Getting Lost In Your Own Town

Last night, cycling up Shaftesbury Avenue as the street lights came on and the theatres swelled to bursting (or, at least, one imagines), I overtook a fellow cyclist. We were both pedalling furiously in the direction of the City, but as I passed him, I was startled to find that a) he was Boris Johnson, Mayor of London (the guy who attempts to hold this crazy town together, not the one who dusts off a ridiculous piece of head gear and waves a sword in front of HM The Queen at state functions), and b) he was letting off a string of expletives into the night.

Of the two facts, I'm not sure which was more arresting; the fact that I had just overtaken our Mayor (the blonde thatch exploding out from under his helmet gave him away), or the fact that he was swearing fit to make a sailor blush. I doubt Richard Curtis and Billy Mack could have done any better. I looked for headphones, expecting to see that he was on a call to some poor minion who was getting an earful for a misdemeanour, but it was apparent he was simply swearing at the world at large. "Is that Tourettes?" I couldn't resist asking. Boris looked over at me, had the good grace to look abashed, and asked if I knew where the Shaftesbury Theatre was. At this point, my ghast was truly flabbered. Isn't this the city he's been running for a handful of years? And where were aforementioned minions? Surely its someone's job to make sure this man at least knows where he's going and how to get there when he grabs his bike helmet and dashes out of the office on a windy autumn night...although I suddenly recall a play I was in in April, for which Boris had a ticket and didn't show. One wonders if there is such a person on the payroll down at London HQ after all...

Before I get smug, I had to confess to him that I had no idea where the Shaftesbury Theatre was either. Presumably 'on Shaftesbury Avenue' would be a reasonable guess, but that would be to presume too much about the logic with which London was created (none, I believe). I offered to Google it for him. (Actually, according to Google,  its that dubious building that stands across the road from the Oasis gym and pool, just beyond the Google offices, and offers up baffling musicals. The current incumbent is 'From Here To Eternity', which I daren't comment upon until I have actually seen it. I don't see that happening anytime soon; there's too much good stuff on at the National lately.) I could see the potential headlines scrolling through Boris's mind as he considered my offer..." Lost Mayor Rescued By iPhone-Toting Female" would have been a contender, as would have "Blonde Told Me Where To Go". He declined. But, in a gesture that really shouldn't have been charming, he shouted over his shoulder "So sorry about the bad language!", before blasting off into the night. I giggled my way home.

Autumn Story

In previous years, the horse chestnut tree arching over our roof wasn't on top form, and only yielded a modest sprinkling of fruit amongst the mountains of leaves. Not so this year; unexpectedly we have been treated to a bumper crop of conkers. At irregular intervals throughout the day and night, the tree detonates little bombs of shiny round mahogany nuttiness on our heads. I can't sleep with all the deafening racket, and I fear for the cat, who is happiest playing up on the roof, in the tree's direct firing line.

None of this tempers my joy at the simple fact of conkers. To pick one up, cradle the smug squat oval in your palm and admire its smooth brown skin is to be supremely satisfied. Being born a girl-child in a tropical country meant conkers were only a mythical object, invented by Enid Blyton and Roald Dahl, and I had never held one, much less swung one in a playground, until very recently. To discover that they truly existed was a marvellous revelation. I also discovered that they have been a part of Being English since the dawn of Englishness, and have a magical ability to unite people in appreciation.

As I was sweeping up the debris the tree had strewn over my driveway a few days back, a man with a head of untamed white hair stopped on his way down the cobbled mews in search of milk and the papers, and watched me for a moment. "Well, aren't you going to play conkers this year?", he demanded of me, feigning outrage. I smiled apologetically. He selected one from the pile and pocketed it, almost slyly, before ambling on down the lane.

But the greatest moment of my favourite season happened yesterday. I was woken from an afternoon nap (one of the perks of being a freelancer) by the dim buzz of an excited young voice beneath my window. I realised that I had been hearing the voice through a fog of sleep, and that it must have been there for some time. It belonged to a small boy, in his school uniform, who was standing under the tree and awaiting each plummeting conker in a barely contained frenzy of anticipation. Every time one fell he would dash over, scoop up his prize, and convey it to his mother. This paragon of patience was standing on the pavement with an open Melrose and Morgan bag; Madam, I salute you for being the kind of mother I long to be! Taking my cue from the young boy, I dashed up onto my roof and filled my pockets and hands with as many conkers as I could reach and then descended to the front door. I selected Polite English from the stock of accents (South African, North American/Canadian, Loose London and Polite English) that I use where appropriate in daily life, and went out to hand over my loot. The boy was still young enough to be overcome by a fit of shyness and fling his face into his mother's skirt, but her gratitude and the joy of her offspring made me feel like Santa's Elf and the Tooth Fairy. As they went back up the lane, I realised I have rarely been happier. And, hopefully, there was at least one champion conker in their bag.

Alone In An Hotel Room...

It's Monday night, and I'm in an hotel room, alone but for Siegfried serenading Brunhilde on my ipod. The window is open to the gentle comings and goings of evening traffic on Alton's high street and English flowers (I still can't distinguish flowers in this country, so anything not a rose or a pansy simply remains English) nod in a window box beside me.

The hotel is a local stopping house for business people; the carpet to the bar is well-worn, and the mattress springs complain of their aches. And yet, it is entirely glamorous in my eyes. I want nothing more than this; a room of my own before a car arrives early tomorrow morning to bear me off to a day's work on a film set. That the hotel isn't Claridges and the car will most likely be some form of Vauxhall product matters not even in the smallest way. The simple satisfaction of this is marvellous.

Somewhere along the wandering lane that is my acting career, I realised that I don't ache for red carpets and my name in neon. I almost certainly started out in that mood, wanting gowns and flashing cameras as much as any other girl raised on Drew Barrymore and Barbies. But now I find I simply want to do good work that somewhere, somehow, makes a difference to some stranger's world. I have no wish to meet this person, or hear from them what a difference I made. I've had that experience; as an ex-soap actress, I've been accosted by members of the viewing public, and it makes for a deeply uneasy trip to the toilets in the mall. No, I just want to go to bed each day knowing that I have a place and a purpose in this tangled web of a world.

Of course, if at some point, that web happens to involve Clarridges and a gleaming Bentley, these bedsprings will be happily left to complain under someone else.

New Brew

A little story: Last year, just before the start of proper winter, an enterprising young Londoner named Gavin opened a little coffee stall on Primrose Hill bridge. As I was often passing on my way to train clients in Primrose Hill in the freezing early mornings, stopping at Gavin became a little moment of warm caffeinated heaven. He's one of those people who gets very excited about coffee, and nothing ever tasted as good as his lattes. Except, perhaps, his hot chocolate. But then, after shivering on his pitch all through winter, and building up a regular clientele of devoted junkies, the landlady realised she was missing a trick, and doubled the rent. Gavin simply couldn't afford it and was forced out. I never knew where he had gone, but I would occasionally bump into another member of his fan club around Primrose and we would spend a moment mourning his departure. 

And then, this weekend, a man waved from a cafe at me as I cycled past, and there he was. He's finally got his very own cafe, The Fields Beneath, with sandwiches and tables, and even heating, right outside Kentish Town West station. If you're in the area, please support  him!http://www.timeout.com/london/restaurants/the-fields-beneath

Hello Calgary...I'll be here all week!

A month ago, I had no plans to be in Canada for my Grandpa's 80th birthday. Having just landed the lead role in a feature film due to start filming in a few days, my thoughts have been elsewhere. But determined mothers make the world go round, and thus I am freshly jet-lagged and still marvelling at the fact that I have just spent a week in Calgary with a family I haven't seen in 14 years. Sitting on a plane in a dark sky somewhere over Greenland, I scribbled down the new buffet of memories I have to savour...

Certainly, the breakfasts I shared with Grandma and Grandpa top the list. I loved the routine; Grandma sets the table the night before, and in the morning slices each ruby grapefruit with practised perfection while still in her flowery

robe. Then we reconvene when more suitably attired (although less so in my case as I tend to favour sweaty running gear) and select a bible reading from the tiny, well-thumbed stack of cards that has sat in a little pottery loaf of bread since as long as I've sat at that breakfast table, and each read a verse aloud, before saying grace. Grandpa's face barely visible over the tremendous tower of pancakes (each one an 'I love you' from Grandma) radiates disapproval of all things sugar and gluten. I put on ten pounds in a week, I swear. And that was despite going for long runs in Fish Creek Park!

The running in Fish Creek was heaven. The plane touched down onto a runway freshly cleared of snow to loud groans from fellow passengers, but I was thrilled. Calgary was a wintry

wonderland, just the way I left it 14 years ago. I couldn't wait to get into Fish Creek Park, which skirts the Bow river behind Grandma and Grandpa's house. But it was a startling moment to realise that the park, which as a girl I believed was Narnia and went on forever, is barely good enough for a 20km run...that is, until I discovered it goes for miles in the opposite direction, too. I ran for happy hours through the snowy forest, with an eye out for hungry bears, eating snow when I got thirsty an

d thanking God for everything... Certainly, running in Calgary has improved my knowledge of icy precipitation in all its forms, and I can now list black ice-detection among my talents.

Getting to know my family again was incredible. These are truly wonderful people, and sitting among them as one of them was a great feeling. Jessie and Maigan and Steph and Kayla and Larissa were all little blonde sprites when I was last around and suddenly my cousins are all beautiful blonde women with careers and distinct personalities and busy lives.

What I was most struck by was how much we have in common, despite such different upbringings. I treasure the memories of our drives into the mountains on mini girly roadtrips, and the conversations that were warm while the weather outside was distinctly less so. Jessie and I went to Banff (named after the founder's birthplace in Banffshire, Scotland) where Bruce the Moose used to have the run of the town's streets. The hot springs still draw people into their olfactorily-insulting waters under the impassive gaze

of the Rockies, and Jessie suggested we rent the 'Heritage' suits... as in, the suits they have been renting since the 1920's, complete with fetching flap for extra modesty. Very Gatsby, even if the petite Chinese ladies taking the waters next to us in their Burberry bikinis didn't think so.

Tim Horton's is another thing Calgary wouldn't be Calgary without. Special mention to the chocolate glazed Tim Bits. Over coffee and bagels on the morning of his 80th, Grandpa and I talked love and marriage and longevity and other light topics. Grandpa told me how he fell in love with Grandma when he was 16 and hasn't fallen out of it in 57 years of marriage. And it shows. They are a wonderful example of what love looks like. And Grandpa, being Grandpa, couldn't resist telling me with his customary twinkle that they are still great in bed. I remarked on the delicious coffee in an attempt to steer the conversation in another direction. Glad as I am to know it, there are some things one is never old enough to get one's head around.

Speaking of love, watching my Uncle Shaun and Aunt Ruth laugh together was another highlight of the trip. And getting to know my Uncle Rod's boys, Rodney and Zach, was delightful too. They invited me over for supper and the boys displayed budding culinary skills (Rodney on bbq duty and Zach dealing with potatoes). Rod, you are a true hero for making such a great home and being the father you are to your boys.

Grandma took me to the local Co-op, which was another unique cultural experience. London may be well-served in its grocery stores, but in North America there is a completely different kind of choice. I spent a mind-boggling twenty minutes in the bakery section alone. They have angel food cake. I'd forgotten about how ridiculously white it is. And then Cheezwiz... Grandma waxed nostalgic about it, remembering how her mother let her have it as an occasional treat. You see, the feeder gene is ingrained in us Driediger girls. We love, therefore we feed. But the ease with which the men in my family say I love you and express pride and appreciation was a revelation to me. I just about had to hold my father at knife point (I exaggerate, of course....slightly) to get him to say those three words but my uncles do it easily and often. I wouldn't trade my dad for anyone, but its still lovely to see.

Leaving was hard. It always is, but this time I made it slightly easier on myself by promising to return for Christmas. After all, I didn't get to eat gingerbread in Heritage Park, which no trip to Calgary is complete without.

And then England threw open her arms and welcomed me home to her newly-green bosom this morning; well, perhaps not quite, but to arrive in the British countryside on a sunny April morning could almost make a girl feel the island is her own special playground. My life waits for me here, and there are people whom I love here too. And a little Blue cat, but whether or not she loves me is subject for speculation.

P.S. Note to Self; do not attempt to write names and particulars of people to contact in an emergency into new passport while jet-lagged and on a lurching train. Disaster.

On food

The male mind is said to be occupied for the majority of its time with thoughts of sex. I am not male and thus have no idea what that must be like. (Thank goodness.) But I do know that many female brains I have some knowledge of are predominantly filled with thoughts of FOOD. Making it, buying it, presenting it, eating it, watching others eat it... And as a cyclist, I am grateful that I don't need to give a penny to the cumbersome and maddening thing that is Transport For London, but I do give over half of my salary to Sainsbury's. I barely land at my desk every morning, after a bowl of muesli and a 45-minute ride to work, and my mind starts to riff on the beauty of bananas and how much fun you can have stuffing vast quantities of sunflower seeds into your face. Then my friend and colleague Bita (remind me to explain to you how cool she is at some point...) will reach for her box of sultana bran, or I'll see someone dip furtively into the biscuit jar and I'm off; I simply can't think for the drum beating in my head about how yummy porridge tastes when its raining outside on a Saturday morning, or how heavenly it is to plunge into the crust of freshly-baked bread and scoop out the fragrant soft insides. And a friend, whom I DO NOT thank, has recently introduced me to Amarino's, which is where you can select four flavours of ice cream from the colourful array and watch them mould the lucky winners into a petal-shaped concoction of oozing yumminess. And then you sit in sugary silence and watch Old Compton street roll by in all its trippy splendour. But stuck in an office in the East End, I have no option but to while away the hours with pumpkin seeds and yoghurt until its time to go for a run through the packed City streets at lunch hour and then dash into Tesco's to plunder the shelves of humous and oatcakes. My day is measured by snacks and meals and grazing and thinking about what I'm going to eat next. And on a rainy day, such as today, the inner call for carbs - preferably steaming hot - becomes too much to think above. If any more precipitation rolls down the window, I'll wish I were male, and preoccupied with anything other than thoughts of biscuits...or pizza...or chocolate...

On my luxurious commute

I have discovered real luxury, and its not a perfume made in the mountains at midnight, or cashmere plucked from the bellies of baby goats. Its leaving a little early and riding the route to work that takes me past my favourite spots in my favourite city.

Google Maps tells me the quickest route from home to the office is a dreary slog along Nine Elms Lane, where Royal Mail trucks larger than Texas rumble past me on my flimsy bicycle and the site for the new American embassy looks like a tooth cavity drilled and awaiting filling. Then I am directed to progress up into the City from the riverside, past cowed looking people in cheap gray suits sucking on Starbucks as they jostle their way out of Liverpool street station. This route gets me to work in a vile mood, swearing to find a new job, any job, as long as it isn't in the East End.

But I came to a sweet realisation a while ago; that I had the freedom to choose. Ah, democracy and the burden of choice...however, I digress. A little less sleep, a few more trees... Easy decision, really. So now I set out in the morning with a sense of anticipation, and wend my way through Battersea Park, where a man brings fish for the herons that flash around him in the early sun like a gang of gawky teenagers. I cross the river under the rearing arches of Ebury bridge and take the temperature of the day from the Thames; there is nothing that river doesn't know about the city it slices through, I think, as I stare into its greasy gray depths. Then I circuit Sloane Square, where the bronze girl kneels forever in her fountain - filled and frothing now that Spring has at last arrived - and watch the sober-suited man roll up the shutters on Tiffany's for another day of peddling want. The elegant matrons of Belgravia are to be seen getting into their chauffered cars from the marble steps of townhouses I decorate in my dreams...through briefly open doors I catch tantalising snippets of a life where quiet and space reign in gleaming rooms. Little ladies in headscarves shuffle along the pavements to Waitrose past me, and should I stop to pick a tulip from the profusion in Ebury Square, there is an excellent chance of it blowing off and being flattened by a Maybach bearing down behind me. What comes next is a swift heart-in-throat dash through the steely cabbies that swarm around Wellington Arch; I always secretly salute the triumphant laurel-bearing girl, aloft above the fracas in her chariot, as I dash for the light that I usually get caught at, and must wait for the traffic pouring down Park Lane. Then its Piccadilly, past the Royal Academy that I've yet to visit, and into Piccadilly Circus where the ads perpetually keep the tourists goggling and snapping. Up Shaftesbury, past the theatres that will one day bear my name in lights, and the smells leaking out of Chinatown.

As soon as I cross Kingsway, things get quirky and the shops get smaller. People instantly acquire dress sense. One is reminded that plaid shirts with tightly rolled sleeves and jeans so skinny you can give yourself an anatomy lesson have never stoppped being hip. Some days, when there's time (and others, when there isn't) I join the queue at Monmouth for a moment in one of the commmunal wooden booths with the best cofee in London. And then onwards and eastwards. Rapha (cycling clothing Prada) have opened a cafe and store on Clerkenwell road that attracts couriers in their rag tag get-up, always accessorised with a bike lock slung across the body like a belt of ammmo and a crackling walkie-talkie. Further along the road is another new cafe, flaunting uber-cool custom built bikes in its windows, called Look Mum, No Hands.

As I turn down City road, the suits take over and gray becomes pervasive. I become just another of the army of ants that swarm into the blind buildings to switch on their computers and pick up their phones. But I can smile, knowing I have the whole thing to do in reverse, come five thirty...