heav­en­ly July

“Hap­pi­ness isn’t some­thing you expe­ri­ence, it’s some­thing you remember.”

Try as I might to dis­prove this won­der­ful­ly evoca­tive adage from the great and wit­ty Oscar Lev­ant, I think it’s true.  While I get glimpses of hap­pi­ness as it floats by, it’s much more like­ly that I’ll find myself hours or days lat­er in a daze of remem­bered joy.  It’s just the way I am.  Peo­ple, places, things, moods: I try to appre­ci­ate them in the moment, but in truth, I need the per­spec­tive of time for most expe­ri­ences to reveal them­selves for what they are.  Bits of happiness.

July has been pep­pered with a glo­ri­ous series of “hap­pi­ness to remem­ber,” moments of friend­ship, art, din­ner par­ties, and fam­i­ly.  Of course, hav­ing Avery home from Oxford has been absolute­ly per­fect.  She makes every­thing more fun!  Here she is with John at the Tate, our mod­ern art neigh­bor, in a rare selfie.

That was a spec­tac­u­lar day.  We had lured our pre­cious Eliz­a­beth and Mad­die all the way from Barnes, to feed them drip­py, peanut­ty poached chick­en in let­tuce parcels, and then make our way to the Tate to see Mona Hatoum.  You must go too.  It is the best exhi­bi­tion we have seen in recent mem­o­ry.  Obses­sive, repet­i­tive, mono­chro­mat­ic, vast instal­la­tions of con­cep­tu­al bliss.

My heart was a bit ner­vous as we walked around, for fear that every­one would­n’t enjoy the show as much as I had, since I had talked it up quite a bit.  But I need­n’t have feared.  We were all enthralled.

Step­ping out onto the bal­cony to bask in the late after­noon river­side mag­ic is a joy that nev­er gets old.  What a won­der­ful day, to share with peo­ple whose com­pa­ny used to be a fre­quent delight, but now is a treat to be treasured.

And home for the most deli­cious choco­late cake EVER, cour­tesy of Elizabeth.

Flour­less, dense, just bare­ly sweet.  When I’ve test­ed the recipe, I will let you know, but for the time being, you can give it a try your­self here.

A day to remem­ber, hap­pi­ness to remember.

It would­n’t be sum­mer in Lon­don with­out Wim­ble­don!  So you can imag­ine my plea­sure when my friend Nora asked if I’d like to mosey over to her south­west Lon­don home to accom­pa­ny her and her three boys to the action.  But of course!

We ambled around, watch­ing the amaz­ing wheel­chair ten­nis, mak­ing our way up to Hen­man Hill for an ear­ly pic­nic sup­per for Otis and Artie.

Angus was con­tent to dan­gle plumply from his car­ri­er and enjoy the sights.

How Nora has man­aged, in the space of less than six years, to pro­duce this delight­ful­ly chaot­ic and joy­ful fam­i­ly of three boys, I real­ly can’t imag­ine, even when I spend an after­noon with her.  She is end­less­ly patient, tak­ing true plea­sure in all the fun­ny things they say and do.  For myself, I can read aloud to them from “Bark, George,” and “Will Gets a Hair­cut,” favorites from Avery’s child­hood that give me a lot of joy to revisit.

It’s a good les­son, actu­al­ly — if no one ter­ri­bly famous is play­ing, for £20 quid you can get into Wim­ble­don with no queues, on a momen­t’s notice.

There are a lot of lit­tle boys to bor­row, in this life!  What would I do with­out “my” gor­geous twins?  Claire and her two, the inim­itable Angus and Fred­die, jour­neyed from Barnes to spend an after­noon with me.  How lucky am I.

No, it’s not blood!  Just the sweet­est July cher­ries that the Eng­lish coun­try­side has to offer, enjoyed in a pic­nic on the lawn of the Tate.

Fred­die’s infec­tious ener­gy shows, as always.

When I think that I met these two when they were just six weeks old, and how afraid I was of insert­ing their lit­tle limbs into the sleeves and legs of their one­sies, I am over­come with sen­ti­men­tal­i­ty and love.

They talk!  “Angus has run away with his bis­cuit,” Fred­die observes, with fine acknowl­edge­ment of this naugh­ti­ness.  “He may not come back.”

“Fred­die has a torch, Kris­ten.”  Of course he does, Angus.

Claire has the most bril­liant tal­ent at liv­ing in the moment — lis­ten­ing to her laugh at their antics puts all wor­ries in per­spec­tive.  How much can be going wrong in a world that con­tains Fred­die and Angus?

That’s what makes both Nora and Claire such lov­ing moth­ers — they can expe­ri­ence hap­pi­ness right in the moment.

We’ve had vis­i­tors from the past, too.  Lily and Ted have come back to us, from John’s years at Reuters now ten years ago.  Hav­ing run into them in the exact same spot dur­ing week­end walks along the riv­er, we final­ly man­aged to make a plan.  Din­ner and con­ver­sa­tion here with Avery, and a late Sat­ur­day evening stroll around the Tate obser­va­tion deck.  The Shard…

And from even fur­ther back, our friend Kar­ly, trust­ed babysit­ter to tiny tod­dler Avery, has come back into our lives.  To think she was younger than Avery is now when this pho­to­graph was tak­en, in New York.

She appeared in our Lon­don flat last week, gor­geous fiance Andrew in hand, to share din­ner with us.  “May I point out that that was Avery’s head­band in that pic­ture?” she laughed.  Oh, the mem­o­ries of her adven­tures with Avery, swingsets and water fea­tures in the park, draw­ing pic­tures and play­ing end­less hours of doll­house.  Look how Avery’s lit­tle cheeks are plumped up, in a help­less smile.  And now Kar­ly is an adult, and Avery is an adult.  Tem­pus Fugit.

She and Andrew dis­cussed their jobs — renew­able ener­gy, and cre­ative tech­nol­o­gy, in San Fran­cis­co, their meet­ing, and their wed­ding plans.  Andrew had been to Cam­bridge, and he and Avery talked about the spe­cial and chal­leng­ing brand of com­pet­i­tive­ness that is life in the “Oxbridge” expe­ri­ence.  It was an evening to remem­ber, bridg­ing the past and the present, and look­ing to the future in the com­pa­ny of three bright and beau­ti­ful peo­ple, for whom there are more tomor­rows than yesterdays.

I’ve had my final ring­ing adven­tures with my Lon­don friends, before I fly off for the month of August in Con­necti­cut.  There has been Plain Bob, there has been a bit of Tre­ble Bob­bing, there has been the dis­tant dream of Sted­man.  And there is of course, the reward of Mon­day nights in the pub togeth­er, after prac­tice.  In the cir­cuitous, dark, and wind­ing streets of the City of Lon­don at night, one can feel Charles Dick­ens, or even Shake­speare, around every corner.

I’ve been to ring in Oxford!  Our Tow­er Cap­tain wrote round to ask if any­one want­ed to join the annu­al out­ing, and of course in my usu­al com­bi­na­tion of antic­i­pa­tion, joy and fear, I went along.  St Giles sim­mered in the hot July sun!

I tre­bled on eight of the fastest bells I have ever rung, thank­ful­ly with Tom stand­ing behind me to give advice and com­fort.  My arms are still aching!  We went on to St Mary Mag­dalen, where I rang the tenor on TEN bells, anoth­er mas­sive chal­lenge.  And HOT!

My dear friend Eva, whose Hun­gar­i­an recipes and wine exper­tise have added so much to our lives in SE1, took up our Tow­er Cap­tain’s tra­di­tion­al spot behind him!  Oh, her expres­sion says it all.  “Keep that back­stroke tight!”

Final­ly we end­ed up at Lin­coln Col­lege, in the clos­est, most air­less, sweati­est ring­ing cham­ber sure­ly on earth, where I tre­bled rather mess­i­ly to Grand­sire on sev­en, for which I’m sad­ly out of prac­tice, now ring­ing near­ly exclu­sive­ly on six.  But the fun of it, to ring in a cham­ber I’ve walked past so often now on our vis­its to Avery, hear­ing the bells high above.

What fun to be reunit­ed with Lin­da, who rang with me in Barnes years ago, on one of my very ear­ly Quar­ter Peals.  That expe­ri­ence togeth­er makes friends for life, and I will nev­er for­get her kind­ness and gen­eros­i­ty to me.  She has­n’t changed a bit.

I made my way home in the train, and then the Tube, and then anoth­er Tube, and then a walk home through South­wark.  Just look at the Cathe­dral, under the icon­ic Lon­don evening sky.  Sprinkly rain fell upon me, but it was sum­mer rain and warm, not to be missed.

The bells have come down, in the Cathe­dral.  And because the ring­ing world is very small, my friend Adri­an received a very mys­ti­fy­ing phone call dur­ing our Oxford outing.

“A man called John, you say?” he said into the phone, frown­ing.  “Mar­ried to some­one on the outing?”

Adri­an turned to me.  “Do you have a hus­band called John, in Southwark?”

“Well, yes!” I said in total con­fu­sion.  “Why do you ask?”

“Well, Rhi­an­non at South­wark says he want­ed to know when the bells were com­ing down, but she’s lost his phone num­ber.  But she thinks you’re here with me.  You call him!”

So I did, and he went along.  What drama!

I saun­tered along the Thames that evening, my mind full of the sound of bells, the mem­o­ry of Oxford (with­out Avery, very odd), the feel­ing of friend­ship, a slight shiv­er of accom­plish­ment and sat­is­fac­tion, grat­i­tude for the day just spent.  Pass­ing the Swan, and the Globe, in the gath­er­ing dusk, so beautiful.

Remem­bered happiness.

Our days have been enlivened, of course, by Poke­mon Go.  John and Avery have leapt with aban­don on this par­tic­u­lar band­wag­on, and I go along for the ride, or rather the walk, as we search south­east Lon­don for the elu­sive crea­tures.  Oh, the hours I’ve spent now, watch­ing their excite­ment as we pause at the Globe, or in the mid­dle of the Mil­len­ni­um Bridge, or in the shad­ows of St Paul’s, with Poke­mon.  Sum­mer 2016, in a word.

Then, too, on a bright July Sat­ur­day, why not pop on the train to vis­it dear friends who have had the effron­tery to move to Wind­sor, of all places?  Oh, it was sim­ply delight­ful to see dear John and Suzanne, quite the best neigh­bors ever, in their new stomp­ing grounds.

Over per­fect sal­ad Cap­rese, poached salmon and quinoa sal­ad, and a giant straw­ber­ry Pavlo­va, we dis­cussed all the things quite fever­ish­ly that we used to have the lux­u­ry to talk about every day — our chil­dren, our sum­mer plans, our trav­el plans, the beau­ty of an Eng­lish garden.

Of course through­out it all, there is Home-Start.  Or rather, I should not be so casu­al.  There is Home-Start, but there is soon to be no Home-Start, unless a mir­a­cle occurs.  Because our fund­ing has been withdrawn.

Seri­ous­ly.

In all the mon­ey float­ing around this great city, and this great Bor­ough, in all the love­ly lol­ly that has been poured in par­tic­u­lar into the Tate Mod­ern, the sky­scrap­ers in our midst, the giant and wealthy office build­ings, the pal­try sum that it takes to keep our hum­ble vol­un­teer work going has been withdrawn.

So John and I went along to a pecu­liar British insti­tu­tion, the MP’s “surgery,” to state our case.

In case you haven’t ever heard about a “surgery,” let me explain.  I’m not sure how the word came to be used in this con­text, but in a way, it makes sense.  From the Latin “chirur­gia,” mean­ing “work­ing, or done by hand,” it is an oppor­tu­ni­ty for each local Mem­ber of Par­lia­ment to make him­self or her­self avail­able, in per­son, to absolute­ly any­one in the con­stituen­cy who turns up, takes a num­ber, and waits her turn.  So we did, on a sticky, humid Fri­day evening.

This MP was absolute­ly love­ly — has just come into pow­er in April, did­n’t real­ly know what Home-Start does, and was very hap­py to lis­ten to my descrip­tions of the work I had done and the sor­row I felt at the pos­si­bil­i­ty of clo­sure.  I feel sure he will be on our side when the next debate comes up.  Thank you, Neil Coyle, and good luck with your 15-week-old baby!

While all that dra­ma works itself out, I’ve been turn­ing up at play­group with my sweet lit­tle fam­i­ly of twins, and up in the clothes-filled attics at Baby Bank, and at a recent and boil­ing HOT Sum­mer Fair, to raise aware­ness of Home-Start and what we do.  It’s always fun to spend time with my fel­low workers!

While I’ve been out and about, Tacy has been hav­ing adven­tures.  She has decid­ed she enjoys tak­ing a stroll in the hall­way out­side our door now, and then, just a lit­tle walk to see life from a dif­fer­ent per­spec­tive.  So once in awhile, I prop the door open with my curl­ing stone (as one does), and leave her to wan­der.  Imag­ine my sur­prise when, one such after­noon as I was run­ning errands, I received the fol­low­ing text from John:

“Taco is in trouble!”

I rushed home.  Taco, of course, was auto-cor­rect­ed Tacy, and some­one had narked her to the concierge team down­stairs who, in the per­son of Tyrone, turned up at our door to report her trans­gres­sions!  Who on earth saw her, and from where?  She isn’t telling.

Last­ly, of course I’ve been cook­ing.  And my lat­est great idea, swiped from my won­der­ful friend Anna of “The Yel­low Table” cook­book, is this: Prac­ti­cal­ly Instant Pizza.

Naan Piz­za

(serves 4)

4 plain naan breads

1 cup ready-made piz­za sauce

1 red pep­per, sliced thin

2 balls moz­zarel­la, pulled into bite-size pieces

2 cups sausage­meat (I make my own, but you don’t have to)

hand­ful mush­rooms, sliced thin

1 red onion, sliced thin

Sim­ply heat up your oven to 450F/220C, for at least half an hour, with piz­za stones if you have them.  If not, heat up a cook­ie sheet to hold the pizzas.

Place the naans in a sin­gle lay­er in the oven and heat for about 10 min­utes or until crisp.

Slather each naan with sauce, then pile on all the oth­er ingre­di­ents.  Bake for about 8–10 min­utes, until the cheese has begun to bub­ble. Voila.

*********

These were SO GOOD.  It’s fun because each per­son gets an indi­vid­ual piz­za, you get a good, crisp crust (unlike ready­made piz­zas), and there’s no time-con­sum­ing, messy busi­ness of dough-mak­ing, although I enjoy that when I have time.  I came home from my Oxford ring­ing trip to find John had already crisped up the naans, and all I had to do was pour myself a cock­tail, slice a few veg­eta­bles, and we had a per­fect dinner.

And a per­fect book to take to bed!  Have you encoun­tered the Isabel Dal­housie series, by Alexan­der McCall Smith?  I was point­ed to these love­ly, intel­li­gent, gen­tle books by my read­ing-mad friend Beth, and I have been so glad to get to know them.  Isabel is an Edin­burgh philoso­pher, edi­tor of “The Review of Applied Ethics,” and as such she goes through life deter­mined to put a moral inter­pre­ta­tion on all encoun­ters and behav­ior.  Read­ing these books, I find myself approach­ing my own life with more atten­tion to my moral and eth­i­cal deci­sions, while also hold­ing in my mind a beau­ti­ful view of the ancient city of Edin­burgh, and Isabel’s cir­cle of friends.  High­ly recommended.

July winds to a close, event­ful and lovely.

Next stop: Red Gate Farm!  With all our fran­tic bus­tle over the past few months, I am real­ly, real­ly ready for my hol­i­day, on a stone ter­race under a maple tree, in the shade of a big red barn.  Watch this space!