It hardly seems possible but it was less than two months ago that the idea for this blog was conceived. It happened more as a fluke. Chris was my absolutely trusty talented Tate helpmate supplying the technical wherewithal to put together In Contemplation and Conversation at the Tate Britain, the opus that is mentioned in the February 18, 2017 posting. I ventured: “I was sort of thinking of doing a blog.” Chris shrugged his shoulders in a confident manner saying: “That’s easy enough.” It was a prophetic comment as actually it was.
It was Chris’ idea AND BEYOND. I was going to call it London Lamentations and Chris said: “No, it is going to go beyond that.” He also suggested that I just use my name as the site. Chris, as I said before, and I will say again, is brilliant. I love my partially purloined name. The McBride part is stolen (but legally) from the first husband. So it is works perfectly. Particularly now since it is now the AND BEYOND part.
But, there are some things from yesterday that did not get mentioned. The taxi driver who said that I looked like I was in my fifties, not my real age of 73 (and almost 74). The police persons at Heathrow, I chatted them up and said I would mention that I talked with two handsome police people. They had guns. “I hate those,” I said. They responded: “So do we.” The walk to the gate at Heathrow was interminably long, and I complained the whole time. It is so typical of London; people never complain so nothing gets fixed Stoically carrying on saying it does no good to complain. Well it doesn’t (do any good to complain) if you don’t. There are no systems, the corrective institutions flawed or non-existent. I shall continue to rail against this phenomenon but in a different manner.
Those of you who are perceptive will note some changes on the menu page of the blog. There is a section called Betrayal. I wrote a series of stories about betrayal and they are gong to be posted there, slowly but surely. They will be augmented by new stories that I will write about the betrayals that I endured in London. It is going to be quite jolly, as I have no presence in the UK. I cannot be extradited for telling the truth about Carl Hart, for example, which embezzled me and Lloyd’s Bank, who did exactly nothing to exact a remedy. I will speak of hidden nefarious activities at Dolphin Square and the cover-up by people like Jan P, a self-righteous apparent ‘trustee’. I do not think so, some trustee that woman was and would be. But these stories will be laced with humour and good times from my present (and past) life. If you complain and are negative all of the time nobody listens but when you are always happy, happy, happy in the midst of adversity then people think (quite righteously) that you are an idiot, there is a fine line. I can walk it. Just you watch.
But now onto more positive occurrences. The wonderful Japanese woman sitting adjacent to me in First Class made me another origami box. This one has a beautiful red bird in it. Those boxes are such a treasure to me and sit by my bedside. I am now a homeless person and I do need such beauty to brighten my life. My cousin Gail reliably met me at the Vancouver airport and we were so glad to see one another. The bed in ‘my room’ is so comfortable, I love the pillows and I lean against them as I write. I am magically connected to the Internet so Chris will get his daily email saying: “Please Post.” Is everything all good? Well no, it is 3:25 and I have jet lag. My brother lives in Vancouver and I told him when and where I would arrive at the airport. Was as he there to greet me or did he make any effort to contact Gail? No. But a glass is either half empty or half full. Which do I prefer? Guess.
This picture is one I took at the Tate Britain. It is not included in the book. It is posted for at least two reasons. I talked about the book explaining that is how I met Chris. It also shows my buddies at the Rex Whistler that I miss them a lot and promise to come and visit when the Hockney Horror is over, on my birthday actually, the last day of the exhibit.
