As for the rest of Saturday…

It wasn't over when it looked to be over. Three of us decided it would be over too soon that way, and as were all staying in hotels and on our own, we extended.

Sylvia, Jan and I decided to do a Thames cruise, but no luck. The cruise people closed the gangplank thingie about five minutes before we walked the twenty yards it took to get to said gangplank thingie.

So we walked across the bridge, walked onto a booze-barge kind of a boat – it was icky, and thus was a unanimous no-go, so we walked back out to terra firma, and crossed some main road (name? who knows?) and walked into an Italian restaurant. I think I remember it was a newish one, although I don’t have a clue about its name.

(Actually, I’m beginning to wonder about how I’ve made it through life this far, never really paying attention to the names of things. Hell, I can’t even remember the names of the things, I mean the men, I used to date a while back. Apparently, I live in a long-term fog, and apparently, I’m very good with that. Of course in order to live this way, it probably helps if the people surrounding one do know the names of things, and where they, and you, are at a given point in time. And probably, to know your name as well. But hey, that’s a whole ‘nother post, people. A whole ‘nother post, indeed.)

The food was good, and the wine was good, and the talking was good.

For some reason, maybe because it was after dark and we were all caught up on other talking, or maybe because there were only a few of us left, I don’t know, the talk meandered more into writing, and, even wine-soaked (I’m talking marinated, basically) I really enjoyed that talking – thinking through what might be working, and what might not be working, what to do about an outstanding query and manuscript for me, and how strange it felt to be distanced from my novel, what to do about point of view/voice on a project, and a couple of other things for Sylvia.

And it struck me, sitting there with Sylvia and Jan in the warm beiges of the room, how much I wanted this to simply go on and on, and not stop, because there aren't that many days in a life that take on sinuous extratextual meaning, and this was one of those days.

On the Third Day, We Co-Founded the South Bank White Wine Society..

...but in the morning, we didn't know that yet. We only knew we were about to light out from a hotel that had been our snuggly place for the night. In caloric preparation for the big day ahead, we ambled on back to the French corner pastry shop/breakfast place whose name I don't know (that seems to be a pattern)...and, well, we ate.

Then we walked along a bit...



and then one of us said (probably it was me) Screw it. Let's cab on over there.

So we did; except we stopped on our side of the bridge - so we could walk over to the South Bank.

As we approached the other side, I remembered what Gina's husband had said about where we were going...Look for the scuplture of the taxi humping the machine underneath it...and for God's sake, whatever you do...don't walk to the light...

OK, OK, I made up that last part. What Neil really said was something like...So when you see the humping taxi, you're close to the Giraffe. It still sounded like a kind of Hunter S. Thompson/Alice in Wonderland cross-purposes hands-across-the-pond wacko place, but hey, that was fine. This was London, after all, not Peoria.

So Jan and I walked through the looking glass, well, OK, we walked on down off the bridge, and we ran into this Tutu Cop Guy:



He wouldn't move until we tipped him. Once we tipped him, he flounced Jan and I took a during-flouncing pic, of course, but as this blog is a Flounce Free Zone, I couldn't put the picture on here.

Once we made it past the bridge and the Tutu Cop Guardian of the South Bank Nether Realm Guy, we walked on a bit, and that's when we saw it.

Taxi Humping Sculpture.

That's when we knew we were on the right trail. We found Giraffe's, or The Giraffe (apparently I suck at knowing restaurant names), and asked the waiter to slide two tables together so we could all sit together when everyone arrived. Then we waited a few minutes and I called Gina to tell her we were there.

She was there, too, with Neil and Janey - inside.

And then I spotted Pete's cap, and then I spotted Pete, and I could see him politely wondering which one I was, which was so cute, how he was holding it in and being polite and allowing a hug; what a sweetie. And then Gina and Neil and Janey came out at about that time, and there were hugs all around, and I'm telling you, it wasn't a meeting for the first time as much as it was a reunion, and the only one missing was Sylvia, and just when we were really worrying, she came walking up, and we had another hug time. And Jan was right at home, too, because what we are is a belonging group of people, aren't we?

So, as has been mentioned, we went through a couple or more bottles of white wine that day, and I do mean that day, because we were there almost all of it, and it was a superb day without a missed beat.





I absolutely love you all, and I can't imagine not knowing you, and I don't want to.

More tomorrow...

As night followed day, on day two...

...we had dinner at a restaurant (lame again, I forgot to pay attention to the name) that was just across from the theater. Here's a picture of the theater from our seat in the restaurant, in Haymarket.



Yep, there was more wine. Because after all, we only had to toddle across the street, and scoot inside, and find our seats.

Oh yeah, that's right. We had a drink in the bar downstairs in the theater - and, intrepid vacationers that we are, we bought wine ahead for intermission, so it would be waiting for us.

And then we couldn't drink it later - because we were: 1)getting tired, 2)getting drunk and 3)didn't wanna sleep in our seats and be all embarrassed. (This is no test. They're all thr right answer.)

After the show, I'm not gonna kid you, I had to think for a few minutes to remember that we cabbed back to the hotel.

Later on tonight....I'm talking about Sunday.

On the Second Day, I left my room...

..and went out walking in Mayfair. Asked the concierge for a tea/breakfast restauarant idea, and he gave me a good one. Turned out it was only a block's walk fron the hotel. Can't believe I missed taking a picture of it, because I loved that little place. Oh, well.

Anyway, when I walked back in the lobby late morning, my sister-in-law, Jan (she's posting comments here, you all, so if you get a chance, please go say hi on her brand new blog!) was there.

Seeing Jan was a great surprise, because I didn't expect her for close to a couple of hours more - so we got a good early start on our combo-plan walk-athon, wine-athon, and since she's often in London, and attended college at the Royal Academy of Art in London, she's one helluva good tour guide.

So we took off touring - I hate to shop - A LOT- so we were gonna get that part over with, but instead, it turned out to be good when we walked inside the store called Liberty('s?)





The place was fantastic, except they had so many mirror-walls, we kept walking into them on one of the floors, trying to find the right place to get out.

And we hadn't even started drinking yet.

But we did soon enough. We walked down Carnaby Street, land of 60's mod squad people and places, Beatles and Mary Quant et al...



...saw an old-timey Pagan Green Man...



and on down, we ended up on Wardour Street next door to Ronnie Scott's Jazz Club (OK, I admit it, I didn't know where we were sitting having the first glass of wine and having lunch, but Jan did, so it still works).

Then another drink at a table outdoors around the corner from this area of Covent Garden.



Then this nice guy rickshawed (OK - not a real verb) us over to Haymarket to get us close to the theater we were going to...



and Jan said Wanna wander over to Trafalgar Square?

And I said Do they have wine over there?

And she said Yes.

So we went rickshawing on over there, walked inside the (wine free zone of the) National Gallery and checked out The Impressionists, then walked outside and actually noticed that people there were barely British. No, make that weren't British at all, but instead were Dutch. Wearing orange all over the place. Because there was a big party going on in the square, with a Dutch band.
Because they were all celebrating the Dutch Queen's birthday.



I thought it was pretty damn nice that the British Queen was good with Trafalgar being overrun with the Dutch Queen's partying subjects. I mean, nice as they were - as this guy was, explaining it all to us about the party and everything (he says hi, by the way - when I asked if I could pop his picture on my blog, he said Yes, and hello to your friends, or something like that)....



Where was I? Oh yeah. These transient Trafalgar Squarians were, ya know, Dutch. Not British. Ya know.

(A while back, I don't think that would have gone over all that well, but maybe that's just me. Remember how much of a pain studying European history was - what with all their freaking 10 and 20 and 30 Years and Roses and Napoleonic and Your Mama Wears Untidy Whities Dueling My-Weenie-Is-Bigger-Than-Yours Take-That-You-Barbaric-Ruffian-With-The-Ruffly-Cuffs-Wars all the time, back in the day?)

Okay. I'm ready to go. To bed, that is. I still have a jetlagged self.

Tomorrow: last couple of pics of Saturday, and on to Sunday, and the South Bank White Wine Society.

Nighty night.

Instead of 'A Room of One's Own' (Revisited), I Opted For... French Onion Soup

Because my first day in England, I was a zombie.

Took the tube from Terminal Five/Heathrow to Hyde Park Corner in London, and was too sleepy/zombified to realize I was only a few blocks away from my hotel, so some taxi guy made several pounds for driving me down back roads - not too far back, I later found out, but still 'back' enough that I couldn't see how stupid it was I took a cab with only a carry-on to drag behind me.

{This wasn't the first time stupid-cab-rides have happened to me. Years ago, I took a cab from the Brussels airport to the train station, and it cost me a small fortune. This was in the 80's, when I didn't have anything like any kind of a fortune, large, small or even minuscule, so I've never quite forgotten how pissed off I was to find out later (I always seem to find out stuff later, when it's, you know, too late)I could've hopped a bus or a train to the station for the next best thing to free.}

Anyway, taxi or no taxi, I finally ended up in my room about 11:30 am, Brit time...



...and this is where I stayed for close to 24 hours.

Like a fool, I'd thought this would be the day, alone in my room, in a kind of "A Room of One's Own' thing, that I'd read my manuscript cover to cover, since it had been eight weeks from the time I'd looked at it at all.

Sure.

I laid it out, as you can see in the picture, feeling all warm and golden because it still kind of surprises me I was able to cobble together the long-term will to write and finish the thing, what with life instruding constantly, as it does. I'm sure all of you know the feeling of finding yourself surprised when you see what you've been able to do - it's a happy shocker, although it does sometimes feel as if someone else possessed you when you did the writing. (A younger you. A different you. A you worth knowing. A part of you. Those kinds of you's.)

Anyway, rather than working away like some writer in one of those parts of a movie where they show The Writer slaving away at her desk, flipping pages over, touching her fingers to her lips on occasion, the model of Thought Thinking Thought, with amazing soundtrack music (that freddie wrote) playing in the background, I ordered food in and slept, alone in the quiet, and woke up and hung out, and slept again.

By the next morning, I was ready for company, and it was a wonderful day with my sister-in-law, Jan.

I was gonna do an inclusive post about the stuff that happened during my week in England, but it's gonna end up as several short ones, since my brain is still mushy peas.

Hope you all are having a happy Sunday! What have you all been up to, lately?

I said this last year, EE, but it needs saying again.

Dear… Well, I guess I’m supposed to say Dear EE, or Dear Mr. Evil Editor, or (my personal favorite) Dear Sparky –

Whatever name I call you (and there may have been a few other doozies along the way), I really want you to know how very dear you are to me – that the dear part stays true and stays the same, no matter what name follows after it.

When I found your blog, I found you, and it was a package deal (no, not the nasty kind). I found a community of people with a common interest, many of whom I have gotten to know and come to care a great deal about.

And I’ve reconnected with the resonance possible when editing whittles writing down to the place it was trying to find all along, in a way I couldn’t have accomplished on my own.

Even your word limits forced me to learn, and that was a hard lesson for a run-on-and-on-and-on (and on) writer like me.

And I’ve laughed my ass off along the way, which not only is never a bad thing but is, in fact, always, always a good thing.

I’ll never forget you.

Love, Robin

Going down (well, over really) to Londontown

So, I'm off for a week. Gonna put comment moderation on sometime in the next day or so, before I leave, so when we're not around, no strange people take over and weird me out when I come back.

But I do have a special post popping up on April 23rd, and for that, if I can do it from where I'll be, sans my-on-laptop, I'll open the comments up to immoderation again. Yeah. Not a word. Whatever.

Anyway, happy mid-April!

Robin

So back when I was who I was before I turned into this version of me...

...a couple of years ago, my girls had this song playing on a CD they'd made for a road trip we were making. Make that a tame road trip for Robin, with girl children in tow. They were maybe fifteen and nineteen at the time (now Robin Sr. is twenty-one, and The Blondster is about to turn seventeen on me).



So anyway, we were driving along and driving along, and I was listening to the words of this song, and after a minute or so, I realized that there was something close to a decade of my life being described in the words. Damn.

Some of it was good stuff, a lot of it was crap stuff, but crap or good or some nether-in-between-happening kind of a place, it was the time I felt most alive without pause.

Sometimes I was the drunken narrator waking up and wondering what the hell?, and sometimes I was the recipient of the hazy wake-up beg-for-forgiveness fuss fit. Either way, it was a strange world to live in. A decade long (actually, a little longer) trip down inside a separate place.

When I think about it now, it seems like I was a different person then.

So, when this song comes on now, and it does still come on occasionally, I smile and tell my younger daughter I just love the beat on that one, but really, I just love the mental pictures rolling through my consciousness as it lopes across my cells, ranting and rolling.

What songs bring singular times of your life back in focus?

A rueful grin took control of my face when I watched...

...this.

I mean it; it took control. I couldn't erase it - this weird combo plan of humor and nettly empathetic (and selfish as well - like I said, it was a weird combo of a) concern.



Enjoy.

If you haven't visited there before, Dennis has some good stuff on his blog. Right now he's got a post about writing an article or essay as a way to 'get yourself noticed' if you've written a novel, and how that works. A different twist than the more (I guess, anyway) traditional route of submitting to literary magazines. I'm gonna go for both.

Anyway, if you have questions, go ask. Link on the sidebar.