Critter tv

So Buddy is finally noticing the television, which is great, because I always planned to use the mesmerising effect of the tube as a key part of my parenting strategy. He's not so hot keen on the cartoons just yet, he likes to watch mammals and occasionally fish.

In my search for some critter tv, I was hunting through the documentary area of the satellite menu. Insects? No. Bears, yes. Animals cops in Detroit? Sometimes. He likes it so long as there's an underfed Rottweiler or a mangy pit bull or some scraggly kittens, but his attention wanes as soon as a Michigan animal welfare officer comes on the screen. And when his attention wanes, he starts banging the brass curtain pull against the window or shoving the remote down the radiator or pulling books off the bookshelf.

Crocodiles. No, apparently reptiles aren't that interesting either. But I had to stop and watch the Crocodile Hunter guy for a moment. Steve Irwin and his chirpy Australianness and his love of animals that I wouldn't touch with a stick. He was picking up snakey looking lizard things in a burnt out landscape, it must have been filmed during Australia's long drought and bush fires and he was trying to rescue the things. He was a clearly distressed by their plight.

"And you know what really tears my heart out?" he said to the camera.
"A sting ray?" I replied to the tv.

McCain's speech

Since I didn't give up any sleep to listen to the Vol's season opener, there's no way in hidey-ho that I'm going to stay up to watch John McCain's speech tonight. So, I thought I'd dig up what I wrote about him almost two years ago when he gave a speech to the British Conservative Party Conference in 2006.


John McCain, if I ever thought he was a presidential contender - after what I saw, I certainly don't think so now. He looked old and frail and rheumy and said things like "you'll see more of the future than I will." The Vol-in-Law [and I] discussed this and could only come to the conclusion that McCain must now know that he will never be President.


How times change.

Taking personal responsibility

Whose fault is it that the Vols lost last night? Was it an incoherent offensive strategy? Was it Foster's fumble or Lincoln's missed kicks? The opposing QB's growing confidence throughout the game. No. I have to accept personal responsibility.

Last year, following astute observation followed by scientific-like experiments, we discovered that if Buddy was wearing orange, preferably UT licensed gear, the Vols would do well. If, following, a spill, a spit up, or poo-splosion, Buddy had to have the orange removed - the Vols would falter. Several times we scrambled to find new orange to place on the sleeping child, and the Vols rallied. (This apparently only worked in regular season games, not in the SEC Championship game).

What was Buddy wearing last night? Navy blue.

To the entire Vol Nation, I offer my profound apologies.

Trouble is, as an infant he had a ton of UT stuff. Now, he has but one sweatshirt and it's getting kinda snug. The critter keeps growing. At least there's two weeks (almost) between now and the next game. Time to rescue the season. We know what must be done.


Looking forward to a victorious season

Sleep or the Vols?

Eegads - an 8pm kickoff? On a Monday? That it means it starts at 1am here. I'm sleep deprived already. I have two really important meetings tomorrow. To top it all off, at the beginning of each season there's the whole new challenge of trying to find out exactly where I can listen to live or archived games or maybe even watch.

And I've got to admit, I haven't quite figured it out yet. Why do they got to change it every year? Last year it was the easiest and simplest yet - I even had a saved link where I could listen to the games without ever seeing the score if they were on too late. This year, I'm all confused.

I'm moaning. I know. Tonight, it has to be sleep - whatever little I may be able to procure.

Go Vols

Nothing personal

In the UK, there's a system whereby you can get tax relief on your income spent on childcare. It's actually worth a fair bit of money, which is good because child care here is incredibly expensive. But like everything New Labour does, the process is complicated. I have to "surrender" my income to some third party private sector company and fill out forms and blah, blah, blah.

Since I'm top rate tax payer, it makes sense for me to surrender the maximum amount I'm allowed under current regulations. I was trying to sort it out today and the person in the customer service centre told me that if the allowance was raised in the next budget, I would automatically have an increased amount taken from my paycheck (which is a good thing).

I said "They probably won't raise it, Gordon Brown* hates me."
Call centre woman: "It's not you, Gordon Brown hates everyone."

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*Gordon Brown - current UK Prime Minister formerly Chancellor of the Exchequer (financial supremo). He's not supposed to be in charge of the Budget and Government finances anymore, but everyone knows the current chancellor Alistair Darling is Gordon's muppet.

Ways of making you talk

I can now say that I think sleep deprivation is torture. I can attest that I would talk. But it would just be incoherent, grumpy blathering.

Buddy slept better as a newborn.


Update: on the upside, this may mean I get to listen live to Tennessee's first football game. Though I'm not sure if that's wise on a workday.

What a VP pick

I was amazed that John McCain picked Sarah Palin as his running mate. What a crafty old fox. Despite the fact that I probably disagree with her on many issues, what I'm reading about her so far impresses me.

What impresses me most is how she took on her own state GOP to expose corruption and incompetence in Republican ranks. I love good governance. Her biggest scandals in her Governorship appear to be related to trying to get her brother-in-law fired. He was a State Trooper who threatened to kill her father and drank beer in the patrol car. Not such great qualities in a law officer. And she tried to keep a state run dairy open at a loss. Why are politicians such suckers for the farmers?

She's clearly a tough woman and a go-getter. We probably wouldn't have been friends in high school (if we'd been contemporaries), but she's the kind of person I'd be proud to serve with on a local committee. She'd get things done. But then she'd talk about teaching Creationism in science class or restricting access to safe and legal abortions - and I kinda have to draw the line there.

Her pro-gun stance is hardly surprising for someone from Alaska. I think they need their guns up there. They have some big and dangerous varmints in those parts, I hear.

Drilling in the Alaskan Wildlife Reserve? She's for it. I couldn't give a stuff. Really. I don't care.

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Sarah Palin, not somebody I'd vote for, but frankly I think this is the good old kick in the teeth that the DNC deserves. Too much sexist bullshit this election cycle. Let the Republicans show they can rise above it. (If they can.)

I think it's great there's a woman in the VP slot. We do represent over half the voting electorate, so it seems only reasonable that we should have a fourth of the top slots on offer. Oh - and that would be two women total in over 200 years of major party campaigning.

Now we'll see how fair and balanced the media are. Will Sarah Palin have to suffer the same treatment as Hillary Clinton? On the left there will be the accusations that she's a sellout for women (the same slurs Margaret Thatcher endured). I've never bought into that. Just because someone doesn't fit your ideal of what a woman leader should be like doesn't mean she isn't a polticiian who isn't true to herself and her ideals. You don't like her ideals, don't vote for her. But don't say she's less of woman.

On the Right there'll be questions about whether she should be running for office while she has small children. Blechhh. I've already heard those comments (all from men that I saw) dripping into Fox News feedback. I'm sure her husband is a capable man and can look after things.

Just leave the cat alone

Occasionally people land on my site from the search "How do I induce a cat's labor?"

Don't. Just don't.

The email I didn't get

I've been watching the Democratic convention from afar, hearing the summary coverage the morning after on the BBC. I've heard a lot about some bitterness and I've heard a lot about Hillary Clinton didn't go far enough in her speech* to outline the fine qualities of Barack Obama. Oh please....what does she have to do? She gave a pretty solid endorsement, I'd say - but I guess it's never enough. She didn't jump high enough in her cheerleading?

I'm still a member of the Democratic Party, so I still get the emails. After Michelle Obama's speech I got an enthusiastic email from Barack Obama saying how great it was. I got another this morning after his speech asking for money.

But I didn't get an email thanking Hillary for her speech or thanking Bill for his rousing endorsement. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. It's little things like that which could make a big difference for disaffected Democratic voters like me. I almost emailed back suggesting that he do so. I've been waiting for those small gestures of genuine appreciation and understanding of Hillary Clinton supporters, but if I'd been holding my breath I'd be blue by now.

It particularly rankled after I'd had an email a little while ago from Howard Dean about how we must all fight back against the smears in The Obama Nation book by that kook Jerome Corsi. I never got an email about the sexism and misogyny surrounding Hillary Clinton's campaign. Yes, I know that it was during the primary - but a little balanced email about keeping the fight clean....I don't know.

All along, I've been wanting something, anything to persuade me to vote for Barack Obama. I have never not voted for the Democratic nominee in a presidential election since I turned 18. (Well, I did miss one - but I meant to vote. It's not easy to vote from overseas.) After all, I think McCain is a dangerous entity. I think he's unstable and I think he will be bad for America.

But I just feel that Barack Obama has never asked for my vote. (McCain has - but he won't get it.) And each time I've expressed reservations about Obama on this blog, I've been met with critcisms of Hillary Clinton from enthusiastic Obama supporters. (Hey y'all, remember that old adage about honey and vinegar.) I've never bought into the call for amorphous change. What change? I just want good governance, a steady hand, sound economic policies and a serious attempt to deal with the healthcare mess. What I don't want is to be insulted or belittled or taken for granted, and I don't want that for my candidate I supported either. And I surely don't want a candidate from the so-called Left who says that too many people work for the insurance industries to attempt a major overhaul of the healthcare system. What kind of change is that? A lot of people worked for the kerosene lamp industry, too - but we still made the switch to light bulbs.

This convention hasn't changed my mind, I'm sad to say. I'm trying to summon the enthusiasm to request my absentee ballot so I can vote down ticket - or maybe hoping (with baited breath) that Barack Obama will do something to make me want to vote for him.


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Didn't y'all just love Senator Clinton's orange suit though? If I hadn't already admired her policies, her fight, and her leadership abilities I'd probably have voted for her just for the orange pantsuit. (I know in national politics - for women - they can't often wear the same thing twice and I think people will remember the orange suit - so Hillary - can I have it? And if I can't have it, could you give it Pat Head Summitt for her joint appearances with Bruce Pearl?)

No sandwich for you

I love holidays, I do. If you got a feasting, dancing, singing, wear-a-silly-hat and jump up and down like a fool holiday, I'm all for it. As long as it's free and it doesn't clash with work, I might even join in.

But scourging and fasting just aren't my bag. I'm not big into ashes or penance either. Sorry. I understand it's importance, but I'm not in the game of collecting suffer tokens. Thanks, anyway.

And so, we're now almost into the season of Ramadan. You want to fast. Fine. Go ahead. But I'm not planning to do anything special for Ramadan. (I'll happily eat any Eid food, though.) I'm not planning to make much in the way of special considerations for those who do want to fast during daylight hours. I'll still eat lunch at my desk, but I won't offer you any special treats. Deal?

But at Tower Hamlets, everybody has to observe:

Muslim council leaders have sparked outrage after trying to ban all councillors eating in meetings until sunset during the holy month of Ramadan.

Politicians have hit out after the move to impose hardline Islamic rules on non-Muslim colleagues throughout September.

The bombshell has been dropped by Labour chiefs of the notoriously loony Tower Hamlets Council in east London.

The storm was sparked by an email sent to all councillors this week highlighting arrangements for Town Hall committee meetings next month, which marks the Muslim fasting period of Ramadan.

Oh, dear.

These are evening meetings and many of these councillors have jobs and are coming straight from their places of employment and they won't get out until very late. No tea, no sandwich for them. And it's rare that you'll go to a meeting in the UK where at least biscuits aren't on offer (unless I've arranged the meeting, I rarely order biscuits). But I guess that's out, too.

Some councillors (the ones in political opposition) are outraged and say this appears to be favouring one religion over another. I'd tend to agree.

Mamma Mia!

So, this being the traditional week of not doing any work in this country, I'm taking the week off. But instead of packing a million baby things and heading for a cold and windy and overcast beach after many hours of traffic jams, we decided to have a stay-cation. Yeah, I know.

Best thing about the staycation thing is that I can put Buddy in his daycare for a couple of days this week and just have the day free. He went today and he'll go on Friday.

So the Vol-in-Law and I went to see a movie. There isn't usually much I want to see - even when I was child free I probably went once a year or so. But I'd kinda been wanting to see Mamma Mia! for a while. Like for a long while - 'cause it's been on in the West End here for ages. The thing about popular shows is that they hardly ever have those steeply discounted tickets that I like so much - and I'm just too cheap to pay full price.

But the movie was a lot cheaper, and I'm guessing not nearly as good. For one thing, the cast in the movie can't sing and they can't really dance either. Anyone who knows anything about music (and I'm counting everyone who's ever watched one of those "informative" "factual" shows about pop music) knows that ABBA songs are hard. They are difficult to sing; they're pretty complex. I know this because I like to sing along and on ABBA songs, it's hard to do that without ending up screeching a little. Which is what the cast of Mamma Mia! the movie did.

That being said, the movie was actually pretty enjoyable. Their varying degrees of crapness made me feel like I could live my life to ABBA songs. I bet the sing-a-long version (they have one showing at my local cinema, but it's in the evening) is an absolute blast. Get a couple of beers, go with some friends, and sing a long to ABBA. Fabba.

British cuisine in an easy open packet

It amuses me when those American new to these shores are somehow amazed by the vast array of different flavoured crisps (potato chips) in this country. Beyond the fairly normal cheese and onion, salt and vinegar, and even the slightly poncey cracked black pepper and sea salt, there's a wide selection of the unusually flavoured snack food items. Roast Chicken, Worcester sauce (yes, we know it was Worcestershire Sauce), Tomato and Basil, Thai Sweet Chilli, Chinese Five Spice, caramelised onion and mature cheddar, duck and orange - to name but a few. And there are other snack stuffs, too, like the potato based(?) extruded product Hula Hoops - which has a very popular ketchup and bacon flavor. (I'm guessing that's nasty.)

That's not counting the limited edition crisps that Walkers - the market leader - come out with occasionally such as Scampi and lemon, brie and cranberry, lamb and mint, Port and Stilton. Those were all apparently part of a Christmas promotion. Mmmm - nothing says Yuletide fun like the family gathering around a glimmering, oddly flavoured packet of crisps.

Walkers current promotion is called "Do us a flavour" - a contest where you can come up with your own wacky flaves, send them in (along with a picture of your inspiration) and you and five other semi-finalists can see your bizarre creations on the shelves.

We currently have a visitor in our house who is probably more into the junk food than we are and our rather tame suggestions included:

Me: Sweet and sour chicken
Visitor: Been done
Vol-in-Law: Szechuan chicken
Visitor: Been done.

And the conversation died there.

But I've been racking my brain. There is a flavour I'd like to see produced, but I'm going to hold my fire and actually enter it. Realistically, it's probably too tame. But pulling from the array of classic British dishes there might be some potential. How about...

• Jellied eel
• Jugged hare (hare meat is served in a sauce of its blood mixed with port)
• Squab pie
• Brawn (when the first step in the recipe is "cut the cheeks and ears off the pig's head", the rest of the instructions for jellied pigs head isn't worth reading)
• Bath chaps (pig cheeks in bread crumbs - I guess that's what you do on the 2nd day after you've eat the brawn)
• Laver bread (mmm....seaweed and oats)
• Bedfordshire Clanger (scrag end of mutton with kidneys and fruit - does scrag end mean what I think it means?)

Think I have a winner there? Yummy, yummy - this potato chip tastes of scrag. It tastes of scrag and I like it.

(I'm going to kick myself if I see these on the shelves.)

Overheard at the playground

You know that sensation of a couple year's past - Overheard in New York and the various copycat sites from other cities? Pretty funny. They should have an "overheard on the playground" blog. (Who's they? I don't know - the ubiquitous Internet "they", I guess.)

Despite being all out in public, there are actually some pretty unguarded, intimate, revealing exchanges out on the playground.

Yesterday an adorable little girl with an adorable outfit complete with adorable little sunhat was in the swing next to Buddy. Mom was pushing. Grandma was doting.

Mom: I'm going to sit down now.
Grandma: And Grandma will push, because Mummy isn't very good at pushing.

what change?

What was that about how if Obama picked Hillary Clinton it would be a repudiation of all that he stood for - you know HOPE, CHANGE, a different style of leadership, not the same old Washington insider?

Joe Biden?

Same old. Same old.

Wasn't he the same guy who helped skewer Anita Hill?

Way to respect to the women, Obama.

Gold vs. Lead

Prime Minister Gordon Brown has made a surprise stop-over in Afghanistan on his way to China to see out the closing of the Olympics and accept the torch (or the giant public spending bill or whatever it is) for London's 2012 Olympics.

I guess he wanted to rouse the troops - so here's what he said:

"This week we are celebrating the Olympics where we have had great success. People have been winning medals in areas where we have been breaking ground. But this week also I believe that our Olympic athletes and everybody else in our country will remember that you have showed exactly the same courage, professionalism and dedication. "

Yep.

I'm not dismissing the efforts of Olympic athletes. I know they have what I don't - and that's not just the talent bit, the inherited athletic ability - they have a drive and determination that I'm lacking.

But courage? Sorry, did I miss the Olympic event called Taliban Fire Fight? Was IED Dodge just too early in the morning to broadcast?

You see them on the streets of Paris and London

I had to go back to the hospital to get the old breast cyst thing checked out - a routine follow up sort of thing. I had packed a mystery novel and a sudoku book and I was looking forward to a relaxing wait. But they saw me right away, almost right away. I did one work email and then they called me through. It was forty minutes from leaving my door to getting back to my door. (I do live across the street from the hospital).

But before I actually got to see the doctor, they led me to a cubicle and asked me to change into one of their hospital dressing gowns. I hate that. I'm a pretty quick undresser, so I don't much see the point of donning one of those of things. They're ugly and they don't do much for modesty. And there isn't much choice. There's the blue diamondy pattern or the blue diamondy pattern. Though this time there was a striking graphic print in shades of yellow.



Oh, and look what it says...



Hospital use only.

Does that really need to be said?

The medals table

The Vol-in-Law, who does not watch much sports, was watching the Olympics this morning. "We've won another medal," he reported.

The British are, apparently, delighted with their medals haul. "We've been doing well," he says. "Now how will we match this performance in 2012?" he wonders.

We. We. We. We.

It occurs to me that he includes me in this we. Like I'm thrilled that Britain's doing well.

Nope. I have to tell him, that though it's true I support the England football team - I don't give a stuff about the Team GB - the ridiculous name for the British Olympic athletes.

It's USA all the way for me, baby. Every medal scored by any other country is just one less medal than we deserve.

Things which neighbour children should be bannned from having

1. Recorders
2. Hammond organ sounding synthesizer keyboards

That is all...for now.

I know I am the wrong type of white person

I've been reading that Stuff White People Like off and on for a while. What white person hasn't? Over time, it's become painfully clear that I am the wrong type of white person. I like some of the things that white people like, but not all of them. Not enough of them. As if my failure to feel the Obama love wasn't enough, this post on unpaid internships lays it out starkly.

White people view the internship as their foot into the door to such high-profile low-paying career fields as journalism, film, politics, art, non-profits, and anything associated with a museum. Any white person who takes an internship outside of these industries is either the wrong type of white person or a law student. There are no exceptions.

No exceptions.

I had an internship. With an oil company. And it was with Exxon. And it was just a year or two after the Valdez incident. And it wasn't unpaid (oh no, far from it).

At the Olympic village

I've been wondering if there's a clash between the running, swimming, jumping athletes and the Olympians who participate in sports where you could, conceivably, drink a beer while you're waiting for your turn. You know, like air rifle.

Are the air rifle athletes in the Olympic village saying things like "Pass me another doughnut," or "Hey, if you're going to the store, pick me up some Marlboros."

While the running guys and gals are all "my tendons are killing..." or "I'm cramping from lactic acid build-up," are the shooting ones saying "My trigger finger sure is itchy."

dream time

Last night I dreamed I crashed a wedding. And although I was dressed appropriately (a flowy floral chiffon thingy), I found it difficult to grab a pew. They were all weird two and a half seaters. I sat with one guy just for a moment, though I promised to move when his friends showed up. But he ended up being the one moving.

And then guess who sat next to me?

Peter Falk. Yeah, Columbo. And he was even wearing his wrinkled rain coat. Wow!

I was so excited. I told him what a huge fan I was. And then I told him, that sometimes the only way I could go to sleep was to put on a Columbo...then I'd be out like a light.

Even in my dream that didn't go down well.

London's last defense

I once dragged my husband across northern France to see a dam, which it turns out was actually in another part of France. Ooops. We eventually saw it, right where it was supposed to be.

And being raised among the dams of the Tennessee Valley, I can't miss a good dam. But for all these years, I've never been to the Thames Barrier, London's flood defense. I had meant to go for my birthday this year, but a bout of food poisoning from one of soft serve ice cream machines put paid to that.

But finally, finally we went out there taking with us a visitor from Belfast, who probably couldn't give a stuff about dams. It took us a couple of hours to get there after having been stuck in a traffic snarl in Catford - and which only let up just at the point where we got to the giant cat, so we didn't even get a great look at that.


The delights of Catford*















But once we got there, did it live up to hours, weeks, months, years of anticipation?

Well, it's just a tidal barrier. I mean, how good could it be?

But yes, I'm glad I went. The light was good, so I got a couple of good pictures. There was a playground, so Buddy could let off a little steam. Alongside the barrier are giant berms (actually bunds, we were told)and in the play area - they built a giant slide the whole height of the bund. Buddy was fascinated, but sensibly decided not to go down.



We even paid the £2 it costs to go to the visitor centre - to see a film about the construction of the barrier and to watch a little working model of the barrier. I was asked mid-filming if it was for personal use. Ummm, yeah. I guess. I would upload, just out of some kind of lame maverick notion, just to thumb my nose at the Environment Agency - but it's so bad and that's 23 seconds of your life you'll never get back.






Raise the barrier! London's at flood risk

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* Photo credit: Catford Kitty on Flickr by ljcybergal

Buddy walking

Buddy walking
Originally uploaded by London looks

Buddy's finally walking. He's been taking steps for a day or so, but just wouldn't let me video him.

The whining and crying in the background is not Buddy. It's some other little boy who is a month younger than Buddy and also not a walker at 13 months. His mother was frog marching him around the playground saying things like "I know you don't want to, but you've got to learn." She'd probably just received the parenting email that said on average kids learn to walk at 13 months and felt he was already slipping behind.

Go on and play the video, it's only 12 seconds long.

I need to clean my lens.

Punditry

I know a guy who appeared on some BBC political show in London the morning after Bush won the last election. He was the American Republican on the panel. The guy who was all "I think it's a good thing Bush won."

But he wasn't a pundit. And I happen to know for a fact that he'd had some kind of major falling out with the Republicans in London, and knowing him I can guess it was pretty much a big bust up which resulted in him and them not being on speaking terms. (I know this because I'm no longer on speaking terms with this person for a different bust up.) But all the real Republicans were all off partying somewhere or sleeping off their hangovers or calculating short positions in the stock market or something, and he was the only guy the BBC could find on a Friday morning in November.

How they stumbled upon him, I'm not sure. But he had a big email list and he'd supplied Americans for the audiences of other political shows (I went to one myself) and maybe he was on some kind of shared tv researcher list.

Anyway, it's a mystery to me how anyone gets one of these pundit gigs. I mean, I have an opinion. I clean up pretty good. I have a fair bit of public speaking experience. I'm not without wit and some charm, but I've never been a pundit on British tv. (The Vol-in-Law has been a pundit on British web tv. Is that close?)

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It was early Sunday afternoon and we were watching the news channels prattle on about South Ossetia and here comes this guy defending the Georgian position. And he was drunk and sweaty. And he was in chavvy sports wear. One of those ridiculous Ralph Lauren shirts with the giant polo logo like this - only bigger, I swear.










Photo credit: Hello, my name is douchebag by T'shane on flickr.

I've met more sober, more cogent Georgians* in London bars.

And you know what this guy said? Well, shit. He said a bunch of drunk shit. Democracy. Autonomy. Blah, blah, blah. A lot like the Rowley Birkin character from the Fast Show.



I know they have to come up with guests on short notice and can you name one famous Georgian living in the UK? But really. War in the Caucasus, the sleeping Bear wakes up angry, the return of the cold war and that's the best the BBC can do?

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*And I mean Georgians by the Black Sea Georgia, not Georgians from down I-75. I've met some of those in London bars, too but they were pretty drunk and blathering on stupid stuff about Dawgs.

Mad princes and weird science

Prince Charles thinks that GM crops are going to destroy everything. Apparently.

In an interview with The Telegraph he....

... expressed the fear that food would run out because of the damage being wreaked on the earth's soil by scientists' research.

He accused firms of conducting a "gigantic experiment I think with nature and the whole of humanity which has gone seriously wrong".

"Why else are we facing all these challenges, climate change and everything?".

Yes, indeed, why else?

I mean I'm not a scientist or anything (well, not a practicing scientist) but I'm pretty sure that there's not a gigantic experiment with the whole of humanity and all the earth that's causing climate change and reducing everything to some kind of radiating rubble.

But, if it's somehow escaped my notice and it's true, I'm betting Dick Cheney's behind it.

Beer fest

Last Friday we attended the Campaign for Real Ale's beer festival at Earl's Court convention centre. This is really something I should have done while I still had some tolerance for alcohol.



I'd spoken at a conference at Earl's Court before, but in one of the halls in the upper areas. I'd never been on the main floor, but let me tell you it was huge. And instead of being bedecked in conventiony carpet and grey corporate dividers with booths and banners it was just concrete flooring, dim lighting and rack after rack after rack after rack of kegs of beer.

The idea is that you rent a glass and you just go up and get a pint or a half or a third of your brew of choice. It's a bit of lottery, though - the beers are labelled with their quaint and curious names and their alcohol by volume (ABV) and their price. That's it. No stars for quality (who would believe it anyway?) or recommendations from previous drinkers (now that would be a good idea).

The Vol-in-Law started us off with a banana beer, and it was pretty darn disgusting. Though I admit, it did taste of banana - peel.

Subsequent selections proved hardly more successful. And I was a bit wary of drinking too much since we did have to pick up the critter from day care later on. I know I'm a light weight these days but I wanted each and every beer randomly selected to taste great. And they didn't. Although a few selections were passable, notably a pale ale from Northern Ireland.

The attendees were overwhelmingly male and yet there was shockingly little eye candy for the female gaze. There were however lots of novelty hats (giant sombreros, plush union jack top hats, etc) and t-shirts with "witty" slogans - you know the type "I don't have a drinking problem, I drink, I get drunk, I fall down - no problem." And so on... I only saw one that caused me to snicker...Front: A man has to believe in something. Back: I believe I'll have another beer.

Strangely we fell prey to this and bought into this and purchased Buddy a black t-shirt with the imperial measurement symbol and the words "half pint" for way too much money.

All in all, I'm glad we went merely because it satisfied my curiosity. I've been meaning to go for years and just never got around to it. I won't be going back.

Ninja warrior

Even babies who don't care much for tv will sit quietly to watch Japanese game shows.

Darwin vs God?

Last night I watched a little of Richard Dawkin's latest documentary, three hours of praise to Darwin over three weeks. All in celebration of the 150th anniversary of the publication of Origin of Species. I don't know why I turned it on. Richard Dawkins is a jerk. He winds me up.

I should state right now that I couldn't be more solidly in the evolutionary camp. I have a degree in Geology. Even before the smoking gun evidence of genome mapping, I was convinced by the overwhelming (though admittedly gappy) evidence of the fossil and geological record.

But Dawkins's diatribe is almost exclusively devoted to debunking religion with biology. He goozes enthusiasm about the wonder of the natural world - all without God. OK Richard, we get it - you don't believe in God, but I'm just wondering - if God isn't worth consideration why do you talk about Him so much?

Dawkins fails to recognize that maybe religion has some value - some evolutionary value - to human existence. We are not like the lions or the ant or the snails. We humans are more complicated critters than that, we build complex social organisations. We build civilizations. We construct cities and tribes and groups and clubs and - yes, religious hierarchies - all in a bid to hold off the savagery of nature and our own characters in order to help us survive and allow our genes to carry on. We have not evolved beyond this.

He tries to take on religious belief head on. In last night's program, he harangues a group of teenagers - some clearly from a variety of religious traditions. He takes them on a fossil hunt at the beach and shoves the DNA evidence down their throats in a quick few hours of (what seems to be) him lecturing about the silliness of relying on religious texts and their parents' teachings and them staring gormlessly back. Dude, that's not the way to support critical thinking.

He skirts around the dangerous trend of subverting proof and rationality to avoid causing anyone religious offense. Some Brits mock the credulity of the American public and the open battle between Science and Creationism. But in this country, Science and free speech are being gnawed away quietly by the trump card of not wanting to offend anyone's spiritual sensibilities. It appears that in many UK schools Creationism is taught alongside science.

And while Protestantism and Enlightenment have rubbed along fine for much of the time particularly when they keep to their own spheres, there's a new threat to scientific discourse. Islam. I don't know if Dawkins will discuss that in the remaining two hours of his programme on Darwin (and frankly, I don't know if it's relevant), but I'll give him some credit for at least raising the issue elsewhere. In a recent Daily Mail article:

Most devout Muslims are creationists - so when you go to schools, there are a large number of children of Islamic parents who trot out what they have been taught. Teachers are bending over backwards to respect home prejudices that children have been brought up with. The Government could do more but it doesn't want to because it is fanatical about multiculturalism and the need to respect the different traditions from which these children come.

He added: 'It seems as though teachers are terribly frightened of being thought racist. It's almost impossible to say anything against Islam in this country because if you do you are accused of being racist or Islamophobic.'

I don't "blame Islam" for this, but I think Islamic religious sensibilities are reinforcing the trend to abandon science and pursue a "cuddly world" where belief is never challenged. I don't think religious belief should be subjected to same kind of rigour that scientific theories must face - as that is the model for how science thrives and progresses. But at the same time, we need a framework for nuanced discussion about religion and the ability to challenge pernicious beliefs, for example the status of women or indeed the perceived fallacy of scientific truths - like evolution. Richard Dawkins doesn't have a clue how to do this.

They're everywhere, I tell you

On my way out of the Underground this evening, I was confronted by a most distressing sight. Four youths dressed in crimson tracksuits with ALABAMA emblazoned in a graceful arc across the back. Amazing. In a residential backwater of London. Also disturbing. There goes the neighbourhood...

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On closer inspection, I noticed that the color wasn't quite the Alabama regulation red, and the kids didn't look like Alabama fans. Knock-off Alabama outfits clearly. Still, why Alabama? That can't be right. Kids these days....

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I looked again and the letter resolved themselves into their proper configuration. ALBANIA. Four youngsters in tracksuits that read Albania. That actually makes much more sense.

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Still, did I tell y'all I went to the cemetery open day near my house? (Yes, I know my life isn't as jet-set as it used to be). I met a man who worked for a custom coffin company. And do you know, he went to Alabama? We talked a little SEC trash and he tried to sell us a casket.

Rage on campus

I'm a little bit late to the party, but toward the end of July the Centre for Social Cohesion published a report looking at the views of both Muslim and non-Muslim students at Universities in Britain.

Like a spate of previous survey results, the findings should be shocking but sadly they just seem to fall into a long pattern of radicalised views of Muslims in the West. (See executive summary here) To be sure, most Muslim students don't want to stone all the gays, or overthrow Democratic traditions or kill in the name of Islam, or believe that women are inherently inferior, but a significant disturbing minority do. And apparently, that number (mostly) rises when survey respondents were active members of Islamic societies on campus. Actually, active members of clubs or societies were more likely to feel that Islam and Democracy were compatible, which can be interpreted in more than one way.

Kids will be kids. Young adults seem more likely to hold extreme views on a number of things from the unalloyed good of the "free market" to environmentalism to Islamism. Pragmatism and moderation and nuance can often increase with age and experience.

In a Times online article, it's reported that the full report (which caused my browser to fall over when I tried to download it) focuses on Queen Mary university, located in East London.

The researchers highlighted Queen Mary college, part of London University, as a campus where radical views were widely held. Last December, a speaker named Abu Mujahid encouraged Muslim students to condemn gays because “Allah hates” homosexuality. In November, Azzam Tamimi, a British-based supporter of Hamas, described Israel as the most “inhumane project in the modern history of humanity”.

James Brandon, deputy director at CSC , said: “Our researchers found a ghettoised mentality among Muslim students at Queen Mary. Also, we found the segregation between Muslim men and women at events more visible at Queen Mary.”

A spokesman for Queen Mary said the university was aware the preachers had visited but did not know the contents of their speeches. “Clearly, we in no way associate ourselves with these views. However, also integral to the spirit of university life is free speech and debate and on occasion speakers will make statements that are deemed offensive.

I used to be a fairly regular visitor to this campus and their views surprise me not at all. Over the course of time when I did visit, the tone of the local community changed. It became an increasingly hostile place. During the build up to the Iraq War, as an American, I no longer felt safe there. I don't know for certain, but I think the University is fooling itself by throwing up its hands and saying "Well, sometimes speakers say offensive things." I don't think the University would allow the student arm of the British National Party (should it exist) to host events on campus and spew hatred of this or that group. I don't think that the University would allow a group that segregated its black and white attendees (blacks in the back) to rent its halls and rooms. And the same standards should apply to Muslim groups.

In many ways, I think Universities abet the most vocal and most radicalised. In one "diversity" leaflet I've seen from another London based universities, it states in bland and matter-of-fact language that Muslim women are under obligation to cover their hair. Not all Muslims scholars agree with this and certainly not all Muslim women agree with this. This would be a little like saying "Christians must not eat meat on Friday" or "married Jewish women must cover their hair." To be sure, some do believe such a thing, but by no means all. And blanket statements like that inculcate a belief that Muslim women who do not wear the hijab are not "real Muslims" and their views on Islam is not really worth listening to.

Instead of denying these findings, as the National Union of Students seem wont to do....

Wes Streeting, president of the National Union of Students, condemned the study. “This disgusting report is a reflection of the biases and prejudices of a right-wing think tank – not the views of Muslim students across Britain,” he said. “Only 632 Muslim students were asked vague and misleading questions, and their answers were wilfully misinterpreted.”

...Universities should take these findings as a warning and proactively seek to promote a civil discourse on campus and perhaps also help their students understand statistics and a valid sample size.

the playground and the hospital incinerator

the playground and the hospital incinerator, originally uploaded by London looks.

the hospital incinerator that looms over the playground was looking especially nice today in the evening light

It's in the blood

Following the tragic shootings at the Tennessee Valley Unitarian Universalist Church many folk have posited reasons and rationales for the motives of a madman. (Talk radio, lack of mental health services, and so on...)

John Dolan, writing at Alternet, suggests that it's something in the blood. That maybe it's something about being the descendant of those brave pioneers, the Ulster settlers.

maybe, just maybe, heartland Americans aren't such wonderful people at all. What you see in these posts is the oldest, deepest and meanest strain in American culture: the Ulster America founded by violent sectarians who moved westward again and again, from Scotland to Northern Ireland and then to the southern United States, then again westward into the American continent, to find a place where they could hone their hair-trigger intolerance without fear of interference from warmer, more humorous people.

Reading that, some part of me wants to slash his fuckin' tires.

And while I can recognise some kernel of truth in his statement and even take some pride as being part of a culture that's the oldest, deepest and meanest, he destroys his own argument by implying that the Scots-Irish are somehow not warm or not humorous. Not funny? How can he say that? Has he not seen the Jeff Foxworthy "You know you're a redneck if..." sketch?

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On a serious note, I've rarely met warmer, more side-splittingly funny people than those steeped in the Ulster tradition in America. Tennesseans, and in particular those Tennessee boys who keep their humor powder dry, coming out with those corking, cutting one-liners are absolutely without par in the funny stakes. The gals are hilarious, too - though men you may not know this - sometimes they're only at their best outside mixed company.


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On a more serious note, what a bunch of racist hooey. Sadly, it's we humans who are savages.

I never found that the Unitarian Universalist approach appealed much to me, but their statements of purpose seem to me to be a noble attempt to overcome that savage side of human nature (from Wikipedia):

"We, the member congregations of the Unitarian Universalist Association, covenant to affirm and promote

• The inherent worth and dignity of every person;
• Justice, equity and compassion in human relations;
• Acceptance of one another and encouragement to spiritual growth in our congregations;
• A free and responsible search for truth and meaning;
• The right of conscience and the use of the democratic process within our congregations and in society at large;
• The goal of world community with peace, liberty and justice for all;
• Respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part."

And I've no doubt that UUs in general, and the Knoxville congregants in particular (many of whom must be also Scots-Irish to some greater or lesser extent) would completely reject Dolan's flippant, easy aspersions.

No linky?

I'm name checked on Harry's Place (big British blog with a nice line in countering radical Islam from the Left), but no linky.

Cue a rare usage (first?) of emoticons on my blog.

:-) ... :-(

Update: :-)

Your kid has problems

Over at Seed Dispersal Mechanisms (no, it's not an agricultural blog, it's an agricultural metaphor), Furrow asks whether it's better to be the parent of the playground aggressor or the playground victim?

I don't know. Buddy has a nice line in car jacking during his weekly playgroup. He was in the habit of crawling up to the toddle cars and hanging onto the door of an occupied vehicle. He only wanted to play, but it was often distressing to the kiddie driver, sometimes to the point of tears (wusses) .


Bad cop?

He's either grown out of it, or I've largely managed to break him of his early criminal bent. At any rate, the unwritten code of conduct at playgroup is pretty fierce. You better make your kid share, or else.

But that's fairly mild compared to what I saw recently at the playground.

A boy, maybe four, pushed a small girl (I'd guess 2 and a half) down the stair side of the slide. The attending dad couldn't see what happened, but he asked and I answered, truthfully, that the boy had pushed her down. (Is that tattling?) Mum-of-boy was mortified. She made him apologise and he was dragged off. I thought for good. But apparently it was just a chat and maybe some time out because he re-emerged and made a bee-line for Buddy.

I was pretty wary and stuck close. Extra close. His mother stuck close, too. She seemed pleased by his interest in Buddy and explained to me that he had a 4 month old brother at home. He tried to stop Buddy from playing with the heavy playground gate. And while that could have been interpreted as concern - Buddy does like to bang the gate open and shut in a potentially finger-smashing way - I didn't think it was. When his mother told him to stop, he drew his foot back and kicked Buddy in the leg. Hard.

Now Buddy's a tough old nut, and he didn't cry. But he was certainly perplexed. I knew his leg hurt, but I could tell his feelings were hurt, too. He couldn't understand why that boy had done that. Truth be told, neither could I.

Before I could remonstrate, the mother ran off. I mean she ran. She told her little delinquent that they were going home right then - but she actually left him behind. He followed, though, screaming and tantrum-ing.

I wanted to yell after her "Hey, where's the apology to my kid?" or "Hey, you better keep a close eye on that boy with your four-month-old, your kid has problems." But I didn't. She was too far away.

So, maybe - unless you're in deep denial - it's better to be the mom of the playground victim.


Is that bad kid still here?

To catch a cat

Let me start this post off by saying I'm a cat lover. I've had cats all my life (off and on) and generally don't feel my home is complete without a feline companion.

But some cats are bad.

We had a bad cat living in our garden, for over a year. A bad stray cat. If it had stayed in our garden merely terrorising our cat, we might have lived with that. But it came in the house. It ate our cat's food. It terrorised our cats inside - creating scary noises. It pissed on our stuff. Its piss really, really stank. And worst of all, it woke me up at night. Now, Buddy is not a good sleeper - not at all. I'm running a sleep deficit that would make the Federal government look parsimonious. And while I try to remain patient when my darling only son wakes me - I'm not so sanguine when it comes to raggedy strays.

While Other Cat was alive, she sort of kept it at bay. Not very effectively, but she tried. But after her demise, Fancy just wasn't up to the task. She's a charming critter, but slight and not a fighter. The stray cat, whom we christened Blind Cat because of its squinty, bleary look and its seeming inability to see us as we waved our arms violently and shouted at it to go away.

We tried everything we could to run that cat off.

1. Yelling and screaming - check
2. Broom waving - check
3. Squirt gun - check
4. Super-soaker squirt gun - check
5. Pellet gun - check (animal lovers, don't worry it was a kind of lame battery powered thing. Once he realised it didn't hurt it was no deterrent).

Once Other Cat (who was chunky) passed on, we devised a new strategy. We'd close the cat door and just crack the windows. Fancy was slim enough to slither through and the blind cat could only look through.

But our tactic worked too well. Blind Cat began to lose weight. Enough weight to get through our windows. At night. And wake me up. And piss on our stuff.

And we can't close the windows altogether because, this is England and our house doesn't have AC and the days have been hot and the nights are not cooling down enough to sleep without a bit of a breeze.

So enough's enough. We called the RSPCA and our pleas of mercy fell on deaf ears.

And then we knew we had to take matters into our own hands. We tried to make our cat door a one-way system - so we could trap it in the house and catch it. But he was wise to that. Several days passed and the food disappeared too rapidly and we realised he was pawing the door open and getting out.

But last night something different happened. I don't quite know how it happened but the cat got trapped inside. My husband shut it into the understairs closet and then we plotted how we'd get rid of it.

I was all for driving it down to the coast and chucking it into the sea. But I was worried that I'd be spotted and this is the kind of country where you can throw your Thai bride or child into the sea and get away with it, but a cat? Not a chance.

We planned to release it on Mitcham Common - a derelict bit of "nature" a few miles and a few very busy roads away. But I was afraid the cat would find its way back. I was still worried about getting caught, too.

So this morning when we finally decided to release the cat from the closet and box it up for a new life further south. I took Buddy out for a walk and told the Vol-in-Law to call me when the cat was safely in a carrier.

Instead I get a frantic call from the ViL saying the cat hadn't been caught and in fact had bitten him. He was going to try to phone Battersea Dogs and Cats Home and see if they would help.

Well, it turns out they don't make house calls, but they did give him a handy piece of advice. Throw a blanket over the cat. They also promised to take the nasty critter off our hands.

I returned to a scene of carnage. The ViL was still dripping blood. The cat had really mauled him. It had stuck his fangs deep into the knuckle of his left index finger, leaving an ugly looking puncture. My anger towards this cat (for the night wakings and the stinky piss) became a rage and the red mist descended. The cat was shut in the back rooms of our house. The ViL brought me a thick woolen blanket and as I opened the door (leaving Buddy and the ViL safely in the hallway), I was determined that one of us would only be leaving the room in a cat box.

No more Ms Nice Gal, I channeled my inner redneck and went after that cat with a vengeance. I through the blanket over the moggy and pinned it down to the ground. I managed to wrassle it into the box (not easy with the thick blanket) but failed to secure the door and it sprang free. The cat hissed and spat and literally climbed the walls. It was so impressive an acrobatic feat that I was momentarily deterred from my mission. But I threw the blanket again, wrangled it once more and this time pressed my weight against the door while I fiddled with the locking mechanism. A little advance preparation on that score would have saved me much trouble.

Battersea say they'll take cats day or night, but I wanted that thing out of my house then and there. By this time, fright had caused the cat to piss again. And its urine reeked of anger, fear and that normal icky cat pee smell.

We loaded up the car with ourselves, baby and cat and headed off to the cat shelter. It's on the other side of our borough, but shouldn't have taken too long to get there. It was a hot day, so we decided to turn on the AC in the car - but the stink was too high so we had to open the windows. And then calamity struck.

The Wandsworth gyratory (a system of one-ways) is never easy to navigate. But one lane was closed. This backed traffic all the way up Garrett Lane and it took us almost an hour to go a quarter of a mile. On a hot day. With a piss-reeking cat. And a baby. In the car. Many's the time I fantasized about just chucking the cat out the window (perhaps into the path of oncoming traffic) and turning around.

It was all relatively smooth sailing after that and the ViL managed to leave the cat off with Battersea, explaining how this cat had made our own Battersea cat's life miserable. (The fact that we'd passed their rather difficult re-homing interview apparently gave us a bit of moral credit). We had to donate our cat box, but it was a small price to pay.

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The thing is, Battersea is the pet re-homing agency to the stars. Everyone wants a Battersea cat, but few can meet the standards. Hollywood actors have been turned down. They'll probably manage to adopt out even that cat. And who knows, maybe Gwyneth Paltrow is looking for feline friend for her offspring? Maybe Madonna will want a pussy to compensate for her crumbling marriage. And scraggly old Blind Cat might just be headed their way (which is just as well since I believe they both live North of the River and which would make the cat's return unlikely).

Even if he doesn't end up a celebrity cat, he'll probably get a nice home.

Which is more than he deserves.

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I started this post last night, but wasn't able to finish it. I slept a bit better knowing that even if somehow that cat gets back to our area, at least for one night he was in secure lockdown. The ViL's finger is still swollen and hurty this morning.

I'm melting

I think I'm going soft. We finally got a little bit of warmth and I'm reacting like I've got the vapors or something. I'm thinking about cotton dresses and wearing "city shorts"* to work.

For years, I've scoffed at the Brits when they complained about the heat when the mercury rose above 75 and I was still wearing a cotton sweater. I've lived through Tennessee summers without the benefit of air conditioning. Now that was hot.

But now I'm feeling the heat a bit. It was 82 in house this morning at 5am.

________
* I would never, ever do that.

Surprised

I'm a little bit surprised that the British media hasn't made more of the Knoxville church shooting. After previous rampages, colleagues have asked me about it. This time they hadn't heard. I thought the story hit most of the elements the British media like to cover in American culture - churches and guns. Maybe they just passed it off as "that's what Americans do - shoot each other, at prayer."

It's not that it was completely ignored. The BBC covered it with a headline:

US church killer 'hated liberals'

And I thought, well - I guess he went to the right place, then.

I've been to church myself, attended services there. Everyone was very friendly. The setting was lovely. A nice bunch of people who didn't deserve that. It's hard to imagine someone wanting to bust in on church services there with a gun. But then, I have a hard time imagining why people to do lots of things.

I can't imagine, too, why people would hate liberals so much. It's become like some national sport. Blame the liberals. It's not that I don't think a lot can go wrong when you have gushy leftist policies, but honestly - I think most of the liberals I know really do mean well. They do try to cover up their own outward meanness - which isn't the worst thing you could do. It's not as bad as shooting up a children's play - in a church.

Clematis

Clematis, originally uploaded by London looks.

I want a clematis to train up a star magnolia. But I can never decide what color, what type...so I never get one.

Well watered

I've been told that my grandparents' house was one of the first to built with air conditioning. I don't remember exactly when it was completed, but some time in the early to mid fifties. The air conditioner was water cooled which meant all the heat of the Tennessee summers were carried away in a hose pipe.

The same machine was in use all through my childhood. So I remember the constant run of the hose pipe and my grandfather moving the hose throughout the day to water the shrubs out the front, the tomato plants, the watermelon patch and the drifts of cannas. But best of all, we grandkids could play with the hosepipe as much as we wanted - and the water was warm. Not the best for drinking, but great for splashing around in and filling paddling pools (except on the very hottest of days).

It was so warm, in fact, my grandfather rigged up a little shower system on the back porch, and screened from the traffic of Springer Road by overgrown hedges, we could bathe outside at night.

There must have been other such systems in existence, but I don't remember hearing about them and I certainly haven't heard of any others like that now. When the unit had to be replaced in the mid 80s - a normal air conditioner was installed. No more warm water eternally on tap.

Kids like hosepipes though, no matter what the temperature. We stripped Buddy down in the garden yesterday (yes, a little of the edge of the sub-arctic chill of British summer has finally melted off) and let him play with the hose.



It's not that hot though, and the water from the hose is cold. We saw him sucking in his tummy from the freezing water and his flesh was cool to the touch. Still, he kept playing. But I wished he could have experienced that warm water hosepipe.

You had twenty years, and this is what you come up with

I sort of fancied the idea of being a class officer when I was in high school. Until we got to Senior year, that is. Because I could see how the future would unfold. You get elected, there's no power, no pay, not much privilege but no real responsibility - for now. But as a Senior class officer you are forever and ever responsible for organising class reunions. It's a millstone that hangs round your neck for the rest of your life.

I didn't want that.

And I understand burden weighed especially heavy this year, apparently. It was difficult to find the time to organise and the committee only met in early July to agree a date. Which to me would have necessitated a date somewhat far into the future, like December. You know, so people could plan and stuff and maybe make travel arrangements and so forth.

But the date they agreed is in early September. This year.

I'm pissed.

I didn't go to my tenth reunion, but for over a year I've actually been looking forward to going to my 20th high school reunion.

And now there's no way I can go, I only found out the date this week. Yesterday, in fact.

Had I known - say in early May, I almost certainly could have arranged my work schedule to go. I probably could have arranged airline tickets at a reasonable price. And so on... but I've got project deadlines and speaking engagements all around this time. Work people asked me to go events ages before I got the invite (actually I haven't had one officially) for my 20th high school reunion.

And I hate traveling too much to go just for a weekend (especially with a one year old baby).

I'm really pissed off.

On the bright side, I have an extra ten years to lose weight and make my life a success.

Martyrs of Memphis

Martyrs of Memphis icon, originally uploaded by St. Mary's Episcopal Cathedral - Memphis.

I found this when I was looking for something else in Flickr today. Apparently, they were martyred by yellow fever. Is that possible?

Just thought it was interesting, click through on the picture for the full story.

pink flower

pink flower, originally uploaded by London looks.

I don't know what this one is called. But it has furry, silvery foliage.

Update: Thanks to a tip off from an anonymous commenter - it's Lychnis coronaria or Rose campion.

Obamania in Germany

The Germans love, love, love Obama. Seventy-five percent of them want him to be the next president of the United States. See this BBC film on Obamania in Germany, which includes footage from Deustchland's finest country and western fans enthusing wildly.

Even the BBC (generally in the tank for Barack) point out that a love this great could lead to disappointment later on.

I'd also point out that Germans don't, in fact, have a vote, which is just as well given their historical record on choosing charismatic leaders who know how to whip up a crowd.

Jesus loves you

Walking down the street today and a man passed me in a rush and then told the man behind me, loudly, that Jesus loved him.

I could hear the guy, perhaps a little bit in shock, chuckling to himself over the unexpected encounter.

I turned to him and said, jokingly "But not me, apparently."

He smiled and said "Jesus loves you, too. You don't need to be told that."

Reverse augmentation

I had a breast cyst. Apparently they're not uncommon for women. It developed ages ago and it got a bit bigger. I didn't know it was a breast cyst, I just thought it was a lump. I knew it had formed during a fairly classic case of blocked duct, so I was pretty sure it was benign. But it just wouldn't go away. And you know what with all that breast cancer publicity, it does sort of cross your mind.

Here's a clinical description:

Cysts are fluid filled sacs within the breast. These sacs form when normal milk producing glands enlarge. The cause of this enlargement is not definitely known but is very likely related to an imbalance between the normal production and absorption of fluid. Breast cysts may be solitary but are most commonly multiple and can vary in size from microscopic to larger than a ping pong ball.

And let's just say, I was hitting the ping pong edge of the scale.

Today I went to the specialist breast clinic at my local hospital. (Yes, they call it a breast clinic, which I think is kinda funny). I was seen by a male nurse practitioner. Pretty much not all the kind of person I wanted to see. I would have preferred a female doctor, but there you are. The guy had a nice manner about him though and he seemed kinda gay. Don't know if he actually was gay or just affected the slightly gay thing, regardless it was somewhat reassuring.

There's the usual waiting and undressing and breast touching and so forth and then he told me he was going to stick a needle in my breast. I think I made a bit of a face, because he went all touchy-feely and stuff and asked me if it was a problem and did I need the other nurse to hold my hand? I assured him that I wasn't needle-phobic (I'm not) and that I'd be ok. I think they expected me to flip and the other nurse did hold my hand. I'm not the kind of person who finds that sort of thing comforting, but I was too worried about offending her and maybe it's part of their tactic to get in there and hold down a flailing arm if they need to.

Sticking a needle in the old breast tissue doesn't sound good, but it didn't actually hurt. In fact, it was far less painful than a blood draw, way less painful than getting your ears pierced or getting a tattoo. I'd wholeheartedly recommend it to even the most pain sensitive. They didn't even administer any pain relief - and a lydocaine shot almost certainly would have been more painful than the actual procedure.

The aspiration took a while because he pulled out five syringes (58ml) worth of instant-ice tea colored fluid from the cyst. Nasty. But when I saw them all lined up on the little stainless steel hospital trolley I said "I wish I'd brought my camera."

Because I was thinking of you, dear reader.

I'd been led to believe that the needle thing was to be diagnostic, but it turned out to be curative (hopefully). But the best part about the whole episode was that their "calming technique" was basically asking me questions about me. I was happy to comply.

A real live cow

When I was a sophomore at the University of Tennessee, I took a friend of mine up to Cades Cove. She was beginning her third year, but had never been. It was early Autumn, and though the color wasn't high, I expected we'd see lots of deer. And we did. She'd never seen white tail deer before and she was amazed when I predicted that they'd flash their white tails when I startled them.

But I was even more amazed to find that she was less interested in the deer than in the cattle. There was still at least one working farm in the Cove then and she'd never seen cows before. Not up close like that. See, she was from Philly. A City Girl.

Now, I wasn't raised on a farm or anything like that. But I guess I had a basic working knowledge of cows and certainly I'd been on other people's farms and my granddad sold supplies to farmers. And from a young age I'd been to my cousins' other grandparents and my uncle had let me bottle feed calves as a special treat. You have to make your own fun in small town Tennessee.

I understood that not everyone had experiences like that, but I thought everyone had seen a cow. But I took real joy in her fascination. I did have to explain to her that it wasn't such a good idea to hop the fence and get in with the bullocks trying to pet them.

I don't know what they have in Philly, but around the UK there are City Farms. Back when the Vol-in-Law and I were first married in Sheffield and had no money we used to regularly visit Graves Park and city farm. That was a great city farm. There was a petting area and they had acres of pens stocked with rare breeds - heritage pigs and the woolly mammoth looking highland cattle.





When we lived in Coventry, we took one sad, sorry visit to a city farm in what's described in policy circles here as a "deprived area". Apparently, they'd had some unfortunate incidents in the past and so visits to the animals had to be supervised. We were escorted around the livestock by a sickly looking ten year old who kept a close and suspicious eye on how we petted the pony.

Buddy likes animals and I certainly wouldn't want him growing up to be a young adult who's never seen a cow up close and personal.


Early agricultural training



Where we live now, there's a city farm within walking distance of our house. It's a long walk, but it's doable. On Sunday, we went there, breaking our trip with a stop at an Italian restaurant and a glass of wine overlooking the River Wandle. (Sounds swish, but the Wandle is little better than a drainage ditch in some places).

Deen City Farm isn't exactly a petting zoo, but if you go at a certain time (2 to 3 and some other window in the morning hours) you can buy a plastic cup full of feed pellets to coax the goats and sheep and alpacas close enough to the bars of their pens. to stick your hand in and stroke their woolly coats.

We didn't spend much time on the cows this last visit, as they're not really on eye level with the baby.

Buddy's happy to see the animals, but he's not amazed and he's not cowed. He kicked a greedy goat in the head.




And stuck his finger in the aviary, much to the delight of some hungry, curious parakeety type things. The bird bit him on the finger, which freaked me out a little (I have a slight avian phobia) but phased him not at all. He withdrew his finger, considered his position and then poked the bird again.

Pay to pray

It costs dearly to go to a church in this country. Not just any old church, but one of the big famous ones. Like St Paul's or Canterbury Cathedral. Like the kind of money you pay and expect to get rides.

But here's a little tip. If you actually go into church at the right time and sit there for a service you can pray for free. Oh sure, they pass the basket around, but believe you me you can respectably drop in a pound coin or two and that'll save you at least a fiver off admission. But once you're in, sneaking off to look at the statuary is considered uncouth.

I happened to going past Westminster Abbey today, which is filthy with tourists right now. I overheard an American couple asking about the free admissions (I guess for evensong) and the tabard wearing attendant said "Yes, you can come in for free for the service if you plan to stay the whole hour."


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At Canterbury you pay a lot, but the ticket is good for a year - so not so bad on the locals.

Battersea zoo

Otters playing with a hose
Originally uploaded by London looks

Having a kid means being able to, at last, unashamedly go to places like Battersea Children's Zoo.

Worth the price of admission just for the otters

Come up and see my etchings

At last. A free day. My normal work schedule got flipped around, so I had a day off when Buddy was in daycare.

I could have lounged around the house and played video games, but we decided to make the most of the day and planned a museum visit, dim sum in China Town and a swimming/sauna/spa trip to a swanky gym in the center of town.

Although we've been to the British Museum many times, we decided to go there because there were a couple of special exhibits on. A Chinese Garden in the forecourt (lame), flowers and insects in Chinese art (lame) and The American Scene: Prints from Hopper to Pollock. Brilliant.

Prints and etchings from the first half of the 20th Century, including works from Hopper (always great) and Pollock (yeah, whatever) and some iconic works like George Bellow's A Stag at Sharkey's. They were all stark and dark and social-commenty and stuff, the Vol-in-Law declared they were not quite Hogarthian, but he could see where they were going. But mostly they were just really powerful images playing with light and shadow in a really striking way.

I sort of forget that British Museum has stuff like this. Although I've been many times, I'm usually going with a visitor and it's a quick look at the big Assyrian thingies, a gander at the Rosetta Stone (if you can press through the throng) and maybe check out the Elgin marbles or the big hall of Egyptian mummies. If that's all you have time for, that's probably a good way to go.

But checking out the special exhibit meant we headed off the north side, where apparently we've never been - because very little of it looked familiar. We'll have to go back again, because after a tour around the Korean room and quick jaunt through a great hall of Asian treasures, it was time for our lunch. Besides, too much museum in one day gives you artifact daze.

Besides the special exhibit, I think the Korean room was a favorite. There's a definitely a cool style vibe going for the Koreans - simple and pragmatically beautiful everyday objects. In some way it reminded me of Finnish design sensibility (though not the same look at all). My favorite was a simple green ewer with a leaf pattern (though I didn't think to take a picture).



Korean fans


In the great big Asian hall that I can't believe we've never been to

A boy and his doll

watchful, originally uploaded by London looks.

At Buddy's weekly playgroup, I've seen that he has an interest in the baby dolls. I was keen to encourage this because he's never shown the slightest attachment to any kind of cuddle or cumfy, despite having been given an impressive collection of cute stuffed animals from pigs to cats to polar bears. He's always preferred hard edged plastic toys.

I guess the baby dolls have enough hardness about them and he loves to finger their eyes and ears and toes.

So, I went on the hunt for a doll that he could call his own.

It's very hard to find an appropriate doll for a very little boy, I've discovered. I didn't want one that weed or cried or shed "real" tears. And not just because they cost a lot more. I already have a baby that wees and cries and sheds real tears. And I have a rather painful early childhood memory of a doll whose mechanical cries scared the wits out of me. It was relegated to a drawer and even seeing it in my late childhood elicited a little frisson of fear. I'm uncomfortable even remembering that thing with her non-removable pink polka dot outfit and the drawstring wail of death.

I finally found one that didn't cost too much and doesn't do too much (apparently this one will say Papa and Mamma if you insert some batteries into its chest cavity which we will not be doing.)

That was Baby Hannah.

I'm trying not to play too much into gender stereotypes, but Baby Hannah came in a sickeningly sweet, cotton candy pink sleeper outfit. It was just a little bit too girly for my boy.

Baby Hannah was stripped down and changed into one of Buddy's old outfits and became Petey. Petey isn't anatomically correct, so no one need know about his gender dysmorphic past.

Sadly, and very much unlike us, we were quite organised about putting away Buddy's earliest outfits. So although Petey should be wearing newborn sizes, he tends to wear a few outsized 0 to 3 month garments that were hidden in the dark recesses of our dirty clothes basket. We just roll up the legs and pull the waistband high. And Petey can't go naked because he has a non-washable cloth body and Buddy sometimes likes Petey to join him at meal times.

Running on empty

We have an old car. It a good runner, but it's old. There are some thing wrong with it. Chief amongst them, perhaps, is that the gas gauge doesn't work. We had a spell of humid weather and it sort of stuck in the half-tank position.

We discovered this when we were trying to make a ferry to Germany (and didn't have much time) and the gas light came on. It's fair to say that I'm a nervous traveler. I was freaking - I could just see us (me, my husband and VolBro) stuck on the side of the motorway somewhere in Norfolk as our ship sailed.

There are often many, many miles between motorway stops and rest stations in the UK.

The Vol-in-Law, optimist that he is, figured that we not only had enough gas to get to the next refueling point, but also enough to get us to the ferry port.

I did not agree.

Fortunately, we found a petrol station before the car went pfft, pftt, pluuutttt.

All throughout our road trip through Germany, Denmark, Sweden and Norway I topped up the car whenever I could. I knew it was a little more than necessary, but I didn't fancy coming to a dead stop on one of those high mountain roads with the mountains on the left and a plummet to the sea on the right. The Vol-in-Law kept insisting that the light came on when the fuel level reached a quarter of a tank. Meaning miles and miles and miles of driving ahead.

He told me that his father had told him this.

That's the same man who ran out of gas on the Forth Road Bridge. The same guy who has apparently a relatively long and sorry history of running out of gas.


You don't want to be stuck here.



So anyway, our argument has lasted many years now. With me immediately wanting to fill up after I see the gas light and him saying there's no need to worry, that we could run our errands, go to the park, have a little tootle round London and still have no worries about running out of gas.

So who knows who's right? (Me obviously, but let's stick with the question for a rhetorical point.)

Now perhaps there's a website that could help answer that question. Tank on Empty. The idea is that you self-report how long it took you to completely run out of gas after the warning light came on. Problem is, many of the self reporters are liars, with a disturbing number of 99 miles votes for a disturbing (statistically disturbing) number of cars.

Here's a hint. When you see the light - just fill up the tank.

(Hat Tip Sharon Cobb)

Photo credit: Forth Bridge from Patrick Down shown here under a Creative Commons license.

Fete

The school where I do some volunteering had its annual summer fayre or fete or fair or whatever it's called. So, of course, we went down to have a look. Without Buddy, I think our visit might have lasted fifteen minutes. But Buddy loves to see other children and so he had a grand old time.

There was a big BBQ, with women in hijab serving lamb kebabs with spicy Indian sauces. There was a bouncy castle (Buddy's too little for that), and cotton candy (candy floss in Brit-speak) and a baked good stall and bric-a-brac and books for sale and various other ways to fleece money out of fayre-goers.

And there was the money-making scheme that I remember so well from my school-going, church youth-group attending days.



Krispy Kreme donuts.

And they tasted better than I remember. (I've been sort of down on Krispy Kreme since I got thrown out of the one in Knoxville - for singing. As I recall, the other patrons loved it.)

The man at the donut stall (a parent)had gotten a very good deal on the donuts (I wasn't clear if he got them free or not). And he got a lot of balloons, too. One of them he gave to Buddy, who was thrilled!

Happy Independence Day

Being an American in Britain on the 4th of July is a very strange thing. Celebrating Independence Day in the land of our former colonial masters is a little like celebrating the anniversary of a divorce in your ex-in-laws' beach house. You can still have a good time, but you're always aware.

What can Brits do to ease the awkwardness and ensure a Happy Fourth?

• no snarky comments about impertinent colonists
• no jibes about how we've made a mess of our independence - especially over the last eight years or so
• no general anti-Americanism (yes, I know it's hard)
• sparklers should be on sale at every corner store
• bring us a brownie
• a paid day off work would be nice

and last but not least....

• tax free tea all day
  

Nary a crow to be seen

We saw an amazing display of scarecrows at the RHS Wisley today. They seem to have all been put together by various Women's Institutes around the South East of England. Many of the figures were women and a number celebrated women's suffrage. And one was of the cat in the hat.