Tim Finn Live at Scala, London - 8 August 2010

This is probably unwise to do in the wee hours of the morn with no sleep, but I'm back from a remarkable Tim Finn gig at London's Scala in King's Cross, which I very nearly didn't go to, an insane near-tragedy. I will post my formal review with photographs to my AboutLastNight site [actually, I've now done so; see the Tim Finn page], but I meanwhile sent out an email with the setlist and some general comments that sprang to mind as I was typing that out. I've decided to go ahead and paste that in here, for those of you who have an interest in what was played. I'll write it up more coherently when I get a chance this week. For now, here goes:-

...I’m thankfully home safely after a last-ish minute decision to see Tim Finn despite Sunday travel being impossible and my elderly crippled back refusing to attend all-standing venues. But a message reminded me that I was insane not to go, and my trains were unusually running on a Sunday (ish), and I have strong painkillers. While other people liked Donny Osmond or David Cassidy in their teens, Tim Finn was the person I had a huge crush on and whose music I adored, and always have adored. I still fully admire and enjoy his talent, and how could I miss this chance? Even after I struggled into town and arrived not long before Tim took the stage, I still might have missed out as my ticket wasn’t waiting at the box office, so I had to buy another (thank goodness it wasn’t sold out). It was surprisingly uncrowded actually, but I know of other people who would have come were it not a Sunday, people who have worse journeys and earlier starts on Mondays than I do, so that’s a shame, although Tim said he loved doing Sunday gigs. It was certainly superb and I thank goodness I didn’t miss it; that would have been tragic.

I’ll write it all up formally for my long neglected website as I have some time off later this week, and will post a few blurry photos (lots of this will be on YouTube as peeps were filming on their cameras). But for now, I wanted to provide the setlist:-

1. Straw to Gold [I was too excited with Tim & band bursting on the scene to remember much about this]

2. Won’t Give In [wonderful, uplifting song always, and very catchy]

3. My Mistake [so exciting to relive the joy of hearing this very old Split Enz song (1977!)…I think I bought it on my first ever trip to London about 30 years ago. Gosh, I’m old. The tune wasn’t that recognisable at first.]

4. Chocolate Cake (this always works better live than it did on record. He updated the words from Tammy Bakker to ‘Barack Obama has a lot on his plate’]

5. Invisible [lovely poignant sad song surely about his mother, lyrics: ‘This is the end of knowing her, you’re going through her things…but you can’t find her there’….’All the ties that bind us are invisible’. This sort of song means a lot to those of us who are also struggling with the loss of a close loved one like a parent]

6. Luckiest Man Alive [from sad poignancy over loss of loved one, to the joy of a birth of a loved one, as he said he wrote this when his daughter was born, for the woman who made it all possible. He still sings it so jubilantly and speaks of his wife with such pure love, I am thrilled that he has truly found The One, as so few people do. He puts it into such simple but perfectly arranged words here to convey that.]

7. Dead Man [a bit of a rock-out chorus. He said he wrote the song after the Split Enz reunion show in 2000 in Auckland—the last performance that his mother saw, and a song was played on the PA/tannoi system called April Sun in Cuba by an Antipodean band called Dragon, and he’d just been listening to music by their singer Mark Hunter who had died not long before that….and a lot of things came together. At the end, he sang what I take to be some of April Sun in Cuba..., and the Kiwis cheered]

8. Persuasion [went straight into that after the last one. Breathtaking.]

9. Dirty Creature [the bass was so different, the song was unrecognisable at first, but it was fine, although Tim stopped after a few lines and chastised the bassist for doing it wrong, but then blamed himself and his jet lag when he realised how harsh it was to single out one player and make him re-do everything like he was the dunce in a classroom. Though he still said it wasn’t right then and so Tim started the song off on Take 3, and it all fell into place. But then he made it up to the bassist later in the song by letting him go wild with a remarkable bass solo that would make Mark King faint with envy. The guitarist got to add his own solo later but thankfully kept it sensible, not like an 80s 20 minute thing where we all would nod off but for the noise. They and the drummer were really impressively outstanding talents.]

10. Charley [always awesome. Started this one again, too; this time the guitarist was blamed as I think he missed his cue. In order to demonstrate that he wasn’t being as harsh and demanding as it might seem, Tim reminded Brett that Tim had f**ked up earlier as well when he was out of tune, and he turned to us to say ‘put that up on YouTube and be damned!’ with a smile]

11. Couldn’t be Done [‘a can do song’]

12. It’s Only Natural [he hushed the band to let us sing this from the beginning, though he thankfully joined in, too, shortly afterward; we weren’t that good. This song always lifts my spirits.]

13. So Deep [After threatening they’d take their shirts off, and discussing why they shouldn’t practically in a Three Bears style—eg ‘I’m too hairy’, ‘I’m too flabby’, ‘I’m just right’--and toasting his father Richard Finn who is 88. Neat to hear something from Big Canoe; wonder what made him choose this over the others. Done to a slower tempo, obviously toned down backing vocals without a choir of loud women, a bit more sensuous—but maybe I shouldn’t use that word when describing a song with this title lest someone think it’s pornographic! Quite atmospheric. Nice to hear the line ‘eating chicken curry with English tea’ now that it makes more sense to me as a Londoner; I was in the States when my father brought me this album from NZ.]
14. Stuff and Nonsense [my second favourite song by anyone of all time; couldn’t believe he played it. Used to think I’d like it played at my wedding, which may be why I’m happily single. Obviously reworked for guitars vs piano, a bit too upbeat perhaps for those of us who worship the original, but I was just thrilled to hear it, and it probably needed updating to travel well, though nothing ever needs slide guitar added. This tune started after a long discussion of accents and cities where people wanted him to play; he said if we bought 1,000 copies each of his album, he could do a national tour; someone pointed out that releasing the album would help, and he said it might be out in May or June next year]

15. Six Months in a Leaky Boat [All singing—badly again--with Tim working hard on the whistling bit, even restarting that as he said he was out of key, jokingly pointing at someone’s camera and saying ‘put that on YouTube and be damned! At the end, he wore a tongue in cheek delightful ‘aced it!’ expression fitting of Spinal Tap. No Pioneer-ish bit of ‘Da da da da’ etc bit at the end, stopped like a rock song]

Encore One (off stage for perhaps 20 seconds—great not to keep us waiting)
16. I Hope I Never [My number one super top favourite song ever of all time. Whenever MTV showed that video , I melted. This was what it was all about for me, and it makes me melt every time I hear it, which is rarely live. Again, a slightly different version given the lack of keyboards, but still lovely, still gentle and slow, and Tim’s voice was incredible, spot on. Moving stuff]

17. Forever Thursday [prefaced by a tale of meeting his wife—on a Thursday--who loved the song Tin Soldier, and he kept the lyrics in his back pocket…or something like that. He was surprised when we didn’t laugh but I think we were a bit lost and enjoyed the tale, but didn’t see anything ha-ha about it…..just sweet.]

18. I Got You [I’ve never heard Tim sing this song other than as part of the painting on the wall in the video….I wouldn’t say it shows that the Finns are exactly interchangeable, but it worked great. I thought he might have switched a couple lines at the end but I probably imagined it.]

Encore Two (this time they were off stage for a whole 4 mins)
19. Unsinkable [after a long story about how Harper loved the book Titanic so much that he took Harper to the 3D version of the film The Deep (actually it was Ghosts of the Abyss) about raising it—and Tim had a panic attack when he put the 3D glasses on; maybe he has labyrinthitis or something—and Harper said on the way home that he wished they could all go down together ie when the time comes so no one is left sad behind, which moved Tim to write this song. The song didn’t grab us as much as all the others, and went on a bit long with sound effects, but it’s amongst tough company, and the audience was still happy]

20. Shark Attack [a sort of calmer version that picked up, but even now Tim didn’t race about the stage like a man possessed. It’s not just that the boy’s grown up; he’s now a refined gentleman!]

21. History Never Repeats [another Neil Finn Split Enz track. Intriguing that he chose two of them, but they both worked well and I suppose it makes a change for him. The loveable guitar riff was altered to something a bit heavier, more fuzz, not so good—but the rest was wonderful]

He played from just after 9pm to 10.50pm, an impressive set. And stopping even a few mins later would have meant that many of us would have had to choose between leaving early or being stranded, so that was welcome. Tim was in fine voice and I love his choice of songs. (I’ve only just realised there was no Weather With You. I’ve often thought they should skip that for something wonderful like Stuff and Nonsense or Time for a Change and, whilst it’s a terrific song, I’ve never gone as gaga for it as the rest of the audience usually do.) He wasn’t that chatty at the beginning and then got into it a bit more, even stopping his band from moving on to the next song once, saying ‘repartee!’ to remind them that he needed to add some. And whilst he couldn’t help but do some of these scary eyes and histrionic hand gestures during Dirty Creature, he mainly stuck to strumming his acoustic guitar and walking in tight circles during instrumentals—no push ups, no mad dancing. Still delightful; it would have been destructive on that small, equipment filled stage to rush about, and just stomping knocked over his water behind him, which sent a roadie rushing out to remove it before any of our beloved musicians were electrocuted, and it gave Tim an excuse to have some whiskey brought out.

I think the young and enormously sharp band were Brett Adams on guitar (looks a bit like Eddie Vedder), the fantastic Tony Buchen on bass/harmonica ( I never found bass or harmonica so exciting before, and the rest of the time he spent smiling and loving where he was and what he was doing), and Carlos Adura on drums, who seemed to have something more like mini-kettle drums than snares built into his kit, and he often seemed to be playing the air, til I realised that he had shakers attached to his drum sticks and sometimes shook them without hitting the drums. ) I also might throw in here the random comment that is most unlike me and of which I will later be ashamed that Tim really is a slick silver fox now. I don’t mean I was standing there drooling over him, but really, he beats Ralph Lauren and looks just as moneyed and tailored, with a sharp grey suit and snazzy haircut (still on the longish side but not quite so mad—just lovely). It added to the whole experience that this was a quality show.

Even if you worry that you won’t be able to get home afterwards or if your back is in agony and you can’t stand for long, go see Tim if you get the chance. I did it (and there was an older woman with a cane at the front!) and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. We all left ecstatically happy.

Crowded House Live in London (and Live on USB)

Although the days are long gone of my arriving home from a concert at 1am and immediately writing a play-by-play account of it and uploading that with my photographs to my website (http://aboutlastnight.org.uk/index.html ) before going to bed, I do hope to write up the detailed reviews of the Crowded House concerts I delighted in seeing at the Hammersmith Apollo this week in the next few days. Meanwhile, I thought I would at least post here the gist of the emails I sent on my way home to the 'Frenz of the Enz’ related discussion lists for Finn fans, setting out the setlists. The joys of the digital age mean that details of the concerts are not only quickly widely known, but people could get home and actually listen again to the concert they had just left without doing any surreptitious recording. The wonders of technology mean that the merchandise stalls offer more excitement than just a selection of t-shirts, programmes and the album of the support act.

Crowded House hasn’t even released yet the album they’re currently promoting, Intriguer, which is out in the UK on Monday, and it’s difficult these days to earn money from CDs or albums in any format. There was a time when a concert was the way to push up your sales. What better way to address the limitations of the modern music industry than to let people pay (£15) at the venue for a USB drive that they collect a few minutes after the concert finishes. On the USB drive (or more appropriately called memory sticks in this situation in particular), which have environmentally friendly bamboo casing, is multimedia material: photos, links and things, plus a live recording of the concert from the sound desk, divided into tracks (although a few are wrongly labelled).

One day, I’m sure I’ll look back at this and sneer at how basic and old-fashioned it seems, the way I do when I remember being the envy of the neighbourhood in the States in the 1970s when we were the first family to get Pong, a game that you play on your television set! (Yes, you control the paddles and actually hit the ball on your screen!!) But on Tuesday, I was quite impressed and salivating at the prospect of collecting my USB stick afterwards. It’s not just that I want to relive the joy of a fantastically gripping Crowded House concert, with varied setlists covering a huge catalogue of superb songs and the wit of Neil Finn and the others interacting with the audience and keeping everyone laughing when they’re not cheering. More than that, I seem to have an inbuilt need to be an archivist, and I just like records of things. I want to play these new versions of old songs and the new songs that haven’t yet been released (many of which I already love), but I also just want to preserve the concert long after my memories blur a bit and fade into the background behind my chaotic life that is too focused on dreary work and postponed dreams.

Sadly, on that first night, 8 June 2010, the concert at the Hammersmith Apollo didn’t finish until after 11pm, which meant I had to tear out of Hammersmith in a desperate bid to make my last train, and then have a nerve-wracking journey home amidst scary nightpeople on the train and deserted streets between the station and home. So no memory stick, although my kind friend stayed behind to collect both of ours, and I look forward to hearing it. The next night, on 9 June, I didn’t even buy one as I figured it would be handing over £15 for nothing, since my friend and I would have to leave early because neither of us could cope with a repeat of our respective hellish journeys and three hours sleep before work. Even though the band thankfully finished slightly earlier (a funny thing to be grateful for, and they still played for two hours), I wouldn’t have been able to wait for the USB stick to be produced and handed out. So I ordered it online today as well as a recording of tonight’s gig, which I’m missing (and which a friend has texted is a completely different set list again). Numbers of these sticks are claimed to be limited, but that makes little sense and it’s a way for the band to make some money to supplement the modern reality of poor album sales (though presumably bad people can just copy the memory sticks for friends), but if you want one yourself, order it here: http://crowdedhouse.com/news/live-recordings-sale . The North American shows will be available in July, so it’s an opportunity for us all to lose a tidy sum. An excellent idea.

So I’ll paste below what you’ll hear on the recordings, as I know people are usually interested to know what was played, particularly when it’s an outstanding band like this who, like Van Morrison, plays much of the set by ear....picking songs from their vast impressive catalogues and, in the case of Crowded House, reacting to something shouted out by the crowd or flown to the stage as a message in a paper aeroplane.

On these nights, though, the set was more polished, the band well-rehearsed, and everything was sharp, with no time wasting. So there were fewer attempts at songs the band couldn’t really recall, in a kind attempt to indulge an audience member (though that has happened elsewhere on the tour). They did the big hits, as Rick Astley (who was in the audience on Tuesday) mentioned when promoting his own new single on BBC Breakfast the next day, but they also mixed in some of the rarely performed but much loved mid-classics, subtly splicing in several of the new songs, most of which left us breathless for the album rather than bored with unwelcome delays to the hit machine. Neil Finn was in incredible voice and he and Nick Seymour were as delightfully fun as ever, and the ‘new’ drummer, Matt Sherrod, was just amazing, playing powerfully, and drummers aren’t normally on my radar

Incidentally, 80s star Rick Astley wasn’t the only ‘name’ there; Ed O’Brien and Phil Selway of Radiohead, who worked with Neil on the Seven Worlds Collide project/album, were spotted, as was the BBC’s Jeremy Vine, and members of Marillion. I’m sure there were many others in the crowd of tremendous fans.

For the first night, the dreamy setlist was:-
1. I Feel Possessed
2. Don't Stop Now
3. Fall at Your Feet
4. Either Side of the World (new one, growing on me)
5. Saturday Sun (new single, odd choice as there are better songs, hate the vocoder)
6. She Was in My Dreams (ie ad libbed song whilst tuning 'like Todd Rungren meets the Carpenters' where Nick Seymour worried he’d given Neil his cold as they shared a mike, just before Neil revealed his 'controversial' hatred for Steely Dan, even singing a smarmy line from Ricky Don’t Lose that Number when prompted by Nick playing the bass line)
7. Mean to Me (television cameras were filming 5, 6 & 7 for the Hey Hey It's Saturday show in their native New Zealand, or for a training video for Auckland Roadie College, Neil said)
8. Amsterdam (probably my favourite of the new songs that I’ve heard)
9. Not the Girl You Think You Are
10. In My Command
11. Inside Out (very mid-60s, with a ‘guitar chorus’ comprising Neil’s younger son Elroy, the support act Connan Mockasin, and Connan’s guitarist)
12. Say That Again (still with Elroy on guitar)
13. Archers' Arrows
14. Message to My Girl (surprise and loved particularly by the woman, a touching Split Enz love song)
15. Four Seasons in One Day
16. Pineapple Head
17. Don't Dream It's Over (faultless)
18. It's Only Natural (with Harriet from the audience on tambourine, as she had shouted out a request at the beginning of the show to play tambourine with them; glad she didn't demand to play banjo or lap steel guitar—though sadly Mark Hart added the latter at times in the set)
19. Distant Sun

Encore
20. Locked Out
21. Weather With You
22. Elephants (loved this in Bush Hall but consider it ruined by lap steel guitar)
23. Moonage Daydream (thrilling cover of David Bowie original, with support act Connan on guitar)
24. Happy Birthday to Hadley (another Neil interlude in response to a paper aeroplane that Nick had picked up as they’d left the stage earlier. Hadley was 'conceived during a Crowded House concert' and her mother’s water broke at a Crowded House concert, etc etc)
25. When You Come [I think they’d originally planned Recurring Dream; this was a treat]
26. Better Be Home Soon. (I think they’ve settled on this as their permanent closer, understandably)

It was an outrageously brilliant set from about 8.50pm until 11.10pm (causing a tricky home-by-public-transport conundrum, but hard to complain!). In addition to son Elroy, Neil’s wife Sharon joined them at different times unannounced (Sharon sang backing vocals in the back and in profile; perhaps scared to face the huge audience?). They leapt, polished, straight into each song, though still gave us glorious Neil banter.

For the second night, 9 June 2010, the set Crowded House played was:-

1. Recurring Dream (excellent opener!)
2. Saturday Sun
3. Either Side of the World
4. Fall at Your Feet
5. Don't Stop Now
6. Private Universe
7. Inside Out (again with Elroy, Connan M etc)
8. Love This Life
9. Nails in My Feet
9.5. (brief funk interlude, bit of Hot Chocolate You Sexy Thing...somehow ends up as Age of Aquarius for a sec)
10. Whispers and Moans
11. Isolation (with Sharon Finn on backing vocals)
12. Archers' Arrows (still with Sharon)
12.5 . From Guernsey to Hammersmith (lovely spontaneous ad-libbed travelogue-ballad on piano)
13. Pour le Monde (quite a lovely new song)
14. Four Seasons in One Day
15. Don't Dream It's Over
16. Distant Sun
17. Something So Strong (marvellous, long time no hear)
ENCORE:-
18. Fingers of Love
19. Weather With You
20. Twice if You're Lucky (like this new one though it sounds a bit like Love This Life at times)
21. Moonage Daydream (Bowie cover with Connan Mockasin again, lively)
22. World Where You Live (delightful treat from the first album)
23. Better Be Home Soon

On this night, Crowded House started at 8.50pm but finished at 10.55pm, which made all the difference to many of us transport-wise and maybe to them if they're charged for playing past an 11pm curfew. The fantastic evening was complete with more creative ad-libbed songs, much meowing and Nick's odd owl-dog imitation, Elroy appearing occasionally, a brief private dancer for Neil on stage (a Peter Tork-like 'prize winner' for being first to stand and dance, so he was invited on stage to do so, though his dance comprised walking and clapping his hands), and a free sauna for us all. I adored the woodsy set, with loads of big night lights in the shape of mushrooms, geese and other figurines for children, looking like Chinese lanterns--all very moody, charming and Kiwi (or so I imagine).

I must admit that my favourite set was the first night, although most will probably disagree (I’m more one for the short, sharp songs with stunning lyrics, and I lose patience with the lengthy stretches of guitar solos or endlessly repeated rhythms without melodies, and Together Alone, whilst it has merits, will never be my favourite album whereas I always feel it’s what brought the rest of the audience to see them), but I loved every bit of both nights—apart from the fact that the tallest man in the Apollo was seated in front of me on Wednesday so I could only see Crowded House in a sort of halo around the edges of his ginormous head. And normally I like tall men, but it turns out not in this setting.


Of the new songs played on Wednesday, I missed Amsterdam, which I think would be a better single than Saturday Sun really, but there's probably a rule that their singles must refer to suns, weather, seasons, dreams, stopping time...tide.... (It's no wonder they're drawn to MOONage DAY-DREAM).

I must say I Love this Life when this is a taste of it. I am sad to miss tonight’s final London concert (there’s only so much credit card space, energy and time one can commit to putting massive smiles on one’s face) but these fine memories will do me for a while!

I will put my usual style of hugely detailed reviews on my website at http://aboutlastnight.org.uk/index.html as soon as I can, with the photos I took (albeit from a distance without a flash, so they’re not too impressive), and of course there are many clips of the concert available on YouTube already. If you ever get the chance to see these masters of live performance, take it. You won’t be sorry.

Guitar-playing Zebra Finches....Music to My Ears

On Friday, I tried to swing past the Barbican Centre for one more visit to see those remarkable zebra finches imitate Jimi Hendrix, but I was foiled.

I’m referring to the Céleste Boursier-Mougenot exhibition, where a flock of zebra finches live in an exhibition space furnished with several electric guitars and bass guitars placed flat, perpendicular with the floor, on stands and plugged into amplifiers, amongst cymbals (the bottom of brass toned Paiste hi-hats). The birds frequently land on and hop along the strings of the guitars, and indeed sometimes drag a twig across them in an attempt to build a nest on it, which makes an extraordinary random sound punctuated by the occasional perfect strum. Or, as the Barbican literature describes it, the artist ‘orchestrates a magical promenade with distinct, yet overlapping auditory experiences.’ Yep.

I was in two minds about this exhibition. I saw a clip at the end of an episode of The Culture Show that fascinated me and drove me towards it, yet the wildlife-loving RSPCA member in me thought it was wrong to keep birds trapped in an art gallery ogled by strangers when they should be out in the wild. I knew that the birds’ welfare had been carefully vetted by ‘the relevant authorities’ but it still seemed wrong....until I saw it.

First, the birds aren’t creatures someone caught from the wild and imprisoned in the Barbican Centre. They have been provided by a specialist who provides animals for artistic projects, we are told, as though they’re from the same acting agency that provided Eddie the dog in Frasier. So presumably they were raised in captivity and are used to being in an aviary. I’m almost just repeating that to try to convince myself that it’s okay, and I hope it is. Second, I had pictured the birds being contained in a low-ceilinged section of a small room, with the crowd lined up on the other side of a glass partition, peering in as though at a cramped caged animal in a Victorian zoo. Instead, the birds fly freely around an airy, sizeable space with a roof perhaps 30 feet high, with the people walking amongst them, and although they could fly away from us if they wanted to, they were so used to people walking around them that they would fly right past our faces and even land on our bags—at least they did on mine (they have discerning taste).

The description of the exhibition describes this interaction as creating a different visit for everyone as the installation was ‘in a constant state of flux’ and ‘to be fully activated, the piece relies on the visitors’ movements around the space, which elicit counter movements by the birds, resulting in a subtle choreography.’ Well, I will say it was neat to be able to observe beautiful wildlife so closely, and fun when they sat for an age on my briefcase and later my handbag (and very kindly left nothing behind). I wouldn’t suggest I was tap-dancing with them, but an artist wouldn’t be an artist (and a marketing person wouldn’t be a marketing person) if they just said ‘there’re a lot of birds flying around and they be cute.’

Although the well-lit room was white and a bit sterile, there were sandpits on the ground in which arid grasses had been planted so the birds had plenty of natural things to grab and use when building nests, which they seemed to be doing with tremendous commitment. Although they clearly loved landing on the guitars, sometimes several birds doing so on one at a time, they were also quite happy sitting on the fire extinguishers, ‘break glass’ and exit signs. I was pleased to see a series of nesting boxes placed in a long row high above our heads on one wall, almost all of which were occupied by a female practically hidden by the nesting material. Apparently, a friend linked to the Barbican has told me, this was a result of a panic when one of the birds had laid an egg, I think on a guitar, forcing the staff to clear the exhibition of customers and close it down until they got advice from the RSPB or another ‘relevant authority’, who said they really should provide nesting boxes, so voilà.

But before visitors get to that room, we walk through a dark corridor (also with high ceilings; nothing is claustrophobic) with video projections of white-silhouetted ‘flying fingers’ playing electric guitars, against a black background. And you can hear electric guitar as well, albeit not in the style of Eric Clapton or Jimmy Page, but a random droning and, as I mentioned, the occasional impressive deliberate-sounding strum. The soundtrack is, of course, provided by the birds around the corner (or around the curve, as the exhibition is in the part of the Barbican aptly called The Curve). One can also hear crickets, stressing the feeling of night-time, but I think that was a recording unless we were crushing innocent crickets as we walked through the darkness.

It’s difficult to remember that this first bit is part of the exhibition. Everyone seems to see it as a corridor to rush through to get to the real things, the darkness perhaps helping your transition from the Arts Centre outside to the unusual experience you will soon meet, or perhaps discouraging the birds from flying out into the Centre and interrupting a play or a film or escaping into the City. It probably does that, but the (uh) flyer one can take (by ripping a printed page from a pad hanging on the wall that had a large sign containing a description of the installation and the artist, which I overlooked on the way in and only paused to read on the way out) explains that this first element is part of the ‘multi-sensory experience.’

Let’s face it; we’re all racing to see the birds. And they were no let-down. I’ve never seen or heard of zebra finches before, and they are stunning, a bit odd but truly amazing. Rather tiny, I realised when they landed on me, and they have deeply orange beaks that give them a tropical air, with a small white patch and black stripe by their eyes, then the males are mostly pale grey, with a light brown undercarriage and black and white tail feathers. The females are mostly white, but also with the black stripe by their eye. Just observing a living creature that is so unusual and beautiful in close proximity was a delight, and they just didn’t seem to mind us being there as they flew around and tried to build nests in Gibson guitars. Yes, they were guitars of quality. I wondered whether they were just toy plastic replicas so as not to waste the real thing on a bunch of wild creatures, but they were Gibson Les Paul models—about 10 of them. The artist apparently had tuned the guitars so that whenever a string was touched, it produced a clear chord. That was key; everything sounded impressive and interesting; never did we wince, even when different guitars were played by different groups of birds around the room at the same time.

Added to the random guitar sounds was a great deal of sweet chirruping, almost like quick high beeps, and the busy flutter of wings, which added to the delightful soundscape. I pressed record on my Dictaphone for a bit and came home with an amazing snippet of sounds. Most of the birds were paired off (so no solos) and quite dear. They had endless patience; I observed one fly up to a nesting box with a long, thick piece of grass that was about seven times his size, but after he landed in the box, the unbalanced long blade of grass would fall out, far below onto the floor. Without any look of scowling, rolling his eyes or cursing, the bird just flew down, picked it up again, flew all the way back up to the nesting box, again drop it back onto the floor because most of it was hanging heavily outside, and then he would fly down to retrieve it again. He did this several times until eventually another bird decided he’d rather like that ginormous blade of grass, and he swiped it the next time it was dropped before the first bird could return to the floor for it for the umpteenth time. Frankly, I was a relieved.

The environment was so soothing, I almost wished for a park bench so I could sit and write whilst enjoying the atmosphere, being surrounded by (and landed on by) happily chirruping unusual finches as though I were in a park in Australia or Indonesia, where they’re native. But then, benches would mean people would stay longer, and fewer people would then be allowed in. The Centre only let a few people in at a time, which was the right thing to do so as not to freak out the birds or spoil the experience (or invoke disturbing ‘choreography’!), although it meant there were always queues, particularly as people would usually spend at least 25 minutes in the company of these birds. We would smile at each other as we shared the experience, sometimes talking about how grand it was to be near such exquisite creatures, and I became a part of the exhibit when, as I said, a finch landed on my handbag and remained there for an age, which caused several people to gather around me and point (or maybe it was my Thatcher-like suit). Later, one landed on the top of my briefcase, which was slung over my shoulder, and I remember worrying a bit that I might accidentally leave with it, which partly sounded fun but then I doubt I could look after it properly, though I probably wouldn’t have to after my cats greeted it. So good thing it got bored and flew away to do some guitar-picking.

The birds eat grass seed and there was plenty of seed around. The cymbals weren’t being pecked as percussion but instead were filled with either water, where the birds sweetly splashed themselves in a rapid dance, or seeds that they scoffed happily. The floor (around the sand pits and arid grasses) was made of wooden planks with surprisingly no evidence of bird droppings, so the Art Centre must scrub it regularly. But no one did so while I was in there. There were only two attendants—one outside monitoring the numbers entering and leaving, and one inside covering the entire airy room.

That wouldn’t have been enough to prevent me from taking a photo, as he would have been unable to see me do so when my back was to him and he was chatting to people on the other end of the curve. But I’m a terrible goody two-shoes and the big sign outside prohibiting photography, which I had plenty of time to stare at whilst queuing to come in, weighed heavily on my mind. I hate myself for not stealing a photograph, which would have cheered me no end, allowing me to relive this pleasant experience as soon as I got home and to smile when it came up on my screensaver slideshow. Plus, I go to so many things and I get so little sleep, I always worry I will forget what I’ve been to altogether unless I have a photo for revisiting.... But nay, I’m a wimp and took nothing. A woman near me did get told off (very politely) for taking out her camera, but she must have got a shot, and that would be worth it. I hate myself, the same way I did when I was prevented by the South Bank Photo Police from snapping Ray Davies when he came out in a union jack suit, and I was in the second row with an unimpeded view. I should have just taken it; why didn’t I?

So my only complaint about the exhibition was that I couldn’t take a photo or two, obviously without a flash. What harm would it have done? I wonder if the artist felt doing so would steal the soul of his exhibition or something. Immediately after I visited this exhibition, I went upstairs to the Ron Arad exhibition where the public were encouraged to take photos and post them on Flikr and link them to the Barbican website. And boy did I take photos, and I’ll add those here soon, but a million pictures of chairs—no matter how unusual—just aren’t as cute as a bunch of zebra finches, particularly ones playing Gibson guitars. (I did Tweet from the exhibition though, which I thought was rather fitting.)

Had I managed to return on Friday as I attempted, I might have tried to snap a quick shot of these adorablenesses, but I doubt it. Not with a big sign telling me not to be naughty. But I’ll never know. I didn’t manage to leave work as early as planned so got there at 7.15pm, and the gallery closes at 8pm, and there was a significant queue, which the attendant closed just as I arrived since all those people were unlikely to get in. It was a disappointment, given that the exhibition was to close on 23 May, but perhaps a second visit would have been less magical and ruined the memories for me. I doubt it though.

A small comfort is that there are videos on YouTube shot of other such installations, including one that appears to be the official Barbican clip (probably what I saw at the end of The Culture Show), although it wasn’t filmed at the Barbican as what appears is a much smaller space, more like the Victorian zoo look that I had worried about encountering. If it works, I’ll put the link below. Enjoy it, but if you ever get the chance to see such a thing in person (or in bird?), make sure you fly to the exhibition as quickly as you can.

(I've replaced the previous video, and if one doesn't appear below, try here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1eX0vDPPnDA&NR=1 )

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Finsbury Circus RIP

If you live or work in the City of London, be sure to visit Finsbury Circus this week. It will be your last chance to see it in its original state, and your last chance to enjoy it at all for at least seven years, as it will become a building site for Crossrail from 1 March.

Finsbury Circus is the oldest and largest open space in the City. A short distance between Moorgate and Liverpool Street station, it is unusually a square in London that is in fact elliptical, covering 2.2 hectares. The Circus was once part of the Finsbury Manor Estate but was enclosed in 1812 to form a garden later laid out by William Montague. It’s our minute version of Central Park.

Crucially, it is a refuge, a tranquil sanctuary in the middle of otherwise busy streets raging with traffic, away from the nearby busy pavements that are covered by masses of work-focused people stomping past to the next chapter of their busy lives. This open-air shelter of sorts a short distance away is remarkably serene. I look around at the others sitting here, many taking photos in the knowledge that this little paradise is being lost, and everyone has that look of calm that the Circus inspires, which they will no doubt lose when they walk a few yards to Moorgate or London Wall or wherever to fade into the crowds and return to their bustling, busy lives.

There are, of course, bigger green spaces in central London if you have time to travel way across London to a royal park, for instance. But none so accessible to us City folk. If you just want to see some lovely flowers and gorgeous old trees, or to hear the happy chirp of birds other than pigeons, it’s a Godsend. Already, the Camellia bush beside me is in bloom (I am typing this from a bench in a quiet and somewhat forlorn Finsbury Circus) and behind me are the first crocuses and snowbells I have seen this year, already in full flower as if Finsbury Circus has some special gulf stream or simply magic that's sprinkled on its green inhabitants. This tiny touch of joy truly stirs my heart, particularly on this otherwise miserable rainy grey day. The flowers have gone to the trouble of finally bursting through, subtly and delicately presenting their brand new beauty ahead of most of their cousins, and yet they will be heartlessly yanked up and put on a tip somewhere in a day or so.

The existence of the magnificent Finsbury Circus has been threatened before by railway development. Apparently, in 1862, when it was only 50 years old, plans by the Metropolitan Railway Company to demolish it were considered, but it was saved by Alfred Smee, who considered it to be one of the most beautiful London squares. Where is its saviour now, I wonder, as it surely retains that impressive status 150 years later. The elliptical square was acquired by the Corporation of London in 1900 for public use, and has been maintained by the City for that purpose ever since. Until now, when the battle has been lost.

I feel at such a loss because, even though I don’t get to take a break as often as I should, I cheer myself with the thought of coming here, and I will always go slightly out of my way to wander through it if I’m near. If I’m simply strolling from Moorgate or London Wall to Broadgate or Liverpool Street, I make sure I cut through Finsbury Circus, and even just that quick diversion leaves me feeling warmer and soothed as a result. If I find I have even just a few minutes, I will get a Chai Tea Latte from one of the nearby Starbucks and go sit on one of the many benches and have a bit of ‘time out’ from the stressful day, just watching the sparrows and looking up at the sky through the stretching arms of trees, which is something I can rarely do as a City dweller. People with more time and money to devote enjoy a meal at the Pavilion restaurant there, which has a fun clubhouse-shack look with tables overlooking the bowling green, all of which I imagine will also be destroyed.

While this Spring will be an exception, of course, usually, as soon as the weather is warm, the garden fills with people reading, chatting, enjoying their lunch, sitting on the many benches that line the circle of the square, or the low stone walls, or the deckchairs provided by the bandstand, or just stretched out on the lawn. People are everywhere, sharing the joy of the gardens. During the City of London Festival each summer, the bandstand delivers bright live music, and I have enjoyed many a delightful lunch break during the festival whilst being wowed by impressive jazz musicians in Finsbury Circus, when somehow I’m not fond of jazz elsewhere. The atmosphere sells it, the rapture of the others around me, perhaps what the Irish would call the craic.

The gazebo, in particular, means a great deal to me as a symbol of a carefree time. Back in 1989, when I was in the UK for only eight months, a friend who was a professional photographer took photographs of me with my new fiancé and my future brother-in-law and his wife in front of the charming gazebo. Although I later, after an awful divorce, removed from the framed collages all the other photographs from that period containing the now ex-husband, I kept the ones from Finsbury Circus as they were always warm memories of a superb summer’s evening in a remarkable place.

In the centre of the Circus is a bowling green, and plaques citing former championship wins are posted on its edge. The bandstand is lined with plaques pronouncing the Square as having won awards as the best inner-city open space for some years. Or at least it was; I see those have been removed over the past few days given what feels like the impending apocalypse. There are palmettos beneath the surrounding canopy of beautiful plane trees, some of the oldest in the City (I hear the latter might be protected from the destruction; I certainly hope so). I understand the garden also contains the oldest specimen of the pagoda tree, Sophora japonica, so I pray that is also preserved. The Circus is surrounded by tall buildings with a Georgian feel that remind me of Bath’s Royal Crescent, and all sorts of little oddities pop up as you wander around, such as funny former drinking fountains from another century, benches installed decades ago in memory of 'old music hall artistes and song writers'. Everyone sitting in Finsbury Square seems to have an affinity with it, and we respect each other’s enjoyment of it.

So, get there while you can. There is barely any time left. Crossrail takes control of it from 1 March and will remove everything in the centre, although they will apparently in 2017 or so reinstate the little gazebo of which I am so fond and, I assume, the bandstand. They will presumably remove the Pavilion restaurant, the bowling green, the flowers, shrubs and many trees. They are storming in soon and I will have lost my refuge from the world, and I feel stressed already.

Ironically, I see that Transport for London have listed Finsbury Circus on its Open Garden Squares Weekend site, complete with a description of its marvellous attractions even though that weekend is in June 2010, long after this stunning sanctuary will be gone. I am offered as some insubstantial comfort the fact that Crossrail promises to reinstate Finsbury Circus when it is finished with it, at least seven years away. I am also told that we need this new railway, and I am not condemning progress. But I find myself devastated and depressed by the loss of this treasure, and totally lost as there will be nowhere to go so safe from the stresses of life with such amazing calming powers. I think on Friday, I may just cry, but I hope to race for one last glimpse and absorption of its gift of solace if I can manage it before an unmissable meeting. I’m already feeling dispirited to have to give up and leave now as it’s started to pour down rain, as predicted.

Go see Finsbury Circus now even if you’ve never been; it will warm your heart--if the bulldozers and diggers aren’t there yet. Nothing can replace it for me, my enchanted Shangri-La. I thank it for its many years of solace and diversion. RIP Finsbury Circus.

Alarming Stuff

The other weekend, for the first time in my life, I dialled 999 (the English equivalent of 911). I did so amidst the campaigns just launched about not troubling the emergency services for minor things as too many people do, and the news stories that the emergency services could not keep up with calls because of the relatively heavy snow that had been draped over the land for a week or so. Naturally that, of all the times in my 43 years when I might have chosen to summon the emergency services before, is when I elected to do so.

But not without a bit of persuasion, at least. First, there was the terrifying alarm that tried to persuade me. I had been dozily slipping into the land of nod against my intentions on the sofa that Saturday evening, when the combined smoke and carbon monoxide alarm above me left out a couple breathtakingly loud beeps so shrill that it must make dogs suicidal, followed by 'WARNING!! WARNING!! CARBON MONOXIDE!!', which it repeated incessantly. The authoritative female voice of the alarm made it that much scarier, as the scene was like one from a sci-fi film where the on-board computer broadcasts 'WARNING! THE PLANET WILL DESTRUCT IN 10 MINUTES. EVACUATE NOW!' Perhaps that is why I ended up physically shaking, its planet-destruction associations.

So, I asked myself with a scrambled head, what does one do in these circumstances, when there's no space-age hero or David Tennant or Christopher Eccleston (forget the new child; surely he's too young to save anyone) to take me to safety?

Well, what I did first, naturally, was to climb up to take the alarm down from the ceiling and remove the batteries to shut it up. I had no choice as it might have caused a heart attack otherwise (the neighbours' if not my own) and surely it was mistaken. After all, the alarm had never gone off before. (I like to think that some of this brainy behaviour can be attributed to having breathed in some of a poisonous gas). Then, a wee bit concerned about the small chance that it might not be lying after all, I opened some windows and shut off the boiler. The boiler had, after all, been appallingly fumy for some weeks, to the extent that I would only breathe out on my rare visits to my kitchen (I don't cook), and every day I meant to ring my plumber during my lunch hour to ask him to check it out, but I never got around to taking my lunch hour. Indeed, 'ring plumber' was firmly in my diary for the previous day.

However, it was terribly windy and snowy outside and it occurred to me after a mere few minutes of having the windows open and the boiler (and thus the central heating and hot water) switched off. So I decided a better plan would be to close the windows and switch the heat back on. In the interest of safety, though, I decided to adjust the boiler's timer so that, after it switched off tonight, it would come on in the morning an hour later than usual (6am rather than 5am) so that I wouldn't be asleep for too long if there were indeed a carbon monoxide leak from the it. ….Not asleep, no.

But I did pause again …..just what if there were something wrong? How stupid would I have to be to get a blaring, highly specific alarm like that and then decide to ignore it? I remembered the terrible story in the news of those small children being killed whilst on holiday in Corfu with their father because of a boiler that leaked carbon monoxide. And what if my plan to 'see what happened' tonight left me debilitated quicker than expected? I might nod off before I'd properly thought through a plan.

I was still determined to close the windows but thought I'd at least seek advice first. I went online to see that what was generally recommended was something American about notifying your service provider or, in some cases, getting in the fire brigade—without specifying which cases qualified for the latter. Feeling unenlightened and less street-wise than I always thought I was, I texted and emailed a few friends who I felt might have experienced something similar before. Fortunately, one of them rang immediately and insisted that I ring the fire brigade, as his father-in-law's friend had been killed by a boiler leaking carbon monoxide in his house, undetected. I kept saying how embarrassed I would feel and how busy they must be in the snow on a Saturday night with real emergencies, but he was adamant, which I figured meant it was at least not unheard of to trouble the fire brigade in these circumstances.

It was still odd to press those three 9s and wait for an answer; I still felt like I wasn't the sort of person in the right sort of circumstances to be troubling them. A female operator answered quickly and asked which emergency service I required, just like on television. I was tempted to say 'coast guard' and see what happened, but I said fire brigade, really wanting to add that I felt I shouldn't be bothering them and it was okay if she felt inclined to hang up on me. She immediately put me through to another woman who answered 'fire brigade,' and the first woman stayed on the line to tell the second that there was a call from – and she carefully and clearly read out my phone number and rung off.

That made me wonder…..does it mean that the 999 operators have better software at their disposal than the fire brigade, since the latter relies on the former for telephone number details, when even my unsophisticated phone at work had call display? And if my telephone settings blocked my number so that people couldn't dial 1471 to reveal who had rung them, does that mean my life is in more danger than if I didn't as the emergency services wouldn't know where I were ringing from unless there were time to tell them?

In any case, aware that the fire brigade operator, kind though she sounded, wouldn't want me to waste time with theories or long explanations, I just said 'my carbon monoxide alarm has gone off and my friend said I should ring the fire brigade.' She asked my address and said an engine would be with me shortly. Before I could help it, I heard myself saying, 'Oh no! You're sending a whole engine? But my close is full of snow and hard to manoeuvre, and it's probably a false alarm—I'd feel so silly.' Speaking in a soothing voice, she said I mustn't worry and I did the right thing by calling them; everything was fine and they were on their way.

So I waited. I must confess that, before I had even rung them, as I pondered my situation and then awaited friends' advice, I had had a bit of a tidy-up. I didn't quite get the Hoover out, though that was desperately needed, but the place was a shocking tip and I'd not been home long enough recently (when not working at home or dropping off to sleep immediately, which I've since been warned was, along with headaches and nausea that I'd ignored, a symptom of breathing in carbon monoxide to have a clearout. My house is a kingdom of clutter, like an untidy HMV warehouse with stacks of astonishing numbers of CDs, books, DVDs and even cupboards full of videos that I need to get rid of somehow. So, on top of the general embarrassment of having the fire brigade come round anyway, it was embarrassing to have anyone come round to see the place in this state.

So I quickly tried a few other futile attempts at improving the scene, crucially removing the more embarrassing bits of female laundry that were drying on the radiators and airers in the kitchen, and in a few minutes became aware of a flashing blue light coming through the front curtains. (I'd heard a siren beforehand but hadn't noticed it as I hear them all the time). I peaked out and, yes, there was my fire engine, just as I'd ordered.

Most of our dwellings look alike so I thought I'd better help them find mine, I opened the door and greeted them with a smile as they stumbled up my snowy path in all their fire-fighting gear. Yes, all their gear; they were dressed in those fluorescent yellow waterproof jackets and trousers, with helmets and lamps, big boots….. The only thing missing was axes and rushing towards me with a long hose spurting out gallons of foamy water. I guiltily thought how it seemed so absurd. I pictured them getting an alarm, interrupting their dinner, sliding down a pole (do they still do that?), rushing to get all their fire-fighting gear on, climbing aboard the engine, and speeding off at great risk in the snow to the address they'd been given…..where I greeted them with an open front door and a smile as if they were coming to my cocktail party.

As the five—count them, five—big firemen in all their gear climbed up the stairs into my flat, I was mortifyingly embarrassed. Let me count the ways….. I did warn them, not that they were about to behold the toughest fire they'd seen in years, but that they were entering an abode in a disastrously cluttered state like nothing they'd ever seen before. They all spread about, stomping off in different directions and looking in various rooms while I told the nicest looking one—by that, I mean he was smiley and had a kind face; none of them were young hunks that I recall but that really wasn't on my mind at the time, and who wants to be embarrassed in front of young hunks?—and the older one who seemed to be more of a thinker and took charge of things, including talking to the weird woman in the scarily overfilled flat. He must have been the Captain.

They were all enormously friendly and no one seemed angry at me for calling them out. Some of them made kissing noises at my terrified cats (one man in the house is rather unusual these days, never mind five big glowing loud ones); none of them were anything like gung-ho Kurt Russell or Sly Stallone in an action film, which I felt was a good thing. Some others seemed to remain outside with the engine, which still was flashing a brilliant blue light and which I'm sure every neighbour in the close was peering at through slight parts in their curtains.

Initially, The Men tinkered with my alarm, which lay disembowelled on my coffee table, and after they replaced the batteries and found it to no longer be shouting about the forthcoming apocalypse, the nice smiley one spoke into a radio on his giant fluorescent striped yellow jacket that it appeared to be a false alarm. I felt guilty and offended, a bit like I'd failed a test, 'til I realised that I would prefer to have no carbon monoxide filling the atmosphere and this all to be a result of the alarm-woman being bored or overly excitable. But the Captain guy pointed out that I'd had the windows open and the boiler off for a while so I might have cleared the problem before they got there, and they'd better switch on the boiler to test it.

As soon as they did, all these giants crowded into my teeny square kitchen (thank goodness I'd moved the laundry airers) immediately gasped and made loud enthusiastic exclamations just like groups of young men do when one of them, well, shall we say passes wind loudly and smellily. There was almost a delight in their suffering. The Captain chap said that he could smell that there was something wrong immediately and he even had a cold, and the nice smiley one nodded, looked nice and smiled at me. I feebly said that it had smelled that fumy for some weeks and I'd been meaning to get the plumber in, but I figured that as carbon monoxide didn't smell, smelling fumes meant it wasn't carbon monoxide. As I said it aloud, even I wanted to look at me like I was an idiot. But I guess it's nice for a group of giant life-saving men to feel even bigger around stupid women occasionally. Nice for them, anyway, and I guess I deserved it.

They played with the boiler for a bit longer and told each other (and me though they might as well have been saying blah blah blah blah-blah) technical things about various parts of the boiler, that the flame was burning yellow, and that since there was a pilot light blah blah blah, they couldn't just switch off the boiler's power but had to shut my gas off at the mains. This foiled my plans for using an ancient gas fire in the living room that was buried behind several dozen stacked DVDs, but they said everything in such a sweet, benevolent way, it all sounded a good idea. They still switched off the boiler's power at the electrical socket, and only some hours later did I notice that, in their enthusiasm to switch everything off, they'd also switched off my fridge. But perhaps it looked threatening or they figured I was too dumb to be trusted with any major appliance.

They stomped back into my living room and gave me useful advice about how long I needed to air my house out. It turns out that carbon monoxide leaves in a very short time—I think it was only an hour with the windows open—which was great. I then got to shut out the wind and snow, I just had no heating or hot water.

That was bearable as I managed to put on lots of layers and get into my warm bed, which has always been a bit of a cocoon as it has several blankets and a couple down duvets, and the next day I was able to pop out to Argos to get a small (they'd sold out of the large ones) energy efficient heater that provided a decent amount of heat if you were huddled next to it. The cats and I became very close—thank goodness they are Persians—as they found that I was the warmest thing in the room. I struggled through the next few days but fortunately my plumber came on the Tuesday. I had to ask a colleague to take an extremely important meeting for me, which I worried about for a while so I almost postponed the plumber, but as it was 42 degrees Fahrenheit in the warmest room when I got home on Monday night, I think I made the right decision. I wouldn't want to need the plumber even more because my pipes had frozen and burst.

It was decidedly uncomfortable, as was the worry that my ancient Potterton boiler, which is the size of a tall refrigerator, would need to be replaced at great expense. But fortunately the plumber seems to have been able to have fixed the problem. The boiler had just filled up with soot, causing the burning grill blah-blah-blah full of soot, and the pilot light blah-blah-blah as a result, and the flue had been completely blocked by soot so all the fumes that should have gone out the chimney were coming into the kitchen instead. Apparently, when one smells the fumes I was smelling, that's indicative of a boiler that is leaking carbon monoxide. He also was concerned that my alarm was so far away from the boiler that the amount of carbon monoxide that would have had to fill the house in order to set off the alarm meant he was surprised I was still standing. He made me go out that day to get another alarm to put right behind the boiler (I got one but apparently you shouldn't put them in the kitchen. He suggested that it must have been my fantasy come true to have all those burley firemen in my home, but that has never been my fantasy, and it was just mortifyingly embarrassing. ….Though I eventually had to admit to myself that there was something lovely about going from being very disoriented, scared, alone and unsure to having all these men arrive like superheroes with the sole mission of making you safe. I wouldn't recommend the former but it's sweet that the latter exists should you find yourself in that, or God forbid some much worse, position.

Since the long day my plumber spent working on the boiler, I've had to leave the kitchen window open whenever I'm home 'to protect us both,' he said, until he's sure that the system can cope with drawing out the bad stuff. He's coming back next week--and I so hope he will say I can start to close the window as it's so cold!!—to see if the remaining soot has burned off the chimney. Otherwise, I'll have to get a chimneysweep! I didn't know there were still chimneysweeps, and I can only picture either some filthy Dickensian child with a battered broom turning up, or Dick Van Dyke singing Chim-Chim Cheree in a dreadful English accent. But that might make it more fun and comfort me when he gives me the bill.

Anyway, despite everyone at work initially treating me like I was a dead woman walking, (the friend who'd rung me in my hour of need was a work colleague—my boss, in fact), I've been very chilled about this (with the window open, I've been very chilled) although I have been on a campaign to encourage everyone to get carbon monoxide alarms. A few have gone out and got one and put it up right away [you should do this, too!!], others just agree that they should get one and think about it. My own champion alarm that alerted me to all this, incidentally, had been a gift from my mother in the States some years ago. It was such a thoughtful alarm that it beeped in a certain pattern some months ago to let me know that it was dying and needed to be replaced. I didn't rush to do so as I couldn't find the same combi alarm, but eventually dear Amazon.uk got in a consignment so I was able to replace the ailing alarm with an identical one. I should have treated it more urgently, but fortunately I got the new one up in time, and it told me what I needed.

Occasionally, I stop to think that I should pay more attention to the fact that, essentially, I got a second chance. I spend a lot of time going around grumbling that God hasn't let me win the lottery, or cursing the fact that my train was cancelled, when instead I should put those things in perspective and thank God (or whomever) for ensuring I didn't die that night.

Or the time not long ago where I started to step into the path of a speeding car but in that split second, my back shoe started to slide off so I paused. Or the time I had a huge gas leak thanks to the cooker installer sabotaging the job in hopes that I'd call him out again, but instead I breathed it in for three days and went around flicking light switches and even making toast beside the leak (and that, I did smell, but had been told by colleagues that one can expect a small smell of gas after a cooker has been installed, and I didn't realise what they meant by 'small smell'; I hear Transco prosecuted the guy.).

So the experience has made me realise that I need to appreciate life a bit more and moan a bit less. It has made me realise that, but not practice it so much. I'll work on it. The experience has also taught me something about myself. I learned that my response to a terrifyingly loud and jarring alarm indicating danger is to rush to silence it, convince myself that it was wrong, apply a twisted logic involving how long it would be safe for me to be asleep the next morning whilst inhaling poisonous gas, slowly polling friends and tidying up before ringing 999 in an emergency. Something else I should work on….

And get yourself a carbon monoxide alarm, now!

Breakfast Club Re-workings....

Several times today and over the next fortnight, the channel Movies24+ is showing a film called The Christmas Card, which has made me delve a bit into my past and look up some old acquaintances—in the modern way without actually contacting them, but instead doing a Google search. The Christmas Card is a pleasant enough, indeed warmly likeable Hallmark-style television film about a family-less Army Sergeant stationed in Afghanistan who receives a Christmas card from a stranger in northern California who, as part of a church charity drive, sends encouraging cards to soldiers. He was so moved by the card and the description of her life and beloved town that, when his senior officer rather oddly convinces him not to sign up for another tour of duty just after a colleague dies in his arms, but instead asks him to go lead a civilian’s life and start by delivering that soldier’s dogtags to the ‘widow’ (though I’m sure the previous dialogue established her as his fiancé, but hey, it’s television). He ends up in the town described in the Christmas card and within minutes of arriving bumps into the sender of the card, of course, and falls in love with her. But she’s engaged, and it’s complicated…. Still, he sticks around, gets a job working for her family’s logging firm and even stays in her family home, naturally after saving her father (played by Ed Asner) from getting hit by a car. All sweet with many improbabilities, but it’s all rather endearing if you just accept it.

The plot is not what drove me to look backwards. None of that relates to me. I initially wasn’t even watching it so much as having it on in the background as I worked on the PC, but I turned to see that the hero was someone I recognised as being a well-known child star, because his mouth was unmistakably familiar. I could easily picture it simpering in some wimpy way, perhaps in an 80s sitcom or some big Home Alone –type film as it—more than the rest of the man—was so well known to me. I can place actors quite quickly—even if it’s just from an appearance in a Poirot I’ve seen a dozen times, but this time, I had to resort to the Internet Movie Database.

I scanned the list of films and other appearances, which included some well known programmes like Desperate Housewives and Melrose Place, neither of which I had watched. None of the films were the household names I had been expecting. He was in Alive, playing one of the survivors of an air crash who ate the others, but I hadn’t managed to face seeing that yet (though it’s now on order with Amazon). I’d rather watch something fuzzy and warm like The Christmas Card.

I was baffled. What did I know him from? Then I saw that he was born in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, where I grew up. How funny! I thought , but that still didn’t lead me down the obvious path as loads of people are from there, many of whom are decent entertainers—James Taylor, Loudon Wainwright III, Ben Folds, Squirrel Nut Zippers, the dBs and others I can’t think of now, but seriously, there are loads.

Then I saw he was only a few months older than I am. Hmmmm…… So I got out my 1982 yearbook and looked up John Newton in my class and, sure enough, there was the face of the ‘child star’ with the simpering mouth that I was thinking of, but on a skinny boy who looked vastly different. So I was remembering the child, not the star. He certainly wasn’t a star then. In fact, whilst I really can’t picture where he fit into the scheme of things, and I can’t recall whether he’s someone I’d say hello to if I passed by, I definitely think of him immediately as being a bit of a, well, the word dweeb comes to mind but I can’t be certain why. When I searched for clues in the yearbooks of those three years at Chapel Hill High School, looking for his appearances other than his official class photo, I only found him once as a member of the small Dive Club, which I didn’t know existed. Much to my surprise, I seem to be on every page, in every club even though I also volunteered at the hospital until I was old enough to work and then I had a busy job in a department store. I thought I led a quiet existence where I wasn’t noticed too much, but it looks like I was busier than I recall, and my yearbooks are filled with passages written by (often merely vaguely recalled) people thanking me for being such a great friend, even though I usually left the school early to go away so often didn’t get time to pass ‘round my yearbook for many signatures.

It’s all a frustrating mystery. In a sense, I’d quite like to have a day to go back in time and wander around my high school as an observer at that time. I wouldn’t want to find myself, like one of those Disney films, suddenly in my high school body expected to deal with everything thrown at me by everyone and pass exams I hadn’t studied for because I’d been a 43-year-old woman the previous day. No thank you. But I’d like to walk around invisibly beside that me and observe who she interacts with and try to place everything, given that I don’t have the technological record of it all that kids these days do with their mobiles uploading videos to their facebook pages and all that. So I’d just like a refresher course, plus it would be interesting to see what people were really thinking now that I know how to read them better. And see what I was really like because I never seem to have had a real clue about that, or how others saw me.

As I married an Englishman and left the country as soon as I finished University, I lost those ties that many people who stay in the same town retain. Fortunately, a close high school friend is now living in the New Forest so I was able to ask her if she remembered this John Newton. She recognised his name immediately—more than I can say—but when she googled him and saw the photos of this fairly attractive chap who’s in shape and has great hair, she understandably couldn’t place him as a fellow high school student. That’s because, looking at him, you would assume he’s always been attractive, that he was the big man on campus, perhaps the star quarterback. Nay.

That’s what pleases me so much. I really can’t recall precisely what I thought of him, but looking at his fellow Dive Club members, there’s one guy I remember well who was, well, not widely respected as a winner, and I think John probably hung around with him and was judged by that company, plus I think he probably didn’t carry himself with the mature social skills that some of the real Big Men on Campus did. So I’m thrilled for him that he moved on from that and carved out what seems to be a much better life for himself and I hope he’s happy with it.

It seems that, not long after leaving high school where probably not enough of us noticed him or gave him any credit (or just plain thought he was a loser, because we’re all cruel at that age), he was ‘discovered’ and cast as the lead in the series Superboy. Okay, I never knew there was a series called Superboy. But looking at the DVD covers on the Amazon.com site, he really fits the bill even then. He looks like a young Superman, and I can see him playing Clark Kent as well (I would always prefer Clark Kent, though bumbling can be a turn-off). He’s quoted on his IMDB page as having taken up martial arts and the spirituality that goes with it after he left school, and that’s no doubt what led to the fuller body and Superboy look. Again, good on him.

Now he’s a jobbing actor with a wife and I hope he’s happy. He could go back to the high school reunion, if they have those, and no doubt draw a crowd of drooling women who had ignored him then, and—well, not pay them back in a Carrie-like manner, but just get his own back perhaps in the satisfaction that he’s made something of himself (mind you, most people but me seem to have done so!).

Go John! And, as my friend says, seeing him in that 2006 film looking quite good and youthful also reassures us that we’re not as old as we might sometimes feel. I might just watch the film again tonight. The whole reason I had it on to begin with was I’m trying to convince my system that Christmas is on its way, and far too quickly. It was somehow September one minute and now that massive holiday is with us in just a matter of days, which is terrifying. So I could do with a bit more Christmas spirit, and indeed in the film, Christmas seems to be going on for a few weeks.

Flicking through the yearbook briefly, I saw photos of a few boys who I had crushes on for an age (usually until they asked me out, at which point the interest evaporated, a cruel curse I’m not sure I’ve shaken), of people who I have heard are microbiologists and other impressive doctor-y sorts now, and a few other memorable souls. There were members of The Pressure Boys, the great local ska group (who copied Madness’ trademark group walk, and whose Mitch Easter co-produced fine 80s album Jump! Jump! Jump! I was thrilled to be able to get recently from Amazon on MP3 since my vinyl is in the States) and one that caught my eye in particular was Stacy Guess, who was always particularly intriguing—if not a bit out of it—because he was an incredible trumpet player, and I once played the trumpet in the school band, albeit truly dreadfully. He went on to join the fantastic Squirrel Nut Zippers (you must get their Christmas Caravan album and make sure you start any long Christmas journey with Sleigh Ride blaring; it is so tremendously uplifting!) but a few years after leaving the band, he died of a heroin overdose. Very sad.

Another musician in our midst easily caught my eye as I glanced over the class photos: Dexter Romweber. Even at the age of 16 or so, he stands out with his jet black greased paramour rockabilly haircut, and he and similarly coiffed Tony Mayer would always wear distinct long black coats over white t-shirts. They weren’t racing to keep up with 80s fashion like the rest of us; they could care less.

I always liked Dexter. I liked that he looked different and dared to look different. But our paths didn’t cross that often, and I doubt we would have had much in common other than a love of music. I do remember playing some part in our Junior Follies talent show one year, which was thrown to fund the Senior Prom, and sitting with the overseeing teacher, Kip Gerard, auditioning the acts and deciding who would be on the bill and in what order. One band had this drummer I liked (initially because I had a crush on his friend, but then after talking to him a few times I realised he was pretty neat himself, very calm and confident), and I loved that they covered such things as XTC’s Burning with Optimism’s Flame, which ain’t that easy if you want to sound good, and The Romantics’ What I Like About You.

Also on the bill was a noisy rock band I didn’t rate called something about an exit or a motorway, and then The Kamikazes--Dexter and Tony's band. They were special, like having the Stray Cats on our high school stage, but with more of a goth look and less of a pop sound. Everything was black; I feel like Dexter even put black under his eyes like a boxer but I’m probably imagining that. I don’t recall much about their sound now; I just clearly picture Dexter and Tony with their rockabilly-coiffed jet black hair, and Eric Peterson, I think his name was, who really caught my eye with his lovely wilder blonde style (which now brings to mind Sideshow Bob of the Simpsons.) He held more of a fascination for me but didn’t go to our school, as I recall, and I think Tony was younger, but Dexter was in my class.

Around then, Dexter’s sister Sara was finding fame as the drummer in the band Let’s Active, who had a record contract and some great songs, including Room With a View and Every Word Means No, the latter of which I feel certain was used in a film. (There is even a tribute album out for the band, which included Mitch Easter and Faye Hunter). Now Sara's joined her kid brother in the Dex Romweber Duo, and, having had their new album hastily delivered to me by Amazon after stumbling across Dexter again in the pages of my yearbook, I’m so impressed to hear that quiet eccentric-looking kid in my class belting out some of his own songs in such a mature, impressive voice, joined on the album by the likes Cat Power, Neko Case and Exene Cervenka of X (at least two of whom he’s toured with). Rick Miller of Southern Culture on the Skids, another local group, joins in on guitar on the odd track, but I am biased against SCOTS (not Scots though, you understand) as one of their past bassists who idolised Tina Weymouth worked with me at a department store and convinced naïve foolish me to lend her my photos that I took from the front of the Talking Heads concert during their Stop Making Sense tour, negatives and all so she could get reprints (back in the old timey camera days), and she STOLE them all, the absolute cow. I hate her for life and am glad she’s no longer in the band and hope she’s now employed scrubbing the toilets at her old school.

But back to Dexter, he sounds so incredibly mature on this album….but then, we are 43-ish, and he’s been in the business since he could walk. On some songs, he sounds like Tom Waits, others Nick Cave, sometimes even Johnny Cash. Many are covers and I liked quite a lot of them. And apparently Jack White (I’m not a fan but I know everyone else is) is a big fan of Dexter’s and suggests he wouldn’t be where he is today were it not for Dexter’s influence, particularly from when he was in Flat Duo Jets. I had no idea what to expect from this album—and there are others on their way—but I am terribly impressed, and I’m highly critical. Good ol’ little Dexter.

And me, what have I done? Well, I haven’t made it big yet. I like to ignore the fact that time is passing and I seem to have a dull, miserable job in a place where I’ve been trapped for most of my adult life which is now becoming unbearable (no doubt because they know we must be thankful to have a job now, so they torment us while they can). I have written trillions of songs, a few of them decent, and I have at least two solid books in my head that I need to find the time to write down before I go senile (which I worry will be soon), and several other plot ideas with scribbled bits of paper all around the house to go in them. If only I weren’t working full-time even out of hours at my stupid miserable job. I worry that, the same way that I let the University experience pass me by by working full time during my 4.5 years there, I am letting my destined life and dreams pass me by by working more than full time now. That would be really awkward, to say the least, if I woke to realise that I was 75 and still hadn’t gotten around to dealing with my creative side that I feel really does have something to offer (though everyone believes that about themselves I suppose) if given the chance. But it may well happen…..

Perhaps that’s why I’m all the more supportive and thrilled for the success that these other classmates have accomplished. Maybe everyone hasn’t heard of actor John Newton. Maybe loads of music lovers haven’t yet been exposed to Dex Romweber, though I recommend having a stab at his music. (I know that even a recommendation from someone like Jack White won’t draw in the public when recommendations about Ron Sexsmith from Elvis Costello and Paul McCartney haven’t brought him the fame he has really earned. In fact, he apparently was passing out fliers for his lawn service the day after the Flat Duo Jets played on David Letterman). But, though it’s a bit unlikely, they could one day be on the future equivalent of Parky explaining that, surprising though it seems when you look at them and where they are now, they were not popular in high school and just did not fit in. And those who really did fit in, where are they now? Maybe failing in the society of high school is a good sign as it’s not the real world and it’s best to wait to bloom later when it counts. Some of us are still waiting!

So that’s the long, rambling stroll down memory lane all caused by a Christmas film that I wasn’t even watching……

Normal Service to be Resumed Eventually....

Okay, I’m rubbish again. I’ve updated neither my website nor blog for ages. That’s because every waking moment, I am struggling to meet work deadlines, apart from the few events I’ve attended for the sole purpose of ensuring I have at least two hours now and then when I’m not working. Plus, you really shouldn't just live in London and not live in London; there's so much going on. I have in mind to blog on those events, or review them on my music website http://www.aboutlastnight.org.uk/ when they’re concerts (eg Spandau Ballet at the O2), and in many cases, I’ve scribbled down some thoughts that just need a bit of attention before I can post them. I so envy these people who don’t seem to have an office job who can sit and blog every day, or those who are more together who can fit in both.

When I get a chance—and some I hope to post this weekend though I've brought lots of work home as well—I will add some things that might not be quite so timely now, but will be there in case anyone is interested in my talking about some of the wonderful plays I’ve seen in the past few months (Endgame, A Doll’s House, Duet for One, Waiting for Godot, Arcadia, a few Stoppard adaptations of Chekhov), some other events (Barry Humphries as Sir Les Patterson and Dame Edna Everage with an orchestra at the Albert Hall, Margaret Atwood reading from her new novel in a church while Roger Lloyd-Pack, Diana Quick and others act out scenes, Horseman’s Sunday or the Blessing of 100 Horses—an annual church service on horseback, Cart Marking in the City etc) and book signings following excellent talks (John Banville, Joss Ackland, Michael Palin, Dara O’Briain, Griff Rhys-Jones, and Alan Whicker [without a talk]), and the Save The Rhino event at the Royal Geographical Society with Stephen Fry and Mark Carwardine, though sadly the latter was kept from us by swine flu, but the former held the fort admirably, talking about their recent Last Chance to See series, and I hope both are feeling a bit brighter soon and that the latter is not overwhelmed by this Twitter storm (though it’s mostly love for him, which I trust will help).

Incidentally, Blighty is showing the first part of Stephen Fry’s brilliant and enlightening documentary Stephen Fry: The Secret Life of the Manic Depressive at 10pm on Sunday, 1 November; I highly recommend that you try to see it.

….And more from me later, for anyone sufficiently patient to trouble themselves with a return to this site! Thank you and apologies again.

Rushing…into the path of a car, and accidentally from London Bridge to Cannon Street via Sevenoaks

I’m always being told to slow down; I rush around madly and people can never keep up, and even when I’m standing still, I seem to encourage people to suggest that I should calm down when I actually feel quite chilled, other than perhaps some frustration at the listener’s inability to keep my pace and his or her misinterpretation of my mood. I’ve noticed that people I’ve been talking to more often seem to pause too long when I’m done as they sift through the numerous thoughts and statements I had blurted out in what they had initially expected to be just one sentence. Or I hear ‘Hold on, one question at a time.’ And I do walk super-quickly; I can’t help myself, and I curse in my mind the surrounding slow people who delay me, with only occasional pangs of guilt about that. This is me, and I doubt I’ll change.

I have been given two strong signs recently that I should slow down, though. Nothing like a heart attack, though the second thing nearly proved fatal. The first was just stupid. Not foolish exactly, as I can see perfectly clearly how it happened. It just felt stupid.

The other morning, I was coming in a bit late to work as it was the first day for some time when I had no early meetings, but the off-peak train service was worse, and there were no direct trains to London Cannon Street. So it took a slow hour to get from my home in Kent to London Bridge Station, where I would change trains and arrive at Cannon Street a few minutes later. I could easily walk from there; it’s surely less than a mile away, but it’s quicker to get one of the regular Cannon Street trains leaving from platform 2 or 3 (they always change with seconds’ notice once you have walked the entire length of the wrong platform). As my train approached London Bridge Station, I could see a Cannon Street train already waiting there, so I manoeuvred myself to the door so that I could be the first one out, and rush to the nearby staircase to change platforms. I am sufficiently desperate and shameless not to mind running up the stairs amidst the crowd then practically hurling myself down the other stairs to the platform to get the Cannon Street train before it leaves. As I am tremendously quick, I almost always manage to make this transfer against all odds.

That day, I was just as proud as always to slide through the doors of the Cannon Street train just before they shut. I paused for a moment’s relief and to catch my breath, then began to move towards the front of the train, but the train was weird, nothing like the normal crowded aisles with crammed seats on either side. It had curved corridors and a first class compartment, unlike the commuter trains with which I was familiar. I felt instantly alarmed and tried to move back to the door but my way was blocked by some student tourists, and then I felt the train start off in the wrong direction. I glanced through the window at the monitors on the platform to see that I was not, in fact, on the train that would deliver me to Cannon Street in three minutes, but rather on the train headed for Hastings, East Sussex, on the south coast. About 70 miles away. I tried to remain calm, figuring that the train would reach its next stop soon and I could get off and change, perhaps at Lewisham or Greenwich. But the first stop was Sevenoaks.

For those of you unfamiliar with the areas, Sevenoaks is about 30 miles away, further out in Kent than the place from whence I had just spent an hour travelling. So that can’t be a good thing. And I had meetings later that morning that I could not miss. It got worse. I had no ticket to travel on this train. My annual ticket only covers my usual route from my station to central London and back. Now I was taking an unwanted detour that could tie me up for several hours when I needed to get to work, and on top of that, I would either have to fork out a fortune for a return ticket to somewhere I did not want to go, or I might be prosecuted for fare dodging, as the rail companies are not known for their sympathy. I was mortified.

It does sound amusing now. But at the time, I was gripped with fear and fury at my stupidity (a matter of turning left at the bottom of the stairs at London Bridge out of habit, rather than right where the Cannon Street waited on a lesser used platform).

I initially just stood by the door, as if refusing to take a seat and settle into this journey against my will might help my plight. I quickly faced up to being in for a long haul and took a seat, but kept my jacket on and didn’t take anything out of my case to read or do as I was still on some sort of silent wilful protest. Plus, I had to figure out a plan and notify work.

I could not bring myself to ring them. Everyone around me, all those who were not accidental passengers but apparently perfectly happy to head for Hastings, would have surely smirked and chuckled when overhearing my desperate phone call, adding acid to the wound. I suppose they would have a right to dismiss me as the idiot I was, but I chose the coward’s way of silently emailing two colleagues about my ‘SERIOUS PROBLEM!!!’ as I overstated at the time in my subject line. They must have opened the message with real trepidation about what horrific revelation awaited them—perhaps involving a lost limb or some sort of explosion--only to laugh for an age at what I had done. I’m sure that’s how I would have handled it were I on the carefree other side.

My colleagues came back with kind, sympathetic and reassuring messages, promising to stand in for me at my meetings if I did not return in time, not letting on about their fumblings for the necessary papers that they were quickly trying to learn. They kindly suppressed laughter in their written words and one claimed to have almost done the same thing several times before. The other encouraged me to sit back and relax, listen to music and read a book. Bless them; if only it seemed possible.

Instead, I frantically tried to find via the Internet on my phone the train timetable for this foreign line, but had trouble getting a connection for some reason, perhaps because the train was moving so fast, which at least seemed a good sign. I cowered low in the seat like the criminal I felt I was, guiltily waiting with dread for the guard to come into the carriage to check tickets, which I normally barely notice as I never break the rules, but now seemed to spell my doom. I had no ticket; I was a stowaway.

When the guard finally came, shouting ‘tickets please’ and slowly making his way towards me after checking that all of the goody-two-shoe passengers had proof that they had paid for their journeys, his footsteps seemed to pound towards me, every step amplified as he approached my row. When he was standing beside me, tall and foreboding, I lowered my voice and explained that I guess I had to buy a ticket (in hopes that was at least an option) because, actually, I was just trying to get the Cannon Street train and didn’t mean to be on this train at all. It sounded hilarious as I heard it out loud, but I would have accepted him mocking me; that would have been preferable to issuing me with some massive fine and criminal record (do they really do that? The posters threaten that and I’ve never really cared because it would never apply to me). He studied my face in silence for a moment.

I must have passed the test. I clearly looked obviously very, very stupid or, and I can guarantee this one: very, very stressed. And I was wearing a stuffy suit, had my briefcase and was emailing on my phone so I perhaps looked more like someone headed for the City of London at this time of day than seeking a day out at the seaside. His face sort of flinched with what I read to be tired disgust, and he consulted some little machine he was carrying as I braced myself for the news that I owed a shocking amount that I was unlikely to have with me. He screwed up his face further like a disappointed science teacher, practically made tutting noises but seemed to just about manage some restraint, and said he guessed I wanted to know the time for the next train from Sevenoaks to London so I could get to Cannon Street. I didn’t dare let relief set in and still waited for bad news, but he just reeled off a few route options and stunned me with the news that this was such a fast train that we were due to pull into Sevenoaks in the next five minutes. Sadly, he told me, the next London train would leave one minute after that, so I’d have to wait half an hour for another train, and all of my options involved another change at London Bridge for Cannon Street. For the first time, that thought struck fear into my heart. I'd demonstrated that I was incapable of such a trick.

As he continued to explore his magic machine, I looked out the window across the aisle for the first time, and I saw countryside. Real green stuff, big chunks of it. Fields with sheep and horses and haystacks. Wow. If only I hadn’t been so absorbed with my plight, I might have sat back and enjoyed the journey. To this day, despite having lived here about 20 years now, I love looking out train windows to see the gorgeous scenery of England. It’s just that my normal journey shows a lot of dirty dull buildings, warehouses and crumbling blocks of flats.

The guard eventually left me after saying I needed to tell that story to the guard on the London train, and he spoke in a bit of a snooty tone to me, but never asked for money. He was either very kind or I easily passed for a pitiful fool. Either way, I was thrilled. The train drew into Sevenoaks and I was determined to make that train that left for London in one minute. I flew out of the carriage as soon as the door opened and rushed up the stairs, racing across to what I thought the signs that appeared as a blur suggested would be the London platform, ran down the stairs and leapt through the doors of the train waiting there, ecstatic to have made it. Wait a minute, I thought, have I learned nothing?! I stuck my head out of the train and looked down the platform towards the screen that confirmed that it was, indeed, the London train. Hurrah.

This train was more crowded so I was forced to take a seat across from a gaggle of teenagers. I thought what a field day they would have when I was flogged for fare dodging on this train. The other train’s guard gave me hope that this guard might also accept my entirely true but pathetic story, but I still ducked down and felt a sense of fear and stilted panic as I waited for the moment when the guard came into our carriage to find me, the fugitive. When you think about it, they would have more reason to prosecute me for being on this train without a ticket, because I did technically knowingly board the train at Sevenoaks without a ticket. I was probably expected to miss this train, report to the ticket office and hand over my credit card before getting the later train. But I hadn’t.

Fortunately, the guard was an even kinder one on this train, a woman who didn’t loudly repeat or react to what I as saying so that she might delight the teenage audience across the aisle. I could easily have been lying this time, just someone heading to London, late for work, but maybe I had an honest face, or maybe she figured it unlikely that someone would have the gall to suggest such a stupid story, casting themselves as the dunce in order to escape paying for the journey. She stopped just short of patting me on the shoulder in sympathy as she just nodded and moved on. Bless her. Maybe I looked even more stressed than I felt, if that were possible.

This train travelled much more slowly but because the Hastings train had raced along like an airport express, there was a chance that I would make my meeting. When I finally reached London Bridge again, where over an hour before, I had arrived thinking I had only a few minutes left of my journey, I thought it best to walk to Cannon Street; it would take longer but seemed safest. But then I saw that a Cannon Street train was due to leave from another platform in just two minutes, so again I raced up and down the stairs towards that platform, this time repeating in my head with each step: “Turn left, turn left, turn left, turn LEFT!’, and I duly did, and this time, uh, left was right. I still double checked the screens on the platform to ensure I was on the right train—and have done that repeatedly before boarding any train ever since-- and off I went, having taken an unexpected trip to the countryside and over an hour to reach this mere moment’s departure from London Bridge on the Cannon Street train.

When I arrived at work, I slunk towards my desk through the back way, approaching my colleagues with an expression of shame mixed with an accepting smile, fully prepared for everyone in the vicinity to begin applauding or laughing or beginning to never let me forget it. But it looked as though my potential saviours had kept it quiet and were just relieved that I made it in time to spare them having to step in for me. Naturally, rather than sensibly keep it quiet, I ended up telling half the people individually of my adventure. It usually meets with a smile. Just yesterday, someone told me they spent the weekend in Sevenoaks with family. ‘I’ve been to Sevenoaks!’ I piped in enthusiastically, ‘…for about 30 seconds.’

The other incident a few days before was a much quicker tale, but nearly more devastating. I was rushing, as always, racing from home towards the local train station on what should be a 20-minute brisk walk, but which I always have to do in 13. I had just cut through the cemetery to reach a busy but narrow road that is difficult to cross, and I usually walk up it for a bit in hopes that I will find a break in the school traffic before the fork that leads me off in the wrong direction. Today, I saw that there seemed to be a teeny break right away, so without pausing, I just darted through the cemetery gates and onto the road, keeping a worried eye on the car approaching from the right as I tried to move out of that first lane into what I thought was now a clear lane. I began to step forward into the opposite lane, but my right shoe started to slip off slightly (I usually wear trainers—see my tale of my foot saga—so my feet are usually tightly secured in the shoe, but today I was wearing loose flats as I was due to meet people after work). For a split second, I paused, and a big red van suddenly passed two inches from my face. In other words, I had somehow completely missed seeing that a van was racing towards me on the lane I was about to step into. When I initially launched into the road, I checked for traffic coming that way, but think I did so through the windows of cars passing in the near lane, and there must have been a blind spot; I hadn’t realised. Somehow I did not see this van at all and thought the road was briefly clear. If I had stepped forward as intended without the brief shudder of a pause, it would have instantly wiped me out. No time for braking, screaming, or moving—I was stepping directly into its immediate path and would have been whisked away or crushed immediately, perhaps before the driver even understood what that huge thud was. It took my breath away; I don’t know what it did for the driver, although he might have imagined I had no intention of doing anything but waiting for him to pass, though I was standing tantalisingly close. However, when I reached the other side of the road, barely breathing, a pedestrian walking in my direction had huge eyes, wide with a terror as though he had just seen a ghost. He looked at me as though I should not be there, and then slowly passed by me in a dreamy, stunned state, still with those huge eyes.

I found, when I finally sat on the train, that I was shaking just a bit.

After work, I met friends for a drink and then dinner but then had to return to the office at 10pm to finish up some things and get some work to take home with me. Later I looked back and realised that I could have worn trainers after all as I had returned to the office after going out, so I could have changed shoes then (I keep normal flats in my desk drawer). Then it hit me that, had I done so, I would probably be dead.

When I returned home late to hungry cats, I realised that I very easily might not have done. It might have been some authorities coming in instead, eventually, to sort out my affairs. I’m not normally so sentimental, and I’ve had close misses before, though never that seriously close, so this really had me looking around my flat with different eyes. (Can I just say now, having examined my flat with those eyes, that the reason it’s in such a disgusting cluttered state is that I’m always, always working and when I do get home, I am doing more work or I fall asleep exhausted right away, and I was planning to clean it soon! Don’t let the world report that I had a secret identity as some crazy hoarding bag lady. It’s unfair that people can comb through your home and judge you on how you left it last when you were certain that you’d have a chance to tidy it and sort things out when you got back. I wonder now if I should leave a note saying ‘I was planning to vacuum this weekend, honest! I’ve just been really busy….’)

A few weeks after these incidents, I do find that, as I charge across the London streets with my usual cocky arrogance and certain invincibility that I’ve always had, which made my friends turn pale, I suddenly realise that I’m just as fragile as anyone and I try to take more care. Not as much care as I should, but I do have a new respect for traffic. Unfortunately, I’m sure it will wear off. The moral of the story, of both stories, is slow down and be calm--like everyone is always telling me. But I just can’t see it. I’ve got to be me.