A tale of two tables

When we first saw Contrary Towers, the things that attracted us were the view, the light and the balcony. Even on that chill February Monday, with the snow still laying and the clouds hanging dark and ominous, we could see the potential. The fact that we'd be able to lean against the balcony and look down on to the waters of Limehouse Cut was mere icing on the cake. The fact is, it really added to the amount of living space and we've certainly put it to good use!

The one thing we really wanted though, was somewhere to sit, write or eat in the open air. A focal point. A practical thing that would also be as individual as we are. My flatmate, fortunately, had a very clear idea of what we should have, she'd seen, somewhere, tables finished with a mosaic of tiles, just the sort of thing you can't find the moment you are looking. Pfft. Nearly three months have gone by since we moved in and I felt I was really going to have to do something about this, after all, we did get a vacuum cleaner a few weeks ago and this was the only other thing we'd talked about.

Well, except for a cocktail shaker, obvs.

Fortunately, the goddess of serendipity had smiled and placed the ideal thing on eBay (goddesses move in mysterious ways, who am I to question?), mosaic tile top, mosaic tile chair splats and a nice shape to the chair seat. And I had cash sitting in my PayPal account.

Sold!

My only concern was delivery, we have a concierge, but, well, I do worry about these things. It would be a case of I'll see what happens come the day. The day in question turned out to be Wednesday! My flatmate was out sounding like an angel at choir practice, I was head in the clouds pondering dinner, it would be a nice early night with food being ready by the time she go back from practice in EC4. Not that things ever go to plan at Contrary Towers.

I got home (323 if you're interested) ready to drop my pooter bag, check the fridge and then head off to the Poplar branch of Fortnum & Mason, or Lidl as it's sometimes known. Oh so simple. Though I did think the trail of polystyrene bits a little odd. More appeared in the lift. And in to our wing. Err... Oh.

Our door was blocked. The delivery person had obviously decided it looked like a safe place and left it carefully propped over the doorway. Yay! Except for it being 36Kg. An the box was starting to breakup from being dragged around. Oh dear. 36Kg is quite a lot. Especially when dead weight and surrounded by knackered cardboard. None of this mattered. It had arrived!

Oh hell. Which means I was going to have to (a) get it inside and (b) put it together.

With a little effort I got it as far as our lobby, it wasn't the weight, it was the awkwardness. And not wanting to damage the oak veneer on the floors, or knock holes in plaster. Which made things tricky. Why didn't I plan this better and at the very least work from home that day so the nice man could have lugged it in? Though, judging by the polystyrene trail, maybe he was a little rough... Anyway. Stuff in, found Stanley knife, opened box and started to move the *very* heavy bits in. How exciting.

You really can see how little I get out.

So, some time later, I'd put the thing together, used the itsy-bitsy little supplied spanner to tighten the nuts (no tittering at the back please) and, happy that it appeared okay and undamaged, informed the songbird of our not-so-little arrival. At which point she immediately went Oooo and demanded a picture.

Maybe we both need to get out more.

Back to more important matters. Dinner. I'd seen this fab recipe for broccoli and bacon salad. Not that we really do recipes, more use them as a rough guide and then adapt or, as most people call it, change-beyond-recognition. But this evening I would be good, even if it was just so I could sit at The Table with a glass of chilled white, my pooter and write the recipe on a post-it note.

Which is what I did. Unfortunately it took quite a while as I was really enjoying sitting there watching the world go by. As you do. But, eventually, I had a list, it looked like I would be able to get it all in not-really-F&M and... It was getting dangerously close to the vague idea I had in my head for when choir practice would be over and the hunger monster would return in search of sustenance...

...which was sooner than I thought. After traipsing round the shop, realising I'd left said post-it note by the hob, and then having to visit Tesco because they *didn't* have broccoli (does the Queen get this sort of treatment when she pops in to the Piccadilly branch? I don't think so) I wandered back. A text message...

Haz sparkles

Ooh! No, wait a minute. What sort of sparkles? Had she raided Hatton Garden? Was she making some reference to the choir practice? Maybe she'd finally decided to do the vajazzle thing. All were possible. Yet, in a twist of supreme idiocy I'd forgotten the one thing that was truly likely... Wine that sparkles! Hurrah! Well, nearly hurrah. As I walked in to find her munching a sandwich (remember, maximum time between door entry and eating is 8.7 seconds) I realised I was busted, no dinner ready. Food in bag. Not good. This was a tricky, potentially disastrous scenario. We had to deal with it in the only way that is truly acceptable in Contrary Towers...

We got out the champagne flutes, opened the bottle and went to sit on the balcony...

Several hours later... Having worked our way through the sparkles *and* the White Grenache pop I'd brought back from Tesco, we vaguely realised that maybe we should eat. And that could only mean... Cheese on Toast. With Worcester Sauce. We are nothing if not truly classy. It was a lovely evening, really, it was fabulous to sit and natter about, well, I'd like to say everything, but there was a definite theme and I'll leave you to guess what that may have been.

The thing was though, after nearly three months we've finally got The Table and can sit, write, eat and even talk in relative comfort without looking like we'd only moved in that morning. And whilst I know I do irritate the hell out of my flatmate from time to time (or lots) this was a suitable monument to the fact that so far we'd survived. And, most importantly, were still friends. Bliss.

The next morning. I thought I'd make toast. Mostly because I knew there wasn't a lot of milk (oops, missed off the list) and as we were going to the Opera that evening thought it best to not use it all up. But also because I rather liked the idea of sitting out on the balcony and enjoying the morning. At this point I should confess what I really wanted was crumpets, but that had *also* not been on the list. I really am quite rubbish. Back to the toast.

I took tea up and said to the duvet mound that toast was on offer if interested. All I heard a vague, non-commital, grunt. Hmmm. Best I make at least some for the duvet. Just in case. I wonder if the local college does duvet language courses?

It must have been a good day as I *didn't* burn the toast on our psycho grill and there was enough jam left to go around. Hurrah. Honestly, it really is the little things, sitting out on the balcony with my plate of toast and a mug of tea felt like heaven.

Later that day it was time for another little slice of heaven. We were meeting at the Royal Opera House to see their production of Salome, both of us being quite excited at the idea as we knew nothing about this production. And, I believe, it was the opening night. It must be said I was also excited at the prospect of actually getting to see something as my record of late has been pretty rubbish owing to not being able to get away from Notting Hill in time.

If you've not seen Salome here's a synopsis: Salome was the daughter of Herodias, who, frankly, was new money, so let's not worry too much about him, she, according to Wilde, was a bit of a lass who rather fancied John the Baptist. But he was too busy being, quite literally, holier than thou, so wasn't interested. Hell hath no fury anyone? So Herodias gets off with his step-daughter (and niece) by virtue of promising her anything. But all she wants is her love interest's head on a platter. Awkward. In the end, she gets what she wants, the priest dies, and owing to the slight issues that Herodias expects, having murdered a prophet, she gets removed from the stage too.

And you thought you had family problems?

A number of things came from this.

• The singing was amazing. Especially by John the Baptist and Salome.
• We got to see a swoon inducing naked man on stage with a big chopper
• The audience went away with a strong understanding of why you should say no to children. Honestly, if Salome had been told "no" occasionally when she was younger all of this awkwardness could have been avoided.
• Salome would have been at home in Contrary Towers. Oh yes. Let that be a warning to you all.

Seriously though, I thought the production wonderful. I was a little perturbed by the early scenes set in what appeared to be the loos and the way some things were portrayed was a little disturbing. But the set just worked. As it's an opera in one act any set movement had to happen in full view and, I felt, this was handled beautifully. As for suspension of disbelief, the running through the corridors of the palace, expressed by the set moving across the stage, was stunning.

All in all. I loved it, a superb opera and a chance to practice my German, I would definitely go to see it again if I get the opportunity, though, given the problem I've been having getting from the darkened depths of West London, it's unlikely I'll be brave enough to book tickets for myself any distance in advance.

We headed home to Contrary Towers, agreeing to change at Bank and head to the DLR rather than the joy of Mile End late at night. The walk home was lovely. Yet again my flatmate showed me the special route she takes. Yet again I can't remember it. I'll get it eventually. Dinner, by suggestion of said flatmate, was to be scrambled egg, broccoli and... Potato croquettes. Oh yes. All our favourite foods on a plate. With chilli sauce.

And it was to be quite the most delicious meal ever. This time though we didn't brave the balcony, instead we sat at the oak table inside our living room, ate, chatted and relived a wonderful evening.

So it was truly a tale of two tables, the old and the new, the wood and the metal, used on alternate nights and each carrying touches of memory past whilst being places to talk of what was and what might be.

Perfect.

PS: I can't believe there was actually a website full of pictures of the 323!

PPS: Can somebody remind me to tighten the nuts on the oak table? Ta!

The journey

The following is dedicated to the anonymous fellow traveller I shared a journey with this morning. I gave her a tissue, she gave me the hope that one can wake again.

Silent and sad
She stares at her phone
Arm holding tight
Surrounded, alone

Holding back tears
The strain in her eyes
Reading his claims
Of nonsense, all lies

The emptyness builds
An impossible strain
Trapped in her mire
In this underground train

Her eyes close lightly
Shut out the world
As a memory glows
A smile is unfurled

With elegant grace
She regains her calm
A tissue received
No hint of alarm

The moment abates
As she leaves the train
Shining eyes charged
Budding hope again

4am thoughts

4am thoughts
Peculiar things
Dancing in sleep's dew
As early bird sings

Poetic moments
Of the night
Twisted, distorting
In the growing light

Mission impossible: Squirrel edition

It was a lovely morning in Contrary Towers.

Really lovely. One of those days when I stand on the balcony looking at Canary Wharf as it sulks in the morning mist and yet, I feel nothing but warmth. As I tweeted earlier...

I love it here, truly, truly, love it.

And I do. I'd also been industrious, as the kettle was boiling to make tea for both me and the capricious one, I was cleaning the hob with one hand, whilst eating breakfast (and tweeting) with the other, true multi-tasking. I had to clean the hob, it's the kitchen fairy's day off.

Anyway.

Tea delivered and hob shining I went to dream on the balcony for a while and enjoy the holiday feel that has still not gone away. Astonishing. Also astonishing was the wildlife. They really were out in force this morning...

First we had the duck family, they have a large raft of ducklings, maybe as many as ten, but tricky to tell from high in our lair. Especially as I'm getting increasingly fuzzy sight. Which is good because otherwise I'd realise how old I'm looking.

Next up a swan. But not on its own. The swan had an escort of ducks, one either side, one behind, and one ahead clearing the canal of any troublesome coots. Think police outriders and you won't be far wrong. It was that or they were part of duck security and escorting the swan off the river, they can be troublesome.

And we can't even eat them!

Even Percy the Parsley plant was looking particularly chirpy. Well. As chirpy as a plant can look.

As the swan evaded the security detail my flatmate stumbled sleepily in to the sun. She'd seen tell of cuteness on my timeline so wanted to come and see. They were still at it.

Magpies scrapping in trees. Coots being harassed by the swan. Gulls flying by in the bitter hope of passing bread missiles. The world, generally, was as it should be...

...Until that is, a squirrel was spotted bounding by the railings of Limehouse Cut. "Oooh", we oohed. "Squirrel", we pointlessly pointed out.

Cue the music to Mission Impossible...

In a single bound Eating Nuts scampered over the wall, landing gently on the two path, quickly he checked for approaching cyclists, joggers or swans before rushing to the edge of the canal wall and looking at the surface below.

Without the need for ropes he shot down the wall without a moments hesitation straight in to the murky water below and certain doom...

We both squeaked.

Really. Hand to mouth actual squeaking, my flatmate grabbed my arm as, let's face it, we both thought we knew what was going to happen next. This was not a good way to start the day. Drowned squirrel is, well, not cute.

Eating Nuts swam for a little bit... Oh. Before turning around and scampering back up the canal wall. Eh? We were stunned. He'd gone for a little swim. I'd been talking with my flatmate's mother the other evening and we'd talked about going for a dip in the canal to cool off. Which would be dangerous, she rightly pointed out, owing to the risk of Weil's disease, which, of course, comes from rats widdling in water.

But squirrels?

Eating Nuts then decided to show us how hard he was, he ran in to the middle of the road and scampered along defying any of the local ne'er do wells to run him down. As squirrels go he was out of control. We eventually lost sight of him as he slipped in to a bush and took a well earned rest.

Which brings us to the serious point.

We were trying to work out what on earth made out brave hero do something like this. Sure, he could have been going for a little early morning swim, but that feels unlikely. He may even have thought the surface looked solid enough to walk over to Silver Wharf, after all the canal cleaning boat hadn't been along yet. But in the end we decided he was probably just thirsty and desperate.

A tempting large body of water and a thirsty squirrel.

If it had been a dog or cat or psychopathic chicken killer (though I believe in town they are referred to as cute lovely foxy woxy) it would have been last thing they did as, let's face it, the Limehouse Cut has very steep sides and a good drop to the water. With no escape. Unless, like our hero, Eating Nuts, and rats, you can scale vertical, concrete, walls from a watery floating start.

So, maybe, what we need is the mammal equivalent of toad tunnels, a means for them to get down to the water to drink without the risk of possible death. As I write I've suddenly remembered something I saw a few weeks back, a cat, obviously dead, floating slowly, and rather sadly, down the canal. At the time I'd pondered about it having been hit by a car and dumped. But the more I think about it, the more I wonder whether, actually, it had simply been both thirsty and unlucky.

And as for the squirrel? I'm glad we both saw it as neither would have believed the other if we hadn't!

Drifting thoughts

Wanting
Needing
Profound

A touch
A scent
Whispered sound

Feeling
Seeing
A dream

As reality
Distorts
What is seen

The write stuff

It's not often that I read something that, in turn, makes me want to write. But I did today. The catalyst in this case being an article by the BBC regarding fountain pens and their apparent increase in use.

Those who know me well know I have a life long passion for using fountain pens, and contrary to the implication in the article, in my case it's definitely not an affectation. They are with me all the time. Not as a backup, or for show, but as my primary and, more often than not, sole writing implement. If I carry anything else it will be... A pencil.

Oh yes. All hail the Luddite!

My current day-to-day pen, an 18k nibbed Sonnet

But there's the paradox. I'm most definitely not a Luddite, almost by definition of what I do I embrace the bleeding edge of technology and then help push it a little further.

When it comes to making jotted notes, or expressing thoughts. Or even simply making a shopping list, it's the fountain pen I reach for.

As I work you will often see post-it notes attached around the bezels of my multiple monitors. Each of which has been written, by hand, with a fountain pen. A delicious mash of old and new technologies working hand in hand for the good of the new. Or something.

It really is as simple as I like writing with these pens. I love the softness, the option to add depth to my letter formation, the perfect weight distribution and... Not having to put pressure on the paper. I know I could get the latter with a more modern pen, but no, not for me.

And there are other benefits. The obvious one is they often look attractive. And they, or at least their use, will often trigger unexpected conversations in the strangest of places. Not to mention the perverse camaraderie amongst other aficionados. But for me the strangest benefit is the one I found by chance...

Many years ago I had to attend a business and technology meeting between the company I was then CTO of, a major broadcaster and a major technology company. We were definitely the minnows. Surprised they didn't just ask us to make the tea. Anyway. Like the dumb brunette I am, I managed to turn up with a dead pooter. A slight issue involving a bottle of Lucozade... I wasn't going to draw attention to myself and apologise for the fact that I'd not brought a laptop, so kept silent as I simply drew out my small leather filofax and a gorgeous lacquer Parker Sonnet...

...The meeting went well. In fact, if anything, better than well. When I spoke, people listened intently. As I closed the cap on my pen they would return to their laptops to add notes.

Eh?

I was the, apparently, the Luddite in the room, but wasn't having to fight to get my point across. How could that be? In the pub later I mentioned this to a colleague and his theory was simple. I looked serious, no distractions, and carried the authority of talking entirely from memory. Plus, they could check what I was saying and find it right. It was an interesting revelation. Less was, quite literally, more.

Oh.

Whatever the psychological mumbo-jumbo might be, which he did witter on about ad nauseum, I did find it interesting and from that day on felt much less self-concious about being the only one in a room using an old fashioned pen and making notes on paper.

And they really are lovely to write with.

Desperately seeking... Nothing

It's that time of year.

A time when I reflect on what I've achieved. Or. In my case. How much I've screwed things up still further since my last time round the sun. The big difference is when I had this conversation with myself last year I was in a cold room in Barnes. This year, I did it looking down on Limehouse Cut and watching the ripples go by. This year was nicer.

So, there I was, this morning, sitting on the Hell and Calamity line, as it should really be known, listening to Edith Piaf, and I got to ponder on the lyrics from La Vie en Rose. Her signature piece.

About half way through she has a short, spoken, monologue which is, roughly, thus:

I thought that love was just a word
They sang about in songs I heard
It took your kisses to reveal
That I was wrong and love is real

Yep. That.

Sadly, I discovered the reality of this, ooh, way to late. And there's the problem. I'm having difficulty moving on.  I admit it. I know it will happen eventually. I know that the reality is that hope long since faded to nothing. But I also know I can't even vaguely get interested in another person until I can, to use the phrase once more, move on.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not being maudlin. I'm being realistic. Taking a long hard look at myself, and it's not a pretty sight I can tell you, and realising that, actually, it's time to accept that maybe I need to aim for neutrality and nothingness before I can even hope to feel affection and, dare I say it, the L word.

The reality is though that it's unlikely to happen again. Why? Well, simply because I'm just not interested any more. And not being interested means I'm not going to look and I'm pretty certain that not looking will lead directly to not finding. Could be wrong. A good chance I'm not.

It's not negative though. I'm recognising this early. Accepting even. And working on what I can do to fill the void. Not that I've got any answers yet, but working on it has to be a good thing.

Yes?