Thanks to TfL, such situations are no longer a problem! The new Northern Line extension from Kennington to Nine Elms & Battersea Power Station opened today. The big question now of course is, since the name of the station is "Battersea Power Station", will we be referring to it as Battersea Power Station station?
Once upon a time when I lived in Toronto, a kind congregant gave me courtside seats for the Knicks game. I was a little late getting there, and just as I was crossing the court, the national anthems were played and I had to stand still. I found myself standing right next to Patrick Ewing. I just looked it up and he is 7 ft tall (213 cm). I looked up at him and he was so tall. So very tall. I had never before been that close to someone that tall. I didn't yet know the words to the Canadian anthem, so instead of singing along, I admired Patrick Ewing.
It would certainly be nice to be a bit taller, able to reach for things on the top shelves instead of looking for someone to help me in the supermarket (or trying by myself and ending up buried in a pile of boxes on the floor), able to see what's going on up front and, of course, reducing my BMI measurement. But hey, if I'd have any interest in them, I'm tall enough to be allowed on all the rides at the amusement park; and it's easier to get lost in a crowd if I'm on the run. Not that I am a runner. That is something of my father that passed me by. I prefer buses. Preferably old Routemasters.
Ok, ok, back to work. Go Knicks!
Nina Conti has a show on at the moment but since we are in a different country, we can't quite get there this time. I've been a fan for quite a while, and an Insta prompt for her latest presentation sent me in search of past memories.
1. It turns out that this is how I first discovered her existence.
2. When I was unwell for a few weeks in Waltham, my flatmate got me a book on ventriloquism from the library, and I got to the end of chapter 1 before I had to give it back. I am still able to ventriloquize the sentence that I learned: very few folk enjoy the view.
3. According to a chap called Ken Campbell, the perfect practice sentence for a ventriloquist is: Who dared to put wet fruit bat poo in our dead mummy's bed; was that you, Verity?
4. This. (Warning - adult language from Monkey)
Whosoever coined the phrase, it is certainly a proactive response to difficult experiences. However, the cartoon shared here, which has gone viral in the circles that I inhabit, tells us that such a response only goes so far.
Sending sympathy and empathy to all who are overwhelmed. Wishing you the strength you need and, above all, hope.
The pandemic has certainly curtailed his travels, but after Piglet returned from his day trip to Milano, he stopped to admire the chimney at the former tobacco factory in downtown Modena. Here's hoping that he'll be able to head out on another journey soon!
These are stressful days. The heat in Modena seems more oppressive than ever before, and relentless. They say it may break tomorrow. We certainly need a break of some kind.
Meanwhile, the new year is just a couple of weeks away, and there is so much yet to prepare. I talk about the heat having boiled my brain, and escape into genealogy explorations. But I have paperwork to complete. Numbers and words await my collection and arrangement. People await my attention and support. My dear ones await my cheshbon nefesh. It's time to face the things I fear instead of hiding.
I'm sure I say this every year, and each time I intend to do better. Will this be the year that I fulfil that promise?
If the stand in the background is the South Africa Road stand, then I think somewhere around Entrance J, row V, seats 140-something you would have found my father, his friends and me. I have highlighted the blurry blob in the top right-hand corner of the photograph. One of those grey bits is me!
50 years of fandom. And 50 years of friendship and adventures. I'm thinking particularly of Geoffrey Davis, Albert H Friedlander, & Sallie Levy Lunn, may they rest in peace (and use whatever influence they may have to help us this season!).
As the great nephew of the WW1 flying ace Manfred von Richthofen, known as "the Red Baron", it was difficult for him to escape constant references to his famous relative, as well as the usual "We won the War" tropes.
Although I certainly grew up watching The Dam Busters and The Great Escape every 5 minutes on television, I also had a parent who loved Peanuts, and therefore knew all about Snoopy's exploits in the early days of aerial warfare.
Thus, when Ambassador von Richthofen arrived in London in 1989, my father found it very difficult to resist raising a fist and uttering the traditional cry, "Curse you Red Baron!" Von Richthofen graciously overlooked this, they became friends and, at the end of his posting, the ambassador bestowed the honour of Grosses Verdienstkreuz on the rabbi.
If you can get past the paywall, there is a good analysis of von Richthofen's work in the UK in the Times here. My condolences to his family, may he rest in peace.
I'm ashamed to say that the only memory I have of that day is of being very small, and the pitch seeming very large and extremely green from high up in the back of the SAR stand where we were sitting. O, and my dad, Uncle Geoffrey & Henry Pincus passing a little silver flask back and forth over my head.
The team that I saw was: Parkes, Clement, Gillard, Venables, Hunt, Hazell, Busby, Francis, McCulloch, Marsh, Leach. The final score was 1-1 with Dunphy scoring for them, and Marsh for us. However, as I said, I have no pictures in my head of football. But thanks to the magic of the internet:
This has Millwall's equaliser. The records say it was Dunphy, but it looks more like an own goal to me.
ANYWAY, the purpose of all this is to point out that this coming Saturday, QPR begin the new season at home to ... Millwall. What a coincidence. Were it not for all the travel difficulties caused by the current Covid situation, I would be next to my friend Chris in the SAR stadium, celebrating this anniversary. 50 years of fandom. Thank you to Uncle Geoffrey for converting my father, newly-arrived from the USA, into a follower of the Superhoops. Thank you, Daddy, for the best birthday present of my life. And thank you for all the friends I've made and adventures I've had because of this passion. COYRS!
In Judaism we are encouraged to speak the truth about somebody when they have died. We shouldn't be mean, but we should be honest.
Jackie Mason was quite a well-known comedian in the US, whose humour was based on a sense of outrage. He came from a long line of rabbis - apparently his sermons were funny, and got funnier and funnier until they became a stand-up routine and he dropped the service part and went professional. My father knew him a little, because he was friends with one of Mason's rabbi brothers back in the day in Pennsylvania, and this brother took my dad to some of the early performances.
Several years later, I met Mr Mason in London. I went to his hotel with an appointment to take his photograph for the Jewish paper I worked for at that time. He was sitting with his entourage at a large round table in the hotel dining-room, and invited me to join them. After discovering that I was my father's daughter, he proceeded to tell a story to the group about the olden days that included rude comments about my father (I am blanking on the details. I only remember feeling humiliated). He then gave me 30 seconds to take a shot, and sent me packing.
He was clearly an intelligent and talented person. He was also full of rage. He may well have had good reason to be so angry, but I watched his act a few times over the years, and am sad that rather than working things out, he seemed to me to become more and more bitter. I wish he could have found a better way to use his gifts. May he rest in peace.
You know how it is, one moment you're just going for a little drive out into the countryside, mostly because the car has aircon (and your flat does not and it's 30/86 degrees outside and you are on the third floor), and the next thing you know there are 10 kg/22 lbs of apricots in the boot/trunk!
It all started last year because I was looking for apricots, but a spring frost had damaged the crop so there were none to be found. Instead I got cherries, and then plums, and finally peaches; and a jamming career had begun! This time I went looking for peaches, and was handsomely rewarded with my dream fruit.
The first half is now jam, with thanks to the movie "Yesterday" and the documentary "My Octopus Teacher". Hopefully the second half will be completed late tonight.
The other day I went to get a blood test, and went to the wrong place. They were actually demolishing the building as I arrived, so they had definitely changed their address. The foreman told me I had to go to the Casa della Salute, and sent me across town. It was the first hot day, and I was late for my appointment and extremely flustered. As I dashed through the old city streets like a flustered rat in a maze, I came upon this sign, "Via della Cerca", "Road of the Search". So I went down that road. & you know what? It took me where I needed to go.
NB new favourite facemask created by Lior from a t-shirt I got at the Memphis Zoo when I visited the lovely Peggy Kaplan z"l many years ago. Peace, Love & Pandas!
Some of the symbols and meanings are clear, the cross, the swastika, and the imprecation (possibly the worst thing one may say in Italian) for sure. Not so sure about "adesso" or the hand. (and, as L said, even if I'd got a print from the hand, there's not necessarily proof that this same hand was responsible for the rest of the graffiti!)
On my way back upstairs, I stopped by Max the barber, a fixture in this neighbourhood for several years, with whom we are reasonably friendly. I showed him the photo, and asked if anything like this had happened before. He said no, and that if he ever saw anyone doing something like that they wouldn't arrive home in one piece! I reminded him that L & I are Jewish, so something like this is particularly disturbing, but he was adamant that it was a massive coincidence and that we were not being targeted.
L & I have discussed this from every angle. The few people who know we are Jewish, and know that is the car we use, seem utterly unlikely to behave in this way. In fact, we cannot imagine any way for someone to connect that car and our being Jewish. It may well be just a horrible coincidence. But it hurts, and I have to admit that I am feeling it even more when it has happened to us than the anger and sympathy I have felt when it happens to others. I hate to admit to such egotism, but it is so.
This may also have something to do with the fact that just a few minutes earlier we were studying the weekly Torah portion, Balak. This is the one with the talking donkey (eat your heart out Shrek fans), and we got into a bit of a discussion about the power of words. I remembered that when I was little and somebody said something mean, you were supposed to throw back at them "sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me!" It was a good attempt to reduce the influence such words - fatso, four-eyes, Christ-killer - might have had on my psyche, at least I had a comeback, but I don't remember that it really helped much.
In Judaism, words have great power - God used them to create the world ... throughout the Torah there are consequences for what people say as well as what they do ... lashon ha-ra was and is considered akin to murder (of the soul if not the body) - we are taught, and should understand that words - in written or pictorial form - can really hurt. Immediately after our Or 'Ammim discussion on this topic, real life bit us on the bottom. Funny how that worked out.
Nu, what now? Perhaps we will inform the local police, just for it to be on the record. As I write these words I am singing along with my favourite NFTY songs (starting with the first and second albums), trying to salve my soul. Will I develop an improved empathy that translates into a proactive response next time others are hurt? I hope so.
