a peak at the garden which looked extremely bleak on this sunless afternoon–for the sun had hidden itself away by then–I walked towards Wellington Square with the idea of looking up Lisa Denny, an old acquaintance I had known when I had attended an international graduate program at Oxford 22 years ago.

Liza Denny is still attached to the Department of External Studies which now calls itself the Department of Continuing Education. I had found her name and telephone extension through the Oxford University Directory and though she did not remember me, she was warm and welcoming and introduced me to her colleague in the department. She also gave me information about next summer’s program at Exeter College and suggested I get in touch with the current director. When I told her that I would be resident at St. Antony’s, Oxford, next summer, she invited me to get involved in the program as a participant perhaps by giving a lecture. I was quite delighted and told her that I would follow up with her suggestion.

By the time I got out of Rewley House, semi-darkness had wrapped itself around the city. Since the colleges are open to visitors between 2 and 5 pm, I decided, for old times sake, to go to Exeter to tour the college. I don’t know whether it was nostalgia, the dreadful weather or the fact that I do not feel like a student any longer…but suddenly, I was gripped by the most fervent longing for my Oxford friends Firdaus, Annalisa and Josephine and, as I strolled through the Fellow’s Garden, for Brigita Hower with whom I have completely lost touch.

As I walked through the Margary Quadrangle and saw the room I once occupied bathed in light , I felt such an aching for those unforgettably beautiful Oxford days of my youth. It certainly did not made me feel any better, when I passed through a room on the ground floor, and actually saw Jeri Johnson who used to be a Tutor to both Annalisa and Firdaus. She was seated in the midst of a meeting with another lady and a gentleman whom I did not recognize.They were all clothed in the academic garb of Oxford dons and were deep in conversation. There she was, looking for all the world as if I had just turned the clock back 22 years. But for the fact that her hair has silvered entirely all over her head, she does not look a jot different from the way she did more than two decades ago.

It was very difficult for me to meet up with these ghosts from the past–first Lisa Denny, then Jeri Johnson. Because she was in a meeting, I could not, of course, make contact with Jeri, but I did step instead into the chapel where an organ rehearsal was on and as I allowed the deep sonorous tones to wash over me, I recalled those days when I had sat there enthralled by a concert that had been put on by so many talented young American musicians so many years ago. Where were they all, I wondered? How had the years treated them? Had they become academics as Annalisa and I had done or had they strayed into varied fields as Firdaus and Jo had?

With my friends in my thoughts, I stepped out into the quad and sat for a while on a bench, overlooking the lawn upon which I had once sprawled, taking in the familiar sights of the steeple of the chapel, the clock on the walls of the Dining Hall, the doors leading to the Undercroft and the Junior Common Room. Then, while I was in the midst of my reverie, darkness descended upon the medieval city and the occasional high pitched cries of modern-day undergrads reached my ears from afar.

But the cold made it impossible for me to tarry much longer with my memories. Though it was only 5 pm, I decided to try to catch the earlier bus back to London. It would have been impossible to see anything else by that point. There was no evensong service at St. Mary The Virgin Church that I could have attended. I had intended to browse through Blackwell’s Bookstore for some literature on the shooting of the Inspector Morse mysteries. But, by then, my feet were aching and I’d had enough. When, coincidentally, the same driver from my morning’s ride, pulled up and agreed to take me on the earlier bus, I sank into the same upper deck front seats rather gratefully and tried to doze off on the ride back.

Something was missing about my visit to Oxford and for the longest time I wasn’t sure what it was. And then it dawned on me–it was the presence of my friends that I missed so much. For all of us, those days at Exeter had been some of the most memorable ones of our lives and it is impossible for me to return to Oxford without dwelling on those precious moments of our youth. How marvelous, I thought, that the one thing we gifted each other all those years ago has lasted unbroken over the miles and over the years–the gift of our friendship.

A Touch of Frost at Somerset House & St. Paul’s

Dec2

Monday, December 1, 2008
London

Jack Frost nipped at my nose all day today as London slipped down to a numbing 1 degree–that’s Celsius, of course, in which scale the figures always sound scarier than they are even to North Americans accustomed to more frigid winters. However, it was with a twinge of jealousy that I noticed that it was 11 degrees Celsius in New York and Fairfield today–December 1, 2008, Chriselle’s Birthday. I can only hope that we will be released from this Freezer Box soon and return to more seasonal English temperatures.

Still, I cannot complain because when I awoke, the sun–that elusive thing–was out, shining gloriously upon the city. The pull towards the outdoors is so strong especially when this happens after three straight days of slickness and gloom. I finished grading a batch of essays, showered and left my flat. I bussed it to Bedford Square and arrived at my office, rather unusually on a Monday, in order to print out a bunch of things on which I had worked through the weekend–not the least of which were my Megabus tickets for my trip to Oxford tomorrow. Karen even remarked about how strange it seemed to see me on a Monday.

Then, all work accomplished for the day, I set off to have some festive fun, catching the bus to Trafalgar Square from where I caught another one to Aldwych to see Somerset House which wears a dressed-up air at Christmastime. The grand Neo-Classical mansion is the backdrop for holiday festivity sponsored, this year, by Tiffany and Co. There was a small snack bar all painted in the signature robin’s egg blue and tied with a bow to resemble a typical Tiffany present–it called itself the Tiffany Tuck Shop and sold cup cakes decorated with robin’s egg blue icing and a tiny white bow, blue and white candy canes and gingerbread cookie men wearing robin’s egg blue scarves. All very cute but all very pricey!

On the skating rink, dozens of merrymakers slid around, some proficient, others obvious beginners. The Christmas tree that stood in another ‘Tiffany present’ stand sported ice-skates in blue, huge silver snowflakes and strings of blue lights. In the adjoining cafe, hot mulled cider and hot chocolate were being sold in robin’s egg blue Tiffany paper cups. So there you had it–a crassly commerical American Christmas exported to London, courtesy of Tiffany, in these days of global credit crunches and economic downturns. I had hoped to see a festival market all set up on the sidelines, but was sorely disappointed. A look in the Somerset House Shop was equally disappointing, for there was really nothing that shouted out my name.

By then it was 3 pm in London (10 am in New York), a good time to call Chriselle who would have arrived at her office desk. We ended up having the nicest chinwag. She had received the yellow roses I sent her via Llew and was looking forward to dinner that evening at a Thai restaurant with Llew and Chris and, somewhat unexpectedly but very pleasantly for her, the presence of my brother Roger, who happens to be in New York on a flight.

I then hightailed it back home on the bus, but not before I passed by India House at India Place which intersects Montague Street (he, I suppose, of the Montague-Chelmsford Reforms) and was attracted to a sculpture of India’s first Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru perched on a pedestal in the alley where visitors to India queue for visas at the adjoining consulate offices. I took a few pictures but with the light fading fast, I’m not optimistic about the results.

On the way back, I tried so hard to find one of the old red Bombay-style double deckers but though I just missed one that sailed off majestically as I arrived at the bus-stop, my resolve was shattered in the freezing cold and I caught the first bus that came my way and dropped me off on Fleet Street from where I walked home. I did spent a few moments in Waterstones browsing through the new coffee table books being offered this season, including Steven Fry’s Tour Across America and Nigella’s Christmas. It’s funny to see how one can become a vicitim of one’s own success. Indeed, success has completely changed Nigella’s natural persona. I was warching some of the episodes from her earliest TV series shot at the time when her first husband was still alive and her kids were still kids (and not the pre-teens they are now) and I found her so natural in front of the camera. In the newer series, she behaves like a sex kitten, flashing come-hither bedroom smiles into the camera and keenly playing up her sex appeal. I have to admit that at times I find the current series’ almost embarrassing.

I had enough time at home to get myself a quick slice of pizza and a coffee before I left again and took the bus to St. Paul’s Cathedral to Amen Court, the home of my new friends the Colcloughs, Cynthia and Michael. Bishop Michael is Canon-Pastor at St. Paul’s Cathedral and has invited me to a bunch of Advent and Christmas services at the Cathedral. The service was by invitation or pass only but the place was packed. For the next one hour and a half, I lost myself in the prayerful interior as I listened to a number of readings, superbly articulated by several different Anglican prelates and a couple of choirs, including a Boy’s choir that was simply outstanding. Their angelic voices rose to the towering domed ceiling and made me feel as if I were in Heaven in the midst of the hosts of angels all singing their hearts out. It was idyllically beautiful. Since it was Chriselle’s birthday and I like to attend Mass on her birthday when I am far away from her, this was the ideal service to dedicate to her and she was closely in my prayers all through the evening. I made the discovery that very day that Chriselle shares a birthday with my friend Mary-Jo Smith from Connecticut and, so MJ was in my prayers too. I am looking forward now to Handel’s Messiah this coming Thursday in the same venue.

I continued watching Far From the Madding Crowd over dinner when I got home. I did not realize what a lengthy movie it is, but I was relieved that it did have a happy ending unlike most of Hardy’s novels that are lachrymose and dripping with tragedy. Gabriel did win Bathsheba’s hand in marriage, at the very end, though there were some rather morbid scenes that I was afraid would keep me awake at night. As it turned out, I was ready to drop by the time I cleared and washed up and went to bed.

Tomorrow, I will be catching the 8 am Megabus from Victoria to Oxford where I have a couple of meetings at St. Antony’s College, so I set my cell phone alarm to 6.30 am and fell asleep. Since I am using the cell phone as an alarm clock for the first time, it is my fervent hope that it will ring on schedule!

Just Another Soggy Sunday!

Dec1

Sunday, November 30, 2008
London

Winter has arrived with a vengeance. It is cold and it is soggy. And that’s the thing about English rain…it’s never really a proper downpour. It’s always just a light spritz, a gentle drizzle, sometimes just the finest spray! Like Hawaii, in many ways, except that in Hawaii that spray lasts precisely five minutes and then the sun–and the rainbows!–come out again and the day goes on as if that shower had never happened at all.

Here, the spray continues all day–just enough to ensure that your umbrella is raised and the streets are wet and the populace stays indoors sipping hot chocolate, or, in this season that’s merry and bright, hot mulled wine. Yes, that’s a very English thing indeed and all weekend long I’ve been seeing hot mulled wine offered everywhere at 3 pounds a glass–from Borough Market to Covent Garden, jaded shoppers are sipping these potent potations in a Dickensian tradition that lives on in the 21 st century. Oh, and also hot roasted chestnuts have been appearing on carts everywhere in keeping with the carol,
“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,
Jack Frost nipping at your nose…”

Thanks to my resolution to attend Mass each Sunday in a different historic church in London, I resisted the temptation to go to the 9 am service at my parish church,St. Etheldreda’s, and instead kept myself busy till about 11 am. I had Breakfast in Bed–uuummmm!–hot toasted buttered croissants (I have developed such a love for Lurpak) and steaming coffee. Now that’s Sunday comfort food for you! I hammered out my November newsletter, then did my exercises and showered and at 11 .30 am, I was out of the house and in a bus and headed to Church. I decided to go to Berkeley (pronounced Barkley in this country, in the same way that Derby is Darby, I suppose) Square to attend the 12. 30 mass at Immaculate Conception Church.This is usually referred to as ‘Farm Church’ as it is on Farm Street in Mayfair and sits at one end of Mount Street Gardens (the same one in which KGB spies left secret notes for each other in the slats on the many benches that pepper the pathways).

As I said before, it was cold and it was soggy, so I was surprised to see how packed the church was. It’s Gothic interior is quite breathtaking with its high ceiling and tons of decorative details including Byzantine mosaics, innumerable carvings around the altar and pulpit, paintings on the walls). It turned out that the congregation was composed largely of ‘pilgrims’, devotees of the Jesuit martyr St. Edmund Campion. They’d been on the road since September, having started out at Oxford where Campion was a student at St. John’s College, and making their way to London where he was condemned to death by hanging for converting to Catholicism, joining the Jesuits and preaching secretly when his ministry began. His Feast Day is celebrated on December 1 (Chriselle’s Birthday) which is why the pilgrimage ended today in London where he was martyred.

Of course, I obtained all this information from the web only after I got home and decided to read up on him. While his name sounded familiar to me, I could not quite place him. I remember now that he is revered in Oxford and that might have been where I first heard his name. I also realize how dangerous it might have been to continue to profess allegiance to the Vatican in the reign of Queen Elizabeth I. Campion lived and preached and ministered to Catholics while in hiding and while being continually hounded. He was finally exposed by a spy, taken to the Tower where at his Trial, he presented a stirring defence of his faith, but was condemned to Death. He was hung, drawn and quartered in 1581 and was canonized a saint in 1980.

I was surprised to see that the congregation comprised multiple ethnicities. Of course, the majority were white English but I saw South Asians, East Asians and Blacks among the pilgrims. Fr. Hugh Duffy, S.J. said Mass and preached a sermon that was inspiring and particularly designed for his faithful congregation of pilgrims. I realized that he was a Scotsman when he referred, at one point, to St. Andrew, who, he said, was “the patron saint of the greatest country in the world”. This drew a hearty laugh from the congregation and I became aware, once again, of the healthy Anglo-Scots rivalry that continues to exist all over the British Isles. I sat for a few minutes, in the aftermath of the terrible terrorist attacks on Bombay, thinking that perhaps a reunification of Pakistan and India might be the solution to the continued bitterness that shrouds relations between these two countries. Perhaps if they are united politically, once again, the rivalry can continue, but on a more humorous level and without the threat of war or terrorism marring such a union. But perhaps that’s just wishful thinking on my part.

Back on the bus, I spoke to Llew and our Canadian guests who were at breakfast in Southport preparing for their long drive back to Toronto. I had intended to stay on the bus to Old Spitalfields Antiques Market but the weather strongly deterred me. Instead, I got off at my home stop and treated myself to a huge Italian lunch as I was starving by the time mass ended. I had mushroom soup for starters, garlic bread with cannelloni and salad (all courtesy of Sainsburys) and lemon tart for dessert. Then, replete with my large meal, I caught up on email correspondence and felt drowsy enough to take a short nap.

At 5 pm, I left my flat again, got on the bus and joined the throng of holiday shoppers at Oxford Street. At Marks and Spencer, I found some presents to take back home to India–prices are rapidly coming down and with the dollar so strong again, it is a great time to buy. Up in the lingerie section, I sought underwear but as I was getting ready to pay, the store made the announcement that it was closing in five minutes. That’s when I realised that they close at 6 pm on Sundays–even during the holiday season! Now that would never happen in the Land of Mamon, aka the United States. So I quickly paid for my purchases and was out and on the bus again, weighed down with gifts.

I spent a rather quiet evening with the telly, watching Far from the Madding Crowd with Julie Christie and Alan Bates. I realised in the first five minutes that I had seen this version before in Bombay, aeons ago, in the private British Council auditorium. Some scenes remained burned in my memory–the ones, in the beginning, with the sheep tumbling down the cliffs, another of the house on fire and Gabriel’s attempts to quell the flames. I ate another lovely dinner as I watched until I grew too sleepy and almost fell asleep on the couch.

It was the soggiest weekend in my memory but apart from the fact that today was rather unproductive, I really did use my time effectively and did not allow the rain to deter my plans ovet the past three days.