In my experience, some things do not travel well across the Channel, whilst others are prone to get lost in translation and so it was with heavy heart that I set off to watch an arty black and white film which tells a story of love and misery in post-war Poland.
I needn’t have worried. Cold War has arrived in Ritzy cinema Brixton via Cannes Best Director Award in pretty good shape. It is achingly beautiful, unbearably sad, and utterly gripping. The sense of foreboding sets in early and you spend most of the film’s relatively short running time waiting for the inevitable fatal blow. And when it comes, you go into full on denial as you try to negotiate a few more minutes, a few more stunning shots of silent, cold windy fields. Credits roll.
Cold War had enjoyed massive publicity in its native Poland, the director and lead actors are household names, and just about everybody has already seen it. Judging by the Ritzy audience today, the film’s fame did not survive the journey across the sea too well. Still, it’s all there for the taking.

Ever since the line-up was announced, Alexia, my usually eloquent daughter, was barely able to string a sentence together without the words Panic, Brendon, Reading and Saturday in it.

Her 13^th birthday was coming up, so in a fit of momentary madness I bought the tickets. We arrived nice and very early, to watch the weekend campers wake up and brush their teeth outside their tents. We went straight for the main stage and by 11.30am we were standing by the barrier in what I am told is called a mosh pit, some 20 metres from the stage. Alexia joked that this was the precise spot in which we were going to spend the next 10 hours. I laughed out loud, but only until I realised she was not joking. One of the longest afternoons of my whole life followed.

Priorities first though. Reading has changed a lot since my last visit there, 19 years ago. Toilets are now actually usable, flushable and light years away from the portaloo nightmare of yesteryears.
Food choices are so varied this year, it feels almost insane. In 1999, we quequed for close to half an hour for a solitary food stall, facing the choice of greasy burgers or limp hotdogs. This time round, we could go for Mexican, Vegan and Vegetarian, Falafel Empire, Greek Expectations, Subway, Halloumi Store, alongside more traditional junk food offerings.

Reading audience has changed too. They seem to be all school leavers and clean shaven students now, with thick smudges of glitter and love bites on most cheeks and necks.  Their idea of youthful rebellion is pouring alcohol into Capri Sun pouches, bless them.

Security staff deserve a special mention. They were all absolutely fantastic. Being squashed flat against the barrier next to the centre path, we watched them, and they watched us back, all day and all night. They were facing the audience, American presidential guard style, hands behind their backs, mirror sunglasses, the lot. They were all exceptionally helpful, friendly and courteous at all times. They were also incredibly patient and gentle with every drunken, stoned, arrogant, immature and obnoxious reveller they had to deal with during the course of the evening. I mention it because it is so refreshing to see security staff who resist the temptation to enjoy their position of ‘power’ and opt for a human face instead.

Back to the music, and the four of us, guarding the main stage.

It all kicked off around midday with Trash Boat, which consisted of a few sinewy boys (men?) in staple black jeans and oversized vests jumping around the stage making a lot of jarring noise. I cannot recall a single song of theirs now, but their performance made me realise the enormity of impact that 80 one million watts speakers in close proximity was likely to have on my unsuspecting ears and brain.

A slew of bands followed, the place got more crowded by the hour. Every now and again, we were slammed against the barrier, as the more enthusiastic punters broke into a weird ritualistic jump and shove routine at random.

One of the early afternoon bands was a Jamaican reggae group, Protoje. They played a number of traditional rum and coke numbers, their dancing ladies gyrated energetically. It was pleasant enough, easy on the ear, which was welcome, but I am not sure how much traction their Rasta Love slogans gained among the Reading music youth of today.

I am going to be kinder to you than I was to myself on Saturday, and so I am not going to go through every act.  I still cannot fully believe we camped out there for so long .

Two more bands stood out for me, though, during our long vigil between midday, and Panic! slot shortly before 8pm.

The first one was Mike Shinoda. Before yesterday I was fully ignorant of his existence, so I found it difficult to put his back story puzzle pieces together, but everybody else in the crowd seemed to know who Chester was and several people had tears in their eyes when Mike talked about dealing with his loss. He spoke a lot, mainly about Chester, and overcoming his own anxieties in coming back to perform at Reading again. He jumped off the stage and went hand shaking with fans for a bit, to complete the reach out and relate routine. It left me cold, but that might have been due to my ignorance on the subject. Possibly an age thing too, my age.  A couple of Mike’s songs though were touching. He kept switching from pensive ballads to jump about a lot songs, which was confusing, but I guess this must be how these things work these days.

Next on was an improbably named Dua Lipa, a pretty, wholesome looking girl, who reminded me of Victoria Beckham from her Spice Girls days, when she still smiled and was generally much more convincingly human than she is now.  Dua Lipa’s outfit was no doubt carefully planned for maximum effect, and it worked, I for one was mesmerised by her wackily mismatched, multi-coloured skiing trousers and checked crop top ensemble, as well as her slick bouncy bob. Her songs and her voice were instantly forgettable, opinion totally my own of course, but her dance routine was impressive. It was a bizarre mix of tantric yoga, kickboxing and pretend horse riding, all in all a seemingly effortless display of agility and abs, what not to like.

Now for the main event. From the moment we crossed the Entrance line, the feeling of progressively hotting-up anticipation was unshakeable. The whole day so far was a mere warm-up, steadily progressing towards the one band on everybody’s lips. Panic! At the Disco was coming on at 19.50. A giant digital clock went on display ten minutes before, counting down seconds, New Year’s Eve style.  A smartly dressed all female string trio entered first, followed by two electric guitarists and finally, up he popped! Brendon Urie appeared and the crowd’s vocal cords went into overdrive.
Brendon is a cute looking guy, I give Alexia that. He donned skin tight leather trousers and a dark sparkly blazer for the occasion, which made him look positively skeletal, but I appreciate that this is the look his fans love to see. The next hour and a half belonged to him. He sang, he chatted, he jumped on a grand piano, he back-flipped mid-song, he told us how he got knocked out by a bottle in Reading 12 years ago, he made reference to some ‘sexual experience’ of his, which sent the rainbow Nando’s chicken banner holder into frenzy. He sang, quite a lot. He does this thing with his voice, at randomly chosen moments, when he goes into this really high pitch zone, and he stays there for longer than you would expect.  Quite impressive. As a newcomer to his music, I struggled to understand most of the words of his songs, he also occasionally skipped the whole line or two, letting the audience fill in the gaps, which they fully obliged, but which made my understanding of his lyrics even less clear. One song I did understand, from start to finish, was the one he announced as ‘one of the greatest songs ever written by any band’.  My first reaction was, he is a bit full of himself, isn’t he, but then it turned out he meant Bohemian Rapsody. So he sang the Queen tribute and yes, it was magical. And then, just like that, he was gone, and we faced a long journey home.

There was little interest left for the evening’s co-headliner, Kendrick Lamar, as most people left with us. Panic! was without a doubt the flavour of the day, and I am only grateful that schedulers did not put them as the top headlining band, as this would have meant them coming on last, which would have meant more sore feet, knees and back for the oldest generation of festival goers, which would have most definitely meant me.

This morning I woke up with the worst hangover in years, despite having consumed zero units of alcohol yesterday. I can only explain it by a compound effect of listening to excessively loud music, watching strobe lighting, ingesting mosh pit dust and second hand cannabis smoke for several hours as well as not eating, not drinking, in case I needed the toilet afterwards, for the same number of hours.  As I contemplated odverdosing on paracetamol earlier today, I seriously questioned my sanity of what I put myself through yesterday. But then I remembered Alexia, how she screamed her head off for hours, how she shouted Brendon, I love you! How she rocked, bopped, swayed, jumped, sang along, cried, laughed, pointed and waved in his direction, and it suddenly all made perfect sense.

This is how early we got there.

Reggae band

It could have been worse…

Panic!

It was a long afternoon

Brendon Urie big and small

Panic!

Dua Lipa

Panic!

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.