Swimming caps - old school glamour

Just back from a few days visiting my brother in San Sebastian, and noticing that most of my photos are of shop windows. I'm not a huge fan of shopping, but I love colour and appreciate good layout. Whoever thought a rubber swimming cap could look so glamorous?

Why is crapness ok?

That title makes this sound like the start of a Carrie Bradshaw stream of consciousness, but it isn't - I promise.

But what really pi**es me off about this country - and I realise it's at least as bad in plenty of other countries, not least my own - crapness seems to be acceptable.

Thanks to some mysterious 'signal failure' (aka 'feeble excuse no 795') today, what would normally have involved a 20 minute train journey (from Guildford to Dorking) took the best part of three hours, via Clapham Junction. At no point did any staff brave the platform and risk the ire - or even the polite questioning - of the small band of weary would-be travellers. No, they hid in their office and cowered behind the tannoy. But, to be fair, the LED screen did say 'sorry' ... That make it all ok, then.

Goslings in Dorking

Finally back online after the move to Dorking - yippee! (On both counts). One of the best things about living in this lovely town is the walk to the station, through the park. Look at these goslings!

Ring of Brodgar, Orkney

Up to Orkney last week, to see the sister and her family. Thanks to volcanic ash, the journey there was somewhat more epic than planned, involving a total of five trains (Leatherhead to Thurso, done in a mere 13 hours, not counting time spend in stations), one overnight stay and a ferry - 29 hours between leaving and arriving. But there were adventures along the way, and scenery to gladden even the most travel-weary heart. And it was all worth it when I got there. Family fun aside, Orkney has a charm all of its own, demonstrated not least by the Ring of Brodgar. A neolithic stone circle on a gentle plain, there's a real magic to it that I will never be able to put into words.

Dusk in the garden

What is it about a garden that gladdens the heart? Even a small garden can convince you that there's still hope for us all. I'm sitting at a tall picture window in central London, watching twilight come to a rain-bedecked garden. I won't tell you where I am – I want this to stay my secret, my sanctuary from the crowds and the noise. But I can give you clues. There's a magnolia tree in the centre of the garden. It's just starting to blossom, and loving but knowing nothing about the magnolia, I find myself wondering anxiously whether it should be blooming today, a cold April 7th. The almost-flowers are white, tinged with pale purple, and from behind my window I'm hoping their scent hasn't succombed to the stench of London's pollution. The branches are bent this way and that, so the overall effect is that of a Balinese dancer, fingers daintily stretched out. It's rather beautiful.
There are daffodils too, and a lilac hued flower I recognise but can't name. And this being London, there's even a rogue traffic cone. But I still won't tell you where I am.

Review: Paloma Faith, Shepherd's Bush Empire

Walking through the shrine to Mammon that is Shepherd Bush's Westfield shopping centre, it wasn't hard to spot my first fellow Paloma Faith fan. Clad in fake leopard skin and skyscraper heels in a delicate teal, she was appropriately turned out for one paying homage to the most glamorous – in a fabulous old Hollywood way – of English songstresses.
Shepherd's Bush Empire, decades past its glitzy best, provided a faded but apt backdrop, and once the supporting act had bounded off, you could almost see the audience checking out the set and pondering the night ahead. A black and white pie slice style stage – rather like King Arthur's roundtable missing its legs – suggested, rightly, that our star would provide the colour, while a mirrored background and splendid Baroque frills added to the anticipation of something a world away from the usual coy girl singers and over processed boy bands.
By the time Faith joined her sharp suited band and Motown-lite singers on stage, the audience was ready to welcome her with a noisy mixture of rapture and reverence. Not many women can carry off a sparkly lemon flying suit, vertiginous red heels and a pair of giant fruit machine style cherries as a headpiece. This one can.
So the performance started long before Faith opened her mouth. But when she did. Oh my. She belted out Stone Cold Sober, and straight away we knew this was one of those rare performances that might even improve on a favourite album. God, that girl can sing. She has one of those voices that swoops, apparently effortlessly, from loud, raunchy and raucous, to ethereal and almost timid. Add great song writing skills, joie de vivre on a big scale, and a stage presence that betrays her burlesque past, and it's easy to see why Faith's audience regards her with the adulation so rarely seen in these cynical times.
Working her way through album Do you want the truth or something beautiful, Faith pranced and slunk around the stage like the 24 year old she is. And at times she looked like nothing so much as a girl who'd rifled through the dressing up box and was just having fun – albeit with the voice of a 70 year old New Orleans chain smoker.
An earlier show had seen Faith pluck a young boy out of the audience, then serenade him with Romance is Dead. Tonight it was the turn of debonair grey haired Larry. Lifted onto the stage, he clambered onto a stool and made the most of his minutes in the limelight, and was rewarded with several kisses from his diva.
An homage to Billie Holiday prompted Faith to change into a gold lame evening stress and matching tassled beret – perhaps another nod to an earlier career – giving the band an backing singers time to shine. But, girlish through and through, she couldn't resist the urge to leap about the stage in her ballgown, delivering a rocking version of the Beatle's You never give me your money.
The encores heralded one final costume change, into a tight, tight, tight blue dress with shoulder pads and a jauntily angled yellow hat. The front of the dress was splashed with sparkly gold brocade, the overall effect one of a sexy pschedelic air stewardess who had trouble climbing steps. Etta James's At last was sung in a shiver-making way, as if it belonged to at least one 24 year old from east London, and the last song of the night, New York, had the audience hollering the chorus as if their lives depended on it.
A great performance – in the true sense of the world – from start to finish. So good that I can't decide whether I want Paloma Faith to achieve bigger things or to stay my secret. I suspect I won't have much say in the matter.

The Simon Community - compassion without questions

This morning I went to Christine O'Mahoney's funeral. Christine was a cantankerous but kindly and much loved member of the Simon Community in London. Indeed, as one of the speakers at the funeral said, it still hurts to arrive at the Community's house and not to find Christine sitting on the steps, smoking, chatting and berating random - usually innocent - people. She was 87, a remarkable age, given a checkered past that had involved bereavement, alcoholism, estrangement from her family, and homelessness.

Having lost all contact with her own relatives, Christine found a new family in the Simon Community - and there were a good 50 people there this morning to pay tribute. It was one of those funerals where people laughed as much as they cried, and a tribute as much to the Simon Community as to Christine herself. Without those volunteers, she may well have ended up as one of the growing number of people dying alone, unfound for weeks or months at a time, in this supposedly developed, civilised nation.

London School of Economics - new building

To the LSE for a debate this evening - stunning building, all smooth surfaces and beautiful wood finishing.

Bad dream - what can it mean?

Not being 'in love with my job' shall we say, is causing sleepless nights, with Sundays particularly likely to see me bug-eyed and wide-awake into the small hours. An unusually early start today combined with a dose of liver salts aimed at righting an upset stomach added to the problem. So much so that I seemed to spend half the night having an unsettling and incomprehensible dream.

In a nutshell, we were driving up a really steep hill when the car started slipping backwards - rather embarrassingly, this is a real fear of mine. Somehow - and I don't remember the details - I managed to get out of the car. As did him indoors. Next thing we were walking towards a really beautiful, stark white house, of three or four storeys. I knew we were in Ireland, without knowing how I knew. We were in the countryside, there were trees and sheep around. Despite the beauty of the house, when I walked behind it was a very plain, red brick building - industrial in style. Oddly the shape of the back of the building didn't correspond with the front. For some reason I thought it was an asylum or something of that ilk.

Perhaps it's as well I woke up when I did. But what in god's name did that all mean?

Neil Hannon sings 'The Word Up'

Neil Hannon - what a hero. Found this during my Sunday online meanderings - a thing of absolute joy. 

Shamrock in Surrey ...

Had possibly my least Irish St Patrick's Day ever - but lo and behold, shamrock on sale in Dorking station. There's hope for Surrey yet!

Vintage French fire engine

Spotted this old French fire engine in Esher (Surrey), of all places. Poor photo, but a certain degree of trespassing was involved, as it was.

Review: Cat on a Hot Tin Roof

Off to town yesterday for a matinee performance of the much lauded Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. A friend booked the tickets months ago - this was an eagerly awaited jaunt, spoilt only by the mid-week realisation that it clashed with the Ireland-France match (in retrospect, a good thing).

What to say? It was loooong. And as the culture snob in our group pointed out, I was not 'Wagner-trained', so three hours sitting on it left my backside a tad sore.
I found Adrian Lester, as the drunken ex football star Brick, disengaged (certainly for the first half of his performance) to the point of looking bored. Yes, he looked fantastic, but he just didn't looked particularly bothered. Perhaps this was him playing 'anguished and misunderstood'.

As Maggie, Sanaa Lathan was all outraged sulkiness - with a fantastic wardrobe. Sitting in the front row, I was in a great position to appreciate the series of fantastic cocktail frocks she brought out of her walk-in wardrobe. And the leather padded bar in the opposite corner was stunning. Perhaps my fascination with the set is an indication of how distracted I was.

James Earl Jones - Darth Vader to those of us of a certain age - was Big Daddy, with the girth required. His voice was every bit as booming as on screen - I don't think I imagined the reverberations - and the later scenes with Brick were touching.

Big Mama was played by Phylicia Rashad - or the Cosby Show's Clair Huxtable, the thought of whom, even 2 decades later, brought a twinkle to my brother's eye. Rashad is also a sister of Debbie Allen, the show's producer. She seemed to spend most of her time on stage bellowing, but I appreciate this may be down to the script, rather than any shortcomings in her own technique.

Did I enjoy it? Kind of. I didn't go away raving about, and it didn't occur to me to write about it until today - which really answers my own question.

First batch of hats, knit using a wonderfully easy pattern I found on the Guardian website. I couldn't find thick enough wool, so have been knitting from two DK balls at a time - easier than it sounds, even for a clutz like me. Not sure the family would appreciate yet more knitted presents, so these will find a home with the Simon Community.

Denis Healey snowman

Is is just me, or does this freshly built snow sculpture look like a pensive Denis Healey?

Rosslare postbox

Due to 'adverse weather conditions', we managed one decent walk over the Christmas holidays, along Rosslare Strand. Love this shot of a postbox, with the lights of Rosslare Harbour twinkling in the background.