Not enough snow

Like most people in the south east of England, I woke up to snow today - just not enough of it.
While my first move was to peer out the window, my second was to check National Rail's live online departures board, in the hope of being marooned in Leatherhead. Alas, twas not to be, and off to work I traipsed. But doesn't our pond look beautiful in that blue light?

Where the wild winds blow ....

Having just spent the best part of a week between Edinburgh and Manchester (not literally ...), being windswept in the former and soaked to the skin in the latter, I was almost happy to get home to sleepy old Surrey. Until I spotted the garden fence ... or, rather, the gap where it should have been. Worst (or possibly best) of all, the neighbour's cat and I can now eye each other balefully without having to leave our own space.

Huguenot graveyard, London

A teacher of my father's once told him that he probably had Huguenot blood, a guess based, I presume, on his mother's maiden name, Minford. And ever since he told me this, I've rather liked the idea of having a drop or two of French blood. I would say it accounts for the bad temper, but I suspect being Irish covers that ...

But I digress. Wandsworth wasn't always best known for its prison, or being home to Gordon Ramsay. Back in the 17th century it provided a rural base for the wealthy Huguenot cloth and dye merchants lured there by the twin benefits of religious freedom and the River Wandle. And not only did they live here (many of their homes still standing, now split into flats) but they also died and were buried in Wandsworth.

The Huguenot graveyard, known as Mount Nod, is still there, marooned in traffic in the middle of the south circular. The space between the graves is relatively tidy, but the graves themselves are for the most part in a dreadful way - trees growing through stone, names so worn as to be illegible. I can't decide whether to be sad at its neglect or relieved that it hasn't been cleared to make way for yet more swanky flats.

Old workhouse, Wandsworth

Out and about in Wandsworth today (translates as: the only dentist in the world who doesn't scare the bejaysus out of me works there, so I schlepp back twice a year to see her), and I decided to check out some sumptuous flats which I thought might have been an old hospital. Turns out that they were once the St John's Hill Workhouse. This sign caught my eye.

BT Tower - view from the top

Up the BT Tower today, for a work event. The invitation didn't specify which floor, so on my way there it suddenly occurred to me that I might be schlepping into London for a first floor view of a portakabin. Happily not. I was ushered into a lift for a very smooth whizz up to the revolving one-time restaurant on the 34th floor. We were lucky with the weather - the views across London were stunning, and I was able to spend some time (when I should have been listening to the presentations, obviously) observing builders at work on a far below rooftop.
But I did find the revolving aspect slightly disconcerting. Perhaps because it didn't start until two thirds of the way through the event, by which stage I had forgotten about it.
There was a story in the papers today about the restaurant re-opening to the public in 2011 - I asked a BT employee but she said it wasn't true. We shall see.

Porgy and Bess at the Royal Festival Hall

To London's Royal Festival Hall last night for Cape Town Opera's Porgy and Bess, conceived by its composer, George Gershwin, as an “American folk opera.”

This semi-staged concert performance was stunning. While all the leads were good, it was Xolela Sixaba, as Porgy, who clearly captivated the audience. His voice was deep, rich and rounded, and he had enormous physical presence. Despite lacking the dramatic performances of fully staged operas, the cast were convincing enough for at least this member of the audience to care what became of their characters.

Bess, Kearstin Piper Brown, hit her high notes with apparent ease, and sashayed around the stage like the good time girl that she was. As for poor, doomed, Clara – played here by Pretty Yende – her “Summertime” echoed around the hall long after the baby son she'd been trying to sooth to sleep had been orphaned.

This is one of the most sensuous of operas, and well served by Cape Town Opera's chorus. Their background humming, although that seems too lowly a word to describe it, was mournful enough to send shivers up the spine.

What really stood out? So, so much. Porgy's sheer joy during “I got plenty of nuttin' “, with its lovely twangy banjo accompaniment. The chorus grooving as they backed Sportin' Life in “It ain't necessarily so”. The almost tangible sense of panic from the cast as the storm picked up and fear grew for Jake and his crew.

Just a couple of quibbles – particularly at the beginning, it was very difficult to make out the words being sung (a case of poor enunciation rather than any lack of volume). This performance was captioned for the hard of hearding, which at least meant that the audience had a reasonably good idea of what was going on – but of course, to a certain degree, it detracted from what was happening onstage.

And to the endlessly fidgeting “gentleman” in the seat in front of mine – you really are old enough to know how to sit still for more than five minutes. Like me, you are short, and like me, you need to accept that you won't always be able to see everything going on. Better to learn to live with it than to keep up the demented meekat act and risk a sharp jab in the back of the neck with a biro. You would have ruined a lesser performance.

Visited the magnificent Pere Lachaise graveyard on a family trip to Paris last weekend. I was last there 20 years ago, and wanted to revisit Oscar Wilde's grave, with its stunning Jacob Epstein sculpture. On my earlier visit, it had a few lipstick marks here and there, left by Wilde's fans, and I read later that they were destroying the stone. At the risk of sounding like "incensed of Tunbridge Wells" or some other such middle class citadel, I have to admit to being gutted to see the damage done by so-called "fans" in the intervening decades. So much so that I couldn't even be bothered to hang around long enough to take a proper photo. Whatever happened to quiet veneration?

Travel the old fashioned way

While I confess to being one of those urbanites who can't get on a train without a strong latte and a pile of good reading material, I am still bemused by just how excited I was about something I discovered at Leamington Spa station earlier this week. A waiting room. A rarity today, and, even better, kitted out with good solid wooden benches - and a sturdy matching table. What a treat.

I miss living in London

Leatherhead is a pretty town. It's friendly, and the surrounding countryside is beautiful, in a tame, home-counties kind of way. I'm reasonably content here, although I found the move from London hard.

But last night, just by chance, we caught a televised performance of Madness's latest album, The Liberty of Norton Folgate. It's a bit of an ode to London, north London in particular, and the stage set (at the magnificent Hackney Empire) involved a changing backdrop of Camden scenes.

It made me really miss London. Mention of Soho made me miss Bar Italia, and a shot of the French House took me back years. But it made me feel old, melancholy and exhausted. Thanks Suggs, and your nutty boy friends!

But I do get up to the big smoke now and again - I took this photo of St Pancras while waiting for the Simon Community soup van to pick me up last week.

Does free food keep people on the streets?

I've volunteered with the Simon Community for almost 4 years. It is, I think, the oldest homeless charity in the UK. Having spawned branches all over Ireland - which are now much bigger operations and linked to the London group in name and ethos only these days - it's inevitable that it attracts a number of volunteers from the Irish diaspora in England.

Almost every Thursday night since joining, I've gone out in a van with half a dozen other volunteers, several of whom have become close and trusted friends, stopping at 5 or 6 spots in central London to hand out soup, sandwiches, tea, coffee and sometimes warm clothes.

In my early days as a volunteer, we would see, in all, around 100 people. Now it's closer to 150, and sometimes more, the numbers swollen by recent arrivals from Eastern Europe, many of them unable to communicate at all in English.

Soup runs take a lot of flak - from all corners. One of the main accusations has been that by feeding people, we are convincing them to stay on the streets. I've always found this ludicrous. Good as our soup is, it isn't going to prompt anyone to sleep in a doorway.

But recently, as more and more well-intentioned soup runs appear along our route, I've begun to wonder if we really are helping people. And, more importantly, if we're helping the right people. Last night, I was on the receiving end of a fair bit of unpleasantness from some Eastern Europeans, all of whom have been abusive to me before. This was because I wouldn't give them a second cup of soup each. I don't know if they don't understand that at that stage in the evening we have another three stops, and maybe as many as 70 people, to go. Or if they just don't care. And certainly the most offensive of them didn't want any soup at all - he appeared just to want to have a go. I left the soup run and came home early - something I've never done before.

So now I find myself wondering whether we're doing the right thing. I suspect that more vulnerable people are staying away because of the changed atmosphere around the soup run. And should we be able to refuse to feed someone who is abusive but hungry? Or is feeding someone like this simply sending out the message that this behaviour is acceptable?

Earthquakes - why I hate them

I absolutely hate earthquakes, so news of the latest incident always upsets me.

I spent 6 years in Japan. Like, no doubt, every other Gaijin(foreigner) there, I found tremors exciting at first. Then, bit by bit, they started to bother me, until I reached the stage when they scared the hell out of me.

My Japanese earthquake memories:

1. The times when I leapt out of bed and, as oft instructed, opened the main door of my flat, yet found that as the sole foreigner on the street, I was the only person to have done so. My Japanese neighbours would invariably sleep through the whole episode.

2. A visit to a 7 Eleven with my friend Mike. In the beer section, we noticed that the bottles were wobbling. We stood and watched as, in an eerie rippling effect, the shop's entire stock of bottles began to shake. Needless to say, no one else noticed. And no, we hadn't been on the grog.

3. The Kobe earthquake of 1995. Devastating, but what sticks in mind is the Japanese reaction. For a start, the first organised aid came from the local mafia - the Yakuza.

And the media coverage was, at least to this the western eye, hugely unsettling. The earthquake hit early in the morning. By the same evening, one TV channel was broacasting the names of the dead, on a continuous loop. Set against a black background, with the names in white, and dirge-like classical music playing, it felt deeply, deeply strange.

So all of that, I guess, adds up to why I hate earthquakes.

Blacksmith's empties

In Betchworth for lunch today, I noticed that the local blacksmith had left his empties out for the milkman. No idea why it tickled me, but it did.

The power of coincidence

I was trudging home from the station this evening - remember, first day back at work after a fortnight off - listening to Van Morrison singing "Cleaning Windows", when I saw ... the local window cleaner.

And, searching vainly for the song on YouTube, I came across a cover of Morrison's 'Into the mystic', by Jen Chapin, who I saw live, completely by coincidence, in Chicago last year.

So there, I'm feeling more cheerful already. Although my secret confession about Jen Chapin is that her small son was making so much noise (sitting in front of me) during the gig that I bailed out before it finished. Jen, hope this will make it up to you ...

Lego house

I finally made it up to James May's Lego house over the weekend. I use the phrase 'James May' loosely, as I gather that his involvement has been minimal. But hey, who cares? What does matter is that a group of dedicated, and possibly slightly mad, people are building something unusual and rather beautiful. And the setting is stunning, too. Up on a hill in the middle of Denbies, the biggest vineyard in Britain. In yesterday's baking heat, there was something wonderful about watching people trudging up that hill to get a glimpse of this modern-day folly.

Milk - the film, not the drink ...

Finally managed to see Milk, the Sean Penn starring account of the last years of San Francisco-based gay rights activist Harvey Milk.

Not sure what I expected, despite having read plenty about it when it hit cinema screens a few months back. Sean Penn was excellent - which I did expect - but it was somehow more documentary in tone than I had imagined beforehand. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing.

By all accounts, it was a faithful recreation, with the integrity that you'd expect from both Penn and director Gus Van Sant. But the events portrayed made more of an impact on me than the cinematography or the acting (again, that's probably an indication of the skills and effort involved).

I found it gobsmacking that those events took place just 30 years ago. A mere 3 decades ago, politicians in the US were still confusing homosexuality and paedophilia. And the amount of credibility the churches had then was alarming, although I realise that, for a lot of the US, this remains the case. As do random acts of violence towards anyone even expected of being gay.

And while we may despire about the level of homophobia, racism, xenophobia and religious bigotry sill rooted in society, it does make you realise how far we've come.

Here endeth the sermon! Dearie me, even a happy agnostic can occasionally come over all funny of a Sunday ....

Feeding time at the fish pond

I have a five year old nephew who seems convinced that I am capable of cruelty towards animals - and fish. Every time I speak to him on the phone he says "Did you feed the fish?". As if I ever didn't ....

Anyway, I took this video for him, as evidence. Yes, I did feed the fish.

Terrier racing - a must for the discerning punter

Sunday saw the annual Epsom Trainers' Open Day, a 'must' for us since we discovered it, er ... last year. Half a dozen of the stables are open to the public, and anyone so inclined can visit them, to pat the racehorses, talk nonsense to them, and even feed them polo mints, that equine favourite (although I saw one of the more jaded old nags spit one out - perhaps, like me, he prefers Extra Strong Mints or After Eights).

We had borrowed some small people for the day, labouring as we were under the illusion that they would find it as fantastic as we did. Not so, alas. One particular 7 year old, who will remain nameless, but may have forever blotted her copybook where I am concerned, failed even to be impressed by the highlight of the day ... the terrier derby.

Four small yappy dogs at a time, chasing a big ball of cotton wool down the last short stretch of the race course at Epsom, some finishing, others running amok, distracted by the howls of competitors and cooings of owners. What's not to like? I'm not saying that I'm particularly easily pleased, or that I lack a certain sophistication, but I thought it was brilliant!

Wildebeest or warthogs?

Or 'you snooze, you lose'.

I'm on the environmental team at work and helped run a swishing event (clothes exchange, but not the kinky type, let me point out) today. People gave clothes in exchange for tokens, which they could then swap for clothes donated by colleagues. It was the first one we'd done, and we were delighted with the end result.

So the premise was simple, and the objective - preventing perfectly good clothes from ending up as landfill, while injecting a bit of the recycling culture into the company - was a good one.

As an organiser, once it was up and running, I was able to stand back and watch. And I tell you, I felt like a low-budget David Attenborough. It was fascinating. Every act of generosity was matched by someone staggering about laden down with mounds of clothes (and as each item was unique, preventing anyone else from getting near the best pieces). Worst of all, a team member had to be asked to refrain from swiping an armful of clothes before the event even opened. Dear god.

And while most people were delighted to clear space in their wardrobes without feeling the need to instantly restock them, it did make me wonder why some people are seemingly unable to resist a bargain, regardless of whether they need it, or whether they are depriving someone else of it. I hate greedy people.

Beethoven as a migraine cure

Have been a bit blog-idle this week, but am hoping to make amends over the weekend. A combination of a migraine, hot weather and too much work knocked me for six, but you can imagine my delight at discovering that Migraleve mixed with loud Beethoven seems to cure even the worst headache.

Last night saw my Cadogan Hall debut - in the audience, I hasten to add - for an Oxford Philomusica and London Symphony Chorus gig. The opening piece, 'The Big Bang and Creation of the Universe' by the either improbably or utterly appropriately named Nimrod Borenstein was rather beautiful. I'm not a fan of modern classical music (having once attended a prom where the main piece sounding like rain coming through a leaky roof), but I liked this - particularly the oboe solos and the use of pizzicato.

The main piece was Beethoven's Symphony No. 9 in D minor, the Choral symphony. As a lapsed horn player, I loved the horn parts. It was a 5-man section, and they had their work cut out for them. Being right at the front in the cheap seats meant that although we probably had an accoustically warped experience overall, we were all but sitting in the horn section, with all the old South Ulster Youth Orchestra (dear god, they didn't have Myspace in my day)memories that evoked.

My concert friend was unburdened by misty-eyed memories of Saturday mornings spent butchering the classical repertoire. His verdict on the Beethoven? "It's odd that we were most moved by the slow movement. The outer movements were dross." Also sprach Zarathustra .....

A double whammy last night - a Christy Moore gig at the Royal Festival Hall (one of my two favourite buildings in London, the other being Battersea Power Station). He's a fantastic singer, with one of those voices that, if you're Irish, you'll know straight away. He sounds like no other. And not many singers have the luxury of being accompanied by Declan Sinnott of Horslips.

A great set - some brilliant songs, listened to as much for the lyrics as the music. There was a Joni Mitchell one about the Magdalen Laundries - given the news coming out of Ireland these days, those lyrics made you sit up in your seat. And, being from Norn Iron, my night was made by a quick blast of 'I'll tell me ma'. But for me, the song that made the heart skip a beat was 'The well below the valley', with Moore accompanying himself on the bodhran.

There's no denying the quality of the music. My only quibble, ironically, would be the venue - Irish music doesn't lend itself to sitting down. Let's see them at the Roundhouse next time.

Lasagne followed by apple crumble

We have a friend from home staying tonight, and I am breaking with tradition by actually cooking. I will have to warn him that tonight's dinner represents my entire culinary repertoire (apart from soup). Rather embarrassingly, I have every cookbook under the sun, but I really just like looking at the pictures.

Tonight's recipes come from two of my favourites. The apple crumble recipe comes from The Dairy Book of Home Cookery. This has special memories - published in the sixties, it was the mainstay of my mother's cooking when we were growing up. She gave her copy to my sister (she's the domesticated one), who in turn bought me a copy when we were browsing in a sadly shortlived second hand book shop in Stromness (in the Orkneys).

The lasagne recipe comes from Eating to Win - a collection of favourite recipes donated by leading Irish rugby players of a couple of years ago. Thank-you Kevin Maggs! It's a great book - not least for the photos - but you can tell a lot about the players by the recipes they've suggested. Some of them are obviously from swanky restaurants, while others were clearly supplied by their mammies. Aw, bless!

Activity is the key to happiness ...

As a 19 year old, I spent a summer in Paris, as an au pair. It was a happy experience and one that left me with fond memories. Some (ahem!) years later, I find myself thinking about it. What prompted the nostalgia? A day spent working in the garden. I'm knackered, I doubt I will be able to stand in the morning, but I feel great. And it reminded me of Monsieur Pellerin, my 'au pair father'. A businessman during the week, he would spend the weekends working in the garden. And it was he who taught me one of my favourite sayings (made famous by Einstein, I think), 'l'activite est la cle du bonheur' - activity is the key to happiness. And so it is.

Great album - The Irish Scattering

May is birthday month for not only tandrageegirl herself, but two of her siblings, so a fair amount of present shopping is required. This year it was all relatively painless - if a tad expensive, on account of me buying two each of certain items (one to give away, one to keep). Embarrassing ...

One of the duplicates was a really brilliant album - The Irish Scattering, by Sean Keane. I'd never heard of Sean Keane before catching one of the songs from the album on RTE Lyric FM a couple of weeks ago, but I bought a copy each for my sister and myself. And for once, my mad optimistic faith was justified. I love this album, particularly "Fare thee well Enniskillen." BUT be warned - definitely not to be listened to if you're feeling at all homesick or maudlin (or have had a few jars).

Monsieur casual racist?

Yesterday, when I complimented a colleague on his 'Mr Grumpy' socks, we fell to chatting about the Mr Men series. He asked whether I knew that Mr Rude was French. I didn't, but I will admit to laughing soundly at the very puerile fart jokes on the Mr Men website. Just pull Mr Rude's finger and see what happens.

But then it struck me as a bit sad that yet another generation of English children will grow up hearing the same tired old stereotypes. And yes, I checked on the French-language section of the site - not only does Mr Rude appear as Monsieur Mal-Eleve (Mr badly brought up), but there is, alas, no sign of either Monsieur Rosbif or Monsieur Casual Racist.

The new Royston Vasey?

I'm working from home today, and ambled down the high street of my sleepy Surrey town at lunchtime. As my local - the fantastic Blue Cafe - was packed to the gills, I took my life in my hands and went to a very popular local eaterie. I say 'popular' yet am at pains to understand why. While the food is adequate and the service is good, there is a certain Royston Vasey-ness to it. The regulars are a little alarming. The first time I ventured in there, I had to defend myself against allegations of sitting too long alone at a table (from a patron, not the staff, I hasten to add), despite the place being half empty. This time it came back to me - in a sort of slow motion deja vu moment - that one of my reasons for avoiding it is that the main waitress (a friendly and efficient woman, obviously much loved by less grumpy customers) has got, quite conceivably, the loudest voice outside the Royal Opera House. There I was, working my way through the sudoku in the Times, my ears all but bleeding. So it was off to the Blue Cafe for a restorative latte. These quiet country towns can be hard going ...

Much ado about M&S's 125th anniversary - lots of retro packaging etc - which got me thinking about 1884 and other interesting developments that year. So here are the cream of the crop, courtesy of Wikipedia:

The Fabian Society is founded in London.
The first edition of the Oxford English Dictionary is published.
The cornerstone for the Statue of Liberty is laid on Bedloe's Island in New York Harbour.
The University of Wales, Bangor (UK) is founded.
The first woman receives a degree from the Royal University of Ireland.
The Irish Gaelic Athletic Association is founded in Thurles, Ireland.
Mark Twain writes The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
The Third Reform Act gives the vote to almost every adult male in England.

A rainy day and a Monday ... but brightened somewhat by the return from holiday of my lovely boss. Having been in Japan for two weeks, she brought me a pair of kabuki-patterned socks (fantastic)and a wonderful coffee cup with a cartoon of Nikko's famous three monkeys. Of special resonance to me, as I was once chased down the road by a wild monkey at Kegon Falls, near Nikko. Offended by my efforts to take his picture, he lunged at me, prompting me to sprint off at a speed since neither before or since.

Soup of the day ....

In a bid to save money and be less of a porky pig, I have taken to making batches of soup at the weekend, then freezing them in individual portions, which I then heat up and take to work for lunch. Today I made pea and mint, tomato and coriander, parsnip and orange, and carrot and ginger, 15 portions in all. As you can see, I'm not great with multiple ingredients, but these are easy recipes, all from the much-loved Hamlyn Soups book.

The humble fig roll

On the way to work every morning, I pass a particularly beautiful fig tree. While I admire it for the shape of the leaves and the fruit, and the fact that it often harbours at least one chirruping feathered creature, I suspect that my love stems from its role in the creation of one of my favourite biscuits. Yes, the fig roll. Plain but oddly satisfying. And not unique to Ireland or the UK. Oh no. Aficionados holidaying in France need feel no withdrawal symptoms, for the supermarket shelves there groan under the weight of the Figolu.

Which I guess is my way of saying that if I don't get my RSS feed sorted soon, I will have wolfed a whole packet. The shame of it ....

Technology and red wine - a bad mix?

Quite possibly. But, on a positive note, I finally got to see 'I've loved you so long'. Excellent film. The French do tension better than anyone.

Vicki's tips for Eurovision

My friend Vicki's tips for tonight's Eurovision Song Contest (which I refuse to watch on the basis that life is too short). Comments in brackets are hers ....

Norway (cute 17 year old with a fiddle); Denmark (song written by Ronan Keating); Israel (Arab/Israeli singers warbling for peace); Estonia (very striking woman with shiny fringe and fiddle again); Azerbaijan (typical Euro pop trash but quite catchy!).

As you can see, it's a deeply thought-out analysis, based on scientific principles and mathematic formulae. Thank-you, Vicki!

Cartoon of the day

Modern Toss's 'Work Experience' cartoon in The Guardian - a little slice of joy every Saturday.

Weed or flower? Does it matter?

Much 'discussion' here over rather splendid things sprouting in the garden. Are they weeds? Are they flowers? And does it really matter, given that they are pretty and colourful?

VAN MORRISON - Tupelo Honey / Why Must I Always...

Signing out for the night with one of my favourite songs: VAN MORRISON - Tupelo Honey / Why Must I Always...

Tired of blogging about work stuff

So thought I'd have a bash at what really interests me. (Not that work doesn't, in case anyone from the office reads this). But what to start with? Well, it's a shi**y wet night here in Surrey, and I am knackered, but I did an online content course today and am keen to get going with it. A blog of my own seemed like the obvious place to start.

So - why the Yoshitomo Nara avatar? Well, I used to live in Japan, and I love his work - his characters are cute yet ars** - both charges that have been levelled at me. I prefer the latter.

And why Tandragee Girl? Tandragee, Norn Iron (as we pronounce it) is my hometown. There's not much to it, but even after years away, my heart skips a beat at the mere mention of it.

Keep reading for idle musings on other things that make my heart skip a beat ....