travelswithalice

London was for reconnecting.

Reconnecting with friends and family... with Cristina and her new family, with Uncle John and Auntie Pat, with cousins Lindsey and Keith and their families, with some of the Jones girls Gill, Mari, Gwen, and Angharad, with Mum and Dad's old friends Derek and Barbara...


Reconnecting with eating in pubs, strolling in parks, riding in buses, shopping on the high street, walking in the rain, scones and cakes...

1.  Stuart, Super Nurse.
Working from home, he alternates between his day job at Citi and his main job as care giver. Providing round the clock room service featuring gourmet meals sourced from far and wide, pitchers of soothing cold water (with lemon slices!), junk food, and endless cups of tea and coffee.

Infinitely more precious is the sense of security, the sense of being cared for. The cheerful talk, the pep talk, the you're-doing-very-well talk. Plus a steady stream of movies to watch. Downloaded movies. Pirated?

(Act i, Scene i. A courtroom.
Your honor, it was for love of me that my dear husband got started on his life of crime... it was motivated by the purest love!)


2.  I have a bone to pick with the sweet little lady doctor that Stuart brought to my bedside. The diagnosis was a foregone conclusion but Cristy, my Colorum Doctor, very wisely refused to tell me what Tita Rusting usually prescribes for chicken pox. At least not without eyeballing the case.  I tried to send her pictures of the spots but they failed to reach her by MMS, Viber, or email. Hence, the doctor.

My usual conversation with any medical practitioner I happen to have the misfortune of being forced to consult with always goes like this:
"You know, Doctor/Nurse/Lab Technician/ Pharmacist/ etc,  I have to be extremely careful with whatever medication I take because of a history of anaphylactic shock. I've been rushed to the ER three times, and each time I've been told I'm lucky to be alive... blah blah blah, blah blah blah..."

Then, I said the only doctor who fully understands my predicament is the pediatrician who took care of me, hoping she will agree to confer with her.

Swiftly came what may have been the cruelest blow; her quick response:
"Buhay pa ba, ma'am?"  (Is she still alive, ma'am?)

I'm considering a malpractice suit.


3.  This is the Southern Cross constellation:



There is a faithful rendering of it on my left side. It absurdly points rather accurately to the South Pole of this particular celestial body (sic or sick?) in question.

Should I send a picture of my one to scientific/ astronomical societies' publications maybe?


4.  I'm getting used to this now, this constant checking on the progress of my spots. It's like a science project. Except I'm the one under the microscope.

Not on a slab of marble at least. That's a comfort.


5.  I suppose I can use Krissy's word for this strange disease. Fugly. It's funny and ugly. Oops, sorry! That's not what it means, is it?  I remember now, it means something else. Well, it means that too, thank you very much. In fact I can't think of a better word to describe it. Fucking ugly.

It's hardly worth fussing about, is it? Just a galaxy of fallen stars landed on me. Is that why I keep singing "...stars fell on Alabama last night...?"

Why fuss when there really isn't much you can do. You're taking the antiviral tablet Valtrex and laying on the antiviral cream Zovirax to limit the damage. You're dealing with the fever and aches and pain with Biogesic, the itch with the antihistamine Iterax. Nothing more to do but sit and wait for the final resolution.

There are too many things to remember not to do. Not to scratch, not to touch, not to pick, not to prick. Frankly, once the evil spot empire settles down to colonize, any amount of ingratiating good behavior hardly matters. It's too late. Just let it go.

I'm babbling? You think this is babbling? You should hear me in the shower when I'm carefully soaping and rinsing through this minefield. (Wow, this is quickly turning into quite a metaphor cocktail!)

Well, the holiday has finally come to a stop. With a bump. Or two...

I've just begun a completely different kind of trip. A very personal one, isolating, irritating, a totally freaking bad trip. I've got chicken pox! Where from? Who knows? I've been traveling for four weeks. How long does this virus incubate? And how many people did I infect?

My niece Krissy blogged about her bout with the pox when she was twelve. Foremost among her warnings and friendly advice is how to deal with boredom. Really? If that's the biggest problem I'll be facing, then bring it on! I'm much too worried and uncomfortable to be bored yet. :(

I guess I haven't had a chance to get out of holiday mode since New York. There was London and Oxford and then Hong Kong and now Singapore.

Singapore was to have been a week of winding down before returning to normalcy in Manila.

There's the new planter I have to populate with herbs. There's a dental appointment I can finally confirm. There's the waterproofing job that needs to be faced in the studio apartment I've virtually abandoned. Speaking of abandonment, what to do with Mum's apartment still full of her stuff two years after we brought her ashes back to England? Also, a much-delayed get together with The Group to celebrate Margie's life.

For now though, still very much on holiday mode. Baby is visiting with us in Singapore for two weeks which may extend to two more if we decide to join Stuart in KL.

So far, thanks to Tess and Victoria, we've done Din Tai Fung dumplings, Marina Bay Sands shops, sky garden, and Ku Dé Ta.



Later, Baby and I discovered a gem of a café that serves good food and wine with opera music. Café High Society is in the basement, in a room incongruously dressed in red velvet, crystal chandeliers and a giant portrait of Maria Callas, one floor below the Asian showrooms of New York food high priests Mario Batali and Daniel Boulud.

With Stuart, we revisited old haunts like the Tanglin Club where we indulged in nostalgia-flavored meals featuring nasi goreng, chicken tikka, biryani rice, sago gula melaka... you get the picture.

We renewed ties with my longtime hairdresser Sonny, met a few old club friends, and dined and danced at the Churchill Room.

As yet, we have no plans for the weekend.
Except maybe to stay indoors, in the cool. It's a beautiful sunny day but very very hot.

A bit more shopping, a bus ride around Knightsbridge and Kensington, a quick walk through a tiny corner of Hyde Park, then it was time for tea and scones.


Couldn't really allow myself to leave without indulging in what may well be Britain's greatest gift to the world.

Later, joined Stuart and old work buddy Dennis for drinks. Opted out of dinner; best leave the reminiscing to the boys.

With the afternoon's scones still weighing heavily on my conscience, not to mention my tummy, I settled for soup and cheese for dinner.

It's been a glorious spring day. We leave tomorrow morning for Hong Kong.

They're getting ready for May Morning.

In a centuries-old tradition, the city celebrates the coming of spring with the Magdalen College choir singing in the May dawn with a medieval hymn from atop the college tower. There are all-night parties and pubs stay open from midnight on May Day eve.


In recent years though, preparations for these celebrations have included efforts by city authorities to prevent revelers from engaging in another tradition, a more recent one dating from the '80s. This practice involves people climbing onto the parapets of the ancient Magdalen Bridge and hurling themselves into the shallow waters of the River Cherwell below.


Now, I ask you: if jumping off the bridge and maybe offing themselves in the process is what some people really want to do, why ever should the city have to go to all kinds of trouble to stop them doing it? Shouldn't the authorities just stop being kill joys and let everybody just get on with it?

(By the way, when in Oxford, say "maudlin" for Magdalen and "charwell" for Cherwell and don't ask me why.)

Labels: Magdalen Bridge, May Day, May Morning, Oxford