The A Team goes for Plan B

The World in colour

I am the A Team. Singularly. When Plan A doesn't work, I invent Plan B. When Plan B doesn't work I look to Plan C and so on and so forth. Plan A was to become an airhostess and travel the world with British Airways - (read my first post to see why). Plan B was to power through drama school and become an actress (I applied to audition for Hermione on Harry Potter - read 'My own little Hogwarts' to see why).  Plan C was to be a teacher, but then I decided I really just didn't want to be. 

I've gone through most career options and zipped through the Alphabet with assorted 'Plans' and reckon I'm back at about Plan B, for the second time around.  Plan B) ii) is to go and see the world. Or at the least leave England which I haven't done in almost 18 months. 

I'm staring at the recently acquired map of the world taking up the entire far wall of my room and it's colourful. Not just because I've graffitied it with my 'already visited' and 'aim to visit' colour-coded stickers, but because the map itself is...colourful. 

Canada for example is Green. I'm not sure why Canada is green, perhaps they have a lot of grass there. Spain is a pale shade of Pink. I'm fairly sure there's no pink in the Spanish flag. The sea is Blue- well, that at least is reassuring. I look at the world map and it's multicoloured, it's diverse, it shows variety which is exactly what the map itself represents; an individuality about its population, a uniqueness about each place.  

When I lived in the USA, my sister and I wrote out a list of all 50 states and we kept it in the car.  Whenever we travelled, and we usually did so on a rather epic scale, we contented ourselves to peer out of the window and scrutinize every car registration plate in order to find one from each state.  They were all different; Alabama (our state) said 'Heart of Dixie' and had pink flowers and blue writing.  I don't remember the others so well. But it was fundamentally a task of completion, a small substitution for actually visiting EVERY state.  We completed it during our final few months, with Alaska being the final, devilishly elusive state.  (Apparently no-one on the Interstate was ever from Alaska.) 

My point is (I have slightly digressed here) that seeing the world is for me the ultimate goal of completion. To see what exists to be seen and to be lived; not to take our planet for granted but to recognize that it provides a spectrum of differences, although fundamentally united by similarities.  It would take a lifetime to go everywhere, but we can all aim high.  I will probably not see the entire world, but I shall endeavour to get a glimpse of it if I can. 

Japan in our thoughts

I've got to admit, before today I was completely in the dark about the tragedies that have been tearing through Japan's coastal regions over the last few days.  I was elsewhere doing irrelevant things and hadn't bothered to watch the news.  Today I read on the BBC that the consequences of the earthquake and tsunami will result in a loss of life that has not be reached since Japan's WWII involvement and the death toll  is predicted to reach 10,000 in single areas alone.  It was just over six years ago that the countries fringing the Indian Ocean were hit by a series of earthquakes, which produced tidal waves of enormous capability and shocked and horrified the world.  It's an unimaginable case of dejavu, with footage once again showing people fleeing from rapidly approaching walls of water, cars desperately trying to outdrive the full force of the ocean and everything from buildings, boats and vehicles being swept along as the water literally surged inland.  

From my computer, it was surreal to acknowledge the people in cars as actual people, that the heartbreak and loss of life that literally unfolded before my eyes was every bit genuine footage.  In an attempt to pass the blame, I feel angry at the film industry for the part it plays in immunizing society from the shock of real disasters and for the momentary disbelief that I felt when I watched the footage.  It is a horrible horrible thing that has happened to Japan and the only consolation we can take is that some were able to evacuate the area beforehand.  To those left behind, hopefully aid will come in abundance from any countries or individuals that are able to give.  I hope we can all keep praying for those that are suffering, who have lost homes and families and have the mammoth task and responsibility of rebuilding their lives. 

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-pacific-12725485
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-middle-east-12307698

1001 page views

Typically I missed the 1000 page view mark. That would have been the one to preserve in my memory but unfortunately, when I came to refreshing the page, Raf-brat Georgilee had leapfrogged the 1000 mark and gone straight to 1001. Well, at least it's a nice round number...

I thought reaching my first little milestone deserved a blog post in tribute since when I started blogging a couple of months ago, I didn't think it would take off and I didn't imagine anyone would be interested in reading about my own little Hogwarts or our crazy, small-town life in Alabama.   But you have proved me wrong and I know that at LEAST half of my cherished page views are by actual people, not just my own 'old-reliable' computer.

It's been great fun writing little bits here and there about this and that, and hopefully, if you like what you have read you will recommend it as a bit of bed time reading to your friends and families and continue commenting as you have been doing on things you especially like!  You can even (although I think you could need a googlemail email add or Twitter or something) follow me, meaning you don't have to rely on me putting the latest on facebook to know what's gone up.  Click the follow button on the left of the blog and I guess just follow the instructions! (You must be able to tell I'm not technology minded; someone please buy me Blogging for Dummies.)

Let me know if any of you are blogging as I'd be interested in reading your stuff too.  Thanks guys, and happy Wednesday!

[Photo taken from Volleywood - blog entitled 'Greek League Resumes!']

A hole in one

Stylish

Hurrah for pancake day and having a fantastic chef for a mother.  Retrospectively of course, since most of the 'run up' to this day of indulgence seemed to pass me by and I awoke in a state of sugary, lemony, pancake battery obliviousness. [Apologies for overly long and possibly invented words that already there seems to be a plethora of tonight - am feeling wordy.] So, due to my unforgivable ignorance, and shame on Heart FM's Sam and Amy for failing to mention pancake day during the 10 opportune minutes while I was driving to work, I had to make a desperate dash to Morrisons after work armed 5p short of the parking ticket fee and already running late for the gym. Nightmare. My mother and I thought we were home and dry as we began the pancake making process, somewhat arrogantly assuming our television cooking knowledge would put us alongside chef superlatives like Michel Roux and Raymond Blanc and that our meek and mild looking batter would somehow yield to us not just pancakes, but Crèpes, not just with lemon and sugar, but with Cointreau, and set alight. 

I will somberly admit now to you all that this time around, I was no Nigella and my mother was no fairy godmother. Perhaps Gilmore Girls has finally produced some dialogue worth noting (alright, I'm not ashamed, I think the dialogue on GG is awesome... I dare anyone to mock me.)  Perhaps Rory's advice about the infamous 'first pancake' should actually become common and relied upon knowledge:

RORY: [...] you are forgetting about the first-pancake phenomenon.
LORELAI: Eh?
RORY: Yes the first pancake – you know you always throw it out. [...]
LORELAI: Why do you throw out the first pancake?
RORY: Well the griddle's too hot. It gets burned.
LORELAI: Oh, my god. Next year, no excuses. We are making you that audition tape for "Top Chef."
RORY: This is pretty basic stuff.
LORELAI: Do you do it with hamburgers and waffles, too?
RORY: No, it's pancake-specific. 

(http://www.tvloop.com/gilmore-girls/show/quotes/rory-gilmore-rory-are-you-sure-we-got-enough-plain-165390)

Ma, moments before...

If Rory, the girl who grew up living on take-out and microwave food knows rules about pancakes that I don't know... It is certainly to the detriment of any of our endeavours.  Our first pancake was under par. In fact it was so far under par that it was practically a hole in one, and that is NOT a good thing. Slightly slimy, undercooked and a little too enthusiastic with the lemon juice makes for a pancake worthy of an Exhibit A. Round 2 showed improvement, although not a lot in the flipping department.  The pan, admittedly was on the heavier side of a cement truck (although I doubt it says that on the packaging,) and so flipping the pancake resulted in merely 'folding' it in half as the weak little thing just didn't have the energy to make the full turn.  Round 3 was almost a success as we had discovered the key lay in cooking it for longer - then it didn't stick to the pan quite so much. It tasted pretty good too. Round 4 was supposed to be our demonstration pancake; the one that we showed off now that we'd honed our skills and could whip up something that looked alright; it was the one we would take photos of and show the family. So we photographed it in the pan and it looked fab. We even photographed me flipping it and after 3 attempts got both my face and the pancake in view. Then it went to Mum for one final and memorable flip. The photo was perfect. When I looked up, the pancake was on the floor. Spreadeagled and mangled. I looked forlorn. Mum had hysterics and the cats turned their noses up at our wonderful, and now sadly ruined creation. 

The tragic accident

A Taste of Nigella

Guinness, cocoa, butter swirly patterns

The Chocolate Guinness Cake that is currently and beautifully baking in the oven is one that I can verily lay claim to, oh yes, but alas, the same cannot be said of the recipe.  That Aphrodite of a cake belongs to none other than Nigella Lawson and to her I am perpetually grateful.  As for all you anti-Guinness folks out there, and as a non-Guinness drinker myself, I must admit that the only resemblance that this cake has to it is in appearance, since it is designed to reflect the iconic ebony-ivory tipple.  

The first thing to note about this cake is the smell when it's cooking: the first stage involves melting an entire pack butter into half a can of Guinness and mixing in a bucket load of cocoa which produces a heady, rich and slightly metallic smell.  (To find a suitable word to describe the Guinness element of the scene I am sitting here making myself sip the drink like a pungent medicine or vodka shot, screwing up my nose slightly.  All in the line of duty of course.) Whilst stirring all the components into a swirly twirly helix of delight, I wondered whether I'd invented - sorry Nigella had invented - a new variety of hot chocolate: butter, Guinness, cocoa and sugar etc in a perfectly smooth twist on the classic blends. I sampled a little and was pleasantly surprised despite the quantity of Guinness that still remained in a relatively unchanged state.  

Anyway, the next best part of cooking this cake (other than licking clean all used utensils and bowls etc) is making the icing. Now it's not traditional icing solely made from icing sugar and egg whites, but a creamy melange of Philadelphia, icing sugar and double cream.  Once the chocolatey cake mix has been left to cool, the icing can be smoothed over the surface, á la Guinness 'froth'.  It is delicious if not verging on being criminally rich, but self-restraint is the key to the perfect flavour as a night (or several hours) in the fridge solidifies both cake and icing and creates a cool, moist and succulent consistency.  (This is approved by my whole family, plus the many other families we have shared this cake with...) 

The Morning After...

As per my own advice, I have nestled my prize cake on a shelf in the fridge to mature over night, only to be devoured by hungry little village goers at the fete tomorrow.  My only comfort lies in the fact that so many of them will consider me to be their fairy godmother by this time tomorrow.  Maybe I should lay tribute to the wonderful Nigella in some fashion though, as it's one thing to bake a fantastic cake, but another thing entirely to have the dream to start with...

HAPPY COOKING ALL.  check out the link for the recipe: http://www.nigella.com/recipes/view/chocolate-guinness-cake-3086

 

Photo(s) of the day - Thursday 3rd March 2011

Alberto Giacometti was an artist I studied in my early days at school. I think I was fourth form, so that would be aged 13-14.  We were doing a clay based project and I remember being fascinated by the elongated and emaciated figures that Giacometti sought to produce. In terms of artistic representation, he didn't seem too tricky an artist to mimic, allowing for finger and thumb rolling of the clay for the long limbs, and small squashed balls for the heads.  Ten or so years later in life, I found a perfect and much more inspired way to recreate Giacometti's work, in a photo-scape that lent itself to the artist's unique style. 

My interpretation of Giacometti art

True Giacometti art at the Tate

Icebound in Russia: a Kremlin tour with Giorg

[The following is a little gem of a memory about a weird and wonderful experience we had in Moscow, whilst on our year abroad out in Russia.  Tash, Alice, Liv, Vicky and I got the 'real' tour of the Kremlin.]
We stood huddled in the bleak underpass, reluctant to move an inch from our multi-bodied cocoon, for fear of the Russian snow storm of death against the fragility of poor British skin. Time soured past with an urgency that mirrored each gust of the blizzard and we knew that somewhere, in the winter wonderland’s evil counterpart above, a man named Giorg was braving the storm to wait for us. He would no doubt be clad in an impenetrable mass of fur lined layers that not only acted as a barrier from the cold, but also ironically evoked former communist ideas of de-individualisation. Our tour had been orchestrated by Alice’s father, who worked with Giorg’s daughter some fifteen hundred miles or so west-bound and despite some trepidation at the prospect of an afternoon with a complete stranger in a country where we spoke very little of the language, we had all agreed to accompany Alice for a trip around the capital. In reality, we had quickly appreciated that our ‘little trip’ would most likely become a serious expedition, possibly requiring some amount of apparatus to propel us through feet of fresh snow and flare guns to signal distress. One of us let out a shudder that may have been an attempt to thaw the vocal chords, which like every other surface and extremity of our bodies had become rigid with cold. A puff of frozen air lingered above our heads for a few seconds like a cigarette cloud and then faded into nothing. She tried again. “What…tttt…time…..mmeeeting……?” I suspected that everyone had understood her disjointed question but as with true mob mentality, they, like I waited expectantly for someone else to bother answering. It was a futile waste of energy. One of the Cathedrals in the Kremlin Several prolonged minutes later we had somehow managed to surface out to the blinding white terrain, and with eyes scarcely open in resistance against the blizzard, we spotted the only other living being in sight. Awkwardly, like a Roman army shuffling its flanks forward in unison, we trudged across the snowy bog towards our shapeless stranger. A pair of twinkling eyes composed most of his Grandpa-like face and he surveyed us with what I could only describe as amusement. “Let’s go” he said in gravelly Russian, with no hint of a stammer. This weather was clearly nothing new to him. At the entrance to the Kremlin there was finally quiet. Out of the wind and snow we heard, really for the first time, Giorg’s voice, which oddly was lyrical and light. He told the attendant the five of us girls were his ‘detee’ or children. Beneath the furry Chapka that buried most of her head, she raised a barely visible eyebrow but didn’t comment. She looked bored. It was with trepidation that we entered the home of the mighty and notorious Russian Government, where once had lived rulers whose names all expanded into titles such as, The Terrible, The Conqueror, The Liberator, The Great, The Proud and The Moneybag. I tried to drag up details from Russian history class, about revolutions and triumphs and tsars long since buried underground and I kicked myself for not having paid enough attention to now pose educated questions to our guide. Giorg playing his mouth organ through Moscow Once on the inside of the towering walls, we stood anxiously waiting for Giorg to lead the way. This was not a difficult decision to make; the only direction available to us was highlighted by strings of fluorescent rope sourced from pole to pole that directed us like sheep in a bee line towards the centre of the Kremlin. Everywhere we looked were signs ordering strict compliance with all regulations and at every angle in our line of sight stern sentries stood with fixed icy glares that mirrored the weather. I had visions of slipping on ice and inadvertently skidding over the lines, wondering whether I’d be arrested on the spot and sent to Azkaban as a suspected British spy. The Kremlin, as we had hoped, was indeed worth a visit. ‘Sobornaya Ploshad’, which means ‘Square of Cathedrals’, was literally exactly as it declares itself.  The paved square hemmed in four ornate and exquisitely decorated cathedrals that made me feel woefully disenchanted by our own British edifices.  I briefly considered whether the universal architect was in an especially angular and gothic mood by the time he got to designing England. The cold remained as vicious as it had been in the morning, and not even the beauty of the Kremlin distracted us from the numb sensation of our toes and the painful throb of frozen fingers. We tried to nod enthusiastically as Giorg told us zealous and meticulously detailed historical accounts of this and that, signaling first one direction then another and drawing in the air with bare fingers what I can only imagine were battle strategies. At the height of our insecurity, he inexplicably linked arms and began to serenade us with Russian ditties as we continued on through the ancient fortress.  Surely the centre of all things Russian and governmental was no place for singing?  Surely it merited esteem, silent reverence and awe?  It took all our concentration not to start whimpering. Either that or giggling from the utterly peculiar turn the day had taken. Tash, Me, Vicky, Liv and Alice Our incredulity peaked when he suddenly announced, “My son is a famous artist. Next, we will go to his house.”  In a short space of time, we found ourselves standing in an art studio that very much resembled an underground lair with no windows but a mesmerizing display of sculptures covering every inch from floor to flaking ceiling. Giorg introduced a slim, dark haired young man as his son.  There was a table at which we were directed to sit, that held a colourful assortments of cakes, biscuits, breads, teas, chocolates and sweets and we politely were encouraged to eat, drink and be merry, as is traditional in Russia. For the next hour or so we chatted away in disjointed Russian, pointing to particularly intriguing yet striking sculptures which we were then given to hold like prizes, until, estimating a respectable amount of time had passed, we sly lowered them to a space on the table, arms and fingers aching from the immense bronze weight and the lingering effect of the cold. A little later still we were joined by a woman and two tiny children, who were the rest of his family. The children kissed their father and then tottered off to busy themselves in the back room with scraps of clay, molding them like play-dough into charming little figurines and bringing them through to present to the father, who praised their artistic endeavors and encouraged their noticeable budding talent. It was really very endearing to see such a genuine and lovely insight into how affectionate Russian people can be, especially since our reception as foreigners usually encompassed stern frowns of disapproval, and at best, a lukewarm sentiment. Click on the link to see the published version of this article: http://travelmag.co.uk/?p=3790 Copyright © 2011 Georgie Klein

Catching up with the Joneses

I know I'm not a Jones, I'm a Klein.  But I feel I owe a catch up as it has been a little while since I've posted anything and I've noticed just the hint of a decrease in page views on my profile... I won't hold it against you... not this time. 

So there are various things I have considered updating you on.  Firstly, the self indulgence of those high-profile companies who feel it is their right to entirely and unsympathetically disregard candidates (with or without potential for success) without tact and without fear of reprisal.  Secondly, your very own choices and ideas of items to post on my blog, which many of you kindly voted on and which I hope to deliver on a regular basis.  And thirdly, what's new 'en mi vida' ('in my life' for you non-Spaniards out there.)

I shall start by relaying the bad news to you with the understanding that it should always be followed by something more positive to leave you smiling.  The job market is letting me down.  No, it's stronger than that really, it's failing me, it's squashing me with its enormous five inch stilettos. The Guardian and the Independent preach that we should endeavour to make job hunting our 'full time job' and so I have wiled away long days in my Paris Gellar-esque work retreat, pouring out my heart and soul (also personality traits, work experience, previous employment and personal statements) into job application after job application with think-bubbles screaming 'EMPLOY ME EMPLOY ME EMPLOY ME', all I might add, to no current avail.  I have submitted quite literally myself  to not one, not two but twenty six different publishing-related companies and in response, have heard back from six. 

The most exciting possibility was in travel oriented publishing for a company that produces in-flight magazines for big airlines.  I applied for an internship in the editorial department, lured in by the ambitious and challenging array of experiences they offered; I went for interview, but am still waiting for a definitive answer.   

Who else did I apply to? 

• The BBC to work in research for an Arts Documentary - no luck there, but honestly not especially surprised.  I'm no Simpson or Dimbleby.

• NOW Magazine - jumped through hoops writing some 'sample' pieces for them but after an initially positive response, was told nothing was available until May and I would need to reapply.  The response read: "Sorry, we are now booked up until April. If you would like to apply for a placement after 6 April 2011, please put your new dates in subject field and reply to this email".  That was it, no 'thank you for your time, efforts, hope, enthusiasm...'

• Time and Leisure in London were a lot more helpful in their rejection in the sense that they explained the reasoning behind it and offered some alternatives I could look into.  Thanks to them.

• Time Out gave me the following feedback which at least stopped me from deciding that I have NO talent at writing and applying for a job as a 'leaflet hander-outer' (which at least offers some financial incentive): "Your application was of an extremely high quality so although I can not offer you a work placement at this time, I would like to keep your details on file."

So, having Googled every single publishing company the gargantuan online encyclopaedia could provide me with and trawled through copious magazines, applying to them didn't seem to have benefited me in the slightest.  All I had achieved was a colossal contribution to deforestation and a displacement of several thousand hours of my time. It seems that I must reassess my application technique, try even harder for an internship and in my hopes to reaffirm my true love of writing, put fingers to keypad even more often to substantiate myself as a writer. 

And so onto the good news :) my poem 'Human Expose' won first place in a competition called 'Strictly Shakespeare'. It wasn't a big competition, I entered mostly because the theme was 'Valentines Day' and the entry fee was only a pound. In a knock-out elimination process based on daily votes, I somehow managed to beat the final competitor with her brilliant poem 'Worth It' and got a nice little prize of £20. Thanks to everyone who went on the site and voted :-)

Finally, thank you to everyone who voted on the poll I put up on my site asking what you would all like to see more of.  First place, quite surprisingly, was Photo of the Day.  So I'll be keeping my eyes skimmed for interesting things to snap! Secondly, tied, were The Alabama Chronicles and My own little Hogwarts. I get so excited delving into the vast expanse that is my memory and recollecting the nuggets of quirkisms and peculiarities that accompanied those years of my life.  Some people suggested more travel and culture related pieces, which I have some ideas for so I'll keep you posted on those and I might even do some little insights into things that I personally find engaging / exciting / noteworthy, whether it be books, films, cooking or whatever! Wait and see!

Photo of the day - The vast world of proportions

Photo taken in Cornwall

 

I took this photo looking back up at the top of a ridge where this monstrous cloud had risen up, dwarfing my friends.  I love the contrast in size and the effect of the light and how the cloud has just turned everything else into insignificance.

The Alabama Chronicles Part 3 - Supermarkets, weapons and 'double-barrel-isms'

When we weren’t roaming freely around the local bookstores, my sister and I often accompanied our mother to the local Winn Dixie or Bruno’s.  For some unknown reason in a lot of America's southern states, supermarkets, drive-throughs, cafes and restaurants are called the weirdest things.  ‘Mae’s Wings and Things’ leaves much to the imagination, ‘No Way José Grill Cantina’ suggests a serious character flaw, ‘Talk of the Town Cafe’ is too arrogant for its own good, ‘Back Yard Burgers’ sounds like the owner has gone in search of road-kill a la Top Gear and ‘Fat Man’s Smokehouse’ sounds like a place you might go to for a large side order of lung cancer.  The Americans also seem to have a fetish for double barrel words, as though a lone name simply won't suffice.  Not only is this the case for supermarkets and restaurants, which have names like Piggly-Wiggly, Hobby-Lobby, Bama-Fever, Chick-Fil-A, Big B’s Bar-B-Que and Chuck-E-Cheese, but also for children; Chucky-Lee, Dorothy-Jane, Ruthie-Anne, Louisa-May, Ana-Leticia, Lila-Rose, Candy-Kay, Bobby-Joe, Bobby Ray.  

Anyway, our local supermarkets were Winn Dixie and Bruno’s (thankfully avoiding any such double-barrels).  We also frequented a tax-free precinct on the Military Base called the BX Commissary.  Down one aisle you could find rows of fresh baguettes and round the corner of the next you could buy a shotgun and many brands of pistol.  That’s what the ‘Deep South’ is like.  I’m fairly sure that two thirds of Americans living there own some sort of self-preservation weapon.  Once I asked my father whether we kept a gun in the house in case we were burgled.  He told me no, but one day he happened upon a lethal knife lying on our drive way and he stowed it away in a drawer in our Bar.  From time to time I would creep in to have a peek, scrutinizing its every inch for blood stains as it was clearly a murder weapon that had been tossed onto our driveway as the killer fled the crime scene.  Reality and a decade more of maturity tells me it was probably no more than a fishing knife that had perchance fallen out of some moving vehicle, but a sense of morbid curiosity still filled my mind at the time.  After all, I suspected that America, and particularly Alabama where we lived, was a dangerous place compared to charming little England. 

The best thing about going to the supermarket when you live in a state as hot as Alabama is the air conditioning.  Getting into the car was never a problem because we could exit the house through the garage, allowing the remnants of air-con to travel with us as we clambered into our Dodge Caravan (called Dodger).  The journey itself was also fine because you could either position the air so that it blew directly at your face, or lower the windows to entice a breeze into the clammy interior.  But during the brief crossing of the car park, you would discover that the tip of your pony-tale was suddenly dripping beads of sweat and your shorts clung to your legs in a very distasteful manner.  You panted like a dog as the heat wrapped itself around your skin like a hot wet flannel.  And then you were greeted in the doorway by the most pleasant thing imaginable; cold, fresh explosions of ventilated air.  It was like a rich, cool heaven. 

Food for thought - In an ideal world...

All roses would be red, snow would be warm, mice would never stray indoors, tires would never go flat, babies could change their own nappies, eagles would do flypasses (like the Arrows), butter would be spreadable however cold, life would be accompanied by music, cake would be doctor recommended, sickness could cure itself, work would be optional, and only ever on weekends, polar bears would be cuddly, technology would never fail us, the shy would shout from the roof tops, the loud would stop to listen, the rushed could have a coffee, strangers would be destined to meet, feeling pink would be the new feeling blue, coke wouldn't explode when you open it, Take That would never have split and Australia would be reachable in minutes.

What would YOU add to this list??

Feeling pink

My own little Hogwarts - Part 1

The Duke of Kent School, Surrey

No, I didn't really go to Hogwarts.  It's a shame, admittedly, for I believe I would have been well suited to Gryffindor and would have undoubtedly given Hermione a run for her money in Ancient Runes - 'insufferable know-it-all' that she was.    There's also no doubt that hurtling about on a broomstick does sound rather more exhilarating than the offside rules for netball.   I'd have preferred a quill to a Parker any day and a banquet instead of porridge, not to mention a magic wand (never actually referred to as a 'magic' wand - that merely goes without saying).

Well, my own personal Hogwarts was indeed a little castle set upon a hill and it did have four very individual and proud houses, so named after four well-known figures in history - Armstrong, Chichester, Hillary and Whittle.  There were girls' dormitories and boys' dormitories, a sick-bay, several secret passageways and of course an enormous playing field at the far end of the grounds.  Set in the Surrey countryside, our little castle was surrounded almost entirely by forests that, on entering alone, were every bit as scary as the Forbidden Forest.  Special weekend visits to the local village, Peaslake, were arranged every so often as a treat for those pupils that lived in the school, and the commencement of term saw each child arrive atop the hill with a large trunk crammed with school necessities.  Post was distributed to its eager recipients at meal times (via Matron sadly and not owls) and there was always a teacher to be avoided at all costs, who shall diplomatically remain nameless. 

Not wanting to blow my own trumpet, but I was somewhat a Hermione at school; a bit of a keen bean, a book-loving, knowledge guzzling, house-point winning little student, even going so far as to be dwarfed by a headfull of thick, wavy, Hermione hair.

My own little Hogwarts was called 'The Duke of Kent School' and was a boarding school for 3 to 13 year olds.  I was there from 8 to 13 and had the time of my life.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry - there is a definite resemblance to DOK

The Alabama Chronicles - Part 2 - Books-A-Million

I always find it absorbing watching to see where people head to in a book store.  It might be a young girl hovering in the sports section and extracting a chunky volume on Olympic swimming, or a builder, straight from a hard day's labour, carefully wiping his grubby hands on his trousers before browsing through Nigella Lawson's latest cookbook.  Or perhaps it might be an elderly gentleman with his grandson, selecting travel guides at random and nudging each other every so often to share a particularly great find.  Book shops can tell you a lot about people; those keen to learn who purchase 'How To' books, those hypnotised by the glamorous celebrity universe, content to flick through picture books of Rob-Pattz and K-Stew, and those simply eager for a good read, who browse through the bestsellers, going from blurb to blurb in search of that warm fuzzy feeling you get when you stumble on a great book.

The kids section of Books-A-Million

I remember as a child asking my mother to leave me in the local bookstores while she went and did the weekly food shop.  I would identify the most direct route to the children's section at the back of 'Barnes & Nobles' and 'Books-A-Million', where there was a reading corner decked out with tiny chairs and bean bags.  From time to time I might recognize a fellow reader and wave shyly across the floor, or sometimes I'd know exactly which book I wanted to read (having steadily been ploughing my way through it for the past three weeks) and to my dismay find it in the podgy fingers of some little rascal.  I'd put on my best scowl and wonder how best to get back my prized possession.  This normally involved offering another in exchange, advertising it as a more exciting read; yet this rarely came to any avail and some serious sulking often transpired as a result.

Me with my Betsy Bunny in the Amish outfit I bought her

There was another part of the bookstore that I was drawn to, like a bear to honey, and that was the section on the Native American Indians.  After almost every holiday we embarked on during our years in the States, I would come away with a new found fascination.  I was so desperate at one point to become an Indian that I demanded to be called by an Indian name, chose my ideal tribe and instructed my mother in how to fashion me a Pocahontus style outfit for Halloween.  My hair also lent itself magically to two long dark braids so it seemed my longed after fate would perhaps come to pass after all.  Then we visited Amish Country and my loyalties to the Native Americans were tossed aside.  I ignored the relentless claims by my parents that I couldn't just become Amish and I eagerly dreamt of the 'Simple Life' with blue starched dresses, black aprons and dolls made from corn.  My favourite book of that era was 'Rosanna of the Amish', which retold the story of a young girl adopted as a child by this distinctive group of people.  It was remarkably similar to my favourite book from the previous year, 'The White Indian Boy', which recounted the tale of how a white skinned boy became adopted by a great Comanche leader...

Perhaps you can notice a theme...

Photo of the day - Saturday 12th Feb 2011

The road is long and arduous for a ladybird

Seen crawling along the bench in my garden.  What I liked most about this shot is the angle.  It appears that the little fellow is trudging along some rugged terrain with mountains in the background, but I was actually facing the camera directly down at the ground so it is the tiled floor you can see. He was moving so slowly that it seemed to take forever to make progress so I had plenty of time to snap this shot.  Why crawl when you have wings?

Chronicles of Alabama Part 1 - Home and Garden

In the 23 years that I have been alive, and the 24 for Rachel, we have lived in many places, each one being a little chapter that began and ended with a very uniform Forces lifestyle.  However, this cannot really be said of our time in Montgomery, Alabama, for our time there was truly a unique experience and undoubtedly branched out from what we had until this point been subjected to.  

Our homes before America were generally Forces quarters on RAF bases and we were nestled within a cosy bubble.  This certainly wasn't a bad thing, but everything about our time in Alabama was novel. Our house for a start was a bungalow - in fact, all the houses in the area were, with the exception of the grand plantation houses.  We had a basketball net on our front drive, which barely merited being called a hoop since it was in an almost fully disintegrated state.  The drive was always covered with little prickly shells from next door's tree and so we had to tread carefully when darting around the side of the house to the garden.  The tarmac was usually incredibly hot, since temperatures in the summer often soared through the 90s and I remember it sizzled when it got wet, producing a scent that to this day is hugely evocative.

 

There was a dodgy looking shed at the top of our garden that lurked in the shadow of a monstrous hairy tree that housed who knows how many poisonous snakes, spiders and conspicuous forms of shrubbery.  

In retrospect I think we really took our pool for granted.  I can't remember ever thinking what a luxury it was to have entire pool to ourselves in the privacy of our own garden.  It was just part of the wonderful America experience.  Rachel and I used it without exception every day in the summer and autumn, and occasionally in the spring - convincing ourselves it was warm enough on my birthday in late March, which it never was.

Spiders were, I seem to remember, abundant in the pool, although we only happened upon a couple of really ugly looking ones.  On one specific occasion, Rachel and I were sunbathing in the pool on our respective inflatable pool whales when I opened my eyes and spotted a large spider on the fin of my whale.  I threw myself backwards into the water in a comic display of arms and legs and exited the pool in a scrambling fashion.  On close examination, and with the aid of our trusty spider-recognising book, Rachel, Mummy and I discovered its name was a Rabid Wolf Spider.  Well, the name says it all really. Rabid. Wolf. Spider. It was hideous.  If you know what a Humbug sweet looks like - black and yellow/white stripes - this spider might have been mistaken for one.  But worse in appearance as it had legs, fangs and little creepy black eyes.  They are in fact, utterly harmless but renowned for their ability to scare people horrendously. 

 http://ic2.pbase.com/o4/53/691653/1/67141222.vIMXKYEG.RabidWolfSpider2a91606.jpg 

[I went to find a photo to display here but got the shivers and decided I couldn't face tainting my page with such horrific images, so I've attached a link below.  Peruse at your peril......]