Oh Thou Blessed Norwood Bus Garage!!!

I have always been curious about Norwood Bus Garage, the final stop for the #2 bus I take sometime.  Wondering whether it is some kind of haven for tired buses to be gloriously rejuvenated overnight.  It’s one of those stop names that catches my attention every time.  Today, I was really happy to visit there after a distressing start to my day.

This is not a picture kind of post, as I was too distraught for that!  The day started off normally, but quickly deteriorated.  Starting out carrying a HHHHEEEAAAVVVYY voltage transformer back to work, from where it was borrowed, BIG BOY added more than a bit of weightiness to the day from the beginning.  Out the door and a few steps down the pavement (sidewalk, in American) when I remembered I’d forgotten THE BAG.  THE BAG is the one with the notebook containing ALL the documents related to my move back to the US – notes, orders, etc., that gets wagged back and forth to-from work each day 

Bag on shoulder, HHHHHEEEEAAAAAVVVVVYYYY transformer in arms and off I go again to #2 bus stop, a tactic that will give me a little respite from carrying the big boy all the way to the station!  I “alight” (not lightly, however) with my heavy load from the bus and go into Marylebone Station where I sit for a few minutes to wait on the 8:07 train to Banbury, from which I will alight at South Ruislip and take the Central Line (tube) to West Ruislip, wagging my heavy load all the way.

As I’m waiting for Chiltern’s Banbury train to start off, I have a fright, as I realize that THE BAG is missing!!!!!!!!   OOOOOOHHHHHH SHIT!!!!  My life is so undone without THE BAG.  I think for a brief moment what to do.  5 minutes until the train leaves.  Yes, I can make it aaaaallllllllllll the way back down the #6 platform to the entry area to see if I’ve left THE BAG there.  NOT, no it isn’t there.   Rrrrrrrrun back toward platform #6 ( my luck, the farthest one!).   Slow down, cause in the distance, there goes the train WITH my heavy transformer, as I had left it on the train, sure I would return.

Think, think!!!  1)  Call work colleages to see if they have the name of another colleague who I saw boarding Banbury-bound; maybe he can rescue BIG BOY.  Line busy, voice message.  Next colleague left her mobile phone at work; not phone number available.  Text comes in with Banbury-bound colleague’s phone number.  Call him to no avail as he has already alighted the train.  Ok, so forget the transformer a bit.  On to the more important loss.  2) To the train information booth to see if THE BAG has been turned in.  It has not.  The bus!  I’ve left it on #2!  Nothing to do but go home and call the bus company.

Meanwhile, what do I do about big boy?  I worry someone will find it & think it is a B@^^B (not a word I like to say out loud, and think of the date, after all).  Should I call the train company or will that just get them upset for nothing and have them come pick me up & haul me off to transport police land?  I do nothing in that regard, but to go online and file a lost property report.

Call the bus company.  Don’t open til 9.  Call Transport for London.  They say call the bus company that doesn’t open til 9 & ask for Norwood Bus Garage, the home of #2.  At 9:03, I call the bus company again.  Rrrrrrrrriiiiinnnngggg, who do you want? Norwood Bus Garage.  Busy.  Classical Music Wait, rrrrrriiiinnnnggg, who do you want?  Norwood Bus Garage.  Busy.  Classical Music Wait, rrrrriiiiinnnngggg,  I’m putting you through (after about 15 minutes of holding).  I have an awful problem, I say.  I’m moving from the country in about 3 weeks and everything I need to do that is in a bag I left on the #2 bus this morning.  What does the bag look like?  Black with coloured spots (it’s dotted, but they say “spots” in England).  Ok, let me take your information.  Wait.  What does it look like again?  Black with coloured spots.  And what is in the bag?  A binder.  What does the binder say?  NFAC.  I have it.  Your bag is right here.  YYYYYYEEEEEAAAAHHHHHHH!!!   Happiness, rejoicing, praising the LORD for delivering me temporarily of my stupidity!

How do I get to Norwood Bus Garage?  Take #2 bus, last stop!  I’ve never been so happy to ride the #2 bus, meet up with Norwood Bus Garage, and be reunited with THE BAG, my moving-country brain.  Worn out, I go to work at our in-town location and am mildly productive, as most all my energy has been ZAPPED by the morning misadventure! What a day!

Not Just Whistling Dixie

Sometimes I sing.  Sometimes I hummmmmm.  Sometimes I whistle.  Tonight I stood waiting to cross Marylebone Road whistling softly (I thought) some old love song ("I Only Have Eyes for You").  The guy beside me caught my eye, smiled, and said, "Are you singing?"  I admitted I was whistling.  We started a conversation.  His name was Miguel; well, you know mine.  He was a chef in St. John's Wood.  He owned a little pizza place in Venice that his brother ran.  He insisted I come to the pub and have a drink.  I insisted I didn't.  He insisted he loved me and that I should give him my number.  No, I wouldn't.  He wanted a kiss. What could a little one hurt?  He must have my number.  No, he mustn't.  Finally, liar that I am, I convinced him I had a boyfriend.  He reluctantly left.  I smiled.  He was too young, too full of bullshit, and way too eager, but this little encounter was sweet and spirit lifting and gave me the feeling that maybe I'm not over the hill quite yet!

Sweet Lucia

After the 13-hour, window-seat trip from Chile, it felt good to walk around the airport in Madrid, while waiting for my flight to London.  At gate R6 in Terminal 4 (or 4S) I sat in the farthest row of unoccupied seats when I spotted a mother and little girl in conversation.  Too far away to hear the conversation, I smiled anyway and was delighted when the energetic, cute little girl ran over near  where I sat.  “I can run around,” she said, and then indeed she did run around in circles several times before parking her behind in a seat near me.  It turned out her mom was from Chile and that they had come in on the same flight as I had from Santiago and were headed home to London.  Lucia, two years old, mostly spoke English, but understood her mom’s Spanish perfectly and replied in kind when her mom spoke to her in Spanish.  For several minutes, we shared some friendly small talk.  When time came to board, they went ahead, as they had priority boarding.

Upon boarding myself, the two seats beside me remained empty for the longest, but I knew it wouldn’t last, as the crew had made several announcements about its being a full flight.  I quietly hoped that someone had missed their flight and that I might have some extra room to stretch my legs.  Finally, who came to fill the two empty seats but Lucia and her mom (whose name I never learned)?  From Madrid to London, Lucia and I came to be buddies, as she sat between her mom and me.  I watched as she played with her Dora sticker book, and with her chicken/spinach flatbread sandwich.  “I can do it myself!” she told her mom who was trying to fasten Lucia’s seatbelt.  Lucia let me know that she would soon be home having a cuddle with both dad and mom.

Upon landing at Heathrow apparently the jetway stopped short of the plane and we had to wait while some fix was identified.  The fix was stairs, so I helped Lucia and mom with their luggage down the stairs and back up to the terminal.  By that time Lucia had latched on to me.  She took her mom’s hand in one of hers and offered me the other, an honor I certainly could not refuse!  As we walked down toward immigration control, her mom laughed at how Lucia had latched on to me and said that when they were boarding the plane, Lucia had said, “I want to find that woman,” meaning me.  How interesting that she did just that:  find me!  By this time they almost felt like family and I considered giving them my email address.  I didn’t, though, thinking it might be too forward or too weird.  I wonder if I’ll always be sorry I didn’t, as it seemed so much like somehow we were meant to meet?  But then, if that is really the case, I wouldn’t be surprised if Lucia doesn’t somehow find me again!

Much Missed Dart

Kitten Dart,

Shying away from the crowd

Letting no one find her

Guaranteeing she stays around.

Stealthy Dart,

Hiding away unseen

Hardly warming up

To anyone but me.

Tiger Dart,

Making finger a chew toy

Wresting it away

Takes a grand ship’s ahoy!

Panther Dart,

Pouncing on plastic mouse

Sneaks it upstairs, downstairs

And all around the house.

Travelling Dart,

With mom, Katie, flies over the sea

Braving big plane belly

To make new home with me.

Beggar Dart

Putting canine friends to shame.

Whatever I’m eating

To her is fair game.

Silly Dart,

Having begged a bite off me

Turns her nose up at the morsel

Scratches to cover over the treat.

Sweet Dart,

Snuggling on my lap,

The very best way

To take a cat nap.

Loving Dart,

Finding a cozy place

To nuzzle in a curve

To snooze the night away.

Baby Dart,

Cuddling on my chest,

Takes a belly tickle

With the best of the best.

Much missed Dart – now and always.

Train to Blackpool (23Nov13)

Holed up on a train
Amongst wood-fire
wool clothing,
Elbows in, careful
Paper turning.
Tiny moving space
Constraining, confining.
Sleeping strangers
Surrounding, defining
This journey.






 


Eyes focusing now

On frosty rolling hillsides

Grazing sheep
Villages whizzing by.
Post modern wind mills
Flank farmers flocks, sigh!
Poem and pictures replace
Sudoku failures.
Escape this quiet, closed-in
Ride with transcendent ecstasy.










Train stops, empties
Adjacent joint seats.
Willing seat companion
To move to vacant seat
Will she do it?
Remains to be seen.
Waiting...., waiting.....,
YES! There she goes!
I'm now free
To expand personal space
To escape claustrophobia,
To breathe!

Lively London Transporation (or Cars, Buses and Things that Go)

Lively London Locomotion

So many things (housework) I should be doing other than posting something on my blog (grocery shopping). But, as all good procrastinators know, one can always find something better to do than that dreaded “no fun” thing the "putteroffer" is trying to avoid.
Walking home from church today, I saw the Jack Daniels cab and actually had time to get my camera out and shoot! There’s a Nashville/Country Music cab I’m on the hunt for, but it knows when I have my camera out and has to date eluded me. I’ll get him yet! Having intended to wait until I got all the cab pics I wanted before posting them on here, I had a better idea today. I realized that I can keep the online pics in sync with the ones on my computer, so as I add more, they should automatically be added to the blog pics.
In addition to the colorful, interesting cabs there are very different cars and buses as well, so be looking out for them as I add to my collection.

American Church in London and Camden Market

American Church Camden Mkt

I’ve been wanting to visit Camden Market for a good while now.  Crowded, busy, off-beat, unique stuff, off-beat people.  So today my friends Stephanie and Susan and I paid this place a visit.  I should have taken pictures of the stuff.  Lots of quirky short skirts & dresses for a younger set.  To me the most interesting booth was the one where women’s skirts and jackets had been made from men’s suits with lots of oddly angled seams and gaps filled with lovely men’s ties. 

After scoring two rings and a number of interestingly patterned over-the-knee socks, we walked back down Camden High Street looking for the Blues Kitchen, a new restaurant/bar which was said to serve soul food and live jazz seven nights a week.  Too early for the jazz, my friends had Lynchburg Lemonade (the establishment is of their stock of bourbon) and I settled in to a Long Island Tea.  When we arrived the brunch menu was just finishing up and none of it looked particularly soulful – mainly just regular breakfast stuff – so we waited a few minutes until they started to serve their regular fare.  Disappointment!  No black-eyed peas!  The menu seemed more Cajun than soul, but it was very enjoyable just the same.  We ordered a bunch of appetizers, including corn fritters with mango salsa, blackened shrimp, seasoned sweet potato wedges, chili (more like pulled pork with beans) with tortilla chips and artichoke dip with tortilla chips.  Gotta have some more of those sweet potatoes!

Backing up to this morning, let me tell you about my new church.  Until about 6 weeks ago I had been attending a nearby Methodist church which I loved – wonderful people, ministers, and a lovely old pipe organ played beautifully by the organist, a student at the Royal Academy of Music.  But one thing was missing – no standing choir; only one that gathered for special occasions. 

I had known about the American Church in London ever since I came here, but wanted to go to a British church to meet and worship with the local people.  Well there are three fairly close churches in my area:  St Mary’s (the happy-clappy church), St Marylebone’s (choir is all professional singers), and Hinde Street Methodist.  Enjoyed visiting St Mary’s, but I’m happier in a non happy-clappy church.  Loved the gorgeous music and the service at St Marylebone’s, but don’t think I could talk them into paying me for my choir contributions.  So I settled in at Hinde Street where I found great friends and fellowship.

Then in googling to see if I was missing out on knowing about other local churches, I read some about the American Church.  The web site said that the choir was mostly volunteer with one paid professional for each of the four voice parts.  I reckoned that if they had professionals they must undertake some challenging music, so one Sunday I visited.  The choir director made a plea for more choir participation.  The music was lovely.  The hymns were familiar.  (Some of the Methodist hymns were familiar, but for those unfamiliar ones, following in the English hymnal can drive an American crazy; even when you get a hymnal with the music, the music is on one page and the words are on the other).  The service was familiar (except no communion every Sunday).  So I came to choir practice that Wednesday and started singing in their choir right away.  The hymns are traditional, but we often sing a couple of praise-type songs during the service.  The quality of the anthems the choir does is wonderful, some American, but much of it traditional English or classical.  Today we did a wonderful piece with the strange name, “Wash Me Throughly,” by Samuel Wesley, whose haunting melody and sorrowful lyrics I certainly hope to meet again.

Backing up even more, witness my walk to church.  Such a lovely, sunny morning with just the right amount of cool in the air.  Thinking I should take a picture of the lovely day, then thinking I don’t need to dawdle because I’ll be late for choir practice, I finally give in and decide it’s worth being late to take some pictures of my walk.  Fun store with gorgeous impractical dresses – the Diva Corset, and the sky, the sky, the sky!  And … that amazing BT tower, a skyline landmark.  And … the street flowers are out.  And the church, last rebuilt in the 50s I think, on a site where many churches have stood previously.  In fact it is said that when they were last rebuilding, they found the grave of the man who wrote the hymn, “Rock of Ages.” And that's as far back as I'm going on this day of church and Camden Market.