I am having a day at home, as Tricia has to go to work today, in order to have enough leave left for the rest of my stay. So while she is slaving in a Government office dealing with the mostly-disaffected general public, I am idling about, doing a bit of gardening, dead heading the roses, and feeling virtuous about recycling water. It is bright and sunny, but windy and cold. So windy and cold, in fact, that I keep forgetting that I'm not in England, until a very big spider scuttles away from me or an even bigger and unfamiliar bird flaps screeching overhead. Soon, I shall cook dinner for us both. Braised chicken with creme fraiche and tarragon - except that creme fraiche doesn't seem to be known here in Canberra, so it will be soured cream instead.
The cheerful chap from Menzies Aviation at Sydney Airport whose unenviable job it is to ring disgruntled passengers to tell them their luggage has still not been found rang me today, on Tricia's landline, for just that purpose.
Me: "I will be away from Thursday. Can you use my mobile number from then?"
Him: "Oh, you'll have your luggage by Thursday!"
Me: (note of joy in voice): "Really?"
Him: "No, I haven't a clue; I was just trying to be nice."
Me: "Well, can you use my mobile number from Thursday to keep me informed?"
Him: "I'm using it now."
Me: "No, you're not. I can tell this because I'm speaking to you on a landline handset..."
Him: checks the number, clearly not believing me.
I can astound myself sometimes with my own patience and ability to refrain from very loud swearing.
Monday, 31 March 2008
Sunday, 30 March 2008
This is the life
Can't post any pictures yet, until we work out how to make our camera/PC programmes compatible, so you will have to take my word for how beautiful it is here. I will have to stay alert to the overuse of words like beautiful, amazing, wonderful, astonishing, stunning, but it will be hard. However, I shall allow myself a few this time; I'm still a bit underslept and none too clever, and adopting a writing style to match my brain today would risk unsublime prose along the lines of: Yesterday we went in the big car. It was fun. We saw a pelican.
Yesterday we had a family outing to Wollongong, via an amazingly scenic route, had barramundi and chips on the harbour (built 1844 by 300 convicts - see, a bit of history too) and then Tricia and I drove to Canberra, shifting suddenly from lush green landscape to dry, reaching her comfortable welcoming home full of familiar things from when she lived in Newcastle and couldn't part with anything.
She lives right on the edge of the city, so a quick car ride to get some groceries allowed us to see large wild kangaroos in the deepening dusk; these, the sunset behind the Brindabellas (mountains to you who haven't been) all around, and the emergence of bright unfamiliar stars suddenly overwhelmed me, and I found myself helplessly in tears, so conscious of being on the other side of the world, with an old and dear friend, having what I hope will continue to be a strange and wonderful time.
Don't think I'll have barramundi again though.
Yesterday we had a family outing to Wollongong, via an amazingly scenic route, had barramundi and chips on the harbour (built 1844 by 300 convicts - see, a bit of history too) and then Tricia and I drove to Canberra, shifting suddenly from lush green landscape to dry, reaching her comfortable welcoming home full of familiar things from when she lived in Newcastle and couldn't part with anything.
She lives right on the edge of the city, so a quick car ride to get some groceries allowed us to see large wild kangaroos in the deepening dusk; these, the sunset behind the Brindabellas (mountains to you who haven't been) all around, and the emergence of bright unfamiliar stars suddenly overwhelmed me, and I found myself helplessly in tears, so conscious of being on the other side of the world, with an old and dear friend, having what I hope will continue to be a strange and wonderful time.
Don't think I'll have barramundi again though.
All going according to plan
I'm not sure whose plan, though. Travel-wise, it's been a mixed success so far. I checked in, saying goodbye to my small case filled with presents and new hot weather clothes. A very late shuttle from Heathrow delayed my flight from Newcastle. Clue 1 regarding the launch of Terminal 5.... The pilot hinted at teething problems. But the transfer by bus from T5 to 4 went like clockwork; there was no real hint of the chaos taking place in the brand new multi-million pound shed as with mistaken confidence we tootled through tunnels, moving from shiny-shiny new T5 with its helpers standing every 25 yards waiting to be called upon, to somewhat scruffier old T4. There I had a longish wait, filled by walking miles past all the shopping opportunities, eating a huge salad-and fruit-based dinner, and texting confident messages to everyone who might remember me only as a neurotic and bumbling twit who couldn't make it safely to the corner shop. I was now Intrepid Traveller, capable, experienced, and in the right place at the right time; I was calm, collected and prepared for anything.
Time to board the big flying tin tube.The youngish Australian man next to me barely spoke, jumped and twitched a great deal, created knee-deep litter about us both, and wolfed his revolting airline food and drink at lightning speed. Second time round, fascinated, I paid more attention to his technique - hoovering, basically. I was still picking my way gingerly through the gloopy main course trying to identify various items, and lo! he had finished his, as well as his salad, bread roll, dessert and both our chocolate biscuits, and had gone back to jumping about, throwing litter and knocking his drinks over us.
We had lots of leg room, facing a wall panel, which was great - for Mr Messy in particular - but this plane could have doubled as refrigerated transport for perishable foodstuffs. After half an hour I began to worry about hypothermia, despite cardigan, fleece, thick socks, and later BA's tea-towel-thin blanket and tiny flabby pillow. The hours dragged by; freezing to death is a slow process, and you can feel your brain shutting down cell by cell. Not slow enough to become used to the too-high headrest which pushed my head down at a painful angle which it has since maintained. I can now walk convincingly like a chicken, head poked forward; all I need to add are the sound effects.
After what seemed like 24 hours, with a short stop in Bangkok to thaw out while the plane was refuelled, cleaned, and restocked with potential litter, we arrived in Sydney. By this time, we knew that T5 was in trouble, and that luggage seemed to be involved, but didn't know the full extent of that trouble - 15,000 items in all. The carousel went round in its tantalising fashion, the non-T5 passengers collected their cases, and the small group of us unlucky ones went off to report that our luggage was, well, probably still in the bowels of the state-of-the-art terminal in London. We were given $100 each and told not to ring up for at least 48 hours to give the airline time to find our precious bags. 36 hours later, I have received two messages to tell me that they have not been successful yet. Prioritise me, I want to scream. I have new slippers in that case!
So far I have splashed out on 2 t-shirts and a nightie, spending an astonishing $9.99 of my BA compensation payment. That's under a fiver. I am going to be very sick of these trousers by the time I get my case back/give in and buy a complete holiday wardrobe, but I bet I could do it all within the 100 bucks.
More next time on what has gone wonderfully (heart-stoppingly wonderfully, in actual fact) well.....
Time to board the big flying tin tube.The youngish Australian man next to me barely spoke, jumped and twitched a great deal, created knee-deep litter about us both, and wolfed his revolting airline food and drink at lightning speed. Second time round, fascinated, I paid more attention to his technique - hoovering, basically. I was still picking my way gingerly through the gloopy main course trying to identify various items, and lo! he had finished his, as well as his salad, bread roll, dessert and both our chocolate biscuits, and had gone back to jumping about, throwing litter and knocking his drinks over us.
We had lots of leg room, facing a wall panel, which was great - for Mr Messy in particular - but this plane could have doubled as refrigerated transport for perishable foodstuffs. After half an hour I began to worry about hypothermia, despite cardigan, fleece, thick socks, and later BA's tea-towel-thin blanket and tiny flabby pillow. The hours dragged by; freezing to death is a slow process, and you can feel your brain shutting down cell by cell. Not slow enough to become used to the too-high headrest which pushed my head down at a painful angle which it has since maintained. I can now walk convincingly like a chicken, head poked forward; all I need to add are the sound effects.
After what seemed like 24 hours, with a short stop in Bangkok to thaw out while the plane was refuelled, cleaned, and restocked with potential litter, we arrived in Sydney. By this time, we knew that T5 was in trouble, and that luggage seemed to be involved, but didn't know the full extent of that trouble - 15,000 items in all. The carousel went round in its tantalising fashion, the non-T5 passengers collected their cases, and the small group of us unlucky ones went off to report that our luggage was, well, probably still in the bowels of the state-of-the-art terminal in London. We were given $100 each and told not to ring up for at least 48 hours to give the airline time to find our precious bags. 36 hours later, I have received two messages to tell me that they have not been successful yet. Prioritise me, I want to scream. I have new slippers in that case!
So far I have splashed out on 2 t-shirts and a nightie, spending an astonishing $9.99 of my BA compensation payment. That's under a fiver. I am going to be very sick of these trousers by the time I get my case back/give in and buy a complete holiday wardrobe, but I bet I could do it all within the 100 bucks.
More next time on what has gone wonderfully (heart-stoppingly wonderfully, in actual fact) well.....
Thursday, 27 March 2008
Gone!
Well, not exactly, more still going really, but definitely on my way. In a horribly lengthy period of time (UK time Friday night, Oz time Saturday morning, my body clock time about a week from now) I will, I hope, touch down safely in Sydney, to be greeted by smiley people: friend Tricia, friend's daughter Chelsea, and later her three delightful little girls, who I'm really looking forward to meeting for the first time. What they will make of me is another matter; a week of terror, lots of displacement activity, plus about 36 hours' travel from my house to theirs may not prove conducive to a reassuring first impression.
So, that's it for now; I'll be back online when I can, if I'm spared...(well, you know, spiders, snakes, crocodiles)....and back home on April 22nd. Thank you to all who are cats-dog-and-house-sitting; sorry about the cat hair.
You know how much I love you all.
The Intrepid Traveller, aka The Whingeing Pom - you decide what fits best.
xxxx
So, that's it for now; I'll be back online when I can, if I'm spared...(well, you know, spiders, snakes, crocodiles)....and back home on April 22nd. Thank you to all who are cats-dog-and-house-sitting; sorry about the cat hair.
You know how much I love you all.
The Intrepid Traveller, aka The Whingeing Pom - you decide what fits best.
xxxx
Wednesday, 26 March 2008
Ready, steady.....
Not quite Go! yet. But nearly....
Today we played at being normal, ie not doom-prophesying, fretful, and racked by anxiety. The Lovely Son dug enough of the allotment for me to plant 3 rows of potatoes which were chitting on the windowsill, and whose sprouts would have flagged before my return, and some garlic. The dog and her bedding have been washed; she has had her fringe trimmed so that she can see my luggage better, and is having a major mope. Poor little thing, it's bad enough when just one of us is leaving, but the LS goes away tomorrow too. I tidied the kitchen to within an inch of its life, then we ate up some leftover curry, and generally messed about aimlessly till it was time for the online check-in facility to open in British Airways' virtual world.
To my relief, they appear to have allocated me a decent seat, by a window in a row of two, with a cot point opposite - it seems rather unlikely that they would put anyone else's baby in a cot opposite my seat, so I'm assuming that I will have some decent legroom. Shame about not having decent (i.e. long) legs to fill it with. I could have changed seats, but this one seemed fine, so I left it as allocated, and hope I will be proved right.
After this, I calmed down a bit, having worried neurotically about being stuck in the middle of a row, as I once was on a trip to India, struggling with claustrophobia I didn't know I had until that flight, and/or about being next to the loos, with very large people in the the queue taking turns to lean on you. Lovely niece Laura had such a seat on a trip from Toronto, and complained so vigorously about it for the next month that I now think of it as a fate worse than death. Or the cause of a new phenomenon: Air Toilet Queue Rage.
Suzy and Lesley brought going-away presents, which I shall photograph and show you, and you will then be able to visualise what I shall be doing on the journey, exhorting other passengers to join in, bribing them with sweets.
Today we played at being normal, ie not doom-prophesying, fretful, and racked by anxiety. The Lovely Son dug enough of the allotment for me to plant 3 rows of potatoes which were chitting on the windowsill, and whose sprouts would have flagged before my return, and some garlic. The dog and her bedding have been washed; she has had her fringe trimmed so that she can see my luggage better, and is having a major mope. Poor little thing, it's bad enough when just one of us is leaving, but the LS goes away tomorrow too. I tidied the kitchen to within an inch of its life, then we ate up some leftover curry, and generally messed about aimlessly till it was time for the online check-in facility to open in British Airways' virtual world.
To my relief, they appear to have allocated me a decent seat, by a window in a row of two, with a cot point opposite - it seems rather unlikely that they would put anyone else's baby in a cot opposite my seat, so I'm assuming that I will have some decent legroom. Shame about not having decent (i.e. long) legs to fill it with. I could have changed seats, but this one seemed fine, so I left it as allocated, and hope I will be proved right.
After this, I calmed down a bit, having worried neurotically about being stuck in the middle of a row, as I once was on a trip to India, struggling with claustrophobia I didn't know I had until that flight, and/or about being next to the loos, with very large people in the the queue taking turns to lean on you. Lovely niece Laura had such a seat on a trip from Toronto, and complained so vigorously about it for the next month that I now think of it as a fate worse than death. Or the cause of a new phenomenon: Air Toilet Queue Rage.
Suzy and Lesley brought going-away presents, which I shall photograph and show you, and you will then be able to visualise what I shall be doing on the journey, exhorting other passengers to join in, bribing them with sweets.
Tuesday, 25 March 2008
Cat news and domestic chaos
For the followers of Kevin: I am thinking of changing his name to Lazarus. He was given a very positive report after half an hour of tests at the vet's today, and he behaved astonishingly well throughout, grumbling a bit but not fighting, and certainly not creating the Lake of Protest again. I have been told there's no need to worry about him while I'm away; he's even gained some weight.
The Lovely Son arrived today, to cluck in despair over the state of my PC, the endless and unsorted list of bookmarked websites, my dismal failure to remember computer jargon or to understand what a browser is and how it differs from a server, and many other gross deficiencies of intellect on my part. I receive exasperated lectures along the lines of "Look, this (something or other) is on your desktop... Firefox just lets you (something or other) ...and it's all stored on your computer! ...and that (something or other) is a storage device....and you're not downloading, you're transferring!!" and then he bangs his forehead on the keyboard in utter despair at his eejit mother. I can feel myself ready to swoon in fear and loathing at how instantly forgettable it all is, like the rules (I know, they're laws, not rules) of cricket .
But in return I cluck in despair over the instant chaos and disorder that arrives with him; the clothing bomb that explodes silently within moments of his rucksack being set down, always in a place where it becomes a major trip hazard, the fridge-raiding just before a meal, his easily-triggered swearing, the creation of countless half-finished mugs of tea, and many other gross and eejit-like deficiencies on his part. We get on very well together, obviously.
Travel terror continues to strike me from time to time, although Shelagh and the Lovely Son between them reassure me that all the electronic ticketing stuff works really well and that I have everything printed that I will need. Something else is bound to go wrong, I just know it.....I will walk through the crowded airport clad only in a skimpy vest and dying of embarrassment.....oh no, that's the dream we all have, isn't it......
The Lovely Son arrived today, to cluck in despair over the state of my PC, the endless and unsorted list of bookmarked websites, my dismal failure to remember computer jargon or to understand what a browser is and how it differs from a server, and many other gross deficiencies of intellect on my part. I receive exasperated lectures along the lines of "Look, this (something or other) is on your desktop... Firefox just lets you (something or other) ...and it's all stored on your computer! ...and that (something or other) is a storage device....and you're not downloading, you're transferring!!" and then he bangs his forehead on the keyboard in utter despair at his eejit mother. I can feel myself ready to swoon in fear and loathing at how instantly forgettable it all is, like the rules (I know, they're laws, not rules) of cricket .
But in return I cluck in despair over the instant chaos and disorder that arrives with him; the clothing bomb that explodes silently within moments of his rucksack being set down, always in a place where it becomes a major trip hazard, the fridge-raiding just before a meal, his easily-triggered swearing, the creation of countless half-finished mugs of tea, and many other gross and eejit-like deficiencies on his part. We get on very well together, obviously.
Travel terror continues to strike me from time to time, although Shelagh and the Lovely Son between them reassure me that all the electronic ticketing stuff works really well and that I have everything printed that I will need. Something else is bound to go wrong, I just know it.....I will walk through the crowded airport clad only in a skimpy vest and dying of embarrassment.....oh no, that's the dream we all have, isn't it......
Monday, 24 March 2008
Ticket terror, security subversion
Call me old-fashioned, but these e-tickets, e-visas, and (on Wednesday) e-boarding passes just don't feel right to me. I keep checking the bits of paper that I have printed out myself to make sure there really isn't something I've failed to do that will cause me to be refused entry at the airport, miss my flight and spend painful hours trying to explain to everyone that I'm a) more of an idiot than they ever thought possible, and b) didn't do it on purpose through fear of flying.
And then even if I do succeed in making it to Terminal 5 (or T5 as they trendily call it) there's the pressure to sabotage any attempt to fingerprint me - someone on Radio 4 PM this evening was calling for all-out passenger rebellion, suggesting the use of superglue and a small pointy implement to create your own finger-end designs instead of fingerprints. But, quite aside from superglue having a mind of its own, and the risk of sticking myself to my hand luggage, or worse, the security personnel trying to arrest me, my freehand icing skills leave so much to be desired - how on earth can I design my own fingertips to an acceptable aesthetic standard? So much to worry about!
And then even if I do succeed in making it to Terminal 5 (or T5 as they trendily call it) there's the pressure to sabotage any attempt to fingerprint me - someone on Radio 4 PM this evening was calling for all-out passenger rebellion, suggesting the use of superglue and a small pointy implement to create your own finger-end designs instead of fingerprints. But, quite aside from superglue having a mind of its own, and the risk of sticking myself to my hand luggage, or worse, the security personnel trying to arrest me, my freehand icing skills leave so much to be desired - how on earth can I design my own fingertips to an acceptable aesthetic standard? So much to worry about!
Sunday, 23 March 2008
Saturday, 22 March 2008
Bush Hats
Maybe I should get one of these hats for my bar-b-que trip to the Australian bush. Maybe I should get that shade of lipstick too. Germolene pink.
Small confused scream
For some time, Tricia has been emailing me in that breathless way she has, full of dots, dashes and exclamation marks, to say how excited she is about my impending visit, and how hot ("blummin hot") it is in Canberra. So, rather pleased at the prospect of blummin hot weather, I have packed accordingly. Blummin vests and sandals. Today she emailed to say she had just come home from a barbecue (which, endearingly, she prefers to spell as bar-b-que) and to complain about how blummin cold it was. Cold! It was over 100 degrees F the other day!
So, I have had to demand an urgent interpretation of the word cold; does she mean I might need a cardi, or socks with my sandals, or a full re-pack of my case full of skimpy clothes? She is under orders to think like the Yorkshire woman she really is, and try to remember how a pallid, frozen Briton might experience the blummin cold of a very hot country. As there is a planned bar-b-que somewhere in the bush, I guess thermals and woolly gloves might not be needed, but you know, I'd prefer to go prepared. And ooh, the bush! That sounds exciting! Will I need bush clothes? What are they anyway? Are they warm?
PS Stop curling your lip like that. The socks with sandals thing was a joke.
So, I have had to demand an urgent interpretation of the word cold; does she mean I might need a cardi, or socks with my sandals, or a full re-pack of my case full of skimpy clothes? She is under orders to think like the Yorkshire woman she really is, and try to remember how a pallid, frozen Briton might experience the blummin cold of a very hot country. As there is a planned bar-b-que somewhere in the bush, I guess thermals and woolly gloves might not be needed, but you know, I'd prefer to go prepared. And ooh, the bush! That sounds exciting! Will I need bush clothes? What are they anyway? Are they warm?
PS Stop curling your lip like that. The socks with sandals thing was a joke.
Friday, 21 March 2008
A quick roundup
Kevin: seems to be doing well, but had a strange collapsing moment this morning while taking his medication, reminding me of a little dog of my mother's who had heart failure. He picked up within a few seconds and ate a hearty breakfast, but it has jangled me badly. Back to the vet next Tuesday.
Australia trip: I'm all packed, money and passport ready, and only 2 small cases to take, both hand-luggage-sized, one to check into the hold, obviously. Impressive, yes? And not leaving for another 6 days. Oh, the joy of having a friend shopping in advance of my arrival, so no toiletries to pack, and a hot country, so very few clothes required!
The house etc: Still loads of cake orders to fill, kitchen and weird chaotic fridge to clear up, but think I have time to do this. I may be proved very wrong, and then there will be very bad shouty language.
The dog: Hates me going into the spare room where the cases are kept, and tries to encourage me out. Her body language is very clear on that point. I feel like a murderess.
The vibe: I'm at that very specific stage where I just know with absolute certainty that my plane is going to come down in a shark-infested sea, and I have the urge to go round all my friends and family and tell them how much I love them. You know, like drunk people tell you....."I WUV yoooooo, I reelly reelly wuv yoo." But I really really do.
Australia trip: I'm all packed, money and passport ready, and only 2 small cases to take, both hand-luggage-sized, one to check into the hold, obviously. Impressive, yes? And not leaving for another 6 days. Oh, the joy of having a friend shopping in advance of my arrival, so no toiletries to pack, and a hot country, so very few clothes required!
The house etc: Still loads of cake orders to fill, kitchen and weird chaotic fridge to clear up, but think I have time to do this. I may be proved very wrong, and then there will be very bad shouty language.
The dog: Hates me going into the spare room where the cases are kept, and tries to encourage me out. Her body language is very clear on that point. I feel like a murderess.
The vibe: I'm at that very specific stage where I just know with absolute certainty that my plane is going to come down in a shark-infested sea, and I have the urge to go round all my friends and family and tell them how much I love them. You know, like drunk people tell you....."I WUV yoooooo, I reelly reelly wuv yoo." But I really really do.
Thursday, 20 March 2008
But we're British! We have to suffer!
It's officially the First Day of Spring tomorrow.
Lambs leaping, little birds canoodling, flower buds bursting forth, Nature in all her fecundity - great word, fecund; sounds a bit rude - and so on, and a Bank Holiday, as well as the major Christian celebration of the year (well, Christmas hardly seems Christian any more, does it), coming up this weekend. We Brits will swarm onto our already-clogged roads, determined to have a chocolate-fuelled holiday of some sort.
But, predictably, the weather prefers to ignore all cause for rejoicing. Keep your vests on, and the central heating, stay away from the seaside at all costs, and mutter resentfully about the British version of global warming typically having to be global wetting, blowing and freezing. Maybe it's character-building.
Lambs leaping, little birds canoodling, flower buds bursting forth, Nature in all her fecundity - great word, fecund; sounds a bit rude - and so on, and a Bank Holiday, as well as the major Christian celebration of the year (well, Christmas hardly seems Christian any more, does it), coming up this weekend. We Brits will swarm onto our already-clogged roads, determined to have a chocolate-fuelled holiday of some sort.
But, predictably, the weather prefers to ignore all cause for rejoicing. Keep your vests on, and the central heating, stay away from the seaside at all costs, and mutter resentfully about the British version of global warming typically having to be global wetting, blowing and freezing. Maybe it's character-building.
Wednesday, 19 March 2008
Could this be it?
Roger thinks The Baby Over The Way could be in this book.I have emailed the Canadian bookseller who owns it to ask, and will keep you all posted. You do want to know what happens, don't you? And see the pictures of the scruffy baby with the tousled hair and the perfect baby with the quiff and neat bib? Of course you do.
Posting from where? Mars?
Lesley down the street has just had a conversation with someone she describes as 'a boy' from the Post Office, a subsidiary of the Royal Mail. She has been trying since January to arrange for her work mail to be redirected from Sunderland to Newcastle, cities maybe 10 miles apart; there have been costs incurred, a total lack of success, many phone calls and broken promises of refunds involved in this inexplicably complex matter.
The Post Office, a venerable institution founded in 1660, and once the envy of the western world, has struggled to understand what was required: no no, letter not go Sunderland, come Newcastle instead; easy-peasy when form filled out and fee paid and accepted. This morning 'the boy' assured Lesley that a refund cheque would definitely go out to her in today's post.
She has to allow 5-7 days for delivery.
Note: The Post Office has as one of its logos: With Us, It's Personal. Yes, quite.
The Post Office, a venerable institution founded in 1660, and once the envy of the western world, has struggled to understand what was required: no no, letter not go Sunderland, come Newcastle instead; easy-peasy when form filled out and fee paid and accepted. This morning 'the boy' assured Lesley that a refund cheque would definitely go out to her in today's post.
She has to allow 5-7 days for delivery.
Note: The Post Office has as one of its logos: With Us, It's Personal. Yes, quite.
The gulf widens
Picture this: Suzy and I walking down our street the other day. Suzy is in her pyjamas under her coat - well, I did tell her no one would notice, and I was right. We pass a car, parked slightly wonkily. Its window is open, and a large handbag, also gaping open, is on the seat. Opportunistic theft is common round here, and this is an open invitation, but Suzy and I haven't got the nerve, and anyway we don't like that sort of bag.
About 5 doors up, a student house, matching the car in dilapidation, has its front door standing wide open, so I go up and knock. Suzy stands guard by the car, looking fierce in her jim-jams. I am ignored. Cheerful voices carry on chatting at that amazing volume so beloved of well-brought-up girls standing two feet from each other, so I knock again, louder and somewhat more persistently, and eventually a young woman breaks off her conversation and comes to the door.
Before I can speak, she has assumed that slightly pitying yet disappointed look of someone finding the caller is not interesting or a bosom friend, i.e. not her own age. I ask if the car and bag belong to anyone there, as they are likely to be stolen if left open. She says dismissively "Oh, she's coming out in a minute" and turns away.
The middle-aged mother in me surges forward and says in that particular sort of voice that a minute could be all it takes to have the bag stolen, and that we could have stolen it ourselves by now if we'd been so inclined. And instantaneously, almost imperceptibly, the girl's look changes to that of the nagged child, and I have a flash of insight into how she sees me. I give up, laugh, say "I know, I sound like your mum" and walk away. Suzy and I walk on, two annoying irrelevant middle aged women in peculiar outfits, and marvel at the young. Were we like this, we wonder? Most probably. Silly girls, look at us now, and be warned.
About 5 doors up, a student house, matching the car in dilapidation, has its front door standing wide open, so I go up and knock. Suzy stands guard by the car, looking fierce in her jim-jams. I am ignored. Cheerful voices carry on chatting at that amazing volume so beloved of well-brought-up girls standing two feet from each other, so I knock again, louder and somewhat more persistently, and eventually a young woman breaks off her conversation and comes to the door.
Before I can speak, she has assumed that slightly pitying yet disappointed look of someone finding the caller is not interesting or a bosom friend, i.e. not her own age. I ask if the car and bag belong to anyone there, as they are likely to be stolen if left open. She says dismissively "Oh, she's coming out in a minute" and turns away.
The middle-aged mother in me surges forward and says in that particular sort of voice that a minute could be all it takes to have the bag stolen, and that we could have stolen it ourselves by now if we'd been so inclined. And instantaneously, almost imperceptibly, the girl's look changes to that of the nagged child, and I have a flash of insight into how she sees me. I give up, laugh, say "I know, I sound like your mum" and walk away. Suzy and I walk on, two annoying irrelevant middle aged women in peculiar outfits, and marvel at the young. Were we like this, we wonder? Most probably. Silly girls, look at us now, and be warned.
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