Dispatches from Lockdown - Week Twelve

The three month mark is approaching from the time when the UK first entered lockdown. Restrictions are starting to ease and when I head out to the local high street, you would think that collective amnesia has descended, given the mass disregard for social distancing. It's as if some have forgotten that we are still in the midst of a global pandemic caused by a virus that has no cure. The UK death toll continues to rise, the 'official' figure hovering somewhere between forty to sixty thousand, depending on which news source you believe. Government incompetence is staggering, causing a behavioral free-for-all socially because no-one trusts or listens to them anymore. International commentary derides the UK for entering lock down too late and now exiting too early.

I agree.

However, whilst the first wave of infection was out of our control, the second wave isn't. People know what they can do to try and minimise infections but whether they choose to or not is another matter. So I think the UK will have the second wave of it's choosing. 

The things I have missed over the last three months have been surprising. Or not. I didn't think swimming would rank in my top ten list of missing but I'm not surprised that small talk features on the not-missed list. What surprises me the most is how much of the London lifestyle I don't miss. At all. 

Instead I miss the sea. Breathing air that smells a bit burnt, tinged with the scent of eucalyptus. Raucous birdsong and a sky that makes you mute. I miss the edges. I miss feeling rubbed raw by nature.

A Blurry Picture of a Big Sky

I've heard many comment about when things will return to normal but I don't see how you can live through something like this and not have it change you.

Or maybe it's not change at all. Maybe it's just a reminder of what it is you valued all along.

I guess we'll see. 

Space Invaders

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away (circa anytime before Mar 20, 2020), the Husband complained often about my walking style, especially if he was behind me trying to follow my lead.

You don't walk in a logical fashion, he moaned for the umpteenth time.You swerve all over the place. You walk like you're being followed, like you're trying to shake someone off.

Draw what conclusions you will but I didn't point out that the only person following me, was him.

He's right though. When I walk through a crowd of people, I like to pretend that I am in a video game (eighties arcade style) with the aim of avoiding all moving targets (bumping into other people) whilst getting to my destination as quickly as possible.

Oldie but a goodie

It hones your kinaesthetic sense* and makes walking through a crowd really fun. It's even better with headphones on as then you have a soundtrack. I have been doing this a long time.

Unfortunately, due to lock down I have not walked through a crowd for awhile.** Still, I have  ventured out each day for my government mandated exercise quota. In the early days, I ran or walked on the footpaths, just as I had done pre-Covid and if I came across another soul, we would do an awkward dance of denial; manifesting a duet between opposed magnets, trying to keep as much air as possible between our bodies. But we would both be on that footpath, our body movements institutionalised by the fear of being run over by cars.  A few weeks later, this changed as the roads became quiet and pedestrians, runners and cyclists reclaimed the streets.

The freedom to run, walk, cycle down the middle of the road, for the most part unhindered by traffic has been one of the unexpected highlights of lock down.

My daily outings into the world made me notice that people generally fell into two groups.The first were courteous and diligent about social distancing. These are the people who would spot you from afar and if they could, would cross the road or pause to let you go first. Basically move in such a way  so you would not get too close to one another.

Not so the second group. In this Dante's circle are the mobile phone users, looking down at their screens whilst walking, with zero concern about anyone else in the vicinity. Sprawling families who act as if they are on a country ramble, meandering along, taking up the full breadth of a walkway so no-one else can get past. Joggers who spit. Joggers who can't deviate from 'their route' even if this means brushing right up past you. Pedestrians who mustn't have studied metrics at school, mistaking two centimeters for two meters.

I also noticed that the kinaesthetic sense is sorely lacking in many people. I suppose this because it is not something you wouldn't  need to use regularly unless you play team sports or perform in some sort of physical ensemble. But perhaps by the end of this, we will all have finely attuned senses of where others are in relation to ourselves. Let's hope.

I also noticed that the walking style needed in lock down was something I was born for! My swerve-duck-dodge walk is in vogue. The only difference is that there is now a two- metre radius around each moving target.

I guess for all of us, there comes a time in life where your weird quirks or odd habits come into their own.

If only my Husband could see me now (he can't because I left him for dust)


*my definition of this is the awareness of one's bodily movements within space in relation to the environment

**apart from the supermarket where social distancing seems to have been abandoned

Oh No. Bojo has the Covo.

CoVo world moves at a rate of knots. Things change with a blink.

A few days ago, the UK Prime Minister, Boris Johnson was hospitalised in St Thomas' Hospital with 'persistent' symptoms of coronavirus. He's spent the last two nights in ICU and apparently is in 'good spirits.' 

Bojo's a no go. He's in Tommo's laid low with the CoVo. So now, we've got Dommo leading the Toro's.*

I'm no fan of Bojo but I wish him a full recovery. In this unheralded time, we need stability, even if it does come in the form of Boris Johnson. The irony of him receiving the very best of NHS care; care that his party has systematically stripped away from many others less fortunate is glaringly apparent under the world spotlight.

What isn't changing swiftly is the Husband's recovery from suspected CoVo. It's been 18 days since he fell ill and he is 6kg thinner and too weak to walk out the front door and do a socially distant stroll to the end of our road. Although he is improving slowly, I have never, in the 25 years I've known him, ever seen him this debilitated.

And he is one of the lucky ones, to have had a 'mild' case of CoVo, if that is indeed what he had.

I hope that it was.

Because going through it once was enough.

*I have been watching a lot of Kath and Kim

Corona used to be a Beer

Since my last post, a mere few weeks ago, it seems that the Earth has stopped rotating anti-clockwise on its axis and decided to turn the other way. We seem to have entered a new reality usually found in dystopian paperbacks sold at airports or kitsch movies about the zombie apocalypse.

I am referring to the force know as COVID-19, the coronavirus which is rapidly altering the way we live, for now. The core of our social infrastructure, i.e. human interaction, is being unpicked in order to stem the potential deaths that this virus may cause and ease the burden it will inflict on the health services.

Here in London, all schools are now closed.* Citizens have been asked to work from home and avoid unnecessary travel. Restaurants, pubs, libraries, gyms, theaters; all places where people gather in dense numbers to interact have been instructed to close to try and 'flatten the curve,' to allow the NHS to try and cope with the anticipated influx of very ill people.

Squash that peak!

Some people I know feel this social cease and desist has happened too late and that we should have shut down several weeks ago. Others are slightly begrudging of the new social sanctions imposed but acknowledge that we all have to do our bit, whether we have symptoms or not.

In this new landscape, I thought it would be prudent to check on my folks in Australia who, being in their 70s fall into the high risk group should they catch corona and have been told to practice social distancing.

My folks and I are already socially distant, given that we live 10,000 miles apart. We are also very self reliant of one another and phone calls are now rare occurrences, replaced by a family Whatsapp chat. But if a global pandemic doesn't make you call your parents on the other side of the world, then I don't know what will.

Mum answered the phone and after a lecture about mask wearing and asking after the Grandchild, she moved onto the subject on everyone's lips.

Toilet Paper.

I noticed the early signs of the phenomena known as Panic Buying when I was getting ready to leave Australia in early March. Stocking up on Tim Tams one morning in the local IGA, I saw that the loo roll section was bare. When I returned to London days later, I got chatting to a staff member at Morrisons who showed me a photo on his phone of the loo roll aisle just one day before. Empty. He was restocking as we spoke and in light of what he'd said, I put down the 12 pack of bog roll I was going to buy and picked up the 24.

How many bums are they going to wipe?

It's a good thing I did for weeks later, toilet roll has become like gold dust. People are queuing before supermarkets open to try and get some. Corner shops are hoarding it behind their counters, selling it only to 'regular customers.' Psychologists are saying that this global fixation with toilet paper is symptomatic of trying to maintain control at a time where things are chaotic and unknown. A local taxi driver told me he thought it was because people were full of shit.

Freud would have a field day.

Toilet paper has never been in short supply at my Mum's house. She is Chinese and therefore she buys bulk. In a gentler time, pre-Corona, visitors to our family house would gaze at wonder at the Great Wall of Toilet Paper assembled and marvel how we would never, ever run out.

Well.

Due to our recent visit to Australia, my family and I had depleted Mum's toilet paper inventory.

We were down to ten rolls when you left, she reported,'But I didn't worry. All those crazy people. As if we couldn't get toilet paper.

But she couldn't.

I went to Coles. I went to Woolies. None at Aldi's either.

So what happened? I asked. After all, this is a woman who in the 1980s was captured on the evening news limboing under a half open store door so she could be one of the first inside during a Boxing Day sale to nab a microwave that was 50% off.

Your Father and I woke up early one morning and he said, 'lets go shopping now before breakfast' so we went to a nearby Coles. But we didn't know where the loo paper aisle was because we don't usually shop there. There were already about 30 people waiting outside when we arrived.

So what did you do?

I said to your Father, it's easy. As soon as the shop opens, just follow the crowd. They'll lead us to the toilet paper.

And did they?

When I saw where the crowd were headed, I slipped around and went the back way. Got there before most of them.

How much did you buy?

36 rolls. It'll do.

It's reassuring to me at a time where so much is changing in an unprecedented way, that Mum always come up trumps when faced with a challenge. Loo roll or locusts, she'll find a way to overcome.

 I hope in the months to follow, I've inherited her moxie. 



  *Most schools will remain open on a skeleton teaching crew for children of key workers

Spread the Word Life Writing Prize

During a sluggish period with the children’s book I am (forever) writing, I saw a call for competition entries for the Spread the Word Life Writing Prize. Life writing, as defined by the competition rules, is writing that is based on real life experiences of the author. As luck would have it, I had a piece that I had started writing a few years ago about growing up in Australia during the 70s and 80s and what it was like to be the only Chinese kid in school. I dug it up, worked on it and then sent it off to the competition.

To my surprise and delight, my entry was longlisted alongside eleven other writers. This meant that I got to attend the Awards Ceremony and read an excerpt from my piece. I met the other longlisted writers; competition judges; the wonderful Joanna Munro who is personally financing the award for five years and the Spread the Word staff who were super to deal with in the lead up to the Awards Night. I also got to invite my long-suffering friends to the ceremony where they actually heard some words I’d written rather than me babbling on about writing to them but not ever showing them anything.

After we had all read from our pieces, Danny Brunton was announced as the winner with his with his piece, New Boy, alongside Paradoxical by Xanthi Barker and Small Talk by Laura Morgan as highly commended entries.

I had already been informed by Spread the Word prior to the event that I had not made the shortlist, so I knew that I was not in the running. But to me, I felt I had already won; obvious to all that were not blind by the huge shit-eating grin plastered to my face the whole night. Because I think when I found out I had made the longlist, it may have been the happiest day of my life. More than my wedding day or the day my child was born.

That’s how happy it made me. Pure unadulterated joy unmarred by stress (wedding) and pain (childbirth)

What a terrible thing for a mother and wife to say.

But it’s true.

It was a really good day.

No Man's Land

I have a list of performers I would like to see before they die. Maybe this is just presumptuous. Perhaps I will die before Bob Dylan or Tina Turner but irrespective of who carks it first, there are performers I wish my living flesh to bear witness to. Onstage.

Ian McKellen is one such performer. I first saw him play a South African squillionaire in Six Degrees of Separation; one of my favorite movies.  Ever after he was an actor I followed from Gods and Monsters to Richard III to, of course, Gandalf.  Talk about being born to play a part.

Love that Gandalf stare

When it was announced that he was partnering with Patrick Stewart for the play, No Man's Land at the Wyndham Theatre, I whooped. Then made my way like a bat out of hell (excuse the Meatloaf lyric) to the nearest computer to get me some tickets.

Much poorer after said ticket purchase, I decided to not read anything about the play, so as to have a completely fresh experience on the night.

When we arrived at the theatre, I was so excited I sat in the wrong seat. Once corrected, I chatted to my companions how great it was to be so close to the stage. We were two rows from the front so would see every wrinkle, every sweat bead. We would see the acting.  I perused the programme and began to regret not reading about the play beforehand.  It seemed that this Pinter play was the type that likes to mess with your mind.

The curtain rose and there they were. Two old men. It crossed my mind that if I was a man, I would like to age as well as these two have. McKellen was in full flight as Spooner, the man who in the course of the play would mess with the mind of Hirst, Patrick Stewart's character.  During the first act, I managed to keep up with the dialogue that was flying about between the two of them; both playing drunk characters getting progressively drunker. They must have been very good because I started feeling a little drunk myself. The venue was warm. It was the first time all day I had sat down and relaxed. And then a terrible thing happened.

I started to fall asleep.

My eyelids drooped. Ian and Patrick disappeared from sight.

Noooo. I urged myself. Keep awake.

Doggedly I forced myself to affect a Clockwork Orange-esque wide eye stare. Eyes on Ian. Eyes on Patrick.

I did this

You cannot fall asleep so close to the front.
The actors will see you. 
Ian McKellen will think you hate his acting.
Who pays £70 to go to the theatre to fall asleep?

I managed to stay awake through the first act.  But as the surreal plot unwound during the second act, I felt my traitor eyelids drooping. This time there was no fighting it. I might as well have been shot in the bum by a tranquilizer gun. I was out for the count.

Remarkably, I do remember seeing this bit 

The Husband kept nudging me in the ribs.

Patrick Stewart is looking at you, he whispered, more loudly than was necessary. Wake up!

Mortification is not an emotion I often feel at the theatre. But falling asleep during No Man's Land with such fine actors are performing at a hairs breadth in front of me was exactly that.

Mortifying.

During the curtain call I clapped so enthusiastically my palms stung. No-one clapped harder than me. I was awake by this time and was impressed to see McKellen completely transform out of character as soon as the play ended. Just as obviously as if he was taking off a jacket. It was transfixing.

Too little, too late?

Not really. It was worth it.

Fail Again. Fail Better

So said Samuel Beckett.

I used to have this quote on a greeting card which I pinned up near my desk at home.

It served as a reminder that, as the 1980's philosopher Billy Ocean sang,

When the going gets tough, the tough get going. Oooh Oooh 

Since I escaped from Hell, I mean, left my last job, I have been extremely picky in job hunting. Two or three days a week in the film or literary sector. Nothing with too much responsibility but also with enough stimulation to prevent brain rot. Admittedly there are not many jobs out there which fit my criteria so applications have not exactly been pouring forth from me.

Since June I've had three interviews. The first one was for an arts charity based in Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. The charity's aim is to develop a programme of art events for hospital patients to assist in their recovery. The timing of my interview was ironic. I myself had been in hospital the day prior for a minor procedure involving general anaesthetic. In hindsight I probably should have said No to the interview but as they say, when opportunity knocks....

No surprises that I did not get that job. I think I was speaking English during the interview but your guess is as good as mine.

Following that there were no interesting jobs on the horizon. I started temping to keep one foot wedged in the doorway of work.

Then a deluge (actually, there were two) of part-time film jobs with medium-level responsibility flooded my inbox. I duly answered the same ten boring questions that all employers seem to ask on any job application form. A few weeks later I was asked to interview for jobs at the BFI and IntoFilm.

Well...

What is there to say about the BFI. If you live in the UK and know even a little about film, you will know the BFI. Many years ago, a much younger version of myself applied for a job with them and was rejected. Surely lightning couldn't strike twice.

IntoFilm is a film charity that does excellent working promoting access to and engagement with film right around the UK for youth aged 5-19.

Man, I sweated over the interview preparations.  I knew there would be at least one film question. I asked Facebook friend's to tell me what their favourite British films were. I reread all the film blogs I have written. I looked over my old programming material from my days working at the FTI.  Since I started rearing a child my film consumption has diminished considerably. Gone are the days when I would see up to four films a week in the cinema. Nowadays I get to the cinema maybe once a fortnight.  Which is not bad for the average person but would it be enough for the BFI cineastes'?

It wasn't.

Yesterday the BFI  emailed to say that I did not get the job. It was a kick to the guts as those doors to the BFI have been slammed twice in my face now. Then about ten minutes after that cheerful news came the rejection email from IntoFilm.

Aiiyaiyaiyaiyai!

Did I perform badly in both interviews? Was I over qualified? Am I too old for the entry level positions I am applying for? Or were the interviews just a performative time wasting process for all. Was someone already lined up for the role?

Or am I just a sore loser?

On request, the BFI gave me interview feedback. They said I was a strong candidate amongst ten strong candidates. Supposedly I was one of the strongest candidate's but someone stronger got the role. The feedback made me feel like I had lost an arm wrestle with an octopus.

Failure is a very different thing at 42 than at 22. In your twenties the horizon seems endless; possibilities infinite. If you fail at 22, you wait for the next opportunity you assume is coming. At 42, failure fucking sucks. Time and energy is not on your side. You hope you are still alive when the next opportunity comes; if it comes at all. At 42, you realise not everything works out the way you thought it would.

Let me in you fuckers!

Mr Beckett urges greater failure. Greater effort. No matter the failure, Just work towards the next one. Eventually you will get there he implies.

Would you trust this man's advice?

Is there sense to bashing one's head against a brick wall a la Beckett style? In this case the impenetrable doors of the BFI?

We'll see. Watch this space.

Parolitics

It's Dragon's last day of school today.  Her first year at school is soon to be over and I find myself unexpectedly emotional. Maybe it was wrapping the large quantities of alcohol I had purchased for her teachers that did me in. Thinking about all they have done for her in the past year. Or maybe it was the epic meltdown she had yesterday due to her sadness at school finishing. Or maybe it is the fact that time is flying and she is growing up.

Dragon's first school year has been a big eye opener for me and the Husband. We have discovered the meaning of a 'school community.' We have met and gotten to know our neighbours because our kids all go to the same school. I have embraced the mum's Whatsapp or Facebook messaging chat group phenomenom. I drink more coffee than I thought possible during mum coffee catchups. I have a new collective of small people who I can chat with just as easily as their parents. I have met some great people who I like as people, not just because we are all parents. In a place like London, it is rare to find this type of solid community and so we embrace it.

Reflecting on all that has happened within the last year has made me think about the politics of parenting or, parolitics. When Dragon was a baby and I was venturing out into new playgroups, baby meetups, activity days, it dawned on me that negotiating your way through the world of parenting is a political act. In fact, I wrote a short piece about it during Dragon's first year:

There are many secrets to parenthood. Things that remain unspoken and once experienced are tucked away, not for discussion. Once the baby is here, it is too late. You have opened the door to the other room, and the room within that. On a good day, this exposure feels infinite, sublime even. On a bad day, endless.

You discover these secrets, one by one but you don’t speak of them, or rarely, for there is some social contract it seems, which forbids us to speak truthfully about becoming a parent.

Once you become a parent, you become a politician.  Parenting is political. Friendships may crumble. Allegiances change over cloth or plastic nappies. Your new parent friends believe in the death penalty and vote for UKIP but it doesn’t matter because your kids are friends and playdates take priority over execution.

Who am I?

Where do you draw the line in this new world of relationships lived through your offspring?Unwittingly you are bound to this group of men and women whose children will be invited to your home for playdates and birthday parties. Whose faces you will recognise over time from pick-up and drop offs at the school gate. These people are your people now.

This is your parenting community.

Is this what you choose? Not necessarily. If you had a choice, you would choose your old-life friends. But they have disappeared from your daily life for they are far away, geographically or philosophically. Some old-life friends become unrecognisable once they have children. Some return, as do you, to a semblance of your former self but some are lost forever; their identities forsaken in the fog of parenting.

Friends without offspring miss you too. Some cut you loose. This is devastating.

‘I am not a leper,‘ you think, ‘but I am a shape-shifter.’

I have grieved the loss of friendship due to children. No-one speaks of this but it happens. 

Five years in, I am still earning my stripes as a parent. But I have ventured far from those early days where I struggled to make sense of the incongruencies inherent within parenting life. Nowadays I love the contradictions. I don't need to understand the whys and wherefores as much anymore. It just is the way it is. I like this new world order, far more than I ever thought I would. 

It's reassuring to be surprised by your own life on occasion. 

A Year in Books with Heywood Hill and the Beaumont Hotel

Books and Art Deco decor are two things in life which merge quite seamlessly. Like smoked salmon and scrambled eggs or caviar and blinis, I find the two are mutually complementary. For example, I post this blog whilst sitting here, which is infinitely more appealing than in Starbucks where I also go to write:

The American Bar @ the Beaumont Hotel

A few years ago, Husband and I had dinner at the Colony Grill; a restaurant in the then newly opened Beaumont Hotel run by restauranteur duo, Corbin and King.  Husband was already a devotee of the Delaunay where he has breakfast at least once a week and we had also dined at the Wolseley and Brasserie Zedel. We always enjoyed the art deco luxe in their establishments in addition to the straight forward menus and attention to detail. So when we found out that they had opened the Beaumont, we hotfooted it there and found the same consistent attention to detail, luxurious interiors and lack of snootiness.

I love this place, I breathed to the Husband as I wafted out of their public restrooms, quite possibly the most gorgeous public restroom I had ever used.   I could sleep in that toilet.

Possibly worried I would do so, the Husband purchased for me as an anniversary gift the package called, A Year in Books that the hotel is offering in conjunction with Heywood Hill bookshop. This package allows for one night stay at the Beaumont and a special consultation meeting with Heywood Hill who then send you one book a month over the course of a year.

As I had recently quit my job, I decided to commence unemployed life by cashing in on my stay. After all, who needs an income when you have Art Deco? I found a selection of books in my room for me to peruse:

Team with the theme. Books a la 20s

Immediately I wanted to stash three of the titles in my luggage and 'forget' to take them out again. But I guess this is called stealing.** I was impressed by the range of titles for they were all books I would read. I looked forward to my visit to Heywood Hill. But before that, I luxuriated in my hotel room. Consistent with my prior experience with the public bathroom,  my very own bathroom was beautiful too. Luckily for my back, I also had a bed to sleep in.

My dream bathroom

When I arrived at the bookshop later that day, I saw that it is a blue plaque building. Turns out Nancy Mitford was a shop assistant here in the forties:

Step inside book lovers. You won't be disappointed

Once inside, I was placed in the capable hands of Karin, the staff member who would be deciding which twelve books I would be receiving over the next year. We had a chat about what kinds of books and genres I like and dislike. What my interests and inspirations are and why I was subscribing to the package at all.  After our chat, I knew that Karin is an angel from Book Heaven and has one of the best jobs in the world. Lucky lady.

How was the bookshop? my Husband asked me later on.

Imagine going into the wand shop in Harry Potter. Slightly ramshackle and completely charming. The air is thick with words and books and the staff are book aficionados in that they seem to live and breath books. All books. I could live there.

The Husband laughed. We're back to that again are we?

But I am serious. I really would.


** I asked if I could buy one of the books from my room and they gave it to me compliments of the hotel. What's not to love about the Beaumont. Class act.


The Beaumont Hotel, 8 Balderton Street, Brown Hart Gardens, W1K 6TF 

Heywood Hill, 10 Curzon Street, W1J 5HH

March for Europe

Today London marches to protest the results of the Brexit referendum.  Over the past week, the world has watched our union unravel at the seams. Not only the union with our European neighbours but the union within our country, the United Kingdom. The Conservative and Labour parties are both in disarray. We have no real leader and whilst people cling to hope, despair is not far from the surface either.

I am at a writers retreat this weekend hosted by the Arvon Foundation. It is a sanctuary; tranquil and beautiful amidst the lush Shropshire countryside. I am sifting through old and new work trying to unravel and and tease out new stories and words. I found this old writing exercise from many years ago. A villanelle based around the election race between Obama and Hilary Clinton.  Somehow it seems fitting for the spirit of the pro EU march today so I will share it here:

Villanelle  #1

‘What a historic moment,’ the broadcaster said

She cried as she watched the election unfold.

‘Obama’s the man. He’s got the street cred.’

Thirty years ago, she’d gone to buy bread,

then walked back out into the cold.

'All blacks should be shot,' the baker had said.

And now naught for nothing had her ancestors bled.

She heard the echoes of voices of old.

‘Obama’s the man. He’s got the street cred.’

It was a moment for hope, but instead

she couldn’t forget the time she’d been told

‘All blacks should be shot,’ the baker had said.

The next morning she opened the paper and read

that to vote, people had queued for hours in the cold.

‘Obama’s the man. He’s got the street cred.’

What good is the hope that fills you with dread?

A movement for peace with their flag soaked in red

‘All blacks should be shot,’ the baker had said.

‘Obama’s the man. He’s got the street cred.’

In solidarity. Good luck and here's to a peaceful protest

Goodbye To All That

Since the results of Brexit have come through with 51.9% of the UK voting to leave the EU, I feel that the terra firm upon which I stood so recently is rapidly disintegrating beneath me. I am on unstable territory.

My frame of reference. The place I call home. The axis against which I based my choices on where in the world to live has irrevocably tipped over. For good. And I know I am not the only one to feel this way.

In the months leading up to the Brexit referendum, the sensationalist scare tactics used by both the Remain and Leave parties left me cold. However I was in no doubt that I would vote in. To leave the EU, an alliance which I regard as having immeasurably more benefits than disadvantages for the world at large, seemed to be sheer stupidity.

When the polls called it a neck and neck race, I think most did not really believe we would ever leave the EU. Or maybe that was just me. With my head in the sand. In a state of denial.

After all, why would a UK citizen vote for insularity over cosmopolitanism. Competition over alliance. Borders up rather than bridges built. Why would someone think it is stronger to stand alone rather than together?

Why?

Nationalism is a dangerous tool to wield in a world which needs to work together. Our generation is a global one and the technological access we have cuts down borders of geography, distance and time. None of us are isolated from one another if we choose not to be and if we have the access to technology. It is political artifice to create a golden vision of insularity and sell it as strength.

It is a lie.

Which is common enough in politics but this lie is one that British citizens will be suffering the consequences of for generations to come.

And me. All the reasons I love living in London are to be tested. The feeling of being a part of the world at large. The freedom of access. The inclusivity, diversity, dynamism and integration are all under threat. It may not be all doom and gloom but at a visceral level, this just feels wrong.

As John Donne wrote in fricken 1624:

No man [sic] is an island entire of itself; every man

is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;

if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe

is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as

well as any manner of thy friends or of thine

own were; any man's death diminishes me,

because I am involved in mankind.

And therefore never send to know for whom

the bell tolls; it tolls for thee

Will we ever learn?

My Tribe

For as long as I can remember, the concept of belonging is something I have been interested in. As a child of first generation Chinese immigrants to Australia and now also a  British citizen, I have carved my identity via a ever-changing  fluidity between socio-cultural boundaries. Whilst this pick and mix approach to life has served me well, there have been times which I wished to belong to one group and one group only.  My own tribe so to speak. One which is not born from blood relations or having gone through university together.  This thought stems from the sepia-tinted notion that we all have a troupe in the world with whom we have an innate affinity with; an idea probably originating from the period where we lived in nomadic tribes and moved according to the seasons and hunting,

In our modern society where we follow Wi-Fi rather than wildebeest, there are so many tribes to infiltrate as you journey through life. From high school cliques to the smokers circle at work; we join these groups only to leave them as we form new associations based on changing life experiences. For example, just in the last few years I have joined the new parent tribe, the part-time working mum trying to juggle it all tribe, the school gate drop off networking tribe. And my favourite which is the I don't have time to see you or call you so let's form a Whatsapp Chat group tribe.

The Hipster Dude Tribe. Fast growing and in need of pest control 

Membership to all of the above have enriched my life in ways untold but I have never had that feeling with any of the above. The feeling which is not dissimilar to a MGM Technicolour film moment where you stand looking out over a vast horizon with an industrial strength wind machine blowing you hair back (which is long of course). You grip your hand into a fist and proclaim to some invisible deity :

These are my people. 

Imagine this scene from The Ten Commandants and you get the idea:

Long Hair. Tick. Dramatic hands. Tick. Epic Horizon. Tick
(image courtesy of The Daily Mail)

The only time which I have experienced this feeling was my years spent working with The Wilderness Society. It was my good luck and privilege at nineteen to have met a group of people who were ahead of their time. All the climate change, renewable energy, dietary choice (gluten free, vegan and so on) buzzwords bandied around now were part and parcel of these peoples' lifestyles over twenty years ago.  But it was not their beliefs so much as their general character traits that won me over. Free thinking, intelligent, kind, determined, inspiring, open-minded, altruistic, were but a few of the qualities I encountered en masse during that period. Most were older than me, in their thirties, and encouraged me to seek life on my terms and no-one else's. It was good advice and they were good role models. The synergy of those years was alchemical. We all lived in close proximity. Our social and work lives intertwined. There was no effort to our association,; it was completely mutual.  Eventually life took us all in different directions and the tribe dismantled.  I missed it intensely for years afterwards and the experiences I had during that time influence me still.

Since then I have been in the wilderness. I have been in many groups, voluntarily and not, but there has not been that tribal association since. I got married but you cannot have a tribe of two I decided. Then Dragon came along and we became a three. I realised then that a tribe has to have some fluidity to membership. You need to be able to dip in and out. Go walkabout from time to time. You cannot go walkabout when a fellow tribe member relies on you to wipe her bum.

Recently I attended a mum's book club event, which turned out to be very little about books but more so about Prosecco and local chit-chat. The mum's were all from Dragon's school and it was my first time meeting several of them. As the evening progressed, it transpired that none of us were originally from London and neither were any of our husbands or partners. Like myself, most of these women had met their breeding mates (I don't want to say Husband. I don't want to say Boyfriend. I don't want to say Partner. There is no one size fits all so I'm going to say Breeding Mate) away from their original places of upbringing. The stories we tipsily shared had the commonality that we were all living and raising children in a city where we have no roots. Most have no old, close friends nearby. Many of us have no blood relations near. Our parents are aging and live far away.  We are a group of travellers who stayed where we travelled.

As I walked home that evening, slightly half-cut, my thoughts wondered to my neighbours as I passed their houses on the way back. My Prosecco-tinged internal monologue went something like:

That's where Shelley lives who is from France and her husband is from America. And next door to her is Ellie from Brazil and Peter from Malaysia.

Drunkenly I went through the geographical origins of all the neighbours I knew. Then onto others in the local school community and then pretty much everyone I knew in London (it was a long walk home)  It became obvious that a trend was emerging. No-one I know in London is from London.* And neither are their partners. And more often than not, both partners would have grown up in a completely different country to each other.

Yet here we all are. In this stinky, complex, expensive rough gem of a city which we all absolutely do not want to leave. I belong in London because London is full of people like me.**

There was no horizon, apart from terraced rooftops. There was no wind to blow through my not-long hair. My hands had been tightly grasping a champagne flute all night so were too worn out to make into fists. But it turned out these accoutrements were just window dressing for when I realised:

I am amongst my people,

it felt framed in full colour.



*Apart from the Husband. He is London born and bred.And he would want you to know it.
** He also says you do not need to be born in London to be a Londoner

Natalie Merchant - Paradise is There - Royal Albert Hall, March 16, 2016

There are definitive albums (yes, let’s still call it an album) that are mark out periods of your life. One such album for me is Tiger Lily, by the American artist, Natalie Merchant. During my twenties, the plaintive tones of Ms Merchant were often found on my Walkman (for those of you who don’t know what that is – Google it) and then later, my Discman (Google) Her appeal as a singer songwriter came from her sparse song arrangements accompanied by deceptively simple lyrics which evoked complex worlds within which characters spoke of their day to day lives and served to draw me in.

Last night Natalie Merchant played her only London show as part of her worldwide 2016 tour, Paradise is There.  The tour commemorates the twenty year anniversary of Tiger Lily’s release. The tour showcases re-recordings of the original eleven songs with different arrangements, reflecting the passage of time and its impact on both songwriter and song.

I had managed to score a ticket to the show which was at the Royal Albert Hall. An email from the venue had stipulated that there would be no support act and that Natalie would arrive on stage at 7.30pm.  In my seat by 7.20pm, I watched as the half empty venue slowly filled up. The audience demographic seemed like they would appreciate an early start so they could be back home and in bed by 11.00pm.

Soon Natalie arrived on stage as promised and launched into her first song. Halfway through, she forgot the words. So she started again. And then again. Apologising for her nerves, she re-commenced the song and by its end, she could have recited the alphabet or read the dictionary. By flubbing the lyrics, she had won us over. As she started to hit her stride it became clear that her songs have not diminished with time, nor her voice. 

As she played through her first set, Ms Merchant visibly warmed up as she sang her old tunes, dancing on the stage like a flamenco whirling dervish. She was dressed in the manner of a ballet teacher in a black ballet wraparound top, black leggings and black chiffon skirt.  Her hair manifested itself differently for each song. Sometimes up. Sometimes down. Sometimes being held by her hand and sometimes being whipped along to the beat of the music. Her hair had a show in its own right.

As she danced to her own music, it seemed that she was invoking the songs through her dancing.  The more she danced, the warmer she got. The warmer she got, the more relaxed she seemed.  And the more relaxed she became, the more powerful her performance.  It was as much a visual treat as well as an aural one. By the end of the first set, the audience were all warmed up too and reluctantly let her go for the compulsory intermission as dictated by the venue so it could make more money from the audience at the bar.

Even though she said her touring act were unaccustomed to taking intermission breaks, there was no sign of mid show lethargy as Natalie and her band plunged us into the second set post intermission. Relaxed, she bantered with the audience and weaved her way through the aisles, mixing singing with improvisational dance. Remarkably she managed to create an atmosphere of intimacy whilst performing in such a cavernous venue. It was extraordinary and even though my seat was far up in the highest circle, I did not feel far at all.

In fact, it felt like I was in my twenties again. Listening to her on my Walkman while walking down the streets of my hometown.

The Lucky Country?

Does life get more intense when you enter your forties?  It certainly seems that way. Life and death seem to be more closely entwined than ever, Perhaps this is what happens when you have young children and aging parents?  My friends in the same demographic all seem as intensely engaged, with marriages, deaths, births, separations and illnesses all clamouring for their time and energy.

The reality of aging is that it is a consuming experience. So what part does your environment play?

Recently I returned from my annual pilgrimage back to Perth, Western Australia with two short detours to Sydney and Singapore. When we were out in sunny Perth, my husband remarked:

The Australian people do not look very well.

I knew what he was referring to. I too had noticed that after a certain age, the demographic in Perth seemed to age at an accelerated pace. This difference was highlighted in contrast to London where the same demographic seemed markedly more youthful.

Generalisations of course but that is what we noticed and have noticed over the last ten years.

The obvious reasons might point to heightened sun exposure and the car dominant infrastructure of Perth. In general, there is not the need to be as active in one's daily life in Perth. Walking is not a requirement there.

However a conversation with my aunt exposed another crucial difference. On commenting about her first trip to London and Europe last year, she said:

Life is not easy in London like it is here in Australia. Life seems more difficult over there.

She's right of course. Australia still hold the mantle of the Lucky Country with its space, natural beauty, wonderful produce and ease of life. That is unless you are a refugee, asylum seeker or Aboriginal.

But there is something about not having too easy a life that keeps alight a vitality within.  London is a complex, dynamic, expensive, dirty, melting pot. It is difficult to negotiate. It can be crowded. It is a harsh place if you lack funds or resources. It seems to welcome and shun you at the same time.

It is a harder place to live than Australia.

Which is precisely why I am still here.

Oh Give Me a Home, Where the Buffalo Roam!

Gone with the Wind was a key movie influence in my early teenage years.  I recorded it when it showed on TV and re-watched it so many times that the VHS tape (yes, I am showing my vintage here) started to unspool and tangle.

It was so dramatic and uncompromising. Scarlett was such a definite, unscrupulous, charismatic figure. She knew what she wanted and she didn't give two hoots how she achieved it.  If she'd been around in the 1980's her name would have been Gordon Gekko.

Having watched the movie so many times, I knew all the key quotes off by heart. One of these was when Daddy O'Hara puts his arm around his wayward daughter and points to the enormous plantation house in the distance and booms:

Do you mean to tell me, Katie Scarlett O'Hara, that Tara, that land doesn't mean anything to you? Why, land is the only thing in the world worth workin' for, worth fightin' for, worth dyin' for, because it's the only thing that lasts.


Scarlett and her Big House (run by slaves)

 

This quote has played in my mind over the years when the question of buying property has come up. Daddy O'Hara was clearly someone who believed that you should own your own little piece of home. I however, have avoided house ownership like the plague. Now heading into my forties with young child in tow, I am still renting.

The society I live in makes me feel abnormal about this. Australia and Britiain, the two countries I have spent my adult life in so far, are all about home ownership. Renting is for when you are young and carefree. The goal ultimately is to own your own home as it is seen to make better financial sense. Paying off someone elses mortgage is stupid when you could be paying off your own.   Buying & selling at the right time is critical however. Otherwise you may be stuck with a depreciating property that you can't shift; without sufficient funds to move on anywhere else.

I get the above. I just don't like it.

More and more, I wish we lived in a city where rent controlled living was the norm. Paris. Copenhagen. Berlin. Cities where renting is the norm for the majority and the law works to maintain this. To me, it is a commonsensical way of life. I do not understand the need to own one's home. It's not in my nature, nor that of my husband's. Will it ever be? I don't know.

The pressure is building though. To buy. To stay put. To commit.

Is it time to move again?

Cha Cha Charleston!

I've been back at work now for three months and boy, those three months have been jammed pack. As any working parent knows, to work at your job, to look after your family, to look after yourself, to look after all the infrastructure (house, plants, etc) to have a social life, to keep doing some things that are important... you gotta be on the ball 24/7. You have to have the organisational skills par excellence. You need to be Superwoman!

Which I believe all mums are.

This mum looked after herself a few weeks ago and took herself, her husband and some friends to watch Cantina at the Priceless London Underground;  a carnival site that has been set up next to the Southbank Centre.  Cantina caught my eye because it is an Australian show that it is held in a Spiegeltent.  Spiegeltents really capture the romantic, lavish and slightly dark entertainment quality pertaining to carnival/burlesque/cabarte/circus acts of years gone by. The one that hosted Cantina was from the 1920s and looked something like this:



Inside the Spiegeltent during Cantina
 

Cantina itself was a show worth seeing. Dark, slightly twisted, humorous and at times, uncomfortable, it was not your normal cabaret-circus-one-trick-pony. I loved the atmosphere, I loved the performances, I loved the live music and I just loved the sections where the performers did the Charleston.

They all look slightly bonkers. What's not to love?

There is something about the Charleston that makes me happy. I am no expert but whenever I break out into those jerky moves, I can't stop smiling.

So inspired was I by the tone of the evening that I decided to go to a Charleston dance night. I found one happening four days later hosted by The Bees Knees at Wild Times which is an evening run by the London Swing Dance Society.

A friend gamely came along for the ride and after a swift drink at the local pub, we found ourselves flapping and swinging, twisting and kicking in a underground basement that looked like a studio den from the 1970's. Our teacher taught us a whole routine and whilst her teaching manner was a bit under par; the moves she taught us were pure 1920s jazz, baby!

It was a big dose of performance and dance bliss. Something I sorely needed and won't neglect for too long again.