Joining the Mile HIgh City

If ever there were an antidote to the barely survivable heat of San Antonio then the mountainous Denver must surely be it. Breathtaking was the landing into the wide open green spaces surrounding the airport, as were the views of the snow capped mountains in the near distance, visible from many of the streets downtown. Fresh, fresh air. Sunshine. Not the kind to toast you, more of that spring, promise of summer, sun. Absolutely, resolutely what the doctor ordered.

I had mentioned a few posts ago that I had grown up in the gawdy shadow of Dynasty as a child, and I was more than delighted to be visiting the city I watched Blake Carrington work in week in week out. I arrived with a somewhat pre-disposition to falling in love with the place, but I did not anticipate just how at home I would feel. It's a bit what I imagine internet dating is like when it actually works. You match the stats, odds being high on compatibility, and when it actually does click it is quite exhilarating.

Let this not cast a downturn on our last few days in San Antonio, mind. Scott McClure, Cory's school band buddy did indeed stay with us, and the following morning, took our family in his truck (thumbs up from Sam) to a dusty corner near Fort Sam Houston's barracks, home of Johnnie's mexican restaurant. A proper Mexican greasy spoon. Tiled floors. Sombreros on the walls. Small menu. Speedy service. Huevos Rancheros all round por favor. Proper saturday morning. Back it was to the city whilst Dad did a matinee turn and then boy and ma joined the crew for another helping of smashing smashed avocados and margaritas. The latter with a swirl of prickly pear syrup. Lush. And very fuschia.

On our last day we were joined again by Scott who chuckled through the sunday matinee after which we were lead on a tour around the alleys of The Majestic. The house was quirky in its design. It was almost like Dali was commissioned to do a Disney set of Arabia. On each side, rambling "balconies" and box seats, one topped with a very large fake white peacock. Another "starlit" sky and moving clouds number. A hotch potch multicoloured ode to Arabia fantasy. Round the back of the narrow wings - a matter of feet from the stage door road entrance and the stage - was a surprise second auditorium. This one smaller and plainer, and its stage was home to the quick change area. Breeze block wall separated the two stages. Along the corridors by the dressing rooms each visiting company has painted their poster on the walls and casts have left their signatures on them. Cory found his from the Hello Dolly! tour back in the 90s. It hasn't been the first time memories have overlapped like this.

And yet, for all the beauty and heat of San Antonio it is just wonderful to be here in Denver. Admittedly we have only been here a couple of days, and our touristing has been sublimely relaxed to say the least. It has taken me only this long to fall in love with this city. It feels so liberal and driven in equal measures. Perhaps something left over from the prospectors that have made this place so historical. There is something about the sheer ruggedness and enormity of the countryside but a short drive away that lends a kind of outdoorsy abandon to the people I have met. Which, incidentally, have been some of the most handsome set I have seen here so far. The skin, the bright, curious, happy eyes. Full of sunshine and space. A fair share of men with long hair or thick curly locks, tanned happy skins, sense of humour. Women with bright eyes and wide smiles and legs that tell you they spend hours outside on their bikes, with tents on their backs, oftentimes sat around coffee shop tables thinking creatively with like minded folks sipping hibiscus brews. That sort of vibe to the place. It is hip, but on first impressions at least, not self conscious or snobby about it.

After setting down The Cases on arrival, we took a wander in search of food and strolled (the grown ups at least, boy was flipping in the air as usual) and came across a cluster of gorgeous restaurants down on old Larimer Street. We passed by several authentic but very chic Italian joints, most priding themselves on their wood fired oven and home cured meats, a french bistro, a tapas bar and a few Brazilian steak houses. We settled on the one that had the triple height ceilings and the windows open wide onto the sunsetting street. We ordered a "flight" of Malbecs to start us off. To you and me that is three 2oz glasses of different Argentinian reds. Delicious. Then we scoffed a cheese plate, served on a rounded piece of shale, complete with luscious pear slices and juicy grapes. Boyo then tucked into a four cheese pizza (they were right to boast about the oven) and Dad and I shared a petite filet cooked to perfection. The dinner was capped off with a chocolate fondue and an espresso. Mama was jiggling in her seat with sensory delight. Good trip here (met a three year old on the seat behind us on the flight which delighted the boy no end), luscious dinner, night off for Cory, boys in a jolly mood. Perfeck. Next was a stroll past Cory's theatre to take in the refreshing evening air and a chance meeting of another family doing much the same thing. We exchanged a few pleasantries and when their 4 year old Sam started to play with our three year old Sam we settled into a fun couple of hours with them as we picked their brains for local advice and followed the tykes around a neighbourhood playground until the sliver of the moon and a night chill sent us reluctantly back home. On the 16th mall bus. Free my friends, this uber civilised way of transporting the Denverites trawls up and down the pedestrianised main street makes it effortless to get from A to B. Downtown at least. The light rail tinging its bell in the distance, curtains closed, we settled into a deep slumber.

That's a repercussion of living so high up I'm supposing. We are now officially in the mile high club. I mean to say, we are living a mile above sea level, on dry dry land. Hence, the chapped lips and sawdusty throat, and occasional effort for breath. They even have oxygen either side of the stage, should any of the performers struggle during the more strenuous moments. As I practiced my Insanity the other night I attributed my lagging cardio expertise on this fact. I suspect it may have something more to do with being barked at to do myriad of push ups after 1,000 ski "jumps". Hey ho. The sleeping like a log, like you do after a day out in the mountains, for the whole night counteracts any of these minor qualms.

We have already nested on a grand scale. We have a small kitchen with a very Large fridge which I have stuffed with every kind of green thing you can imagine in an effort to counteract the marvellous acts of over eating I have been experimenting with during our hot city stay. Boy and I found the grocery store, thanks to a kindly Somali taxi driver who drilled Sammy with 20 questions. He told us that he had family in England, near O'Hare airport. "In Chicago you mean?" I asked gently. He answered with a laugh that he always gets the two muddle up, "Everytime I go to say Heathrow it comes out O'Hare." Made Cory laugh when I told him this morning. The taxi driver who brought us home, on the other hand, after having argued with me that I was indeed staying at the Mariott when I had told him in all which ways that we were at the Residence Inn, helped me with our bags and then looked at me:

"You live here?"

I nodded, trying not to crush the eggs.

"All time?"

I smiled.

"Why not you live in a house?" he huffed.

"Only two weeks here." I proffered.

He returned to his cab shaking his head unsatisfactorily.

The following day, we rode the free shuttle down past Wazzee stop. Off we hopped and as the boys went on to burn off some energy and find new friends at the playground (Brandon, 8 Grace, 6 and Brennan 2 from Tennessee to be precise) mum popped into The Tattered Cover. Our friends from the first evening had pointed the bookshop out to us but they did wax lyrical about how gorgeous it was inside as I am about to. On entry you are first greeted with the luscious smell of fresh coffee and, turning the counter you are greeted by a high celilinged three floored wooden warehouse of a book store. Wide, stripped floor boards. Antique sofas and chaise longues dotted around the space interspersed amongst the oversized wooden book shelves bursting with literary goodies many with hand written reviews poking out on coloured cards beneath them. The signs for different sections are written in health food shop Italics and people were cosying up with pages everywhere I looked. One upon an old school desk, another with her feet up on a powder pink armchair. What bookshops should be. Not a starbucks in sight. Just a good old fashioned, Colorado sized ma & daughter business. Only the knowledge that Cory and boy desperately needed the snacks and water that I had in the bag on my back tore me away from there. Back down I went across the river, past the cluster of old factories turned into uber trendy lofts, that over the past decade that have changed the face of Denver, and into the playground. Boy and pop red faced and wilting.

Taking overheating as a cue for our exit we retraced our steps back to our home. Barely making it to the reception when Pazano's table at the window had our name on it. It was Happy Hour and for $4 a plate we gorged on various deliciousnesses including papardelle in a meat sauce - cooked with the freshest ingredients I have tasted in a while and a mouth watering tray of deli goodies for ma and pa. Including fresh Buffalo mozzarella, Bresaola, proper Pecorino and 30 mini roasted garlic cloves of which I ate about 29. I did kind of regret it a little later on for reasons I shan't go into here. Lets just say I was glad for Cory that he was at work....

We stopped in again today with the troupe after wiling away most of the mid morning and early afternoon by the Sheraton's pool. It is a square of turquiose wateriness flanked by their piece de resistance - full size four poster sunbeds. What better way to literally lie around with your mates soaking up the somewhat cloudy but warm day. The polka dots were out, boy was splashed about by our friends and then mum and dad and the rest of us sprawled around one another on the beds, the red canvas curtains flapping on the rooftops winds. All we needed were a few servants to hand out the grapes and you would have been down Pompei way. I'm having a nice day.

Yes, the place has captured my attention in a big way, and its not just because a very handsome soldier in camos caught my sunglassed eye and wished me a "hello miss". Perhaps its because our first morning was spent at The Market sipping perfect lattes and home made baked goodies with classical music overhead flanked by mouth watering grocery delights and creative types in light hearted breakfast meetings. Or maybe because every time you cross the streets you catch a view of the snow capped mountains. Or that TJ Maxx is just around the corner. Or perhaps that there are psychadelically painted pianos down on 16th street dotted about under the shade of trees for any to play, whilst folk sit back on the yellow metal chairs and talk the day away or partake in a game of chess on the stone tables. Probably all of these, and more to come over the next few weeks in which I am delighted to call Denver our home.

Boy asked me for the first time the other day why we didn't live anywhere, why we were travelling? I tell him we are lucky because we can call so many places our home even if but for a short while. Especially when they start with a "D" for Denver.....

Mexicana Psychadelia

Nothing quite tingles the sensory buds like a stroll through the kaleidoscope that is Market Square, San Antonio. On first invitation I was a little weary of braving what was described to me as an area crammed with stalls and food. The thought of trawling through all of this with an alternately wilting and rambunctious three year old under an unforgiving afternoon sun was not my idea of fun. But then, the words covered and air conditioned reared their beautiful heads and I was on the red trolley line quicker than you could say pay-one-dollar- and-a-dime-please-signorita. Enter Cory's friend from home accompanied by her mother and another friend and the three ladies, experienced shoppers took it in turn to lead us around the market and occupy the young Sam. In fact, Tammi's mum, Pat, known to the young as Grandma Pat if you please, formed quite a bond with the young chap. She insisted on keeping him busy whilst I shopped and, after I had purchased a recycled Mayan shirt in its new incarnation as a Colourful bag I was greeted by a small guitar on legs. Sammy's head popped out of one side with a beaming smile to boot. Thank you Grandma Pat. He has not put the thing down since, though every effort on my part for a decent tuning has been aborted and so the tunes are all wonderfully a-tonal...I should give my mate Sting a bell.

My eyes really were popping out of my hard head. Between the day of the dead statues, the metal work mirrors, rows upon rows of Mexican shirts, skirts, hats, belts, Frieda Kalho shopping bags, tiles, ceramics, jewellery. It really was a shoppers playground, especially one with a penchant for bright colours. Along the stalls we also came upon a tiny accordian for all of around $20. It will suit my Sardinian lady's show perfectly. I can't play yet, but I had fun practicing whilst window shopping. Never a better way to detter pushy sales staff. One of whom, gave a lengthy description of why I ought to visit his shop. 'Cept it was in Spanish. It took both of us a second to realise that there was a language barrier. My skin is changing colour you see, chameleon like I am trying to blend in to the town, though in truth I still look more Iranian medical student than Mexican signorita. One colourful cloth bag ain't gonna cut it. Back we returned on the trolley once again, bumping up off our seats at the back. Sam-boy deep in a heart to heart with Grandma Pat on the whys and wherefores of Thomas the train and swimming pools.

Which is where we decompressed this afternoon. 2nd floor. Pool. Relief. I had had a successful shopping trip you see. I have finally found suitable swimming attire, and, though I am the first to say I look more like Esther William's chubby older sister than Gina in her full glory I will admit that feeling dressed up to go for a dip is much more fun than feeling half naked. Its a polka dot number, more of a little dress than a lycra wotsit. Suits my imaginary world just fine. I had had a few hours to myself whilst the boys ran themselves ragged at the children's museum and our guests trawled the antique emporiums. They had treated us to breakfast at the renowned Menger Hotel. Another beautiful relic, at its centre a two tiered atrium, be-colomned with the fading beauty of a Southern Belle. It had the ever so faint whiff of decay, and, inside the breakfast room, past the pictures of the same space in its black and white hey days, there was that familiar sense of the wrong end of old-fashioned so common in many sea side towns at home. It wasn't quite Fawlty Towers or anything. Certainly quite a few ghosts roaming around is all.

Apparently there are funny things going on in our hotel too. Tonight, for the shear sado-masochistic love of it all, Ry, who is playing the creature in the show, is staying in The Room, in hopes of meeting other creatures. On check-in, one of our company managers noticed that his clock was counting downwards and twice, his door swung open, even though he had shut it. Its the kind of door that needs a card swiped in order to open. On both occasions there was nobody visible, or audible in either direction of the corridor. Turns out the room opposite to his has had so many funny goings on that the staff no longer rent it out. When Ry requested it, they politely informed him that it is not usually for guests. He explained that he was fully aware of the situation. I will drill him tomorrow.

All this after I have taken our boy to The Match. Yes sirs, tomorrow will see England beat the USA "team" (sorry, I couldn't resist). After which, boy and I will strut down the San Antonio streets waving our flag, his face painted regulation shades and donning his prized England uniform. Trouble is, I really do think he utterly believes that he will actually be playing the match. On the TV. Live. He has told his grandma so, many, many times. I hope spectatorship will be just as exciting. If not, there's always potato chips. Crisps I mean. Oh no, it's happening, I'm loosing my roots....Not up top, they are definitely showing my age.

Luckily, whilst working on the show Hounded, first of 13 episodes aired today on CBBC, the kind hair designer fixed me up with more than a dozen wigs to suit the thirteen different characters I played, each belonging in parallel universes. Think of Saved by the Bell meets Dr Who and you are almost a quarter there. It was written by the comedy writers at the BBC and everyone has high hopes for it. I scrambled the internet to see what was being said about it, if anything, and was overjoyed to find a quick mention at the end of one article, informing readers that the "youngsters" Colin Ryan and Eva Alexander make appearances. Ego basking in the light of fairytale people. Youngsters. You gotta love it.

So here I am, about to spruce up our home for our guest this evening. Another friend from Cory's home town, who now lives an hour away form here that I had met some years back in New York City. Cool cat.

I type, briefly reminiscing about the crazy salon I stepped into for some facial maintenance, and the large transexual who brightly greeted me and the peroxide blonde voluptuous woman who performed the torture, I mean waxing, pressing her belly and bosoms into my clavical to reach over, all the while telling me about her boyfriend. It was the first time I had had my eyebrows brushed before being pruned. With a full size comb. Perhaps I shouldn't leave it so long next time. On the chair next to me, the original greeter washing a young guys hair was listening to him detail the demise of his relationship with his boyfriend because of new love found on the internet. Behind the heavy heavy foundation, but a hint of stubble poking through, the greeter made suitably sympathetic noises whilst carrying out the washing with the industrious speed of a locomotive. Now that's what I call a girlie afternoon folks.

Tomorrow there is the promise of a proper good ole Mexican fry-up for breakkers. We will be showing our friend the mugshots we took of ourselves dressed up as cowboys down at the arcade. Yes we succumbed. All for the purposes of the blog of course you understand. Hopefully he'll still stay the night and take us to his favourite haunt tomorrow. Oh geesh, that word again, and its almost the witching hour too....

East of Crockett, North on Alamo

Last night as I attempted to sort through the messy thoughts on my novel a thunder storm raged over head. At one point - at a vital narrative juncture in the story I might add - the lights flickered on and off, the television following suit, though I am positive I never had it switched on in the first place. I am surprised the boy did not even stir, it sounded like the roof was cracking in two. This morning, after boy and I watched a patch of the plaster about a foot in diameter crash to the ground in the living room (we were at the opposite end of the room at the time) we learnt from the maintenance man that the storm had severed power in various places downtown, including our hotel.

San Antonio is a world away from Houston in all senses. In the first few hours after we arrived we had driven past palm trees, sweltered in the balmy evening and been accompanied by the friendly Anna to our palatial suite. There are havana style shutters on the bathroom window. A large table big enough for a six people poker game. A sofa, two armchairs, sideboards. Space. We pinched ourselves several times. The air is hot, heavy and wet. Almost tropical. People swagger more than walk down the street. There is something lingering in the air of another time. I heard more Spanish being spoken in that first afternoon than English.

We broke up the journey from not so pretty Houston, with a stop in Schulenberg. I haven't tired of the delight I feel when I come across a town name so obviously north european placed in a part of the world whose climate is as far away from Germany or the Czech republic as you can get. And yet, as we turned into the crossroads that is downtown Schulenberg on each corner stood different shades of northern european descent. A sausage meat market run by a man with a Polish surname, a german bakery and a czech "emporium". In we stopped for a home made sausage and beef brisket drenched in barbecue sauce, which was quickly followed by a tour from Wayne, the butcher, who proudly lead us out back to his barbecue pits. It smelt smokey and familiar and was spotlessly clean. I remember a farm in Sardinia that smelt exactly the same, only difference they had been smoking ricotta not meat. As we ate, folk came in to trade over the old wooden marble topped counter. Most were quite obviously regulars. With deliciously salty barbecued goodies ensconced in bellies we nipped across the road for a slightly disappointing cream pie. I think nothing will ever match up to great-aunt Evelyn's version back in Wisconsin. A good pie maker needs at least 60 years of practice methinks. To facilitate digestion we peeked about the antique emporium next door, where a lady turned to us as we left with a "y'all come back and see y'hear?" Only if we intend to buy AR-15s from Wayne, I thought to myself, who had a paper stuck to his sausage chiller cabinet announcing they were in stock. On we drove passed Geronimo and Woman Hollering Creek. I did. She didn't. Must have been on lunch.

Arriving into San Antonio, with barely any petrol, we were immediately struck by how narrow the streets are downtown. A trolley bus passed us, much to the delight of boyo, and we quickly found the Gunther Hotel. Plaques abound the lobby, replete with memorabilia and photos of its hey day including a huge operator's telephone exchange, used until 1979. San Antonians seem a proud, culturally vibrant lot. We took to the river walk almost immediately to meet the troupe for a day off dinner. We sat outside, in the balmy night air, sipping margaritas and watching our waiter make fresh guacamole at our table. His expression just beyond caring, but the end product tasted good. The service really made you feel like you were in a hot country. It was unhurried to say the very least, and we didn't care a jot. Remember I have been trained in Sardinia, where, in the 80s as tourism was but a struggling seedling over there, you would literally be reprimanded by management (loudly with passionate gesticulation) if too many of you ordered fried calamari because it would short circuit the electrics. Then you would wait about an hour for it to get to your table. They probably were fishing it. That'll learn you for eating too much fat.

Sammy held court with his favourite actors who took it in turns to show him around, wash his hands, introduce him to the two latino ladies on the table next to us, aged 3 and 4. Usual thing. The next day Krista, for whom the boy has developed a serious attachment, offered to play with him poolside whilst Cory and I celebrated our anniversary. Tykey couldn't believe his luck. Krista all to himself! No sharing with mum and dad! Score! Meanwhile we tucked into an unhurried seafood feast on the river....

A block away from our pad are stone steps that take you down it. It is narrow, and quite shallow, looking more like a canal and protected by an advanced system of flood and drainage protection. Its banks are lined with restaurants and shops, the winding pavements taking you under picture perfect stone bridges and past an abundance of fresh fauna, succulents, palms and other tropical lushness. To our left we passed a beautiful hotel, looking like it had been shipped in from Seville, each room with a french windowed balcony and tall backed wooden chairs on them much like the sort my grandmother used to have. The man who designed the area back in the late 30s early 40s had intended to create a place that would be a mix of Venice and New Orleans. The desired outcome has been beautifully achieved. People saunter along the rivers edge and take rides on wide barges for a potted history of the city.

That's where we were today, under the post lunchtime sun, listening to our captain's humorous journey through San Antonio. Somewhat disconcerting were the barely audible mutterings amplified by his headset mic that he drifted into in between stories. Cory pulled a face. I hoped he was not recovering from a post traumatic disorder seeing as he was eager to tell us when we boarded that he had been stationed in Essex twice with the forces. Never underestimate the psychological repercussions of living in Essex my friends.

The thing that will stay with me the most from our sailing down the water, apart from the picturesque entry into La Villitta where on one side of the river is a small stage facing mini stone raked seating on the opposite, is the fact that the restoration of the river area was mostly to do with a group of women who formed a conservation group back in the 1920s and whose vision was the propelling force for what we can enjoy today. They are still an incredibly strong group and are solely responsible for making this city one which fiercely preserves its history and unique antiquity. When the Mariott wanted to build they insisted that the 1920s landmark on the ground which they sought to develop was protected. The developers moved the entire building to be closer to the river in order to carry out their modern project. For the developers of the Hyatt it was a similar story. Te conservationists refused to grant permission for their high rise, because, they said, it would cast a shadow over the Alamo at sunset eclipsing it's picturesque glory. What a marked contrast to the rampaging newness of Houston.

At the end of the tour there was indeed only one thing to do. Put our sweaty feet one in front of the other, turn onto East Crockett street and head for the Alamo. I think I have taken enough pictures of it to satisfy my father's obsession with all things cowboy. It really is a beautiful shrine. Within its walls, manicured gardens fresh with prickly pear fruiting cacti, flowering palms, enormous succulents and immaculate lawns. Fountains trickle, coin confetti sunk down on the watery stone. It has an eery stillness to the place despite the hustle bustle of the tourists, and there were plenty of them. What a world away from the America we have seen so far. Here, in the shade of the sand time worn stone I begin to comprehend the sheer rampaging history of the place. The breadth and depth of the diverse cultures, so very alive here, and proudly celebrated. What a treat to be able to stand amongst this. Soak it up.

I asked the maintenance man this morning, as Sam and I watched him peel off more of the plaster from the ceiling, why he loved his town so. He pin pointed the diversity of the place and the way in which each of its converging cultures has a voice, a place, a home. I asked him how he deals with the humidity (my clothes have not dried in three days hung up) and he gives a little shrug and a chuckle. He tells me that in winter the frigid cold that rolls in from the gulf and is trapped by the texan hills beyond the city is just as damp. I tell him this city will never be my home but that it is mighty pretty. He chuckles again. Then he tells me that the man who plasters is in Cancun till Friday. No matter. I'm liking the crumbling Havana in august sort of look to the place. I pretend I am a writer under house arrest secretly churning out stories to maintain her sanity. At least one part of that statement is close to the truth

Speaking of sanity, I received a package the other week. On it was stamped "INSANITY". Yes sirs, for the purposes of the blog you understand, I am now a graduate of P90X. To you and me this means, my jeans are moderately less tight, though my triceps are still barely visible, and therefore to maintain my experiment in American fitness I have thrown myself into, well Insanity. Never a truer word written. Picture a hip hop star with a group of lithe folk behind him doing moves like you have pressed fast forward and play button at the same time and you are half way there. I caught myself in the mirror the other day doing jumping jacks at their speed and had to pause the DVD for some serious belly laughter at that jiggly reflection huffing and puffing back at me. After almost two weeks of the regime the boys are getting used to me shakliy exiting the bedroom looking like a cross between half cooked lobster and a seal. Listen, you've got to counter act the tex mex grub somehow. There's only so much guacamole and margaritas a girl can consume before they start to consume her.

No storms tonight. Only me, our palace, the plastic yuccas and the humid night ahead of us. Clean up tomorrow for a visit from a childhood friend of Cory's now living here. There may be tea involved, and post show drinks and snacks back at the suite later. It really is a very very tough life. I will soldier on, displaying the courage and determination of those Alamo folk.

All the trinkets and t-shirts this afternoon kept reminding me to "never forget The Alamo". One thing is sure, I will never forget San Antonio.

Houston, Prepare for Take Off

I just don't know how the Texans function in this heat. Call me a moany old Brit who can't handle hot or cold, but really, who in their right minds decided that it would be good to plant sticks in a place with what feels like 100% humidity?! Ok, there's the oil, granted, plenty of space, a certain expertise with matters related to outer space and that's certainly where my sanity goes after 10 minutes outside. That said, it's quite a sight to watch the rain clouds roll in from the west from our fifteenth (air conditioned!!!) room, cover the surroundings in a thick blanket of wet fog, thrash the streets with their wet load and then roll on by to reveal the sunny skies once again. Then, at least, the temperatures are closer to 3o degrees rather than the regulation 35. I've drilled locals for their survival techniques. Air conditioning, they respond, oh, and tunnels. Yes downtown Houston is connected with a warren of underground walkways to protect the worker from the elements. Skyways in Minneapolis protect from the cold, here it is to stop you becoming toast in your lunch hour. You can tell we are tourists, we're the only ones who walk around the city in happy holiday clothes barely covering our bodies in an effort to stay cool. The workers, seemingly the only people who populate this town (aside from the 7500 city dwellers) in contrast are long sleeved and cool looking. For the past 10 days of our stay I am sure I am leaving a trail of sweat behind me like a slimey snail. Best not commit any crimes, they'll be sure to find me. I keep trying to remind myself that power walking is not an option here. To slooooooow down. Take in the view. Its so easy in theory and so very difficult in practice.

The past few days have seen us take in the local hotspots. First off, a ride on a tram that lead us right through the main street fountains. Who knew that water and electricity would get on so well together? It delighted old and new suffice it to say. On our return journey a lady befriended me, gave a plotted history of the last few years, shared grandaughter pics with me and left soon after. You gotta love a good yarn. We found our way to the Children's Museum where big and little boy rambled to their hearts content, learnt to do a Texan line dance, puzzled at puzzles, touched things, knobs, levers, pulleys, pretended, pretended some more and climbed up an elaborate climbing structure which I hear Cory and his belly squeezed themselves through. Mama in the meantime took herself off to Rice Village. Classic lost in translation moment for the somewhat overheated visitor. I thought I had done a little research. To me, the words Village and Shopping in close proximity conjured up images of little streets with quaint establishments in which to choose to or refrain from parting with one's cash. What I found was a very pretty, but in all intents and purposes an outdoor mall. I fried in the sun in between a little window shopping, struggled to find a watering hole and eventually made my way back to the boys, down University Boulevard passing huge 1930s tudor style homes flanked by uber modern concrete houses, bamboo gardens pristeen and in tact. Deflated but undeterred a few days later boyo and I tackled the Galleria. A mall so big, boy and ma were dwarfed into slow motion, so far did the shop seem that we had intended to find. Luckily I had the sneaky plan of investing in a chocolate covered strawberry that raised moral for all of five minutes. We ducked into the shop in question, purchased a gift card for the head soundie who is leaving for another tour and slipped into Macy's where mum did a comedy turn for the boy in her best music hall version of "Mama Tries on the Swimsuits". Sure fire hit. It is a familiar set of schtick - mum, in hurry (why the perpetual speed woman?!) tries on fifty different suits, is shocked to discover she does not look like Gina Lollobrigida in any of them. Pouts for a moment. And then leaves. Boy tried to convince me to buy the one with stripes and a polka dot halter neck strap a la 1950s - it was my favourite - he even told me it looked nice (unprompted) and yet, the truth is I am not quite ready to go parading around a pool with a cast of lithe dancers. No swim suit is going to magic me into a 5ft 2" lean mean swimming machine really now is it? Work on ego needed. Time to do it? Check.

The previous day had seen us take a group trip to the downtown aquarium. In we went wowed at the jellyfish, oooed and ahhhhhhhed at the lionfish and catfish. Goosebumped our way past the python (stay with me) and hurried past the blowfish so we could catch the white tiger show. Yes, turns out fish are not enough to keep the punters happy. In we crammed into a small room, and, through what I hoped was some seriously thick glass, we watched a young trainer make tigers sit and stand to her commands. During which we had the live narration from another young girl, who admitted to it being her first try, and nervously teased us for being so quiet. Something about having a 400 pound bit of tiger infront of you kinda has that effect. She told us about how they never reprimand the tigers for not showing requested behaviours - she had a long official title for this which I forgot as soon as I heard it, instead they praise when they do follow. With meat. Lots of it. Essentially, supernanny's guide to zoological exploits. When the second tiger came to do the same routine as his cousin, we left to see more of the fish. There weren't any. Feeling somewhat duped, and having been led through the gift shop to the exit we found ourselves under a sun baked fun fair. On we piled of course onto the diminuitive "steam" engine that took us under the many flyovers that zig zag downtown to a created sea world including a tunnel tank of shark. Boy, quivering on our friend's lap asked when we would be out of the tunnel. About ten times. In essence we were underwater in a train with killer fish about us. Poor thing clung to courage just long enough till we reached the light again. No sooner reaching calm than a giant metal white shark spouts water out from a tiny pool and half the train's passengers scream with fright. Grown ups mostly. On we weaved under more highways. After a carousel ride and a Guess Jester - where a lady tries to guess your weight or age or birthday (Cory is still jigging around because she guessed five years younger than what he is. His colleague on the other hand is reeling because she guessed 10 years older. Ooooops) it was time to cool off at the water sprays. Some children were rolling around in them like baby seals. Our boy was tip toeing round the edge until a couple of the performers (his favourites to be truthful) whisked him up and hugged him into the watery fray till both he and they were squealing in delight. It is such a great pleasure to watch your child truly have fun and create bonds with others. Today, when we dropped dad off at the theatre after dinner he ran to everyone in the cast that we passed and gave them a proper hug and kiss. I wonder if he will ever know how much joy that gives his mum and dad. Makes me forgive myself my lack of patience and bask in a moment of pride at having been sent such a loving little person into our lives.

That said, we have had a few rollercoaster rides on the turbulent times of a three year old for the past few days. I think I would like to attribute it to a delicate tummy but that is of no comfort when you are hiking down the Bayou trail towards the wrong end of 11 o clock and somebody, who usually can't wait to run free is lagging behind winging to be carried. The dreaded Whine. I refuse to cultivate a threshold for it. Would be best to swallow a double dose of humour at these times, but often that fails me also. To be fair we were all puddles of sweat having braved the trail from our hotel that took us winding down a murky river's side under what I counted to be about 8 loud overpasses with cars and huge trucks zig zagging overhead. It was a perfect clash of natural versus urban jungle. I tried to focus on the former but something about the juganauts racing above us made me uneasy to say the least. After we had carried on for about a mile or so, having moved towards open skies rather than concrete ones, we started towards another set of overpasses that lead to a dirt path flooded just at its entry. We stopped to choose our way, caught sight of a guy huddling over his stove looking like an extra out of Mad Max and decided to beat, a seemingly nonchalant retreat. In truth we sped up somewhat, argued over the iphone map and which way to go and eventually, in true urbanite fashion found our way back to a noisy road and settled by a swing set for a quick turn for the boy. Thunder clouds had been looming overhead for most of the morning and we returned home just in time to miss the lashing rain and rumblings, managing to fit in a quick look about the Historical village. This is an area just by the hotel in which historic homes dating pre 1800s and throughout the subsequent centuries have been uplifted and re-built. We peeked into a greek revival, huddled at the window of a cabin and wowed at the porch of a beautiful Victorian. They stand, closed but illuminated inside like oversized doll's houses set in the surreal surroundings of, yes, more highways and parkland. Back from our whistlestop tour of architecture, I got busy in the bathroom creating a pork loin grill and pesto pasta job whilst boys watched the weather and some such.

Today boy and I got into packing. Of late he has become very interested in "folding" clothes, and, as long as I take the time to watch him do it, he can stay busy at this for some time. Perhaps in another few years the garments may actually look like they have been folded, but the care with which he does it is a joy to watch. We had just enough time to fit in a slap up dinner at the theatre's restaurant. Now, in experience, these two words never sit too well together. At best, I expected a few cheese rolls and a packet of crisps. What we had was a luscious seafood dinner with whole flash fried crawfish stood to attention on taquitos, paella and a jumbo lump crab salad. When the taquitos arrived (Brits - that's a mini soft tortilla with stuff going on on top) I took a double take at the topping. "It's ok ," said the waiter, "you can eat the whole thing." "And the shell?" I asked. "No, no, they are peeled ma'm." He was right, but I did feel a little strange at gobbling up the little creatures boy and I had just wowed at at the Aquarium but a few days earlier. They were even stood up, looking alive even, as if they had been crawling over the bread and someone had ambushed them with a deep frier. Tasted good though. Remorse is apparently but fleeting. Actually we were lucky to be let in. The first lady who greeted us took one look, us - loaded with wiffle balls and rucksacks and casual clothes sweating profusely, she - suited and booted, unsmilingly informed us that the restaurant was fully booked. Oh, and we could not wear shorts. Just as we were leaving another lady came to our rescue and recognised Cory's voice from an earlier telephone call, knew he was in the show and found us a table. In a corner. Dark. Far far away from the hoy poly. We weren't wearing our hoy poly outfits that day, even though mama Loves to dress up. For, all of say.....15 minutes. The novelty soon wears off, especially in this heat when after five minutes all I want to do is lie down on a shady bit of pavement and go to sleep.

And so they we have it. Houston in a slightly over wordy nutshell. Its goodbye time again. Ready for the delights of San Antonio. Three hours away is our next home. Have strict instructions from my dad on photo evidence of the Alamo.

River walk here we come!

Minus the highways please.....

Heat + Sun = Party!!!

Turns out the day after a fun packed fabulous party day leaves the family somewhat bleary eyed. Something however, about the incessant heat and sunshine brings out the partier in even the most weary traveller. Gone are the days when days off were spent huddled in the warmth cosied up as three musketeers against the elements. Out now come the sunshine coloured clothes, the happy sunkissed skin the twinkly eyes of summertime frolics for the troupe. With this new summery spring in people's step yesterday saw us bundling into a shuttle bus to.... The Game.

Now, although my father did a fantastic job of educating me on the details of world war two aircraft, tanks and general locomotives, he was never big on sport. Engineering yes. Ask me about a hinge and I can wax lyrical, but sport? Not so much. One conversation springs to mind as I write this of the time I told my parents I was about to become the cox of my university's rowing team. My father, huffing and puffing red steam down the pay phone told me in no uncertain terms that I had been given the chance to study theatre film and television and that I had not bloody waste it on cavorting with a bloody sports team. "Plays! Films! That's what you should be getting involved in!!!" Then he passed the phone over to mum, and, with a queue forming behind me in our echoey dorm hallway, she went on to somewhat more gently persuade me to stall a decision before I committed to a 6 day a week dawn training regimen. Life would have turned out quite differently if I had chosen to spend those three years crouched at the end of a little boat. So, you can appreciate the excitement of the unknown that pumped through me as I followed the crowd into Minute Maid stadium. As we entered I could make out the green expanse and I got that ancient-tingly-big-crowd-game-in-a-minute feeling that has been around for our species since the days at the colosseum and before. As well as the steam engine high up on the ridge of the stadium that peeped its whistle carrying a car of "oranges" behind it (Brits - Minute Maid makes juicy fruity drinks. Gettit?).

In we went with the sea of fans swelling out before us. I praised our lucky stars that the designers had been thoughtful enough to not only install a retractable roof but couple it with Texans' lifeline, commonly known as the air conditioner. Seats found, beer in hand, smoked turkey roll drenched in tangy barbecue sauce and we were a go. After a heart felt rendition of God Bless America sang whilst servicemen and women held open a giant American flag the game began. First pitch was thrown by a major in a figure hugging army uniform (later I spotted him sat with his wife and four kids a few rows in front of us). Course my thorough understanding of the game is still somewhat patchy (have to wait three years before applying for my american passport so that's ok) but I can follow the gist of it. Especially when there is so much food involved. The incessant calling out of vendors took me back to what life may have been like in Covent Garden circa 1750s. Only their products were somewhat more multicoloured. Luckily boy only had two sips of a psychadelic blue ice concoction leaving him bouyant but not totally drugged. I finished a large portion of it off. Made me talk even faster.

I took in the stadium and was most struck by the sweeping cross section of society attending. Admittedly I have only been to one football match at home but I don't remember many 60+ year old women in their sunday lipsticks sat watching. Or so many babies. Die hard football chanters yes, dads and their kids yes, but not like this. Young, old, rich, poor. Actors. Sport is a beautiful thing. Made all the more exciting by not one, but two, spectators who sprinted across the field, halted the action and subsequently dragged off by law enforcers. Each episode was followed by a thorough explanation from the troupe to Sammy, who was drilling them for the exact meaning of the action and its repercussions. Then followed a spat with the Houston team's pitcher against the umpire leading to his subsequent dismissal from the field. It was kinda all down hill from there for the Astros bless 'em. Probably didn't help that half their fan base left at the 7th inning because winning was seeming increasingly unlikely. Don't see that at a Man U match. I thought I had missed something important when several hundred people jumped out of their seats and ran for the exits like wilderbeasts pounding the African plains on their way to the river's edge.

And therein another puzzling element to the game; all the fans sit together in one democratic America free-for-all mosh. No chanting. No touting of the opposing team's fans across the other side of the stadium. No bottle throwing, geering. No songs. Except when told. At the 7th inning "stretch" (we all stood up) it was time for a jolly old sing song. Our side of the stadium offered up a beautifully harmonised version of Take Me Out to the Ballgame, God Bless AMerica and The Yellow Rose of Texas (on of my father's personal favourites) following karaoke style the words on the huge screen. Then we all politely sat down again. Not so polite I thought was the word ERROR flashing on and off on the same screen a little while later when the opposing team fluffed up a simple double play. See, gettin the lingo. Or bluffing as the case may be.

At the end of the game, and with a summer afternoon spring in our step we went on to the poolside. Not ours exactly. The hotel next door (sssssshhhhhh its hush hush) has a roof top pool and some of the players have gotten friendly with some guests (not that kind of friendly you gossips) which means we get to essentially break in to dip-in. No harm done right? Right?! Hey ho, so there the troupe were, swimming and splashing and generally demonstrating water acrobatics to the boy whilst mama lost herself in her book and caught the setting sun's rays. It really is a tough life but someone simply must do it. A few hours later, boyo was wrapped up in a pile of towels, eating crackers like he hadn't seen food in two months and with both eyelids heavy with a happy day. Did we turn in for an early night? Settle boy into bed? Put our feet up? Nossir!

Fifteen minutes later, we were brushed up, washed down and ready to hit the tiles for a Mexican feast. Fourteen of us bundled into the shuttle bus once again (and once again reassuring Sammy that it was not the space kind - he seemed concerned about the fiery lift off) and sang (loudly) on our way to the joint. Food and drink was ordered, boy collapsed into sleep after two tortilla chips and slept his way through the rest of the evening on a collection of chairs at the head of the table. Mama and our friends sipped Margaritas and scoffed fajitas. The word small has officially been removed from the Texan dictionary. At least that's what it seemed like as I tried to lift all 30lbs of my drink. It was more of a chalice, no, vase than a glass. Needless to say I didn't get to the end of it! Biceps got a good work out though. Back we trundled into a bus, carrying a sleeping Sam into and out of it and back down onto a new, armchair bed in the hotel's lobby bar. Nightcaps all round and then a relatively early night for all.

Today then, was all about household chores. You know the kind of thing. Laundry. Groceries. A little matter of practical duties. Still, there is something about walking a baking street lined with palm trees and bursting with bouganville blooms even whilst dragging a two tonne bag of clothes that makes the task seem a little more exciting. Festive even. The smell of the dried pine needles along the sun parched sidewalks takes me back to Sardinia and makes the state feel like a whole different country. I love it. Course I couldn't possibly operate for longer than 15 minutes in these temperatures. Not without looking like I have just finished a second marathon.

When we arrived at the laundromat, a sullen fan girating on the ceiling to the rhythms of the soap dialogue form the television across from it, we were greeted by a couple of hispanic kids who Sam gravitated towards whilst Cory and I negotiated the task at hand. Washers, loaded, friends having left we went on the hunt for food. That is to say we crossed the street to find ourselves in a formica tiled white room with white plastic 1980s chairs and clear plastic vases on the table stuffed with brightly coloured (real) carnations. The walls, on the one side lined with enlarged photos of every type of novelty cake you could imagine and on the opposite signed photos of the owner with celebrities for whom she has baked amongst which Clinton, Elizabeth Taylor and George W. Bush to namedrop but a few. I guessed she was going for the hospital store room meets bakery kinda look. We ordered our lunches and helped ourselves to the iced tea with a capital Texan T (strong as a good ole British builder's tea). Neither Cory or I expected such fresh sandwiches or deliciously home made veggie soup. I was particularly interested in my pickled okra garnish. Never thought I would put those three little words in a sentence together. It's just fantastic when you try something for the very first time. After more oooing and aaaaahing over our food, the boys went to finish off the mundane stuff whilst I did what I love to do best. Shop. Bargain shop.

Yes, by the side of the washateria I stepped into my familiar world of the charity shop. Course being in Texas it was as big as a small warehouse, and instead of one or maybe two volunteers behind a slightly sad looking counter there was an army of veteran debutantes their white locks impeccably quoiffered with texan twangs to boot. The till rang out under the tip tap of manicured nails. Everything from dressers to children's shoes stocked the full shelves. I delved into rail upon rail of barely worn clothes and came out the other side with ten items amounting to just over $60, each more beaded and bejewelled than the first. I am all set to twinkle into more summer nights. Yes I know, I know, I promised myself to approach the travel with some relinquishing of the material world, and yet, a good bargain, that will be used and used and loved, is near impossible to pass up. Especially if it's under $10. If I was a true Zen shopper I would let go of 8 items I have with me. Not quite at that stage methinks.

And now, after a bimby'd (she is back!!!!) dinner from out of our bathroom, sorry kitchen, I have kissed my fella tarrah, kissed our boy goodnight, gazed at the pink ball of fire that was the sunset tonight and sent out a little prayer of thanks for a couple of very special days. A whiff of texan debutante perfume wafts up from the shrug I bought this afternoon. Not a world away from my late aunt's white rose scent. God only knows how she would have enjoyed a little spending spree this afternoon a la Texan.

Y'all enjoy the view from up there y'hear?

Going Back to Houston....

The sprawling pink blue indigo Texan sunset framed by our floor to ceiling windows on the fifteenth floor makes me glad to be back in our travelling mode. Admittedly the heat, which we have so longed for through the chilly depths of the Michigan and Minnesotan winters has come upon us in dramatic fashion. Who knew that 35 degrees and what feels like 100% humidity would reduce the weary jet lagged ones into a heap of sleep deprived weather wimps. I mean, I have Sardinian blood for goodness sake. I should be able to take this heat. Not so.

For the past couple of days, since boy and I arrived, we have been hiding away in doors and letting rip when you can almost breathe outside, usually after 4pm. It feels wonderful to let your skin breathe again after mummyfying ourselves for so long on the tour. Boy proudly strutted his England football uniform. We are training him up for the world cup of course. And preparing him for some in family feuding. I am rooting for Italy, and its not just because the players are pretty, Dad is on "team" USA (couldn't resist sorry) and boy will be painted red and white. We are a true coalition. Its all the rage in England these days don't you know?

The joy of boyo finally being allowed to wear his shorts took me back to school days when we would change over into our summer uniforms. It was then that I would know it would be only a matter of weeks till we would pack off to Sardinia for the summer. Yippeekayay! A term we have been indoctrinating the boy into saying. Well, we are in dude country now. Best get with the lingo. We past a 5ft man on the street the other day and mum, rather too loudly shouted out at boyo to look! Course he looked in the opposite direction. I had spotted my first cowboy. Well, my first man in a cowboy hat. Sammy asked me if he was with his horse too? He then asked me if I was so keen to buy cowboy boots should I not then in fact, be a cowgirl what with me being a girl. I answered in the affirmative. He then drilled me on whether they lived in the same place as cowboys. I admit I struggled on answers for all of the above and so, as a family, we have decided, for educational reasons of course, to find ourselves a dude ranch on our way to San Antonio next week. It'll be like City Slickers meets Bugsy Malone, I can just see it now....

Our first few nights in Houston have of course been spiked by some serious jet lag - nothing like waking up at 3 in the morning to a viciously AWAKE three year old - but also a warm reunion with the acting brigade. Sam boy and I had planned on playing outside the stage door in the balmy evening whilst dad brought home the bacon (we had slept all afternoon and mum didn't fancy staying indoors) but a thunder storm sent mum and boy running inside. We were greeted by the lovely Mr Vargo, who, as a swing in the show, often has time for a good natter. Down we went to the green room and set about a marathon round of Mousetrap. It was interspersed with pop-ins by everybody in the company who took it in turns to vie for Sammy's undivided attention so excited were they to be reunited with their mascot. By the end of the show he had been squeezed and teased by most of them, sat on beautiful ladies laps, been fed birthday cake (this week is littered with celebrations) and generally held court in a way that only a three year old can. He even managed to sit next to Ry, the actor playing the monster, in his full make up, without clinging onto mama. The boy is growing up. And clearly happy to be back with his other family.

At lunch today he started to give Cory suggestions for ad libs. At one point in the show his dad has slipped in a "Samalamadingdong!" which makes our son squeal in delight every time. Last night, he shouted out at the monitors in the green room a loud "thank you Dad for saying my naaaaame!" Today however, he was full of alternatives, including substituting the above for "Little big bottle of ketchup!" Not sure what Mr Brooks might have to say about that one. Later at dinner, he sat, bolt upright, eyes a-sparkle with love for his papa whilst drilling him for details on how the show went and why and how and why and who and when and why. It was like being at a pub after a show with the performers. I don't know who was loving it more. Boy or slightly bigger boy. I was fussing around the peripheries trying to make a decent dinner out of our bathroom, sorry kitchen, with the use of a foreman grill and a helpful microwave.

The past few days have seen us leaving London after a few more teary goodbyes with our best (newlywed) mates, a quick turn for me as a mean posh bird in another children's comedy BBC show, or as I like to think about it - mum playing dress up and getting paid for it - and some serious grandma and grandad time. Now we have returned to our travelling life and I feel perversely settled again. I can now fully appreciate why people do this for years and years. I remember being left open mouthed when John Mark on the crew told me he had been on the road for 14 years. I struggled to truly comprehend what this meant. Now me and my bones get it. And as for the folks who are so keen to remind me that when Sammy starts school it will be curtains for travel I just have to observe the soundy giving him magnets from his tool box to enlighten him on the magic of physics, Nicole the spotlight operator (who presented Sammy with a night light in the shape of a Lego man just yesterday) carefully explaining why a hex rivet is called so and the performers taking it in turns to pass on tricks of the trade to know that the little tyke is getting a very special education. For now anyhows. Whilst we live the pretend end of the reality spectrum.

For the next few days we plan on soaking up Houston, catch a ball game, perhaps a farmers market, a trip to the (air conditioned) children's museum and some serious wiffle ball action with the troupe....

Its good to be back "home"........

Gettin to the "Church" On Time....

As I stood, shakily reading Bob Dylan's Wedding Song to a small sea of friendly faces at my best friend's wedding before the justice of the peace ceremony began, I felt the tears of gratitude fight to stay inside till at least the closing lines. I was moved that we all managed to be there, and that she had bestowed such an honour upon me. My acting training went as far to help me to remember to breathe and make myself heard, but I never did manage that control-your-emotions-with-the-stoicism-of-an-unflappable-royal or some such very well....Still, I got through it (without looking at my friends in the eye - then the flood gates would have been opened past the point of no return) and puffed out my chest with pride. Our son, had just finished his turn, walking calmly down the aisle, wearing his waistcoat with the shyness of a peacock in training. Having reached the half way mark on the red carpet, he paused. For dramatic effect of course. He then proceeded to show each side of the party the rings, tied delicately on a lacey cushion flown in from Italy. Right. Left; Ladies and Gentlemen, exhibit A. Then on to his seat. The boy's a pro. My video is shaky from laughing.

Gone was this poise but a few hours later when, full of a tiny dip into pink champagne and stuffed with bread and starters and jelly beans and roast dinner and desert and cheering and clinking glasses to get the couple to kiss (it's an Italian thing) boyo had turned into a diminuitive and somewhat manic Romeo chasing all the flower girls and trying to keep them rounded up in the main party room. In the end he prooved a light weight, when, after the room had been turned aorund for the second time into a dance floor and stage (klezmer band included!) the girls, having napped danced into the night in that delightful tribal style that small folk do whilst he conked out on grandma's lap and was laid across three chairs and slept through the subsequent three sweaty hours of dancing. The Klezmer band touched the gypsy within all of us as we fumbled our way, almost touching the floor, into circles and patterns, whooping and cheering and taking turns and strutting in the centre of the clan to cheers and claps and general happy group-ness. Having been sworn to resist inducing tears from the morning (I helped Gabby get dressed and her mascara was to last at least until the end of the ceremony!) I finally succumbed when Gabby's mum shimmyed over to mum and I and the three of us, arms around each other bopped up and down. I imagined Gabby's grandmother and my aunt Patricia popping down to link on to the ends and enjoy the party too. The happy sad tears came. After James and his band (the groom) did a fantastic turn towards the end of the night it was almost time to scoop up the boy and tip toe back out into the incredibly cold Welsh night and back into our cottage. He woke up, somewhat deliriously chatty, scoffed some wedding cake, hugged uncle James, exclaimed yet another squeal of delight in the fact that we got to live in a cottage in Wales and then fell into another bout of sleep. The following morning there were hugs and fried breakfasts and more Italian family-ness and friends, and goodbyes. Why always the good byes?!

Turns out, it is more of a see you in London in a few weeks' time, as my producer from the series I finished last september surprised me with a job offer the first day we arrived. Hows about that for a home coming?! It's a guest spot in an episode of another kids comedy show he is doing in which I get to play an arch villain. A spoilt, ruthless, brash and evil manipulative young lady. I can't wait. Don't misunderstand me, I do not long to be back on the audition circuit, dreaming up jobs, I am delighted to dip in for a few days and then return to what I truly appreciate now more than ever, to be our pretend life. The heavy clouds, the chill in the air of London and it's Londoners has confirmed to all of us that we are no where near ready to settle back down just yet. The dusty heat of Texas is a callin' and my boots are still made for walkin' - specially if they are leathr high heeled and turquiose encrusted thank you very much.

A quick word mention now of our last week in Boston. Having spent the first, in the company of my cousin, her husband and their two young boys, you would think that the English clan would lay low and re-coup after all the excitement. But why, when there were green card parties to organise?! Why rest, when there is celebrating to do darlings? The party itself, echoed the immigration process. The room was all set: The hamper was covered with green tablecloth, our enormous dining table was greenified also. A green helium star balloon bobbed up and down attached to an ice bucket. The bath was full of sparkling alcoholic things and sodas. Pizzas and antipasti were ordered. Boy was sat on the sofa, scrubbed, fed and sitting patiently next to his bedtime books. This is the order of the events that followed:

Mama tells him she just has to make a quick call to front desk to ask if she could borrow the glasses that they had told her the day before she could have for a party. The lady on the desk says no and carries on to explain that the limit for glasses is six. Mama explains that there are about 30/40 people coming in under two hour's time. Front desk lady says six is the max. Mama asks for plastic ones instead. Front desk lady says six is the maximum. Mama changes subject and asks for a little help with ice seeing as the bath is rather deep and the machine is a five minute walk away. Front desk lady says I can help myself to the ice and take as much as I wish. Mama says the bath is enormous and the recepticles in the room rather tiny. Front desk lady does not budge. Mama please-s. Front desk lady says, in any case she could not help because the ice is for a party and she cannot condone a party in a guest room. Mama feels like a spoilt little rich girl when she points out that they have had the good fortune to be living in a HUGE suite. Front desk lady replies with a HUGE no on all counts and a please stop harranging me miss, goodnight. That ole' green card bureaucracy rearing its head once again. Does mama stumble? Panic? Scream and shout? No siree, mama dresses boy up, who is now speechless with excitement at the fact that bedtime has suddenly turned into urban adventure. We traipse out into the Bostonian night and just over an hour later return with a bath full of ice and plastic champagne glasses and tumblers. Somehow boy and ma manage to mix up the green, green card cocktail, lay out plates, fill the bath with ice to cool the drinks, have shower, and get boyo to sleep, all in under 45 minutes. You've got to hand it to these short folk, we know about speeeeeeed. You should have seen the little boys face, droopy with tiredness as I whizzed around fixing up the room, turning to me and quietly announcing he was ready for books now ma. He slept through the whole noisy affair. Through the operatic a capella harmonised version of Land of the Free, through the squeals of delight from the girls as the food arrived and those of mama when she received a sea of, mostly edible, "green" gifts. It was just lovely. We toasted to absent friends. I nearly cired. Everyone cheered. I was a happy camper. Boyo only called out as the very last guest was leaving around 2ish and when ma and pa were more than ready to hit the hay. Then followed a family filled weekend with my in-laws and and their brother and sister-in-law as well as my cousins from Philly area. It was, as they would say in the welsh valleys, simply, lush.

We did arrive back in Blighty a little bedraggled I have to say. Nothing a bucks fizz and impromtu bank holiday party at my old neighbour's house couldn't fix. When we arrived my cousin - who is more of a sister - was waiting for me, and we partied into the afternoon. Now there's a way to ward off jet lag I tell ya. I managed till 8ish that evening until I literally fell onto the kitchen table, sound asleep, waking up, drooling onto the wood about an hour and a half later. Jet lag is the closest to purgatory I ever wish to get thank you very much. The not so dark secret of wannabe jet setters.....

Weariness aside, we have managed to squeeze in our top haunts. Cory did his usual manic turn at the plot. A planned morning of earthiness turned into the best part of a ten hour dig/fix-fest. He returned home red, weary and satisfied. We got to have a pint at our favourite little pub. Partied. Travelled the British countryside form the lush green Welsh valleys thorough the picturesque villages of Gloucestershie and Oxfordshire. My land of birth is a pretty one to be sure. But I am not ready for it to be home just yet. Course the green card situation has added another slant on things. There is a pressure for me to make sure I put it to very good use. Cory has already got me planning a full scale production of my one woman show by LA come August and I have already started putting a slow simmer of panic on my back burner...

Our bi-continental dream has its costs. Right now I type whilst Cory travels solo to St Louis and Sam and I sit tight till mummy has done her turn on camera and then it's direct to Houston, Texas. The seperation is but brief, and for this I am truly grateful, and yet it serves as a gentle reminder of the challenges that we may have to face if we truly are to protect our residency in both countries. Nothing a little determination and good humour can't handle.

And luck.

You can never have enough of that...