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Parade and Pimm's

It has become something of a tradition to leave the city for July 4th weekend and head to the shore where our friends have a house. We make sure they are there first, of course, if only to let us in.

There are many highlights to this particular jaunt. There is the beach, naturally, and the gorgeous house with its beachy charm, and the ice cream parlour where last year a giant beetle tried to divebomb my cleavage. There is the shopping spree that those among us of a feminine persuasion might say tops the list – having surrendered the children into the care of their fathers and then tuned out all and any thoughts whatsoever of whether said offspring have eaten anything but chocolate, or looked up once from their phones, or indeed inhaled any air that is remotely fresh. (It is surprisingly easy, this zoning out thing, particularly when clothes and coffee and girl talk are involved.) But the best thing of all is probably the 4th of July parade.

The parade is exactly what a Brit coming to America would expect. Everyone dressed in red, white and blue, waving little plastic flags at vintage cars and pipers, urging them on with zealous cries of ‘God bless America’. There are fire trucks blasting their horns, and a local teen band strangling an old rock song, and the local dance troupe bobbing around out of step. The jolly townsfolk who tag along to advertise their insurance services, or urge people to vote for Mr Upstanding and Righteous in the upcoming by-election, wend their way along Main Street, saluting the crowds and throwing candy at the children, occasionally with a little more force than is strictly necessary. I suppose it brightens up proceedings a little to get an unsuspecting granny on the head with a packet of Haribo.

And of course we join in with some vigour, though He Who Knows Best mutters under his breath that they threw us out a hundred years too early, and I give him my very best ‘behave nicely in public please – and keep your voice down’ glare. And so it goes without a hitch until we return to our rocking chairs on the front porch and pitch gently to and fro, taking great care not to spill a single drop of our precious Pimm’s, that most English of drinks. At which point our host’s mother turns to us with a very 4th of July smile and declares: ‘Well, it must have been difficult for you British people today, you having lost and all.’ What can you say to that but ‘Cheers’!

Inspiration struck today at ... The super-welcoming pastry shop, Main Street

I went in for coffee and was super excited to discover that this little gem offers pies not just for vegetarians but for gluten-phobes too. Who would have thought it, outside Manhattan?

Pros: smiley, energetic staff (I had forgotten such a thing existed after nearly five years in NYC –  the exception to this being the delightful staff at our local CVS store).

Cons: a two-hour journey from Manhattan is just that little bit too much for such delights – otherwise we would be here on a daily basis (so that probably makes it a pro).

Driving test

Today I saw the first female cab driver I’ve come across in New York. My attention was drawn to her cab because a) it was travelling along at a reasonable speed, b) it indicated before moving across lanes, and c) it came to a gentle stop that did not leave the customer dazed, with a nice egg on their forehead as a memento of their trip.

I watched her passenger emerge with a smile on his face, not something you see terribly often when a yellow taxi is involved, and I just had to give the driver a thumbs up. She looked straight back at me, poker faced, obviously weighing up whether I was flagging her down or was just a little crazy. Then, having decided on the latter, she proceeded to drive off as fast as her cautious nature would allow. I swear she would have pulled away with a screech of the tyres had she not been a woman driver. I waved my thumb in her direction until she was out of sight.

My last journey in a cab began with a request to take us to the Flatiron Building. Not only was I asking to be delivered to one of the most iconic buildings in New York City, but it wasn’t all that far and did not involve taking any complicated route or braving the West Side Highway, which is enough to give anyone nightmares. Particularly a nervous passenger like myself. (I admit it, I absolutely hate it when I’m not in control. Ask He Who Knows Best.)

Anyway, the driver, who spoke one of the 800 languages for which this city is renowned – it just wasn’t our language – apparently had no idea where the Flatiron Building was. Or what direction he might head in. Or which direction might be east. Still, we are understanding folk, so we reassured him we would be able to direct him. He nodded enthusiastically and blatantly couldn’t make heads or tails of what we were trying to convey.

Still, we were willing to give it a go. All well and good, until the driver, now fondly referred to as Mr Flatiron by those of us hanging on for dear life in the back seat, roared off at speed without a glance in his mirror or any consideration for his fellow road users. Trying to gesticulate directions while keeping your eyes tightly closed and wishing you knew how to pray is nigh on impossible. All we knew was that all around us people were making full use of their horns. And getting their money’s worth.

When we finally emerged from our ordeal unscathed, He Who Knows Best turned to me with a weak grin and promised never, ever to tease me again about being geographically challenged. I promised to return the favour by never, ever criticising his driving again. Then he had a bright idea: we could become  taxi drivers. After all, we were more than qualified.

Inspiration struck today at ... Starbucks, West 15th Street and 7th Avenue

It had to happen. When you come across a Starbucks store every couple of blocks, it’s inevitable that you will end up there one day – and not just for the free drinks you usually get for giving your order in a terribly British accent.

Pros: this is a brand new store, so the baristas aren’t jaded yet. You might even call them perky.
Cons: they serve cold sweet drinks for the summer that just beg to arrive with whipped cream on the top. Not good, not good at all.

Accent-uate the positive

A flash of an English accent results in ears perking up all over the place here in the Big Apple. With some great results. There are the free drinks from the Starbucks around the corner (don’t tell the manager, but the baristas are suckers for a bit of British). There are the lengthy conversations with strangers whose second cousin thrice removed once lived in London, though no one is entirely sure where – there was a pub on the corner, though, if that helps. But most of all when people hear you speaking Betty Britain’s language, it prompts them to talk to you out of the blue (or the red, white and blue) – and suddenly the city is a friendlier place.

When I point out that back home we don’t actually reside in the great city of black taxis and Union Jacks, that in fact we now live about thirty miles north-west of London, in a pretty village with fields and sheep and a tennis club and – oh, pride – a cricket club on the village green, their eyes glaze over. Everyone knows something about London – they are excited that the Queen is guarded by some dapper guys with huge furry affairs on their heads who are forbidden to smile; they know there are strange-shaped buildings named after vegetables – but beyond the end of the Northern Line, what happens there?

#6, the only one of our offspring who lives here with us in Manhattan (the rest having scooted off to that big scary land called Adulthood where everyone parties all night long and no one has any money left by the end of the month), is embracing her Britishness on a need-to-use basis. She is full-on English at home (I could almost have sworn she said ‘Oh drat’ the other day when she dropped a cereal bowl and decorated the kitchen floor with a very avant garde arrangement of Cheerios and 2%) – and positively American at school (though I have yet to hear her describe anything as ‘swell’). Until she wants to be noticed, and then it is all the vocal equivalent of tea and scones and cucumber sandwiches.

I tell people with great pride that our daughter is bilingual. She simply offers up a sigh of despair at her embarrassing mother and asks where her sneakers (trainers) have got to.

However, a word of caution. One thing we Brits do not take kindly to is the question, Are you from Australia? I don’t know why, because I know lots of lovely Australians (well, a couple anyway), but somehow I always feel most affronted at being mistaken for an Aussie. There’s only one thing worse: being mistaken for a northerner.

Inspiration struck today at ... Gotan, Franklin Street, Tribeca

I have been meaning to visit this place for a while as it looks so cool, perched at the meeting point of several streets downtown. So I’m afraid to say I was left with a nagging feeling of disappointment.
Pros: You can sit and chat incessantly with your friend for two hours and frankly my dear, no one gives a damn.

Cons: The coffee comes in one size only, is tepid and leaves something to be desired taste-wise. Sorry, ultra-trendy baristas of the older variety, you haven’t quite got it right.

Uh oh

So, things have not been working from a geographical perspective this week. First, there was the trip to the Upper East Side for #6’s singing lesson. Having said we rarely take the subway, this new venture necessitates a trip up, up and away, so it’s off to the 1 train we go. Only today, when we arrived at 86th Street and I was congratulating myself on getting there with time to spare (a novel experience, as those of you who know me will appreciate), I suddenly realised that not only were we on the west side because we had forgotten to change at 42nd Street, but I wasn’t sure which way was east. Uh oh.

I was convinced we could still make it in time, if only we could work out in which direction to head. So out came the iPhone and behold, Google Maps told me it would take just over 23 hours to get there. Hmmm. Apparently the Upper East Side is now in Minnesota. Who knew? I started to perspire more than I was already.

Luckily, at that point a man came along and recognised a panic attack about to happen. I love that New Yorkers love to give directions. And so we were off in an easterly direction and I was convinced we still might make it on foot – until a barrier of trees loomed. Who could forget Central Park? At that point I sagged in despair, so #6 flagged down a cab and we piled in and I rang the singing teacher and apologised, five times. She assured me she had done the very same thing that very same week and blamed it on the humidity – I didn’t believe her but I appreciated the gesture.

Second, I was meeting a friend for coffee, at Charles and Seventh. I set off along West 4th, which seems to have been overtaken by construction workers. There is digging and bashing and all sorts going on, though I have no idea who is doing all this banging and crashing as there were hordes of yellow hard hats huddled all over the sidewalk, not wielding tools but rather bent over cell phones, thumbs wiggling madly. I remember the good old days when road workers would have been standing in a hole in the ground, talking about who was going to win ‘Strictly’ on Saturday.

Enjoying the sun, I took the opportunity to size up the restaurants along there as we are going out to dinner with some new friends and they want us to choose the venue. (I wonder if this might be some kind of test? Uh oh.) And so it was that I forgot to look out for Charles Street but found a lovely jewellery shop I had meant to revisit and I had a jolly chat with the Romanian salesgirl who came here nine years ago as an au pair and stayed, and then I bought a silver ring I had been coveting for a while, and then I remembered my friend.

Uh oh.

Inspiration struck today at ... Dominique Ansel, 7th Avenue and Charles Street

Sitting in the shade at this trendy little coffee shop, you almost don’t notice the buses and taxis and crazy drivers whizzing past.
Pros: Cute outdoor venue for drinking coffee and spotting people you haven’t caught up with in a while.
Cons: Strange set-up inside that necessitates some climbing, so not suited to those of us who aren’t terribly bendy.

Too hot to handle

It’s hot here. I mean really hot. I mean clammy, disgusting, frizzy-hair kind of hot. And we are only part way through June. Now I know our nearest and dearest back in Britain will be sitting in their deckchairs and dabbing their foreheads with their knotted hankies and scoffing, because the iPhone says their temperature is bigger than ours, but at least they are safe in the knowledge that, being Britain, it will all be just a distant memory by this time next week. Whereas we have several months still to perspire through.

I shouldn’t complain. I love the feeling of the sun on my skin, and there is no doubt it is a real mood lifter. But there are days here when a minute after getting out of the shower in the morning you just want to jump right back in. Yet you still need to cart a cardi around with you because on the subway platform it might be sweltering but the train carriages are air conned enough to give an Eskimo goosebumps. As are many of the restaurants – don’t trendy chefs realise it’s hard to eat when your teeth are chattering? I console myself with the thought of all the calories I am sweating out and burning up as I put on my cardi, then take it off, then put it on …

And don’t even get me started on the smells. As any visitor to NYC knows, this is not a city for the faint of stomach. Festering trash cans, discarded hamburgers, days-old urine – all this is roasted and amplified as the sun shines remorselessly down on us. It becomes a challenge to get from one place to another without breathing in too deeply.

But the best part of this time of year has got to be the sights you see as you wander along at a snail’s pace because, frankly, you can’t go any faster. Today I have encountered: 1. A rear view – and not a pleasant one – of a construction worker (not one of the working-out-in-the-gym types, it was abundantly clear) who decided to bend from the waist just as I walked past; 2. A man who looked to be of Native American descent, with long black braids (a sensible ’do in this heat, to be fair) who was waddling along, without a care in the world, and almost without a stitch either – just skimpy Speedos and a pair of flippers on his feet; 3. A clutch of ladies who had obviously over-indulged all winter long but really didn’t seem to care that last summer’s get-ups were several sizes too small this year.

Best of all, though, was in the park where I stopped to avail myself of some water and a little shade. Collapsed on a bench after the effort of traipsing two blocks, I was rewarded by the sudden springing to life of the water sprinklers on the grass – just where people had spread themselves out to indulge in a little sun worship. I haven’t seen anyone move that fast in days. 

Inspiration struck today at ... Sweet Corner, Hudson Street

If there was an award for service with a smile, this place would win hands down. What a difference it makes to be greeted so delightfully.

Pros: Cute little bakeshop, delicious drinks, mouth-watering bites, seats for people-watching both inside and out.

Cons: Can’t think of any!

Trash talk

One of the things I love about living in Manhattan is the recycling culture. Not just the daily collection of plastics/tins/cardboard/paper but the detritus of people’s lives that makes it out on to the sidewalk. So far this week we have counted, from our apartment window, one utilitarian-looking wardrobe, a desk with a leg missing, two mangy office chairs, a rather fancy dressing table (reminded me of the one I had for my Barbie, many years ago) and a coffee table that had most certainly seen better days.

Back home in Britain, the clearing out of these dead items would have necessitated borrowing/hiring a suitable vehicle, risking lifelong back problems during loading of said items, a perilous trip to the local dump (we once lost a fridge en route and were eternally grateful that nobody was driving along behind us) and the inevitable confrontation with the frustrated traffic warden playing his version of god by ruling which items could or could not enter through his pearly gates. You could end up losing the will to live yourself.

Not so here in NYC. No sooner do such items hit the sidewalk than business starts drumming up. It is fascinating to watch. Everyone is interested – men in rags, men in suits, men in skirts. The saddest looking furniture possesses magnet-like qualities, luring people to cross the street, change direction, brave the rain. Everyone loves a bargain.

A few years ago we had friends to stay from the UK. The husband used the exchange rate as an excuse to buy himself a fancy new pair of trainers but was struggling to part from his old beloved, and decidedly smelly, pair. Then we had an idea. Rather than consign them to the rubbish chute, we placed them tenderly on the sidewalk below our apartment window, wished them luck and went inside to watch their fate.

Amazingly, despite a flurry of initial interest, they were still there an hour later. Our evening was broken up with trips to the window to watch their progress. Zilch. But someone had to crack, and they did. The next morning, the trainers had disappeared. We all hoped they had gone to a good home.

During the run-up to our first Christmas in the city, we passed a discarded Christmas tree lying by the side of the road. ‘Pick it up!’ yelled my cousin, a veteran of New York with a keen eye for a freebie. We hesitated, being newbies and British. My cousin took charge. Holding the tree upright, we examined it and came to the conclusion that someone had tried to trim it and got a little carried away, no doubt after too much egg nog. One side of the tree was definitely not as bushy as the rest. ‘It’s perfect!’ my cousin declared, and so He Who Knows Best hoisted it over his shoulder and we set off for home.

Halfway there he suddenly muttered something incoherent. Turns out something was dripping on to his neck. We all shuddered. But it was a free Christmas tree, after all, so we tried not to think of the implications and soldiered on. With some strategic placing of fairy lights and tinsel, we congratulated ourselves on our beautiful festive tree. And what a bargain – we’d saved ourselves $80! I turned to hug He Who Knows Best, but he was already off scrubbing himself furiously in the shower.

Inspiration struck today at ... Irving Farm Coffee Roasters, East 81st Street and 3rd Avenue

We ventured out of our comfort zone for once and all the way up to the Upper East Side. We really should get out more.

Pros: no wi-fi. How refreshing.

Cons: we had to wipe down the table before we sat down – always a bit of a turnoff.

Wi-fi and weirdos

We don’t take the subway very often. It’s not because it’s inconvenient – there is a station right around the corner, just past the medley of weirdos on the old bank’s stone steps – or because it’s expensive – public transport in NYC is incredibly cheap, and efficient – or even because 14th Street station is filthy dirty and home to even more weirdos. No, all these things aside, it comes down to the bubonic plague.

You may think I am getting my cities confused. Or my centuries. This is not London in the fourteenth century. Or Paris in the seventeenth. But there are rats. They can be spotted poking and sniffing around along the tracks as soon as a train pulls out of the station, brazen as you like. Thank goodness New Yorkers like to chuck their trash on to the rails with gay abandon. Say the rats.

Yet it’s not even the rats. They are subterranean entertainment while you wait for the next train to arrive and try not to make eye contact with any weirdos. No, it all comes down to the fact that He Who Knows Best read somewhere (source to be confirmed) that some scientist investigating on some part of the subway system found traces of the plague. So now we walk everywhere we can, and at a push we take a bus, where a whole new species of weirdo can be found.

Today, however, we struck out for the E train because #6 was having dinner with a friend in Queens and we didn’t want her coming back alone after dark. She, of course, scoffed at this because she is 14 years old and knows best, and also because she foresaw the agony of accompanying ageing parents who try to get from A to B (or Manhattan to Queens) without touching anything.

I was delighted when the E train arrived, not just because we didn’t have to linger on the platform in the sweltering heat but because it was a Subway Library Train. I had read about the train just this morning, so was excited to encounter it on the very first attempt. The train is part of an initiative by the city library and various other interested parties. Basically, the free wi-fi allows you to explore all sorts of literary gems online, if for no other purpose than to give you an excuse to avoid eye contact with the weirdos. As an added bonus, if you upload a photo of the train, you can win a prize. I do love a good prize.

I was explaining all this to He Who Knows Best as he sat with his hands firmly folded between his legs, having got thus far without making physical contact with anything not directly related to himself. I could see that he was itching to whip out his phone and see what was on offer, but that would have entailed releasing his hands, so he tried to peer over my shoulder instead. Enjoying his discomfort, I kept my screen just out of reach, so that he was wriggling and squirming in his seat, hands still hidden from sight. I looked up just in time to spot the other passengers glancing away quickly, obviously not wanting to make eye contact with the weirdo sitting next to me.

Inspiration struck today at ... Jack’s Wife Freda, Carmine Street

The website for this little eaterie describes it as ‘an immigrants’ love story’. Which makes me wonder why He Who Knows Best hasn’t opened a trendy little restaurant named after me.

Pros: Good simple food, reasonable prices, coffee topped up before you have time to finish the last gulp.

Cons: Acoustics are terrible – the crowd at lunchtime were twenty-somethings without volume control, which made conversation a bit of a pain, especially for those of us whose hearing is declining with each advancing year.

Free-for-all

It’s quiet and tidy around here since Daughter and Boyfriend #1 jetted off back to London on a cloud of Valium (due to Daughter #1’s dread of flying, overcome only by her fondness for foreign holidays and a sympathetic doctor). They cleaned up after themselves so well that I didn’t have much to do once they had gone and I had finished shedding a tear or two, so I headed out for a walk around the neighbourhood. He Who Knows Best was at work and Child #6 was settling back into the bedroom she had vacated two weeks previously, which was in an unsettling state of uber-tidiness. So I set off alone, secretly relishing the prospect of a little me-time.

Alas, even if you live in a relatively untouristy part of Manhattan, as we do, it is impossible to enjoy a gentle stroll around the hood when it’s a free-for-all on the sidewalk. Wander aimlessly, text your friends while charging along, let your dog sniff all over the place at the end of a long and deadly leash, and you’ll fit right in. Be a Brit with good pavement etiquette and an expectation of common courtesy and you’ll stand out like a sore thumb. Which is the least of what you’ll get if you don’t stay vigilant.

I admit I’m a slow learner. But I think it’s finally time, after more than four years in the city, for me to gen up on the rules around here. So, here goes. Rule number one: as a pedestrian, you are obliged to suddenly change direction with no warning whatsoever and not even a glance over your shoulder to alert those unfortunate enough to be pedestrianising behind you. Rule number two: do not show the slightest consideration for your fellow travellers, it’s bad form. Rule number three: under no circumstances excuse yourself or apologise for walking slap bang into someone, even if it happens to be an elderly person with failing eyesight and a walking frame – they shouldn’t be holding up the traffic.

He Who Knows Best has even less tolerance for this kind of behaviour than I do. He can frequently be found muttering about people walking too slowly or stopping suddenly so that there’s a human pile-up. He has taken to throwing his hands into the air in a gesture far greater than the crime merits and declaring, in a fine rendition of your average New Yorker, ‘Really? Really??’ I have stopped taking him to high-traffic places like Times Square in case he starts to lecture New York’s Finest on how to do their job when it comes to shepherding the crowds.

Anyway, I finally settled for sitting outside and savouring the sunshine and a cup of java. And it was so much fun watching from the sidelines as people bumped and tutted and gesticulated. I swear I even heard some muttering … but surely He Who Knows Best was at work?

Inspiration struck today at ... The Grey Dog, West 16th Street, between 7th and 8th

It had been a while since I had been here but the atmosphere was as relaxed and the coffee as mediocre as I remembered. Food is good, though.

Pros: Good pub atmosphere for all age groups all day long.

Cons: Always busy, so you don’t feel you can linger over one cuppa while you write the next ‘Gone with the Wind’ and avoid eye contact with the waiter.

All grown up

Child #3 is all grown up. I don’t just mean she is in her mid-twenties and has a real, adult job, with a salary and five weeks’ holiday, and bills to pay. That she has to make her own sandwiches for work and get to bed at a reasonable hour on weekdays. No, I mean she has started to say the kinds of things that grown-up people say.

Most notably, she has begun to express dismay at the way some teenage girls dress and act. Their skirts are unbelievably short, they show way too much cleavage, why so much make-up? How are they so confident with adults? Not her sister, yet, but we are keeping a careful eye on that situation, not least #3, who is taking it terribly seriously.

Funny how things change. As I point out to her, we have photographic evidence of her younger incarnation dressed in ridiculously tight dresses that barely covered the essentials. He Who Knows Best and I reminisce about the time she was grounded for a month along with #4 after the pair of them disgraced themselves with way too much revelry at way too tender an age. She grimaces at the memory. We laugh and breathe a sigh of relief in the way that parents can manage only once all that is behind them.

What I don’t tell her is that I was older than she is now when we went partying after work one night and I was the star of the photo on display in the office the next day. Dressed in a mini skirt, dancing on tables, whooping it up to the cheers of my only slightly more sober colleagues. He Who Knows Best carried me to the car over his shoulder that night. I’d like to see him try that now – I’m guessing it would end with him enjoying an extended stay in the hospital and complaining for ever more about how his back will never be the same again.

#3 and Boyfriend #1 will be heading back to London in a couple of days. #6 will get her room back, there will be no more discarded items of clothing strewn across the floor (well, not if she wants her allowance, anyway) and the food bill will drop significantly. There will be no more raucous laughter well after an acceptable time at night, no more rum bottles littering the tiny kitchen counter, no more gambling with pennies and accusing each other, at great volume, of cheating. Peace will reign once more, we will settle back into our routine that cannot rightly claim to be a routine by most people’s standards … and we will miss them like hell.

Inspiration struck today at ... Washington Square Park

While this beautiful green space at the bottom of Fifth Avenue is buzzing during the day, especially at weekends, first thing in the morning it is a tranquil spot, attracting dog walkers, yoga classes and those unusual types who have time for meditation before a hard day at work.
Pros: Pristine surroundings, with some top-notch street artists demonstrating their talents.
Cons: Impossibly skinny thirty-somethings stretch their slender limbs on the lawns while the rest of us fantasise about having croissants for breakfast.

Fishy business

Last summer Children #4 and #6 won five goldfish at the San Gennaro street festival in Little Italy. Apparently fluorescent plastic keyrings and gaudy plastic cups full of bubblegum-flavoured syrup weren’t enough. A few carefully aimed ping pong balls and hey ho, we were going home with three little bags of water (I made them give two back, ignoring their sulky faces).

The fish, named Peggy, Eliza and Angelica after #6’s favourite Broadway show, were soon exploring their new home, formerly known as our vase. (Luckily it was empty as He Who Knows Best buys me flowers on a rather sporadic basis.) An emergency dash to the pet store for foul-smelling fish food and we all sat around the coffee table to enjoy our new pets. After two minutes (and that was a stretch), #6 was back on Snapchat, #4 was strumming away on the guitar, I headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on … and He Who Knows Best was perched on the sofa, mesmerised.

His tea went cold, he spoke to no one. After a while we just had to see what was so captivating, and so we crowded around once again. Nothing, just three little orange fish swimming round and round, one after the other, in the same direction. No racing, no nuzzling up to each other, nothing. Just one adoring new owner.

Half a year later, we have one surviving pet. One died of boredom just a few days after being released into our vase, so we upgraded to a small fish tank, complete with pump. Apparently the pump required some adaptation – I think He Who Knows Best is missing the DIY he so loved back in our house in England – and so there was a little trimming of a pipe and a lot of cursing. Something must have been amiss, however, as the second fish had disappeared the following morning. We looked everywhere – behind the tasteful plastic fern swaying gently in the water, on the floor around the tank – until there was only one place left to search …

He Who Knows Best was heartbroken, particularly when I made him deal with the fallout. So he turned his full attention to his one survivor. We are unsure whether this one is Peggy, Eliza or Angelica. We are also pretty sure it is in fact male, judging by the enormous proportions it has achieved since it started eating food for three. But the strangest thing is, it has returned the devotion of He Who Knows Best – it responds to his voice and gets excited at the sight of him. Honestly.

The kids scoffed when we told them this. We could see them shaking their heads and muttering among themselves about how we were finally losing the plot and what should they do with us? But when Child #3 and Boyfriend #1 arrived, they were amazed to see the blatant bond between man and fish. Nevertheless, it is not the done thing in this family to admit someone is right, so #3 merely grunted a grudging acceptance of the fact and declared: Dad, the water stinks. I think she hurt his feelings – and Peggy’s/Eliza’s/Angelica’s.

Inspiration struck today at ... Caffe Reggio, Macdougal Street, just south of Washington Square Park

Came across this little place and felt like a trip back in time to l’ancien Paris.

Pros: Friendly service and lovely outside tables in this quaint Village street.

Cons: Very dark inside so not for sufferers of seasonal affective disorder.

Gifts from the motherland

Child #3 arrived last night, boyfriend in tow. She is the only other girl in this testosterone-heavy family (not counting me, as sadly the term ‘girl’ no longer seems appropriate), so she was welcomed with huge hugs from one and all, even more fiercely when she produced decent chocolate from the motherland.

Despite being a world-renowned chocoholic (and also, you might be thinking, a world-class exaggerator), I have somehow managed to avoid the evil stuff for all of 2017 so far. A round of applause here wouldn’t go amiss. No one knows how I have accomplished this, least of all me. But it is some kind of miracle in my little world, and so I am persevering. My mouth watered, and I felt giddy from the aroma, and my willpower wobbled around all over the place, but I stood fast and strong. Pious, even.

I distracted myself by joining the ‘motherland versus American chocolate’ debate with great energy. We were all convinced: there is no comparison. The Brits may no longer rule the waves, or much of anything else, but when it comes to the cocoa delight, we win every time. Of course, the Swiss and the Belgians would probably throw up their hands in horror and wade into this debate with gusto, but then there would be no contest, so let’s rule them out straight away. Pit British chocolate against the stars and stripes version, and I believe we come out on top. Every time.

Of course, it’s all a matter of taste. It always is. Unfortunately, in a family that loves vociferous debate, this is one point on which all are agreed, and so it was that everyone roared into the various packets and bars with their own gusto. There was much chewing and slurping, and pretty soon there were empty wrappers scattered across the coffee table, followed by a significant lull in the conversation as everyone dozed in a sugary haze.

Except me. Being the only one without the jitters, I was left to clear up the mess and ponder over the fact that #3 and the lovely boyfriend had managed to scoff a good half of the treats they had ostensibly brought for us.

While I was contemplating this turn of events – and remembering that a similar thing had occurred the previous summer when #4 had arrived bearing the remnants of Iced Gems packets and a guilty grin – I looked up to see that #3 had found a second wind and started on the duty-free rum she had also declared to be ‘a gift’. As soon as she stuck her head into the fridge to root around for Coke, lemon and ice, I took the opportunity to tiptoe to my bedroom and hide all the gifts she has given me over the years. Just to be safe.

Inspiration struck today at ... Tea & Sympathy, Greenwich Avenue, between Seventh and Eighth Avenues

First of all, hands up, this place belongs to my cousin, who more than twenty years ago hatched the genius idea of a shop and restaurant full of all things English.

Pros: English chocolate! And tea! And scones with jam and cream! And …

Cons: You can’t sit to sup unless all your party are present, so be prepared. However, it’s great to sit on the bench outside and people watch. With a cup of tea in hand, of course.

The joke’s on you

I have had my first encounter with a pick pocket in my beloved New York. He came off worse. Not because I leapt on him and beat him to the ground to reclaim my belongings, but because the only thing I had in my coat pocket was a used tissue. A very used tissue.

I didn’t realise what had happened until Child #6 told me she had seen the whole incident. She had noticed the guy because he was dressed up as The Joker from Batman. Hiding in plain sight then. We were passing near Times Square, where no one takes any notice of what anyone is caring to wear, apart, perhaps, from the Naked Cowboy who remains almost true to his name even in sub-zero temperatures. He deserves all the tips he gets in the winter, to be honest.

Anyway, it was crowded and I was clinging to my handbag in the way that you find with people who grew up in London in the Seventies. Then someone knocked against me so that I fell into He Who Knows Best. I didn’t think anything of it until #6 related her tale and I realised that someone had indeed slipped their hand into my coat pocket. I felt it on some subconscious level at the time but only afterwards did I connect it with the not so amusing Joker.

I lived in Paris in my twenties, paying my way by waitressing. (I was a terrible waitress, but thankfully my British accent saved me from almost certain dismissal.) In the evenings my friends and I would wander the streets of the city, pretending to absorb the culture, smoking menthol cigarettes and believing we were oh so cool. And we saw pick pockets galore. I’m not entirely sure there were enough careless tourists to go round, in fact. Night after night we would see these sneaky little artists at work, moving among the crowds like characters from ‘Oliver’. They would dip their hands into a handbag in seconds and then disappear as though they were never there in the first place. Their poor victims never saw it coming. It was most impressive.

I have always been convinced that I’m too streetwise to fall foul of these chancers. But you can become complacent when you live in a city for a while. You aren’t a tourist any more, this is your home, so you wander around with the carefree attitude of people who are comfortable in their surroundings. And then you get careless.

I think back to the times I have stuffed my cell phone into my pocket so that it is easily accessible when I am expecting a call. I have been lucky up to now. So I have had a wake-up call and henceforth my phone will remain zipped up in my bag and my bag will be across my body and my hands will be on top of my bag. There may even be a padlock involved. And all that will be in my pocket is a crumpled-up old tissue. You’re welcome, Mr Pick Pocket.

Inspiration struck today at ... Times Square

You have to visit this iconic New York tourist hell at least once, and there is undoubtedly an energy to the place, but for people like me who hyperventilate in a crowd, this might not be the best idea.

Pros: Reminds you that the quiet life really is the way to go.

Cons: Bad for epileptics, what with all the flashing lights everywhere you turn.

Eh? What was that?

Why is it that when you ask your offspring to hang up their freshly laundered clothes, or put away their shoes before you break your neck tripping over them, or clear the dinner table before cultures start to fester, they don’t hear you the first time? Or the second? Or the fifth? And yet when you mutter the words ‘food’ or ‘money’, they’re all over you like a rash.

I was beginning to think Child #6 was experiencing some hearing loss. She had just got over a cold, which had involved oceans of mucus, judging by the number of tissues consumed in just a few short days. But on reflection, that didn’t account for the previous months of deafness. And then it hit me – I am getting slow in my old age, obviously, because this was a clear case of selective hearing.

Ah yes, that old trick. Years ago that realisation would have struck me after seconds, not weeks/months, so I took a moment to lament my advancing years and declining faculties. But then I set out to do what I do best: catch one of my children out.

The first step was to test my theory. Using my regular voice, which is neither loud nor shrill (He Who Knows Best might be inclined to start debating this point, but I will turn a deaf ear), I asked #6 to take the recycling downstairs. By some miracle, her cell phone was nowhere to be seen, so she did not have that distraction. But still she seemed not to hear me, or to understand that the request was fired in her direction, even though I have not started addressing myself out loud, yet.

So next I declared that I would dish the ice cream while she dealt with the recycling. There was a blur of plastics and puff of cardboard and clinking of glass, and off she went. She was fairly drooling by the time she returned to claim her prize. It’s a bit like training a puppy, only not so rewarding.

Satisfied with my results, I decided to confront the issue head on, in a mature and good-parenting kind of fashion, rather than playing her at her own game and ignoring her in favour of lying on the sofa and binge watching something on Netflix. (I will be honest with you, I can’t say I wasn’t tempted by this option.) I laid out my findings calmly and shook my head sadly as I suggested that she might like to do as I ask the first time, or even, dare I imagine, before I have had to ask. I then repeated my words, as her hearing loss seemed to have set in again. Seeing my face and realising her error – because she is pretend-deaf, not stupid – she rushed to assure me that she would take my advice to heart and act on it with immediate effect. She then took off to her room – leaving her dirty ice cream bowl on the table.

All I can say is that it’s a good job I will have forgotten about all this by tomorrow …

Inspiration struck today at ... MatchaBar, West 15th Street

The tiny, unassuming entrance belies a surprisingly spacious interior.

Pros: Chilled and charming, with great décor and window spot worth waiting for.

Cons: Be prepared to wiggle around a fair bit as you will be sitting on a wooden bench or a backless chair.

In the name of art

It all started with a square of no more than twelve inches, marked out on the sidewalk with white tape. The delivery boy turned artist then gulped down his bottle of water, scrunched up the plastic, and chucked it into the equal-sided rectangle. It landed neatly off centre, right next to a piece of filthy chewed gum, carelessly lobbed by some litter lout days previously.

Over the next few hours people stopped and took notice. The sun was shining after a week of grey skies, so the city folk were out for a gentle stroll, and they had time to take in their surroundings now that they weren’t huddled beneath umbrellas, noses to the ground. It was a good day for appreciation. And so they stopped to admire this new work of art that had sprung up so unexpectedly. Fingers were pointed, cell phones were whipped out, opinions were swapped. One and all agreed it was indeed a fine piece.

And then along came some buffoon who certainly had no appreciation of the finer things in life. There were gasps as he swung back his bare leg, which had blatantly not seen much sun over the winter, and then more gasps as he brought it forward and his Nike Airs made contact with the plastic. The crunch echoed in the silence that had fallen over the crowd. They gaped, aghast, as the bottle launched in a perfect arc before landing in the middle of the road, where its fate was sealed by a yellow taxi and its deadly black tyres.

In the furore that followed, the delivery boy turned artist stood to one side, watching in amusement. This had all provided a pleasant diversion on a rather slow Sunday, but now families were getting peckish and there were meals to be escorted to their rightful owners. And it was at that moment, when the delivery boy turned artist made a move to do his real job, that his phone rang.

Art can make us all see the world in a whole new light. And, it seems, never more so than when an art gallery uptown declares that they have just seen your work with plastics on Instagram and they are intrigued to see some more, and could you perhaps drop by, at your convenience of course. The artist formerly known as delivery boy was last seen glugging gallons of Evian and trampling the empty bottles for all he was worth.

I can’t decide whether to laugh or cry at such absurdity. My mind is full of thoughts of the emperor and his new clothes, an image I am trying desperately to banish. But I don’t really have time for much pondering just at this moment – armed with a roll of packing tape, I am off to find myself a prominent little sidewalk spot and think of something creative to do with my empty candy wrappers. I have plenty of them.

Inspiration struck today at ... Bonsignour Café, Jane Street

I have loved this spot since the last soccer World Cup when the owners mounted a huge TV screen outside the café and each day draped the flags of the nations battling it out that day on the pitch. Drew quite a crowd.

Pros: Benches outside are ideal for sipping coffee and people watching.
Cons: Overwhelming smell of cleaning fluid first thing in the morning. Very happy they are keeping up standards, but seriously, air the place once you’re done.

Mummy wars

It turns out that if you want to be a successful mummy blogger in these turbulent times, you have to confess a few things to your adoring public: you don’t actually like your offspring terribly much, your life is so tiresome since you spawned the little darlings, and your only solace comes in the form of a glass of Chardonnay. Oh yes, and you absolutely must sprinkle swear words all over your confessions, like the hundreds and thousands on the fairy cakes you despise making so much.

Trawling through some of these yummy/scummy mummy blogs I found myself nodding off pretty quickly, as one sad episode blurred into another. And that was without a glass of Pinot. These women are obviously determined to be sensational, and the way to do that, it seems, is to be outrageous. If they can’t find something unsavoury to say about their kids, they resort to the kind of language that would have earned my brothers a clip around the earhole.

I’m pretty sure most of it is tongue in cheek (or tongue in bottle), and some of it is quite amusing if there’s nothing good on Netflix, but the sad thing is that this kind of blog appeals to those mums out there who really do find motherhood to be one enormous chore. Thank god, someone else out there feels the same. Someone else can relate to the tedium and frustration, to the misery and despair. And all the while the yummies are rubbing their hands in glee and clinking glasses. Bottoms up.

At the other extreme you have the self-righteous bunch, soothing their little bundles in their rocking chairs, sipping their herbal teas and swapping crochet patterns. All that talk of breastfeeding, pureeing and cotton versus wool is enough to make the rest of us reach for the bottle (gin or formula, take your pick).

I like to believe I have forged my own path, without too much crazy in either direction. My approach has always had its own sprinkle of irreverence, albeit without any help from a bottle. People who don’t know me might not appreciate my brand of humour, however, so I will let you judge. Let me give you a recent example.

Child #6, the drama student, approached while I was dutifully preparing dinner, in a respectable ‘good example of parenting’ manner (even though my kitchen repertoire consists of three meals, give or take one or two). ‘Do you think I’m too ugly to be an actress?’ she asked. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I replied, not even looking up from the kale I was chopping. ‘That’s what they have make-up departments for.’

Inspiration struck today at ... Home, in the West Village

This isn’t the best coffee joint on the planet, as the beloved hot beverage can only be found in a jar (thumbs up from the scummy mummies) and often we have run out of milk (looks of disapproval from the self-righteous brigade).

Pros: the bathroom is so convenient and always clean.
Cons: the early part of the day might be interrupted by the rumble of snores from the bedroom where He Who Knows Best is still catching up on his beauty sleep.

Destined to achieve little

When Child #1 was 13, he earned himself a pretty dreadful and damning school report. Bad grades, bad behaviour, bad attitude. And at the end of it all, etched in ink for posterity, a remark from the head teacher (principal, to you Americans): ‘Child #1 is destined to achieve little.’ (He didn’t actually say ‘#1’, of course, but I feel it might be better to preserve #1’s anonymity here.)

As it turns out, the ‘little’ that #1 has achieved so far includes two university degrees, a stellar naval career, an MBA, and now a future in finance. I’m sure many of his peers wish they had achieved so little.

What kind of person writes off a 13 year old? And a high-ranking educator at that? Lots of teenage boys see school simply as a social venue – lessons get in the way of their attempts to chat up girls, play class clown, and generally act like the immature creatures they naturally are. Of course, as parents it’s our job to make sure they turn up for school and at least try to learn something. It is a drag for us, and a drag for them. Few of us emerge from the experience unscathed. But you never, ever write them off – there’s always potential and hope. (That’s what I told myself in the deepest and darkest hours of #5’s teenage years – how I didn’t turn to the bottle I’ll never know, but that’s a story, or fifty, for another time.)

I was heartened this week to read of a father in Texas who, at the end of his tether with his tiresome teen, threatened that one more misdemeanour would result in a rather unusual consequence. The son either didn’t believe the threat, or couldn’t control himself. Either way, the father ended up spending the day sitting next to his horrified child in class. I found this encouraging because so many parents these days seem to let their kids rule the roost and behave like spoiled brats, with no consequences for bad behaviour.

One of our kids was once grounded for a week for one of his many ‘crimes’ (I shall leave out his number in order to preserve his anonymity, though you may be able to narrow it down to one of two). He complained dramatically that we were infringing his human rights and declared that he was off to call social services. ‘I’ll get you the number,’ I offered, ‘and then I’ll help you pack.’

Inspiration struck today at ... Argo, 949 Broadway, right by Union Square

Despite this being a chain of tea cafés, I always go for a latte because I can’t quite kick the coffee habit. (I have given up gluten and chocolate, but coffee seems just a sacrifice too far.)

Pros: this place may specialise in teas but the coffee is really good. There are also power outlets all over the place, so no excuse for not getting some work done.

Cons: a few communication issues have cropped up because apparently my English accent is difficult to decipher (who knew?), but it has given me a chance to sample a latte with almond milk (bitter and disgusting, if you ask me) and rewarded me with a free croissant for my trouble. So no cons really.

Back story

Everyone here has a story to tell.

The previous super in our building, for instance, a large and rather slow character, turned out to hold two degrees from prestigious universities along with a licence to drive huge and intimidating trucks. The postie, who trudges along his route with a smile on his face in all weathers, was a mechanic in the Israeli air force, responsible for repairing fighter jets. Our curmudgeonly old neighbour, frustrated by the walking stick that is her constant companion, turned down the chance to be a model so that she could counsel young drug addicts instead.

It’s easy to judge a person on the face of one or two encounters. But there is always a back story that has fashioned that person into the character they are today.

I have always encouraged the kids to take an understanding approach. That bully in the playground might live with two parents at war, with constant yelling and verbal abuse. The kid with the spiteful comments might have a sibling at home who demands all the parents’ attention. The jealous teen who chips away at your confidence with carefully crafted barbs might resent your loving home life.

Child #5 came home from school one day complaining loudly about a new boy in his class. The boy is in an electric wheelchair and communicates through gestures only. #5 said this boy was mean and disruptive. #4 confirmed that this was indeed the case. (As #5 had something of a reputation for being disruptive himself, I had to suppress a smile here.)

Well, how would you like it if you lived your whole life in a wheelchair, I asked. If you couldn’t go out at lunchtime and kick a ball around with your friends? If no one invited you to parties, or just to hang out? No excuse, apparently. I told them I was disappointed at their lack of empathy, and shook my head sadly to reiterate my point.

I was in school just a few days after this conversation, helping out with a PTA event. The boy in question was powering along the corridor in his wheelchair, so I stopped what I was doing and nipped over to hold the door open for him. At which point he looked up at me, changed course … and ran over my foot.

When I told the boys about it that evening, they simply shook their heads sadly, to reiterate their point.

Inspiration struck today at ... Fika, 555 6th Avenue

From South Korean last week to Swedish today. I like this chain, despite the fact that you need to score one of the very few soft chairs if you want to stay a while. Otherwise prepare for a stiff backside or a short visit.

Pros: they try hard with their marketing, for instance live bands on a Friday evening, and an app that allows you to pre-order and lets them track you in real time so that your drink is ready and waiting for you, freshly made.
Cons: you often have to wipe down the tables before you sit down – come on Fika staff, you are going to lose that A rating.

Sensible shoes

I was horrified to discover, in the post, a mail order catalogue addressed to me in capital letters (just in case I didn’t realise it was intended for ME). This catalogue was full of middle-aged women posing chirpily in outfits designed for middle-aged women. But you are a middle-aged woman, you might declare, it says so at the top of your blog. No, what really horrified me was when I realised that not only did I find some of the outfits worthy of a second glance, I had turned down the corners on the interesting pages for future reference.

I should explain. Despite photographic evidence to the contrary (it was the Eighties, for goodness sake), I have always prided myself on presenting a youthful appearance. I still wear mini dresses with leggings and DMs (Dr Marten’s boots, for all you middle-aged ladies now scratching your grey-sprinkled heads). I keep my hair blonde, with a dash of purple or pink, depending on the season, and never leave home without some basic make-up (for the neighbours’ sakes as much as my own).

So you will forgive me if I feel a little peeved that the marketing gurus leading the charge into old age feel I should slot into their next target bracket. Apparently I should be wearing pastels and sensible shoes, at twenty per cent off with a coupon. What’s next, home-made cardis and cups of cocoa as I sway backwards and forwards in my rocking chair to the rhythm of my knitting needles?

Don’t get me wrong. I do not condone women of more than a certain age dressing like their teenage daughters. God forbid we should start wearing over-the-knee socks and taking pouty selfies that only hormone-engorged kids could believe to be attractive. But equally we must not succumb to the mid-length, unflattering styles favoured by our grannies, or allow anything even vaguely quilted to adorn our bodies. It’s a fine line we women of a certain age are treading.

The line with Child #6 is also a rather precarious one. While not being a fan of the skin-tight dress and the see-through top so many young girls squeeze themselves into, she nevertheless wants to express herself in a way that sometimes leaves He Who Knows Best spluttering into his cocoa (he being a few years older than me). A hint of cleavage or a glimpse of pale stomach and he’s likely to snap his pencil on his Sudoku page and start muttering about how dating should be illegal before the age of thirty.

As I said, it’s all a tricky business. I will mull it over while I finish my latte and flick through my catalogue again.

Inspiration struck today at ... Caffé Bene, West 17th Street and 8th Avenue

This is the South Korean version of Starbucks. A couple of the venues around here have closed down recently, but I’m happy to report this one is still going strong.

Pros: staff always greet you with a smile, good latte.
Cons: music is way too loud, particularly in the morning if you’re not a teen dipping out of school.

Mutterings

On my right, Child #6 is rolling her eyes and muttering over her iPhone. On my left, He Who Knows Best is muttering over his Book of Incredibly Eye-wateringly Difficult Sudoku. That is the title he insists on giving it, anyway, and as he has been on page 1 since last Wednesday, I am guessing he is finding these mind bogglers a little tricky. I offered to get him started, but was met with a rather hostile ‘No thank you, I like to take my time’.

I am seated between the two because that seems to be the safest arrangement. When I suggested we walk to the park and take in the unseasonably warm sunshine, perhaps with a latte in one hand and some reading matter in the other, I hadn’t bargained on ending up in a war zone.

It all started with the boy with the red hair. This boy, with more than a little of the look of the Irish about him, met #6 at a quinceañera at the weekend. (For the less worldly among you, a quinceañera is a fifteenth birthday party for a Spanish girl, and a fancy affair it is too.) #6 and her friends had spent the afternoon in our apartment, transforming themselves from the casual drama students I know them to be into elegant and rather gorgeous young women. When they emerged in a cloud of perfume and giggles, I was even too dumbstruck to utter one of my usual pithy comments along the lines of ‘Well, you could at least have put on makeup’ or ‘Where did those ugly bugs go?’

Anyway, I digress. The boy with the red hair was obviously rather taken with #6, who did indeed look more than a little fetching in a blue cocktail dress handed down by her sister. So after the party he Snapchatted her and asked whether she might like to go to the cinema the next time he was in the neighbourhood.

And that’s when the trouble began. He Who Knows Best, on overhearing this news, looked up from his Sudoku long enough to declare that we would be going along to the ‘picture house’ as well, although we would make one concession and sit a few rows further back. Seeing #6’s look of abject horror, he warmed to his theme and started debating which of his many disguises he might adopt for this particular outing. He appeared to be favouring a bandana and dark glasses, perhaps with a leather jacket if it didn’t turn out to be too warm. As he possesses neither a bandana nor a leather jacket, I was having a bit of trouble picturing him in this get-up.

Not too long into He Who Knows Best’s musings, #6 had a serious sense of humour failure, at which point, being the peace keeper I am, I suggested the trip to the park.

So there we were in the West Village, sitting on the bench, watching a fat black pigeon fancying his chances with any female bird that was foolish enough to cross his path. ‘Will you look at that,’ I said, in an attempt to lighten the mood. ‘They’re all the same, whatever the species.’

More eye rolling, more muttering, though at least this time they were on the same page: muttering about me.

Inspiration struck today at ... The Hudson Café, 628 Hudson Street

This is one of my favourite spots in the neighbourhood - just round the corner from our apartment.

Pros: great coffee and salads, pretty and creative environment, village feel.

Cons: tables are very small, too many young waitresses conducting their love lives while you're trying to write.