Category Archives: Uncategorized

It has been a quiet weekend.  But not of my making.   I took my last call at about 8.30 pm and sent my last emails about an hour later.  A book called.  I took it and went to bed.
And the following morning I went briskly to check the telephone which sat, lights blazing, nobody home.  It was dead.   So I went to the computer, which lit up and took the print but there was no Internet connection.   Even people who have the latest and the best suffer this at sometime.  I was slightly put out by both playing up at the time but those are the breaks.
I consulted a neighbour who thought the batteries in the telephone might be at fault.  She gave me new ones but they were not rechargeable so
nothing happened.  I got the right batteries – no difference.  I went out to supper.  The following day I borrowed a phone to call my internet provider: no answer, cut off after 16 rings.  Nothing to do.
The hairdresser came on Monday and I borrowed her telephone to call Sean and say, “Help”.  He asked what was the matter, I told him and he said he’d be there
in a couple of hours.  When he arrived he said he didn’t know if he could fix it but he would try.  I made him a cup of tea.   He runs on tea. 

He says he doesn’t know what he did but the lights (once dimmed) came on again in some essential part of the machinery and suddenly we had lift off.  The telephone continued to sulk.  Sean is a radio person.  He has considerably more technical knowhow than I – no, wait.  That is misleading.  My friend’s new dog has considerably more technical know how than I.
Sean knows a great deal which he deprecates and he has long been around desks and screens and stuff.  He knows and I don’t.  He took the phone apart, cleaned it and said he thought something had leaked in it.  We waited.  He read, I sent emails.  The phone remained unchanged.  Sean looked up and said, “This is going nowhere.   You need a new phone.”
Shortly afterwards he pulled up a new model slightly cheaper than the old one and a back up for a fiver and announced we were going to Argos in Victoria.

We left the house, directed to a station I knew of but had never used. He said he thought he remembered where the Argos was and he was right.
He had brought the serial number of the new phone and we looked up the number of the stand-by in the catalogue.  I wrote the numbers down.
“Now” he said, “are you paying cash or card?”  “Card ” I said.  “Oh good” he said “then we can use the machine.”  Which he directed and I complied.
When we went to the counter, where a young woman put the boxes down in front of us, I told her “I am no longer an Argos virgin.”
Grinning, she said, “I hope that wasn’t too painful.”  “Painless” I said.  “So you might be back?”  I said I thought so, hoping not too soon.

When we left I asked Sean if I might please pay him, knowing how tight money is.  He refused.  I said “But I would have paid to be rescued.
Why can’t I pay you? ” “You can pay me in buns” he said (he has a sweet tooth).  I protested but he was determined and then on the way home he stopped and pointed.
The line of his finger led to a boxed Panettone, an Italian speciality left over from Christmas.  “Can we have that?”
I was already opening the shop door.  “Is this a frightful cheek?” he asked.  “No” I said.  “It’s called having what you want.  I am delighted.”
The proprietors were too.  So home we came, he set up the phone, I heated the oven to warm the cake and made tea.  And as we took our
first reflective bites, we agreed it was good and I said I had feared it might be dry.  He had had the same thought but it wasn’t.  So we sat, companionably
scoffing, till I wrapped up the last piece for his breakfast and he put the discarded unit into a separate bag to be disposed of in the electronics recycling facility near his home.

“How can I thank you?”  I asked.
He shrugged gently.  “What are friends for?”  

…I am the sheep!

It’s odd to bring up a child born in that place saying “we are not from here” but by the time I was born in Yorkshire, my parents (both southerners) had been there for years and their experience was that “others” were not easily accepted.   They made me expect not to be.  But like all children I have private memories of my childhood (as well as the shared family ones) and when I saw a new book entitled called Apple Tree Square (Louise Doughty, Faber& Faber) I saw only the first two syllables and I thought of Appletreewick.
During WWII my mother made friends with Mary and Cicely Waddington who drove the equivalent of HGVs to deliver whatever wherever, two women in men’s overalls pulled in tight at the waist, with all the trimmings – makeup, pretty hair, jewellery, high heels and perfume  – which announced unequivocally
“female and perfectly capable thank you.”   Later both married, Cicely to Jim, Mary to Walter.

I was born in 1944 as the war ended, sickly and pictures of me down the road of a lung shadow show why my parents worried.  They longed to get me away to the healing countryside, which is how I was invited to Appletreewick, where Mary and Walter lived.  I don’t remember getting there but my first sight of the original farm kitchen opens before my eyes as if it were yesterday.

It was a big square room you entered at the corner.  On the left was a window and sill sunk into a deep wall, covered with plants.  Beside this was a table and wooden chairs.  To the right was an open fire framed with a full set of kitchen regalia – trivets, hobs, hooks, bread ovens and meat ovens, beautifully blacked and in working order.  In front of this lay a red and black rag rug, reflected in the copper kettle.  A tall clocked ticked in the shadows and above my heads hung great bunches of lavender and other herbs, drying and things, wonderful things … There was a modern kitchen added at the left but I didn’t give it more than the time of day.  I remained fascinated by this room, its depth and shape and the focus of this wonderful factory of a fireplace.  Alone, I ran my hands respectfully over every bit I could reach.

I also remember that the lavatory was an Elsan in a hut across the yard and along the field.  The paper was Izal, which never knowingly dried anything, and I had to be dissuaded from sitting on the larger of the two openings with the risk of falling in.  There was a black and white collie called Chippy round whom I wrapped my arms in the back of the old jeep when we went to Grassington or Fancarl and we hiked to the side together as we went round corners, as if in a yacht. I watched a man drink milk from a cow’s teat and when he playfully spurted me with it, I was shocked to discover it was warm.  “Blood heat,” he said knowingly.   While another man, a householder down the road whose wife ran the sub-post office, handled with wary pride a fierce pungent creature, my first ferret, and bar the red eyes, remarkably redolent of Demi Moore.

Upstairs I discovered a green enamel hip bath and it was suggested that I might like my bath in it, in front of the fire.  I was seven or eight, with long coppery hair which was pinned up for me (oh the glamour) and pans of hot water were emptied unstintingly into this bath – only as an adult do I appreciate the effort.  I was transported, a queen with my own flannel and new soap.  There I sat in the warmth while the firelight flickered on the surfaces and the wind blew, Chippy sighed where he lay and the logs shifted and murmured.  For the rest of my life, luxury is an open fire in a bathroom and Appletreewick more than a small village in the Craven district of Yorkshire is an incantation to joy.

Sharon Stone has ugly feet.

Before you dismiss Ms. Stone as The Blonde or The Body or That Shot in Basic Instinct, see The Mighty directed by Peter Chelsom (1998).

She’s fab.  But not her feet.

She featured in a star sheet spread, usual thing, bikinis and ball gowns, but though immaculately planed and polished, the feet don’t have it.

I was fascinated.  I always am by the idea that if you do enough to an unfortunate feature, it is transformed through effort.  Like men draping long hair over the bald patch.   Doesn’t work.   But I notice feet.  Prevailing fashion holds that you have to have “beach feet” all year round, that not to, is to admit you haven’t tried (reflexology, massage, foot masks, etc) while the logical extension of trying so hard is achievement.  But feet are finite.  Strip sandals are an invention of the devil and only Tamsin Outhwaite has ever had the right feet for the right shoes and vice versa so I didn’t hear a word she said (sorry).  I couldn’t take my eyes off those feet in those shoes.  It was what it was supposed to be and in the last however long that naked feet with varnished toenails in sandals exposing as much as possible (a new nudity ?) have been in fashion – from couture to the Co-op – I have only seen it work half a dozen times.  My particular recoil is saved for slightly too long nails with pearlised polish and I am nothing like a foot fetishist.  I just wouldn’t score highly in the foot beauty awards.  Mine are just humbly plain.

My first husband called them umfazi feet.  He told me it’s a Shona (Zimbabwean language) word for woman.  I was a barefoot girl and as it says in one of my books about dance, dancers’ feet bear weight and barefoot dancers’ feet are hooves.   Under pressure to modify and conform, I attacked them with hard skin remover cream, too nervous to use one of the widely offered peelers or sanders.  Better.  I slapped cream on them.  It helped.  I have wonky toenails, no polish in the world becomes them.  I tried.  Twice.  Waste of everybody’s time and effort.  Clean, neat and think about something else.  No strip sandals, hate thongs.  Broad strap across the joint, sandal attached to foot.

25 years ago, arriving in Paris for a glamorous weekend with second husband, my left foot wasn’t comfortable.  Examination revealed something nasty in the woodshed between the smallest and the next toe.  I slipped shoes off at every opportunity and come Monday, went to see a chiropodist who reduced a soft infected corn to manageable proportions while trying to sell me on having the little toe broken and reset.  I declined.

For years the degree of discomfort caused by this small imperfection varied.  The best money I ever spent was with Bastien Gonzalez, foot man to the stars, a former skier, whose massage of the leg from knee to ankle and painstaking clean treatment of the foot really was as good as a week’s holiday.  In the sun.  And the after effects for three months.  Looked good, felt beautiful, lesion rested.

The only person who closed that lesion was Margaret Dabbs, former nurse retrained as podiatrist whose “medical pedicure” I found through The Independent.

But the product she used – an iodine based substance made for podiatrists called Ichthammol – is no longer manufactured.  And when I asked my current foot woman why, she answered “Because it is too cheap.  Not enough profit.”  I used surgical spirit every day between the toes after a shower.  Post-war child, I was used to nurses sponging their feet with it to refresh and toughen the skin.  Cleans white woodwork a treat too.

So – here’s what Santa put in my stocking.  It’s gone.   The soft corn I have had so long and whimpered over at intervals for years.  Gone.  I wear softer shoes and heaven interceded for me.

An odd girl I once visited at a Laingian refuge said I should try and make friends with my feet.  They worked hard for me.  I took them for granted, didn’t respect them and you can’t get far without them.   At the time I thought her remarks strange but time has proved her right.

You don’t have to flash feet about but you do have to take care of them.

We had a choir at school, first led by Mrs. Quinn and when she retired, Miss Pringle.  We sang madrigals, ballads, traditional airs and bits of classical music by, among others, Rimsky Korsakov and Mozart.

At Christmas there was a school carol service where we sang carols from all over the dominions which in the 1950s still coloured large swathes of our globes and maps the reddish pink of Empire.   The language divisions sang in French, German and Latin while the choir sang (among other things) arrangements of Benjamin Britten’s carol and The Song of the Nuns of Chester,

Music at home was dominated by all of us singing anything we could remember, usually in turn in the car, and the great bass voice of

Paul Robeson.  I had friends who studied piano and they played classical music but I had no great exposure to it other than the odd thing on the radio.  Which was just as well.  It unsettled me.

I used to say that, if you wanted to derange me, all you needed was a dark room and a set of classical recordings.  If they didn’t appeal to me, the conventions of theme and repetition set my teeth on edge.  If they moved me, they moved me so much, it was frightening.   The emotions they released were too big, great dark waves of feeling I didn’t understand.  So, for many years, I avoided classical music.

In autumn 2012, a friend asked me to go with him to a Sunday concert at the Wigmore Hall.  I hesitated but one of the great things about being older is how perceptions change, clear, alter, have different shapes like rocks emerging from water in new light.  And my friend said how much he enjoyed these concerts and he wanted to be able to share it with me.  Bless him.

It was an eye opener, with a string quartet.  We went back again some months later to hear a pianist (Itamar Golan) who changed every idea I ever had about classical piano.

Emboldened to try by myself, two years ago I watched the Vienna State Orchestra concert on New Year’s Day conducted by Daniel Barenboim.

And putting aside the fact that the music wasn’t to my taste, if you can make The Blue Danube rise new to the ears above all the times you have heard it churned out so that you see the river in different weather, its moods, its beauty and its power – thank you musicians, thank you Maestro.

Sometime last summer I saw that Barenboim was conducting Beethoven with his East/West Diwani Orchestra on BBC4 and I thought, well …  I could always switch off.

Instead, I sat in the dark and laughed and cried and watched his right hand lead me into sensing, feeling, understanding as I never had before.  The left hand did the tempo but the right hand was interpretive – and it was thrilling, being led into music.  I felt as if I had begun to read another language.

A famous British academic remarked that the world is full of readers and writers.  I am a reader.

It’s no good anyone telling you that you should or shouldn’t like a voice, and really falling in love with a voice, classical or otherwise, doesn’t happen very often but in dipping into a concert with Placido Domingo. I heard a voice.  I saw a well-made woman in green with no attempt to look like a starlet or a pop star, dress down, hair up, and what a voice !

I raced for pencil and paper and sat, rapt, till she finished, to get her name – Joyce DiDonato – which I promptly  Googled.  Since then I have heard her sing in the first full length opera I have been to for 20 years or more (don’t get excited I can’t afford opera tickets – I saw a cinema link between the Curzon and the Royal Opera House).  In the past I admired the skill, technique and the sheer strength needed to produce the sound: now I was watching a woman who made me believe she sang as naturally as she breathed.

It was exhilarating.

Music is very personal.  My taste is wide, or no taste, depending on your point of view!   In Greenwich Village when I was 19, we used to say the only thing wrong with folk music is the folk”.  There are sounds and shapes that move and excite and others that don’t even jar – they are meaningless.

The success of AA programme such as the one I watched on BBC4 about the development of classical music after WWI was the range of talking heads, composers, players, and the interested who communicated their interest.  It has always been true that your imagination can be caught by anything if the speaker speaks to you.

My ears are still where they were, on the side of my head, but open in a different way.

Putting the American use of the word to one side – implying all kinds of wildness, drink, drugs and sex – this is party time.

The pause between Christmas and New Year which used to symbolise some sort of return to normality is now seen as a brief sag immediately followed by a build up to a bigger head of steam. The gap before the big blow out has to be filled with something and what you can’t do with shopping, you do with hooley.

Pass.

I am repelled by parties. They frighten me.

When I was a child it was to do with looking as I did, thin, dark and aquiline, or as my father put it proudly “like a Hindi child.”

(Incidentally though the Oxford Dictionary says hooley is most Irish or NZ usage to describe a wild party, it also lists a similar sounding word (Hoolee) which is a Hindu spring festival and it would be typical of how language travels if it were of

Anglo-Indian derivation.)

I thought, as many do, that if I could just get the right clothes, I could pass.

It took me a couple of years to attain the long longed-for forget-me-not blue net with puff sleeves and my mother met my eyes in the glass.

“That does nothing for you” she said evenly – she knew I knew.

Belief in the transformational quality of wardrobe took a hard knock.

Wishing does not fix it.  You have to dress what you have.

When I was older (17 in London, 19 in New York) parties happened and I went to them, hiding in corners, finding somebody to talk to, being useful.

You Could Always Find Me In The Kitchen At Parties.

By then there were new varieties to be braved – drinks or cocktail parties: “any excuse for a” party: and “new clothes, make a hit” parties: plus more formal assemblies for 21st or graduation.  But none of it did anything for me.

I like to talk and you can’t make yourself heard at parties.

I’m a cheap drunk with a poor head and I don’t like a skinful with any but my closest.

Far from making me feel safe, the noise makes me feel threatened.  I want to know what it masks, what else is happening.

The manic gaiety doesn’t happen to me.

Twice in my life I have enjoyed big parties – where the food and drink came in good-natured waves, everyone talked, the music was low, turned up briefly for a dance and turned down again.

At one, I was thrilled to identify the South African anti-apartheid campaigner Ruth First – but not her husband Joe Slovo (later Mandela’s Minister of Information) whom I thought a charming Middle European Jew, always good for a natter, which is what we were doing sitting on the stairs, when she came up.

And  the other given by the William Morris Agency at a famous luxe Belgravia hotel was so beautifully catered and served, the experience of watching it happen was much more exciting than those who dressed the set.

And yesterday we had a party, all two of us, a dear friend and me with some good food and the prettiest table I could come up with.  Candles on, shutters shut.  Bottles of Prosecco (so much more digestible than any other bubbly), gifts – we hadn’t seen each other before Christmas, shouts of delight, trying on, more laughter: wicked bitchery – we have kept each other’s’ confidences for 25 years.

But mostly giggling, carefree laughter, she wandering back and forth worrying about me locking the back door, me with a recalcitrant bottle wedged between lace-covered thighs while I wrestled the second stopper into submission.

On Sunday I picked up the paper and there is sodden youth.  I am sure there is sodden every kind of age but youth is in the spotlight because of the enormous rise in diabetes (sugar in alcohol) and liver disease among the hard drinking young.

And I bet most of them don’t have a job or an aim or much hope for the future.

Managing them costs a fortune, drives the rest of us off the street and must exhaust the already stretched emergency services.

Makes a nice word like party into an obscenity.

Bear Street and Gin Lane by William Hogarth – he drew, we snap – familiar?

If you don’t like Christmas, don’t subscribe.  You can choose.

Is that why so many people don’t?

Because you could sue (if you could find out who) about what Christmas has become, under the Trades Descriptions Act.

It is no longer to do with the birthday of the Christ or even (often) the applied values of Christianity like comfort, joy, peace, kindness, family and generosity, to name a few.

It is about merchandising.

The carols have yielded to endless reruns of elderly ballads and Saint Nicholas, patron saint of children, has morphed into Father Christmas or better still Santa Claus, father being rather a loaded term.   And if there is a god involved, it’s Mammon – dictionary definition “riches, avarice and worldly gain personified as a false god.”

Of course there are still those happy people who give friendly drinks and dinner parties, families delighted to rally, happy relaxed children of every age.

Acts of kindness are valuable and moving.  Loneliness is a problem to those it bothers but like stress, it has a positive side.

My favourite seasonal tweet so far says “Christmas food reinvented – organic, vegan – and lots of gin!” though often the drinking motif means we have gone from a bit to a bonanza, methodically slurping through several days – wine, cocktails, anything in a coloured bottle including morphine enriched cough linctus.

So let me speak up for the 25th.

Yule is a very old festival, long predating Christianity and in Northern Europe, it celebrates the darkest point before the slow rise towards a new spring which may be long in coming.  As a child, my Christmases were unburdened by religious belief but inclined to the spiritual because my parents were, and we all loved stories.

My parents married on Christmas Eve.

On Christmas Day when I was 12, my sister’s fiancé was killed in a plane crash.

I have never not had a lovely Christmas, I suppose because I commit to it.

I do whatever bit of titivating I am going to do to the house, I light candles (to see us through the darkness I mentioned), I forget the clock, I look at the garden and if I am lucky, I listen to a cherished silence so dense it has a sound of its own, depending on the weather and the fact that everybody else has gone away.

In December this year I spoke on the radio about the happy birth of any baby symbolising hope and that started me thinking about the components of the story, the supporting roles if you like – the shepherds and the Three Wise Men, the angels and in the old British tradition, the animals having the gift of speech for the night of Christmas Eve, the woman and her husband chosen as guardians.

My favourite Christmas poems are The Sheepdog by UA Fanthorpe, about the angels appearing to the shepherds from the point of view of a collie, and Prayer for a New Mother by Dorothy Parker in which Mary is allowed to enjoy the birth of her son.

I would cast as shepherds Kevin whose wife is terribly ill, who sells organic produce in one of the markets I frequent and David the window cleaner, his wife Lynn and their sons: they constitute simple warmth and grace in a busy tough world.

I have endless Magi, wise men (usually women) with gifts, Lala’s coat, Di’s hat, Daisy’s daisies, Slad’s pearls – and the unending gift of friendship.

My Mary is a Semitic Grace Kelly.

Joseph is in my memory, gone but not forgotten, my father, the lawyer Sir David Naply, Lee and Stacey who had an inspiring life partnership and shared everything they learned.

My ox is a Staffordshire bull terrier called Rico whom I met in the dark outside the convenience store, where (once his boss had introduced us)

I was allowed to caress his apple head while he pranced and smiled.

And my ass is every beautiful horse and mule including Joey in War Horse.

There is a tall gardener in the Pimlico Farmers ‘ Market called Rosalind from whom I bought a wreath, half a dried oak branch complete with acorns, some fir and holly, and that says it all:  some will go, some will stay.

Try again tomorrow.

The Times Magazine (8.12.2013) ran a piece entitled How to Have Sex on the Radio, featuring those artists who arrange sound effects for radio  – a rare small tribe who break sounds into separate syllables and reassemble an impression from unlikely things like wet tea  towels (as referenced above), melons (soft human tissue) and the tinkling of small light bulbs (ice cubes).  Not a clopping coconut shell in earshot.   

It’s not that I don’t like TV. It’s just that I love radio.  And in keeping with my favourite law of paradox, radio gives you less to work with and thus gives you more.  You can travel mightily between your temples. 

While sorting out the contents of Uncle Henry’s blanket box (one of my storage chests) I looked at the pile of tapes and cassettes and it leered back at me.  I couldn’t use them in that form and, technology being what it is, I didn’t think anybody else would either.

I rang Sean who is knowledgeable about these things.  “Where” I asked “can I get old master tapes converted into DVDs?”

“Not sure” he said.  “You need someone with radio equipment.  Let me think about it.”  And by the end of the conversation he had.  “NSA” he said.  Excuse me?

“The National Sound Archive.”  I blushed.  News to me.

“Write to them” he said.  “You’re a broadcaster in good standing.  They will want you to donate the originals but they will make the DVDs for you.”

I looked up the National Sound Archive, still shamefaced and thinking that, if I didn’t know about them, a lot of other people probably didn’t either.  I emailed to introduce myself and outlined what I sought.  A reply came back as fast as one of those zinging change machines that used to be rigged between the counters and the cashiers in old department stores.

Would I ring…?  I rang.

We made an arrangement to meet.

The National Sound Archive is on the lower floor of the British Library, one of the few modern buildings with heart, soul and shape. 

Paul Wilson came to meet me and for once in my life I took everything with me that might be relevant – interviews from campus radio here and in the States when I was working for Forum: various interview of me including about an early memoir and a first novel: interviews

I ran with all sorts of interesting people: a London Transport commercial: two of the long ago programmes with which I began at Capital

Radio and where I worked for 14 years: and so on. I didn’t take so much that I felt I was imposing, nor so little that I risked wasting the curator’s time.  We listed and discussed everything and then I offered a cassette i described as “the bribe” – an interview with the now dead US novelist James Baldwin who was black and gay, a delightful companion and a great writer.  It has never been played.  I recorded it to try and write an interview for a magazine whose editor thought I had a future.

It was beyond my abilities to render that extraordinarily distinctive voice into print.  “But he is enjoying a renaissance now”

I ended “so I thought you might like it.”  It is now on the NSA website.  

And I am the Anna Raeburn Collection.

In spite of the explosion of media of every kind, there are about 600 radio stations, BBC national and local, independent and community, and radio audience figures are still very impressive. 

Only the BBC has any formal requirement to archive so that the image of yesterday’s papers wrapping today’s fish and chips is carried over into the ephemera of sound. Heaven knows, the standard of some of it is so truly awful that you wouldn’t want to listen to it, let alone keep it for the ages, but a local radio station covering the building of an important bridge and how that effects communications and surrounding, or the impact of a change in industry on local employment, the surrounding community and its life – that’s oral history.

Not (to be) sneered at.

NSA.

Kismet was the gloriously over the top Hollywood musical my mother took me to see when I was about 12. Music and songs

had been added  to a successful Broadway script which borrowed freely from the Thousand and One Nights, stories Scheherazade told the Sultan stopping just before dawn each day with a cliff-hanger, so he had to keep her alive for one more day. This collection of very old stories from all over the Middle East was rendered into the English under the title of The Arabian Nights’ Entertainment in the eighteenth century.

All I can remember about the film is noise and colour, uncritically accepted costumes and that familiar feeling that everybody else knew something about this I didn’t know, whether it was history, geography or sex. It was later that I learned that kismet meant fate.

I loved the idea of talking for your living and I just about did. Independent radio in which I spent many years had a maxim about avoiding any pause – it was called “dead air”. But the truth is I always talked.

One of my earliest memories of my mother is the sound of her voice from way above her apron strings saying, “Will do you something for me?”

“Yes Mummy?”

“Shut up.” I was already drawing breath to ask why.

“Please” she went on, “Just for a minute. I can’t hear myself think.”

But beyond that I was ill a good deal and she encouraged me to talk and observe and think, once saying (never to be forgotten) that she wanted me to be able to talk myself in and out of anything.

Occasionally, as I contemplate a whole bus full of people not looking at each other but prodding plastic boxes, or realise it is no good making a good-natured remark in passing to some hardworking young man or woman who is plugged in with both ears and can hear nothing very much over and above that, I wonder if conversation isn’t a dying art, threatened by the pace of life and the insidious nature of handy technology.

Most people like exchange.

And “busmet” is a joke, a play on words.  It may be fate (kismet) but I meet people on big red buses.

This particular morning I meet a woman with a face shaped like a filbert, white skin, black hair and very pretty earrings. I notice earrings.

At a given point in time, she drew on her gloves, turned slightly and caught my admiring eye.

I remark on her earrings.

“Thank you” she said. “Mama had them made for my 50th.” Note: mama – not mamarr – two equal syllables.  Radio hones the ears.

I asked where she was from. She said Southern Russia and we went through those phrases again and three times, till I said

“Listen, there is a lot of Southern Russia, it’s big.  Tell me a town …”

She hesitated and said “Rostov”.

I said “Sure.  Rostov on the Don.”

She looked at me, taken aback, “You know Rostov?”

“No, no” I said,  “The book -”

Mayakovsky – a story is more powerful than the Tsar

“You read Sholokov?” I may have read it but she can pronounce his name.

I nod, yes. She beams.

“Why do you know Russia?”

I don’t want to close this conversational opening so I explain that I am interested, fascinated by certain aspects of Russia – for example, I tell her about the Redstone diary with illustrations from children’s books in 1930s Russia and the slogan I copied into my notebook – “a story is more powerful than the Tsar”.

I have chosen something safe – she can talk to me – you must think what might be unsafe for other people. She begins to speak about her parents in that way that you do, even to a stranger, when you are comfortable, when you feel somebody is listening.  Her father is from Ukraine but not Ukrainian (I have read this kind of distinction but never heard it said before) and her mother’s family are from Kazakhstan a long time ago, Kazakhstan with the ancient shapes of animals and the new museums, only possible when it seceded from the Soviet Eastern Empire.

“You know this?” she asked me. ”People do not understand, we are many countries, quite different one from another.”

So I remark that this was one of the difficulties the great dancer Nureyev had in the West: we would describe him as Russian and he would insist “Tartar.”

“Like mama” she nodded.  “They give her a food she does not like too heavy, too -” we find the word together “too greasy and she says – I cannot eat this.

I am Tartar.”  And we say (she meant the family I think) – Mamma, please – so long ago.  Don’t fuss.  Silly!   But she insists.”

The bus stop looms.  Without saying we know we shared a moment, a moment when somebody on a London bus recognised the name of her home town.

Who knows what else is forgotten?

We shake hands.  She pats my shoulder and disappears into the crowd.

Kismet/busmet.

Every so often London comes to a halt.

Sometimes, this is because of a demonstration or a march but more often, there is an accident or an incident that requires roads sealed off and numbers of police.  Traffic flow is impeded for miles.  Of course you can’t tell when this is going to happen so you just leave home as usual, with some time in hand, and hope for the best.

Where I live, local bus services are frequent but this morning, there was nothing for ages so

I got on the first bus that came, thinking it would take me at least the first stage of the journey.

I had an appointment with a cherished eye surgeon and I don’t like being late for anybody.

Traffic flow was treacly but eventually we got to Sloane Square where there are usually taxis and that was now the only way.

Four of us queued.  Taxis still honour the queue, it is long gone at the bus stand.

Two sped away, leaving me and another woman behind me with a small child.

After several minutes, two taxis began to move ponderously through the square towards the rank.  Two men appeared some distance away and signalled the first cab.

I called “Excuse me, there’s a queue.”   They continued towards the cab.

“There is a queue” I said again, to which the older man did the “go away dear” flap and said

“Oh chill.  Just keep your shirt on.  What are you getting so excited about?  Just relax …”

Like a version of “she didn’t say no” that makes it consensual?   Sort of “shut up and let me do as I wish”?  The driver pulled up beside me and, as I got in, the speaker went on

“The trouble with you, love, is you’re old – old and ugly …”

I said I’d rather be me than him, shut the door and we drove off.

It was the first time I have directly experienced “old” as a supposed insult.

But we all get old.

The driver said he hated getting old.  Everything creaks and he has to have glasses.

He has had a great deal of trouble getting used to remembering that he needs them – “Not ideal if you drive” he said.  I sympathised with having to remember things but I have worn glasses since I was quite young and I’m used to them.

While he was talking, I reflected that there are days when I feel 100 but quite a lot when I don’t think about age at all, still others when I am very glad I am the age I am.

God help the young, my life seems to have been a great deal easier.

In my younger life, I couldn’t be older quick enough.  I was fired at 19 for deceiving a company into giving me a job advertised for somebody over 21.  I thought if I did well, they would forgive me.

But they felt that one untruth might well lead to another, and I was given my cards.

I never lied about my age for good or ill ever again.  It wasn’t worth it.

And the first time anybody threw my older age in my face I was 40.

I was fond of 40, 40 was my 21, the best I have ever looked or felt.  Not because I starved or struggled but because life was good and it suited me.

We lived in a flat in Hampstead and five young men rented the one above us, where they had a party of such wildness that the cistern broke and there was a flood which brought down part of a ceiling.

Neighbours called the police. What they did not realise was that my then husband did business with the bank that employed them. The bank required them to apologise.  Four out of five managed it in two lots of two but the fifth looked me square in the face and said “It’s just a difference of generation.”

I told him that I had worked and paid tax in his country when I was younger than him and that the notion of a generation gap in this context was simply an evasion.  He behaved like a jerk, I didn’t.  No age limit on jerks.

I wish I had thought faster when that man had a go at me in Sloane Square.  That’s the only thing I regret about age, that one is not always as fast as one used to be, in mind, mouth, hand or foot. That or I wish I had been a Marine top sergeant with a hand like ham and boxed my verbal assailant’s charmless ears.