Hello again! A view from London Heathrow Airport’s Terminal 5 back on Tuesday morning:
The journey to the U.S. was fine. This morning I’m still in rural Pennsylvania. I stuck this photo up on Instagram yesterday:
We met our late friend Kam’s younger sister, Ravi, for a meal last night in central London. They knew all these sorts of places. So while she had been to this restaurant previously, we hadn’t: La Porte des Indes:
It’s a French-Indian place behind Marble Arch tube station. If you are ever in that part of London, it is worth a try. (I also warn you, it is pricey.) Waiting for her to appear, we discovered, as you see on the Google page I captured above, that they do indeed make excellent cocktails:
We went to a family funeral on Thursday in north London.
A couple of weeks ago, my wife’s uncle-in-law died at home in his sleep at 85. While there is naturally sadness, at the catering hall gathering that followed the church service and cemetery his son reminded me (perhaps he was also telling himself this as a way to deal with the loss) that his dad had been 85 and he had had (as they sometimes say in this country) “a good innings.” And his mother was coping okay so far at least.
I also bumped into a guy there I had not seen since he was at my wedding in 1999. His late father had been German, his mother (a close friend of the widow) is Irish/English, he himself raised in Switzerland and he lives there now with his wife, who’s Canadian. In case you are keeping track. (His wife did not come to England for the funeral.)
Welcome to our continuing 2016. The last Friday in July. We simply have to end this week with this:
Enfield? I used to live in Enfield. I have relatives there, too!
Imagine if she lives around the block from them? Or right near our old place?
Hello. I’m typing this on March 11 mid-afternoon here at a lounge in Newark Airport (in New Jersey), a few hours before our flight back to the UK. I think it’ll make for blog post on arrival “home” in England.
Around us on the sofas and chairs in the busy room are assorted people, some “type type typing” or “tap tap tapping” their mobile devices feverishly. I’m using my iPad with its Bluetooth keyboard. My wife across from me is on her Microsoft Surface. Some travelers are conversing quietly. Some kids I see are also engrossed on I-somethings. Some people are eating. Others are watching TV. (Nancy Reagan’s funeral is on the big set.) A couple I see in a corner are snoozing.
Sitting a few feet away from me is an American couple in their 20s to young 30s. Understand, I’m not trying to single out my fellow countrymen here – this lounge is full of other Americans. These two, however, seem to think everyone else has to hear what they’re yammering about.
We noticed this yesterday. A word on this sign doesn’t seem quite right:
I’m not a grammar nut. In fact, I can’t stand pompous authors lecturing on adverbs (I’ll boldly go where I see fit in my own writing, thank you very much), or where commas belong or don’t belong best when I am crafting a point – or when to use a dash, etc., and so on. Go write your own literary “painting” your way for your readers, and I’ll write mine my way for mine.
Yesterday we visited with my wife’s octogenarian aunt (and godmother). She has lived in Chesham (in the Chilterns) nearly forty years. The town is the last stop on the London Underground’s Metropolitan line – with a tiny above ground station.
She lives just outside of the town. While we’ve been to her home numerous times, we’d never been into the town center itself, so we drove in and she took us on a short, late-afternoon stroll around. It’s very pleasant. I played “tourist” briefly and took a few photos:
We’ve moved around so much in recent years our dog now lives with my in-laws. While walking him last night, I snapped this guy slinking around under the streetlights. You see them all the time after dark in outer London (the other night, I saw two of them together), and they always keep an eye on you from a safe distance:
I’ve learned it’s challenging writing for a potentially global readership. After all, nowadays, courtesy of Amazon and others, potentially anyone on the planet can tomorrow get hold of most any book. As an author, how to cope with that reality?
Language can be an issue. I’m not talking about a “foreign” language either. Rather, there can be “trouble” even with local variations on our shared language.