Lowestoft Revisited
There's an even greater small miracle in our bathroom at present. We now have three African Violets in bloom. Elsewhere, however, the signs are that winter is with us at last with snow sweeping across the country. It suddenly seems to have gone from being an exceptionally mild autumn into a truly cold one.
In the wider world, there's been a fire in the Chunnel. News came in later from Michael (from the London Zoo) that he was coming back from Antwerp on a train following on behind the one that caught fire. Their's stopped dead in the middle of the Chunnel and then beat a hasty exit - backwards. By the way, am I alone in this world in connecting the fact that the fire happened just days before the French lorry drivers' blockade of Channel ports. Presumably, the fact that the Chunnel was out of action just coincidentally helped their cause.
Friday night saw one of the great events of the year. As part of the London Film Festival, there was a performance of the 1925 silent classic The Phantom of the Opera starring Lon Chaney given with a live orchestral backing. I was enthralled throughout. The combination of film and live music is just tremendous. McLuhanesque hot and cold media combined.
Ross and I have been off to visit Colin in Lowestoft. This was somewhat brave as, the last time I visited him, Fred and I split up during the train journey home. I'll put you out of your misery right away. History did not repeat itself.
We spent a pleasant part of Saturday mooching around Norwich, had a most pleasant meal in an American-style diner restaurant, bought some Chrizzie prezzies and the moseyed back to Lowestoft. Colin cooked a fabbity meal which included ribs in a barbecue sauce and his friend and colleague and soon to be lodger, David, arrived and the four of us eat and then watched films on the big screen in Colin's home movie room. It was like being back in Seattle.
David's former partner Russell arrived with his new beau at one point which sort of disrupted things. Ross particularly didn't like him. In fact, the whole weekend was a bit strange for him since he spent a not very pleasant part of his childhood in the area.
Sunday was a sumptuous Sunday lunch with all the trimmings and then we had the journey from hell on the way back. The weather turned from cold and frosty, to miserably wet, to sleet and finally to snow. Because of engineering works, the train journey stopped on the outskirts of London and we transferred to what the Chief Steward kept telling us over the intercom were luxury coaches. Well, maybe they were but by a stroke of misfortune they were non-stop and took us less that 400 meters from our front door. 45 minutes later we were at Liverpool Street Station. Another 45 minutes on public transport and we were home. The whole journey took something like four and a half hours.
Not surprisingly, it took me most of Monday to get back to something like normal. So, this Tuesday morning, in the cold, I was in the bathroom feeling somewhat down-hearted. And then I spied the violets and the world seemed a much better place.
And that's when I broke the handle on the toilet. Honest guv, it just came off in my hand. Well, at least that's the three things out the way with... phone, washing machine and now the toilet handle.