Did it. Dig it.

So, this is that cup of tea I was telling you about.

It was only 4:30pm, bitch arse cold, pitch black and a week before Christmas when we emerged from St. John's Wood station in London to cross Abbey Road in tragic tourist fashion.

Although this excursion was my idea, I admit that I still felt kinda awkward heading for our cultural mecca.
Most likely because I'm largely unfamiliar with the sensations and basic procedures associated with reverence.

We stopped in the Beatles cafe/gift shop at the station, to ask final directions and to pay ridiculous prices for Beatles merchandise as only the devout know how.

• $18 for pink Beatles shoelaces for my niece's Converse All-Stars? No worries at all.
• $15 for Yellow Submarine playing cards? Yes Sir!
• $25 for a black Abbey Road beanie? Two. Naturally.
  
• $7 for pens which either have The Beatles themselves, sliding around the crossing or a yellow submarine going by? Yup. I think I bought 3 of each. But only because I was exercising terrific self control and felt pressed for time.
  
• $7 for what looked pretty much exactly like a bucket of take away black tea, so hot and so strong that it made my heart leap for joy and would prompt this blog all these months later? Of course.
  

So, being only two blocks away, my tea was still almost full and piping hot when we arrived at the crossing.
And that's important.
It added to my over all enjoyment of this quasi religious experience, as a good drink always will.

I'm still shocked at how excited I was when we first spotted it.

I crossed, marched straight up to the 24 hour web cam and waved furiously at anyone who happened to be watching. Let's hope there weren't too many. I hope they're OK.

Walking across, perhaps it was my excellent cup of tea, perhaps it was purposefully achieving a nonsensical goal, maybe it was that little bit of creative magic that hangs in the air there, but I simply could not wipe the grin off my own face.
I don't know why I tried, but I did.
I'm like that.

Did it. Dig it.

The screen is black, but the clip is ready to go.




Oh, and in case you'd like to sing along...

DIG A PONY (THE BEATLES- LET IT BE)


I hi hi hi hi hi hi, dig a pony
Well you can celebrate anything you want
Yes, you can celebrate anything you want
Ooh

I hi hi hi hi hi hi, do a roadhog
Well you can penetrate any place you go
Yes, you can penetrate any place you go

I told you so
All I want is you
Everything has got to be
just like you want it to
Because

I hi hi hi hi hi hi, pick a moondog
Well you can radiate everything you are
Yes, you can radiate everything you are
Ooh

I hi hi hi hi hi hi, roll a stoney
Well you can imitate everyone you know
Yes, you can imitate everyone you know

I told you so
All I want is you
Everything has got to be
just like you want it to
Because

I hi hi hi hi hi hi, feel the wind blow
Well you can indicate everything you see
Yes, you can indicate everything you see
Ooh

I hi hi hi hi hi hi, cold and lonely
Well you can syndicate any boat you row
Yes, you can syndicate any boat you row

I told you so
All I want is you
Everything has got to be
just like you want it to
Because

School of Life.

I both teach and am taught at The School of Life.

That's the way it works.
Only I don't get to choose which day I'm teacher or student.

Like anyone else, I just go about my daily business and sometimes I return home having taught or been taught a life lesson.
I find that exciting.

The best example I can give, casually happened a few years ago at my Uncle Ernst's 80th birthday party.
All right when I was giving almost all of my attention to Viv's baked ricotta.
No warning.
No fanfare.
No fade to black or imperial gongs sounding at the end.

Just me, left sitting, annihilated, with a kinda joyous yet embarrassed smirk, after having been utterly humbled by the realisation of something I already knew to be true.

That no matter what, there's always someone better off and someone worse off than you.
And sometimes the universe is so kind as to sit them to either side of you in order to better demonstrate it's point.

At Ernie's party, I sat with my Aunty Kit to my left, while to my right I had tuned into a conversation between another guest and Viv, both aged around 60 something.

They were both teary eyed and consoling each other that they had lost their mother's at too young an age. They had both been around 40-45 when they had experienced this loss.

Now, of course, having been in my teens when my own mother was diagnosed and died from breast cancer, I confess I found their complaints a little steep.
So, I indulged in a little inward eye rolling, thinking of course that I was so much more to be pitied than them.
They'd both had the opportunity to know their mother's for 40 years!

Who the hell were they to be complaining?

You get the picture.

So, perhaps in an effort to disguise the self righteous look an my face, I turned to start a conversation with my aunt.

And that's when I noticed the look on her face.

The next split second saw my self respect reeling as I remembered that Aunty Kit's mother had died in childbirth.

Who the hell was I to be complaining?

It was a queer feeling.
A little like breathing in and out at the same time. Like a vacuum. Or like when you're standing in the surf and you feel like you're moving when you're not. Retro grade, I think they call it.

Anyway, here's my recipe for BAKED RICOTTA, just in case you'd like to chance your arm.
I can never make or eat it now without thinking back to this experience and being grateful for the lesson.

• 750gm fresh ricotta (from the deli not from the tub, not fat free either, it's pooh)
• salt, pepper, chilli flakes, sprigs of fresh thyme because it looks nice
• olive oil
• mix ricotta in a bowl with seasoning
• prepare pans by brushing with loads of olive oil, if I'm feeling paranoid, I used Glad Bake as well (that's most of the time, let's face it)
  
• I sprinkle cracked pepper and chilli flakes on the base, that's up to you
  
• I also place a few sprigs of fresh thyme on the base, that's up to you
  
• press into non stick loaf pan or into a few smaller mini loaf pans - it's no big deal, it doesn't rise, you could even use muffin tins or friand tins
  
• drizzle with a little extra olive oil
  
• bake in moderate oven until it looks nice and golden brown around the edges - usually 20 -30 mins depending on your pan choice
  
• cool in pan as it will be all wobbly
• up end onto serving plate
  
• surround with semi dried tomatoes (if you want to) & serve with crackers

Fade to black.

Parisian moment.

Righteo, I'm going to do it.
I've been putting it off, hoping that maybe, just maybe, my poor opinion of Paris would dwindle with time.
I thought I'd give it a few months and then look back at our pics and footage and that I'd see what it is that rest of the world seems to find charming about this place.
For certainly, I appreciated none of it while we were there.

And I don't think that I can write it off as having been tired, sick or just over travelling, because I all but wanted to roll around naked for joy on the pavement once I got to Hong Kong.

Watching bits and pieces of our footage, I immediately react the same way I did in January.

Irritation.

A monumental urge to snap everyone else out of their delusion. Why can't people see what a nasty little pretentious hovel this place really is?

Anyway, no point me describing to you how much I hated this dog of a joint and how disappointed I felt wasting my time there when I could have been somewhere good.

This clip says it all. And believe me, with my natural horror of being photographed etc, you may imagine just how much more I may have expressed, had Jeff not chosen to film "in the moment".

Paris. What a scam.

My cup of tea.

Well, bloody death sticks and pointy chains may not be my cup of tea, but this surely was.

Damn if the Brits don't do a good job when they make you a cup of tea.

And they don't just give you half a cup either. God, that drives me crazy. I'd rather discover half the expected amount of cash in my purse than half a cup of tea in my mug.

And their cups are big. Really big!
And hot.
And they always have lemon nearby.
And when you order a black tea with your Double Bacon Deluxe meal deal instead of a coke, they think that is perfectly acceptable, if not sensible.

So, what was my favourite hot beverage?
It'd have to come down to a very close finish between Burger King, and this very cup of tea, purchased at the ornate Victoria and Albert Museum eatery, as to which impressed me most during our visit to London.

Honourable mention to that take away cup I grabbed at The Beatles Cafe which I was drinking while I crossed Abbey Road.
Dig it.

6 foot 9 inch kaa-niggit

At the Tower of London, there is a museum of nasty war stuff which upset me.
Jeff liked it though.
Looking at axes, guns, swords, spears and numerous other things whose use I simply couldn't imagine, except that they were all for killing, isn't my cup of tea. And I don't care how old they are or who they belonged to.
But you will see my cup of tea shortly, so fear not.
Our Jeffrey was particularly taken by a suit of armour from some German knight circa 1470- 1500.
Now, considering the average height back then may have been around 5 foot, I suppose that a 6' 9" knight would have probably been enough to put the fear of sauerkraut into most folk from merry old England at that time.

But then, you do have to ask yourself how the Brits came to possess it if he was so damn scary.

Perhaps he didn't know what his favourite colour was.

Mine's green.

Meeting Tone und Lina.

I love this woman.

And all those years ago, I was worried that I wouldn't.
6 foot red head Norwegian Pisces.
What's not to love?

We first met in December 1997 at Munich station when Tone was my brother's girlfriend.
We took just one look at each other, hugged, linked arms and walked away together, each with a new sister.
Time and distance has made precious little difference to our relationship since that day.
This clip is 10 years later, January 2008 at Cologne station.

I had been wondering who would cry more, Tone or me?

It was me.
And this is surprising because I'm not by and large a watery person. Tone certainly is.

I dislike crying.
I shall fight tears on the beaches and on the landing grounds. I shall fight them in the fields and in the streets. I shall never surrender.

So, this clip tells me that I'm more inclined to cry from joy than from misery.
I suspected as much.
I hope it's not another 10 years before I cry for this reason again.

"...all the bags I want"

Yep, you heard right.
All the bags I want.
Hong Kong bags too.
Hey, if I'm going to carry a bag, it's gonna have silly animals and dancing ice cream on it, dammit.

I loved Hong Kong.
I loved the people.
I loved that I could wear lime green pompoms down to 7am breakfast and not feel in the least bit conspicuous.
I loved that their clothing stores only have one size. My size!
I loved that people gut fish in the streets, yet there's not a speck of plastic litter to be seen.
I loved being the minority.

I even loved the sound their pedestrian crossing signs made.
I'm going back.
And I'm getting more bags.