....because rather than posting my christmas cards (which, despite Wonderful Man's protestations, WE ARE SENDING THIS YEAR), I've been to the post office to post my application to study my next uni course.
Shakespeare: Text and Performance.
I'm so excited!
It starts in February, and we will be studying nine of Shakespeare's plays. Eight of which I've read and know well! It will be like welcoming old friends back.
Years and years ago, I studied drama in Shakespeare's hometown of Stratford upon Avon. Wonderful fun, and as a finale we were allowed to tread the boards of the mighty RSC (now re-done and even more spankingly brilliant) in a set of performances of bits of Shakespeare plays.
We also did our own plays, including Agamemnon, combining the floral Aeschylus version with the raw, brutal Steven Berkoff re-write. I remember particularly clearly one scene, with my parents in the front row. I was playing the part of Clytemnestra, Agamemnon's wife. Agamemnon angered the goddess Artemis who stopped his boats from sailing so, to appease her, he sacrifices their daughter, Iphigenia in a particularly bloody scene. As she lay on the sacrificial stone, I was to do a soliloquy over her body, while a bucket of fake blood (a mix of coffee, beetroot juice, red food colouring, water and flour) poured over the top of both of us. Very suitably gory and Carrie-like (I think that's where we got the idea).
What I didn't realise was that I was performing, as were all the cast, in a thin white cotton dress. And what happens to thin white cotton dresses when they are drenched? You got it.
Suffice to say, when I looked up from my soliloquy, dripping, into the front row, my parents' faces were, to say the least, a bit shocked. Afterwards, buzzing with adrenaline after a good performance, and red raw from scrubbing off all the stage blood (BOY does that stuff stain if you don't scrub it off quickly) I asked them what they thought.
"Lovely darling, simply lovely!" gushed my wonderful mother, a huge smile on her face.
"Umm, yes, well. Very good. Quite." said my father.
Now of course, these days, this kind of thing doesn't matter. I watched a wonderful version of King Lear with full frontal nudity from no less than Ian Holm. And who hasn't seen Daniel Radcliffe (aka Harry Potter) prancing around on stage in Equus with his bits dangling around?
But back in 1994, when "woman-shows-ankle-to-chimney-sweep-shock" was a regular headline, I certainly turned heads. Needless to say, I have no theatrical aspirations with this new course.
And even if I did, I doubt my father would allow it.
Wednesday, 22 December 2010
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
Malawi dreamings
Tomorrow I jump on a plane for Malawi, the first time since 2007. I can't wait.
A tiny scrap of a country in the grand scheme of things, Malawi has the biggest heart. And an enormous, freshwater, sparklingly clear lake. Into which I will leap, and splash and snorkel, finding all the brightly coloured little fish who swim up to my mask, blowing kisses through the water. Last time, I celebrated my birthday on the beach, eating freshly caught chambo fish in the middle of a circle of baobabs, the crescent moon above. And the next day we dived, deeper than I have ever dived before, circumnavigating a tiny island, exploring the drop-offs, swimming through boulder-encrusted tunnels, peering into cracks to find enormous, silky-black barbel fish with their wide staring eyes. I glanced at my depth gauge at one stage and we were just below twenty-eight metres, the surface of the water too far to be seen. Amazing.
But this time I probably won't dive, I'm not sure if there will be time as it's a whistle-stop tour. There will be time for snorkelling, I'm told - in the shallows, the water so clear it's almost not there, and little shiny cichlids darting through the blue.
We're also heading up to the north, the wild Nyika Plateau - seven thousand feet above sea level, like the remote places of Scotland with wildlife - herds of eland and zebra, and the occasional leopard hiding amongst the rocky kopjes. But it's the scent of Nyika which brings me right back - the whole plateau is dotted with pine forests which, in the early evening, cascade their fresh, greeny scent downwards. Utterly evocative, the first time I visited I filled the bottom of my suitcase with fallen pineneedles, wanting to take the scent home with me. To this day, there is a faint aroma of the pines when I open my suitcase. Nyika is so changeable that even in October, the hottest month in Malawi, up on the plateau the fires are still lit.
So until my return, may all your days be scented with pine needles, and all your nights be painted with firelight.
A tiny scrap of a country in the grand scheme of things, Malawi has the biggest heart. And an enormous, freshwater, sparklingly clear lake. Into which I will leap, and splash and snorkel, finding all the brightly coloured little fish who swim up to my mask, blowing kisses through the water. Last time, I celebrated my birthday on the beach, eating freshly caught chambo fish in the middle of a circle of baobabs, the crescent moon above. And the next day we dived, deeper than I have ever dived before, circumnavigating a tiny island, exploring the drop-offs, swimming through boulder-encrusted tunnels, peering into cracks to find enormous, silky-black barbel fish with their wide staring eyes. I glanced at my depth gauge at one stage and we were just below twenty-eight metres, the surface of the water too far to be seen. Amazing.
But this time I probably won't dive, I'm not sure if there will be time as it's a whistle-stop tour. There will be time for snorkelling, I'm told - in the shallows, the water so clear it's almost not there, and little shiny cichlids darting through the blue.
We're also heading up to the north, the wild Nyika Plateau - seven thousand feet above sea level, like the remote places of Scotland with wildlife - herds of eland and zebra, and the occasional leopard hiding amongst the rocky kopjes. But it's the scent of Nyika which brings me right back - the whole plateau is dotted with pine forests which, in the early evening, cascade their fresh, greeny scent downwards. Utterly evocative, the first time I visited I filled the bottom of my suitcase with fallen pineneedles, wanting to take the scent home with me. To this day, there is a faint aroma of the pines when I open my suitcase. Nyika is so changeable that even in October, the hottest month in Malawi, up on the plateau the fires are still lit.
So until my return, may all your days be scented with pine needles, and all your nights be painted with firelight.
Monday, 18 October 2010
My new favourite bird is a Puffin
I think it's fair to say I've seen a good number of birds in my time. Everything from the sparkly, flying jewels that are white-fronted bee-eaters, to the hunched undertaker shapes of vultures, to the amazing sight (and sound...and smell!) of well over one thousand yellow-billed storks at their nesting site. Even the aptly named Shoebill, which resides in a boggy swampland in northern Zambia and is the holy grail of many birders. Okay, okay, admittedly we saw it from two hundred yards away and at the first sight of us it took off and circled before disappearing into the beyond. But I saw it. Okay? I honestly did. Doesn't matter if it was nothing but a grey dot, I saw it. Not that I'm being definite about this, mind. But I SAW IT.
Anyway - I have seen lots and lots of birds on my various travels round the world.
But it took a four hour drive, followed by a ten minute boat ride, to really make me fall in love. Let me explain.
The teeny tiny island of Skomer is right on the southernmost, westernmost coast of Wales. Wonderful Man and I, given we were both on Gardening Leave (but let's not talk about Gardening Leave), had decided to take a trip - and he was desperate to show me the puffins. "You'll love them, Dills, honestly. They're the most brilliant birds ever." Really? Brillianter than a fish eagle in flight, than a Pel's fishing owl in mid-screech, than the iridescent shininess of a sunbird? Well, in a word, yes. They were.
We drove down to Wales in my stuttering Optimus Prime (more on his demise later) and stayed at a lovely bed and breakfast surrounded by fields of sheep. The village where we stayed, Marloes, had one pub, one restaurant, one church and was only four miles away from Martin's Haven, from where the boats departed.
And so it was that we found ourselves, queuing with a lot of other visitors brandishing binoculars and cameras, waiting to get on to the little fishing boat which would take us across to Skomer. I was a tad nervous. I'm not good at travel in boats or in planes at the best of times and the boat looked really quite small. Rather like a volkswagen beetle with a rudder. Wonderful Man was, well, wonderful, and kept reassuring me that we weren't going to hit rocks and sink, or tip over with the waves, that it was a lovely flat calm sea and that I'd really enjoy the ride. My fingernail marks in his hands slowly faded.
Off we set, put-putting our way out to the island, and, as he nearly always is, Wonderful Man was right. The ride was smooth and only took ten minutes. We walked up about ten million steps and were then let loose on Skomer. What an amazing place.
Criss-crossed by pathways, with a wild and desolate look, the island has no trees and is tiny, walkable in two hours. We set off for the far side, where we'd been told there was a puffin wheel. A puffin wheel? Yes, indeed. A puffin wheel is a formation of puffins in the sky, as they come in to land - much like the planes that circle London as they wait their turn to land at Heathrow.
The sight of a puffin landing is utterly comical. Let me try and describe it. In comes your puffin, looking rather streamlined, with his wings back. And then all of sudden, his wings flap out, his bright red feet shoot out to the side, and he lands, or rather tumbles over end upon end before coming to an undignified stop in a bit of a heap. He then gets up, shakes himself down as if to say "I meant to do that" and waddles off. Yes, waddles. That's another thing that they do.
I had positioned myself on the path, very close to the burrows that the puffins live in. Very quietly and carefully I'd found a burrow which had a puffin in it. Every few seconds, he'd emerge, fix me with a beady eye, and waddle off to a tump which had a bit of nesting material on it. He'd gather up a bit in his beak, and then make his way back into the burrow. Each time bending down to make sure he didn't bump his head. And each time he went back into his burrow I'd move forward a few inches. Out he'd come again (mind your head now) and fix me with a look, before gathering fluff again and disappearing back. I have to say it was utterly mesmerising. I couldn't keep my eyes off him. So much so that I sat there for nearly two hours. Never mind that the puffin probably had so much nesting material in his nest that he'd never see the back of it, but I was utterly transfixed. So much so that when Wonderful Man, fresh from taking approximately 500 photographs, gently suggested that we move away and have our packed lunch, I had to be prised off the path.
We then moved to a different area called The Wick, a massive, almost sheer cliff dotted with nesting seabirds - we saw manx shearwaters, razorbills, fulmars, kittiwakes and guillemots in incredible numbers - the fulmars with their bright white heads peeking out like chinks of light in the rock. Around the Wick there is a natural amphitheatre of curving rock which drops almost vertically down to the sea, creating a closely walled inlet, from where the puffins rise like phoenixes before coming in to land. It's an incredible sight.
And to make it even more beautiful, May, when we visited, is bluebell time. Swathes of blue and purple greeted us as we made our way on the little paths that criss-cross the island (to keep us away from the puffin burrows. Puffins don't like it when a hiking-booted foot descends into their burrows so the rule is enforced strictly to keep to the paths.)
Each corner we turned, there was something else to see - from the puffin wheel to the great black-backed gulls, each the size of a Tower of London raven. We had to be careful around these as they had a habit, a la Hitchcock's The Birds, of swooping down and pecking. The trick is to hold something above your head that you don't mind them having a go at. Hence one corner of Skomer Island is perpetually full of walkers holding newspapers, maps, rucksacks and even hats on walking sticks above their heads. And I thought the sight of a puffin coming in to land was funny!
If you have any sort of interest at all in birds, birding, the natural world or just looking at lovely things, visit Skomer Island. You'll leave with a huge smile on your face (and probably a bit of bird poo on your shoulder).
Anyway - I have seen lots and lots of birds on my various travels round the world.
But it took a four hour drive, followed by a ten minute boat ride, to really make me fall in love. Let me explain.
The teeny tiny island of Skomer is right on the southernmost, westernmost coast of Wales. Wonderful Man and I, given we were both on Gardening Leave (but let's not talk about Gardening Leave), had decided to take a trip - and he was desperate to show me the puffins. "You'll love them, Dills, honestly. They're the most brilliant birds ever." Really? Brillianter than a fish eagle in flight, than a Pel's fishing owl in mid-screech, than the iridescent shininess of a sunbird? Well, in a word, yes. They were.
We drove down to Wales in my stuttering Optimus Prime (more on his demise later) and stayed at a lovely bed and breakfast surrounded by fields of sheep. The village where we stayed, Marloes, had one pub, one restaurant, one church and was only four miles away from Martin's Haven, from where the boats departed.
And so it was that we found ourselves, queuing with a lot of other visitors brandishing binoculars and cameras, waiting to get on to the little fishing boat which would take us across to Skomer. I was a tad nervous. I'm not good at travel in boats or in planes at the best of times and the boat looked really quite small. Rather like a volkswagen beetle with a rudder. Wonderful Man was, well, wonderful, and kept reassuring me that we weren't going to hit rocks and sink, or tip over with the waves, that it was a lovely flat calm sea and that I'd really enjoy the ride. My fingernail marks in his hands slowly faded.
Off we set, put-putting our way out to the island, and, as he nearly always is, Wonderful Man was right. The ride was smooth and only took ten minutes. We walked up about ten million steps and were then let loose on Skomer. What an amazing place.
Criss-crossed by pathways, with a wild and desolate look, the island has no trees and is tiny, walkable in two hours. We set off for the far side, where we'd been told there was a puffin wheel. A puffin wheel? Yes, indeed. A puffin wheel is a formation of puffins in the sky, as they come in to land - much like the planes that circle London as they wait their turn to land at Heathrow.
The sight of a puffin landing is utterly comical. Let me try and describe it. In comes your puffin, looking rather streamlined, with his wings back. And then all of sudden, his wings flap out, his bright red feet shoot out to the side, and he lands, or rather tumbles over end upon end before coming to an undignified stop in a bit of a heap. He then gets up, shakes himself down as if to say "I meant to do that" and waddles off. Yes, waddles. That's another thing that they do.
I had positioned myself on the path, very close to the burrows that the puffins live in. Very quietly and carefully I'd found a burrow which had a puffin in it. Every few seconds, he'd emerge, fix me with a beady eye, and waddle off to a tump which had a bit of nesting material on it. He'd gather up a bit in his beak, and then make his way back into the burrow. Each time bending down to make sure he didn't bump his head. And each time he went back into his burrow I'd move forward a few inches. Out he'd come again (mind your head now) and fix me with a look, before gathering fluff again and disappearing back. I have to say it was utterly mesmerising. I couldn't keep my eyes off him. So much so that I sat there for nearly two hours. Never mind that the puffin probably had so much nesting material in his nest that he'd never see the back of it, but I was utterly transfixed. So much so that when Wonderful Man, fresh from taking approximately 500 photographs, gently suggested that we move away and have our packed lunch, I had to be prised off the path.
We then moved to a different area called The Wick, a massive, almost sheer cliff dotted with nesting seabirds - we saw manx shearwaters, razorbills, fulmars, kittiwakes and guillemots in incredible numbers - the fulmars with their bright white heads peeking out like chinks of light in the rock. Around the Wick there is a natural amphitheatre of curving rock which drops almost vertically down to the sea, creating a closely walled inlet, from where the puffins rise like phoenixes before coming in to land. It's an incredible sight.
And to make it even more beautiful, May, when we visited, is bluebell time. Swathes of blue and purple greeted us as we made our way on the little paths that criss-cross the island (to keep us away from the puffin burrows. Puffins don't like it when a hiking-booted foot descends into their burrows so the rule is enforced strictly to keep to the paths.)
Each corner we turned, there was something else to see - from the puffin wheel to the great black-backed gulls, each the size of a Tower of London raven. We had to be careful around these as they had a habit, a la Hitchcock's The Birds, of swooping down and pecking. The trick is to hold something above your head that you don't mind them having a go at. Hence one corner of Skomer Island is perpetually full of walkers holding newspapers, maps, rucksacks and even hats on walking sticks above their heads. And I thought the sight of a puffin coming in to land was funny!
If you have any sort of interest at all in birds, birding, the natural world or just looking at lovely things, visit Skomer Island. You'll leave with a huge smile on your face (and probably a bit of bird poo on your shoulder).
Saturday, 16 October 2010
Who has hijacked my blog?
Hello dear readers -
A plea to all of you - if anyone knows how to get rid of the twitter feed which seems, mysteriously, to have appeared at the top of my blog from someone called Dilly who is based in Singapore, please let me know.
And Dilly from Singapore, if you're reading this - remove your twitter feed from my blog!
Thank you.
A plea to all of you - if anyone knows how to get rid of the twitter feed which seems, mysteriously, to have appeared at the top of my blog from someone called Dilly who is based in Singapore, please let me know.
And Dilly from Singapore, if you're reading this - remove your twitter feed from my blog!
Thank you.
Friday, 28 May 2010
Fancy a spot of gardening?
Now, I’d always thought that gardening meant spending time in one’s garden, on one’s knees, trowel in hand, planting little bulbs, spreading compost, digging up things, dead-heading roses, watering, mowing, hoeing, spreading, fertilising and the like.
But apparently not!
I have just been put on “Gardening Leave”. Which is to say, that I have resigned from my job and because I’m skipping off merrily into the arms of a competitor, I’ve been asked to leave.
I have to say, I do understand the reasoning behind it. Wonderful Man, when he bravely left his advertising job to set up a photography business, was put on gardening leave of three months. And I have spoken to friends in the City who say it’s a regular occurrence. Apparently it’s because when you resign, if you’re going to a competitor, then there’s a good chance that you’ll be very naughty indeed and start to pinch paper clips. Or even staples. Tut tut! So instead of giving you the chance of pinching paper clips (or even, damn you to hell, staples), you’re – very politely but firmly – asked to “please remove all personal articles from your desk and vacate the premises forthwith. And don’t try and nick any staples on the way out, because we’re watching you”.
So off I went! With a bit of a lump in my throat, I have to confess. For no matter how excited you are about your next career, it’s always sad to leave your last one. Especially after five years. But onwards and upwards, as Amelia Earhart used to say.
And of course, during gardening leave I’m not allowed to say anything about gardening leave. Rule Number One with Gardening Leave: You Never Talk About Gardening Leave. Rule Number Two: You Never Talk About Gardening Leave. Rule Number Three: You Never…well, you get the picture. With apologies to Fight Club. Hence the reason this is all a few months late. I didn’t want to be taken outside and lined up in front of a firing squad for Talking About Gardening Leave.
But believe it or not, I have actually been doing some gardening! Really, truly and honestly! You see, even though I have a windowbox as a garden, Wonderful Man has A Garden. Well, I say that now because you can actually see it now. But when I started, you couldn’t. Honestly. In order to reveal his garden, I (we) donned protective gloves and armed ourselves with secateurs, and cut down an army of brambles. Some of them were higher than me! But as we clipped, chopped, snipped, yanked, ripped and decimated these mighty Lords of Luna, a garden appeared. Little trophies, long since hidden, started to present themselves like jewels. A michaelmas daisy here, a hawthorn there, a budleia in the corner, and right in the middle, an amber bush. Too pretty.
We also revealed a pond! Albeit a very cloggy one filled with very large, smooth stones. Now, before I tell you this story (which isn't for the fainthearted) I should explain that Wonderful Man's garden backs onto a railway track. So you can imagine the shocked faces of the commuters to see me, clad in t-shirt and shorts, up to my thighs in the garden pond, lugging stones out. 'Twas a sight to behold. Wonderful Man popped open a beer and sat back to enjoy the view, and as for me, I got rather into it! By the time I had finished, three commuters had had minor turns and I'd evacuated a pile of stones the size of a mini. But the pond was clear! If a little shallower than it had been.
So now it's garden planning. Being a keen and recent devotee of The Good Life, and a huge fan of Hugh Hairy-Marketstall, and wanting to grow everything good to eat, I drove a hard bargain. Hence the left hand side and half of the back flowerbed will be turned over to rosy tomatoes, spinach, runner beans, sweetcorn, apples, strawberries, gooseberries, rhubarb, you name it I'll grow it. And the rest will be wildflowers, a butterfly haven.
Now....we haven't actually started planting yet. But we will. As soon as we've had a nice sit down on the deckchairs and poured ourselves a long, cool drink. Ahhhhhhh....the life of a gardener. Does it get any better than this?
But apparently not!
I have just been put on “Gardening Leave”. Which is to say, that I have resigned from my job and because I’m skipping off merrily into the arms of a competitor, I’ve been asked to leave.
I have to say, I do understand the reasoning behind it. Wonderful Man, when he bravely left his advertising job to set up a photography business, was put on gardening leave of three months. And I have spoken to friends in the City who say it’s a regular occurrence. Apparently it’s because when you resign, if you’re going to a competitor, then there’s a good chance that you’ll be very naughty indeed and start to pinch paper clips. Or even staples. Tut tut! So instead of giving you the chance of pinching paper clips (or even, damn you to hell, staples), you’re – very politely but firmly – asked to “please remove all personal articles from your desk and vacate the premises forthwith. And don’t try and nick any staples on the way out, because we’re watching you”.
So off I went! With a bit of a lump in my throat, I have to confess. For no matter how excited you are about your next career, it’s always sad to leave your last one. Especially after five years. But onwards and upwards, as Amelia Earhart used to say.
And of course, during gardening leave I’m not allowed to say anything about gardening leave. Rule Number One with Gardening Leave: You Never Talk About Gardening Leave. Rule Number Two: You Never Talk About Gardening Leave. Rule Number Three: You Never…well, you get the picture. With apologies to Fight Club. Hence the reason this is all a few months late. I didn’t want to be taken outside and lined up in front of a firing squad for Talking About Gardening Leave.
But believe it or not, I have actually been doing some gardening! Really, truly and honestly! You see, even though I have a windowbox as a garden, Wonderful Man has A Garden. Well, I say that now because you can actually see it now. But when I started, you couldn’t. Honestly. In order to reveal his garden, I (we) donned protective gloves and armed ourselves with secateurs, and cut down an army of brambles. Some of them were higher than me! But as we clipped, chopped, snipped, yanked, ripped and decimated these mighty Lords of Luna, a garden appeared. Little trophies, long since hidden, started to present themselves like jewels. A michaelmas daisy here, a hawthorn there, a budleia in the corner, and right in the middle, an amber bush. Too pretty.
We also revealed a pond! Albeit a very cloggy one filled with very large, smooth stones. Now, before I tell you this story (which isn't for the fainthearted) I should explain that Wonderful Man's garden backs onto a railway track. So you can imagine the shocked faces of the commuters to see me, clad in t-shirt and shorts, up to my thighs in the garden pond, lugging stones out. 'Twas a sight to behold. Wonderful Man popped open a beer and sat back to enjoy the view, and as for me, I got rather into it! By the time I had finished, three commuters had had minor turns and I'd evacuated a pile of stones the size of a mini. But the pond was clear! If a little shallower than it had been.
So now it's garden planning. Being a keen and recent devotee of The Good Life, and a huge fan of Hugh Hairy-Marketstall, and wanting to grow everything good to eat, I drove a hard bargain. Hence the left hand side and half of the back flowerbed will be turned over to rosy tomatoes, spinach, runner beans, sweetcorn, apples, strawberries, gooseberries, rhubarb, you name it I'll grow it. And the rest will be wildflowers, a butterfly haven.
Now....we haven't actually started planting yet. But we will. As soon as we've had a nice sit down on the deckchairs and poured ourselves a long, cool drink. Ahhhhhhh....the life of a gardener. Does it get any better than this?
Saturday, 8 May 2010
Vampire or Victim?
Now there's a question. You see, Wonderful Man and I have been invited to a fancy dress party tonight (please excuse the involuntary shudder). We have to go along as something beginning with the letter "V". Simple! we thought.
But it turns out that there are very few things beginning with V that you can dress up as. Hmmm. Well, there's vampire. Vamp, for that matter. Vixen (although how you'd get that lovely fluffy tail, I've no idea). Ummm. Victim? That was my first thought, but having experimented with yards and yards of petticoat netting, a rippingly stunning bodice and torn tights, I just looked like an Essex girl after an average Friday night. So what else? Voyeur? I could go along with a balaclava and a pair of binoculars. Perhaps a tad boring. Wonderful Man has decided to go as a vulture, complete with a black feather boa and a beak. Rather strangely brilliant.
Vet? Yawn - man in white coat with fluffy toy. Viper? Yes, but how? Vegetable? Now I'm just getting silly. Valium? Now that could be interesting. Volcano? That's a goodie.
To be honest, I quite like the idea of going as a vamp. Ever since I played the part of Polly Peachum in the Beggar's Opera, festooned in net petticoats, a ripping bodice and mussy hair, I've quite liked the showgirl look. Maybe I can combine and be a vampy vampire?
Back to the dressing up box. Depending on my success, you may see a photo up here. People of a nervous disposition please look away...
But it turns out that there are very few things beginning with V that you can dress up as. Hmmm. Well, there's vampire. Vamp, for that matter. Vixen (although how you'd get that lovely fluffy tail, I've no idea). Ummm. Victim? That was my first thought, but having experimented with yards and yards of petticoat netting, a rippingly stunning bodice and torn tights, I just looked like an Essex girl after an average Friday night. So what else? Voyeur? I could go along with a balaclava and a pair of binoculars. Perhaps a tad boring. Wonderful Man has decided to go as a vulture, complete with a black feather boa and a beak. Rather strangely brilliant.
Vet? Yawn - man in white coat with fluffy toy. Viper? Yes, but how? Vegetable? Now I'm just getting silly. Valium? Now that could be interesting. Volcano? That's a goodie.
To be honest, I quite like the idea of going as a vamp. Ever since I played the part of Polly Peachum in the Beggar's Opera, festooned in net petticoats, a ripping bodice and mussy hair, I've quite liked the showgirl look. Maybe I can combine and be a vampy vampire?
Back to the dressing up box. Depending on my success, you may see a photo up here. People of a nervous disposition please look away...
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
Do elephants play golf?
No, surely not. What a preposterous question!
But if I was to ask, "Do elephants play with Golfs?" then the answer would have to be yes.
And here's the proof.
But if I was to ask, "Do elephants play with Golfs?" then the answer would have to be yes.
And here's the proof.
Tuesday, 4 May 2010
A horse called Rocky
Or Champion Rockefeller the Third, if you want to give him his full name. Horse in a million.
You see, I'm reminiscing a bit today. I found this photo:
...while I was doing a bit of clearing up. It's a photo of my Mum and her horse, Crackerbarrel - he was a gift from her parents on her 21st birthday. Rather beautiful, I think you'll agree! (and not just the horse).
We've always been a bit of a horsey family. Except Dad, who is not horsey at all. Not one jot. When he returned from one of his business trips to the states when we were children, we gathered around to hear him tell the tale of When I Was Put On A Horse. Fresh from gymkhana-ing, and festooned with rosettes, I bounced on his knee. "Did you canter? Did you gallop? Did you jump anything?"
"Well," he said. "It went fast. And my foot came out of one of the little loopy things." Needless to say, we never got him on a horse again.
But for Mum and me, my having been put on a horse for the first time when I was two, her having trained as an eventer and a riding instructress, there was nothing more wonderful than swinging up into the saddle, shortening the stirrups (the loopy things), gathering up and heading out into cold morning mist, the snorts from our horses speckling the air with hot crystals. As we came round our favourite bend, knowing that there was a jolly good gallop right ahead of us across an unploughed field, she'd look at me with a grin. "Ready?" And off we'd go. Streaking across the field like a pair of lightning bolts, the horses with their heads stretched, racing each other, and us laughing like a pair of whirling dervishes. Utter bliss.
I kept that love all through my life and even now, one of my favourite smells is the earthy, musky, oily scent of a horse's neck. When Wonderful Man and I were in Iceland, I was entranced by the Icelandic ponies, great shaggy shapes with cascading manes who lived out in the fields in all weathers. I pocketed sugar cubes from our breakfast table and took them to feed these little hermits - little larger than ponies, but they were feisty! At one stage I was surrounded by about twenty of them, all pushing and shoving to get to my hands. I think I may have fallen in love then and there.
But this is about a horse called Rocky. We shortened his name from the ridiculous Champion Rockefeller the Third, a moniker given to him due to his breeding. For this was not just any old horse. Standing a good 15 and a half hands high, labrador-black and shiny, with sparkly eyes and a nose that could scent a sugar cube from fifteen metres, he was the love of my life when I was a teenager. I still remember weekends spent at my local riding stable where he was kept, mucking out in all weathers, taking beginners on the lead rein, erecting and knocking down jumps, raking the exercise yard, sweeping the stables, you name it, I did it - and all for the chance of taking Rocky out for a swish along the moors. He was Rocky the excitable...never before had I met a horse who would get so excited that he would canter on the spot, much like a child stamping its feet, when we were about to go over the cross country course. Or one that I had to turn backwards before we went off for a gallop, afraid that he would barge past the others in the queue. He would turn his head full circle and nibble gently at my feet as we waited. He was, as we'd say in horsey circles, a goer. Light on his feet, he would appear to float over the fields we traversed, shaking his head and prancing like a trick pony. And his dressage! I won't bore my non-horsey readers but suffice it to say he could half-pass to the left like a pro. Never a beat missed, never a stumble, never even a flick betrayed him. Poetry in motion, and I was simply there to enjoy the ride.
So why am I writing about Rocky? Well, because three years ago, at the grand old age of twenty-eight (Methuselah in horse terms), my beloved Rocky lay down in a grassy spot underneath a huge oak tree and floated away. A little older, a little sway-backed, even a little dip-backed, and with fingers of grey reaching up from his muzzle, and a slightly wobbly mane, but still with those eyes and that everlasting thirst for sugar lumps. I still remember the enormous bite shaped bruise he gave me when he lunged for the sugar lumps I had in my jodhpur pocket.
I've been thinking about taking to the saddle again. I've missed it over the last few years, not had much time, work's always got in the way. But I yearn for the feel of an English saddle, for the snort of the horse, the scent of his mane, the feel of him gathering himself before the final push. I've really missed it. And now it's time to start again. I have dreams one day of owning - outright - my own horse. He would be a magnificent grey, but pure white. Arab, and swan-necked, with a glimmer of dark around his eyes. A big horse, maybe seventeen hands, one that could jump a five bar without even noticing. And a mane that I could bury my head into. I have no idea what his name would be. I've toyed with some - Akkanar, Tresellian, Shadowfax, Hasufel. But none seem quite right. I'm sure that when I find him, he'll tell me his name. For now he exists in my daydreams until the day I can set him free, swing myself into the saddle, gather him up and head out onto the moors. I can hardly wait.
You see, I'm reminiscing a bit today. I found this photo:
...while I was doing a bit of clearing up. It's a photo of my Mum and her horse, Crackerbarrel - he was a gift from her parents on her 21st birthday. Rather beautiful, I think you'll agree! (and not just the horse).
We've always been a bit of a horsey family. Except Dad, who is not horsey at all. Not one jot. When he returned from one of his business trips to the states when we were children, we gathered around to hear him tell the tale of When I Was Put On A Horse. Fresh from gymkhana-ing, and festooned with rosettes, I bounced on his knee. "Did you canter? Did you gallop? Did you jump anything?"
"Well," he said. "It went fast. And my foot came out of one of the little loopy things." Needless to say, we never got him on a horse again.
But for Mum and me, my having been put on a horse for the first time when I was two, her having trained as an eventer and a riding instructress, there was nothing more wonderful than swinging up into the saddle, shortening the stirrups (the loopy things), gathering up and heading out into cold morning mist, the snorts from our horses speckling the air with hot crystals. As we came round our favourite bend, knowing that there was a jolly good gallop right ahead of us across an unploughed field, she'd look at me with a grin. "Ready?" And off we'd go. Streaking across the field like a pair of lightning bolts, the horses with their heads stretched, racing each other, and us laughing like a pair of whirling dervishes. Utter bliss.
I kept that love all through my life and even now, one of my favourite smells is the earthy, musky, oily scent of a horse's neck. When Wonderful Man and I were in Iceland, I was entranced by the Icelandic ponies, great shaggy shapes with cascading manes who lived out in the fields in all weathers. I pocketed sugar cubes from our breakfast table and took them to feed these little hermits - little larger than ponies, but they were feisty! At one stage I was surrounded by about twenty of them, all pushing and shoving to get to my hands. I think I may have fallen in love then and there.
But this is about a horse called Rocky. We shortened his name from the ridiculous Champion Rockefeller the Third, a moniker given to him due to his breeding. For this was not just any old horse. Standing a good 15 and a half hands high, labrador-black and shiny, with sparkly eyes and a nose that could scent a sugar cube from fifteen metres, he was the love of my life when I was a teenager. I still remember weekends spent at my local riding stable where he was kept, mucking out in all weathers, taking beginners on the lead rein, erecting and knocking down jumps, raking the exercise yard, sweeping the stables, you name it, I did it - and all for the chance of taking Rocky out for a swish along the moors. He was Rocky the excitable...never before had I met a horse who would get so excited that he would canter on the spot, much like a child stamping its feet, when we were about to go over the cross country course. Or one that I had to turn backwards before we went off for a gallop, afraid that he would barge past the others in the queue. He would turn his head full circle and nibble gently at my feet as we waited. He was, as we'd say in horsey circles, a goer. Light on his feet, he would appear to float over the fields we traversed, shaking his head and prancing like a trick pony. And his dressage! I won't bore my non-horsey readers but suffice it to say he could half-pass to the left like a pro. Never a beat missed, never a stumble, never even a flick betrayed him. Poetry in motion, and I was simply there to enjoy the ride.
So why am I writing about Rocky? Well, because three years ago, at the grand old age of twenty-eight (Methuselah in horse terms), my beloved Rocky lay down in a grassy spot underneath a huge oak tree and floated away. A little older, a little sway-backed, even a little dip-backed, and with fingers of grey reaching up from his muzzle, and a slightly wobbly mane, but still with those eyes and that everlasting thirst for sugar lumps. I still remember the enormous bite shaped bruise he gave me when he lunged for the sugar lumps I had in my jodhpur pocket.
I've been thinking about taking to the saddle again. I've missed it over the last few years, not had much time, work's always got in the way. But I yearn for the feel of an English saddle, for the snort of the horse, the scent of his mane, the feel of him gathering himself before the final push. I've really missed it. And now it's time to start again. I have dreams one day of owning - outright - my own horse. He would be a magnificent grey, but pure white. Arab, and swan-necked, with a glimmer of dark around his eyes. A big horse, maybe seventeen hands, one that could jump a five bar without even noticing. And a mane that I could bury my head into. I have no idea what his name would be. I've toyed with some - Akkanar, Tresellian, Shadowfax, Hasufel. But none seem quite right. I'm sure that when I find him, he'll tell me his name. For now he exists in my daydreams until the day I can set him free, swing myself into the saddle, gather him up and head out onto the moors. I can hardly wait.
Wednesday, 21 April 2010
Missing: one elephant. Large, grey, unmistakeable.
By popular demand! Here's my story of an elephant called Dionysus. Enjoy!
It was sticking out of the top of one of my favourite books. Just a little blue corner, hardly noticeable. But when I pulled out the blue card with the picture of the elephant, I remembered. The card was a birthday card from my mother. On it she had drawn smiley faces, and kisses. I knew why she’d sent an elephant card. It was all because of an elephant called Dionysus.
When I was younger, I ran a tiny bush-camp in the centre of Zambia. My days started before the dawn, when the sun was just an orangey glow in the corner of the sky. The night noises surrendered to the morning chorus as I pulled myself out of bed, grabbed my rifle and opened my tent to the chill air which still lingered from the night. It was my job to make sure that camp was secure – a tricky job, considering we were right in the middle of a national park full of lion, leopard, elephant and buffalo.
This was my time – walking around camp looking for any visitors – whether those with silky yellow fur and blazing eyes, or with a trunk and tusks. I always secretly hoped for the elephants to be there, hulks looming from the darkness, excited squeals or gentle rumbles, delicate trunks picking the last juicy leaves from our trees. I had given up on my idea of a vegetable garden, having lost too many plants to their appetites.
When my mother came to stay at camp, late in 2001, I introduced her to my elephants with pride. A coalition of elephant bulls had made our little corner their home. The boys, fully grown and impressively tusked, had moved in. Being a trainee safari guide, it was part of my job to study a particular animal each year. How could I resist when the elephants were constantly on my doorstep? And so my love affair with Dionysus started, and like any infatuated female, I was desperate to introduce my mother to the object of my affections, sure that she would fall in love as I had.
Our first day was a success – driving out from camp in my rattling land cruiser, we soon found the group. They were hard to miss! Reggie and Ronnie, the tough guys, jousting in the early sun, Credence and Clearwater chomping their way through a monkey-bread tree, and Occuloides and Dionysus dozing gently in the shade. Over the time I had studied them, they had become used to my appearing, in a loud, smelly land cruiser, and they paid me no heed. Except Dionysus, who would always come and greet me. With my mother safely in the passenger seat, I climbed up onto the land cruiser bonnet and spread out my notebooks, my camera and the bag of oranges I always carried. Peeling an orange, I watched for Dionysus’ trunk to raise, scenting the sweet juice, and waited for him to approach closely. As I dropped my orange rinds over the edge of the bonnet, he sidled up and nonchalantly reached for the rinds, enveloping them entirely with the fingers at the end of his trunk and stuffing them into his mouth. I knew I could always seduce him with orange rinds. My mother laughed out loud.
“Cheap date!” she said.
It became a routine for us, piling into the cruiser and driving out to find the group. Until one day when we found them, distressed. As I drove up, Occuloides appeared, and charged the vehicle, eyes wide and ears outstretched. He’d never done that before. I was unprepared, accelerating only at the last moment to avoid him. I moved the vehicle further away. Binoculars out, I scanned the bush. They were all there, except for Dionysus. What had happened to make him disappear and for the rest to be so agitated?
“What’s wrong with them, darling?” my mother asked. I had no idea, but it was clear that something had upset them. Each elephant was pacing, swaying from side to side, emitting panicked rumbles and the occasional full trumpet. I picked up my radio.
“Camp from mobile, come in please”.
“Yes, Anna, this is Jon, go ahead”. My scout. He must know if anything had happened on this side of the river.
“Jon, I’ve found the boys but something’s wrong, they’re panicky and Occuloides has charged us. I can’t see Dionysus anywhere. Has anything happened on this side?” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word “poachers”.
“I’m sorry, Anna, I think we have, I heard shots fired last night.” My insides turned.
“Anna, can you see vultures circling? Are there any hyenas around?” I scanned the bush for the typical signs of a kill, but saw nothing.
“Negative, Jon, nothing here. Are you sure you heard shots?” Please, please no. Not my beautiful boy.
“I’m sorry Anna, yes, it sounded like an AK”. An AK47. The poacher’s weapon of choice. Utterly indiscriminate, it fired six hundred rounds per minute, thudding into and shredding the flesh of anything in its path. I tried to keep my voice normal.
“Okay, Jon, we’ll keep looking. If Dionysus shows up at camp, please radio me, over”.
“Sure thing, Anna. Out.”
Our efforts that day to find Dionysus were fruitless. Around the camp fire that night, I sobbed into my gin and tonic, while my ears strained for any sound that might indicate an elephant. My heart breaking to the crescent moon that rose that evening, I spent a sleepless night.
The next day, and for many days after, were just as frustrating. I monitored the radio, waiting for any sign, any scrap of news that my elephant had somehow survived, was safe, was somewhere in the area. On my mother’s and my expeditions, I minutely examined any elephant footprint that I found, willing it to be Dionysus. I knew his footprint intimately. Dionysus had a deep fissure across his front left foot, the souvenir, I assumed, of an accident when he was a calf. I searched his favourite waterholes, drove deep into the bush to his scratching trees, the bark worn smooth from hours of rubbing to rid himself of the irritating ticks in his skin. I walked up and down the Luwi dry river bed, eyes scanning the banks, probing for a glimpse of grey skin, a flash of ivory. My nights became waiting games, sitting up with Jon and my mother around the camp fire, poring over maps of his last sighting, trying to figure out where he might have gone. My mother, knowing the bond I had nurtured, sat next to me, her hand warm on my back, stroking and stroking as I begged Dionysus for the hundredth time to show himself, to show me some sign that he was alive, that his rumbles still pierced the savannah, forest and river that surrounded us. I had reached one of the lowest points I could reach. I felt somehow responsible for him, that had I not encouraged our bond perhaps he would not be so trusting of humans. Was this my fault?
Weeks later, and my mother’s last night in camp, there was still no sign of Dionysus. Reports had come in of the carcass of a bull elephant, a mere fourteen kilometres from camp. The radio had been blaring, the Wildlife Authority asking for more information, for photos to be taken of the carcass, samples of blood, of bone, for the exact co-ordinates. I usually leapt at the chance to be involved, but this time I couldn’t, scared what I might find. Mum and Jon consoled me as the night drew in, and the radio became silent.
Midnight, and pandemonium broke loose in camp. A creaking, groaning and gurgling as our one thousand litre water tank was pulled from its platform and came smashing down to the ground. Mum and I leapt out of bed, grabbed torches, and ran outside. Stopping underneath the acacia tree in the centre of camp, we shone our torches and saw a beautiful sight. Dionysus, alive, standing next to the destroyed water tank, dipping his trunk in and out, siphoning up the water and squirting it into his mouth. I could hear the splashes and rumbles in his stomach as he drank deeply. I let out an involuntary cry, and my mother gripped my arms tightly as we watched him amble slowly over to our acacia tree and stretch his trunk into the highest branches, searching for the juiciest shoots. I looked up at him, vast in the moonlight, and slowly backed my mother to the far side of the tree, where we crouched down and smiled to each other in the darkness.
The following morning, we surveyed the carnage of camp. The water tank was split in two, the water now soaked into the ground. Our kitchen had received a direct hit, the fridge overturned, our fruit eaten. But as I walked into camp, I saw the vast baggy-trousered backside of my elephant disappearing into the riverbed. My Dionysus, the survivor, was back, and safe. And that was all that mattered.
It was sticking out of the top of one of my favourite books. Just a little blue corner, hardly noticeable. But when I pulled out the blue card with the picture of the elephant, I remembered. The card was a birthday card from my mother. On it she had drawn smiley faces, and kisses. I knew why she’d sent an elephant card. It was all because of an elephant called Dionysus.
When I was younger, I ran a tiny bush-camp in the centre of Zambia. My days started before the dawn, when the sun was just an orangey glow in the corner of the sky. The night noises surrendered to the morning chorus as I pulled myself out of bed, grabbed my rifle and opened my tent to the chill air which still lingered from the night. It was my job to make sure that camp was secure – a tricky job, considering we were right in the middle of a national park full of lion, leopard, elephant and buffalo.
This was my time – walking around camp looking for any visitors – whether those with silky yellow fur and blazing eyes, or with a trunk and tusks. I always secretly hoped for the elephants to be there, hulks looming from the darkness, excited squeals or gentle rumbles, delicate trunks picking the last juicy leaves from our trees. I had given up on my idea of a vegetable garden, having lost too many plants to their appetites.
When my mother came to stay at camp, late in 2001, I introduced her to my elephants with pride. A coalition of elephant bulls had made our little corner their home. The boys, fully grown and impressively tusked, had moved in. Being a trainee safari guide, it was part of my job to study a particular animal each year. How could I resist when the elephants were constantly on my doorstep? And so my love affair with Dionysus started, and like any infatuated female, I was desperate to introduce my mother to the object of my affections, sure that she would fall in love as I had.
Our first day was a success – driving out from camp in my rattling land cruiser, we soon found the group. They were hard to miss! Reggie and Ronnie, the tough guys, jousting in the early sun, Credence and Clearwater chomping their way through a monkey-bread tree, and Occuloides and Dionysus dozing gently in the shade. Over the time I had studied them, they had become used to my appearing, in a loud, smelly land cruiser, and they paid me no heed. Except Dionysus, who would always come and greet me. With my mother safely in the passenger seat, I climbed up onto the land cruiser bonnet and spread out my notebooks, my camera and the bag of oranges I always carried. Peeling an orange, I watched for Dionysus’ trunk to raise, scenting the sweet juice, and waited for him to approach closely. As I dropped my orange rinds over the edge of the bonnet, he sidled up and nonchalantly reached for the rinds, enveloping them entirely with the fingers at the end of his trunk and stuffing them into his mouth. I knew I could always seduce him with orange rinds. My mother laughed out loud.
“Cheap date!” she said.
It became a routine for us, piling into the cruiser and driving out to find the group. Until one day when we found them, distressed. As I drove up, Occuloides appeared, and charged the vehicle, eyes wide and ears outstretched. He’d never done that before. I was unprepared, accelerating only at the last moment to avoid him. I moved the vehicle further away. Binoculars out, I scanned the bush. They were all there, except for Dionysus. What had happened to make him disappear and for the rest to be so agitated?
“What’s wrong with them, darling?” my mother asked. I had no idea, but it was clear that something had upset them. Each elephant was pacing, swaying from side to side, emitting panicked rumbles and the occasional full trumpet. I picked up my radio.
“Camp from mobile, come in please”.
“Yes, Anna, this is Jon, go ahead”. My scout. He must know if anything had happened on this side of the river.
“Jon, I’ve found the boys but something’s wrong, they’re panicky and Occuloides has charged us. I can’t see Dionysus anywhere. Has anything happened on this side?” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word “poachers”.
“I’m sorry, Anna, I think we have, I heard shots fired last night.” My insides turned.
“Anna, can you see vultures circling? Are there any hyenas around?” I scanned the bush for the typical signs of a kill, but saw nothing.
“Negative, Jon, nothing here. Are you sure you heard shots?” Please, please no. Not my beautiful boy.
“I’m sorry Anna, yes, it sounded like an AK”. An AK47. The poacher’s weapon of choice. Utterly indiscriminate, it fired six hundred rounds per minute, thudding into and shredding the flesh of anything in its path. I tried to keep my voice normal.
“Okay, Jon, we’ll keep looking. If Dionysus shows up at camp, please radio me, over”.
“Sure thing, Anna. Out.”
Our efforts that day to find Dionysus were fruitless. Around the camp fire that night, I sobbed into my gin and tonic, while my ears strained for any sound that might indicate an elephant. My heart breaking to the crescent moon that rose that evening, I spent a sleepless night.
The next day, and for many days after, were just as frustrating. I monitored the radio, waiting for any sign, any scrap of news that my elephant had somehow survived, was safe, was somewhere in the area. On my mother’s and my expeditions, I minutely examined any elephant footprint that I found, willing it to be Dionysus. I knew his footprint intimately. Dionysus had a deep fissure across his front left foot, the souvenir, I assumed, of an accident when he was a calf. I searched his favourite waterholes, drove deep into the bush to his scratching trees, the bark worn smooth from hours of rubbing to rid himself of the irritating ticks in his skin. I walked up and down the Luwi dry river bed, eyes scanning the banks, probing for a glimpse of grey skin, a flash of ivory. My nights became waiting games, sitting up with Jon and my mother around the camp fire, poring over maps of his last sighting, trying to figure out where he might have gone. My mother, knowing the bond I had nurtured, sat next to me, her hand warm on my back, stroking and stroking as I begged Dionysus for the hundredth time to show himself, to show me some sign that he was alive, that his rumbles still pierced the savannah, forest and river that surrounded us. I had reached one of the lowest points I could reach. I felt somehow responsible for him, that had I not encouraged our bond perhaps he would not be so trusting of humans. Was this my fault?
Weeks later, and my mother’s last night in camp, there was still no sign of Dionysus. Reports had come in of the carcass of a bull elephant, a mere fourteen kilometres from camp. The radio had been blaring, the Wildlife Authority asking for more information, for photos to be taken of the carcass, samples of blood, of bone, for the exact co-ordinates. I usually leapt at the chance to be involved, but this time I couldn’t, scared what I might find. Mum and Jon consoled me as the night drew in, and the radio became silent.
Midnight, and pandemonium broke loose in camp. A creaking, groaning and gurgling as our one thousand litre water tank was pulled from its platform and came smashing down to the ground. Mum and I leapt out of bed, grabbed torches, and ran outside. Stopping underneath the acacia tree in the centre of camp, we shone our torches and saw a beautiful sight. Dionysus, alive, standing next to the destroyed water tank, dipping his trunk in and out, siphoning up the water and squirting it into his mouth. I could hear the splashes and rumbles in his stomach as he drank deeply. I let out an involuntary cry, and my mother gripped my arms tightly as we watched him amble slowly over to our acacia tree and stretch his trunk into the highest branches, searching for the juiciest shoots. I looked up at him, vast in the moonlight, and slowly backed my mother to the far side of the tree, where we crouched down and smiled to each other in the darkness.
The following morning, we surveyed the carnage of camp. The water tank was split in two, the water now soaked into the ground. Our kitchen had received a direct hit, the fridge overturned, our fruit eaten. But as I walked into camp, I saw the vast baggy-trousered backside of my elephant disappearing into the riverbed. My Dionysus, the survivor, was back, and safe. And that was all that mattered.
Friday, 5 February 2010
Travel Shows and Travel No's
Ah, the wonderful world of the travel show. Having fought valiantly and, eventually, successfully with the four foot by eight foot bendy bits of our stand, and finally been able to make them stand to attention (with the use of copious amounts of electrical tape, superglue and sticky-back plastic), we were all ready to go. Every year, my company has a stand at a particular travel show which is held at a particular venue in central London. It's actually a really good fun event, and gives us a chance to boast enormously and shamelessly about our products, what we do, how we do it and how utterly brilliant we are. We are also lucky enough to have previous and current clients visit us on the stand and tell us that we're brilliant. Altogether, a rather ego-boosting experience.
But, like any event such as this, you do get the odd weirdo plodding around. The ones who parade around the show in full safari gear, as if they'd just got off the plane in deepest Africa, complete with hiking sticks and mosquito proof hats. The brochure collectors, dragging round old-lady wheeled shopping baskets with them, collecting brochures by the ton. The job seekers. And finally, that almost dying breed (she says hopefully), the memory laners. Now, some of these can be really interesting to listen to. But some aren't. "Ooh, yes, we went to South Africa, about seven years ago, wasn't it seven years ago, dear, yes, it was, and we did the wine bits and then we visited Cape Town and we went to that lovely little restaurant, and I had the mussels and you had the salmon, or did you have the mussels, and I had the salmon, anyway it was lovely and then we walked down this little street and then we visited this vineyard and I tried the white and you tried the red, didn't you dear, or was it that you tried the white and I tried the red, anyway, it was lovely and we bought a case of the white which was lovely and then we went along the coast a bit and we sat overlooking the ocean, and then you had a glass of the white and I didn't because I was driving and then we went a bit further and we visited that place with all the thingies in it, and then we stayed at this little guest farm which was lovely, and then we......" by which time your eyes have glazed over and you're staring into the middle distance with an expression not unlike the man begging the firing squad to just pull the bloody trigger.
Now, I'm not saying that it's all like this. In fact, today was probably one of the best days I've had in my history of travel shows. Not only was I lucky enough to have not one, not two, but three of my best friends turn up on the stand to say hello, but I also had two of my dearest clients turn up for a chat (greeting me with the words "how many orangutans will I see in Africa?" - oh BLESS YOUR HEARTS for reading and appreciating my blog - it gave me the thrill of a lifetime to have it quoted to me!). I also saw, for the first time in years, two of my oldest clients and friends from when I used to live in Zambia and run a bushcamp. They reminded me of a brilliant story from when I first met them.
I ran a bushcamp in deepest, darkest Zambia. (No, I am not attempting to emulate Baroness Blixen's eponymous speech "I had a farm in Africa...."). Anyway. I had a bushcamp in Africa, under the Mchinga escarpment....
In my bushcamp, we had plenty of very large, very tall, very bushy trees. Which grew in all directions. We were lucky enough to have one tree which grew, parallel to the ground, and in a perfect position to hang a hammock off it. The reason I'm explaining this in minute, mathematician detail will become clear. We'd been out with these clients on a late night game drive, trying to find a hyena den which we suspected had cubs. On the way back to camp, I'd been regaling them with my stories of being an excellent barmaid, so they challenged me to make a superb cocktail. On arriving back in camp, I leapt out of the vehicle, flashlight in one hand, coolbox in the other, and dashed towards the bar. Can you see where this is going?
Yup. I ran straight into the hammock tree, the trunk of which was cunningly positioned right on a level with my forehead. Isaac, my scout, told me later that my body had kept going and my head stayed still, after its thwacking impact with the trunk. I'd knocked myself out cold. A couple of minutes later, surrounded by concerned guests and giggling staff, I'd groggily come to, struggled to my feet, and manfully (or womanfully) made it to the bar. Where I proceeded to pour everyone drinks. Much to their consternation. Baileys and Campari, anyone? Gin and milk? Or how about a lovely white wine and custard? It was fairly obvious that I'd sustained a rather major concussion. My attempts at conversation were verging on the "parsnips on the internet" genre, and so one of the guests, an ex-army nurse, very gently but firmly led me to my room and dressed my wounds. I had the imprint of a tree on my forehead and a very large and obvious gash across my nose. I have no idea what I said to her but, bless her heart, she never let on. I seem to remember telling her I loved her more than baked beans. But maybe that's a figment of my imagination.
The next day, at early breakfast, with a bump the size of a goose egg on my forehead, I again attempted to make tea for everyone. Until my lovely guests (realising I was still, to put it mildly, three sheets to the wind) very gently sat me down on one of the camp chairs, where I promptly fell asleep. Until four o'clock in the afternoon. Apparently I didn't move at all, while camp kept going around me. I then very groggily came to (does this story have shades of the Drunken Honey Badger?) and meandered back to my tent, where I promptly fell asleep again. And didn't wake up until morning. I'm told that my lovely barman came into my tent every hour or so to check that I was still breathing. It really wouldn't do to have to write an awkward letter to my father.
"Dear Sir, We regret to inform you that your daughter has popped her clogs due to an argument with a Breonadia microcephela..."
But, like any event such as this, you do get the odd weirdo plodding around. The ones who parade around the show in full safari gear, as if they'd just got off the plane in deepest Africa, complete with hiking sticks and mosquito proof hats. The brochure collectors, dragging round old-lady wheeled shopping baskets with them, collecting brochures by the ton. The job seekers. And finally, that almost dying breed (she says hopefully), the memory laners. Now, some of these can be really interesting to listen to. But some aren't. "Ooh, yes, we went to South Africa, about seven years ago, wasn't it seven years ago, dear, yes, it was, and we did the wine bits and then we visited Cape Town and we went to that lovely little restaurant, and I had the mussels and you had the salmon, or did you have the mussels, and I had the salmon, anyway it was lovely and then we walked down this little street and then we visited this vineyard and I tried the white and you tried the red, didn't you dear, or was it that you tried the white and I tried the red, anyway, it was lovely and we bought a case of the white which was lovely and then we went along the coast a bit and we sat overlooking the ocean, and then you had a glass of the white and I didn't because I was driving and then we went a bit further and we visited that place with all the thingies in it, and then we stayed at this little guest farm which was lovely, and then we......" by which time your eyes have glazed over and you're staring into the middle distance with an expression not unlike the man begging the firing squad to just pull the bloody trigger.
Now, I'm not saying that it's all like this. In fact, today was probably one of the best days I've had in my history of travel shows. Not only was I lucky enough to have not one, not two, but three of my best friends turn up on the stand to say hello, but I also had two of my dearest clients turn up for a chat (greeting me with the words "how many orangutans will I see in Africa?" - oh BLESS YOUR HEARTS for reading and appreciating my blog - it gave me the thrill of a lifetime to have it quoted to me!). I also saw, for the first time in years, two of my oldest clients and friends from when I used to live in Zambia and run a bushcamp. They reminded me of a brilliant story from when I first met them.
I ran a bushcamp in deepest, darkest Zambia. (No, I am not attempting to emulate Baroness Blixen's eponymous speech "I had a farm in Africa...."). Anyway. I had a bushcamp in Africa, under the Mchinga escarpment....
In my bushcamp, we had plenty of very large, very tall, very bushy trees. Which grew in all directions. We were lucky enough to have one tree which grew, parallel to the ground, and in a perfect position to hang a hammock off it. The reason I'm explaining this in minute, mathematician detail will become clear. We'd been out with these clients on a late night game drive, trying to find a hyena den which we suspected had cubs. On the way back to camp, I'd been regaling them with my stories of being an excellent barmaid, so they challenged me to make a superb cocktail. On arriving back in camp, I leapt out of the vehicle, flashlight in one hand, coolbox in the other, and dashed towards the bar. Can you see where this is going?
Yup. I ran straight into the hammock tree, the trunk of which was cunningly positioned right on a level with my forehead. Isaac, my scout, told me later that my body had kept going and my head stayed still, after its thwacking impact with the trunk. I'd knocked myself out cold. A couple of minutes later, surrounded by concerned guests and giggling staff, I'd groggily come to, struggled to my feet, and manfully (or womanfully) made it to the bar. Where I proceeded to pour everyone drinks. Much to their consternation. Baileys and Campari, anyone? Gin and milk? Or how about a lovely white wine and custard? It was fairly obvious that I'd sustained a rather major concussion. My attempts at conversation were verging on the "parsnips on the internet" genre, and so one of the guests, an ex-army nurse, very gently but firmly led me to my room and dressed my wounds. I had the imprint of a tree on my forehead and a very large and obvious gash across my nose. I have no idea what I said to her but, bless her heart, she never let on. I seem to remember telling her I loved her more than baked beans. But maybe that's a figment of my imagination.
The next day, at early breakfast, with a bump the size of a goose egg on my forehead, I again attempted to make tea for everyone. Until my lovely guests (realising I was still, to put it mildly, three sheets to the wind) very gently sat me down on one of the camp chairs, where I promptly fell asleep. Until four o'clock in the afternoon. Apparently I didn't move at all, while camp kept going around me. I then very groggily came to (does this story have shades of the Drunken Honey Badger?) and meandered back to my tent, where I promptly fell asleep again. And didn't wake up until morning. I'm told that my lovely barman came into my tent every hour or so to check that I was still breathing. It really wouldn't do to have to write an awkward letter to my father.
"Dear Sir, We regret to inform you that your daughter has popped her clogs due to an argument with a Breonadia microcephela..."
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