Gertsamtkunstwerk

Winter

It has to be said that winter, real snowy icy cold winter, has not featured very much in my life. Ironic, because I was born in a freak South Manchester snowstorm and the next day, when I made grand entrance into a cul-de-sac in Sale (then Cheshire, now Greater Manchester) where my mother still lives, my father and Grand Dad had to shovel snow to allow the transport access.

There was 1979 where the snow actually lay on the ground, for several days! This coincided with the oil tanker drivers' strike rendering my school closed for extra time after Xmas. Wins for Infant 1 to Junior 3; Junior 4s had to go to into a cold school for several mornings. This was to prepare for the twin ridiculousnesses that were the 11+. 11+ ridiculous, because how exactly do you prepare for verbal and numerical reading tests; confirmation - how ridiculous at 11 - daren't leave it until people are actually able to think for themselves in case some may actually abandon their soul to the devil and decide that they don't want to be any part of the Catholic Church. Guess what, it made no difference.

Ranting aside, I didn't really see significant snow again until I was at University and first learnt how snow can cause a standstill irrespective of widespread industrial action. Campus was covered, people even ski-ed, and Radio Trent were announcing the last buses out of town along Derby Road soon after 5pm.

I also had some bad experiences in the wrong type of snow in 1991; my plane being diverted to Bournemouth, then having to get a coach to Heathrow, and the realise there were no trains to Southend. Nice.

I experienced the one true snow-day earlier this year but have otherwise escaped.

I have heard several stories about the winter of 1963 and understand that it was very cold. Someone told me a story about how his mother dropped the backdoor key in the snow, locking them out until his father came home from work, and she had to take him for a rare treat to the cinema; it was another three months before the key was retrieved from the melted snow. That was in Southend, too. 

1963 just got mentioned on BBC News Channel, moment before I read this on a catch up of blog-reading:

My old school is a turning off and my memories of the Avenue are mixed – in the dire endless winter of 1963, when our playing fields in Regent's Park were still under snow, we were forced to run up and down the entire hill each week supposedly improving on our ‘times’, and how relieved we were when the thaw finally arrived.

My Grandad was a lorry driver in 1947, which was, reportedly, worse than 1963. He ended up stranded and had to spend the night at a girl's boarding school. Also in Essex, I believe.

Both my nephews seem to be having great fun in the snow, in the part of Greater Manchester that used to be Lancashire, and in West Yorkshire, but I'm rather glad I live in boring over-heated South London. A SnowDay is nice once in a while, but I don't want it to become a habit.

Snowday Day II

Today was a normal day. End.

My journeys to and from work were actually easier than they normally are, no doubt because of schools being closed and the knock on effect of that. I wore my walking boots. I had wondered whether this would be absolutely necessary, whether I would look a prat, indeed whether it would be a bit embarrassing walking round snow-less Central London with robust shoes (and an impressive tread).

They were needed! Just about every pavement I walked along was mainly compact ice. Most people seemed to very sensibly shod. A lot of walking boots, and other sensible shoes. What amazed me, though, was how many people were wearing stupid shoes. I don't mean in the office, where it is likely (highly likely)  that people will have changed, but out on the streets. I cannot understand what must be going through the head of someone who sees the weather conditions, knows how it was yesterday, and still makes the decision to wear three inch stilettos, canvas sandals, or wedged-heeled open-toe backless sandals. How insecure must someone be to put fashion before the safe negotiation of pack-ice pavements?

My hairdresser phoned me at about two minutes past nine full of apologies for yesterday (I told him not to apologise). I have an alternative appointment tomorrow evening, and, without prompting, he told me to remind him to give me the 30% Monday discount. Good customer service!

I went swimming this evening. I am really in two minds about my progress. I did twelve lengths, and I really had to push myself to finish the twelfth. Six months ago, I would have been very surprised and inspired at the thought of doing twelve lengths. But that really isn't particularly impressive in absolute terms. Twenty would be good, sixty even better. I don't know what normal reasonably fit people do. Still, on balance I enjoyed my twelve lengths, then I had a long soak in the shower, and then I felt a very warm feeling of satisfaction as I travelled home.

It's always fascinating to watch people's behaviour. Generally the pool is divided into three strict lanes and one area twice the width of a lane. In the general area, there are no specific rules, it is anarchy. Except that, the overwhelming vast majority of adults invent and obey an unspoken set of rules. These will be about courtesy and consideration, not starting a length in the direct trajectory of someone else, giving way to let a faster person set off first, giving priority to back-strokers as steam gives way to sail.

But then you get one bloke who I can only describe as passive-aggressive, without the passive. Ploughing up and down, overtaking people far too close, displacing a lot of water.

I wonder what is going through the minds of men like that. Are they trying to show that they're Master of the Universe? If they're so successful and powerful, what the heck are they doing at a crappy Local Authority Pool? Do they piss up trees as well? 

There was another one like that a couple of weeks ago. He barge dinto me twice. Once is accidental, twice is too much. I told him to stop being so aggressive "The fast lane's over there, this is for weak swimmers." As he slunk away cowed, I added "And cut your toenails..." Perhpas I am a bit of a bitch, but I do get sick of these sexist ageist aggressive twenty-somethings with zero emotional intelligence. They are so full of themselves and their physical superiority, but they soon prove that they can dish it out but they can't take it. And I'm not just being a bitch, I am also a crusader. Intimidating grunts like that are a reason why inexperienced or unconfident people avoid sports venues.

It's like on buses. I am now on a one woman campaign to stop people standing on the stairs. Sometimes, it deters people from going upstairs, thinking there are no seats, and eventually people are left standing needlessly at bus stops. Some of them are up to no good - dippers perhaps. I see no reason why I, a lady of un age certain*, should have to push past their smelly unwashed bodies. Sometimes I resort to enquiring sweetly (and loudly) whether they are pickpockets or pervy gropers, at which point they have to move, to get off the bus in shame. Mostly it doesn't come to that!

* ie old enough to be their mother and not a lot younger than their Gran

 

What I did at lunchtime!

Snow photos

I have published a bundle, more than doubling the size of my 'Winter' Album. Obviously, this album would have been bigger if I had got out my camera when taking a horse-drawn carriage ride round a snow-covered Central Park, NY last winter. But I didn't.

Sheer utter chaos and panic!

Jimmy and I went swimming yesterday. It was very strange. We rounded the corner from Brixton Road to Brixton Station Approach and were met by flurries of snow.

Afterwards we caught the bus to Clapham. I cannot remember at what stage I became aware of the snow as being a settled thing. Perhaps there wasn't any when we initially got there. We ate in Gastro which is quirky and worthwhile. Then it began to snow. Enough for me to write my initials on the table outside. As I was putting my coat on the woman on the table next to me said something about the snow being heavy, which I replied something like, it's not too bad, it will get worse, before turning round to see a veritable snowstorm outside the window.

On the way to the Tube photos were taken, but only with my crappy phone camera

 

Further photos were taken when we got off the bus. Then when I got home I changed to my proper camera.

We settled down for a night's TV viewing; when we went to bed I noticed that my footsteps in the garden had been covered over.

I was awoken by the alarm, and then by being brought a cup of tea, and finally by a scraping noise outside. My father used to get annoyed by pensioners who misguidedly scrape away the snow thinking it will clear it, only to create a surface that will freeze over and be even more treacherous. Dear Reader, I married one...(well, not married, but you know what I mean). I was not happy, not least because it reduced the aesthetic appeal of the garden.

I realised that this is the heaviest snowfall ever since I've lived in Gert Cottage. It might have been heavier in 2003 when we were in Sharm, sitting round the pool in our swimwear laughing bout the TV pictures from back home.

I read subsequently that this is the worst in London since 1991. I remember it well. I was living in Westcliff but had been on audit to the Isle of Man. Weather conditions were perfect at Ronaldsway. sunny, dry, and mild, but we were delayed a long time because of snow at Heathrow. Eventually we were flown to Southampton - being very short haul we were given low priority in favour of long haul. I could not get a train back to Essex that night - it was, famously, 'the wrong kind of snow'.

Jimmy went out to get milk only to find that both Tesco and Happy Shopper are shut. He says people are falling down on the pavements (wrong shoes, I opine) and cars are slipping on the roads (shouldn't be in a car of you can't cope with the road conditions, I opine).

I read on the web that the London bus network is suspended  (as of 11.30 there are a small number of routes in Central London). I have a hair appointment later. I feel foolish ringing up to ask 'are you open?' yet I have tried several times with no reply - so not so foolish!

Ringing from the landline, obviously because the mobile network won't work! I have to say that I am incredibly pissed off. Don't misunderstand me, I'm not having a go at the individuals who run my hairdressers; they have presumably made a decision based upon facts not apparent to me - like an absence of buses in Streatham - but my hair is seriously in need of being done. I thought maybe I'd go swimming instead. And the website says Brixton Rec is open. But the thought of the walk down there (And even worse, back up hill) doesn't thrill me. I know it sounds ludicrous, but although I quite enjoy walking, I do not like it on the concrete pavements of London, and especially not up Brixton Hill, which is sad because I live at the top of Brixton Hill.  I'm pondering whether to cycle down to Tooting Common (purely in the service of blogging).

And I can't get a satellite signal, either, which I assume is weather-related. The pissy thing is that I can't even access the menu of programmes already saved to the Hard Drive. Well, at least I am not being forced to watch the Jeremy Kye show, unlike a friend of mine, who has illness as an excuse.

Massive hailstones in July

This is unacceptable.

Bang out of order.

Do the Right Thing

More from the front line of summer insomnia in the wee sma' hours.

It was probably fifteen years ago I saw Spike Lee's seminal film, on a hot sultry night in Streatham. Few films have succeeded so well in evoking the tensions simmering on such a night, as the oppressive heat pushes people to the limit of their frayed nerves, to the extent that whenever such a night occurs, I am reminded of the film.

Last night was unexceptional. I was dozing rather than sleeping, only for my slumbers to be interrupted by a vehicle. The same vehicle that I had heard the previous night and had put down as a street-cleaning vehicle. I assume it to be that because apart from the noisy engine and the irritating beep-beep-beep which seems to be de rigeur for a reversing vehicle, there is also a sound similar to brushes whirring and whirring. But I find it unlikely that my back-street is being swept at any time, let alone at 3.30 am on weekend nights.

I am determined to find out what this vehicle is, so I look out the window, remembering to wrap myself in the curtain for reasons of decorum and modesty. I glance around the neighbourhood, surprised at how many houses have lights still on. I do not see the noisy vehicle but I wonder how many of those lights are for security (for the burglars; to ward off demons), indicative of people being up or just sheer laziness/forgetfulness. I notice more lights come on in neighbouring houses, presumably illumination by those woken by the vehicle, which might be a ghost ship for all I know. I glance again at a window that was already lit when I took up my position. Suddenly a naked lady comes into view. A glance in my direction and she backs away. I know which house she lives in, but I don't think I would recognise her in the street, not with her clothes on, anyway. And, anyway, earlier in the day she might have been able to see me lying in my back garden dressed as if I was on a beach (bloody sun, I have now gone blonde, at least at the ends...)

I find it intriguing and strange that there is so much activity at 3.30 am. My neighbourhood is characterised by small semi-detached cottages - some of them subdivided - with tiny gardens, so there are dozens of people with bedrooms visible from mine. I woke again at about 6.30, because Jimmy's alarm clock was sounding. As I lay in bed listening to the sounds of a neighbourhood waking up, realising the air was fresher (had their been rain?) I felt a sense of tranquillity. Despite the vehicle noise, engines revving and the beep beep beep of reversing, it seemed peaceful. I remembered another hot spell, in Streatham, when a performance sports car had its alarm (high pitched whistle and the horn sounding) malfunctioning so that it went off and carried on going for an over an hour on three consecutive hot sultry nights. In desperation I pulled on some clothes and went down to leave a hastily scribbled note, only to encounter two neighbours with the same idea and a further four previously left notes under the windscreen wipers. The two neighbours, strangers to me, dissuaded me from bending and breaking the windscreen wipers. I remembered the night of a bad-tempered 'Equalities' Forum in the Town Hall when half a dozen people predicted "There's going to be a riot..." (it's a Brixton thing). A couple of hours later the thunder came, postponing the riot to a later occasion (Christmas, actually, hmm...). I later discovered that that night saw a then record number of A&E admissions for breathing and chest-related disorders. No doubt that figure has been exceeded since.

I reflected that there seems to have been a downturn in the frequency of car alarms going off. Half an hour later, yeah, you've guessed it. At least three times.

I was thinking of going back to sleep when there was a knock on the door: a visitor popping in from Australia for a couple of days (Jimmy's religious nutter brother-in-law). I invited him in, served coffee etc. He stayed for an hour, on his absolutely best behaviour. He didn't mention religion, I didn't mention politics! But I think I shall go back to bed. Because I can!

Miscellany, including football

Things are slightly strange in Gert Cottage, with Jimmy currently being a man of leisure. He really needs the break; just looking at some of our holiday photos: never the most photogenic anyway, he looks spectacularly awful. Not one to relax, his idea of 'a break' is my idea of hyperactivity. Last week he repainted the hall, stairs and landing; next week, in my absence, he is doing the back reception (dining/computer) room. much preparation is needed, so I have spent most of the weekend sorting stuff, and we are now at the shifting stage. It all takes time. And energy.

It's nice to have a bit of football as a distraction. I think, anyway. I don't think I ever commented on the minor fact that United are through to the FA Cup Final. With the deepest respect to Watford, I never really had the major colly-wobbles about that one. I'm not complacent or arrogant, and certainly not when it comes to knock-out games, and my intelligence was contradicting my gut feeling. I was very disappointed when Chelsea beat Blackburn, and not just out of affection (huge!) for Mark 'Sparky' Hughes. I had a ghostly ghastly premonition, my blood running cold, at the realisation that Chelsea are on course for an unprecedented quadruple.

Oh, my boys like to suffer pain and suffering. Can you imagine the years, the decades, I have had to endure this? I have already blogged a bit - not enough - about the Old Trafford game against Milan. To take an early lead, to surrender it so sloppily, to feel my heart breaking. And the joy when they equalise, and end up winners .on the night. And then to go through the same thing again yesterday. Knowing that Chelsea were up against it at Stamford Bridge, and to see us struggling so badly at Everton - granted, never an easy away fixture. Then, first good reliable unglamorous John O'Shea gives up hope; then Phil Neville - of all people - gets an own goal (I wonder how much stick he got from Evertonians...and from Manchester United's currently injured club captain, er, Gary Neville...!). And then, when it was almost over, ex-Evertonian Wayne Rooney scores a spectacular goal. Sky commentators talking like it was all over...oh please, it doesn't take an accountant to work out that Chelsea are five points behind with nine to play for. Stealing shamelessly from Skuds - I can take the despair. Its the hope I can't stand.. Oh we have such an easy run in - Manchester City away, when the form book goes out the window; Chelsea away, which may or may not be the crunch decider. And, finally West Ham, who have shown a good run of form of late, and may well end up surviving if they win at Old Trafford.

And we have the return leg in Milan, when we find out whether we are set for the first ever all-English European Cup Final. Or not...See what I mean about the hope; it's unbearable.

It is strange sharing so much more time with Jimmy. It's nice that he's a lot less stressed out, and especially good that he is barely drinking at all. It's nice he sends me out to work with a lunch box, and creme eggs craftily inserted as an incentive to investigate my fruit bag! But we are back to the TV vs music conflict. It would be nice if he checked about putting the TV on while I have music playing. A couple of years ago he put the TV on. Pointedly, I said "I'm putting my earphones on," and he reassured me that my music didn't interfere with his TV. He knows it annoys me. He knows that the irregular noise of loud action films especially annoys me. It's a stupid thing to row about, but then, if I put headphones on, apparently, I'm like a zombie or a space alien. Or else, such as today, he moans because it then means he can't hear the music - silly me htought he was watching Arsenal-Fulham. I can't win, can I?

I have now upgraded to Thunderbird 2.0 (email programme), which seems like a downgrade to me. The spell-check no longer works, and it doesn't automatically consign junk to junk folders, so I keep being tempted by enormous cheques from the Republic of Benin.

And I keep forgetting it's April, because the daytime temperatures are hotter than July. That having been said, it is now very much Election Time of year, although not in London, and I know that mini heatwaves at this time are not unprecedented and may well be followed by miserable weather later.

And just for good measure, I have discovered the delights of Rapidshare, via the Yahoo Group, Operashare. I wasn't unaware before, but at first I had connectivity problems, then I found the free service frustrating in its vagaries. I then considered that the premium service isn't at all pricey. Yesterday, an 1981 Otello from Buenos Aires, today a 1968 Contes D'Hoffmann from San Antonio. Next, maybe a Pelleas with Shirtless, LHL and the lovely Gerald.

Obligatory 'snow is me' post

Almost nothing happened on my way in today. Indeed, everything that happened was due to my misjudgement. I decided to wear an old pair of boots, but got just a few feet down the driveway when the heel snapped off, so I returned indoors and threw on my usual shoes which are pretty sensible, except, having an open top are less suitable than boots for snow.

It wasn't until I got to work and saw someone in walking boots that I cursed myself for not thinking of doing that myself.

I'm currently sitting here in bare feet, and damp trouser hems, with my socks draped over my bin, hopefully to have dried out by hometime.

Since I bought my house in 1995, there have been few examples of the garden being snow-covered. On average fewer than one a year. And the Victoria Line was running a 'good service'.

In fact the only problem was that the pavement between home and the bus-stop was treacherous. But I survived.

Autumn

I can't really work out the weather at the moment. We had a stonkingly warm October, and I still haven't worn my winter coat yet. It's a bit of a toss up. Do I overstew on public transport or do I get ever so slightly chilly whilst standing for maybe five minutes at a bus stop?

But that's not unprecedented. Three years ago I was chasing Bush around London wearing my fleece - admittedly my winter coat had gone up in flames, but I didn't feel a pressing need to get a new one; it was actually three years ago next week.

I glanced out of the kitchen window this morning and spotted two roses in the garden. Again, not unusual. In January 1987, one of the coldest and snowiest Januarys in my life, I took a photo of the rose bed outside my hall of residence, petals on the bushes, surrounded by snow. But the roses I saw this morning were buds, poised any day to leap into the full bloom of summer.

I went to Croydon this morning. I tend to think that between here and Croydon lies nothing but urban and suburban scrawl. But there is a peculiarity with the complex web of railway lines that criss-cross South London - amongst them lies scrub land, too neglected even for playing fields and allotments, let alone agriculture or housing. Just greenspace, left to go wild and back to nature.

Between Crystal Palace and Norwood Junction I glanced out of the carriage, across the frost covered fields and saw in the distance, a train snaking away to who knows where*, crossing the border, bringing the cheque and the postal order, letters for the rich, letters for the poor, the shop at the corner and the girl next door. I t was like I was in the country, on a journey of discovery into terrain unknown, anxiety mixed with expectancy. I expect it was just packed with commuters.

But then Norwood Junction turned into the ugly Metropolis that the Manhattan of South London. My meeting was in the staff restaurant on the 19th Floor, but sadly, the mist and mellow fruitfulness hampered my panoramic view of much of North Surrey. Jimmy says that the fog is caused by the smoke of all those bonfires and fireworks that has escaped to the upper atmosphere. I expect it's a butterfly flapping its wings in China

* Victoria or London Bridge, I daresay

The weather

Where I am the weather is glorious. Indeed, I would say perfect. According to the Beeb, maximum tempertaure is 19° and for tomorrow and Saturday nights, the minimum will be 12° - although I have it on good authority that this is based on the office junior looking out of a Shepherds Bush window.

Whenever the weather is different from the norm or average, people pronounce it as freak. I disagree. I have memories of sitting outside pubs in November, of unseasonably mild weather at this time of year. And also of bitter wet cold windy weather. Average is only the sum of the readings divided by the number of readings. They rarely give us the range or variances of the dataset.

I put my fleece on this morning over my suit, because it's late October, and I'll be out late this evening. I took it off on the Tube for fear of expiring with heat exhaustion. I only redonned it because wearing is generally the easiest way to carry a garment. At lunchtime I wore my suit jacket, unnecessarily. Lots of people were in shirt sleeves because it's mild and bright. Lots more were in jumpers and coats because it's late October.

It's a nice temperature, absolutely comfortable in suit. A light breeze skimming the fluffy white clouds across the sky. The quality of light is stupendous, displaying the warm rich colours of autumn, not least the multi shades and tones of the Virginia Creeper which is rooted in the garden of Gert Cottage but has somehow spread its tentacles over the entire area, oops.

I like autumn in so many ways, yet I dislike the evenings drawing in, the arriving home in the dark, which soon becomes the leaving home in the dark. I dislike the build-up to Christmas, the hysteria and angsting, and most of all the expense of parting with my money to purveyors of choicest tat. And yet I like the Festival of Lights to mark the Solstice. Last night Regent Steet looked in need in some of Christmas lights. But I like it when the end of January approaches, and the nights draw out; by the time of my birthday weekend, it doesn't go dark until after five pm, and the green shoots are poking through the earth. As I age, the seasons come and go with more frequency, and according to the thickies in the media, are now all merged into one. But at least, if you don't like one, another one will be along soon.

Cor! What a scorcher!

The Substandard screamed Tubes 54° buses 47°

And the thermometer is set to rise further in unprecedented hot weather!

Three times today I have felt the sun/heat on my bare skin and concluded "That is quite possibly the hottest I have ever felt in this country" Can't be sure, but that's how I felt.

I went telling random people today that tomorrow is "Dress Down Wednesday". Well, not entirely random. Shall we say there was a clear gender bias in my sample...!

While on the bus from Victoria to Kensington Gore I counted 20 white people in jackets (I decided not to count visible ethnic minorities after I saw a very elderly woman in sari, jumper and cardigan). Of the twenty, one was in full morning regalia (Buck House Garden Party?) and one was emerging grandly from the Lanesborough. I counted five wearing jackets into the auditorium of the Albert Hall. And I felt ever so sorry for the commissionaires who were not permitted to remove their jackets until the conductor raised his baton. But in general, despite the "No Jacket Required" rule, I was surprised by how many men were wearing ties. In the office okay (for once our air conditioning was beautiful!), but once liberated and homeward bound...take it off!

As for the orchestra...surely Enlightenment means wearing shirt sleeves not dinner togs. It's the Proms for heavens sake, not Glyndebourne. Okay, it's Glyndebourne at the Proms.

But hey, how can I manage to provide a commentary from the Albert Hall even while Cosi is being broadcast live from same? Have they fitted free Wi-Fi into the Albert Hall?

Baton up at 6.30pm. 7.15 - my god the interval is not until 8. I think I might actually die. 7.25: I don't know whether this feeling is imminent vomiting or imminent fainting. Either way, I do not want it broadcast live on Radio 3. And if I did either, especially the former, I don't think I could ever show my face at a Prom or an opera again "Oh there's that woman who threw up in Cosi..."

I paused for a moment in the bar and decided that I could wait an hour until the second half started and decide whether or not to go in. I also realised that there were a couple of dozen people - probably late comers but perhaps the heat-affected, too, lounging in the stairwells and hallways listening to the relay, watching on a screen (fixed camera - no official televising tonight).

I went into the Ladies and I was shocked. I had earlier gasped at how red my nose was despite not having really been outside today. Having been out in the sun on Tuesday and Saturday my skin was a foreign-looking shade of walnut, but at 7.30 this evening it was paler than I have seen myself since the final day of my A-Levels in 1986 when I looked in the mirror and watched the bedroom somersault before my eyes...

So I came home, realising at the bus stop that my mp3 player is an FM radio. And I was home soon after the second act begun.

My attendance at Belshazzar on Sunday is weather dependent. It had better break before next Tuesday when a certain Peruvian dusky eyed Tenorino takes centre stage. I do not want to miss one minute of Juan Diego Florez.

Weather moan weather

I'm joining in the meme.

I waited so long for the heat to arrive and now it's here I wish it would just piss off. Or piss down.

I feel really shit. I was supposed to be out tonight. Just couldn't face it. Even though I'm missing my favourite baritone in my favourite opera. I even told Gerald weeks ago I'd be there. I'm sure he'll survive...!

There have been two claps of thunder. Dry impotent useless claps of thunder. I wander into the garden occasionally and gaze hopefully at the sky, hoping that it will chuck it down.

I am supposedly watching Germany v Italy but it's annoying the hell out of me. It's not about those intense annoying Budweiser ads (you know, if I was a Budweiser drinker, which I'm not because it's chemical piss, I would have ceased to be one now. Not necessarily out of principle but because of the association with those adverts that make me homicidal). It's not the it, it's the me.

I am feeling drained and lethargic. Prime cause, ongoing fybromyalgia/CFS whatever. Secondary cause - is it the tablets from the drug trial? Dunno. Is it the heat? Yeah, probably. Is it that I had alcohol over the weekend? Without a doubt. But something that has been bubbling at the back of my mind for weeks, and has suddenly coalesced into something so obvious. I always feel shit when I eat bread and bread-products.

I wonder, if I cut out the bread, will I feel any better? Or, when the rains come, as come they must, will I not care no more?

Hurricane

Joseph rang me earlier to let me know that, in the naming of hurricanes, Florida (where he's going on holiday when school breaks up) is currently having Dennis, but then comes Emily, Franklin, and...Gert!

Oh the excitement!

As long as it gets downgraded quickly to a moderately uninteresting tropical storm. And totally by-passes where my aunts live. I would prefer to be a boring tropical storm than something causing death and destruction in the Caribbean and panic and TV news footage in Florida...

Cor, wot a scorcher!

The buses are beginning to bug me. And I know I'm not alone. Yesterday I had to go to Kings College Hospital. The only way to get there is by bus. In the end I got three buses, one there and two back (I stopped off in Brixton en route back). By the time I reached home every item of clothing I was wearing was nasty and I couldn't wait to strip off. I had been wearing them for less than four hours.

It wasn't so bad going out in the evening, but still uncomfortable wearing just a very slight dress and the minimalist of underwear. At the Coliseum, I overheard someone discussing how she was going to get home. She could get a bus from Trafalgar Square but preferred to walk to Cambridge Circus (Admittedly, not far) to get a 38, which is one of the few Routemasters left.

I got a Routemaster this morning - a 159, as it happens. I know that Routemasters are past it, particularly in being inaccessible to anybody with accessibility challenges, and are also quite dangerous when people fall off the back but in so many ways they are a superb design. The ventilation is simple but effective - have an open door, and, most importantly, have the dinky wind down windows that enable a through-draught.

The Routemasters were designed by Engineers at London Transport depots. Modern buses must have been designed by a committee of ivory-tower residing computers. One of the most important factors in design has to be fitness for purpose. Not for usage by computer-modelled theoreticals but by real people. Of course, it is easy to me be wise after-the-event about how the modern buses are not fit for purpose. But it beggars belief that so many have been built and bought and no-one making decisions has even thought about how it is affecting ordinary people.

Of course, it's typical of Britain. Britain as a whole is designed on the basis that temperatures are always between 2 and 25 degrees. Which, for most of the time, they are. But on the odd occasion they venture outside these extremes, the country descends into chaos. Yesterday evening, going through Brixton I noticed a chap sitting in the fountain in the Peace Garden. Not a Trafalgar Square-style public splash pool, not the three-tier one that has been nicked from outside the Tate library, but one that is no more than a glorified birdbath four foot off the ground.

Walking from Charing Cross to St Martin's Lane, I saw a chap lying on top of Oscar Wilde. "How gay is that?" I thought. He was still there four hours later, but he had a woman on top of him. Not very gay, I decided...To be honest, they were both rather the worse for Substance Misuse, and probably didn't have a clue who Oscar Wilde was.

Coming back on the bus I overheard a woman on the phone to someone. She had been away for the weekend and had just got back in time to rescue the garden. She's going to Majorca on Monday for a week and doesn't particularly want to go, except that it's someone's birthday party. Having putting so much effort into the garden she doesn't want it ruined in her absence. Would you believe that we have a tomato plant dying through excess heat? It's a good thing that Jimmy's watering them everyday. It's looking very beautiful right now - especially the plants that Eleanor helped plant...

We put all sorts of stuff on the garden. All organic waste is dug into the soil. Jimmy runs a cafe and gets through a lot of eggs. He has taken to collecting them up and transporting them home, crushing them and putting them on the garden. I noticed the other day that Starbucks are selling off their coffee grounds as garden compost. Duh! I thought, I generate coffee grounds at home, seeing as though we all are already putting our teabags round the rosebushes, it would make sense to add the coffee grounds. when I start saving them up and bringing them home from work, you'll know I've gone doolally!

The other day, Andrew Turnbull said that, so long as Civil Servants looked authoritative and professional, they did not need a tie.

This really comes as no surprise to me. On an ordinary day I would doubt that more than 50% of male staff are wearing ties. Today, I calculated it was less than 10%. And, to be honest, I think the majority of them look perfectly fine. I was in the lift with a chap wearing shorts. He would have looked perfectly fine if he had not been wearing a sloganned t-shirt. Nice pair of shorts. Nice pair of legs, actually, shame about the face. Didn't seem to have much charisma, either. In a polo shirt, he would have looked neat and sufficiently serious.

Fifteen years ago I had a manager who didn't wear a tie as a matter f course. He kept a couple in his desk to wear for the occasional formal meeting. I know some men really object to wearing ties. Others like to wear them in order to complete the look, to project an image, and, perhaps, to boost their self-confidence. I understand that. When I have a meeting, with someone senior or someone unfamiliar, I wear a smart suit. Today, dedicated to report-writing, I was wearing a cotton blouse and linen skirt. Although the skirt ended up quite creased, I don't think anybody could have accused me of looking unprofessional.

The very strange thing about my office is that when temperatures were only in the high teens, the office felt warm. This week it has felt deliciously blissfully cool.

I am hoping that my Song Du Jour tomorrow will be "Take Me Dancing Naked In The Rain." When the storm comes I want to be out in the garden, dancing, as near to naked as modesty permits. I am so looking forward to it. Remember, when it rains at Wimbledon, it rains at Gert Cottage.

Valuable blogging time...

...has been sacrificed to the arduous pursuit of lying in the garden soaking up the sun whilst gently quaffing on wine and desultorily reading a book.

Muggy midgy mossy misery

Unusually I awoke last night. We opened the window. Then I couldn't decide whether to lie under or on top of the duvet. And do I change to the 'summer' one tomorrow?

Tossing and turning, turning and tossing, I felt some suspicious itchyscratchiness. Feels like mosquitos, I thought, and dismissed the idea. We don't get mosquitos in Brixton. A thought ran through my mind that it might be some bed bug or something.

I forgot about it until I was on the phone with my brother this afternoon. One of the subjects was the weather. We were agreeing that it was weirdly muggy.

Then he mentioned that there were far too many Mosquitos in Ilkley. Or midges, maybe. Yazooks! I exclaimed. I'm so glad you said that. I think I was bitten last night.

I just stood up and my instinct was to scratch my back. I think I have midgesquito bites all down my spine.

Crap Day...

It wasn't intended to be my day. Weatherwise not great. Cold and sleety, although not as cold or sleety as it has been.

Burst water main on Brixton Hill, the A23. No traffic allowed through. Most importantly, all buses on diversion. So I walked to the Tube Station. Half an hour down hill. By the time I got to Housing Benefit I was leggy-achy. I always tend to think of Housing Benefit as being Central Brixton. Well, you would wouldn't you. but it's still a good walk from there to the Tube.

Minor bomb scare at work - just a suspect package in the Post Room, but two PA announcements are a disturbance, especially when as part of the Emergency Response Team you're on slight tenterhooks wondering if you'll have to unleash the sniffer hounds of hell.

Afternoon course in another building. The building where, four years and two moves ago I started my less-than-illustrious career in this august department. Silly place in relation to our current building and public transport in general. Especially when there's a bank trip needed in between. Not including the pause at the bank (£25 they're charging me for transmission of funds...), the walk took half an hour.

Debating how to get home. I decided that bus to Vauxhall would be the best thing. Then either a) train to Clapham Junction and another train to Streatham Hill or b) tube to Balham and train to Streatham Hill. Thinking that the Vauxhall to CJ trains might be full, or disrupted by snow in Surrey and remembering there was a power failure at CJ earlier in the week, I opted for Tube. As I changed at Stockwell they said that Balham Station was closed, due to flooding. So I ended up getting off at Clapham South and walking for half an hour along the South Circular. There is a bus but it's unreliable in the best of conditions. Indeed, the bus drew up to my alighting stop when I was just ten metres from it. The traffic is a total nightmare all round; I was right not to go Clapham Common because the bus route back is completely chocca with diverted traffic. That walk was only twenty five minutes, although much of it was into the biting East Wind. Leggy very achy.

Tomorrow I go to see the rheumatologist at Kings. I have two alternative ways to get there - half hour walk down Brixton Hill and bus, or train into London and out again...There's no point going by car - all the roads for miles around are choccachocca because of a big deep trench across Brixton Hill.

So I shall go to the Rheumatologist who shall ask 'How do you feel?' and I will say 'legs achey' before launching into all my other achey symptoms. Today we were mostly doing neck, and elbow, yesterday it was mainly feet, the previous day left elbow and right kneee, at the weekend it was face and left thigh. And I won't mention my insides.

Not that anything actually hurts as such, not to the extent of needing painkillers. Okay, I can no longer run, and I have forgotten what feels normal. And sometimes I can't walk. But today I managed an hour and a half walking and suffered only extreme discomfort.

But I think my trousers are totally ruined from walking through all the puddles, especially the ones at the Tesco building site at Clapham South.

And I nearly slipped on the cobbles at Strutton Ground. Cobbles are the spawn of satan and should be driven from the face of the earth.

One of my colleagues told me I can't wear skirts, or certainly not short ones, in our new building 'Valhalla' because I'm sitting next to the atrium, which is glass-panelled, on the third floor. I never wear skirts in winter, spring or autumn, but much of my 'cor what a scocher' wardrobe is shortish skirts. Another colleague has pointed out that no one will be able to see my PC screen where I'm sitting. I'm not convinced. We shall see.

Will you be wanting pictures of Valhalla and our £200 chairs?

Breaking news

Village hit by 3m-tall flood wave

Not in boring, moderate, temperate England? Not in August? Surely?

I have a couple of friends who hale from those parts.

One day, people will wake up to the dangers of Global warning and stop driving their petrol guzzling cars and their insistent on air-conditioning.

Rain

...or the absence of...

I just want it to rain. Properly. A proper cacophany of thunder and lightning and an emptying of the clouds. Just fifteen minutes of inundation is all I ask...

Floods

The Sub-Standard uses words and pictures to capture the essence of London's worst August storms ever.

Isn't it bizarre that it can be so wet in Kensington, only about three or four miles as the crow flies, and yet, here, all we had was some light drizzle which promised more but failed to deliver. Three times I went outside hoping to dance semi-naked in the rain. Three times the rain persisted in staying away.

I'm puzzled. I sometimes think Brixton gets a special Caribbean climate, but this is ridiculous.

Weather it affects us

I woke up with a migraine. It just got worse and worse, so I had a bath. Bizarrely - or not? - it dissipated just as the first thunderclaps were heard.

Freak rain

London | London hit by freak rain storms. Streatham Hill and Brixton areas - that's me!

Oh, how exciting!

It lashed! I'm telling you, it lashed! There was actually a puddle on my kitchen floor and I really can't work out where it came from. Other than the freak lashing rain. In Streatham Hill and Brixton.

Ooh, I'm so glad I live at the top of a hill.

Skips off whistling 'Tra-la-la-la

(Falls flat on face after slipping in freak puddle on kitchen floor)

Chaos, utter chaos

The thing I hate secondmost about being English is our inability to cope with the weather. I suspect that Gordon will make some disparaging comment about London, but I remember similar experiences in South Manchester.

I'm lucky, it took me only slightly longer than normal to get home. This was because a) I stupidly went to the back door of the Tube Statiion which always closes at 7 pm and b) the District line was supended due to an 'incident' at Mansion House, which is definitely below ground so probably wasn't weather-related but a random London Underground thing.

I had to walk to Victoria, which was no great hardship. Okay, my slightly-too-long-trousers got slightly damp from trailing though the slush but, hey, we'd had all of, ooh, half an inch of snow. It didn't even feel especially cold - although I was reasonably well wrapped up. I arrived just in time for my train which left on time and didn't seem adversely affected by the weather. My bus came almost immediately, although I was surprised to see so many people at bus stops at this time of night.

And then we reached the South Circular. A woman and two children got on at the penultimate stop and explained they had walked from Tulse Hill and were grateful for just one stop. I looked to my right and I could see eight buses, including five Routemasters, outside my house and another four in the tailback which was further than I had ever seen it on that road.

Get a grip. It's a light flurry of slow. Okay, I can probably rememeber with extreme clarity every incident of settled snow since about 1969, but still, it didn't even go up to my ankles.

Just because we generally have moderate temperate weather doesn't mean that we don't occasionally get "extremes". Why oh why oh why oh why can't we cope with it?

*Sigh*

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck

Pixie should count herself lucky that her umbrella doesn't collapse every twenty yards. And that she didn't have to walk from Victoria to Clapham Common, a distance of about three miles, only to get home and find out that the power was restored fifteen minutes after leaving Victoria. (I had questioned someone outside Queenstown Road Station and she said that trains were running but few and far between, and full). In truth, it was not a bad walk. Although it would have been better without pissy rain and hurty shoulder. Also better without Doc Marten sandals, although I was thankful I wasn't in kitten heels. It would have been better if I had a functioning digicam and could have taken some cool pics of the crowds milling round Victoria. "K-os," said one woman on her mobile. "You f***ing moron!" I said to the pinstripe who barged me out of the way. It would have been better without the smell of newly watered sewage rising in a foul miasma. It would also have been better if I hadn't lost the courage of my convictions, thinking I was heading West when I was, indeed heading South East. The BBC says there were power cuts in Brixton. As you can see I am not currently affected. I take the view that if my clock, answerphone and video stay programmed, then my freezer's okay. I'm going to stick my neck out and say that I bet this was caused by sudden and unexpected rain, because the f***ing infrastructure in this f***ing country can't f***ing cope with an f***ing moderate shower. And now I've got hiccups. Ah, well, the Blitz spirit. It makes me proud (blahblahblahblah repeat ad nauseam). PS The joys of rail privatisation - a separate, yet almost identical, announcement  was made in each half of the station. One was aimed at South Central customers, the other at Connex South-Eastern. PPS Tfl have a Press Release. Right, I'm prioritising London Bloggers on my Blogread!

Obligatory weather post

I'm tempted to issue a disclaimer to this post. WTF, this is my diary. Today has been officially London's - although not the UK's - hottest ever day.

I decided to take the day off - slight hiatus at work due to pending holiday.  The garden, even the back, northerly garden was baking. The drive outside the South Wing of the cottage was almost unbearable. I have gone around touching radiators, convinced that freak occurrence has brought the central heating on. I have kept the front curtains shut all day. I am sweating in my back room. The heat rises from the carpet. the bathroom, wherein lives the boiler is technically a sauna.

And I haven't drunk enough liquid!

August is the silly season

Trains slow as UK swelters

I was going to post a rant along the lines (slowly, obviously) of "Isn't this bloody typical of Britain, we get temperatures which are normal for most of the rest of the world and only we have to slow our trains down."

But my train-spotting colleague has informed me that it is standard practice in most countires to slow the trains down. Not perhaps in France, where safety is not a high consideration, but many other countries.

So I need to rant about the inability of journalists to research basic facts, and how they make a story out of a non-story. Amateurs.

I don't think it will affect my line which, I don't think exceeds ten miles an hour in any point of its journey.

Dress code

Looking around, not just in my office, but also en route this morning and in the Victoria Station area morning and lunchtime, there is a very high proportion of men wearing black, dark grey, navy etc suit-type trousers. I don't understand it. One of my colleagues, who is out of the office today, wears light white cotton trousers on hot days, and I think he looks entirely appropriate, despite being somewhat overweight. I could not bear to wear any of my trouser suits today, not even my summer suit, (which has a nylon lining, which will have to go, I think). I am currently wearing a beige cotton skirt and a blue tee-shirt. I don't think I would wear them if I had a meeting, but my female colleagues are dressed similarly, or in cotton dresses, except for one black woman who feels the cold. Our admin bloke is even wearing a tie.

It's not like we have a dress code here, just, as auditors, you tend to dress a certain way. Throughout my career I have often dressed down in the office, especially in the summer, but my managers have always been able to trust me to dress appropriately for meetings. Ten years ago I had a meeting with some terribly senior chap who was popping in at half eight en route from Cheltenham to Whitehall. I decided to wear my thoroughly gorgeous red suit with black velvet collar and cuffs. Afterwards, my manager said he knew what I would wear. I must have pulled a face, because, hurriedly, he said, "No, no, I mean, I knew you would want to create a professional impression."

Hot and sultry

Zoe asks "will the warm weather come back again or is summer over ?"

Summer officially ends around September 23. The five day forecast for London suggests that the weekend will be a scorcher and even hotter in Brussels. I jolly well hope that his is the pattern for the summer, considering that I'm holidaying in Northern Europe.

However, with plenty of evidence of Global Warming, there is a chance that I could one day be living at the top of a perma-piste.

Put very simply, because that's all I understand, the raising of temperatures at the North Pole will make ice caps melt and float into the Gulf Stream, which, instead of heating Britain, will make it bluddy cold.

(Remember, in North American terms, the British Isles has the latitude that lies between Seattle and Anchorage).

Wee sma' hours

Ken asks: "What on earth were you doing awake and computering at 2.21am?"

I had already been to bed and found it impossible to sleep, despite having the sash window entirely open. I am not known for insomnia. High coffee intake aside, I normally fall asleep within minutes of turning the light off, and have been known to sleep through thunder storms (window open) and burglary.

The London Sleep Clinic has had a massive increase in enquiries this week, according to the BBC Regional News programme last night.

Living in a temperate Northern European climate we are not geared up to extremes of temperature. When my Aunt lived on Long Island, NY, she would change her curtains according to the seasons. Many of her friends had carpets they would take up in the summer and lay down in the winter. I know of no air-conditioned house or flat in England. Long time residents of this isle, such as myself, lack the capability to adjust our pace to hot weather. The urban heat is especially oppressive - I know our Moroccan cleaners and some Caribbean-born people are finding it way too hot.

Phew! Wotta scorcher!

31/87 in Central London at 3pm today. Which is not high compared to temperatures on holiday. but in Central London, wearing work clothes, in my case a lined skirt.

Get me out of there!

Oh, I'm out, I'm almost in my back garden and not wearing a skirt.