Tis the end of the line for the go-go gorillas of old Norwich town. They’ve been rounded up and corralled behind bars on Millennium Plain to be gawped at by the townsfolk and their over-excited sprogs before being auctioned off to the highest bidder, all for charity. Bye bye, Guy.
I know I said I wouldn’t mention the gorillas again. I lied. So shoot me.
You might also like Gorillas I Missed.
It can be reasonably argued that Indian cuisine began the transformation of the British palate from the drabness of the bread-rationing years to the all-corners-of-the-world flavour it is today. Liam and I love a bit of South Asian and Liam cooks up a mean curry (from a recipe, not a jar). Since our return to Blighty, we hadn’t actually stepped out for an Indian. Until recently. We decided to give the Merchants of Spice a go, a highly recommended eatery located in a fine old building on Colegate, a short stroll from our Weaver’s cottage. Did we enjoy the experience? Yes and no. Inside its antique shell, the restaurant was minimalist chic without a hint of the flock wallpaper and chintzy gilt of old and the mood was sophisticated and buzzy. The bhajis were disappointingly dry but the rest of the food was fine, plentiful and served up in elegant dishes. So why my reticence? Well, the set-price three course menu advertised on a board outside was off menu by the time we took our seats. But my main gripe was the service from the over-familiar waiters. They pestered us like wasps at a picnic, interrupting every conversation and force-filling our glasses. It brought back unhappy memories of certain Turkish restaurants we learned to avoid. The rapid-fire courses prevented us from making a meal of our meal and our gentle pleas to slow things down fell on deaf ears. If we’d wanted fast food, we’d have gone to McDonalds.
Books are coming at me from all directions at the moment, but this one is worth a very special mention. The gorgeous and über-talented Kym from Turkeywithstuffin’s Blog has just released her autobiography and it’s got the chattering classes chattering.
This is what Kym had to say about herself:
“Kym was born in London’s East End & was raised by her Grandparents until the age of 13. After that her life became a series of disasters. A dalliance with a Persian Playboy resulted in a son and eventually, by sheer will, she clawed her way up the corporate ladder in high heels & plenty of lippy, carving a career & a decent life for them both.”
This is what I had to say about Kym’s book:
“A tender and candid memoir from a woman who finds inspiration and love in a foreign land. This heart-warming tale provides plenty of highs and lows, good times and bad but gives a timely reminder to us all that life is for living. There is much to find beyond the bars and the beaches and the author tells it straight from the hip. Get your tissues ready.”
So get yourself a copy of Turkey with Stuff in, pour yourself a full-bodied red, plump up those scatter cushions and grab the Kleenex autumnal shades. Available on Amazon.com or Amazon.co.uk
More inane ramblings from me on Displaced Nation. This time about reviews.
“Should a review like that count? Well, here’s the rub. Mass appeal retailers who positively encourage reviews as part of their business model are far too egalitarian. There’s very little discernment and no filter. Generally speaking, every comment carries equal weight.”
As far as British summers go, 2013 wasn’t that bad – a nice opening, a moist middle and a glorious finish (sounds like someone I know). A few rainy days but little to write home about, apart from one late evening a few weeks ago. Mother Nature threw a hissy fit and chucked a squally storm across the flatlands – snap, crackle and pop, with water coming at us from all angles like an out of control car wash. I was busy tippy-tapping when I noticed a small dribble of water gently trickle down the wall from the corner of the ceiling, rolling behind my laptop screen. Liam and I ascended to our boudoir tucked into the eaves to investigate and, yes, you guessed it, the roof had sprung a leak. An urgent call to our landlady led to a quick inspection by a middle-aged builder sporting a beer-belly and fetching multi-coloured socks, chosen by his daughter, he told me.
Erection day came. I was minding my own business when my attention was drawn to a fella in the semi-buff with more muscles than Brussels playing with his poles right within my line of sight. Yes, him and his tools were only feet away. It was all a bit like a car crash – you know you shouldn’t look but you just can’t help it. Not a lot got done that afternoon, I can tell you, not with the steamed-up spectacles and dripping windows. It all brought back cheerful memories of my x-rated peak-time thirties and that Diet Coke Ad (the original, not the recent sequel). Who said life in Norwich was boring?
For many more months that she cares to remember, Linda A Janssen (Adventures in Expatland) burned the midnight oil and poured her heart and soul into her book, The Emotionally Resilient Expat. It was time well spent because she’s really pulled it off.
This is what the pro had to say:
“A practical guide in the art of managing the risks of overseas life in ways that will promote endurance and effectiveness. Full of honest and hope-filled stories from the lived experience and life-long learning of Janssen and her dozens of expatriate contributors. An invaluable companion for expats who want to know that they are not alone.”
Duncan P. Westwood, PhD, (C)OACCPP Clinical Director of Expatriate Care & Development, International Health Management.
This is what the amateur had to say:
“What’s it like down your neck of the expat woods? Exhilarating? Challenging? Tough? Isolating? Life-enhancing? Alienating? All these things wrapped up in a bow? You are not alone. We live in a global village where it has never been easier to pitch your tent in a foreign field. But, it’s a sprawling village of brain-aching complexity and diversity, which can stump even the most adventurous and resilient. Janssen has managed to capture the very essence of what it means to try a different culture on for size, assembling an exhaustive toolkit to help the expat explorer adapt and prosper. It’s quite a coup.”
Jack Scott, Author
And guess what? Liam and I have cameo roles. Fabulous!
Check it out on Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk
Liam’s birthday is coming up so I treated him to a night at the rock opera. Players from local not-for-profit entertainment company, Mixed Voice, were strutting their stuff at the Playhouse Theatre trying their hand at ‘Rent.’ It may be a bit of a gay cliché but Liam loves a musical and ‘Rent’ is a musical he loves. Loosely based on Puccini’s ‘La Bohème,’ the tale focuses on an eclectic troupe of impoverished young artists and musicians in the late Eighties struggling against a bitter wind in Alphabet City, the once avant-garde (but now ruthlessly gentrified) district of Manhattan. While Puccini laced his opera with consumption, Rent is stalked by AIDS, the kiss of death back in the day. As the characters try to make ends meet, some meet their end. Despite the misery, Rent is neither depressing nor sugar-coated. But it is tough to stage and perform. A hugely complex, multi-layered score is punctuated by irregular rhythms, constantly changing tempos and complex harmonies which, if poorly delivered, could be a total dog’s breakfast. I had wondered if the cast would pull it off. Well, they pulled it off with some polish, receiving a well-deserved standing ovation. Even a normally reticent Liam leapt to his feet wanting more. Shame there wasn’t an encore.
Postscript
Methinks Mixed Voice liked the review:
For a glorious tail-end to summer, the flip flops were dusted down and the shorts were washed out for a final flourish and a sunny bite with my publisher Jo Parfitt, the tour de force who is Summertime Publishing. Jo was passing through the county, visiting her folks before she sets sail on her latest expat expedition, this time to Malaysia. Jo treated us to a gastro-pub lunch at the Orange Tree in Thornham, on the north Norfolk coast. It was an unmissable chance to cruise through the bread basket of England during harvest time while it’s still above sea level. Thornham is a picture-postcard hamlet dripping with money, converted barns and upmarket holiday lets, the kind of place featured on those minor-channel relocation programmes like ‘Escape to the Country.’ Liam loves to watch these shows but since we don’t quite have half a million stashed away in an off-shore piggy bank, watching is all we ever get to do. The pub grub was delicious and Jo was delightful, as were her splendid parents who popped along for a glass. While Jo is sipping Singapore Slings on her latest posting, she’s asked me to join her small cohort of trusted confidantes, a huge complement and a nice little earner. So, to Ms Parfitt, I thank you. To Summertime authors, if your Kindle file goes tits-up, on my head be it.
I’ve held £300 in Premium Bonds for decades. I’ve had them so long, they’re probably worth half what I paid for them. It’s sod’s law: my numbers never come up. Then there’s the Lotto. I’ve never won so much as a tenner. To make matters worse, I’ve bought so many losing scratch cards over the years that I’m personally responsible for the felling of a small copse. Still, I’m happy to do my Good Samaritan bit for lost causes. It’s my civic duty. The Victorians endowed schools for paupers, I gamble. It’s the modern way. My one consolation is that I may have been unlucky in Lotto but I’ve been lucky in love.
Ever since we moved back to Blighty, I’ve entered every bleedin’ competition going, composing slogans to promote low-fat baked beans for the weight-watching generation who can’t be arsed to exercise, OMO whiteness for working scrubbers, breakfast bars for coffee-on-the-go bores and energy-saving vibrators for tight-fisted lonely hearts – whatever it takes to stave off a stint in the work house. One thing’s for sure. There’s no point selling my tired old carcass in the personals column of the local rag. These days, I can’t give it away.
My sister rang with glad tidings about her boys. She has four (not counting her saintly husband – sis and I are very alike so believe me he is). First born, Dan the man, has got himself a cracking new job with prospects and a pension. Second in line, brainy Jack, has just received a sparkling set of exam results. Third sprog, brawny Tom, is now playing semi-professional football at the tender age of 15 (they groom ‘em ever younger these days). But what of Josh, the baby of the clan? Well, he moves up a gear to secondary school next month and is showing quite a lot of promise himself in the kick-about stakes. Who knows? In a few years, we might have two players in the top flight. Time to pop our corks and toast to a comfortable dotage of wine and song. Remember, boys, we are your favourite uncles.
Perking the Pansies 