This year’s Kids Week tickets went on sale at 10.00am yesterday. Every cultural snob, educationally ambitious, financially challenged mother’s D-Day. The date had been in my diary for months and I was ready.

However, as Sod’s law dictates, whilst tickets became available to purchase online, I was not available to purchase them, having been locked up in Kingston Crown Court court number 3 for closing speeches since 9.30

Husband to the rescue.

I briefed him, complete with notes, charts and a few pointing arrows the night before. His mission, which he accepted grudgingly, was to purchase tickets for 4 shows, on a selection of dates in August, with one specific instruction not to buy tickets for Amelia and me to see Les Mis on the 2nd of August, as this is our blooming 15th wedding anniversary so I might be busy elsewhere.

Husband excelled himself. He managed to purchase tickets to 5 shows out of the 4 that I listed. The first thing I noticed, when I emerged from court was Les Mis booked for the 2nd of August. The second thing I noticed was Kinky Boots booked twice. The third thing I noticed was tickets pickup at the venue, but fair enough, his briefing was ambiguous on this point.

My heart sank a bit as I resigned myself to several, possibly futile hours, unravelling it all.

I emailed Kids Week with multiple requests to change, amend and cancel and half an hour later something amazing and no longer common happened.

Ruth, the Kids Week representative called me back, just to confirm the exact changes I wished to make before she makes them. She then completed all the changes whilst on the phone to me and a few minutes later I received an email confirming everything that she had done. I gasped. I am still recovering.

Customer Service has become a dirty word these days. Kids Week / See Tickets team are doing their best to rebuild its reputation.

#kidsweek

Early 21st century Łódź is a work in progress, a city in a state of extended flux, firmly wedged between its solid industrial past and not yet fully evolved future.

The town grew almost overnight on the strength of textile industry, which exploded in the region mid-19th century. Imposing factories, of predominantly Jewish and German ownership put Łódź on the map and shaped its character. Fast forward a couple of world wars, post-war antisemitism, collapse of Communism and Łódź textile industry is no more, but the town remains a large urban establishment, with the population of just under 700,000.

To an impartial observer trying to make sense of its current status Łódź seems a bit rudderless, if you excuse a cross-language pun (Łódź means boat in Polish).

The word on the street is regeneration. It sweeps across town with scrubbing brushes and pours bucketloads of fresh paint over everything in its sights.

It is against this background that I want to introduce the heroine of today’s story, or rather, she is today’s story.

Ilona is a walking talking laughing crying thinking feeling story of modern Łódź.

Łódź born and bred, she loves her city with the force of emotion humans rarely display towards a geographical location. Except, to Ilona Łódź is much more than that. Łódź to her is a state of mind, it bubbles over in her veins and it resonates in everything she does. And if you find the above turn of phrase a bit over the top, wait until you meet Ilona, and you will realise that if anything, my description was tremendously understated.

Ilona was born to a working class Łódź parents. Her mother was a textile factory worker, who spent the best years of her life on a shop floor, in appalling working conditions, in almost unbearable heat and all-permeating dust. Her father was a taxi driver.

She graduated with a law degree and married a teacher, but she remains immensely, passionately proud of her parents’ hard working background, emphasis on hard.

I went to school with Ilona, but we were not close then. Thirty years later, Facebook messenger brought us together again, and my, oh my, how could I have missed that woman until now.

Ilona knows everything about Łódź. I realise it is a bold statement but it is virtually impossible to exaggerate the level of her knowledge on the subject. She knows every restaurant worth knowing, she is able to retell the story of Łódź ghetto day by day, she knows the dodgiest courtyards in the shadiest parts of town and can render the tiniest detail of every mural, monument and graffiti with photographic accuracy. She talks fast, swears a fair bit, and downs vodka shots like a pro when situation demands it.

Ilona debuted as Łódź tour guide during recent Łódź Ugly Beauty minibus tour of eponymous Łódź sights. She was fantastically engaging, incredibly knowledgeable and bowled us over with her indestructible effervescence.

I am writing all this for a reason. After the tour had ended, it became very clear that it is only a matter of time before Ilona becomes a legend in her own lifetime, and when this happens, I will want to be able to remind all of you that I had my share in launching her into the orbit.

And finally.
Inevitably, Ilona can also come across as overbearing and opinionated, borderline pontifical. Some find her exhausting and draining, not to mention hyperactive. The human jar of marmite if ever there was one.  It is quirkily fitting then that Łódź itself is often seen as a marmite town. Love it or hate it, take it or leave it, but before you decide to leave it, please allow Ilona to show you around. She might just change your mind.

Krzysztof, Elvis, Amelia and Zuzanna

Amelia on Elvis

Amelia on Elvis

Emotional goodbye

Possibly Pyza and possibly Cudaczek

Daddy goat

After several failed attempts to add Ośrodek Jeździecki Skaratki (Skaratki Riding Centre) to Trip Advisor, I’ve settled for leaving my review here. Your loss, Trip Advisor.

Skaratki, pronounced Skaratki, is a village in Central Poland, about 40 miles from Łódź, pronounced Woodge, the second largest city in Poland.

Skaratki Riding Centre offers the best introduction to horse riding you could ever wish for. Ever.  It is also a holiday destination so friendly and so laid back, you will be tempted to pinch yourself every now and again to check whether all this is for real.

By day two, you will feel as if you’d travelled back in time to an era when people focused on simple things in life and found pleasure and contentment in nature, home-made food and having meaningful conversations with animals.

Five dogs of no particular breed play an important role in everything that goes on. So do five goats, including Shirley who has secured exclusive rights for the supply of milk to the Centre. A special mention goes to my favourite, Theodore the black cat, rumoured to have killed a hare a couple of weeks prior to our arrival.

The place is run by Zuzanna and Krzysztof, a youthful pair whose boundless energy, hard work and passion for everything they do defy their chronological age.

Skaratki is a fairly new enterprise for Zuzanna and Krzysztof who moved here from Łódź and built the horse riding facility from scratch four years ago. Not a day goes by without them discussing bold plans for further expansion and improvement.

My 15-year old daughter Amelia had always fancied having a proper go at horse riding, and a few months ago she teased out a firm promise from me, and so here we were on a Ryanair flight, from Stansted to Łódź on the first Sunday of summer half term 2018.

In Skaratki Amelia had 2 one hour riding lessons a day. On Monday she got off to what seemed to me a slow and uninspiring start and after two days of watching her being led on a long rein around a small circle in the training enclosure, I was beginning to lose faith. However Krzysztof, her main instructor, himself a professional rider who had recently returned to competitive level after several years’ break, sounded pleased with Amelia’s progress.

Three days into steady circling in the sand came the first breakthrough. Amelia swapped horses and was allowed to trot the perimeter of the enclosure by herself for the first time. No matter how hard she tried, and she did not try hard at all, she could not wipe a permanent proud grin off her face. What was more endearing still, was an authentic happiness with which Krzysztof and Zuzanna witnessed Amelia, on Elvis the horse, reach each new skill level.

Another two days later, Zuzanna suggested that Amelia could try turning with the horse, to spice up her riding route a little.  Amelia and Elvis raised to the challenge with enviable elegance and grace. Cheshire Cat could take lessons from Amelia now.

Krzysztof watched bemused, Zuzanna came onto the pitch to record Amelia’s latest achievements. What was noticeable at every step, was their deeply personal involvement in their new student’s progress. They celebrated every well executed turn with Amelia, and skilfully encouraged her to push herself to what they recognised as her limit each day. This in turn had an amazing effect on Amelia. It gave her a new confidence and poise I had never seen in her before. I really cannot praise their dedication and professionalism enough, words fail me, and that is a new thing for me.

What is no doubt a bonus to non-Polish speakers among their clients is the fact that Zuzanna had spent the first twenty or so years of her career as an English teacher and translator.

The house offers three guest rooms, each room sleeps 2 or 3 people. The rooms are not en-suite, but if that is an issue for you, you should stop reading now, Skaratki is not for you.

The owners have a couple of bicycles which they will happily lend to you at no extra cost. Country roads starting from the front gates offer hours of cycling heaven among fields of rye, oats and barley.

Talking of cost, we agreed a very reasonably priced package of accommodation, 2 horse riding lessons a day and full board, i.e. three home-made meals a day.

Meals are hearty and simple. You will not go hungry, but if you are not satisfied with scrambled eggs and a selection of cold meats, freshly made goat cheese and tomato salad for breakfast, chicken or pork with rice or potatoes and vegetables, or spaghetti bolognese for lunch (main meal of the day in Poland, served around 2-3pm) and light supper, then please do not come to Skaratki, it really is not for you.

Zuzanna prepares all the meals herself. She caters for vegetarians too. How she finds the time, what with milking the goats, feeding the horses and the dogs, busy teaching timetable and inevitable admin, I have no idea.

Zuzanna’s motto, which she repeats several times a day, and which goes a long way to explaining how she holds it all together with such ease, is a Polish phrase ‘damy radę’, which translates as a cross between ‘we’ll manage’ and ‘it will work out’. It does the trick. She manages perfectly and it all works out beautifully.

Thank you, Zuzanna and Krzysztof! We will be back.

     

          

Further information about Tadeusz Adam Zieliński, Polish only, with photos of his art:
http://czasopisma.tnkul.pl/index.php/rkult/article/view/5416/5532

https://www.facebook.com/TadeuszAdamZielinski/

Camberwell Green court closure:
https://www.southwarknews.co.uk/news/camberwell-green-magistrates-court-announced-closure/

My writing went through a life-changing experience today. There was this agent who teased me with the idea of being interested in publishing my book. The book I hadn’t exactly written yet, but whose foundations had been laid and whose bits had been uploaded here and there in blogs, Facebooks posts, and family Whatsapp conversations.

The agent had a vision, we met for an ego-boosting coffee followed by a few promising email discussions. I took to massaging my wrist in anticipation of book signing induced repetitive strain injury, I could hear myself loud and clear during that Radio 4 interview.  And then her vision started to fade, until it dissipated entirely, she couldn’t feel it any more. I wasn’t doing it for her any more, so she dumped me by email. Today.

I had never been dumped romantically by email. Or by text, or any other technology, so this was my first time if you like. Writing about it, while wallowing in the still warm self-pity is the most snowflakey thing I have ever done. Another first. As soon as real life takes over, sometime between six thirty and seven tomorrow morning, this will become just one more one-of-those-things, but for now being a failed writer feels like an honorary title. Pretty real too. One of those one door closes moments. The door which is supposed to open in that scenario will most likely be my front door, with my daughters bursting in, wanting dinner, attention, advice. Which leaves my window for feeling properly sorry for myself very narrow indeed, so I am grabbing this opportunity before it too slips through my fingers, together with my short-lived literary fantasy.

What did JK Rowling do next? History teaches us that she persevered and built the whole bloody magical universe just outside Watford Junction.

What do I do next?
Time will tell, but for now, it’s a large glass of wine. Yes, I know it’s a Monday afternoon, but depending on which advert appeals to you more, ‘I am worth it’ or ‘I deserve it’. And I need it.

My husband is taking Amelia and Alexia to their first real concert next week. Alexia has been talking of little else for the last couple of months. As expected, today over breakfast, the topic popped up again.
– The only thing Amelia and I need to decide now is what to wear. Aaaargh, this is so stressful!
– Can we please not worry about it until a couple of days before the concert? I bet daddy is not stressing over what he is going to wear.
– No, he doesn’t, but he doesn’t need to, I already chose what he is going to wear.

***

The school emailed us at 1.23 today to inform us about early school closure at 1.45. I struggled to see the point of giving us 22 minutes warning, but then again, perhaps this is useful information for stay at home parents having an affair with a milkman or a postman. Except I haven’t seen any of these people in our street since first snowflake. Anyway.

***

My husband is taking Amelia and Alexia to their first real concert next week. Alexia has been talking of little else for the last couple of months. As expected, today over breakfast, the topic popped up again.
– The only thing Amelia and I need to decide now is what to wear. Aaaargh, this is so stressful!
– Can we please not worry about it until a couple of days before the concert? I bet daddy is not stressing over what he is going to wear.
– No, he doesn’t, but he doesn’t need to, I already chose what he is going to wear.

On my travels criss-crossing this Small Island of ours, I regularly come across imprints left here by countless men and women from my Old Country, and I am always surprised how many of these stamps of time past are out there, scattered in most unlikely of places. Last weekend, whilst picking up a map of Audley End House and Gardens, I noticed a ‘Polish War Memorial’ listed at number 7 on the map of attractions. For reasons best left unexplored and allowing a sleeping dog lie, I do not feel particularly patriotic towards my country of origin, but a mention of Polish memorabilia still stirs my interest, so I set off to find the said monument in the grounds of the stately home.

The war memorial turned out to be a distinctly modest size stone vase with fading lettering, the engraving clearly losing out to a lichen invasion. The sight filled me with sadness which was totally disproportionate, I am sure, to the significance of the memorial, the passage of time since the events it commemorates, and especially to my own, mostly dispassionate attitude towards Polish WWII war effort. Am I getting soft in my old age? Please judge for yourselves.

The inscription reads:

Between 1942 and 1944 Polish members of the Special Operations Executive trained in this house for missions in their homeland. This memorial commemorates the achievements of those who parachuted into enemy occupied Poland and gave their lives for the freedom of this and their own country.

P.S. Since I wrote the above, more to myself than for any other reason, I was educated by my much more clued-up friend, that Audley End was a training ground for the Polish Special Operations group, called Cichociemni, which is a beautiful word, officially translated as Silent Unseen. What is lost in this translation is the sense of their elusive nocturnal presence, as well as the onomatopeic effect of the original. Hush and Shadowy is my personal choice of words for them.

Watching a group of teenage girls from a famously strict single sex Catholic school in a moderately leafy London suburb take on Sister Act as their annual School Production last night was fantastically reassuring. The world is a happy place, anything is possible and life is beautiful. The way these girls tackled Catholic clichés and male peacocking with age-defying expertise and joyous flair was light years away from their usual conservatively uniformed image. Every look, every mannerism was a pleasure to behold, but at the same time left nobody in any doubt that this level of effortless elegance must have taken a lot of effort indeed. Every Monday and Tuesday night for the last four months amount of effort to be precise.
Several girls depicting main characters came across as truly outstanding actors, more than capable of giving West End performers run for their money. My personal favourites, plural, as it is impossible to single out just one person, were, in no particular order;

Mary Robert, the postulant nun, for  her blasting rendition of The Life I Never  Lived, which sent shivers down my spine and left my husband a blubbering mess;

Deloris for her incredibly mature acting skills which allowed her to convey the singer’s vulnerability in a gentle and tender way;

Joe, TJ and the Spanish Guy trio for priceless comical touch and an insightful mockery of a pathetic male bravado;

Mother Superior for making the character her own, solemn, dignified and deeply human. Who’s Maggie Smith again?

Curtis, Deloris’s gangster boyfriend, for making the whole audience do a double take and think, ‘I thought it was a girls only production?’ Personally, I am still inclined to believe that he was a he from a neighbouring boys’ school, and not a she, despite my daughter’s assuring me of the latter. His swagger, his gangster drawl, his ill-fitting suit were just so convincingly male!

Sweaty Eddie, for his show-stealing solo piece, by far most amazing piece of showmanship I have ever seen a schoolgirl attempt before.

Mary Patrick, for perfect nervous giggle sounding exactly like the film version. Uncanny.
Mary Lazarus, for the rap to end all nun raps.

The second nun in the third row up on the right hand side of the stage for being the best, most convincing, most beautiful member of any nun chorus ever. Yes, she is my daughter, how did you guess?

The only regret, and it is a big one, is that the show carrying this amount of exhilarating joy and vibrant energy should be confined to such strict time and space-constrained life span. Three nights in the school hall is a good warm-up, but this production begs to be shown to larger audiences, so it can be celebrated on the scale it deserves. It would be worth calling Royal Drury Lane for any last minute stage availability. These girls are West End ready.

My husband and I are not speaking. Or at least, I am not speaking to him, and he keeps quiet just in case. This morning all was good, we were laughing and joking, lazy Saturday, no plans, no need to rush anywhere, beautiful. As I was getting dressed, I thought I would run a routine check to find out whether my husband was still a big soft romantic that he had always been no matter how hard he’d tried to deny it.
I just finished reading a short story in which a man was so smitten, he went on to marry a woman who stole money from him after their one night of passion. This provided a perfect benchmark to assess where my husband stood on the love conquers all issue.

– So, if you met me at a bar of a hotel you were staying at for business, and you saw me there, all done up and beautiful and you would be instantly attracted to me…

– You are beautiful and I am attracted to you, my love, my husband interjected nervously, feeling massively out of his depth already.

– Please don’t interrupt pumpkin, so, you have a few drinks with me and you really like me and at the end of the evening you ask me to go to your room with you and to your surprise I agree. We spend an amazing night together, and you have the best sex of your life, twice, and then when you wake up in the morning, I am gone and so is your wallet, your cash as well as a very expensive watch your grandma gave you on your twenty first. Do you think you would marry me if our paths crossed again at some point?

-No, of course not. Not if you turned out to be a common thief. Marriage needs to be based on trust, how could I trust you after that? No, sorry, but no, I would not marry you under those circumstances.

-Oh, come on, where is your romantic side? What happened to fighting for your love?? What is wrong with you??? Remember that despite what I did you were really attracted to me, and you couldn’t get me out of your head, why would you not marry me, what is wrong with you??

-Sorry, darling, but I couldn’t marry you if you stole all my valuables from me after a one night stand and disappeared like that. Why are we having this conversation anyway?

-I just wanted to find out how much love mattered to you and how far would you be prepared to go for a woman you fell head over heels in love with despite some minor imperfections in her character.

-Minor imper…? You stole my wallet from me…

-Oh, stop being so petty! You know what, I am sorry, but this conversation is not going the way I hoped. I am very disappointed with your attitude, I can’t believe you. Having listened to your answers I am not sure how I feel about this relationships right now.

There was no point carrying on, so I walked out of the bedroom, one sock on one sock off which hopefully added an air of finality to my gesture, and left no room for doubt about the extent of my disappointment.

It is past lunchtime now, and he still hasn’t apologised. I bet he doesn’t even know what he did wrong. Men!