I realise I haven’t said too many good things about England.
There are really, lovely things, all around even, you needn’t “scratch the surface” to see them. You do however, need to keep your eyes peeled. And that’s a really gross phrase but I digress. I was talking to a friend on msn some time ago and she asked me, how was the UK? It must be really pretty. And I was a bit startled. I took a walk after that, just down the road to post something…it was bitingly cold of course- I stuffed my hands into my coat pockets and hunched my shoulders to keep the scarf around my neck- but instead of staring at the road, or vaguely into the distance I actually became more aware of my surroundings than just the rush of wind against my face, the smoke from my breath. Winter means the trees are bare of course, but how could I not have noticed how their spindly crookedness formed such delicate lacework? Mist had settled heavily on the fields and the birds were well into their morning cacophony. I passed frozen heads of hydrangea, drooping brownly, carefully sidestepped a holly bush, all prickly with glee, marvelled at the bare brilliance of some winter flower with fragile golden petals. Near the junction, I peered into a wood that slept in a watery silence, strung with ivy and wreathed in fog. Then, I dropped off my letter and walked back, ponderously and wondered why I had not seen these all.
I have always known that I love London. And last weekend only bolstered my endearment to that Grande Olde Dame. Why some do not love it I have no clue. But I find some unexplanable delight in navigating the bewildering web of subterranean tunnels through which run trains with erratic lights. Puzzling over hand-drawn maps to obscure boutiques in unfamiliar locations. I find pleasure in wandering the narrow streets, beneath architecture from centuries past. Or maybe it’s just that it’s true that you can find anything you want in London. It’s there somewhere you just have to find it.
Okay lunch calls.
“You must know… surely, you must know it was all for you. You are too generous to trifle with me. I believe you spoke with my aunt last night, and it has taught me to hope as I’d scarcely allowed myself before. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes have not changed, but one word from you will silence me forever. If, however, your feelings have changed, I will have to tell you: you have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love… I love… I love you. I never wish to be parted from you from this day on.”
….can you just die?!!!? *resumes faint*
I’m taking Tim to watch the Bolshoi when they come to Southampton for his birthday. *grin* Okay admittedly, the performances are in April and his birthday is in March which is nowhere near but it’s the BOLSHOI!!! And there was no way he would have splurged on the most expensive seats himself. So I did it. *grin* And we’re going to the Bolshoi! *suppressed scream* It’s going to be amazing…Swan Lake is the ultimate classical ballet for female artistry…it’s certainly not easy to perfect those fluttering fragile bird-like movements- technique alone will not tide you through this ballet. The Royal Ballet’s Swan Lake that I watched in Singapore had sumptous sets and a sound corps de ballet but their female principal was disappointingly bland. Hopefully the Bolshoi will prove itself deserving of being Russia’s premier dance company. Spartacus on the other hand, is entirely different. Where the male lead in Swan Lake takes a supporting role, male virtuoso dancing takes centrestage here. I remember Angel Corella’s breathtaking leaps and astounding ballon…my girlfriends and I were completely gobsmacked. Smitten. Female dancing is pretty, but golly, male dancing will floor you.
Thanks Ben, for helping me get with the programme. But first, a nice cup of tea.
Step One: Fill half the glass with freshly boiled water. Pour jasmine leaves into the infuser and put that into the cup, then pour the rest of the water over the leaves, cover and leave to steep.
Step Two: Lift lid, albeit gingerly (it’s friggin’ hot), invert on table whilst trying not to drop and break it.
Step Three: Lift infuser to drain the tea leaves and set on the inverted lid/dish.
Ta-Dah! Fragrant jasmine tea.
Actually I don’t know why I’m doing this since it only works with this mega cool glass infuser cup thingy I got from Neal Street. Obsession with tea is what hanging out in England has left me with, that after Obession with the weather. No Brit-ish accent though. Street pronunciation is certainly not like in the BBC and I don’t like it all that much.
It’s 5am and I’m still awake. It has been thus for the past few days. Argh.