Highgate, Hampstead and Hollywood Costumes

After a lovely breakfast of scrambled eggs, mushrooms, tomato, toast and tea The Heiress and I set out for Highgate Cemetery, the East side.  Smaller than the west side you don't need to book a tour, just plunk down your three GBP with a staff member in the little hut by the gate, get your map and explore.  The skies were grey and we needed our umbrellas off and on but you couldn't ask for better cemetery weather (if that doesn't sound too morbid).  The photo above shows George Eliot's (1819 - 1880) grave, not far from the most unbelievably large bust of Karl Marx you could ever imagine.  I am sorry but it is hideous and scared me half to death. 

Once we had explored all of the pathways throughout the cemetery we walked down Swain's Lane so I could show The Heiress Holly Village.  Debating whether or not to knock on the door of a lovely elderly man who invited me for coffee last year when we met in Waterlow Park, a voice called out from a window near the arched entry.  When I asked about the man in the far left cottage I was told he was dying, oh dear.  If only that poor man knew how many times someone halfway around the world had thought of him over the past year.  The man from the window saw the look of sadness that spread across my face and said 'It happens to all of us' in a straightforward manner that felt far too blasé and there was nothing left to do but walk away.  Poor man.

Catching a bus to Hampstead so that The Heiress could experience Keats House I was keeping watch for 8 Downshire Hill along the way, the former home of writer Elizabeth Jenkins.  The trees were thick along the front wall of this house that Jenkins' father bought for her in 1939 but I did my best to capture a shot of something, anything.  The house numbers don't always make sense the window panes do seem to match the photo on the cover of her memoir.  The View from Downshire Hill seems to be as scarce as hen's teeth but one of these days I hope to stumble across a copy or perhaps give our inter-library loan service a try.

Now if you're ever in Hampstead and feeling a bit peckish you MUST stop at a little cafe around the corner from Keats' Grove called Polly's.  It's where I had a yummy Croque Monsieur last year and this year the most delicious bowl of spinach and chick pea soup ever!  Just the thing after a long morning of walking outside in the crisp air.  The gentleman at the counter was as friendly as before, in fact, everyone was very nice.  Next visit I must leave room for a slice of the Victoria Sponge...

The Heiress and I parted ways after we ate - she off to Camden Market and I to John Sandoe Books.  The stacks of books everywhere in that shop are legendary but it was waaay too much for me.  A woman had somehow managed to get her large dog in to the shop, the poor thing looked about as uncomfortable to turn around as I did so I left to do some damage at Cath Kidston across the road instead.  Charing Cross Road was my next stop and then on to Persephone Books before they closed for the evening.  Weighed down by books but with a smile on my face I burst through the hotel door, flopped for a few moments, and then we were off again to the V&A for their late night.  What a party that is!

Envisioning hallways dotted with the odd person seeking entertainment rather than sit in on a Friday evening I could not have been more wrong.  Techno music blared from speakers while people drank wine, danced and ran about from friend to friend in their Halloween costumes.  It was fabulous!  At the last minute we decided to buy tickets to see the Hollywood Costume exhibit and we were so glad that we did.  The exhibit rooms were darkened and soft lights shone on the clothes and costumes from such iconic films as Cleopatra, Gone With the Wind, The Seven Year Itch, Ben Hur, Elizabeth (Cate Blanchett's version AND Bette Davis's), Star Wars, Out of Africa, The Black Swan, The Blues Brothers, Dracula, Harry Potter, Saturday Night Fever and Mildred Pierce - the Joan Crawford picture and much, much more.  Right at the end was a glass case with Dorothy's ruby red slippers inside, full of little red sequins - not a ruby in sight - but still!  If this exhibit ever comes to a gallery near you - run to buy a ticket, you won't be sorry!

Tomorrow is Linley Sambourne's house with a couple of my favourite blog friends...

Fodder for Daydreams

Yesterday I woke up from a dream about walking on cobbles surrounded by churches.  It was 3:40 am and there was no going back to sleep for me.  But it was awfully nice to just lie there and mull over my trip to England instead of hopping out of bed to shower and change in time to make breakfast at the B & Bs we stayed at.

After an overnight flight, a one hour tube ride to St Pancras and a one hour train ride out to Canterbury, I emerged on to the station platform expecting a melodramatic reunion with my daughter.  She was coming down the stairs as I made my way through the tunnel so we missed each other but in no time at all we were all sorted and had a cuddle for the first time in thirteen months.  What followed was nine days of adventure as The Heiress gave me a guided tour of Canterbury, we visited Dover Castle and its underground tunnels from World War II, and then moved on to the hustle and bustle of London.  Over the next few posts I'll be sharing a handful of photos (which I haven't even looked at properly myself yet) and stories of the things we did and to hopefully inspire someone out there to add a place or two to their holiday or weekend plans.

Most of my nearest and dearest who stop by here love nothing more than a bit of book porn.  Considering the nature of my trip was to help The Heiress cart back her belongings I had to keep the British Airways luggage allowance in mind while browsing.  It was torture as the bookshops are packed with so many irresistible books - really large books, perfect for drooling over on rainy days.  THE find was a first edition copy of Late and Soon by E. M. Delafield which I found in the 'G' section of the basement at Any Amount of Books on Charing Cross Road.  It pays to carefully look at every single book since people are notorious for shoving things back in any space that's handy.  The other lovely finds were from second-hand bookshops, Oxfam, Waterstones and in the case of The Book of Christmas from the V&A gift shop.  Alighting from the Russell Square tube stop one day I realized that a determined stride would have me squeezing through the door at Persephone Books before closing time at six.  Danielle from A Work in Progress kindly sent me her spare copy of A Little Dinner Before the Play by Agnes Jekyll and it was waiting for me when I got home.  Surely I will never be a fan of aspic but reading about historical menus is something I never get tired of.  In the chapter 'For the Too Fat' Agnes recommends...

'If that insidious enemy, soup, be held indispensable at dinner, at least avoid the vegetable purees and bisque's made with cream, butter, root vegetables and rich fish, also the savoury potage in which milk and flour figure, and try clear Consomme a l'Estragon, with its delicate and clean flavour.

My husband doesn't particularly like soup and that really annoys me but thinking of it as an 'insidious enemy' is hilarious.  Calories are not something to concern myself with considering all of the walking I have done recently and as the photo attests, there is jam to enjoy!  Be back soon with more trip details....

 

New Grub Street by George Gissing

'Reardon looked at the gaps left on his shelves.  Many of those vanished volumes were dear old friends to him; he could have told you where he had picked them up and when; to open them recalled a past moment of intellectual growth, a mood of hope or despondency, a stage of struggle.'

Writer's block, or at least the ability to write anything he could be proud of, was the beginning of the end for Edwin Reardon.  It was a situation George Gissing was familiar with and according to his diary there were seven false starts to what would become New Grub Street.  Then in a sudden burst of productivity the book was ready for the publisher in just over two months, hitting the shelves so to speak in 1891.

The view of Marylebone Workhouse haunts Reardon as he turns out what he considers to be bits of fluff to earn enough money for the rent due at Christmas.  He yearns to write a stellar novel, one that will bring him fame and security but it's frustratingly beyond his reach.  His wife, Amy, is desperate that he should make something of himself so she can hold her head up in society.  Things are so bad that the Reardon's refuse dinner invitations from friends as reciprocating isn't an option.  Exasperated, Amy resorts to spending ever more time at her mother's home as a way of saving on food.  More down-at-heel members of the Grub Street fellowship drop by to commiserate with Edwin, each with a tale of woe about reduced savings and meagre shelter.  At the mercy of their publishers they wait anxiously for white envelopes to be slipped under the door of their cheap garret rooms stating that a piece of writing is worth any paltry sum.

Meanwhile on the other side of the coin is Jasper Milvain, 'the clothes he wore were of expensive material, but had seen a good deal of service.'  Employed as a journalist he casts his eye toward women with heavy purses and good prospects who will make the climb to a premier position all the easier for him.  Alas, the Married Woman's Property Act has recently become law so Jasper won't have an easy time of gaining access to the purse strings of savvy women.  His sisters, Maud and Dora, are encouraged to write but let's face it, any success they have will ease Jasper's financial burden for the duration of time they remain unmarried.

As always, the more London porn in a novel the better and New Grub Street has plenty.  Many is the mile I've happily strolled around Bloomsbury but poor Reardon and his disillusioned friend, Biffen, have lost any sense of affection for the city...

  'It's a huge misfortune, this will-o'-the-wisp attraction exercised by London on young men of brains.  They come here to be degraded, or to perish, when their true sphere is a life of peaceful remoteness.  The type of men capable of success in London is more or less callous and cynical.  If I had the training of boys, I would teach them to think of London as the last place where life can be lived worthily.
  'And the place where you are most likely to die in squalid wretchedness.'

There is little in the way of sugar-coated niceties about this book but there is plenty of page-turning drama.  Which begs the question of why is it that production companies churn out numerous productions of the works of Austen and Dickens when there is such a work, rich in character and plot with story lines still relevant in today's world, found within these pages?

Many people died before the age of 50 during the Victorian era and Gissing succumbed to emphysyma at 46 in 1903 after catching a chill on an ill-advised walk during the winter.  Eerily it was a fate he gave one of his own characters in the book.  New Grub Street is every bit as wonderful as The Odd Women, one of my favourite books from the past year and I am desperate, yes desperate, to read another of his popular works, The Nether World.

Literary London

Sir Richard Steeles Cottage, Hampstead, c. 1832

John Constable

'It was undeniable that on a fine day one enjoyed extensive views.  The green ridge from Hampstead to Highgate, with Primrose Hill and the foliage of Regent's Park in the foreground; the suburban spaces of St John's Wood, Maida Vale, Kilburn; Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament, lying low by the side of the hidden river, and a glassy gleam on the far-off hills which meant the Crystal Palace; then the clouded majesty of eastern London, crowned by St Paul's dome.  These things one's friends were expected to admire.  Sunset often afforded rich effects, but they were for solitary musing.'

For my tastes there is no such thing as a book too full of the panorama of London.  In New Grub Street Gissing takes the reader on quite the evocative walking tour of the streets of London, particularly Bloomsbury.  Characters crossing paths on street corners while walking to the British Museum were so vividly described that I searched them out on Google Maps, it's all there.  Dark staircases leading up to sparsely furnished garret rooms had me putting on the kettle despite our warm temperatures this summer.  When moral fibre struggles against hunger and Edwin is faced with selling off his precious books I thought about my own bookshelves and could have cried.  Newspapers, reviews, authorship, periodicals, journal writing and the competition for readership rival anything going on in the world of media today, New Grub Street positively reeks of ink.

I'm two-thirds the way through and absolutely loving this book.  Gissing writes his female characters with plenty of smarts and backbone so I can't wait to find out how the ladies handle issues of romance, inheritances, business and scallywags.  Stay tuned...    

The Heat of the Day by Elizabeth Bowen

'He dared not decide whether her eyes, with their misted askance look, were those of the victim or of the femme fatale.'

Stella Rodney lives on the top floor of a house on Weymouth Street near Regent's Park.  Working in a secret branch of government during World War II she is skilled at living a veiled existence both in her public and private lives.  Despite the fact that details surrounding her divorce from Victor have been misconstrued, Stella leaves the past behind and moves forward with strength and confidence to live independently.

One evening she has a visit from a man named Harrison who delivers a bombshell.  Telling Stella that her lover, Robert, is a spy for Nazi Germany, he offers to withhold the information in return for a sexual relationship with her.  So begins the unraveling of what is true, what is false and deciding which man is being deceitful.  Meanwhile her son, Roderick, serving in the Army, learns that he is to inherit the family home in Ireland (mirroring Elizabeth's inheritance of Bowen's Court).  Feeling he needs the blessing of Cousin Francis's widow, Nettie, he travels to a home for the aged and insane where he ends up discovering some unsettling news about his father.  But is the narrator reliable?

While this book has been described as Bowen's 'war novel' the reader is acutely aware that people have the ability to wreak as much havoc with lies as with bombs.  Even something as benign as a visit to Holme Dene, Robert's crumbling family estate, is cloaked in secrecy as he and Stella keep the fact that they are a couple secret from relatives.  Colder surroundings you would be hard pressed to find as the inhabitants even jealously guard their butter rations at mealtime.   

Bowen's descriptions of London during the war are both life affirming...

'The very soil of the city at this time seemed to generate more strength: in parks the outsize dahlias, velvet and stretched out perfect against the sun blazoned out the idea of the finest hour.'

...and chilling...

'You dared not envisage sleep.  Apathetic, the injured and dying in the hospitals watched light change on walls which might fall tonight  Those rendered homeless sat where they had been sent; or, worse, with the obstinacy of animals retraced their steps to look for what was no longer there.'

But while other novels from this era are full of people scurrying for shelter during air raids, there seems to be a more relaxed feeling about it all in this novel.  At one point near the end of the book, Stella receives a visitor as the guns are blaring in the distance only causing a slight delay in her conversation.  Defiantly perhaps, she has taken yet another top floor flat at a time when others are living half of their lives underground.

There is a backdrop storyline involving Louie Lewis who shares a flat on Chilcombe Street with Connie.  They also offer an opportunity for Bowen to expose social and class distinctions, of which she was very much aware, as the ladies share a bed with noisy springs, work in a factory and wear gloves with grimy seams.   More secrets permeate their storyline and as skillfully as one could imagine, Bowen brings these characters together in one of the most unforgettable stories I will ever read.

To anyone who is still unaware of this author's talent, yes there are times when Bowen's richly layered passages full of observations slow you down and make you work but I beg of you, do not shy away!  She is sublime, a genius, a doyenne, and with this book has taken the crown as my absolute favourite author.      

My American by Stella Gibbons

'It was autumn.  Kenwood House, the eighteenth-century mansion on the edge of Hampstead Heath, had been recently opened to the public by King George the Fifth and its beauties were still sufficiently unfamiliar to attract crowds and admire the collection of pictures inside the building.'

Amy Lee is a scruffy little girl when she happens upon Robert Vorst who is slightly older at thirteen years-old.  He is visiting England with his mother and aunts and biding his time in the courtyard until they emerge from their tour of this magnificently situated historical home.  Cheekily asking if he could loan her six pence for the fare home, Amy puts out her hand for a coin and tucks it into her glove for safekeeping.  Shortly afterwards she pulls it out to have a look and is more than a little hurt to discover a buffalo head staring back at her, it's an American coin and useless to her.  It is not the last she sees of Robert though.

The poor thing is a bit of an urchin, growing up without a mother and barely cared for by a father who really didn't want her in the first place.  Through circumstance, Amy, ends up living with the Beeding brood where another child about the place is simply a case of the more, the merrier.  But for a girl who counts the seconds until she can be alone with her pen and notebook to create her stories the hustle and bustle sometimes proves to be a bit maddening.  Sharing her deepest secret desire with a teacher, Amy, is allowed to hide her notebook away in a filing cabinet at school and write in solitude after class.

It all sounds absolutely delicious doesn't it?  My American felt a bit like a three course meal to me in that it has a tempting appetizer, the meat of the story follows.  And then, just when I was really looking forward to the dessert things got a bit weird and the book turns into a dime store crime novel!  Now I am quite sure that in 1939 when this was published there were hoards of fifteen year-old girls just lapping up every episode of illegal activity and sexual innuendo but I found it a bit of a struggle and almost lost the will to continue at one point.  Where was her editor?  But, I did persevere through almost 450 pages for the sake of those who might still be reading my post at this point.  The dessert does finally arrive but my goodness, what a wait.

This is the third Stella Gibbons book that I have read and found to be enjoyable enough but I would be hard pressed to shout from the rooftops about any of them.  So now I am wondering whether it would be worth my time to give Cold Comfort Farm a try, am I missing the jewel in the crown?

Books, Buck House and Buckets

Last weekend we were in Toronto and with a quick 'see you soon!' shouted over my shoulder at my husband I made straight for the 'H' section of BMV for another L P  Hartley title.  Poor Stella Gibbons has been sandwiched between one excellent read, The Hireling, and another, The Go-Between, reported to be even better.  While My American is lovely I really can't say it has me rushing home from work to pick up where I left off or flicking on my bedside lamp in the middle of the night to sneak a few pages in.  Who knows though, the ending may just have me eating my words.

I also wanted to stop in to Nicholas Hoare after receiving an email reporting the closure of two of his shops, one in Montreal and one in Ottawa.  The rents are rising by a ridiculous amount and I heaved a sigh of relief that one of my favourite bookshops in Toronto hasn't been affected, yet.  Too many times have I enjoyed all the glory of this fine establishment and then bought the titles that caught my eye on The Book Depository to save money (mind you, their prices are creeping upwards since Amazon's buyout).  I can't continue to have my cake and eat it too so I dished out for Millions Like Us by Virginia Nicholson, a book I've been coveting for quite some time.  A few weeks ago I pulled out my copy of Sisters at Arms about nurses during several conflicts and was so upset by the treatment and rape of these brave women at the hands of the Japanese that I had to set it aside.  Usually I wouldn't shy away from tales of horror but in that book it was unrelenting, hopefully Nicholson's book will have a lighter side at least some of the time.

Oh, and I had an email yesterday from The Heiress.  She was in London with a friend and the Duchess of Cornwall rode past in a car just outside the gates of Buckingham Palace.  And not one mention of what she was wearing, nor any description of a feathered hat or shiny brooch.  I will just have to use my imagination while giving the floors the wash they need so desperately and then there is the weeds to see to.  This exercise in procrastination has come to an end.  Happy Friday!

A Far Cry From Kensington by Muriel Spark

There just isn't enough time in the day to read as much as I would like to so generally I steer clear of reading challenges and just go where the pages take me.  But when the bloggers who have given me so much host a challenge there is no question - I'm in. 

As many of you are aware, Simon from StuckInABook is hosting a Muriel Spark Reading Week from April 23 - 29.  I am also excited that Harriet is co-hosting as her blog has become another favourite place for me to drop by and discover new book titles or lovely art.  Last but far from least, Thomas designed the gorgeous button everyone has been posting in support of what is surely to be an informative and entertaining reading event.

The reason I chose A Far Cry From Kensington is two fold.  First, it was the only title by this author on the shelf at the library branch where I work.  Second, when Virago issued their clothbound 30th anniversary editions in 2008, I had no idea who Muriel Spark was so I passed this title by.  Shocking, but still, I can't be picking up every book with a pretty cover on the off chance I'll be totally enamoured with the writing at some later date now can I?  Better late than never though, it must be said.  So without further ado...

It's 1954 and Mrs Hawkins is a widow, her husband killed during World War II.  Despite being only in her mid-twenties she exudes an aura of someone older with her comforting advice and generous waistline.  Her fellow residents in the rooming house located in South Kensington are much like an extended family with a varied cast of interesting characters (but aren't we all?).  Mrs Hawkins spends her working day in a converted Queen Anne house which is the office of Ullswater Press, a small publishing company.  Her travels throughout various neighbourhoods of London made me want to do something silly and click 'Book Now' on the British Airways website.  I digress.

One day while strolling in Green Park, Mrs Hawkins is approached by the annoying Hector Bartlett who is a tad over-confident about his writing skills.  Knowing that Mrs Hawkins works at Ullswater Press he strikes up a conversation with her but is quickly struck down with the cutting moniker of 'Pisseur de copie', the translation being something like 'urinates frightful prose'.  A statement which became more hilarious every time I knew it was about to be handed out since Mrs Hawkins is nothing if not faithful to her assessment of this pest in a suit.

Back at home, the tenants of the rooming house are faced with a mystery when Wanda, the Polish dressmaker, receives an anonymous letter.  She is threatened with exposure to the authorities for not disclosing her business details and income.  As everyone speculates about who this mysterious person(s) could be, Wanda's paranoia grows.  As horrifying and sad an image as this could be, Spark has employed clever humour and made the storylines one of the most delightful combinations of mystery/whimsy/comedy I've ever had the pleasure to read.  Perfect stuff for chasing away rainy day blahs or cuddling up with during dratted flu episodes so don't pass up an opportunity to add it to your bedside table.

Thanks to Simon for bringing yet another wonderful author to my attention.  I've read that Loitering with Intent is another popular choice in Sparks' oeuvre but if you have another particular favourite, please share with the rest of us.  The more the merrier!

Call the Midwife by Jennifer Worth

There is something about the experience of birth that never grows tiresome and it's all the better if someone else is going through it!  Knowing this series is airing over in Britain at the moment with an audience even larger than the first few episodes of Downton Abbey my interest was piqued.  My husband was given strict orders to return from his trip to London with a copy of the book.  My life (and his come to think of it) would be so much simpler if I lived on the OTHER side, don't you think?  I digress. 

Jennifer Worth died less than one year ago but left behind a legacy of stories about her time as a midwife during the 1950s.  Her language is plain but through evocative storytelling she turned some of the most dire living conditions and unsavoury behaviour into a page-turner.  Not all of her stories are such though and despite abject poverty some families basked in strong values with plenty of love.  Wearing her starched nurses uniform and the stiletto heels so much in fashion while making her rounds on a bicycle, Nurse Worth attended women in the east end as they progressed through their pregnancy.  Called upon to perform an antenatal visit at one home, Jennifer was sure the notes were recorded incorrectly as it said the pregnancy was the woman's twenty-fourth.  Surely the nun from St Nonnatus meant to write fourteen but no, upon arrival the basement laundry was chock full of happy offspring helping Mum with the wash.  And not a scuffle, argument or brawl amongst them!

Young girls ending up pregnant as a result of prostitution, women fearful that the moment of birth will reveal their relationship with one of the recent black immigrants and stories of the workhouse are heartbreaking.  These were the days when social assistance meant a bowl of hot soup or some clothes donated by the church.  One character in particular though never failed to make me laugh out loud.  Chummy was born into an aristocratic family and christened Camilla Fortescue-Cholmeley-Browne but at six-foot-two with size eleven shoes she carried off her nickname brilliantly.  The poor woman was a bull in a china shop but her positive spirit and upper class cheers of "what-ho" and "good show" were so endearing that I beamed at each of her appearances.  In the series Chummy is played by the fabulous Miranda Hart and once the book was finished I had a peek at her in action on youtube, she's brilliant!

Social history fans will absolutely gobble up this book.  A lack of interest in the blood and guts of labour and delivery may weed out the odd reader but if the other novels by Worth are half as riveting then you're spoiled for choice.

A Husband Returns, Part I

An overnight flight and a couple of train rides delivered R to a very warm reception in Canterbury.  A sweeping tour of the campus, introductions to friends, the passing around of gifts and a short nap later it was time for The Heiress to show off the highlights of town life.  Canterbury Cathedral is the jewel in the crown and where the graduation ceremony for the university students usually takes place.  If you are familiar with the murder of Archbishop Thomas Beckett in 1170, then you will know it took place at this cathedral and if not then click here for details.

R took scads of photos of the High Street and interesting architecture but this one really struck me.  You can just imagine that at any moment a carriage will roll by or a peasant woman carrying a bundle of firewood will peddle her wares.  The contrast between the working man and the wealth of the church, the functional against the splendid, this photo is so simple but displays so much and I adore images that whip you back in time.  I was also completely enthralled with a story R was told about villagers sketching the window detail from above the front door on a letter for the post before addresses were common as a way of identifying the proper location.  Fascinating stuff!

Hopping on a bus, The Heiress gave her Dad a tour of Whitstable.  It was a cool day but they thoroughly enjoyed a bracing walk along the shore.  Huge piles of oyster shells deposited outside the nearby pub was an indication of just how popular the local catch is.  Choosing the table next to a roaring fire meant it was R's job to tend it, so every now and then he had to pitch on a log or poke at the embers while a band playing music from the 40s entertained the customers.  As he was basking in the warmth and glow he had a fright when he realized he had placed a bag containing something like twenty bars of chocolate from Thornton's under the table.  Thankfully all was well...phew!  A foreign sight was four dogs residing under the drinks table of their owners, something you would never see here but I wish we did.

After a weekend of being shown around the village by a gaggle of young lady friends of The Heiress and playing Dorm Dad it was time to move on to London.  This is Hogarth's House into which a dash was made for postcards and a peek around at my request.  The initial attraction which brought my husband to this area was a tour of Fuller's Brewery but I've decided to spare you the pictures of conveyor belts carrying kegs, a maze of pipeline, massive vats and transport vehicles.

Winding their way through the surrounding neighbourhoods they laughed at how the unmistakable aroma of yeast filled the air as the Thames flowed nearby.  My heart skipped a beat when R pointed out this photograph taken from the sidewalk looking down a lane (This is the house I mentioned, Mary).  It was a private drive so they couldn't venture along it but what I wouldn't give to know a bit more about the history of that house and what lies around the corner.  It also beckons to that bit of 'downstairs girl' that exists inside me and makes me want to take up a feather duster or copper pot.  Moving right along...

With only four days in London every second counted.  Covering hundreds of miles of tube track and city streets whether on foot or by cab, my two kept at it until exhaustion left them barely able to flick off the lights at the end of the day.  The Heiress and R saw two plays, Hay Fever which they enjoyed and The Ladykillers which they loved.  Admiring the flash of a brightly coloured sock on many men, my man chose an array for himself much to my delight.  A London Walk of the hidden pubs of London took them through alleyways and over cobblestones into several historic establishments, one being the hundreds year-old Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.  The photo above shows the London Aquarium taken during a ride on the London Eye.  The view of the city stretching before them was absolutely stunning and R marvelled at just how many people he spied on the banks of the Thames digging for historic treasure and sea glass.  An afternoon was also spent admiring the collection at the V&A, with R prodding the holes in the wall near an entrance left by shrapnel during WWII.  During a quiet stroll through Hyde Park to get away from the hustle and noise, father and daughter wondered how anyone could sit on a beach and do nothing during a vacation when there are so many interesting things to discover in such a fascinating city.  To each his own.  But this was most definitely a trip the two of them will remember for a lifetime.

Stay tuned for Part II of 'A Husband Returns' for the aftermath of souvenir shopping for a wife left behind.

Valentine Wishes Across the Miles

I sent R across the miles with a notebook tucked in his luggage.  The message on the cover was perfect for a loved one so far from home on Valentine's Day.

Inside I copied out some recipes that will remind The Heiress of pancake breakfasts, snacks when she was little and afternoons spent baking while snowflakes filled the view from our kitchen windows.

Today will also be a day my husband will never forget, one he has anticipated for months.  It has nothing to do with flowers, sparkling wine or decadent chocolates, it's a tour of Fuller's Brewery, and he is beyond excited.  I couldn't be more pleased for him but it's his visit to this place just down the road that I'll be anxious to hear about.

Costume Drama

If all goes well, my next trip to London will be in November to see The Heiress graduate.  So I held my breath as I read about this exhibit, five years in the planning, at the V&A.  There was a little happy dance going on at my house when at the bottom of the article it stated the exhibit opens October 20,  *squeal*.

The Woman in Black by Susan Hill

'...I turned and began to run, to flee from the graveyard and the ruins and to put the woman at as great a distance behind as I possibly could.  I concentrated everything upon my running, hearing only the thud of my own body on the grass, the escape of my own breath.  And I did not look back.'

While in London a handful of years ago, R and I stopped by the half-price ticket booth in Leicester Square and bought tickets for The Woman in Black playing since 1989 at the Fortune Theatre.  We were prepared to be scared out of our wits but settled into the impossibly tight seating arrangements and smiled as the curtain opened.  The first time I felt any sense of dread or the inclination to scream was when we paid the equivalent of over eight dollars for two tiny cups of ice cream, the sort with a flat spoon under the lid, at intermission.

The second act was something different altogether with the audience screaming several times and even jumping out of their seats at one point.  It took me days to get the final scene out of my mind and I'll never think of rocking chairs with my old sense of blissful relaxation ever again.

Arthur Kipps, in hopes of putting some demons to rest, writes about a ghostly incident during his early career as a solicitor in London.  Sent to organize documents at Eel Marsh House after the death of Mrs Drablow, he encounters an eerie sense of reserve about the place from the residents of the village.  Located some distance away and due to the tide, the house virtually becomes an island as the water converges over the narrow trail leading up to it.  Add in some dense fog, screeching birds and a sucking bog and you'd have to be half-mad to spend the night there.  Or young and desperate to gain the respect of your senior colleagues at the law firm.

The spectre of a woman dressed in black, with a ravaged face of pale skin pulled tight against her features, haunts Arthur.  And quite literally things do go 'bump' in the night.  All of which threaten to scare poor Arthur to death as he digs through Mrs Drablow's pertinent papers with only a scruffy dog named Spider for company.  The discovery of a packet of letters and three death certificates provide some answers but I'm certainly not going to tell you any more about that!

Susan Hill has the formula to get your heart pounding down to perfection.  There is no blood or gore but every time the fog appears or the night would close in, I would tuck my chin down into my shirt and pull my knees up on the sofa.  The movie version of The Woman in Black is set to open next month.  Judging by the trailer there has been plenty of liberty taken with Hill's novel but I'm very much looking forward to being scared out of my wits for the third time by this story.

The Slaves of Solitude by Patrick Hamilton

Reading The Slaves of Solitude was a bit like playing with a jack-in-the-box.  The plot kept me on edge, some of the characters upset me, but I kept turning the pages to see how it would all turn out. 

The Rosamund Tea Rooms is the boarding house in Thames Lockdon where Miss Roach resides to escape the bombs falling in London.  It also houses the obnoxious Mr Thwaites, a relentless bully.  At least in London the bombs were hit or miss.

'Miss Roach now tried to dodge his fury, to apologize, in so far as it was possible, for the present state of affairs on the Eastern Front, by smiling, making a vaguely assenting and agreeable noise in her throat, and looking hard and giddily at her soup.  But Mr Thwaites was not the sort of man who would permit you to look at your soup when he was anxious to talk about the Russians.'

It was excruciating to enter the gladiator's arena that was the dining room.  Peripheral characters would either sit in silence or try to appease the bully with soft snippets while waiting to see how uncomfortable things got before a retreat was in order.  When an American Lieutenant takes an interest in Miss Roach I thought perhaps he would provide a refuge or at least a lovely distraction.  The reality wasn't nearly as appealing and his idea of showing a woman a good time involved propping up the bar.  Her most toxic relationship wasn't with either of the aforementioned men though, it was with a German woman she befriends who ends up moving into the boarding house.  Vicki Kugelmann laughs and flirts her way into a threesome with the Lieutenant and Miss Roach which can only end badly.  Worse still, Vicki entertains the bully, Mr Thwaites, in the dining room.

So many people have described The Slaves of Solitude as an enjoyable read but I found it uncomfortable.  Which I suppose is all down to Patrick Hamilton's writing skill.  From a personal perspective, as someone who was raised in an atmosphere of alcohol and bullying he nailed the tension in that dining room.  But on a cheerier note there are a couple of scenes involving the etiquette faux pas of using someone else's comb that had me laughing out loud.  The last twenty or so pages were the most satisfying for me and made me really glad to have hung in there.

As far as books set in boarding houses go I preferred London Belongs to Me by Norman Collins, accidental murder and all.  But it's good to step outside of your comfort zone when you're reading for pleasure.  It can't all be about pots of tea and slices of cake!  I just don't know what I was thinking when I also bought Hamilton's Hangover Square but no doubt I'll get through that as well.

The Odd Women by George Gissing

It can be a bit frustrating to be surrounded by a community of mainstream fiction lovers when you want to stand on a chair and shout out how much you adored a late-Victorian novel.  So I'll do it here...I loved this book!

The Odd Women, published in 1893, is a spectacular novel about the choices and obstacles faced by women in their struggle for independance.  Whether that be as single women or within a marriage.  Mary Barfoot and Rhoda Nunn are steadfast in their belief that to marry reduces a woman to being a cook and cradle rocker and to retard her thinking.  Together they operate a business that teachs young women to use a typewriter so they can escape the drudgery and abuses of service or other menial occupations.  They also make themselves available one night a week in their Chelsea home to meet with women who share their views.

Alice and Virginia Madden have reached the stage of spinsterhood but their younger sister, Monica, has beauty enough to secure a better future for all three.  Her chance meeting with the modestly wealthy Edmund Widdowson creates debate amongst all of the above-mentioned ladies.  Let it be said that Mr Widdowson is a stuck in the mud loner and once he reels in his young prey becomes nothing short of her jailer.  His opinions are to be Monica's opinions and his jealous eye questions her every movement.  The security of marriage has come at a price to both and Gissing writes of that toll from his own dismal experiences.  There are other riveting storylines but to hint at them would ruin the fun of discovery.

The Odd Women is a page-turner full of secret alliances, betrayal, vice, misunderstanding and deceit.  And I have a new author crush in George Gissing, which is saying a lot for someone who tends to prefer the writings of women.  His portrayals of a Victorian London where pea soup fog from charcoal fires causes its citizens to hug walls in order to read an address is irresistible.  Also, his ability to convincingly construct characters from different classes and both genders while creating arguments for and against marriage is nothing short of remarkable.  Even before I had finished The Odd Women I placed an order for two more books by Gissing, The Nether World and New Grub Street.

If this book is languishing on your shelf then you are housing a gem.  Go and get it!

The Wanderer Returns

This gorgeous bouquet was amongst others at a vendor's stall outside the Holburn tube station and the first instance I whipped out my camera in London.  We ladies had dropped off our bags and were headed for Lincoln's Inn Fields, specifically the Hunterian museum.  The budding criminologist couldn't wait to see various specimans and body parts preserved in jars.

The Heiress and I thoroughly enjoyed our time together.  The agony of dragging heavy bags from pillar to post was nothing in comparison to the wonder of being back in a city we thoroughly enjoy.  The crowds of people, the rush of the tube, people enjoying the sun in leafy squares and someone with an English accent calling you "Madam" will put a smile on your face after a long overnight flight.  And then there is the stunning architecture topped by chimney pots and gargoyles, foreign to those of us used to square, functional offices with little character.

Usually I refuse to give in to jet lag but as of this moment the white flag must be waved to and fro.  By the end of my shift at the library yesterday I just wanted to curl into a ball and fall fast asleep so apologies for the delay in writing about our adventure.  Who else in my neighbourhood has the warm glow from a computer shining through their window at such an early hour this morning though, I ask you?

There is so much to share about Canterbury, Oxford, Jane Austen's house in Chawton and a peaceful stroll through gorgeous Chelsea to Carlyle's house.  The absolute cherry on top of the whole trip was meeting five of my blog friends.  It would have been six but for Verity coming down with mumps of all things!  In so many instances, this trip was about connecting with people at every opportunity and though I was alone for much of the trip I was never lonely.  So my aim is to be get things caught up around the house, take a photo or two of the books that were purchased and given and to be awake enough to string a sentence together by mid-afternoon.  Be back soon! 

Bound for Bloomsbury

This time tomorrow night, The Heiress and I will be winging our way to Heathrow.  She is beyond excited to immerse herself if her studies, meet some new friends and make the leap to self-sufficiency with her parents far, far away.  R has never let an opportunity pass at the dinner table to joke that as soon as The Heiress packs up we're redecorating her room, having a pool put in, buying a really fun car and who knows, perhaps even buy that ice-cream maker we've been talking about.  Her response is always the same..."Uh, hello, I'm right here!"  Joking about her not being around is how we keep things light and let her know we will be just fine when she strikes out on her own.

We've never been clingy parents.  You know, the sort who soaks a box of tissues when their child attends their first day of kindergarten or goes on a bus to overnight camp.  Even tonight, R asked me if I would be stopping in to see The Heiress after my week in London and before heading back to Canada.  A glance at my bulging itinerary said it all.  "Uh, hello, I'm right here!" shouted The Heiress before bursting out laughing.  I can't quite remember where I read about young women, some still in their late teens, joining the Red Cross to go overseas as nurses during World War II.  Now that would take some intestinal fortitude on the part of the young women and faith from their parents.  What we will go through as a family during this venture is a walk in the park by comparison.

There are bookshops to visit, shows to see, train rides to take, London Walks to go on, cakes to try and blog friends to meet.  I'm even excited about the gray skies and chance of rain on the day I'm to tour Highgate Cemetery!  How atmospheric can you get?  And Rachel emailed me with the exciting news that the second series of Downton Abbey will begin while I'm in London.  Talk about all your Christmases and birthdays coming at once.

I can't wait to indulge in a Full English breakfast every day, buy just about everything that comes in black current just because I love it, eat roast chicken and stuffing sandwiches from Marks & Spencer Food Hall and try a different flavoured yogurt every single day.  Pet dogs out for their morning walk in Russell Square and try to spot magpies hopping around in the bushes.  And there is a cafe in Bloomsbury that once served me coffee with cream so sweet I didn't have to add sugar, I wonder if it's still there?

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, for chicken sandwiches and children, and the next twelve months will go by in no time.  I can hear The Heiress now..."Uh, hello, I'm right here!"

Anyone for Tea?

I am so excited to be visiting London once again!  The days are zooming by and preparations are in full swing.  Items to be packed are starting to accumulate on the bed in our spare room and The Heiress has her visa.

The Heiress will be so busy familiarizing herself with her new surrounding in Kent that she will barely notice my absence.  But I will really be missing her.  It would be more than wonderful for me if anyone would be interested in getting together for a cup of tea!

Since you all have busy lives I'm hoping you're free on September 18, which is a Sunday.  R thinks I could give Barbara Walters a run for her money as I'm always so full of questions and conversation so please don't be shy!  I promise you we will have lots of fun and the more the merrier!  Once I have an idea who is available then together we can plan somewhere central and with a daughter costing us a King's ransom, inexpensive.

Consult your calendar and please leave a comment or send me an email.  If I don't hear from you then don't be surprised to hear from me!  Hope you can make it.

London Belongs to Me by Norman Collins

The boarding house on 10 Dulcimer Street in Kennington shelters some very interesting characters. 

Set in the late thirties, Collins was writing about the London of his day.  Unbeknownst to many, war was looming between countries but there were also conflicts brewing on a smaller scale under this roof.  And in the charming way of the author he would say 'Step this way and have a look...'

Mrs Vizzard is a lonely widow who rents out rooms in her house.  The lodgers tend to be long-term residents and have become as good as family with each other.  Mr and Mrs Josser live there with their twenty-year old daughter, Doris.  The book opens with Mr Josser retiring from his job and carrying the contents of his desk along with his retirement gift, a huge mantle clock, home on the tram...which he proceeds to drop.

Connie lives with her bird, Duke, and never having much she struggles to make ends meet.  Trouble has a way of finding Connie and sometimes she goes looking for it.  A quirky characteristic of hers is that if there's a vehicle leaving Dulcimer Street then Connie makes sure she's in the passenger seat whether she has been invited or not.

Mr Puddy is a lazy night watchmen with a perpetually stuffed nose and his dialogue is written as such.  His daily grind is pretty much going to work and thinking about his next meal with tinned goods being about as good as it gets.  He has a serendipitous moment of glory when he's awarded a George Cross for saving a fireman's life during a drop of incendiary bombs.  The thing is...he was crawling his way out of a fire and the fireman just so happened to have grabbed onto him as he went past!

Mrs Boon and her delusional son, Percy...now there's a creepy fellow.  A mechanic, he turns to the theft of cars in order to make more money.  With an eye for the Josser's daughter he figures the extra cash will go a long way to securing a future with her but things go bad....real bad.  There are court proceedings and bad press which bring shame to the boarding house and despair to Mrs Vizzard, who runs an upstanding establishment!  Poor Mrs Boon will never see the bad in her son and most of the time a quiet word with the Lord (and a hanky) sees her through.

Doris could care less about Percy in that way.  Being a modern girl and wanting independence she rents a flat with her less than pure friend, Doreen.  I burst out laughing when Doreen convinces Doris that the extra cash for a phone would be well rewarded by loads of phone calls to do exciting things but the phone never rings because nobody they know has a phone!

A sham of a mystic (is there any other kind?) appears one day in the form of Mr Squales.  Now there's a slippery character.  He knows all the right things to say and do and in short order has Mrs Vizzard falling in love.  She can barely look at the portrait of her dearly departed husband because of the thoughts she has in her head.  But 'Qualito' is always on the look out for other lonely widows whose bank accounts are more bountiful.  Such a cad!

In the latter bit of the book war breaks out and you experience shelters, rationing, bombings, fighter planes, child evacuation and telegrams.  There is also parliamentary talk and some discussion of the Fuhrer so not all kitchen drama in case you're wondering.

Norman Collins is an amazing writer who brought these characters to life for me.  There was no nuance too small for him to mention which explains some of the reason for its length at over 700 pages but in no way did this bog things down.  If this era, or London, interests you then you must read this book and if you love both...well then, you're in for a treat.

Daydreaming...

R is away on a golfing trip to Ocean City, Maryland and as it's the weekend I've seen The Heiress for brief moments here and there.  Even Deacon has planted himself at his post in the garden to watch for people going on their morning run or stroll.  Poor boy is being seriously scolded and dive-bombed by some grackles who have a nest nearby but he thinks they're playing with him!  As I put a load of wash in and thought about dragging out the vacuum I contemplated what I'd rather do.  And this is what I've come up with...

My 'Weather for London' icon is showing a grey day, perfect for wandering around Highgate Cemetery.  It would be spooky on my own but in a fun way.  I'd try to be brave but would most likely seek out a group and tag along at a respectable distance so they wouldn't realize that I was a scaredy cat.

Afterwards, there's a cafe which would supply a warming cup of tea and surely a slice of cake or a scone would be in order.  Miranda has mentioned Ginger & White in Hampstead and it looks lovely.  When a shop looks this tantalizing, I won't rest until I'm pulling on the door handle and find myself standing inside so definitely a 'must do'.

I'd have the energy now to hop on the Tube and make my way to the National Gallery.  An exhibit  featuring this painting by Paul Delaroche and the sketches leading up to it will be coming to a close next weekend.  I've admired 'The Execution of Lady Jane Grey' since spying it years ago in a book.  It may cost a bit but as long as I have enough money left over to enjoy one of these....

Last May, I came upon The West Cornwall Pasty Shop.  A friendly waiter saw me hesitate and asked if I wanted to come inside.  I've never eaten a pasty before and usually shy away from anything quite so bulky, but I'm dying to know what they taste like and wish that I had tried one so there's only one thing for it.  I'm parking myself at their location in Covent Garden and stuffing my face!  Oh I'll try and be a lady but if they are as yummy as they seem then you may need to look away.

Since Drury Lane Theatre would be quite close by it would be terrific to see Oliver!  And when that poor little fella is still hungry after his porridge and asks for more...I'll be thinking of that pasty!

Snapping back to reality, it's time to have breakfast and get some work done.  Enjoy your day!