Today is my very dear friend Sally’s birthday.
Branching out into Chicassos of other people is proving very difficult.
I’m sure it was the same for Leonardo and Pablo.
Happy Birthday, Sally W!
Stand by … and action …
Month: January 2017
Never too old, too sick or too late
It’s the year of the Rooster last celebrated in 1957. In that year Harold MacMillan told the nation you’ve never had it so good. Here’s hoping this year can be a good one too.
It’s certainly a good year for the so-called vintage tennis set. Venus and Serena Williams made the final of the Australian Open – older women. And Venus has a debilitating autoimmune condition. Let’s hear it for the girls! I love them both. They’re great inspirations.
Then there are the boys: Roger Federer and Raffa Nadal both are back from injury for the Melbourne Open finals.
Don’t write yourself off just because convention says you’re too old or too sick.
You’re never too old, never too bad, never too late and never too sick to start again from scratch, once again. Bikram Choudhury/Vishnu Ghosh
Taking the Mourinho
José Mourinho has made me roar with laughter. Manchester United lost their match against Hull, however, he says they didn’t lose. It wasn’t a goal! He insists.
We could all take that approach and I suggest Usain Bolt follows José’s lead. After all, when is a win not a win?
Back in 1988 I got up at the crack of dawn to watch Ben Johnson – the Canadian – in the final of the men’s 100m. I overslept by 10 seconds and actually watched the replay – all 9.79 seconds. By the time I got to work ( I overslept again!) I heard the news that the record no longer stood because Ben Johnson – now Jamaican – had taken banned steroids. (The case of his change in nationality a story in itself). However, I took the Mourinho: he did run the race and he did win the race.
Taking the Mourinho is the way forward. Darren Campbell the British athlete was asked to hand back his relay medal because Dwain Chambers’ failed drugs test. He refused saying: If you want it back you can come and get it! So far no one has shown up to collect them.
There you go, Usain, take the Mourinho. Meanwhile, let’s hope Nester Carter’s case goes the same way as Asafa Powell’s.
Give it up
It seems that giving up your favourite foods is actually really easy – especially if you follow the news! The latest bad food group is starch. We know all about the carb-free brigade and how great they feel but this week acrylamide entered the frame.
It coincides with an interview I heard on the radio about the best way to give things up that your really like – associate them with things that you really dislike.
But if you check your labels (remember Lyndalox and the three salts?) there’s an awful lot out there that we could give up much more easily based on the shock factor alone.
I’m now looking at my potatoes differently and may stick to boiled and mashed – unless told otherwise.
Moaning Minnies
Everyone is so angry these days. I don’t know if social media has made it easier to vent or, is it, as my friend Annie pointed out: you can’t convey tone very well in email? I think that goes for 140 characters or other social media platforms, too.
I heard an MP reading out some of the mail/email/tweets that she gets and they had to bleep out most of it. Some women MPs are being intimidated out of politics.
Clearly not on the scale of our MPs, the big beef seems to be what’s in our inbox or social media feed. We can ignore annoying updates. And, if they’re really offensive the report, block and delete strategy might work.
I used to be a big moaner – Olympic standard – in fact. Somebody actually told me to shut up! It did the trick, though. Now I enter a moaning zone where, for a limited period of time, I can whinge but then I have to resolve the problem, shut up and move on. Yoga helps.
Right now I am one of those culprits who is clogging up feeds with 365 days of gratitude. But, it’s a quest for the bright side.
Anyone for tennis?
My new favourite person is Britain’s No.1 tennis player Joanna Konta. She’s played a brilliant game in recent weeks knocking out top seeds like skittles. She’s also a great interviewee who speaks with intelligence and great respect for her rivals.
Overnight she played her heart out when she came up against my other favourite tennis player Serena Williams. Joanna didn’t win but she gave it her best shot. She went in to the game with steely determination and as Serena said after the match there’s no doubt she’ll be a future champion.
My other favourite tennis player is Venus Williams. Who doesn’t love this amazing woman? If she and her sister win their next rounds in Melbourne it could be a Grand Slam Sister Act final, again. Marvellous.
Shout out to Joanna, Serena and Venus. Inspirational women.
The Hetty Daffodil Mysteries ride again
Sometimes I exercise my right to strike. It has maximum impact in the kitchen. As it did the other day when I came home to a most delicious chicken soup.
You see, Imelda – so named because of his love of shoes – won’t divulge his secret. I couldn’t have got better in a restaurant.
It wasn’t what was in it: chicken? yes. Carrots? yes. Potatoes? yes. Onion? yes. It was how it was made that intrigues me because when I throw together the exact same ingredients my soup tastes so differently.
You can read the original Hetty Daffodil Mystery here.
Let’s hear it for the girls!
What a turn out from people around the world for the Women’s March on Washington. I love the idea that all other marches were known as sister marches. Apart from what have been described as Madonna’s f-bombs, I haven’t heard a bad word said about the events themselves.
However, there were lots of angry people on the radio complaining ahead of the events. They were all saying the same thing like it was a mantra: he’s been democratically elected, get over it.
I think the critics missed the point: marchers were exercising their democratic right to express their opinions. I’ve met people from around the world who are too frightened to show disagreement or express an opinion for fear of the consequences for them and their families.
I felt a massive sense of pride for those thousands (millions?) who mirrored the marchers of Washington. Check out the video at the bottom of the Women’s March on Washington’s homepage.
Mr Finocane Day
I set aside this to remember a man with old school values. I’ve never met him but I am eternally grateful to him.
On 20th January 2009, I lost my purse. It was crammed with lots of essential items: credit cards, debit cards, driver’s licence and my Oystercard. There was also more than £150 in cash which I’d withdrawn for late Christmas and birthday gifts for my many nephews and nieces. What a palaver! I cancelled everything, replaced my lost cards and documents and tried to move on while still beating myself up for being so careless.
About two weeks later, I got a letter from Islington Police station to say my purse had been handed in. I described what had been in it and they said it was all there – including all the cash down to the last penny.
When I went to the police station to collect my purse I asked after the person who’d handed it in. They gave me a note they had with his name and number on it. I texted him to say thank you and I offered him a reward. He welcomed my gratitude but declined my offer. It was the right thing to do and a reward was unnecessary. That’s the way I was brought up, he said.
Eight years later, the note remains on my fridge. A constant reminder that there are some very good people out there.
When it comes to the inauguration of USA presidents, I think of Mr Finocane – first name unknown. A wonderful, old-fashioned act of kindness. Old school.
Welcome home, Sister!
The best mashed potatoes I’ve ever had were in Gambia. It was a picnic on a beach. The only description I have is: sublime.
I think of them often and I think of Gambia.
I was there about 12 years ago and it was like a celebrity home-coming. If you can theoretically trace your roots back to Africa, you too might get the same approving welcome that I did.
I once heard an anecdote about a young man who’d been adopted by white parents. During his search to discover who he was, he went to Gambia where he was greeted with welcome home, Brother. He felt an instant sense of belonging.
It’s the first time I’ve travelled abroad and been greeted like the African Queen who’d returned to her palace. Everywhere I went I heard the cries: Welcome home, Sister! All the children in the village raced towards me to hold my hands. Much to the bemusement of the tourists on my trip. I think they thought I might be a celebrity who they just happened not to recognise. The children were all gorgeous: beautiful faces and beaming smiles. They held on for dear life refusing to let go of me.
I knew about Gambia’s tendency for coups when I was there but back then it was no big deal. Back then they were peaceful hiccups that needed a new description. I remember a Gambian man saying to me we accept everyone and celebrate everything and he laughed a hearty laugh.
They were so kind and welcoming, I hope this next phase is a peaceful transition. They deserve nothing but the very best.
Ring a bell?
When was the last time you saw a public phone? Do you even know what one is or what it looks like? I saw two today – and a phone box! Any excuse to draw something new.
But familiarity is good. I got on my train half an hour earlier instead of having to wait around on a subzero platform. My theory is that they recognised me as a regular. I can’t tell you how much it was appreciated – whatever the reasons.
Camel-flage: Posing as a camel
Sometimes hiding in plain sight doesn’t work.
There’s that point in the yoga class when you’re hoping for a sneaky break and you hear your name and then the teacher says can you demonstrate this posture?
You know you can’t slack and you’ve got to give it your best shot and then some. But then you have to do a third set!
Today, it was Ustrasana – camel pose. I may have forgotten to breathe.
Feel like a lemon?
The other day I went into my phone to show someone a photo only I couldn’t find it because it was hidden somewhere between several hundred pictures of food.
I’m one of those people who takes pictures of what I eat, what I’m about to eat and what I’m going cooking – before and after shots.
But, I quite like my food and so do some of my tasters. Take squidgy chocolate-cake-gate, Manchester circa 1995 when I had to confiscate a knife after the demand for the birthday cake was such that two people started to argue over portions – and one was holding the knife! After that I sliced cakes before leaving the house.
A couple of years ago, a recipe for a lemon loaf was posted onto my social media profile. It came with measures of cups and spoons. I had to do a bit of research to convert it but it worked. The resulting loaf was wolfed down without any chance for fights over portions because there was no evidence that a cake had ever existed.
Lemon loaf – converted
210g self raising flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
3 eggs
200g sugar
30g of softened butter
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 teaspoon lemon extract
75ml lemon juice
112.50ml coconut oil
- Combine the dry ingredients – flour baking soda, baking powder, salt
- blend the eggs, sugar, butter, vanilla, lemon extract and lemon juice
- Pour the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients and mix well. Blend until smooth. I don’t recall folding anything.
- Add the coconut oil and mix well.
- Pour into a loaf tin.
- Bake in a preheated oven at 180°.
- When it’s done remove from the oven and the tin and leave it to cool on a baking rack.
Lemon icing:
240g + 1 tablespoon icing sugar
1 1/2 – 2 tablespoons of whole milk
1/2 teaspoon lemon extract
- Mix together the icing ingredients and poor over the cooled cake.
Caught red-handed
A few months ago I was caught red-handed – removing a snail from harm’s way on a footpath.
Ooh, are you rescuing a snail? asked the woman who walking past? I’ve just done that! She admitted.
I thought about the Snail Protection Front in yoga today when the teacher told us about the branch of yoga that involves not causing injury or harm to others. I’m sure she included creatures in that.
Even the hairy spider – although held hostage under a glass for a few days – was eventually released into the wilds of my back garden.
Mind you, I’m not quite there with m**e!
Lyndalocks and the three table salts
I’ve been brining chicken which is naughty but tasty. Various recipes suggest using table salt. I don’t have any.
- I found some for 18p but I put it back when I saw that its contents included anti-caking agent. At this stage I didn’t pay attention to what that was.
- In shop number two I noticed that their anti-caking agent was Sodium Hexacyanoferrate II. Despite all the letters the word cyanide leapt out at me and I put it back.
- The salt in shop number three contained Sodium Ferrocyanide. There it was again cyanide.
I used sea salt.
A few grains of rice in your salt shaker is a very effective anti-caking agent.
A series of fortunate events
I managed to book two tickets for the same rail journey for Wednesday. When I tried to change one, I discovered that the admin fees were almost the same price as the ticket. Had I booked the ticket for the right day I’d have missed the train anyway as I’d booked it too early.
When I came to buy the new ticket there weren’t any cheap tickets. The first class ticket was cheaper than the standard class for a train that left 30 minutes later but was about 20 minutes quicker. A no-brainer. Or, so I thought.
The train crawled to Southampton and then waited an age. Had I not been sitting in the comfort of First Class trying to pencil one of my Chicassos* I’d have noticed.
I accepted we would have to pootle rather than hurtle and I thought – as I often do – about a man called Alexander who died at Potters Bar.
*A Chicasso: One of my doodles, of course!
Can you smell carrots?
There were wild claims from the yogis tonight that there was snow … in London. I saw rain. I felt rain. I was soaked by rain. I didn’t see any snow.
In the hot and humid yoga studio I heard someone wish for snow out loud (generally, people curse the heat).
Outside, the air was crisp and it was cold enough for it, as they say.
Still there was not a flake. While we wait – and appreciate the lack of snow – let’s share in a joke from Oscar, aged 4:
Q: What did the snowman say to the other snowman?
A: Can you smell carrots?
Squealing and leaping
What are those huge balls of fluff all over the floors of the London Underground stations? Am I the only person who’s noticed them? The cleaners have a big enough job to do so perhaps TFL could employ a defluffer.
I say this because I have a very active imagination. Tonight, I noticed one that looked like a dead creature that I cannot name because my phobia is off the scale compared with my arachnophobia. There have been a number of incidents related to these creatures:
- The next door neighbour, who I’d never met, woke her husband up to send him round to my flat to remove one. He had to return to remove one that had drowned in my washing up bowl. Eek!
- One ran around the floor of the office at Television Centre and I screamed the loudest yet I didn’t even see it.
- One died on my desk – after I’d given it a good clean – my desk and the creature, it transpires.
- I moved downstairs when one was spotted in my bedroom. I only returned to my bedroom after a pest control man laid down poison and a carpenter sealed up every single gap. I even made him put wood where there weren’t gaps.
- I almost caused an international incident while screaming in Nicaragua – the creature dropped dead at my feet. Apparently, they have weak hearts and can die from fright. I still don’t believe they are more frightened of me than I am of them.
Tonight, had I not contained myself I would have screamed a scream to wake the dead and broken my own Olympics jumping record – made after spidergate. However, when I got up close I realised it was one of the TFL balls of fluff.
All was well. M***e alert over.
Fright night
I don’t do spiders. They have to be the size of a full stop for me to reach any kind of tolerance.
I see them coming moments before they appear. Every time I think I’m over it, there’s an incident.
Last month, one landed with a thud, in the bathroom – without alerting my spider senses. I screamed and leapt high enough to be called up by the best Olympics squad in the world.
It was the ugliest, biggest thing I’ve ever seen – big enough to charge rent and council tax.
I sent a picture of it to my friend Hetty D who gave the incident a different spin: Bathroom surfaces look very clean!”
The secret to the shiny surfaces is my home-made cleaning product. The measurements are estimates.
200g bicarbonate of soda
200 ml of white vinegar
a few drops of essential oil (I use tea tree)
You have to add the vinegar gradually or it fizzes over but it’s great for tackling limescale and making the taps shiny.
There has to be a bright side.
Squeeze and Breathe
- (1 x Karl’s squeeze + breath) + (1 x Lucy’s acrobat tutorial) daily = a nailed handstand
There’s a tube strike on! I missed half an hour of my one-hour early morning yoga class. But all is not lost. I met the most amazing woman today. More on that later.
I’ve been practising handstands. I know I can do them. I have a memory of walking down the road with my friends and going up into a handstand and continuing walking down the road – on my hands. We all did it. It was that thing we did as children. Fast forward a few decades and for some reason it’s not so easy. However, I tweeted Eleanor Oldroyd the other day to say that nailing handstands was my New Year Sports Resolution.
I practise after every class I do. Over Christmas that’s been virtually every day. Karl, who’s a personal trainer, (not my personal trainer) always says the key is to squeeze and breathe. Yesterday, while learning how to draw an image of myself in handstand I discovered Youtube tutorials on handstands. Oooh, the web can be so wonderful. But who needs the net when you meet a former Trapeze artist trained by Russia’s very best circus performers?
This morning, I decided to offer Karl’s helpful mantra to a woman who was actually doing some brilliant handstands but I could hear her telling herself off for falling out of them. Squeeze and breathe! I shouted. It transpires that Lucy used to work in a circus and was taught handstands by Svetlana who in turn was trained by the very best – whose names escape me – but the surname Kiss comes to mind (!) Because I decided to make up for missing half my one-hour class I did some acrobatic homework which led me to Lucy who gave me a wonderful handstand tutorial.
Today’s recipe for success:
(1 x Karl’s squeeze + breathe) + (1 x Lucy’s tutorial) x daily = a nailed handstand
Jams and soup
When I got back from yoga the other day I found myself enthralled by a radio debate about jams. It took me quite a few minutes to work out that they weren’t talking about preserves. As is our wont in the UK we slip new acronyms into our grammar on an almost daily basis. The latest such offering is the post-postmodern take on the financial status of many people: just about managing.
These jams come in many financial shapes and sizes including those who are struggling on incomes of £70k or more because of outgoings like taxes, childcare and housing costs. It caused quite a row on the radio. Some people got pretty irate telling the jams to get a grip, stop having children and move out of London! A very wise woman from Yorkshire with seven children then came on and put it all into context – if you’re in the higher tax bracket you need to earn an awful lot more for it to make a difference.
I was brought up on a council estate and there was no such thing as overdrafts in our household. Everything we had stretched. Money magic was worked with catalogues offering repayment plans of up to 52 weeks, the pardner – an informal savings scheme and the family mantra of one day feast and another day famine. We learned to spread things out so there was no living from payday to payday and very little was wasted.
Today I won’t be wasting the following:
a post-roast chicken carcass
the meat stripped from the chicken carcass
left-over rosemary and garlic rub
seen better days carrots
hiding in the fridge celery
hiding in the freezer cooked black beans in their delicious liquid
all-seeing potatoes
1.7 litres of boiled tap water
Himalayan salt and freshly-ground black pepper
What to do?
- Make a stock with the carcass: fry the carcass with the carrots and celery while you wait for the kettle to boil – use the skin for fat.
- Throw in a pinch of salt and a spoonful of the left over rosemary rub (ground rosemary with garlic, salt and black pepper and olive oil)
- added hot water.
- Simmer in a pressure cooker.
- Boil a couple of potatoes and dice them.
- I’ve defrosted a 600ml container of cooked black beans (these were cooked in the pressure cooker with a pinch salt and a large onion, cooled and frozen with their liquid)
- Put the beans (and their liquid), chicken and stock together to make a soup.
- Chop up the celery and carrots from the stock and throw them and the diced potato into the soup.
The salt calculators out there will be rolling their eyes but hopefully this won’t be too salty. Black beans and celery lower blood pressure so maybe there’ll be some balance.
Sofasana – to boldly pose…
You may not be aware of this posture but I’m sure that, like me, you’ve been practising it for years.
Sofasana is a post-postmodern, post truth, fake news, post Brexit, Trump-dawn advance from the couch potato: total guilt-free relaxation. If you’ve been investigating hygge , then you’ll find that sofasana is the perfect phase one towards the Danish concept of comfort.
The good die young
I was really shocked and saddened to hear that Jill Saward had died. She was a one in a million fantastic person for whom I don’t think there are enough positive adjectives in the world.
I first came across her as a young journalist while studying rape reporting and jigsaw identification. Although rape victims were supposed to be anonymous, the way her case was reported meant anyone with an ounce of sense could put together the details and identify Jill.
Jill was a journalist’s dream: she was always helpful and willing to take part in TV and radio interviews. She was the go-to real-life person who’d been affected by the issue and who was willing to appear in front of a camera. There was never a better person to put forward a passionate and articulate argument.
It sounds cliched to say she campaigned tirelessly for the rights of rape victims – but it’s true. I remember a young Jill on TV, almost 30 years ago, graphically describing the most horrendous violation with great strength and dignity and I heard her just months ago arguing for the rights of alleged rape victims.
In death she’ll continued to help many others – her organs have been donated. A truly amazing woman.
Behind closed doors
I’ve always been inquisitive so getting the response you never know what’s going on behind closed doors was never any help to me. It just added to my curiosity.
When I was listening to the radio yesterday and heard the story about Alfie Barker trolling Harry Arter on Twitter, my first question was what on earth is going on in his head? I didn’t have to wait long for an answer: he told us that he has ADHD and autism and he had mixed his medication with alcohol.
You never really know what’s going on in another person’s world.
About 10 years ago I arranged a TV interview with John Nichol – a former pilot who was shot down during the First Gulf War. At the other end of the phone line I was confronted by a very rude, obnoxious and arrogant man. That image of him stayed with me until just a few months ago when he appeared on BBC Radio Five Live talking about the humiliation of being held captive and paraded in front of the world’s media via Iraqi TV. He’s done many interviews over the years but for the first time I felt he really opened up – I was privy to a time when he was vulnerable, frightened and ashamed. I felt great compassion for him.
Just before I went to Nicaragua I was excited to meet Bianca Jagger. She was the only Nicaraguan I’d ever met and she was something of a legend. I had arranged an interview with her on a humanitarian topic. Afterwards, I tried to strike up a conversation with her about the country of her birth. I told her about my plans for voluntary work there. Her answers were monosyllabic and she showed a general lack of interest. A few months ago, I came across an article in which she spoke of the time she met Mick Jagger and those early years. Like John Nichol, she too described a great vulnerability at her contrasting life from that in Managua to that in the world of the Rolling Stones.
Once Archie, John and Bianca had opened their doors we could see inside their worlds. It was much easier to understand their behaviour – sooner and later down the line.
What’s on your mind?
Up until the age of about 12 – before the teenage storm – I practised mindfulness. I had no idea that’s what it was. It was a game to me. I’d lie on my bed at night with my eyes squeezed shut and try to find the here and the now. When I found either one I’d say its name i.e. ‘here’ or ‘now’. You had to be quick because as soon as you’d found them, they were gone – the moment had passed. I found it easy. I had a great sense of pleasure in being able to place myself, my existence, in the universe – here and now and in that moment. Mindfulness.
I tried the here and now game the other day. It’s not so easy any more. My mind darted from one thing to another and I fell asleep.
After yoga, we have savasana – a great opportunity to let things go and relax. I can do the relaxation to the extent that often after class people say: “Lynda, I could hear someone snoring – was that you?” It normally is. However, sometimes before I fall asleep I come up with a recipe: brandy chicken was one of them. I’ve now adapted the recipe and use ron miel (honey rum).
Lynda’s honey rum chicken
Ingredients:
6-7 chicken thighs or drumsticks (skinless)
1 large onion
2-3 sticks of celery
2-3 cloves of garlic
1 lemon
seasoning: salt, pepper, thyme
1-2 tablespoons of ground linseed
a glug* of ron miel (brandy will do)
Method:
- Place the chicken pieces in a bowl and season with salt, pepper, lemon juice and thyme and leave to marinade.
- Soften (and sweat) the garlic, onion and celery in a pan (adding salt will help with the sweating).
- Brown the chicken pieces.
- Transfer the chicken to the onion mixture.
- Add a glug of brandy – turn up the heat – and flambé
- De-glaze the pan used for frying the chicken and add those juices to the pot of chicken.
- Cover the pot of chicken and simmer on a low heat for 20-30 minutes.
- Thicken with the ground linseed.
* glug – an onamatopoeic slug
When I make this dish again I’ll take a picture and add it to the blog. I always nag my students about having some kind of visual representation of what they’re talking about so I should practise what I preach.
On the buses
The revolution will be multiplied. Operation Jactivist is now overground.
I missed the bus that was hurtling towards SoTo so I ran in the other direction and got the bus that pootles through scenic NoTo. I was no where near the stop but luck, or fate, was on my side – the driver stopped. I thanked him as I caught my breath. He was not going at London speed – that’s warp speed to you and me. He was taking it tropical. It seemed like minutes before he drove off. I had to quell my impatience and the panic that I might miss my 630am yoga class. However, after a little think I decided this was to our advantage: the roads were icy and at least this way – worst case scenario I’d still get to strike my Warrior Pose.
A few stops later, a group of people got on and swiped their Oystercards but one woman was having trouble. The driver let her on and she sat down. She then got back up and tried her card again – still no luck. She told the driver she’d have to get off to go back home and get some money. There was a collective intake of breath as revolutionaries stirred and a mini army of aspiring jactivists heard their calling. I was just about to reach into my bag when her friend threw her hands into her bag and said she’d lend her some money. But the friend couldn’t find her purse. Another woman only had five pounds. I got out my purse and handed the woman with the empty Oystercard £10. She laughed: “Everyone wants to help me!” She accepted my offer and thanked me graciously. She was still saying thank you when she got off the bus.
From No-Go to NoTo
When I moved to Tottenham almost 15 years ago people visibly winced. I kid you not. They offered me their commiserations.
Fast forward to 2017 and people are clambering to live here. We’ve even been renamed. Down south – by Seven Sisters – that’s SoTo. The hipsters have moved in and opened a cafe where my friend Lara claims coffee is about £6. I think she might have been exaggerating.
Up North in NoTo, the people are fighting redevelopment. There’s nothing wrong with change but the question is: change at what cost? Is it gentrification or social cleansing?
While we are still the uglier and poorer sibling to our Seven Sisters I can but boast about the wonders of the north.
One such wonder is sorrel, or hibiscus. I’ve been sharing swigs of this delicious iced tea with my fellow yoginis.
Ingredients:
1 bag of dried hibiscus flowers about 100g
2.5 litres of freshly-boiled water
1 x 255g of raw honey
1 teaspoon of cloves (optional and to taste)
Jamaican ginger (to taste)
Method:
- Put the dried flowers (and cloves) into a large pan (stock pot).
- Add 2.5 litres of freshly boiled water to the hibiscus.
- Cover and leave to steep (I leave it overnight).
- Pour off the liquid.
- In a blender place the ginger, honey and a half the hibiscus flowers. Cover with water and blend.
- Add the blended honey mixture to the drained hibiscus.
- Poor into jars/bottles and refrigerate.
You don’t have to add cloves or the hibiscus flowers and you can opt for a sweetener of your choice. I usually make this with a 125 g of sorrel, 3.125 litres of hot water and 340g of raw honey, loads of ginger and 1.25 teaspoons of cloves.
An underground revolution
I am a revolutionary. I am a jactivist*. I am the TFL Lone Ranger. I carry out my acts in broad daylight on the London underground.
A few months ago I floated out of a Jivamukti Yoga class with Cristian. There’s something about his class that always leaves me in state of utter relaxation. Even though I’m at war with my tight hips.
As I left Seven Sisters tube, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a man and heard him say “have you got 60p…” He was asking everyone who walked passed. And we all walked passed. However, something made me stop and turn around – probably the odd amount he was asking for. I saw that he was holding out an Oystercard so I took it and topped it up with £5.
The poor man only had 70p and was looking for just enough for a single journey. The look of gratitude on his face almost broke my heart. I wondered about his story. I wish him well. After all, we are all only a few steps of misfortune away from similar circumstances.
A few weeks later I was on the Victoria Line, around Victoria. I was aware of a woman on the tube – although I wasn’t looking her way I sensed that she was staring at me. When I looked up I saw she was crying, silently. I rifled through my bag and pulled out a pack of tissues. I tapped her gently on her knee, handed her the tissues and asked if she was ok. She smiled and said yes. It was one of those brave smiles that you give to try to convince yourself everything is ok when your world has actually fallen apart. She continued to cry. I left her in peace but wonder if I should have hugged her?
On the tube a few weeks after that, at Highbury and Islington, I saw a mother with her son. He was a delight. Her paper bag was disintegrating but he said: “It’s ok, Mummy, I’ll carry it!” I rifled through my bag and pulled out a plastic bag which I handed to his mother. She was absolutely thrilled – as if I’d handed her a bag of gold (literally and figuratively!).
It’s so easy to get caught up in the London way but I’m not having any of it. I follow the Lynda Way. I smile at strangers, I even talk to them. You just never know when a little act of kindness might make somebody’s day.
*journey + activist = jactivist
With thanks to Mick and Keith
You may well be thinking I’m going to write about two members of a rock band who put the ‘l’ into longevity. But this Mick and Keith never met but because of the actions of one I met the other.
Mick Bailey was my sociology lecturer. He was an inspiration. He stammered on a King’s Speech scale but that didn’t deter him (or us, his students, for that matter). That was the first lesson: don’t be put off by the challenges. He introduced me to Maya Angelou and encouraged me to go university. Until that point I’d only been told what I wasn’t capable of and my comprehensive school teachers had a very long list. Not so, Mr Bailey. He was a further education sociologist – a radical, an unassuming mentor.
Fast forward a few years and after graduation I decided I wanted to be a journalist. The careers adviser – henceforth known as ‘the careers discourager’ said: “you don’t stand a cat in hell’s chance of getting on to a journalism course“. To give him his due, places were like gold dust. I don’t remember his name but I remember how inspirational his words of discouragement were.
On my journey to a not-a-cat-in-hell’s-chance-course I found my way on to an amazing journalism course for unemployed people based at Trinity and All Saints College, just outside Leeds! I got great books, great teaching and amazing work experience. I spent about four weeks at BBC Radio 5 – I was there on its very first day of broadcast. I also spent the same amount of time at Spectrum Radio which was a community radio station that opened up at the same time as stations like Kiss FM and Choice FM. I couldn’t get a look-in at those stations but Spectrum snapped me up. That’s where I met Keith.
Keith Belcher was always surrounded by a plume of cigar smoke – wherever he went. I, who knew nothing about radio, was determined to get some news on air. I came up with a what’s-on-type slot based on events in London. I wasn’t the best of broadcasters but Keith called me into his office and offered me some shifts reading the travel bulletins on the station. I couldn’t read my way out of a paper bag but he gave me the chance and I was eternally grateful.
Five days before Christmas 2016 I discovered that Keith Belcher had passed away. I was an aspiring journalist, he believed in me and I never looked back.”
What of Mr Bailey? I don’t know. I’m still searching.
And by the way, I did get on to the ‘not-a-cat-in-hell’s-chance’ course. Thank you to Mr Careers Discourager.
365 days of gratitude 