It has been almost 10 years since my fingers last coaxed a melody from piano keys. Ten years since I tried to look at a line of music notes and already hear them in my head.
For 11 years, all through my childhood, my grandmother gave my brother and I piano lessons. It started when I was 3-years-old. I had to sit on a cushion placed on top of the piano seat so I could see properly. I played every day. And then, when I turned 14, I just stopped.
I stopped because I was too cool for piano. I wanted to play sports instead. I didn't appreciate it.
And then, as I got a bit older, I started to regret that decision. When I went to my grandma's house, I'd sit and listen to her play, watch her wrinkled fingers with perfectly manicured nails skip over the keys effortlessly while she closed her eyes. It was as if she was listening to someone else play Handel or Bach, as if her hands were not her own.
So many times, I almost asked her to teach me again, but I was nervous I'd forgotten everything she ever taught me and what a shame it would be if that turned out to be the truth. So I never touched her piano again. Not one note.
S came home last night with a box. A big box. He set it on my bed and tore it open, pulled out bubble wrap and soft packing material. Then he pulled out a keyboard. He said he wanted to learn how to play and his grandma had it stored away for years and she just gave it to him.
He sat on my bed and started playing random notes and chords, trying to hit the right note. When he plays bass or guitar, he doesn't really read music, he plays by ear, working it out from songs he plays on his laptop. I watched.
Then I saw a book. It was yellowed, ripped a bit and curled at the edges. I pulled it from the box and opened it, releasing a puff of air that tasted of stale cigarettes. It was a simple beginner's book with no chords and only the treble clef. Songs like Silent Night, Yankee Doodle, Oh, My Darlin' Clementine.
While S played, I studied the lines of simple music in the book and closed my eyes trying to remember how to read music. A few minutes later, he left to take some stuff to his mom's and said, “You have a go.”
When I heard the front door close, I put my fingers on the keys and I looked at the book. It came rushing back to me and I went through the entire simple book, playing every song so easily I surprised myself.
I took out my laptop and searched for free sheet music. I wanted to see if I could find some chords, some music with the bass clef, a little challenge. When S came back, I was working through a more difficult version of Silent Night, with chords on both hands. It all came back to me. I had to stop and think about the really high or low notes and I was still really rusty, but I know if I started practising again, I would be able to get back to where I was at 14.
Those 11 years of lessons haven't gone to waste.
December 08, 2007
November 28, 2007
James, the Mac and Cheese Mouse
A few days ago, I had a rare London moment: eye contact and a smile from a stranger on the underground. *Gasp*
.
It was at Euston Station, walking toward the stairs that led up from the platform. A woman and I were walking side by side, each in our own “can't-wait-to-get-home-from-work” mindset when all of a sudden, a furry body scurried in front of us, stopping us dead in our tracks. Hence the look and smile before continuing up the stairs.
.
The mouse wasn't rare, of course. They sniff and scuttle along the rails all day and night. From afar they're sort of cute. In fact, it came to our attention that we even have one in our house. This is fine when we hear him squeaking from invisible mouse-sized crevices in the kitchen walls. We even gave him a name: James. But last night, James came into sight for the first time and that was not okay. James should stay hidden if he's going to live with us. That was our unspoken agreement.
.
C told me about a shop called The Rosslyn Delicatessen on Roslyn Hill in Hampstead just a short walk from where I work. They stock all sorts of American food and have been voted Best Deli the past three years in a row. Bonus: They're located practically across the street from the award-winning and delicious Hampstead Creperie.
.
Anyway, I bought some graham cracker pie crust, Kraft mac & cheese, authentic Buffalo wing sauce, some A&W vanilla cream soda, and some Aunt Jemima's pancake mix. When I got home, I left the mac & cheese on the counter intending to make it when S came back from the gym.
.
Back to James.
.
It was, oh, around 10pm when I decided it would be a good time to start cooking. I walked in the kitchen and James emerged from a corner of the counter sniffing at the air, little paws held up like he was praying...and ran straight across the stove and dove in a gap between it and the counter on the other side. I froze and walked slowly backwards into my room and shut the door behind me.
.
James has crossed the line.
.
In fact, yesterday was not a good day for being home. Not just because of James and his sneaky appearances on the kitchen counter, but because the heating broke and we all sat around frigid in Arctic conditions with bundles of clothes and blankets. Not exactly conducive to doing much of anything but curling up with a good book, which is exactly what I did.
.
But first, I had to make a cup of tea. I walked into the kitchen wearing two hoodies. One of them had fur around the hood, which I was wearing because it was That Cold. It earned me a new nickname from H. I am now The Stephskimo. Cute.
.
Here's hoping the heating is fixed tonight and James is tucked safely away in a little crevice and doesn't decide to make any surprise appearances.
.
In other news, I have been invited to participate in a week long work experience under Eleanor Mills, the News Review editor at the Sunday Times.
.
It was at Euston Station, walking toward the stairs that led up from the platform. A woman and I were walking side by side, each in our own “can't-wait-to-get-home-from-work” mindset when all of a sudden, a furry body scurried in front of us, stopping us dead in our tracks. Hence the look and smile before continuing up the stairs.
.
The mouse wasn't rare, of course. They sniff and scuttle along the rails all day and night. From afar they're sort of cute. In fact, it came to our attention that we even have one in our house. This is fine when we hear him squeaking from invisible mouse-sized crevices in the kitchen walls. We even gave him a name: James. But last night, James came into sight for the first time and that was not okay. James should stay hidden if he's going to live with us. That was our unspoken agreement.
.
C told me about a shop called The Rosslyn Delicatessen on Roslyn Hill in Hampstead just a short walk from where I work. They stock all sorts of American food and have been voted Best Deli the past three years in a row. Bonus: They're located practically across the street from the award-winning and delicious Hampstead Creperie.
.
Anyway, I bought some graham cracker pie crust, Kraft mac & cheese, authentic Buffalo wing sauce, some A&W vanilla cream soda, and some Aunt Jemima's pancake mix. When I got home, I left the mac & cheese on the counter intending to make it when S came back from the gym.
.
Back to James.
.
It was, oh, around 10pm when I decided it would be a good time to start cooking. I walked in the kitchen and James emerged from a corner of the counter sniffing at the air, little paws held up like he was praying...and ran straight across the stove and dove in a gap between it and the counter on the other side. I froze and walked slowly backwards into my room and shut the door behind me.
.
James has crossed the line.
.
In fact, yesterday was not a good day for being home. Not just because of James and his sneaky appearances on the kitchen counter, but because the heating broke and we all sat around frigid in Arctic conditions with bundles of clothes and blankets. Not exactly conducive to doing much of anything but curling up with a good book, which is exactly what I did.
.
But first, I had to make a cup of tea. I walked into the kitchen wearing two hoodies. One of them had fur around the hood, which I was wearing because it was That Cold. It earned me a new nickname from H. I am now The Stephskimo. Cute.
.
Here's hoping the heating is fixed tonight and James is tucked safely away in a little crevice and doesn't decide to make any surprise appearances.
.
In other news, I have been invited to participate in a week long work experience under Eleanor Mills, the News Review editor at the Sunday Times.
November 16, 2007
A Website, A Job, and An Opportunity
Since I've last written, quite a bit has happened. It started when I found out the gallery is closing. Turns out, this is great because I need something more challenging and stimulating anyway. Perfect motivator.
First I got S to teach me how to build a website using just HTML and Notepad. I know there are programs like Dreamweaver and FrontPage, but I like to know how things work and it turns out it's not so difficult. I spent the next few days creating a website that employers can use to see some of my clips and my CV. If you care to see, it's live now at http://www.abowlofcherries.co.uk/.
I also tossed my CV up on Gumtree, which turned out to be a great move. First, I found out that Marc, the editor of Seven Magazine is looking for some help. I wrote about Seven a while back and Marc found the entry and left me a comment. Since then, we've been in touch on and off through email.
Well, I met with him a few days ago and he offered me a position as Sub-Editor for the magazine, something I can do from home on nights and weekends. I love this because Seven is something I really believe in. It's a magazine/website that looks seriously at issues on all seven continents (hence the name) and also at the culture, arts, fashion, music aspect of countries around the world.
If you know me, you know this is right up my alley.
Then I got a message from another man called Sean. We met for about 2.5 hours this morning.
He is from Ireland, has family in England and lives in Slovakia for work. He works for a blind charity in Britain. He had a friend, Brian Faul, who died of cancer who was also seriously involved with the blind charity. Apparently, this man gave up all of his appointments but the ones he had with them.
And so Sean wanted to do something in his memory. The Brian Faul Foundation is what resulted. It is almost ready to be “launched”, so to speak. As in everything is in place, it just needs to be finalized, which will happen in in the next few months.
Last week, he was browsing Gumtree and found my resume. He said he read it and then had to go make a coffee and come back and read it again. He was amused by the fact that I was American and interested in all this international stuff. What struck him were my projects – Jammin' for Jamaica and my new Traveling Mag Project, funny enough. Then he read this blog. He had asked me to send him the last entry so he could use for his English classes he teaches in Slovakia.
He works with street kids in the Ukraine among other less fortunate people in other places all over the world. What he wants this charity to do is to give people a chance who wouldn't have otherwise been given one. And he wants to do it by letting people use their talents/creativity to raise money for these projects that will benefit them.
His idea for me is to be a project manager/co-ordinator. I would come up with ideas like the Traveling Mag Project and Jammin' for Jamaica (which you can read about on my website if you're interested), ways to reach out to groups of people around the world, to connect them so they can better understand each other and to give them opportunities. I would set up and manage projects around the world, promote them, travel to the countries where they are occurring on occasion to check things out. There would be basic admin as well as I would be the link to Britain for the charity so I would answer a phone and deal with queries.
He said when he heard my ideas about the Traveling Mag Project, he asked if I would be willing to start similar projects in these different countries and he could then publish those under the name of the charity. He was very keen on the idea of asking the street kids he works with in the Ukraine to draw or write poetry in a book and then publish it and sell it and use the money to build them a shelter because, sadly, they live inhumanely in the sewers under the streets. I love that idea of redoing my project for something like that.
He couldn't offer me an official position yet until he speaks to the trustees, but he said he wants to go back to them with some ideas from me. I have a million ideas. If the trustees approve and want to meet me, I will have another inteview with one of them.
If they don't offer me a job, Sean said there's still opportunity to freelance for the Foundation.
I've also had a few emails in the past few days from different companies asking what my freelance rates are for writing marketing articles.
Now that my website is up, I'm going to use it in my applications so it will be much easier and I'm going to apply to lots more places, but I'm hoping this international projects one follows though because I think it would be awesome. And creative and stimulating and rewarding, etc.
First I got S to teach me how to build a website using just HTML and Notepad. I know there are programs like Dreamweaver and FrontPage, but I like to know how things work and it turns out it's not so difficult. I spent the next few days creating a website that employers can use to see some of my clips and my CV. If you care to see, it's live now at http://www.abowlofcherries.co.uk/.
I also tossed my CV up on Gumtree, which turned out to be a great move. First, I found out that Marc, the editor of Seven Magazine is looking for some help. I wrote about Seven a while back and Marc found the entry and left me a comment. Since then, we've been in touch on and off through email.
Well, I met with him a few days ago and he offered me a position as Sub-Editor for the magazine, something I can do from home on nights and weekends. I love this because Seven is something I really believe in. It's a magazine/website that looks seriously at issues on all seven continents (hence the name) and also at the culture, arts, fashion, music aspect of countries around the world.
If you know me, you know this is right up my alley.
Then I got a message from another man called Sean. We met for about 2.5 hours this morning.
He is from Ireland, has family in England and lives in Slovakia for work. He works for a blind charity in Britain. He had a friend, Brian Faul, who died of cancer who was also seriously involved with the blind charity. Apparently, this man gave up all of his appointments but the ones he had with them.
And so Sean wanted to do something in his memory. The Brian Faul Foundation is what resulted. It is almost ready to be “launched”, so to speak. As in everything is in place, it just needs to be finalized, which will happen in in the next few months.
Last week, he was browsing Gumtree and found my resume. He said he read it and then had to go make a coffee and come back and read it again. He was amused by the fact that I was American and interested in all this international stuff. What struck him were my projects – Jammin' for Jamaica and my new Traveling Mag Project, funny enough. Then he read this blog. He had asked me to send him the last entry so he could use for his English classes he teaches in Slovakia.
He works with street kids in the Ukraine among other less fortunate people in other places all over the world. What he wants this charity to do is to give people a chance who wouldn't have otherwise been given one. And he wants to do it by letting people use their talents/creativity to raise money for these projects that will benefit them.
His idea for me is to be a project manager/co-ordinator. I would come up with ideas like the Traveling Mag Project and Jammin' for Jamaica (which you can read about on my website if you're interested), ways to reach out to groups of people around the world, to connect them so they can better understand each other and to give them opportunities. I would set up and manage projects around the world, promote them, travel to the countries where they are occurring on occasion to check things out. There would be basic admin as well as I would be the link to Britain for the charity so I would answer a phone and deal with queries.
He said when he heard my ideas about the Traveling Mag Project, he asked if I would be willing to start similar projects in these different countries and he could then publish those under the name of the charity. He was very keen on the idea of asking the street kids he works with in the Ukraine to draw or write poetry in a book and then publish it and sell it and use the money to build them a shelter because, sadly, they live inhumanely in the sewers under the streets. I love that idea of redoing my project for something like that.
He couldn't offer me an official position yet until he speaks to the trustees, but he said he wants to go back to them with some ideas from me. I have a million ideas. If the trustees approve and want to meet me, I will have another inteview with one of them.
If they don't offer me a job, Sean said there's still opportunity to freelance for the Foundation.
I've also had a few emails in the past few days from different companies asking what my freelance rates are for writing marketing articles.
Now that my website is up, I'm going to use it in my applications so it will be much easier and I'm going to apply to lots more places, but I'm hoping this international projects one follows though because I think it would be awesome. And creative and stimulating and rewarding, etc.
November 06, 2007
Guy Fawkes at Roundwood Park
Fireworks on the Fourth of July meant sitting on blankets with family by the railway tracks, munching on pretzels and chips while the sky darkened and the excitement built up to the colourful explosions over the Niagara River. As I grew up, I saw them in bigger cities like Santa Barbara, CA, or Buffalo and Rochester, NY with friends. I didn't expect the local Guy Fawkes Day celebration in Willesden, London, to be much different, but it was.
For one thing, it's obviously November and not July, which meant being bundled up in winter coats, scarves, gloves, the works. Another thing was the dancing and the amusement rides, and the last thing was the violence.
I didn't realize Roundwood Park existed or that it was a five minute walk from my house. There were manicured flower beds, green grass and trees, a fish pond with a willow tree and a hill with a view of Wembley Stadium that would be a gorgeous place to watch the sun set.
As we approached the park, people were selling sparklers, flashing bunny ears, glo-sticks, light sabres, burgers, and everything that makes a regular fairground. There were rides, mainly for kids, strobe lights, haunted houses and people everywhere.
We found a nice spot near a cotton candy vendor and watched the sparks light up the sky. Most of the fireworks were white or red, a few were purple. My favorite ones were gold. They shot up with a bang and exploded in long streams of gold glitter. The very end of the grand finale consisted of only these. They filled the whole sky over a grey background of smoke and it looked like the sky was raining gold streams of glitter on the crowd. Everyone cheered. The air smelled of gun powder and cotton candy.
St and R were at the other side of the park. As we approached the hill, all we could hear was hip hop blaring out of speakers like it was an outdoor club. People were dancing, even the security guards were into it. R and St were sharing a thermos of mulled wine and we stood around talking for a while.
All of a sudden, we heard a bang in the crowd and people screaming and then a rush of 100 teenagers running down the hill. Then another bang and more people running and screaming. An ambulance put its lights on, the security guards disappeared, the music stopped. We stood there watching and heard a third bang, followed by more running and screaming. S and I decided it was time to go. We hadn't eaten yet and it was getting really cold on the top of the hill so we said goodbye and walked back toward the kiddie rides wondering what the hell was going on.
All of a sudden, we heard a whistle right above our heads. S instinctively shielded my body with his and we turned around to see a firework explode into the ground about four feet away from us.
I couldn't believe that people could be so immature to throw fireworks into crowds, and especially crowds full of little kids. I just don't understand what goes through people's minds when they do those things.
For one thing, it's obviously November and not July, which meant being bundled up in winter coats, scarves, gloves, the works. Another thing was the dancing and the amusement rides, and the last thing was the violence.
I didn't realize Roundwood Park existed or that it was a five minute walk from my house. There were manicured flower beds, green grass and trees, a fish pond with a willow tree and a hill with a view of Wembley Stadium that would be a gorgeous place to watch the sun set.
As we approached the park, people were selling sparklers, flashing bunny ears, glo-sticks, light sabres, burgers, and everything that makes a regular fairground. There were rides, mainly for kids, strobe lights, haunted houses and people everywhere.
We found a nice spot near a cotton candy vendor and watched the sparks light up the sky. Most of the fireworks were white or red, a few were purple. My favorite ones were gold. They shot up with a bang and exploded in long streams of gold glitter. The very end of the grand finale consisted of only these. They filled the whole sky over a grey background of smoke and it looked like the sky was raining gold streams of glitter on the crowd. Everyone cheered. The air smelled of gun powder and cotton candy.
St and R were at the other side of the park. As we approached the hill, all we could hear was hip hop blaring out of speakers like it was an outdoor club. People were dancing, even the security guards were into it. R and St were sharing a thermos of mulled wine and we stood around talking for a while.
All of a sudden, we heard a bang in the crowd and people screaming and then a rush of 100 teenagers running down the hill. Then another bang and more people running and screaming. An ambulance put its lights on, the security guards disappeared, the music stopped. We stood there watching and heard a third bang, followed by more running and screaming. S and I decided it was time to go. We hadn't eaten yet and it was getting really cold on the top of the hill so we said goodbye and walked back toward the kiddie rides wondering what the hell was going on.
All of a sudden, we heard a whistle right above our heads. S instinctively shielded my body with his and we turned around to see a firework explode into the ground about four feet away from us.
I couldn't believe that people could be so immature to throw fireworks into crowds, and especially crowds full of little kids. I just don't understand what goes through people's minds when they do those things.
October 23, 2007
Hampstead Heath and Creperie
My friend D was back in London this weekend, and when 6:30 rolled around on Sunday and it was time to close up the gallery, he met me to explore Hampstead Heath in the near dark.
.
It was chilly, but not too cold as we walked up the hill, and we headed down a dark trail into a large grassy area, down a side street and a back alley, onto another side street. We cut back into the woods down another, more obscure, darker trail, feeling for the path beneath our feet, walking slowly to avoid tripping over roots and ruts.
.
There was a huge pond at the edge of a clearing and a single bench. On the other side of the still water, the windows of apartment blocks glowed in the darkness. We sat silently, letting our eyes adjust. Swans glided along looking for food and crickets chirped in the grass at the edge of the pond. It was so peaceful. And to think, the bustle of London was only a short walk up the road. Hampstead Heath is an oasis of calm.
.
On our way, we came by a blue plaque at 3 Villas on the Heath. The famous Bengali writer, Rabindranath Tagore had lived there. And I could see the appeal of the area to an artist or a writer. I said to D, “I could live here and write poetry.” The area was actually quite well known for its community of artists and writers and intellectuals. The list of famous names is quite long. Martin Amis, William Blake, Lord Byron, Charles Dickens, Audrey Hepburn, George Orwell, and more recently, Brad Pitt, Jude Law, Hugh Grant, Sienna Miller, three of the Spice Girls, Sting…. And the list goes on. For more, scroll down the Wiki entry.
.
The street where Tagore lived lined one edge of the heath and the house was like a cottage on the corner surrounded by bushes. But as much as he must have been inspired by the charm of London, he was also affected by its loneliness. He once wrote about this city, “There can hardly be a more cruel place...in Winter; the sky turbid, the light lacking lustre, like a dead man's eye.”
.
My dad warned me about the loneliness one can feel in this city with its grey skies and unpromising rain. But even the loneliness is darkly inspirational. I thought of the bench that D and I sat on that I could return and write for hours on my own. I could live back there, in the green solitude, with the excitement of London just an arm’s reach away.
.
Back on the main road, we wandered, admittedly lost, trying to find the tube station. And then, we discovered The Wells, a little pub with heat lamps and tables around the outside, people playing Scrabble and Chess at tables inside. We ordered some chips and bread and snacked and chatted. The staff seemed a bit confused about taking orders, etc, and we ended up with a free diet coke. But it was a nice little pub and I grabbed a card so we could return. The bartender gave us directions back to the station.
.
And of course, we had to pass Hampstead Creperie, the little crepe stand that boasts 27 years in Hampstead and usually about 27 people queueing for a crepe! Dangerous. D made me stand in line for about half hour so he could have his usual white chocolate crepe. But he shared and we were entertained by a wild clapping and dancing drunken man yelling at a line of 30 people that they all have no personality and no brains, so I didn't mind. By then it was pretty late and we decided to head home, vowing to explore the area more soon and come back for another round at The Wells and, of course, a visit to the beloved Creperie.
.
It was chilly, but not too cold as we walked up the hill, and we headed down a dark trail into a large grassy area, down a side street and a back alley, onto another side street. We cut back into the woods down another, more obscure, darker trail, feeling for the path beneath our feet, walking slowly to avoid tripping over roots and ruts.
.
There was a huge pond at the edge of a clearing and a single bench. On the other side of the still water, the windows of apartment blocks glowed in the darkness. We sat silently, letting our eyes adjust. Swans glided along looking for food and crickets chirped in the grass at the edge of the pond. It was so peaceful. And to think, the bustle of London was only a short walk up the road. Hampstead Heath is an oasis of calm.
.
On our way, we came by a blue plaque at 3 Villas on the Heath. The famous Bengali writer, Rabindranath Tagore had lived there. And I could see the appeal of the area to an artist or a writer. I said to D, “I could live here and write poetry.” The area was actually quite well known for its community of artists and writers and intellectuals. The list of famous names is quite long. Martin Amis, William Blake, Lord Byron, Charles Dickens, Audrey Hepburn, George Orwell, and more recently, Brad Pitt, Jude Law, Hugh Grant, Sienna Miller, three of the Spice Girls, Sting…. And the list goes on. For more, scroll down the Wiki entry.
.
The street where Tagore lived lined one edge of the heath and the house was like a cottage on the corner surrounded by bushes. But as much as he must have been inspired by the charm of London, he was also affected by its loneliness. He once wrote about this city, “There can hardly be a more cruel place...in Winter; the sky turbid, the light lacking lustre, like a dead man's eye.”
.
My dad warned me about the loneliness one can feel in this city with its grey skies and unpromising rain. But even the loneliness is darkly inspirational. I thought of the bench that D and I sat on that I could return and write for hours on my own. I could live back there, in the green solitude, with the excitement of London just an arm’s reach away.
.
Back on the main road, we wandered, admittedly lost, trying to find the tube station. And then, we discovered The Wells, a little pub with heat lamps and tables around the outside, people playing Scrabble and Chess at tables inside. We ordered some chips and bread and snacked and chatted. The staff seemed a bit confused about taking orders, etc, and we ended up with a free diet coke. But it was a nice little pub and I grabbed a card so we could return. The bartender gave us directions back to the station.
.
And of course, we had to pass Hampstead Creperie, the little crepe stand that boasts 27 years in Hampstead and usually about 27 people queueing for a crepe! Dangerous. D made me stand in line for about half hour so he could have his usual white chocolate crepe. But he shared and we were entertained by a wild clapping and dancing drunken man yelling at a line of 30 people that they all have no personality and no brains, so I didn't mind. By then it was pretty late and we decided to head home, vowing to explore the area more soon and come back for another round at The Wells and, of course, a visit to the beloved Creperie.
October 14, 2007
An Afternoon at Crisis and the Soup Kitchen
I arrived at Crisis exactly on time. D was waiting on the stoop at the front of the shabby white brick building as promised. He wore a pale yellow tee shirt and squinted against the sun to greet me and shake my hand. He signed me in at the desk and explained that I could write my name down as “Bob” and it wouldn’t matter because it’s only for a head count; most people here are under false names.
.
Staircases were lined with art from the homeless people who take classes there. Only they aren’t really classes. An instructor is on hand, but only to help if approached. There is no distinction between homeless and volunteer unless asked. Everyone is treated equally.
.
I followed D up two flights of stairs. He introduced me to L, another volunteer. L was a tall man with chocolate skin and a bright smile. I was about to shake his hand when a demanding voice behind me said, “Where’s the fuckin’ tea, man? It’s 1:00.” L smiled and I turned to see a short man in his 30s, wearing a plaid blue shirt, with the top three buttons down to reveal a hairy chest, and jeans. His eyes were such a pale blue they seemed to belong to someone else. “Yea, I’m coming now,” L answered and walked away with a shy smile for an excuse.
.
D led me into a computer room next. A few people about my age were using them and were in their own little worlds. So we walked to the next room, the art room. It was huge, with tables covered in sheets of paper and coloured pencils, jars of paint and half-finished drawings of plants and birds. We sat down on two dirty chairs and he pointed to people across the room explaining who they are. There were only about five people there, and they were engrossed in their printmaking and painting. One woman with a long braid was covered in paint and glitter.
.
Up one more flight of stairs, we found L and the man in the plaid shirt talking over tea. Next to them were two men playing cards. We were in a recreation type room where tea is served for 45 minutes sharp at various intervals throughout the day according to the schedule. D made me tea in a Styrofoam cup and we sat down at one of the tables with a blue bag full of grapes at the centre. He picked one up and gnawed at one end and pushed the bag toward me. I took one.
.
The room was inviting with tall wooden ceilings and windows that looked down on Commercial Street near Petticoat Lane market. It had a kitchen area and potted plants in some corners. Tables were set up for socializing and relaxing. I felt comfortable there. An older woman sat at the table next to us fiddling with a rickety old guitar. She stared vacantly at the wall, not strumming it, just playing with the tuning knobs.
.
Another woman walked by and David reached out and touched her shoulder. He nodded towards me and said, “This is my friend, Stephanie.” No one is ever introduced as a volunteer. I'll refer to her as M. Meeting her was my favourite part of the day. M was born in Rome and came to London about a year ago so her Italian accent was strong and I had to strain to understand her vibrant conversation.
.
She may have been a bit older than me. The first thing I noticed about her was her teeth. She didn’t have any on the right side of her mouth. Well, one, sort of and one that was kind of blue. The second thing I noticed was her smile. She didn’t stop smiling and she seemed so happy and animated. Stories about Rome came flooding out of her mouth, tales of men who walked into a pub and within minutes had all the patrons singing a song together, memories of Pairs. I listened intently and she warmed to me quickly.
.
Dirt was piled thick under her fingernails and her dark, shoulder-length hair was curly, sticking out from a Nike baseball cap that was yellowed around the edges. It had a red Swoosh. She wore a long sleeved tee-shirt with a Van Gogh image on the front and a pair of jeans. Her arms were thin and her face was pale. But, that smile. Where did that come from?
.
She went on about consumerism and superficial cultures and Chinese manufacturers and I admired her ability to speak intelligently about these things. Admittedly, I fall into the category of people who have accidentally judged someone based on their situation or appearance. Stereotypes suggest homeless people are less likely to be educated, but clearly she was. I wanted to sit with her and chat for hours.
.
When she left, D turned to me and said, “I’ve never seen her open up to anyone the way she just did with you.”
.
He asked me if I wanted to accompany him to Mother Teresa’s in Elephant and Castle. It was a 25 minute tube journey and it was only 2pm so I said sure. Every Sunday afternoon he helps out in the soup kitchen. Clearly, he is well-known in the area because he said “salaam” or waved to people we passed. It seemed so out of place to hear a ruddy-faced British man addressing Indian men in their language with a little wag of the head. I liked it.
.
When we approached the soup kitchen, bushes formed walls around the garden and inside the walls of bushes, about 150 homeless people gathered with backpacks and sleeping bags and plastic shopping bags, waiting for the doors to open in 15 minutes. D waved to a few people and led me inside. A few men winked at me as I walked up the steps.
.
I’ve worked in the Dunkirk soup kitchen in New York a few times, but this was completely different. I guess I should have realized there would be religion involved because it was run by nuns and I knew that much.
.
When the tables were set, the nuns and the volunteers gathered in the sweltering kitchen where one of the sisters led the prayers and a blessing and the people chanted along and sang parts. D ushered me to a spot where I could read a poster on the back wall with the words. I didn’t participate, just bowed my head in respect and when they crossed themselves as Catholics do, I just stood there. Religion is another entry altogether, but know that it makes me slightly uncomfortable.
.
At 3pm sharp, one of the sisters opened the door and as the men started flooding in with their belongings, the smell of unwashed bodies filled the room. I didn’t notice it after a while, but it was overpowering at first. About 75 people came in the first lot, no children, maybe ten women, the rest men. Some of them were young and wore nice clothes so I would never guess them to be people who sleep on the streets. These people were slightly rowdy. Others were older and have accepted their circumstances. The men had long white beards. They walked slowly with their heads down and didn’t speak much during the meal.
.
When everyone was seated, the head sister called order and announced a hymn. Pages rustled. And then, to my amazement, nearly everyone joined in singing the old spiritual. I felt so awkward standing at the front in a line of a few volunteers, wearing clean clothes, freshly showered. There were tears in some eyes as they sang. A feeling of guilt rushed through me as I looked around. It was as if I had entered their secret little world to say, “Hey, look at me. Here I am up here. I’m not one of you.” And for a moment, a passing moment, I wished I was one of them instead, sitting with all those people who understood me. Why? Because they were all so god damn appreciative to sit there in that warm building and eat a sloppy plate full of processed mashed potatoes and frozen vegetables. A leg of chicken. A smattering of gravy. And a small scoop of ice cream. They were so grateful, and something so simple brought a smile to their faces so easily.
.
The nun read a short sermon about the ten lepers and talked about the two most important words we ever learn: “thank-you” and “sorry.” People nodded in agreement and chanted along with her prayers at the end. I couldn’t wait for the religion bit to end. I felt my heart beating too quickly standing there silently willing for her to stop.
.
And then, with a final “Amen” we passed out plates in assembly line fashion, handing them down the line. And then blue mugs full of tea and blue plastic bowls full of ice cream. Some people had seconds; they were allowed everything but the chicken. Men said, “Thanks love” and reached for my hand and kissed it with food stuck in overgrown beards and moustaches. It broke my heart when an old man asked for a slice of bread to take to his pregnant daughter and the nun said they don’t have any bread.
.
One pregnant woman was there. She was with her boyfriend and they held hands. They held hands all through their meal and I wondered what it must me like to be in love and be homeless, to have each other and only each other. Not to have a private place to make love. And what of that unborn child. The whole thing reminded me of the Smashing Pumpkins video of Try, Try, Try.
.
It was over as soon as it began. I helped clear tables, wash dishes, and reset tables with hymnals next to the napkins.
.
I left before the second lot of 75 was allowed to enter. I don’t know if I will go back. The religion part put me off and it was difficult to see all those people standing out there when I knew I was going home to a warm house and a hot shower and my lap top and a cup of mint tea before crawling under my duvet. I want to say I will go back, that this is what I need to bring some sort of fulfilment to my life, but it didn’t feel as fulfilling as volunteering has in the past; it just brought waves of guilt under my skin and a sense of panic to my heart. I think most of that was knowing how insignificant my being there is to those people, that in the grand scheme of things, I know I can't help much at all.
.
Staircases were lined with art from the homeless people who take classes there. Only they aren’t really classes. An instructor is on hand, but only to help if approached. There is no distinction between homeless and volunteer unless asked. Everyone is treated equally.
.
I followed D up two flights of stairs. He introduced me to L, another volunteer. L was a tall man with chocolate skin and a bright smile. I was about to shake his hand when a demanding voice behind me said, “Where’s the fuckin’ tea, man? It’s 1:00.” L smiled and I turned to see a short man in his 30s, wearing a plaid blue shirt, with the top three buttons down to reveal a hairy chest, and jeans. His eyes were such a pale blue they seemed to belong to someone else. “Yea, I’m coming now,” L answered and walked away with a shy smile for an excuse.
.
D led me into a computer room next. A few people about my age were using them and were in their own little worlds. So we walked to the next room, the art room. It was huge, with tables covered in sheets of paper and coloured pencils, jars of paint and half-finished drawings of plants and birds. We sat down on two dirty chairs and he pointed to people across the room explaining who they are. There were only about five people there, and they were engrossed in their printmaking and painting. One woman with a long braid was covered in paint and glitter.
.
Up one more flight of stairs, we found L and the man in the plaid shirt talking over tea. Next to them were two men playing cards. We were in a recreation type room where tea is served for 45 minutes sharp at various intervals throughout the day according to the schedule. D made me tea in a Styrofoam cup and we sat down at one of the tables with a blue bag full of grapes at the centre. He picked one up and gnawed at one end and pushed the bag toward me. I took one.
.
The room was inviting with tall wooden ceilings and windows that looked down on Commercial Street near Petticoat Lane market. It had a kitchen area and potted plants in some corners. Tables were set up for socializing and relaxing. I felt comfortable there. An older woman sat at the table next to us fiddling with a rickety old guitar. She stared vacantly at the wall, not strumming it, just playing with the tuning knobs.
.
Another woman walked by and David reached out and touched her shoulder. He nodded towards me and said, “This is my friend, Stephanie.” No one is ever introduced as a volunteer. I'll refer to her as M. Meeting her was my favourite part of the day. M was born in Rome and came to London about a year ago so her Italian accent was strong and I had to strain to understand her vibrant conversation.
.
She may have been a bit older than me. The first thing I noticed about her was her teeth. She didn’t have any on the right side of her mouth. Well, one, sort of and one that was kind of blue. The second thing I noticed was her smile. She didn’t stop smiling and she seemed so happy and animated. Stories about Rome came flooding out of her mouth, tales of men who walked into a pub and within minutes had all the patrons singing a song together, memories of Pairs. I listened intently and she warmed to me quickly.
.
Dirt was piled thick under her fingernails and her dark, shoulder-length hair was curly, sticking out from a Nike baseball cap that was yellowed around the edges. It had a red Swoosh. She wore a long sleeved tee-shirt with a Van Gogh image on the front and a pair of jeans. Her arms were thin and her face was pale. But, that smile. Where did that come from?
.
She went on about consumerism and superficial cultures and Chinese manufacturers and I admired her ability to speak intelligently about these things. Admittedly, I fall into the category of people who have accidentally judged someone based on their situation or appearance. Stereotypes suggest homeless people are less likely to be educated, but clearly she was. I wanted to sit with her and chat for hours.
.
When she left, D turned to me and said, “I’ve never seen her open up to anyone the way she just did with you.”
.
He asked me if I wanted to accompany him to Mother Teresa’s in Elephant and Castle. It was a 25 minute tube journey and it was only 2pm so I said sure. Every Sunday afternoon he helps out in the soup kitchen. Clearly, he is well-known in the area because he said “salaam” or waved to people we passed. It seemed so out of place to hear a ruddy-faced British man addressing Indian men in their language with a little wag of the head. I liked it.
.
When we approached the soup kitchen, bushes formed walls around the garden and inside the walls of bushes, about 150 homeless people gathered with backpacks and sleeping bags and plastic shopping bags, waiting for the doors to open in 15 minutes. D waved to a few people and led me inside. A few men winked at me as I walked up the steps.
.
I’ve worked in the Dunkirk soup kitchen in New York a few times, but this was completely different. I guess I should have realized there would be religion involved because it was run by nuns and I knew that much.
.
When the tables were set, the nuns and the volunteers gathered in the sweltering kitchen where one of the sisters led the prayers and a blessing and the people chanted along and sang parts. D ushered me to a spot where I could read a poster on the back wall with the words. I didn’t participate, just bowed my head in respect and when they crossed themselves as Catholics do, I just stood there. Religion is another entry altogether, but know that it makes me slightly uncomfortable.
.
At 3pm sharp, one of the sisters opened the door and as the men started flooding in with their belongings, the smell of unwashed bodies filled the room. I didn’t notice it after a while, but it was overpowering at first. About 75 people came in the first lot, no children, maybe ten women, the rest men. Some of them were young and wore nice clothes so I would never guess them to be people who sleep on the streets. These people were slightly rowdy. Others were older and have accepted their circumstances. The men had long white beards. They walked slowly with their heads down and didn’t speak much during the meal.
.
When everyone was seated, the head sister called order and announced a hymn. Pages rustled. And then, to my amazement, nearly everyone joined in singing the old spiritual. I felt so awkward standing at the front in a line of a few volunteers, wearing clean clothes, freshly showered. There were tears in some eyes as they sang. A feeling of guilt rushed through me as I looked around. It was as if I had entered their secret little world to say, “Hey, look at me. Here I am up here. I’m not one of you.” And for a moment, a passing moment, I wished I was one of them instead, sitting with all those people who understood me. Why? Because they were all so god damn appreciative to sit there in that warm building and eat a sloppy plate full of processed mashed potatoes and frozen vegetables. A leg of chicken. A smattering of gravy. And a small scoop of ice cream. They were so grateful, and something so simple brought a smile to their faces so easily.
.
The nun read a short sermon about the ten lepers and talked about the two most important words we ever learn: “thank-you” and “sorry.” People nodded in agreement and chanted along with her prayers at the end. I couldn’t wait for the religion bit to end. I felt my heart beating too quickly standing there silently willing for her to stop.
.
And then, with a final “Amen” we passed out plates in assembly line fashion, handing them down the line. And then blue mugs full of tea and blue plastic bowls full of ice cream. Some people had seconds; they were allowed everything but the chicken. Men said, “Thanks love” and reached for my hand and kissed it with food stuck in overgrown beards and moustaches. It broke my heart when an old man asked for a slice of bread to take to his pregnant daughter and the nun said they don’t have any bread.
.
One pregnant woman was there. She was with her boyfriend and they held hands. They held hands all through their meal and I wondered what it must me like to be in love and be homeless, to have each other and only each other. Not to have a private place to make love. And what of that unborn child. The whole thing reminded me of the Smashing Pumpkins video of Try, Try, Try.
.
It was over as soon as it began. I helped clear tables, wash dishes, and reset tables with hymnals next to the napkins.
.
I left before the second lot of 75 was allowed to enter. I don’t know if I will go back. The religion part put me off and it was difficult to see all those people standing out there when I knew I was going home to a warm house and a hot shower and my lap top and a cup of mint tea before crawling under my duvet. I want to say I will go back, that this is what I need to bring some sort of fulfilment to my life, but it didn’t feel as fulfilling as volunteering has in the past; it just brought waves of guilt under my skin and a sense of panic to my heart. I think most of that was knowing how insignificant my being there is to those people, that in the grand scheme of things, I know I can't help much at all.
October 08, 2007
Paradise By Way of Kensal Green
It was a chilly day yesterday, but sunny enough, and a perfect afternoon to stroll down to Portobello Market. S and I walked along college road, away from home, breathing in the fresh, crisp air. Instead of walking along Harrow Road, which is full of cars and buses, we slipped behind the brick wall that follows its contour and moseyed through the cemetery paths.
There was instant peace and calm in the faces of the stone angels and the slow movements of the tree leaves scuttling along the trails. I remembered being in Scotland, right outside the castle a group of friends and I called home one weekend, three years ago in a chilly November. To access the castle, the paths led us between two ancient cemeteries and we walked through them talking about death and how it has shaped our lives. That was before my grandfather passed away, so I didn't really know death then.
But this time, with S, as we walked hand in hand past rose bushes and cracked old stones that listed the names of people who were once loved, who may have even walked those same paths as we were then, I knew death. And it was harder to talk about it but, as you do in cemeteries, we did. And I learned about his family and his character what I did not know, and when you are allowed into the depths of someone's heart, you feel a closeness with that person. It is a privilege.
When we came to the exit, we were tossed back into the noise of the city streets, the exhaust and chug of the red double deckers and the bendy buses and the groups of kids biking past on the sidewalks. We walked over the canal bridge and past the council houses and the old fire station, until we came to the beginning of the market stalls.
I've always liked Portobello Market, where the movie Notting Hill is based. There's an unusual honesty in the smiles of the vendors and I found a pair of Prada heels for £40 that I would have bought if I had the money. It's an antiques market mainly, full of knick-knacks, pottery and vintage prints, second-hand boots and books with yellowed pages. There are Beatles records and pearly hair clips, stuffed moose heads and the smell of the spicy falafel stand.
Then I smelled something that seemed to pull me through the stalls to its source. It was the unmistakable autumn scent of mulled wine, the slightly spicy, fruity, comforting spread of warmth through the bones on a chilly day. S bought me one and I shared it with him while we walked the length of the market and talked about life.
Down the road, we ducked into a toy shop. It was a small shop with tiny old collectibles, all safe behind glass in cases. There was a sign behind the desk that said, “No shoplifting. Persecutors will be prosecuted. (Stomped on!!).” Tiny smurf figures stood beside Tom and Jerry glasses and old Pez dispensers. I even found some circular Simpson's playing cards.
After two hours of walking, we headed home, back through the market, past sushi restaurants and pubs we made note to revisit. We stopped in a little food hall for a tub of Hagan-daaz Baileys ice cream and then in a little shop run by a group of Afghan men where colourful throws were hung along the back walls and sparkly sandals were piled high in baskets in the corner.
There was instant peace and calm in the faces of the stone angels and the slow movements of the tree leaves scuttling along the trails. I remembered being in Scotland, right outside the castle a group of friends and I called home one weekend, three years ago in a chilly November. To access the castle, the paths led us between two ancient cemeteries and we walked through them talking about death and how it has shaped our lives. That was before my grandfather passed away, so I didn't really know death then.
But this time, with S, as we walked hand in hand past rose bushes and cracked old stones that listed the names of people who were once loved, who may have even walked those same paths as we were then, I knew death. And it was harder to talk about it but, as you do in cemeteries, we did. And I learned about his family and his character what I did not know, and when you are allowed into the depths of someone's heart, you feel a closeness with that person. It is a privilege.
When we came to the exit, we were tossed back into the noise of the city streets, the exhaust and chug of the red double deckers and the bendy buses and the groups of kids biking past on the sidewalks. We walked over the canal bridge and past the council houses and the old fire station, until we came to the beginning of the market stalls.
I've always liked Portobello Market, where the movie Notting Hill is based. There's an unusual honesty in the smiles of the vendors and I found a pair of Prada heels for £40 that I would have bought if I had the money. It's an antiques market mainly, full of knick-knacks, pottery and vintage prints, second-hand boots and books with yellowed pages. There are Beatles records and pearly hair clips, stuffed moose heads and the smell of the spicy falafel stand.
Then I smelled something that seemed to pull me through the stalls to its source. It was the unmistakable autumn scent of mulled wine, the slightly spicy, fruity, comforting spread of warmth through the bones on a chilly day. S bought me one and I shared it with him while we walked the length of the market and talked about life.
Down the road, we ducked into a toy shop. It was a small shop with tiny old collectibles, all safe behind glass in cases. There was a sign behind the desk that said, “No shoplifting. Persecutors will be prosecuted. (Stomped on!!).” Tiny smurf figures stood beside Tom and Jerry glasses and old Pez dispensers. I even found some circular Simpson's playing cards.
After two hours of walking, we headed home, back through the market, past sushi restaurants and pubs we made note to revisit. We stopped in a little food hall for a tub of Hagan-daaz Baileys ice cream and then in a little shop run by a group of Afghan men where colourful throws were hung along the back walls and sparkly sandals were piled high in baskets in the corner.
Instead of walking home the way we came, we went up Kilburn Lane and found a pub I've wanted to try for a while. It's called Paradise By Way of Kensal Green. It's a Gothic sort of building with an interior reminiscent of the cemetery we walked through earlier that day – shabby grey walls and long vintage cracked mirrors next to big red leather arm chairs and sofas. We sat in a little side room on a red leather sofa, next to a fire place and a wall that had bookshelves full of fake old dictionaries that looked real.
.
S ordered a Spitfire beer and I had a red wine. It was a smoky Australian wine and it went straight to my head. I felt fuzzy and told him all about how the pub got its name. That is, by this poem by G.K. Chesterton who died in 1936:
“My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age,But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth,And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death;For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen,Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green."
“My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age,But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth,And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death;For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen,Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green."
.
After our drinks, we realized we had better rescue our slowly melting tub of ice cream and found our way home. Sean cooked for me. We ate a stirfry with tuna steak and spring rolls and had cranberry juice to drink. Instead of eating in the lounge in front of the TV, we set up a cardboard box as a table and sat on the floor in my room like we used to, just talking after a fantastic afternoon.
October 03, 2007
Anti Sex Trafficking Exhibition: Journey
Today, I had some time to myself so I went to visit the anti-sex trafficking exhibition in Trafalgar Square. It was set up in seven box cars that were painted in graffiti on the outside. They lined the top of the steps in front of the National Gallery. I took some photos of the outside:
Inside, it was a medley of strange sounds and smells. Key-shaped peep holes in the first carriage revealed hopes and dreams of Elena, the Albanian girl the story was based on. It was a true story of her journey to London at 19, coerced into the prospect of a better life by a woman who came by her market stall. The woman was paid to find innocent looking village girls to send abroad once she gained their trust.
.
The second carriage was just black, dark, with a sign that asked you to close your eyes. It gave the sensation of movement, sitting inside a train carriage that was chugging along, transporting bodies. A soundtrack of a train’s wheels clicking over the tracks played loudly.
.
Elena arrived in London Victoria and met a woman who turned out to be the person who she came to fear, who told her she owed her a ridiculous amount of money. She was given clothes to wear – high heels, little tiny dresses and thongs left behind by old workers. The third carriage showed face sized holes where you look in to see your face on a girl's body dressed in these little costumes.
.
The next carriage was repulsive. Absolutely hold-your-breathe-repulsive. It was a bedroom scene with a tattered single mattress with the names of a thousand men who wrote “Ben was here. Jason was here. Ryan was here…” In one corner was a garbage pail, overflowing with used condoms and tissues. There were dingy lights. The room stank of stale cum and the rubber of used condoms. A dirty sink in the corner had a constant flow of water from the taps. The wallpaper was peeling. To get to the next carriage, you had to push your way through a flapping group of condoms strung together in long strands.
.
The customers were next. There were giant photos of typical men you see on the street: the 22 year old kid playing football in the park, the large-bellied man running a convenience shop on the corner, the family man smiling with his kids. Her first customer was an Indian man who brought with him a carton of juice. He asked for a blowjob. She had never in her life seen a naked man. She had no less than 40 customers a day, 7 days a week. She made about £800-1,000 per day, of which she was allowed £10.
.
Coincidently, I’m currently reading September’s issue of the New Internationalist which happens to be all about sex trafficking. 11% of men in the UK buy sex. There are an estimated 80,000 sex workers in Britain.
.
Of all places, Elena was first employed for two weeks in a flat in Mayfair, one of the richest areas of London, rather than a seedier area of the city like Soho, where you almost expect that sort of thing.
.
The next part of the tour was an art installation of what was no other than a big black hole that seems to draw you inside when you stand in a certain spot. That was to represent the stigma placed on the girls who have been victims of sex traffickers.
.
Then we were led outside where we were handed a recorder to listen to, which was the voice of Elena telling her whole story. It was quite long, but very interesting as she added details that weren’t included in the exhibition. She was arrested with 100 other girls one day and locked up in a Charring Cross jail for two days for breaking visa laws. They never once asked if she was okay or how she got there. When she went home, she felt like a different person and couldn’t look her mother in the eye. Her mother was under the impression that she was doing well and would bring back money she saved for her family because her father had passed away and they were having trouble getting by.
.
In the last carriage, the British laws of sex trafficking are written on the walls. Then you are led outside to a tent that is set up for questions and are asked to sign a petition.
Inside, it was a medley of strange sounds and smells. Key-shaped peep holes in the first carriage revealed hopes and dreams of Elena, the Albanian girl the story was based on. It was a true story of her journey to London at 19, coerced into the prospect of a better life by a woman who came by her market stall. The woman was paid to find innocent looking village girls to send abroad once she gained their trust..
The second carriage was just black, dark, with a sign that asked you to close your eyes. It gave the sensation of movement, sitting inside a train carriage that was chugging along, transporting bodies. A soundtrack of a train’s wheels clicking over the tracks played loudly.
.
Elena arrived in London Victoria and met a woman who turned out to be the person who she came to fear, who told her she owed her a ridiculous amount of money. She was given clothes to wear – high heels, little tiny dresses and thongs left behind by old workers. The third carriage showed face sized holes where you look in to see your face on a girl's body dressed in these little costumes.
.
The next carriage was repulsive. Absolutely hold-your-breathe-repulsive. It was a bedroom scene with a tattered single mattress with the names of a thousand men who wrote “Ben was here. Jason was here. Ryan was here…” In one corner was a garbage pail, overflowing with used condoms and tissues. There were dingy lights. The room stank of stale cum and the rubber of used condoms. A dirty sink in the corner had a constant flow of water from the taps. The wallpaper was peeling. To get to the next carriage, you had to push your way through a flapping group of condoms strung together in long strands.
.
The customers were next. There were giant photos of typical men you see on the street: the 22 year old kid playing football in the park, the large-bellied man running a convenience shop on the corner, the family man smiling with his kids. Her first customer was an Indian man who brought with him a carton of juice. He asked for a blowjob. She had never in her life seen a naked man. She had no less than 40 customers a day, 7 days a week. She made about £800-1,000 per day, of which she was allowed £10.
.
Coincidently, I’m currently reading September’s issue of the New Internationalist which happens to be all about sex trafficking. 11% of men in the UK buy sex. There are an estimated 80,000 sex workers in Britain.
.
Of all places, Elena was first employed for two weeks in a flat in Mayfair, one of the richest areas of London, rather than a seedier area of the city like Soho, where you almost expect that sort of thing.
.
The next part of the tour was an art installation of what was no other than a big black hole that seems to draw you inside when you stand in a certain spot. That was to represent the stigma placed on the girls who have been victims of sex traffickers.
.
Then we were led outside where we were handed a recorder to listen to, which was the voice of Elena telling her whole story. It was quite long, but very interesting as she added details that weren’t included in the exhibition. She was arrested with 100 other girls one day and locked up in a Charring Cross jail for two days for breaking visa laws. They never once asked if she was okay or how she got there. When she went home, she felt like a different person and couldn’t look her mother in the eye. Her mother was under the impression that she was doing well and would bring back money she saved for her family because her father had passed away and they were having trouble getting by.
.
In the last carriage, the British laws of sex trafficking are written on the walls. Then you are led outside to a tent that is set up for questions and are asked to sign a petition.
.
This was the last day of the exhibition, but for more information, seehttp://www.helenbamber.org/
October 01, 2007
Design Museum and Tate Modern
Being that it was my day off, I slept until 11 today, woke up to a giant cup of tea and a nice hot shower. C called and asked if I wanted to go to the Design Museum way down in Tower Hill. I had planned to stay in today to not spend money, but I said yes without a second thought. At 1, I found myself battling the rainy wind trying not to let my umbrella slip inside-out, with my new winter coat wrapped tightly around me.
I met her at Tower Hill. We were curious and wandered down toward a giant swimming man in the grass. It's been commissioned by The Discovery Channel to promote a new reality TV show called "London Ink." I was amused.
I liked this tall building we stood under for a bit and took a picture...
Eventually we found the Design Museum. I loved this so I had to take a picture... how English...Of course, we did as it instructed and stuffed our wet umbrellas into the little plastic bags.
The main exhibition was by an architect from Baghdad named Zaha Hadid. She's had her hand in a lot of projects from Dubai to Cincinnati and is now working on a project for the London Olympics aquatic centre.
.
Apart from her building designs there were sets of silverware, tables, chairs and this random Louis Vuitton bag design...
The next section was devoted to the work of a graphic design artist by the name of Johnathon Barnbrook, whose work I enjoyed. He had a lot of political pieces and has worked with Damien Hirst and for the magazine Ad Busters.
We stopped in the shop on the way out, which made me think C would love the Turbine Shop in Tate Modern just down the river; it's absolutely filled with graphic design and art and architecture books. So, after I stopped for a duck wrap from Eat, I took her there. Of course it was me who ended up spending the money. I bought this book called Color, which was a hard cover study of this magazine of the same name that is no longer published. It's all about culture and humanity and I love it.
C had to leave then and S got out of work about 20 minutes later so I strolled around for a bit and waited for him.
I met S here after he finished work, just outside Tate Modern.
We ended up walking all the way to Oxford Street, chatting and stopping for some pain au chocolat on the way. It had stopped raining and it was nice to be with him in the city just wandering.
September 30, 2007
A Day at the Park
With limited funds, I've been wandering a lot, exploring the city and going back to the places I miss. After a quick stop in Europe's largest bookshop, Waterstones on Piccadilly, I wandered further away to Green Park and then to Knightsbridge.
Across from Harrods, right near where I used to live when I studied here in 2004, a man was handing out free pain au chocolat and I certainly took him up on his offer. Delicious! I picked up some lunch and went over to Hyde Park, which is still, after all this time, one of my favorite areas of London. It was home for me for about four months and those four months are still to this day the most unforgettable, carefree four months of my life.
.
I sat on the grass under one of the willow trees. I watched the couples strolling by holding hands. Families with small children giggled and ran across the grass. I always look at Hyde Park as the perfect place for an Autumn photo shoot for Vogue, somewhere typically English where the children all wear knitted jumpers and the women wear riding boots for the horse run that cuts through the park. Behind me, a horse stomped its hoof on the grass and shook its head. In front of me, swans swam in the Serpentine. I stared into space with my book in my lap, sitting on the grass, feet stretched out in front of me and thought about how I would love to live there again.
It was getting dark when I decided to go home. I got off at Queen's Park and dragged my feet through dry leaves on the edge of the path, their crisp edges crunching under my feet.
Across from Harrods, right near where I used to live when I studied here in 2004, a man was handing out free pain au chocolat and I certainly took him up on his offer. Delicious! I picked up some lunch and went over to Hyde Park, which is still, after all this time, one of my favorite areas of London. It was home for me for about four months and those four months are still to this day the most unforgettable, carefree four months of my life..
I sat on the grass under one of the willow trees. I watched the couples strolling by holding hands. Families with small children giggled and ran across the grass. I always look at Hyde Park as the perfect place for an Autumn photo shoot for Vogue, somewhere typically English where the children all wear knitted jumpers and the women wear riding boots for the horse run that cuts through the park. Behind me, a horse stomped its hoof on the grass and shook its head. In front of me, swans swam in the Serpentine. I stared into space with my book in my lap, sitting on the grass, feet stretched out in front of me and thought about how I would love to live there again.
It was getting dark when I decided to go home. I got off at Queen's Park and dragged my feet through dry leaves on the edge of the path, their crisp edges crunching under my feet.
.
I had stopped in Lush earlier that day and bought a Honey Bee bath bomb a You've Been Mangoed bath melt, so the rest of the night was spent on bubble baths and books, a relaxing day all around.
September 29, 2007
Journey: an anti-sex trafficking exhibition
With some time to myself, I decided to explore the anti-sex trafficking exhibition in Trafalgar Square. It was set up in seven box cars that were painted in graffiti on the outside. They lined the top of the steps in front of the National Gallery. I took some photos of the outside:
Inside, it was a medley of strange sounds and smells. Key-shaped peep holes in the first carriage revealed hopes and dreams of Elena, the Albanian girl the story was based on. It was a true story of her journey to London at 19, coerced into the prospect of a better life by a woman who came by her market stall. The woman was paid to find innocent looking village girls to send abroad once she gained their trust.
.
The second carriage was just black, dark, with a sign that asked you to close your eyes. It gave the sensation of movement, sitting inside a train carriage that was chugging along, transporting bodies. A soundtrack of a train’s wheels clicking over the tracks played loudly.
.
Elena arrived in London Victoria and met a woman who turned out to be the person who she came to fear, who told her she owed her a ridiculous amount of money. She was given clothes to wear – high heels, little tiny dresses and thongs left behind by old workers. The third carriage showed face sized holes where you look in to see your face on a girl's body dressed in these little costumes.
.
The next carriage was repulsive. Absolutely hold-your-breathe-repulsive. It was a bedroom scene with a tattered single mattress with the names of a thousand men who wrote “Ben was here. Jason was here. Ryan was here…” In one corner was a garbage pail, overflowing with used condoms and tissues. There were dingy lights. The room stank of stale cum and the rubber of used condoms. A dirty sink in the corner had a constant flow of water from the taps. The wallpaper was peeling. To get to the next carriage, you had to push your way through a flapping group of condoms strung together in long strands.
.
The customers were next. There were giant photos of typical men you see on the street: the 22 year old kid playing football in the park, the large-bellied man running a convenience shop on the corner, the family man smiling with his kids. Her first customer was an Indian man who brought with him a carton of juice. He asked for a blowjob. She had never in her life seen a naked man. She had no less than 40 customers a day, 7 days a week. She made about £800-1,000 per day, of which she was allowed £10.
.
Coincidently, I’m currently reading September’s issue of the New Internationalist which happens to be all about sex trafficking. 11% of men in the UK buy sex. There are an estimated 80,000 sex workers in Britain.
.
Of all places, Elena was first employed for two weeks in a flat in Mayfair, one of the richest areas of London, rather than a seedier area of the city like Soho, where you almost expect that sort of thing.
.
The next part of the tour was an art installation of what was no other than a big black hole that seems to draw you inside when you stand in a certain spot. That was to represent the stigma placed on the girls who have been victims of sex traffickers.
.
Then we were led outside where we were handed a recorder to listen to, which was the voice of Elena telling her whole story. It was quite long, but very interesting as she added details that weren’t included in the exhibition. She was arrested with 100 other girls one day and locked up in a Charring Cross jail for two days for breaking visa laws. They never once asked if she was okay or how she got there. When she went home, she felt like a different person and couldn’t look her mother in the eye. Her mother was under the impression that she was doing well and would bring back money she saved for her family because her father had passed away and they were having trouble getting by.
.
In the last carriage, the British laws of sex trafficking are written on the walls. Then you are led outside to a tent that is set up for questions and are asked to sign a petition.
.
Inside, it was a medley of strange sounds and smells. Key-shaped peep holes in the first carriage revealed hopes and dreams of Elena, the Albanian girl the story was based on. It was a true story of her journey to London at 19, coerced into the prospect of a better life by a woman who came by her market stall. The woman was paid to find innocent looking village girls to send abroad once she gained their trust.
.
The second carriage was just black, dark, with a sign that asked you to close your eyes. It gave the sensation of movement, sitting inside a train carriage that was chugging along, transporting bodies. A soundtrack of a train’s wheels clicking over the tracks played loudly.
.
Elena arrived in London Victoria and met a woman who turned out to be the person who she came to fear, who told her she owed her a ridiculous amount of money. She was given clothes to wear – high heels, little tiny dresses and thongs left behind by old workers. The third carriage showed face sized holes where you look in to see your face on a girl's body dressed in these little costumes.
.
The next carriage was repulsive. Absolutely hold-your-breathe-repulsive. It was a bedroom scene with a tattered single mattress with the names of a thousand men who wrote “Ben was here. Jason was here. Ryan was here…” In one corner was a garbage pail, overflowing with used condoms and tissues. There were dingy lights. The room stank of stale cum and the rubber of used condoms. A dirty sink in the corner had a constant flow of water from the taps. The wallpaper was peeling. To get to the next carriage, you had to push your way through a flapping group of condoms strung together in long strands.
.
The customers were next. There were giant photos of typical men you see on the street: the 22 year old kid playing football in the park, the large-bellied man running a convenience shop on the corner, the family man smiling with his kids. Her first customer was an Indian man who brought with him a carton of juice. He asked for a blowjob. She had never in her life seen a naked man. She had no less than 40 customers a day, 7 days a week. She made about £800-1,000 per day, of which she was allowed £10.
.
Coincidently, I’m currently reading September’s issue of the New Internationalist which happens to be all about sex trafficking. 11% of men in the UK buy sex. There are an estimated 80,000 sex workers in Britain.
.
Of all places, Elena was first employed for two weeks in a flat in Mayfair, one of the richest areas of London, rather than a seedier area of the city like Soho, where you almost expect that sort of thing.
.
The next part of the tour was an art installation of what was no other than a big black hole that seems to draw you inside when you stand in a certain spot. That was to represent the stigma placed on the girls who have been victims of sex traffickers.
.
Then we were led outside where we were handed a recorder to listen to, which was the voice of Elena telling her whole story. It was quite long, but very interesting as she added details that weren’t included in the exhibition. She was arrested with 100 other girls one day and locked up in a Charring Cross jail for two days for breaking visa laws. They never once asked if she was okay or how she got there. When she went home, she felt like a different person and couldn’t look her mother in the eye. Her mother was under the impression that she was doing well and would bring back money she saved for her family because her father had passed away and they were having trouble getting by.
.
In the last carriage, the British laws of sex trafficking are written on the walls. Then you are led outside to a tent that is set up for questions and are asked to sign a petition.
.
The exhibition has ended, but for more information, see http://www.helenbamber.org/
September 26, 2007
A Tour Along the Thames
Tonight, I met a girl from my hometown in New York who had come over to study in London for a year. I'll call her C. She was about the same height as me and wore a burnt sienna coloured coat that tied around her waist. Her hair was tied back. She's homesick. Very homesick.
.
Her residence here is like a jail, she told me. Her flatmates call their dining room the Interrogation Room because it just has some rickety old wooden furniture and a single lightbulb that hangs from a wire.
.
We walked under the tunnel toward the old fortress, the Tower of London, then down the path a ways to the stairs that led up to Tower Bridge. The River Thames flowed slowly beneath the bridge that 40,000 people cross every day. Darkness spread across the sky already, but the stars were hidden in the clouds of city smog.
.
Making our way to London Bridge, C told me about her boyfriend E who I know from home, stories about her family, and how she can't believe what she has gotten herself into. Culture shock. I told her it will get better and to hang in there.
.
Walking into London Bridge station, I drooled over the Pure Pie stand as we passed seeking out salad for C. Then I got my pure pie. A haddock pie with mash and gravy and peas. Nummy. We carried our containers back through the tunnel that smelled of sour mildew and underground, back into the chill of the London evening. People rushed by in black suits, stood on street corners outside pubs smoking the cigarettes that are now banned on the inside. Everyone was in their own little world.
.
C asked me about which areas to avoid at night as we followed the alleyways back toward the river. I pointed to the glowing purple top of the power station that was transformed into the famous art gallery, Tate Modern. She's an architecture student so she appreciates these things more than most.
.
Her first experience with buskers was when we passed under one of the bridges near Tate Modern and two drunken tramps were singing in screechy tones with cigarettes dangling from their lips. One was strumming a guitar that was badly in need of tuning.
.
But when we passed under Blackfriars Bridge, my favourite bridge in London, we were welcomed by the beautiful rich tones of a cello, a melody that echoed smoothly through the tunnel. It was played by a man in a tuxedo, his eyes closed, the back of his coat flapping gently in the breeze.
.
Strolling along the river, we passed the round white and black Shakespeare's Globe Theatre, the National Theatre and the Royal Festival Hall. To the right, the river flowed opposite our trail and on the bank where we walked, I pointed out the skateboarder's graffiti-covered area and the South Bank Book Market that was only marked by a sign attached to the river wall. She loves books as much as I do and I'm sure she will be back.
.
Ahead of us glowed the bubbles of the London Eye that peak at 443 feet above the river. It appeared still as it always does, but as we approached we could see it moving round at a snail's pace, 10 inches per second so it takes a total of half an hour to rotate around once.
.
To our left were rows of trees lit up with blue and white bulbs and street performers lined the south bank. As we walked, I remembered the many days and nights I spent on the south bank three years ago, when I worked for Fleet Street Publications with an office on the seventh floor of the Sea Containers House overlooking the river.
.
The south bank at night, the lights stretching the length of the Thames, the laughter that bounces on the wind carried over from tour boats, the sweet songs of the street artists, the skateboarder's little graffiti-covered world and the book market, the unique structure of the Millennium bridge... This was where I first fell in love with London. It seemed so grand, so important, so full of life and culture. I felt a shiver through my shoulders and pulled my jacket tighter against the breeze. I shook myself back into the moment.
.
C loved the rounded structure of the Saatchi Gallery and the Aquarium. I showed her Namco Station, the little arcade where T and I used to play on the bumper cars and lose money in the 2p games.
.
When the Houses of Parliament and the glowing clock tower that houses Big Ben came into view, she gasped and stopped to stare for a minute. I smiled and said, “Now there's some architecture for ya, eh?” “Very gothic,” she said. “It's gorgeous!”
.
We walked toward the architectural masterpiece, over Westminster Bridge, back to the north bank. I pointed out Brian Haw's peace protest camp in Parliament Square that has been going on for the past six years, and Westminster Abby beyond that.
.
We turned right and headed away from all of that down toward the gates of Downing Street where guards stood to protect the residence of cabinet members and Prime Minister Gordon Brown in the infamous number 10.
.
At the end of the road lay Trafalgar Square. I tried to explain the appeal of the lions that guard Nelson's Column and the pretty fountains. C liked the idea of the National Gallery. I led her past some cheesy tourist shops with double decker bus ornaments and Big Ben teapots in the windows, through some winding streets. I showed her the sprawling arcade of Trocrdero and Amora, the Academy of Sex and Relationships. We continued to the famous advertising lights of Piccadilly Circus. I've always found them quite tacky, even though they are mesmerising, and she agreed.
.
From here it was either toward Oxford Street or Soho. I ruled out Soho for the moment and we carried on past the closed shops on Regent's Street. Naturally, I pointed out Lush and told her she must indulge when she can. However, she's here for a year with no job racking up a debt of American dollars to her parents. Everything, therefore, will be paid for doubly, and I doubt too much indulging will be taking place.
.
Carnaby Street stretched to our right and I told her about the shops that way and Ain't Nothin' But... the blue's bar on Kingly Street. And then there was the glory that is Oxford Circus, and being that Top Shop was still open at 9:30, we went inside. Her eyes popped at the sight of all the bags and jewellery and coloured tights on the first floor, the collections of sparkly tops and underwear on the second and the rows and rows and rows of shoes and cheap designer clothes on the bottom floor.
.
We wandered down to Tottenham Court Road area and, at 10, we figured out where she needed to go to get home. I taught her how to use the bus here and then walked back to Oxford Circus and hopped on the Bakerloo line with my book, secretly proud of myself for learning the streets of this city well enough to walk confidently from Tower Hill to Oxford Circus without thinking twice about directions. When I first came here, I was tube-obsessed and didn't realize how close the stops really are. And I knew I could easily walk furthur on to Baker Street from Oxford Circus.
.
I toook a cab from Queen's Park and was greeted by a jolly old African driver who came from Eritrea, a little country in East Africa between Sudan and Ethiopia. He had velvet skin and big animated hands that waved about as he told me stories of his travels, his trips home, his sons and his family. He got a kick out of a trip to America. He kept going on about how big everything is and chuckling. He seemed so happy.
.
The smile he flashed me, exposing an even row of white teeth, one gold toward the back, as I handed him my £6 stuck with me. It was contagious and as I slipped past one of my flatmates who was lazing on the couch in the lounge watching Dallas, he said, “What are you smiling about?”
I shrugged and went to the kitchen to wash some raspberries. I coated them with sugar and went to join him and tell him all about our adventures.
.
Her residence here is like a jail, she told me. Her flatmates call their dining room the Interrogation Room because it just has some rickety old wooden furniture and a single lightbulb that hangs from a wire.
.
We walked under the tunnel toward the old fortress, the Tower of London, then down the path a ways to the stairs that led up to Tower Bridge. The River Thames flowed slowly beneath the bridge that 40,000 people cross every day. Darkness spread across the sky already, but the stars were hidden in the clouds of city smog.
.
Making our way to London Bridge, C told me about her boyfriend E who I know from home, stories about her family, and how she can't believe what she has gotten herself into. Culture shock. I told her it will get better and to hang in there.
.
Walking into London Bridge station, I drooled over the Pure Pie stand as we passed seeking out salad for C. Then I got my pure pie. A haddock pie with mash and gravy and peas. Nummy. We carried our containers back through the tunnel that smelled of sour mildew and underground, back into the chill of the London evening. People rushed by in black suits, stood on street corners outside pubs smoking the cigarettes that are now banned on the inside. Everyone was in their own little world.
.
C asked me about which areas to avoid at night as we followed the alleyways back toward the river. I pointed to the glowing purple top of the power station that was transformed into the famous art gallery, Tate Modern. She's an architecture student so she appreciates these things more than most.
.
Her first experience with buskers was when we passed under one of the bridges near Tate Modern and two drunken tramps were singing in screechy tones with cigarettes dangling from their lips. One was strumming a guitar that was badly in need of tuning.
.
But when we passed under Blackfriars Bridge, my favourite bridge in London, we were welcomed by the beautiful rich tones of a cello, a melody that echoed smoothly through the tunnel. It was played by a man in a tuxedo, his eyes closed, the back of his coat flapping gently in the breeze.
.
Strolling along the river, we passed the round white and black Shakespeare's Globe Theatre, the National Theatre and the Royal Festival Hall. To the right, the river flowed opposite our trail and on the bank where we walked, I pointed out the skateboarder's graffiti-covered area and the South Bank Book Market that was only marked by a sign attached to the river wall. She loves books as much as I do and I'm sure she will be back.
.
Ahead of us glowed the bubbles of the London Eye that peak at 443 feet above the river. It appeared still as it always does, but as we approached we could see it moving round at a snail's pace, 10 inches per second so it takes a total of half an hour to rotate around once.
.
To our left were rows of trees lit up with blue and white bulbs and street performers lined the south bank. As we walked, I remembered the many days and nights I spent on the south bank three years ago, when I worked for Fleet Street Publications with an office on the seventh floor of the Sea Containers House overlooking the river.
.
The south bank at night, the lights stretching the length of the Thames, the laughter that bounces on the wind carried over from tour boats, the sweet songs of the street artists, the skateboarder's little graffiti-covered world and the book market, the unique structure of the Millennium bridge... This was where I first fell in love with London. It seemed so grand, so important, so full of life and culture. I felt a shiver through my shoulders and pulled my jacket tighter against the breeze. I shook myself back into the moment.
.
C loved the rounded structure of the Saatchi Gallery and the Aquarium. I showed her Namco Station, the little arcade where T and I used to play on the bumper cars and lose money in the 2p games.
.
When the Houses of Parliament and the glowing clock tower that houses Big Ben came into view, she gasped and stopped to stare for a minute. I smiled and said, “Now there's some architecture for ya, eh?” “Very gothic,” she said. “It's gorgeous!”
.
We walked toward the architectural masterpiece, over Westminster Bridge, back to the north bank. I pointed out Brian Haw's peace protest camp in Parliament Square that has been going on for the past six years, and Westminster Abby beyond that.
.
We turned right and headed away from all of that down toward the gates of Downing Street where guards stood to protect the residence of cabinet members and Prime Minister Gordon Brown in the infamous number 10.
.
At the end of the road lay Trafalgar Square. I tried to explain the appeal of the lions that guard Nelson's Column and the pretty fountains. C liked the idea of the National Gallery. I led her past some cheesy tourist shops with double decker bus ornaments and Big Ben teapots in the windows, through some winding streets. I showed her the sprawling arcade of Trocrdero and Amora, the Academy of Sex and Relationships. We continued to the famous advertising lights of Piccadilly Circus. I've always found them quite tacky, even though they are mesmerising, and she agreed.
.
From here it was either toward Oxford Street or Soho. I ruled out Soho for the moment and we carried on past the closed shops on Regent's Street. Naturally, I pointed out Lush and told her she must indulge when she can. However, she's here for a year with no job racking up a debt of American dollars to her parents. Everything, therefore, will be paid for doubly, and I doubt too much indulging will be taking place.
.
Carnaby Street stretched to our right and I told her about the shops that way and Ain't Nothin' But... the blue's bar on Kingly Street. And then there was the glory that is Oxford Circus, and being that Top Shop was still open at 9:30, we went inside. Her eyes popped at the sight of all the bags and jewellery and coloured tights on the first floor, the collections of sparkly tops and underwear on the second and the rows and rows and rows of shoes and cheap designer clothes on the bottom floor.
.
We wandered down to Tottenham Court Road area and, at 10, we figured out where she needed to go to get home. I taught her how to use the bus here and then walked back to Oxford Circus and hopped on the Bakerloo line with my book, secretly proud of myself for learning the streets of this city well enough to walk confidently from Tower Hill to Oxford Circus without thinking twice about directions. When I first came here, I was tube-obsessed and didn't realize how close the stops really are. And I knew I could easily walk furthur on to Baker Street from Oxford Circus.
.
I toook a cab from Queen's Park and was greeted by a jolly old African driver who came from Eritrea, a little country in East Africa between Sudan and Ethiopia. He had velvet skin and big animated hands that waved about as he told me stories of his travels, his trips home, his sons and his family. He got a kick out of a trip to America. He kept going on about how big everything is and chuckling. He seemed so happy.
.
The smile he flashed me, exposing an even row of white teeth, one gold toward the back, as I handed him my £6 stuck with me. It was contagious and as I slipped past one of my flatmates who was lazing on the couch in the lounge watching Dallas, he said, “What are you smiling about?”
I shrugged and went to the kitchen to wash some raspberries. I coated them with sugar and went to join him and tell him all about our adventures.
September 11, 2007
NW3Hampstead
I was quite happy for a change in scenery when I was asked to attend the first NW3Hampstead meeting. It was a bit like a Student Association meeting, only with older people in more sparkly outfits with different concerns. And plush pink velvet seats as it was held at Everyman Theatre. Not to mention little cocktail sandwiches and lemon water with ice. Plus 20 minutes of socializing before anything got started.
.
I signed my name in the pretty guest book and sat down next to a few girls from a Hampstead theatre who looked my age. One was a press officer and the other was in marketing so we got to chatting.
.
This is my first official meeting in London. Not on a topic that particularly interests me other than for the fact that I work in Hampstead two days a month. But it was a welcome change from the office and a chance to meet some interesting people.
.
The main topics of concern were rent and parking. Surprised? Neither was I. Money money money. The world revolves around the stuff. Someone suggested a tram or a bus to combat the commute up hill and others liked the idea of a traffic free Saturday afternoon where they close off the high streets once a month and bring back the village feel.
.
Seems this village feel was a big thing before my time and it's now completely changed to welcome what one person called a slew of dull restaurants and chain shops that are starting to resemble (gasp!) Bluewater...
.
But when the now empty used-to-be aquarium shop on the corner is renting for £35,000 a year, who's going to move in there? Not small traders and local businesses. Nope, it's going to be more of the big boys- the mobile phone shops and the estate agents.
.
There were some estate agents at the meeting, in fact. And some lawyers and bankers and a fancy author broadcaster guy from Marylebone who grew up in Hampstead and says it's gone to pot. It looks... common. He suggested everyone take a cue from Marylebone. Which I will say I agree with. If I could live anywhere in London and cost was no concern, Marylebone would make my top three. The shops are much more unique, the pubs are more authentic, and the walk is just as nice as Hampstead. Marylebone has Regent's Park, Hampstead has the Heath.
.
Some local residents and small business owners were there, but they voiced their opinions less often. The ones who did were well into their 60s or early 70s, but then most of the crowd was at least 50. I was easily the youngest by a landslide. Besides the two girls next to me who I bet were in their late 20s. It was a Hampstead crew though, sparkly jewellery, fancy suits, all white faces. Money money money.
.
I think it's a great idea to have a community group, to make an effort to change the way they live and bring more business to the area. They tossed around some interesting debates and ideas that could take shape over time as the meetings progress. With more voices speaking as one, the council is more likely to take their opinions into account. My only question is, why is this only starting in 2007?
.
I signed my name in the pretty guest book and sat down next to a few girls from a Hampstead theatre who looked my age. One was a press officer and the other was in marketing so we got to chatting.
.
This is my first official meeting in London. Not on a topic that particularly interests me other than for the fact that I work in Hampstead two days a month. But it was a welcome change from the office and a chance to meet some interesting people.
.
The main topics of concern were rent and parking. Surprised? Neither was I. Money money money. The world revolves around the stuff. Someone suggested a tram or a bus to combat the commute up hill and others liked the idea of a traffic free Saturday afternoon where they close off the high streets once a month and bring back the village feel.
.
Seems this village feel was a big thing before my time and it's now completely changed to welcome what one person called a slew of dull restaurants and chain shops that are starting to resemble (gasp!) Bluewater...
.
But when the now empty used-to-be aquarium shop on the corner is renting for £35,000 a year, who's going to move in there? Not small traders and local businesses. Nope, it's going to be more of the big boys- the mobile phone shops and the estate agents.
.
There were some estate agents at the meeting, in fact. And some lawyers and bankers and a fancy author broadcaster guy from Marylebone who grew up in Hampstead and says it's gone to pot. It looks... common. He suggested everyone take a cue from Marylebone. Which I will say I agree with. If I could live anywhere in London and cost was no concern, Marylebone would make my top three. The shops are much more unique, the pubs are more authentic, and the walk is just as nice as Hampstead. Marylebone has Regent's Park, Hampstead has the Heath.
.
Some local residents and small business owners were there, but they voiced their opinions less often. The ones who did were well into their 60s or early 70s, but then most of the crowd was at least 50. I was easily the youngest by a landslide. Besides the two girls next to me who I bet were in their late 20s. It was a Hampstead crew though, sparkly jewellery, fancy suits, all white faces. Money money money.
.
I think it's a great idea to have a community group, to make an effort to change the way they live and bring more business to the area. They tossed around some interesting debates and ideas that could take shape over time as the meetings progress. With more voices speaking as one, the council is more likely to take their opinions into account. My only question is, why is this only starting in 2007?
August 31, 2007
Reading Recap
It has been ages since I've written here, but I've been on a holiday of sorts. I also experienced a glorious 4 days at my first Reading Festival. Admittedly, I enjoyed Isle of Wight Festival in June a bit more because it was more chilled out and there were fewer kids with attitude, but Reading certainly has its perks.
For one, Smashing Pumpkins played. They have been my obsession since I was about 11 years old and for the first time, I got to see them live, even though they are not completely the original band. Three people from front and centre, I found myself swept a few metres to the side without even touching the ground, then elbowed in the face, then squashed up against the armpit of the man in front of me. Bruised and sweaty at the end, I came away satisfied and in a Billy Corgan influenced bubble of happiness.
The rest of the weekend, we ate Ribena ice lollies, saw Beth Ditto strip to her skinnies, danced to CSS, rocked out to Albert Hammond Jr and The Enemy and chilled in the grass while The Shins and Arcade Fire played. The line up wasn't the greatest in the world besides the Pumpkins in my opinion. There were a lot of bands I liked, but not a lot I loved. The alternative tent did bring a few new discoveries like Jeremy Warmsley who had on-stage makings of music videos that they played on screens to the side.
The food was expensive but tasty. The weather was gorgeous. The company was excellent.
After five days sleeping in a tent with gas canisters exploding around me and no shower, I was happy to be home.
And now that I've been paid, I will be back to exploring this fabulous city shortly. But for the moment, it's back to work...
For one, Smashing Pumpkins played. They have been my obsession since I was about 11 years old and for the first time, I got to see them live, even though they are not completely the original band. Three people from front and centre, I found myself swept a few metres to the side without even touching the ground, then elbowed in the face, then squashed up against the armpit of the man in front of me. Bruised and sweaty at the end, I came away satisfied and in a Billy Corgan influenced bubble of happiness.
The rest of the weekend, we ate Ribena ice lollies, saw Beth Ditto strip to her skinnies, danced to CSS, rocked out to Albert Hammond Jr and The Enemy and chilled in the grass while The Shins and Arcade Fire played. The line up wasn't the greatest in the world besides the Pumpkins in my opinion. There were a lot of bands I liked, but not a lot I loved. The alternative tent did bring a few new discoveries like Jeremy Warmsley who had on-stage makings of music videos that they played on screens to the side.
The food was expensive but tasty. The weather was gorgeous. The company was excellent.
After five days sleeping in a tent with gas canisters exploding around me and no shower, I was happy to be home.
And now that I've been paid, I will be back to exploring this fabulous city shortly. But for the moment, it's back to work...
August 15, 2007
Amora: The Academy of Sex and Relationships
Written for an application for travel freelancing as a sample:
After a mesmerising look at the infamous Piccadilly lights above the London crowds and a few rounds of air hockey at the Trocadero across the road, why not pop next door for a visit to London's first academy of sex and relationships, Amora?
For £10, take a trip through the red-walled rooms and explore interactive exhibitions as the moans of orgasm seep through the surround sound. Learn your lover's hot spots, how to push your own buttons and the desired intensity of a spanking. One wall boasts a collection of 84 plaster cast genitals and breasts of every shape, size and variety. Across the way, explore a selection of sex toys. From there, move into the Amorgasm Tunnel, a walk through the stages of orgasm from the arousal to plateau, the explosion of ecstasy and finally, relaxation, all featured on TV screens. Next up: bondage. At the end, you will find yourself in a bar with aphrodisiac drinks and a myriad of books about sex and foreplay. Before you exit, there is, of course, the inevitable store filled with products and toys for all your sensual needs.
The downside? The educational parts can feel a bit like health class. There are pictures of STD's and a lot of heavy information to read on the walls, supplemented by an audio guide. The atmosphere feels a bit too bright and with other people walking around, you need to be comfortable being trapped in a little vacuum of all-things-sex with random strangers.
For the tutorials on how to find the g-spot and the prostate and other handy tips, I give it an 8/10. Did you know that when a male eats pineapple or cinnamon, his cum will taste better? Asparagus has the opposite effect.
Enough with the tourist spots; now the only thing you'll be looking for is the perfect little romantic hotel to test out all the little tricks you'll learn, like how to perform a striptease for your lover...
After a mesmerising look at the infamous Piccadilly lights above the London crowds and a few rounds of air hockey at the Trocadero across the road, why not pop next door for a visit to London's first academy of sex and relationships, Amora?
For £10, take a trip through the red-walled rooms and explore interactive exhibitions as the moans of orgasm seep through the surround sound. Learn your lover's hot spots, how to push your own buttons and the desired intensity of a spanking. One wall boasts a collection of 84 plaster cast genitals and breasts of every shape, size and variety. Across the way, explore a selection of sex toys. From there, move into the Amorgasm Tunnel, a walk through the stages of orgasm from the arousal to plateau, the explosion of ecstasy and finally, relaxation, all featured on TV screens. Next up: bondage. At the end, you will find yourself in a bar with aphrodisiac drinks and a myriad of books about sex and foreplay. Before you exit, there is, of course, the inevitable store filled with products and toys for all your sensual needs.
The downside? The educational parts can feel a bit like health class. There are pictures of STD's and a lot of heavy information to read on the walls, supplemented by an audio guide. The atmosphere feels a bit too bright and with other people walking around, you need to be comfortable being trapped in a little vacuum of all-things-sex with random strangers.
For the tutorials on how to find the g-spot and the prostate and other handy tips, I give it an 8/10. Did you know that when a male eats pineapple or cinnamon, his cum will taste better? Asparagus has the opposite effect.
Enough with the tourist spots; now the only thing you'll be looking for is the perfect little romantic hotel to test out all the little tricks you'll learn, like how to perform a striptease for your lover...
August 07, 2007
Exhibitions
Being a huge city, London has the advantage of being able to house a lot of unusual or very specific exhibitions. Because of that, it's easy to find something for everyone. Here are a few that might amuse me.
London Exhibitions: Five to check out this week
1.) Htein Lin: Burma Inside Out
Produced while Lin was captive of the Burmese/Myanmar military government, these works will be on display for the first time in the UK. They are both abstract and figurative, ranging in subject from prison life to Buddhism. He painted on white prison uniforms using soap as paint and his fingers as a brush, among other tools. There, he finished over 230 different works.
When: 27 July – 13 October; Monday – Saturday 10am - 6pm
Where: Asia House, 63 Cavendish St. W1
Admission: £2.00
Website: www.rsf.org/article.php3?id_article=23101
2.) Daily Encounters: Photographs from Fleet Street
In the 80’s, Fleet Street was a booming area of London famous for its newspaper offices and pubs frequented by journalists and photographers. Fleet Street newspapers released loads of press photographs ranging from politicians and events to actors and models. A selection of these will be on display along side photos of the newspaper industry itself. Over 75 works will be shown.
When: 5 July – 21 October
Where: National Portrait Gallery, St. Martin's Place, WC2H
Admission: £5.00
Website: http://www.npg.org.uk/live/wodailyencounters.asp
3.) Chris Moffat: Experimental Photography and Design 1923-1935
An art student of New York (where he was born) and Paris, Moffat moved to London in the mid 1920’s where he opened an interior design company and his own gallery. His photographs of society figures were praised for his innovative use of colour. The portfolio donated to this collection contains over 1,000 works.
When: 2 August – 13 January
Where: Photography Gallery, 38A. V&A South Kensington, Cromwell Rd, SW7
Admission: Free
Website: http://www.londonlantern.com/articles/default.asp?snID=&cssType=0&Issue=200708&Area=0&TRCday=0&ID=828
4.) Keeping Time
We all remember puberty: that awkward time of sexual exploration, timidity, crossing the line into adulthood, growing into our skin, so to speak. While the focus of this exhibition is on female ice skaters, it explores the challenges they face while they are going through adolescence. The pictures are symbolic of femininity and facing approaching adulthood in a period of high self-awareness and wavering confidence.
When: Now until 22 Septemer, Monday-Saturday, 10am – 10pm, Sunday 3-9pm
Where: Tricycle Gallery, 269 Kilburn High Road, NW6
Admission: Free
Website: http://www.londonlantern.com/articles/default.asp?snID=&cssType=0&Issue=200708&Area=0&TRCday=0&ID=830
5.) Helmand: The Soldier's Story
Created by soldiers of 16 Air Assault Brigade, Helmand is a story in exhibition form, told by real soldiers who have experienced the war in Afghanistan. Real letters from home are on display alongside uniforms and bedding with mosquito nets. Film recordings of real soldiers, both living and dead, were made during battle and eerily place the viewer in their boots.
When: From 3 August; Daily 10am – 5:30pm
Where: National Army Museum, Royal Hospital Road, SW3
Admission: Free
Website: www.24hourmuseum.org.uk/exh_gfx_en/ART49607.html
London Exhibitions: Five to check out this week
1.) Htein Lin: Burma Inside Out
Produced while Lin was captive of the Burmese/Myanmar military government, these works will be on display for the first time in the UK. They are both abstract and figurative, ranging in subject from prison life to Buddhism. He painted on white prison uniforms using soap as paint and his fingers as a brush, among other tools. There, he finished over 230 different works.
When: 27 July – 13 October; Monday – Saturday 10am - 6pm
Where: Asia House, 63 Cavendish St. W1
Admission: £2.00
Website: www.rsf.org/article.php3?id_article=23101
2.) Daily Encounters: Photographs from Fleet Street
In the 80’s, Fleet Street was a booming area of London famous for its newspaper offices and pubs frequented by journalists and photographers. Fleet Street newspapers released loads of press photographs ranging from politicians and events to actors and models. A selection of these will be on display along side photos of the newspaper industry itself. Over 75 works will be shown.
When: 5 July – 21 October
Where: National Portrait Gallery, St. Martin's Place, WC2H
Admission: £5.00
Website: http://www.npg.org.uk/live/wodailyencounters.asp
3.) Chris Moffat: Experimental Photography and Design 1923-1935
An art student of New York (where he was born) and Paris, Moffat moved to London in the mid 1920’s where he opened an interior design company and his own gallery. His photographs of society figures were praised for his innovative use of colour. The portfolio donated to this collection contains over 1,000 works.
When: 2 August – 13 January
Where: Photography Gallery, 38A. V&A South Kensington, Cromwell Rd, SW7
Admission: Free
Website: http://www.londonlantern.com/articles/default.asp?snID=&cssType=0&Issue=200708&Area=0&TRCday=0&ID=828
4.) Keeping Time
We all remember puberty: that awkward time of sexual exploration, timidity, crossing the line into adulthood, growing into our skin, so to speak. While the focus of this exhibition is on female ice skaters, it explores the challenges they face while they are going through adolescence. The pictures are symbolic of femininity and facing approaching adulthood in a period of high self-awareness and wavering confidence.
When: Now until 22 Septemer, Monday-Saturday, 10am – 10pm, Sunday 3-9pm
Where: Tricycle Gallery, 269 Kilburn High Road, NW6
Admission: Free
Website: http://www.londonlantern.com/articles/default.asp?snID=&cssType=0&Issue=200708&Area=0&TRCday=0&ID=830
5.) Helmand: The Soldier's Story
Created by soldiers of 16 Air Assault Brigade, Helmand is a story in exhibition form, told by real soldiers who have experienced the war in Afghanistan. Real letters from home are on display alongside uniforms and bedding with mosquito nets. Film recordings of real soldiers, both living and dead, were made during battle and eerily place the viewer in their boots.
When: From 3 August; Daily 10am – 5:30pm
Where: National Army Museum, Royal Hospital Road, SW3
Admission: Free
Website: www.24hourmuseum.org.uk/exh_gfx_en/ART49607.html
July 30, 2007
Lunchtime Encounters
Because there is not much else to do on my lunch breaks in Archway, I often scour the local charity shops for new books to add to my growing collection. (A huge pile of to-reads, which I am slowly working through, is stacked neatly on my bottom bookshelf). Here, I buy books I wouldn't normally purchase in Foyles or Borders, books that have potential or promise a bit of browse-worthy amusement.
I picked one up today called 365 Ways to Change the World by Michael Norton for £1. It highlights, in a day-by-day, page-by-page collection, ways to make a difference. Their Web site is just as interesting, offering news and daily suggestions. Norton himself is a vibrant character. He blogs here.
I picked one up today called 365 Ways to Change the World by Michael Norton for £1. It highlights, in a day-by-day, page-by-page collection, ways to make a difference. Their Web site is just as interesting, offering news and daily suggestions. Norton himself is a vibrant character. He blogs here.
From the book:
June 30. Theme: Love your neighbourhood. One suggestion: 25 Things. “Photograph the 25 things that most please you about your neighbourhood. Then prepare a virtual exhibition. Contact your local newspaper and offer to email your exhibition to anyone interested.”
December 14 suggests a sex strike and goes on to tell about how sex strikes have been used around the world, like in Columbia to protest against drug wars, in Poland to fight for legal abortion and in Amsterdam, Sudan and Turkey for various reasons.
Paging through, there are actually some really cool, human-rights-oriented suggestions I wouldn't have thought of otherwise and other general niceties to make people around you smile.
And so it was a bit ironic what happened next.
Just outside the shop, I was approached by a guy about my age, holding a compass. I avoid people with clipboards and people who look like they will beg for money, but the compass intrigued me. He said, “Excuse me. I was wondering if you could help me.”
When he held up the compass, I was sure he was going to ask for directions. Around these parts, people tend to carry their trusty A-Z instead, so I was intrigued.
He explained then that he was on a sort of mission. His two friends approached. One held a bottle of purplish-blue nail polish. The other held a Mars bar.
The mission? Start with a pen. Exchange pen with random stranger for another random object. Take random object and approach another stranger. Try for another random object. And so on. The purpose? I guess to make people smile and for a bit of amusement.
So this guy wanted to trade his compass for.... anything? I only carry my wallet when I go to lunch, so I didn't think I had anything to give him, though I liked the idea of it. I checked anyway and produced a card good for free flip flops from Victoria's Secret with any Pink purchase. Useless? It is now, since it's only good in America, but his friend snapped it up and gave me the bottle of nail polish.
We all walked away grinning at the ridiculousness of it all. Another random reason I love this city.
Now I'm really curious as to whose nail polish it once was...hmm. And who will end up with my useless card... and for what? Oh, the possibilities...
June 30. Theme: Love your neighbourhood. One suggestion: 25 Things. “Photograph the 25 things that most please you about your neighbourhood. Then prepare a virtual exhibition. Contact your local newspaper and offer to email your exhibition to anyone interested.”
December 14 suggests a sex strike and goes on to tell about how sex strikes have been used around the world, like in Columbia to protest against drug wars, in Poland to fight for legal abortion and in Amsterdam, Sudan and Turkey for various reasons.
Paging through, there are actually some really cool, human-rights-oriented suggestions I wouldn't have thought of otherwise and other general niceties to make people around you smile.
And so it was a bit ironic what happened next.
Just outside the shop, I was approached by a guy about my age, holding a compass. I avoid people with clipboards and people who look like they will beg for money, but the compass intrigued me. He said, “Excuse me. I was wondering if you could help me.”
When he held up the compass, I was sure he was going to ask for directions. Around these parts, people tend to carry their trusty A-Z instead, so I was intrigued.
He explained then that he was on a sort of mission. His two friends approached. One held a bottle of purplish-blue nail polish. The other held a Mars bar.
The mission? Start with a pen. Exchange pen with random stranger for another random object. Take random object and approach another stranger. Try for another random object. And so on. The purpose? I guess to make people smile and for a bit of amusement.
So this guy wanted to trade his compass for.... anything? I only carry my wallet when I go to lunch, so I didn't think I had anything to give him, though I liked the idea of it. I checked anyway and produced a card good for free flip flops from Victoria's Secret with any Pink purchase. Useless? It is now, since it's only good in America, but his friend snapped it up and gave me the bottle of nail polish.
We all walked away grinning at the ridiculousness of it all. Another random reason I love this city.
Now I'm really curious as to whose nail polish it once was...hmm. And who will end up with my useless card... and for what? Oh, the possibilities...
July 24, 2007
A Week in New York
For the first time in my life, I looked at America from a British perspective. I noticed what Americans probably don't usually notice and what I never really did so much growing up.
On the shuttle in Dulles International Airport, Washington D.C., I noticed chatter. Everyone was talking, laughing, making noise, most of them smiling. On public transport in London, people typically don't talk unless they are on the phone, and they generally keep to themselves.
Americans are more outgoing, louder, striking up conversations with strangers, greeting people in shops, smiling as they pass on the street. Londoners live in closer conditions and seem to value the little space and privacy they have. I don't think the English reserve has as much to do with overall friendliness as it does with having more privacy and space in America.
One very obvious difference is obesity and too much skin. Americans are much bigger on average and seem to show more skin than Londoners. It may be because of the larger portions, attitudes toward food, and the weather. I'm not analyzing, just observing.
Tax. Londoners pay more tax, but it's included in the price. In New York, the tax is tacked on as a little surprise at the register. I knew this, obviously, but just how annoying that is became a lot more apparent.
Granted Buffalo and London can not be compared side by side and I'm not in New York City, which could be compared more easily with London, but these are a few differences I never really would have thought twice about before moving to London and coming back with that point of view.
On the shuttle in Dulles International Airport, Washington D.C., I noticed chatter. Everyone was talking, laughing, making noise, most of them smiling. On public transport in London, people typically don't talk unless they are on the phone, and they generally keep to themselves.
Americans are more outgoing, louder, striking up conversations with strangers, greeting people in shops, smiling as they pass on the street. Londoners live in closer conditions and seem to value the little space and privacy they have. I don't think the English reserve has as much to do with overall friendliness as it does with having more privacy and space in America.
One very obvious difference is obesity and too much skin. Americans are much bigger on average and seem to show more skin than Londoners. It may be because of the larger portions, attitudes toward food, and the weather. I'm not analyzing, just observing.
Tax. Londoners pay more tax, but it's included in the price. In New York, the tax is tacked on as a little surprise at the register. I knew this, obviously, but just how annoying that is became a lot more apparent.
Granted Buffalo and London can not be compared side by side and I'm not in New York City, which could be compared more easily with London, but these are a few differences I never really would have thought twice about before moving to London and coming back with that point of view.
July 14, 2007
A Portrait of Poverty
To an artist, homelessness, like war and poverty, is a powerful subject. Every day, we pass people with no where to call home; some of us notice them, others pay no mind. But they are part of our world and their colourful stories are brush strokes on the portrait of our city.
About six years ago, painter Jacqueline K Crofton sat in Camden's soup kitchen eating lunch with a group who shared their experiences. Afterwards, she was able to sketch and photograph some of them and, over the next year, developed a series of large charcoal and oil paintings on flax, which she called Street People. This controversial series is not for everyone.
Many of these people use shelters at night. Others are called “rough sleepers”, the ones you see in doorways and under bridges. You may have wondered how they got there and why they have not been able to escape that life.
There is a stark contrast in London, even in this borough alone. Here, we have the up-market neighbourhood of Hampstead, and just around the corner, you find Camden soup kitchen.
Street People (below), on display now at Jiq Jaq Gallery in Hampstead, is a powerful collection, in both size and subject matter. http://www.jiqjaq.com/
About six years ago, painter Jacqueline K Crofton sat in Camden's soup kitchen eating lunch with a group who shared their experiences. Afterwards, she was able to sketch and photograph some of them and, over the next year, developed a series of large charcoal and oil paintings on flax, which she called Street People. This controversial series is not for everyone.
Many of these people use shelters at night. Others are called “rough sleepers”, the ones you see in doorways and under bridges. You may have wondered how they got there and why they have not been able to escape that life.
In 2004, St. Mungo's conducted a survey on 1,534 people without homes. What they found helped explain the tangled web of problems that sends them to the streets. The most common reason has to do with broken relationships that were destroyed by or spiralled into drug and alcohol abuse, behavioural problems and both physical and mental illness. Their research found 40% of homeless people have a mental health problem and just over 1/3 have issues with substance abuse. 48% have been without permanent housing for two or more years, 17% for more than 10 years.
.
London offers a number of support groups that help unemployed homeless men and women find jobs. Some sell The Big Issue from which 80p per sale goes into their own pocket. They are often stuck in unemployment because they have no permanent mailing address, poor hygiene, no money for interview clothes and educational problems.
But Jaq's reasoning behind painting this series was not for it to be a social commentary as much as to create a composition of a darker, yet inevitable, reality. The rate of homelessness in London is twice as high as the rest of England and far greater than Government statistics indicate, according to the charity Crisis who estimates approximately 400,000 homeless in Great Britain.
There is a stark contrast in London, even in this borough alone. Here, we have the up-market neighbourhood of Hampstead, and just around the corner, you find Camden soup kitchen.
Street People (below), on display now at Jiq Jaq Gallery in Hampstead, is a powerful collection, in both size and subject matter. http://www.jiqjaq.com/
July 07, 2007
Beating 7/7 and 9/11
New York and London both feel like home. I lived in New York most of my life, but having always been in love with London, felt more affected by 7/7 than 9/11.
I was in New York when London was struck by terrorists, 3,000 miles away. I remember refreshing the BBC Web site every few minutes while sitting in my air conditioned cubicle, my fingers shaking on the keyboard. On 9/11, I was in Dr. Lachut's AP Biology class.
Today is 7/7 and recent terrorist attempts in London have people on their toes again. It is no use thinking about “what ifs.” One of the best things happening today is Live Earth. People are stepping up and gathering in the new Wembley Stadium in London and other venues around the world on every continent for a great cause: saving the planet and raising awareness about climate change with 24 hours of music.
In London, Snow Patrol; in New York, Smashing Pumpkins; in Australia, Jack Johnson; in Germany, Snoop Dogg; in Japan, Rihanna; in South Africa, Joss Stone; in Brazil, Macy Gray; in China, Sarah Brightman.
Rock on.
For more on Live Earth, check their site at www.liveearth.org/
I was in New York when London was struck by terrorists, 3,000 miles away. I remember refreshing the BBC Web site every few minutes while sitting in my air conditioned cubicle, my fingers shaking on the keyboard. On 9/11, I was in Dr. Lachut's AP Biology class.
Today is 7/7 and recent terrorist attempts in London have people on their toes again. It is no use thinking about “what ifs.” One of the best things happening today is Live Earth. People are stepping up and gathering in the new Wembley Stadium in London and other venues around the world on every continent for a great cause: saving the planet and raising awareness about climate change with 24 hours of music.
In London, Snow Patrol; in New York, Smashing Pumpkins; in Australia, Jack Johnson; in Germany, Snoop Dogg; in Japan, Rihanna; in South Africa, Joss Stone; in Brazil, Macy Gray; in China, Sarah Brightman.
Rock on.
For more on Live Earth, check their site at www.liveearth.org/
July 06, 2007
Get London Reading
Giant posters featuring novels and authors are plastered brightly against the grey cement walls of most London underground stations. A few heel clicks away, I usually find a WHSmith. Because the city is so reliant on public transportation, there's a bit of extra time to read. Every morning, well-suited Londoners sit quietly on the tube with their heads down in a book, flipping pages until it seems their 6th sense kicks when they've reached their stop. I know mine always does.
In 2006, the first Get London Reading Challenge was launched by Booktrust in an effort to encourage the city to read more. Browsing earlier, I happened upon their Web site. Here, I learned that Kensal Rise Library, of which I am a member and walk past every morning, was opened in September 1900 by the American author Mark Twain. Other interesting literary information is available on the site for each of London's boroughs.
Maybe even more interesting is that you can look up your borough and it will tell you which books were written in that setting and where your local bookshops can be found. The site lists a number of books based in London, as part of the campaign. And, a random tidbit, speed dating in libraries came about in the 2006 Challenge. Hm.
I dragged my friend Danny to the London Literature Festival 2007 last weekend. (It's still on until 12 July in and around the Southbank Centre near the permanent outdoor book fair and the skateboarders.) Here, we were given free books about London as part of a project to read and pass along. 1,000 books are to be given out.
My book is White Teeth by Zadie Smith and Danny got his hands on The London Pigeon Wars by Patrick Neate. Each book has a special tracking number than can be registered online so its journey can be followed. Granted my to-read pile comes up to my waist, but I'm always happy to add to the collection. I picture myself in the future living in a grand old English house with a rustic library that has a fireplace and shelves extending to the ceiling on every wall. All full. Today, I bought three novels at the Marie Curie charity shop on my lunch break for a grand total of £2.80. Glorious.
10 novels based in London:
Brick Lane by Monica Ali
A best seller that has had resounding praise and also caused a stir in the Bangladeshi community around Brick Lane.
In 2006, the first Get London Reading Challenge was launched by Booktrust in an effort to encourage the city to read more. Browsing earlier, I happened upon their Web site. Here, I learned that Kensal Rise Library, of which I am a member and walk past every morning, was opened in September 1900 by the American author Mark Twain. Other interesting literary information is available on the site for each of London's boroughs.
Maybe even more interesting is that you can look up your borough and it will tell you which books were written in that setting and where your local bookshops can be found. The site lists a number of books based in London, as part of the campaign. And, a random tidbit, speed dating in libraries came about in the 2006 Challenge. Hm.
I dragged my friend Danny to the London Literature Festival 2007 last weekend. (It's still on until 12 July in and around the Southbank Centre near the permanent outdoor book fair and the skateboarders.) Here, we were given free books about London as part of a project to read and pass along. 1,000 books are to be given out.
My book is White Teeth by Zadie Smith and Danny got his hands on The London Pigeon Wars by Patrick Neate. Each book has a special tracking number than can be registered online so its journey can be followed. Granted my to-read pile comes up to my waist, but I'm always happy to add to the collection. I picture myself in the future living in a grand old English house with a rustic library that has a fireplace and shelves extending to the ceiling on every wall. All full. Today, I bought three novels at the Marie Curie charity shop on my lunch break for a grand total of £2.80. Glorious.
10 novels based in London:
Brick Lane by Monica Ali
A best seller that has had resounding praise and also caused a stir in the Bangladeshi community around Brick Lane.
Only in London by Hanan al-Shaykh
She “writes in Arabic and, although her novels were initially banned in many Arab countries for their sexual explicitness, her work has been translated into sixteen languages and is now published around the world.” - Bloomsbury
She “writes in Arabic and, although her novels were initially banned in many Arab countries for their sexual explicitness, her work has been translated into sixteen languages and is now published around the world.” - Bloomsbury
Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell
(Read online here) "A writer who can - and must - be rediscovered in every age" - Irish Times
(Read online here) "A writer who can - and must - be rediscovered in every age" - Irish Times
Mr Phillips by John Lanchester
A Former Deputy Editor of the London Review of Books, "His writing has the clarity and zing of fine cut glass." - USA Today
Notes on a Scandal by Zoe Heller
This author is a London-born, Oxford and Columbia-educated journalist who now lives in New York. Her book was shortlisted for the Booker Prize in 2003.
Notes on a Scandal by Zoe Heller
This author is a London-born, Oxford and Columbia-educated journalist who now lives in New York. Her book was shortlisted for the Booker Prize in 2003.
Londonstani by Gautam Malkani
“Laden with vernacular and violence, Gautam Malkani's debut novel Londonstani follows four South Asian teenage kids in London's rough-and-tumble Hounslow borough.” - NPR (Read an excerpt here.)
London Noir by Cathi Unsworth
London Noir by Cathi Unsworth
"A-Z of everything that's evil but inescapably seductive about the city. Just don't go south after midnight.” - Dazed & Confused
Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
A classic. Download the free ebook here.)
How to Lose Friends and Alienate People by Toby Young
This memoir got many mixed reviews, causing a commotion in both England and America, but I thought it was quite amusing.
Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
A classic. Download the free ebook here.)
How to Lose Friends and Alienate People by Toby Young
This memoir got many mixed reviews, causing a commotion in both England and America, but I thought it was quite amusing.
A Special Relationship by Douglas Kennedy
“Kennedy really can tell a story... The twists in the plot are perfectly timed to keep the pages turning.” - The Times
July 03, 2007
Spotted Dick and Toad in the Hole
London might not be renowned for its decadent cuisine, but I do enjoy browsing the shelves at M&S and Sainsburys on occasion. My top ten favorite items to toss in my shopping trolley/cart? (in no particular order.)
Twiglets – These require an adventurous palate as many people are put off by them at first. They taste like Marmite and look like twigs, or really knobbly pretzels.
Squeezable Laughing Cow Cheese – The ultimate cheesy sandwich spread, not too tangy, but just right.
Maltloaf – One of my all time favorite foods, my brother and I used to fight over this raisin-spotted treat when they were shipped to the States as a gift.
Crumpets – Breakfast every morning, I have become especially fond of the Co-op version. These are like English Muffins, only smoother, doughier and better.
OXO – My dad drinks this stuff, but these little cubes are usually crushed up and mixed with water to make a gravy.
Chocolate Horlicks – Can't fall asleep? This stuff rocks. Just mix the with boiled water and take it to bed with you.
Turkish Delights – Some people say these taste like flowers, and they do sort of, but chocolate-covered flowers. Aha!
Rich Tea biscuits – With all the tea-drinking, these are the perfect complimentary dunking biscuits. They absorb just enough tea if you count to six, and even taste good alone.
Vodka Mudshakes – Chocolate alcohol that floats like an icy heaven down the throat on a hot day (not that we get many of those. Hot days, that is.)
Gu – More chocolate! But not just any chocolate, mind you. This is rich, creamy, thick, melt-in-to-fondue kind of chocolate. Dipping chocolate – whether it's a strawberry or your finger.
And five I miss from home:
Lucky Charms – too much sugar for the English. Apparently.
Mountain Dew Code Red – Erm, I think this was banned for the same reason.
Goldfish – My favorite drunk food. The closest I have found to these are round crackers called Chedders, but they in no way compare to the mini fish shaped cracker bursting with cheesy flavor that is a Goldfish.
Brisk Iced Tea – They have Lipton here, but it's not as sweet as my favorite Brisk. Are you sensing a pattern?
Graham Crackers – I need these for S'mores, which I must teach my British friends to make, but I have found no suitable alternative. Suggestions welcome.
The great thing about London, is that you can find any sort of international restaurants from Moroccan to Brazilian to Singaporean to Jamaican jerk chicken joints. Then there's the ever faithful British foods: fish & chips, steak and kidney pie, toad in the hole, spotted dick....*nods* Oh, and can't forget Nandos (the chicken restaurant with delicious sauces). Yum!
Twiglets – These require an adventurous palate as many people are put off by them at first. They taste like Marmite and look like twigs, or really knobbly pretzels.
Squeezable Laughing Cow Cheese – The ultimate cheesy sandwich spread, not too tangy, but just right.
Maltloaf – One of my all time favorite foods, my brother and I used to fight over this raisin-spotted treat when they were shipped to the States as a gift.
Crumpets – Breakfast every morning, I have become especially fond of the Co-op version. These are like English Muffins, only smoother, doughier and better.
OXO – My dad drinks this stuff, but these little cubes are usually crushed up and mixed with water to make a gravy.
Chocolate Horlicks – Can't fall asleep? This stuff rocks. Just mix the with boiled water and take it to bed with you.
Turkish Delights – Some people say these taste like flowers, and they do sort of, but chocolate-covered flowers. Aha!
Rich Tea biscuits – With all the tea-drinking, these are the perfect complimentary dunking biscuits. They absorb just enough tea if you count to six, and even taste good alone.
Vodka Mudshakes – Chocolate alcohol that floats like an icy heaven down the throat on a hot day (not that we get many of those. Hot days, that is.)
Gu – More chocolate! But not just any chocolate, mind you. This is rich, creamy, thick, melt-in-to-fondue kind of chocolate. Dipping chocolate – whether it's a strawberry or your finger.
And five I miss from home:
Lucky Charms – too much sugar for the English. Apparently.
Mountain Dew Code Red – Erm, I think this was banned for the same reason.
Goldfish – My favorite drunk food. The closest I have found to these are round crackers called Chedders, but they in no way compare to the mini fish shaped cracker bursting with cheesy flavor that is a Goldfish.
Brisk Iced Tea – They have Lipton here, but it's not as sweet as my favorite Brisk. Are you sensing a pattern?
Graham Crackers – I need these for S'mores, which I must teach my British friends to make, but I have found no suitable alternative. Suggestions welcome.
The great thing about London, is that you can find any sort of international restaurants from Moroccan to Brazilian to Singaporean to Jamaican jerk chicken joints. Then there's the ever faithful British foods: fish & chips, steak and kidney pie, toad in the hole, spotted dick....*nods* Oh, and can't forget Nandos (the chicken restaurant with delicious sauces). Yum!
July 02, 2007
Glossy Recommendations
Print media, they say, is a dying art.
Not if I have anything to do with it.
I doled out at least £75 (nearly $150) on magazines and newspapers this month. Let’s not even talk about books. This is a bit higher than usual as I am on the prowl for new freelancing outlets, but not too much of an exaggeration from the norm.
My purchases:
The Purple Journal
American Cosmo
British Cosmo
Company
Elle
Seven
The Press Gazette
Smoke
Aesthetica
Amelia’s Magazine
The Big Issue
Glamour
Marie Claire
Marmalade
Mslexia
Scarlet
Adbusters
The Guardian
New Internationalist
Monocle
GQ
My mom also sent me a copy of American Jane and Graffiti was free.
All of these (besides Graffiti and The Big Issue) can be picked up at Borders on Oxford Street.
My name is Stephanie and I have a problem. I am a magazine addict. Clearly. And it’s nearly time for the August issues to hit the stands. Since I arrived in London, I have made a few marvelous discoveries, so I thought I would share 10 of my newfound favorites, in no particular order.
1. Smoke: A London Peculiar
Made up of words and images inspired by the city, it is described on the website as a “love letter to London, to the wet neon flicker of late-night pavements, electric with endless possibility...”. With a punchy personality, Smoke tells quirky tales of every day London life: art, history, comics, poetry… if it has to do with London, you’ll find it here in compact A5 form.
Don’t Miss: A regular article, complete with pictures, featuring “London’s Campest Statues,” captured by readers in all their camp glory. Editor: Matt Haynes
Web: http://www.smokelondon.co.uk/
Cost: £2.50
Published: “Aims to resurface every four months.”
2. Amelia’s Magazine
Run by Amelia and her work experience staff, this mag emerges twice a year from the spare room in her East London home. With detailed design and flashy colours, it exposes unknown bands and features drawings and photographs full of endless detail that could have your eyes rolling over the pages for hours.
Don’t Miss: Easily spotted in the racks, Amelia's Magazine is known for its unique covers. “Encrusted with Swarovski crystals, lazer-cut, made out of furry flock, scratch ‘n’ sniff in different flavours and glow-in-the-dark” varieties have previously sheathed the mag. The current issue is very shiny with yellow flowers.
Editor: Amelia Gregory
Web: http://www.ameliasmagazine.com/
Cost: £10.00
Published: Bi-Annually
3. Graffiti: London’s Art Magazine
A new A5 publication that is slightly more upscale than its name implies, Graffiti is distributed to selected homes in the posher areas of London: Belgravia, Kensington, Chelsea, Holland Park, Notting Hill and Hampstead. Image-packed, it is easy on the eye, providing information on both famous and amateur contemporary artists.
Don’t Miss: Fill in your little black book with loads of upcoming exhibitions and student art shows. There are plenty announced here.
Editor: Peter London
Web: http://www.graffitimagazine.co.uk/
Cost: Free, for now (Call 07795 074843 for a copy.)
Published: Quarterly
4. Marmalade Magazine
With a handmade, scrapbook-y sort of look, Marmalade appeals to its artsy readers, 23% of whom, according to the website, don’t read any other mag. The latest issue is built entirely from MySpace content, meaning the staff must have had a blast in the office last month.
Don’t Miss: The random tidbits of information, like this month’s enlightening fact that Playboy has been available in Braille since 1970.
Editor: Kristy Robinson
Web: http://www.marmalademag.com/
Cost: £4.25
Published: Bi-Monthly
5. Mslexia: For Women Who Write
It claims to be the UK’s bestselling magazine for women writers. The title plays on the word ‘Dyslexia’, a condition in dealing with words that is more prevalent in men. Mslexia refers to the difficulty of female writers to find their place as writers/authors in a world where men still dominate the press.
Don’t Miss: The flow of concrete, practical advice for writers, including the useful and informative 'writer's kit' which can be found on their website at http://www.mslexia.co.uk/writerskit/writerskit.html. The site also has a handy resources page.
Editor: Daneet Steffens
Web: http://www.mslexia.co.uk/
Cost: £5.50
Published: Quarterly
6. Aesthetica: The Cultural Arts Magazine
Sleek and shiny, Aesthetica focuses on contemporary writing, art, music and film. In 2006, Cherie Federico, the founder and editor, won the Young Entrepreneur of the Year by The Press Business Awards. The year before that, her magazine was nominated by BBC Get Writing as one of the top four recommended literary publications in the UK.
Don’t Miss: Like many of these magazines, Aesthetica has all sorts of side projects going on. For something a bit different, check out their creative non- fiction writing project for the elderly community at http://www.aesthetica-online.com/virtualmemorybox.htm online.com/virtualmemorybox.htm. It is meant to be a “virtual time capsule to be captured by other generations.”
Editor: Cherie Federico
Web: http://www.aestheticamagazine.com/
Cost: £4.50
Published: Quarterly
7. The Purple Journal
Expect a thick cultural collage of short stories and some artsy photographs, mainly black and white in this French publication. The summer 2007 issue boasts an impressive lineup of 47 contributors from 40 cities around the world from Berlin to Tokyo to Nashville, Tennessee. Most of the contributors are veteran published authors, photographers, filmmakers and musicians.
Don’t Miss: A cultural education at your fingertips while cozy’d up with this journal and a cup of tea on a lazy Saturday morning.
Editor: Elein Fleiss
Web: http://www.purple.fr/
Cost: £6.50
Published: Quarterly
8. Scarlet: The Magazine That Turns Women On
The “UK’s hottest women’s magazine” is burning up indeed with female-friendly erotica, a look into the complicated male brain, nude models who cover the bare minimum, and a bit of fashion to boot. A step up from the sex-driven Cosmo, this sex-splattered publication has been dubbed controversial by some. Read it in secret or share its powers. I’d choose the latter.
Don’t Miss: Cliterature, the free monthly insert of hot reading material, some pushing the boundaries, others a bit tame. Either way, it’s bound to get the imagination rolling and the rabbits buzzing.
Editor: Sarah Hedley
Web: http://www.scarletmagazine.co.uk/
Cost: £2.95
Published: Monthly
9. The Big Issue
Labeled ‘street trade, not street aid,’ 80p of the cover price goes directly to the homeless vendor who sells the £1.50 issue on the street. Not only is it for a good cause, but the content covers solid issues like the Uganda crises side by side with Hollywood’s latest gossip. It was set up as a business in 1991 to give homeless people a voice and a chance to help themselves by earning a bit of cash.
Don’t Miss: The opportunity to make someone smile when you purchase The Big Issue from them. It is a magazine that feeds the people who sell it and gives you some insight into their experiences at the same time. Editor: John Bird
Web: http://www.bigissue.com/
Cost: £1.50
Published: Weekly
10. Seven: Serious Issues from the Seven Continents
Another brand new magazine with high morals (check their website for more info). It was launched to push the boundaries of journalism, aiming to have a global impact by addressing key issues on every continent. Through culture, music, film, fashion and art, it hopes to expose injustice and crimes against humanity and try to offer solutions instead of just tossing around problems.
Don’t Miss: The cultural education and the chance to keep up with the major issues people are dealing with in other parts of the world. Some of the articles are truly eye-opening.
Editors (for this issue): Siradeth Seng and Lucy Stallworthy
Web: http://www.se7enmagazine.org/
Cost: £3.95
Published: Monthly
The Web may be taking the lead as people are becoming accustomed to receiving content the second it becomes available, but print media is still hanging on. All of these magazines have websites and most of them are used to foster the development of side projects sponsored by the publications and act as a supplement to the real magazine rather than a substitute.
It is my opinion that there will always be a market for print journalism. There is nothing like flipping the pages of a glossy between your fingertips.
Not if I have anything to do with it.
I doled out at least £75 (nearly $150) on magazines and newspapers this month. Let’s not even talk about books. This is a bit higher than usual as I am on the prowl for new freelancing outlets, but not too much of an exaggeration from the norm.
My purchases:
The Purple Journal
American Cosmo
British Cosmo
Company
Elle
Seven
The Press Gazette
Smoke
Aesthetica
Amelia’s Magazine
The Big Issue
Glamour
Marie Claire
Marmalade
Mslexia
Scarlet
Adbusters
The Guardian
New Internationalist
Monocle
GQ
My mom also sent me a copy of American Jane and Graffiti was free.
All of these (besides Graffiti and The Big Issue) can be picked up at Borders on Oxford Street.
My name is Stephanie and I have a problem. I am a magazine addict. Clearly. And it’s nearly time for the August issues to hit the stands. Since I arrived in London, I have made a few marvelous discoveries, so I thought I would share 10 of my newfound favorites, in no particular order.
1. Smoke: A London Peculiar
Made up of words and images inspired by the city, it is described on the website as a “love letter to London, to the wet neon flicker of late-night pavements, electric with endless possibility...”. With a punchy personality, Smoke tells quirky tales of every day London life: art, history, comics, poetry… if it has to do with London, you’ll find it here in compact A5 form.
Don’t Miss: A regular article, complete with pictures, featuring “London’s Campest Statues,” captured by readers in all their camp glory. Editor: Matt Haynes
Web: http://www.smokelondon.co.uk/
Cost: £2.50
Published: “Aims to resurface every four months.”
2. Amelia’s Magazine
Run by Amelia and her work experience staff, this mag emerges twice a year from the spare room in her East London home. With detailed design and flashy colours, it exposes unknown bands and features drawings and photographs full of endless detail that could have your eyes rolling over the pages for hours.
Don’t Miss: Easily spotted in the racks, Amelia's Magazine is known for its unique covers. “Encrusted with Swarovski crystals, lazer-cut, made out of furry flock, scratch ‘n’ sniff in different flavours and glow-in-the-dark” varieties have previously sheathed the mag. The current issue is very shiny with yellow flowers.
Editor: Amelia Gregory
Web: http://www.ameliasmagazine.com/
Cost: £10.00
Published: Bi-Annually
3. Graffiti: London’s Art Magazine
A new A5 publication that is slightly more upscale than its name implies, Graffiti is distributed to selected homes in the posher areas of London: Belgravia, Kensington, Chelsea, Holland Park, Notting Hill and Hampstead. Image-packed, it is easy on the eye, providing information on both famous and amateur contemporary artists.
Don’t Miss: Fill in your little black book with loads of upcoming exhibitions and student art shows. There are plenty announced here.
Editor: Peter London
Web: http://www.graffitimagazine.co.uk/
Cost: Free, for now (Call 07795 074843 for a copy.)
Published: Quarterly
4. Marmalade Magazine
With a handmade, scrapbook-y sort of look, Marmalade appeals to its artsy readers, 23% of whom, according to the website, don’t read any other mag. The latest issue is built entirely from MySpace content, meaning the staff must have had a blast in the office last month.
Don’t Miss: The random tidbits of information, like this month’s enlightening fact that Playboy has been available in Braille since 1970.
Editor: Kristy Robinson
Web: http://www.marmalademag.com/
Cost: £4.25
Published: Bi-Monthly
5. Mslexia: For Women Who Write
It claims to be the UK’s bestselling magazine for women writers. The title plays on the word ‘Dyslexia’, a condition in dealing with words that is more prevalent in men. Mslexia refers to the difficulty of female writers to find their place as writers/authors in a world where men still dominate the press.
Don’t Miss: The flow of concrete, practical advice for writers, including the useful and informative 'writer's kit' which can be found on their website at http://www.mslexia.co.uk/writerskit/writerskit.html. The site also has a handy resources page.
Editor: Daneet Steffens
Web: http://www.mslexia.co.uk/
Cost: £5.50
Published: Quarterly
6. Aesthetica: The Cultural Arts Magazine
Sleek and shiny, Aesthetica focuses on contemporary writing, art, music and film. In 2006, Cherie Federico, the founder and editor, won the Young Entrepreneur of the Year by The Press Business Awards. The year before that, her magazine was nominated by BBC Get Writing as one of the top four recommended literary publications in the UK.
Don’t Miss: Like many of these magazines, Aesthetica has all sorts of side projects going on. For something a bit different, check out their creative non- fiction writing project for the elderly community at http://www.aesthetica-online.com/virtualmemorybox.htm online.com/virtualmemorybox.htm. It is meant to be a “virtual time capsule to be captured by other generations.”
Editor: Cherie Federico
Web: http://www.aestheticamagazine.com/
Cost: £4.50
Published: Quarterly
7. The Purple Journal
Expect a thick cultural collage of short stories and some artsy photographs, mainly black and white in this French publication. The summer 2007 issue boasts an impressive lineup of 47 contributors from 40 cities around the world from Berlin to Tokyo to Nashville, Tennessee. Most of the contributors are veteran published authors, photographers, filmmakers and musicians.
Don’t Miss: A cultural education at your fingertips while cozy’d up with this journal and a cup of tea on a lazy Saturday morning.
Editor: Elein Fleiss
Web: http://www.purple.fr/
Cost: £6.50
Published: Quarterly
8. Scarlet: The Magazine That Turns Women On
The “UK’s hottest women’s magazine” is burning up indeed with female-friendly erotica, a look into the complicated male brain, nude models who cover the bare minimum, and a bit of fashion to boot. A step up from the sex-driven Cosmo, this sex-splattered publication has been dubbed controversial by some. Read it in secret or share its powers. I’d choose the latter.
Don’t Miss: Cliterature, the free monthly insert of hot reading material, some pushing the boundaries, others a bit tame. Either way, it’s bound to get the imagination rolling and the rabbits buzzing.
Editor: Sarah Hedley
Web: http://www.scarletmagazine.co.uk/
Cost: £2.95
Published: Monthly
9. The Big Issue
Labeled ‘street trade, not street aid,’ 80p of the cover price goes directly to the homeless vendor who sells the £1.50 issue on the street. Not only is it for a good cause, but the content covers solid issues like the Uganda crises side by side with Hollywood’s latest gossip. It was set up as a business in 1991 to give homeless people a voice and a chance to help themselves by earning a bit of cash.
Don’t Miss: The opportunity to make someone smile when you purchase The Big Issue from them. It is a magazine that feeds the people who sell it and gives you some insight into their experiences at the same time. Editor: John Bird
Web: http://www.bigissue.com/
Cost: £1.50
Published: Weekly
10. Seven: Serious Issues from the Seven Continents
Another brand new magazine with high morals (check their website for more info). It was launched to push the boundaries of journalism, aiming to have a global impact by addressing key issues on every continent. Through culture, music, film, fashion and art, it hopes to expose injustice and crimes against humanity and try to offer solutions instead of just tossing around problems.
Don’t Miss: The cultural education and the chance to keep up with the major issues people are dealing with in other parts of the world. Some of the articles are truly eye-opening.
Editors (for this issue): Siradeth Seng and Lucy Stallworthy
Web: http://www.se7enmagazine.org/
Cost: £3.95
Published: Monthly
The Web may be taking the lead as people are becoming accustomed to receiving content the second it becomes available, but print media is still hanging on. All of these magazines have websites and most of them are used to foster the development of side projects sponsored by the publications and act as a supplement to the real magazine rather than a substitute.
It is my opinion that there will always be a market for print journalism. There is nothing like flipping the pages of a glossy between your fingertips.
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