First Night. For the Second Time.

Good job I attacked my son's hair the day after opening night. Otherwise I would now be looking back at the photo of he and I next to Mr. Mel Brooks, upstaged by that crooked fringe. Should have known better than to do it myself. With nail scissors. I have told friends I am planning to hand over my mother's license by the weekend. They tell me I have embraced a pivotal rite of passage in motherhood.

He was cleaned up by the kind Jeff, Head of Hair - pardon the pun - who volunteered his expertise to correct my creation the following day at the theatre so that he would no longer look like a young Jacobi in medieval disguise. Even the 50 or so blank faced wig stands in Jeff's room, topped with tresses, seemed to be raising an eyebrow at me.

Thankfully, on the night of the big party, I restrained myself. Boy and I arrived, all gussied up in party gear ready to celebrate the new cast's opening that evening. We had watched the matinee with much anticipation on account of the cast changes and adjustments to direction and set. Mr. Fedora approved of the changes of the transference scene. It's the first thing he told me after the curtain call. We arrived just in time to catch the entire creative team wipe by us and onto the stage. Mel Brooks, Susan Stroman, the designers and producers, flanked by the new creative staff who will be keeping the show in tip top shape as it continues on its journey. The hush that fell was palpable. Like a royal walk-by but with no handshakes. I was swept over into silence also, barely managing an inane grin. These are the people who have facilitated our family's adventures in giving Cory this fantastic opportunity.

Me, wobbling on high heels, tottered in after them, Sam on hip, to the stage, where we found Dad and his hump. The resident director urged Sammy forward, telling Mr. Brooks that he must meet him. The latter is all smiles. The younger comes over a little coy beneath the rim of his fedora. Mr. Brooks insists on a family shot before the cast group pic. Mum waddles into frame, cheshire grin plastered across my face underneath the blusher. Even boy asked me how come my cheeks were so red? I blame it on the excitement of it all. Mr. Brooks, to my left is also grinning, though unlike me, the right side of deranged. After the big group shot, where Sammy is commanded to take centre (he hesitates not) we all clip clop to the party round the corner.

Little fella barely manages to ask for a lemonade at the bar, take a gulp, before he conks out in Dad's arms. Spends the rest of the evening laid out on a fancy black leather chair covered in Dad's suit jacket across from the roaring uber trendy fire. Party blaring about him, out cold to the martini fuelled frolics. Mum notices that all feeling in her feet has given way to absurd pain. I take a moment to wonder how, having worn the same shoes almost a year ago I have no memory of them being portable torture contraptions. Then I remember I was anaesthetised by starstruckedness at The White House. I believe I lost all feeling from the neck down that night, by the time my jaw thumped on the floor when the first person I locked eyes with was Scorsese.

Dad and I, almost recovered but still pumping with antibiotics, sip on our cranberry juices and enjoy mingling with the new troupe. I notice most of them snapping a picture of the Sam-man. I think I could create an entire album of Sam' sleeping spots. Atop the grand piano in Houston and under dad's dressing table amongst my personal favourites. His sleeping antics are new to them. I suddenly feel a little clump of nostalgia at the back of my throat for the acting family we have had to part with. It is swallowed down with anticipation for the adventures to be had with the new lot.

Eventually we hobble home, mum hastily changing into flip flops thank you very much. Relaxed summer night walks are what make a summer to me. This saunter back with a couple of the crew, Austin (of the travelling fuschia bar) and Ben (soundie who is teaching Sam to read by enlisting him during organisation of his microphone pockets in his holder wotsit) and Matthew Vargo (of Birmingham, MI, tea fame). Sam, scooped up from sofa, wrapped up and placed in stroller. In that sweet limbo between sleep and wake. They head up to the after after party. We call it a night. Gym in the morning.

Yes after my usual scout around the confusing alleys of Google I came across Team OC. On closer inspection I find pictures of a hanger size gymnasium with classes for children 6months to young adult. We arrive at the place, literally next to the runway of John Wayne Airport. Our conversations cut through by the roar of engines overhead. After a moment spying the hundresd of private jets parked beyond the wire fence that seperates the industrial zone form the airport we head in, past the 4 1/2 m.ph sign in the parking lot. Rose, a smiley Phillipino young woman welcomes us and hands our free trial card over. Boy, Ma and Pa can barely contain their excitement when they enter the gymnasium. To say it is filled to overflowing with squeaky clean state of the art rubber aparatus fit for the best Olympian would be putting it mildly. Let's just say, we've never observed a gym class, for three year olds at least, where the teacher sends each child to a different trampoline rather than wait in line. Or watched the tots leap across the space on a long tumble trampoline the length of half a hangar. Not one rope hanging appendage climby thing. Four. Not one or two balance beams. Seventeen. Plus three dance studios and a martial arts space. All with glass observation walls. A homework room (I see some children actually live here) an open kitchen, a snack dispenser, and my personal favourite, a shoppe. In all its rhinestone glitzy gym wares as far removed from ye olde shoppe as you can get but still.

Dad and I sit, upright and eager, faces enacting every move Miss Sarah asks of her little clan. They follow her around the immensity like little ducklings. The outline of Sam somewhat hazy from our back row seats at the top end of the tiered seating area, but for the big black balls for eyes that are visibly vibrating with delight. After the class Miss Sarah tells us she has never seen a three year old do a cartwheel before. Boy answers before we can take a breath to reply, "I LOVE it. I just LOVE it." Many are the folks in the cast who have commented that with his gene pool, he is in prime position to develop into a 5ft acrobat.

Whilst we had been watching the tyke swing frizzing with pleasure about the space, we also clock the class taking place parallel to them at the opposite end of the hangar. A mother and baby group are putting their 10 month olds through their paces with some heavy duty soft play assault courses. Never too early to develop upper body strength I see. By the time the three year olds are on the balance beams the babies are into the sing song round up of their class. I learn about the ten little Indians who swim down the river to their teepee. When I turn to Cory his face is a little pale with surprise. Like him, I thought that song had been evaporated into 1970s history. Apparently not. Every lesson we have been to since I have heard the reprise. Good news is they always do make it to the teepee.

After class we return to reception and enlist the boy. He bouncing, from foot to foot, inhaling pretzels as if his life depended on it. I spose it does really. Whilst we are plotting our weeks ahead Cory catches sight of the Sense` in the background, swirling into Karate moves from a seated position infront of his computer screen. He looks up and catches Cory giggling. Luckily he has a sense of humour and laughs at himself too. Never been an instinctive thing of mine to tease a black belter. Cory's irreverence is one of my favourite things about him. He clowns around equally with everyone and especially about himself. He had no choice the other night when I read out aloud an interview he had done for Broadway World. In the beginning I felt like the literal transposition of his chat with the reporter was hard "out-aloud" reading but, by half way through, we were both in stitches seeing as literally every other sentence the word Laughs in brackets appeared. If you didn't know otherwise you would swear Cory was stone drunk when he did this. Either that or a man reaching his mid life crisis with the dizziness of a pre pubescent in hormone overdrive. Which is what we both seemed like by the end of reading it, giggling hysterically.

Honestly. Every. Other. Word. (Laughs)

Which is what the lady who was dressed in a red halterneck all in one lycra job with a long tutu and a pink plastic tiara did when she was explaining the class she was about to teach. BAck at Team OC HQ, from under her smirk, as she sat patiently amongst the mums (and Dad) she tells us she leads the Princess Prep class. I know my face contorts into one of those barely concealed expressions. The ones Cor reminds me are bad news in public places and which I remind him are the product of an obsession with observing details about everything and everyone and which will stand me in good stead. One day. Maybe. And anyway why waste time being anonymous when you could be gleaning a myriad of information from a stranger across the carriage? You never know when it may come in handy. In fairness I fear this may be akin to hoarding clutter, but of the mind. No, I take that back. I am nosey. There's the end to it.

Anyhows, on clocking my face, tutu lady starts qualifying what her class is, in a surprisingly tongue-in-cheek manner. Her hand shoeing away imaginary flies as she lists teaching arts, crafts, dance, and, most importantly, manners. To wannabe princesses. I suddenly become self conscious of my accent. And a latent British snobbery rearing it's ghastly head wondering on the meaning and significance of princesses in Orange County. Ought I give the girls and their mums the heads up on the disastrous history of previous american-anglo royal alliances?

The day before, in a similar vein, I had read advertisements for character and social skills building for young girls, starting from as early as five. I suddenly feel a little overwhelmed by the folks profiting from the programming of very young women. Is not all of this part and parcel of the very influences that grown women criticise the media for and yet invest in through via their young daughters? The face creams? The diets? The suck-you-in pants? By my own admission I am guilty of all of the above, but I would hope, should I ever have the good fortune to be mother to a daughter that I would revel in her un-gelled tresses matted with play and tree climbing and dancing to music only she can hear? Before I know it I jokily ask what young Princes learn about? With an ironic wink she tells us that they learn to open doors and pay for the lessons for the girls. The mums (and Dad) laugh at the whole thing, as do I, and yet, a little seed of disquiet sits in my belly. The moment shot through when boy rushes out of his class, aglow with post tap dance delirium and we head out into the sunshine past the blonde blow dries, sweeping off the shoulder summer dresses oversized sunglass and onto the tarmac, narrowly escaping the urge to jump over the fence and get in one of the little planes. Just for the fun of it.

The following days are marked by a noticeable lack of manic exploration and a need to generally introvert a little. On my part at least. Though we are looking forward to hiring a car next week. There are beaches but a few miles away that have our sand scrawled names on it. Plus a dear friend of Cory's is in San Diego and has invited us for an overnight stay. Her little daughter has just turned two. Sam has seen the pictures and keeps asking me when we are going to play with the baby? He did today also, as we sauntered back from the grocery store, mum all smug having fitted an entire shop into a new cooler picnic hamper wotsit on wheels with flap for cutlery and plates. Just what we have needed for our mini kitchen, for, what almost a year?! Finally hunted it down at one of those plastic smelling mega chains. It was just as we past a lady, flashing us a smile from under her cloth hat, eyes hidden under her black sunglasses, 6ft long braid hanging in a U shape from behind her head and tucked into her back pocket. For safe keeping I suppose.

Till San Diego, we have our mall shenanigans to look forward to. I appear to be surprisingly willing to launch myself headlong into the whole OC county mall culture. When in Rome. Besides, there is a boy who believes he is able to transform into a tiger of a saturday. Who am I to rob him of such pleasures?

I've even checked the schedule.

Not a coconut shell in sight.

From Polynesia & Mexico with Love

Today is the anniversary of a pivotal day for so many. At great cost to many lives, it was also the day that spurred so many people to take important life changing decisions, including Cory and I. News came through to us via erratic emails from Cory who was living in midtown at the time. I was doing my day at my agency office, at that point a co-op. This is the type of agency that is run by actors and is non-profit. Every member has to work the office once a week. I was sat there with my colleague at the time, no radio or TV in our little space, only the snatched lines from Cory. It wasn't till we left for the day a few hours later that the reality set in. And that unsettling silence many people remember. It was then that we both decided, without explicitly communicating the fact, that we would like to share our lives together. Little over a month later Cory had proposed and I had accepted.

As Sam and I stood, in the atrium of South Coast Mall at midday this afternoon, called to a moment of silence whilst the anthem was played we all took a moment of solidarity to replay those memories and send good wishes to those for whom the memory is so painful. Least we would have done if the chap and chapesses on the Asthma Awareness table next to me had not been talking so loudly about the new inhalers they were giving out free. Or that lady behind me asking her son, in shrill tones, that it was a moment of silence and we had to be quiet because the lady asked for silence ok? Twice over. My snap to judgement is unfounded, seeing as we were at a shopping centre on a saturday afternoon in the middle of the Festival of Children.

Through our course of antibiotics Sam has literally been counting the days till he can have his face painted. "I will ask for a Lion this week without stripes ok mum?" Fine by me I tell him, quietly hoping for his success. Half and hour later we have reached our destination and a young lady transforms our boy into a Frankenlion. That is to say more of a green/blue roaring predator than a Savanah native. He took on his role with upmost concentration. Waving regally to all who looked twice at him bestowing them with gentile smiles and knowing nods. "Yes it's me", his expression seemed to say, "I really am the king of the jungle".

After his brush with brushes we filled up mum's tum with a quick lunch and then headed back to the stage to take in the afternoon's delights. First up were a local dance troop. The peppy choreographer proudly announces that the children about to perform dance around 20 hours a week (hang on - that's a full time job isn't it?!) and are the winners of a competition in Lake Tahoe. Moments later the small stage is filled with wannabe performers, legs in the air, smiles plastered on their face, lips and eyes painted 1982 crimson and baby blue. They perform a routine to Imagine in sparkly outfits and a sunflower as a prop. My favourite part was watching the children in the audience gaze up at them. Bewitched, bothered and bewildered. After the winner's encore we strolled up to the other stage to catch the end of a puppet show. A taciturn puppeteer took us through his quasi funny gags but held our attention with his troupe of marionettes. For the parents he added in a few educational questions on shapes and so on. No violence. If parents today saw the Punch (by name and nature) and Judy shows of my childhood there would be law suits. In fairness domestic violence probably has no place in children's shows. Others could counter-argue that this early exposure arms growing women as to what is acceptable or non acceptable behaviour. I'll stop there, the argument is thin to say the least.

After his reticent curtain call and passing out of his card we headed back to the main stage to catch a troupe of diminutive Polynesian dancers shaking the straw skirts off their bodies. Looked like a lot of fun. The drums were banging, the live guitars were strumming, there were hoots and cheers and singing. It wasn't till we reached the front seating area that I realised the dancers were no older than 7. Then the whole scene took on another colour. The singer I noticed was a very large man of a certain age, hollering out to the girls to smile and calling out the change of step. Routing after routine performed and the girls appeared to get younger and younger, gyrating their hips like wizened women. I turn to catch the look on the adults in the audience. I think they all have the same shade of grey awkwardness as I do. The girls on the stage appear be basking in the attention. All of them, no matter what kind of hair they have naturally, have their tresses out loose with a frizzy wave, the kind you get when you sleep in braids over night. I suppose this, along with the bikini tops of coconut shells is supposed to create an ambience of authentic Polynesia. I am secretly hoping they will bow soon. Just as I think it's time to clap does Pimp, sorry Caller, request the girls to go out into the house and find some partners. Sam looks over at me, eyes like saucers bright with anticipation. He cannot wait to get up there and dance. A breath later he is centre stage with a 6ft adolescent who is wiggling her hips like they are about to take off and he is being told to copy. He does. Obviously. With vim. Then the lap dance, sorry demonstration, is over and he is escorted down to rapturous applause. I am wondering where this prude in me has sprung out of, or whether it was best just to follow his lead. I mean, it just doesn't seem right, to tell someone to get off this stage at once young man, when it is just that that puts bread on our table. If only there was less of the come hither hips thing. Ah. I spose if he asks me to make him a straw skirt I will have to draw the line. Skirts are really not my speciality. I can just about stretch to a paper hat and then I call it a day.

To recover from Polynesia we take in the craft table where young children are beavering away at bracelets. On the table there is a piece of paper spelling out P.E.A.C.E. We wait patiently, in that truly British way of behaving like you are in a queue even when there is none and getting quietly frustrated when no-one notices its your turn. Eventually an elfine lady, flicking her fringe away from her face smiles, with a slight whiff of condescention down at us.

"Er, what do we do?" I ask. A little pathetically.

"We're making peace bracelets for the children in Africa."

"Oh." I say. With a slight frown. "Er, can we make one too?"

"Yeah, well, we ran out of twine so, no."

"Oh."

"You can make a card though?"

"Right."

She hands Sam a card and he starts writing his name all over it. I love the way he scrawls the shapes on top of one another spelling out his name in the way you would build with wooden blocks. It looks bouncy. Like him. I watch him and wonder what on earth these children in Africa are going to think when they get this little piece of paper from a boy they have never met in writing they can't read, shimmering stickers all over it of racing cars with the american flag. I am fighting cynicism here so as not to spoil his enjoyment but what I am really wanting to shout out is "Why?!" Or, please can I offer some help that will really help. I ask nothing because I know it is going to come out all wrong and perhaps a little vicious. Really I ought to have picked up a leaflet and found out more about the whole thing and I wouldn't even be writing all this already. Instead I was all ruffled by the ladies behind the desk looking like they had just cleared the shelves of Abercrombie & Fitch. Textbook displacement of feelings of discomfort about those blooming coconut shells. It made my brain go all defiant.

After signing his card for an African child we went on to the caterpillar stand where a slightly confused young lad talked us through the making of a paper chain that transforms into a caterpillar with the help of googly eyes and a pipe cleaner. It was like being on the pre-school channel all over again. I'm a champion with the sticky tape I'll have you know. The young fella then tells Sam he can draw a mouth on the caterpillar. Boy looks up at him from under his green lion face paint and asks him what caterpillars mouths look like. The young lad flicks the bleached blonde streaked fringe out of his eyes and back onto his naturally jet black hair and looks expectantly at me. I catch myself looking up at him with the same expression as Sam. He holds his breath for but a brief moment of awkwardness and then chooses to laugh it off,"Just draw a big smile." he answers. Boy does. Seems almost happy with the answer. For now anyway.

Almost time for home when we catch the last show of the afternoon. Some Mexican folk dancing we are told. The director, we are told, is just making her way from Bloomingdales. Moments later on stage she enters tottering her voluptuous form on two spindly S&M type open strappy leathery shoes. She has red lipstick. A red rose worn to one side. Smiley, over made up eyes. I wonder if she might like to meet the Polynesian singer man. She announces the salsa dancers. They twinkle on, all false eyelashes. No older than 5. They look at us, a little shocked from under their hair pieces and wriggle a little to loud applause. The routines and performers that follow graduate in age via 9 year old samba dancers, to 11 year old polka people, paso doble adolescents and the grand finale of teenagers. The boy, at the centre dressed in jingling trousers and proper boots starts to stamp out and the crowd ignites. Our boy's face is big and round and utterly engrossed. As was I. My body started jiggering here and there so much so that a lady infront of me asked, all knowing, if I had someone up on stage? No, I answered, just enjoying the rhythm. She barely hid her confusion before turning back to watch. Sammy laughed at this later when I told him and quickly followed by asking me if she had actually seen his bit on stage?

She kind of flicked me the same sort of look that I got from a blow dried lady in her 4x4 yesterday as she caught me pushing Sam in a trolley from the local grocery store. Inside was his bike, my bag and a small bag of shopping. I looked back at her all apologetic, then defiant, then neither, realising she could not tell anything with me wearing big fat shades. Then, as we zig zagged home I had that horrible realisation that in California, to remove a trolley from the grounds of the supermarket is an offence. I am more than half way home when this sinks. I have a desperately tired boy and a husband who will be home in half an hour and for whom I wish to make dinner seeing as he is not altogether feeling great. More fool I really. I had assumed the hotel would be able to shuttle us home from the store. Only found out they had no drivers on a friday when it was too late. Do I carry bike, bag, shopping on eone side boy on other across busy roads on a sunbaked route? Or, do I just borrow the trolley for a minute and help everyone out a little? See, boy had biked to the park. He had biked through the park. He had biked around the park. He had biked to the playground. He had swung, jumped and tumbled with the three children of a friendly Mexican family. The mother and I struck up easy conversation, her anecdotes interspersed with sudden half crazed rants in Spanish for the girls to stay on a certain side of the climbing frame/fire engine. Later she explains, on account of a prophylactic (used) having been left in the sand. She carries on with tales of her life alternately nursing her one year old and looking bemused at my increasingly hybrid accent. She then tells me of her hopes to have her own cake business. My eyes light up. Cake.

I turn to help Sam with something and when I return there is a fat photo album of her work on the floor next to where I was sitting. I leaf through the pictures of her baked masterpieces, from her shaky early beginnings to the art work of her present day. I tell her she will make it a wonderful success. I wonder about asking her how much she would charge to make Frankenstein monster cookies on a stick, but, unusually, I have the forethought to talk it over with Cory first. We make loose plans to meet at the zoo next week. Sam and I get ready to leave, he peacocking with his helmet eager for the girls to catch his cycle moves. A three point turn later and he leaves with a flourish of manic pedalling, which, by the by, I have to jog to keep up with. The fact that I could actually do this tells me I am feeling better. That and enjoying coffee again. So you see, the grocery stop was impromptu, officer. Probably got me on camera and everything. Must have looked a sight, what with my charity shop bought cotton jersey and striped t-shirt, all wannabe navy chic. Perhaps that lady in her SUV was turning her nose up at the outfit rather than the fact that we looked like we were two homeless vagabonds on the run. Maybe she thought I was the one living rough and that I had kidnapped Sammy. Maybe- oh enough already.

Back to the end of my mall tale. The crowd starts to disperse. Sam walks over to me. Takes my face strongly in both his little hands and his eyes meets me square in the face. "MUM-" he begins, "Next time we come to the Festival of Children, I am going to do the whole show. On the stage." Announcement over he does an about turn and sits in the stroller. Plotting his acts I presume.

We take our time to breathe in the afternoon breeze outside. Nice to breath properly again. We walk through the winding sewer fed gardens and onto the hotel. Dad comes home, still croaky, still nervous about having to do a two show opening tomorrow with half a voice and not feeling quite himself. I've just about fed him as much chicken soup as a human can consume without growing wings and am praying that it does the trick. Before he goes to work, he asks us if we will join him in prayer. We nod, Sam shoving in half of his remaining peach into his mouth so he can hold our hands. Dad offers thanks for our time together, for the fact that we are travelling like many families but dream of. Then his eyes glaze. "Today is a special day," he tells Sam, throat barely masking a quiver. "Why?" asks Sam, as is usual for any statement, of anything, ever. "It's the day daddy decided he would like to live with mummy for the rest of his life." Now I'm a bit quivery. Green lion takes the emotion in his stride. He is used to living with us after all. Outside in the gardens below a wedding ceremony has just begun. We wonder at the slightly saccharin poignancy of this until we open the window and realise that the man leading the ceremony sounds like he is calling a play by play from the commentators box. Must do the lovey dovey thing for extra cash on the weekends, in these tough times.

And so to endings and beginnings. Ending of viruses in near sight, beginning of the new run of the show tomorrow afternoon.

Time to get that spring back in our steps.

Even if it is late summer.

Down but not Out

I've heard of doing things as a family but this was ridiculous. I'm thinking about our group trip to the doctor's yesterday. Thing is, our bodies seem to be grieving the end of our Californian summer what with the start of an autumnal breeze wafting up from the sea n' all. The three of us are sneezing, coughing like bronchial chain smokers, croaking when we talk and knee deep in chicken soup and tea (go Bimby go!). So it was that wednesday morning saw short, shorter and shortest take a trip to Urgent Care. Put aside everything you know about NHS waiting rooms. We were greeted by a smiling (?) dare I say it happy receptionist, who had a psychedelic nurse scrub outfit going on presumably to make her unthreatening to children, though, from the look on Sam's face I wondered if it was having the opposite effect. She tells us, beaming, they do not accept traveller's insurance. This did not seem such a problem till the $350 bill at the end of our meeting with the doctor. He, olive skinned, broad and muscular, a cross between George Clooney and Jeff Goldblum, breezes in, all sexy efficiency. I feel intsantly a little better. Perhaps this is what they mean by placebo effect? He talks without commas or breaths, in little over 3 and a half minutes he has found out what we are doing adn why and we know he took acting in college and isn't it amazing how actors can transform themselves. Cory tells him that if he said he recognised him from the show he would be seriously worrie. Then he looks over his shoulder whilst doc sticks a light in my ear to catch the baseball game on the tv. Hung on the wall. In the room. In stereo. I look around to see if there are any complimentary low carb low sodium no trans fat baked wholewheat pretsels but no such luck. Seconds later (Cory dragging his feet for wanting to know about that last hit) we are back out and waiting for a cab back to the hotel, leaving George Goldblum flirting with the nurses. Now I get why the smiles.

This is a car town. I know this because the other day (more fool me) I took poor boy and I on a couple of mile trek to the local playground. Several times the sidewalks just simply stopped. We had to zig zag in and out of parking lots - ma with groceries, boy teetering on his bike. Course the cool, cloudy day suddenly turned up to a mid summer morning all of a sudden so that probably did not help my mood. What with me dressed like it was autumn and my arms falling off with bags full of apples and then a bike because boy just looked exhausted. Bless him, he just that morning learned how to ride it. All proper like. No training wheels. He looks hilarious. Surreal like those two year olds you see zooming down the black runs in Austria, or those 5 year old pianists thumping out Liszt. I'm not saying he is a genius, more so the clever people who decided balance was the trickiest thing for kids to master, and so, why not make a bike with no pedals first. When the tykes get the hang of that, then adding the pedals is just like the cherry on the cake. We weren't so sure after Nicole and Austin fixed on the pedals backstage and Dad took him out. I received three accidental calls from Cory, or "butt-calls" as he so delicately puts it. If I'm in a bickering mood I kindly point out that the term is inacurate seeing as people are not calling for butts. Or bottoms. Or derrieres for that matter. It's a loose loose conversation. On the first of these calls I hear Cory with encouraging tones, an unsure Sam in the background. The second, I hear that slightly more forceful coach tone creeping into Cory's peptalk. The third call tips me over the edge as I hear Sammy wail disconsolately in the background but Cory carrying on with the final call to arms. I ring him back and tell him to call it a day. Immediately. When they arrive home a few minutes later they are both all smiles boy positively beaming under his helmet, his two big eyes look up at me like chocolate lanterns "I did it! I did it! I did it!" I would congratulate him only I am crying so hard. In the time it took for them to get back I have watched the video Dad has sent me and can't believe that little chap, whose head was once smaller than my boob (mind you they didn't half get big when it was time for milking) is now venturing into those new found feelings of independence and freedom. I tell him, after I have collected myself almost, that he is almost ready to leave home, only he needs to perfect his cooking and sewing first. Reading might help. Ah, perhaps he ought to stay another few years at least. Daddy is red with pride.

Later when we go to the "local" park we find Leah. A beautiful hispanic 5 year old with most of her front teeth missing a few replaced with shiny silver ones. Her black hair wisps in the wind and the two frolic under the setting sun. She makes Sam giggle. I watch him tease her. Occasionally she looks over to her aunt who is playing one on one basketball with her boyfriend. Under a tree a group of youths sit hunched in conversation. The only person who unnerves me is the lonely drummer man in the near distance tinkering out rhythms on the metal table. He plays hard enough to be heard but sits far enough away to imply a need for privacy. The juxtaposition makes me uneasy. THen again, I think parents have a plugged in unease for lone men near playgrounds. It almost got Cory into trouble when I think back to a day when he sat outside a playground watching some children during lunch break as he thought about how much he missed his nieces and nephews. It was during drama school in London. Next thing he knows a policeman is walking over to him asking him if he can help him in any way and what is he looking at exactly. Cory cringed with embarrassment and still does to this day when he tells the story. Anyhows, lonely drummer man and his pencil moustache left soon after Sam and Leah got embroiled in a complicated creation in the sand.

Now we are all on day two of antibiotics. This has meant that I essentially cannot share any observations of Costa Mesa itself hibernating in our little home as we have been. All I know is that the gardens surrounding the arts centre across the street have a sign on them informing us that they have been irrigated with reclaimed waste water and please do not touch. Green as anything. I also know that we live outside one of the few "traffic circles" in the country. Brits are familiar with roundabouts. Here there are yellow signs explaining how to follow the flow which makes it to my mind infinitely more confusing than they already are. I also know that there is a cab driver nearby with the most piercing sea-green eyes Cory or I have ever seen, and that every morning, after we get passed that cattarhy cloggy feeling in our brains we marvel at the view of palm trees swaying outside. One fat trunk is directly outside our window. It looks like a projection so clean are the windows. I have come to realise I can play shops for hours on end and that chocolate cravings during mild illness is normal, and gives brief but much needed relief to sorry-for-ourselves family. I think I get the better deal what with not having to sit in technical rehearsals for ten hours a day in a darkened theatre. The director gives his instructions from the blackness in the stalls on what they call the "God mike" over this way. Spark debates in some circles I am sure.

It has been a few days of introversion. I have lost myself in a book, The Help, literally reading it at every chance, even on the loo. It was a gift from our friends in LA. She also gave me another novel which like the first has the character of a writer at the centre and her indecision, fear then ultimate determination, bravery and truth that lead her to her successful published book. It certainly has shed some light on my own writing. Nothing like a great book to inspire and terrify you into finishing your own. Perhaps not tonight though. My body, free of excercise but full of nutritious soups, brews and medicines needs rest. Much as I like to think of myself as, inertly invincible there comes a time when a work out is not what the doctor ordered, even if he does look like a film star.

One thing that has sparked much excitement this week, taking us out beyond our mounds of snotty tissues is viewing my second column online. It is just so wonderful to see your words in print so to speak. Course I wonder at the seeming self importance of the style, and this blog for that matter. The way our little journey may appear so terrifically more important than other more sobering things going on on the planet. I suppose I can live with being perceived as a person who lives on the lighter side of things. In true in part I suppose. I think I have had a taste of challenging episodes during my time on the planet so far to know that if you just keep standing and breathing things change and grow and level out eventually, just as perfectly as they ought to. There I go. Trying to be clever again I suppose. Should of learnt that does you no good back in 96 when, arriving late to a seminar, having just booked the main auditorium for my final year piece on Italian women, I catch the tail end of our professor announcing that people who put on their shows in the large auditoriums have inflated egos and little else to substantiate them. I might as well have gone home right then and there. Instead I rode a three week journey to writer's/choreographer's hell and back when I was told I suffered from near incurable written constipation as she so succinctly put it during one of our teacher student meetings. If only she could see me now. She'd prescribe me immodium right away.

Sposing the broken night sleeps and antibiotics are addling my brain even more than usual. Resting up for the big opening night in a few days time. I'm thinking I might even squeeze myself into a cocktail number. There. Bit of dress day dreaming soon absolves the danger of trite ramblings.

Mmmmm. On second thoughts....

Back on the Road

Our time in LA, for the time being has come to its inevitable end. Not to say that we used up our time in an uncharacteristically laid back manner. Far from it. That last week was jam packed with as many lovely people as we could squeeze in, who in turn involved us in their excursions. The starry night of Norah Jone's concert at the open air Greek Theatre under a golden almost full summer moon being towards the top of my favourite Los Angelesian memories list. Or that dreamy sunset drive down the winding Mullholland Drive dotted with jaw dropping homes and hills. Closely followed by jumping up and down to a Journey tribute band in a Santa Clarita park with ten others and their children. Who went on to run around the fields till the rangers finally switched off the floodlights. We also got to babysit two wonderful young ladies - of the psychedelic rocks - delighting in observing Sam being commanded to attention in their complicated enactments, he, bewildered and bewitched in equal measures. His final appearance in Act 8, with a red and white spiky wig and a mock Roman soldier's tunic topping the twenty other costumes he was changed into. Today he has shared his idea for Acts 9 & 10.

Whilst Dad was filming a commercial for Farmer's insurance, enjoying watermelon & feta salad and saute shrimp for afternoon snacks, shots of B12 (camera operator told him he had to cut back as the vitamin overdose was giving him a buzzzzz man), espresso and altoids served after the five course lunch (how he'll ever work for the BBC after becoming accustomed to that I don't know!) Sam and I were figuring out the LA subway. Or Metro. Or train that hardly anybody uses. We used this on several occasions to reach our friend's house off Sunset Boulevard. Ooh just typing that makes me go all funny. Who'd have thunk it? Me with boy and stroller and a bag full of incases, strutting down the boulevard like it was Kilburn High Road of a tuesday afternoon. On our penultimate ride, we exited just in time to catch lady sticking bra tape to the inside of her vest barely covering her ample bosom. Onward we went, past Creative Asylum, an office of sorts above the Cat & Fiddle pub, catching sight of a garish array of wintery Christmas cards in the window of Borders twinkling in their snowy glitteriness under the bright afternoon summer sun. Past the movie school with isometric hairdos shuffling around the main doors smoking, past the turning which would take us to the beloved Zumba class at the YMCA and hang a left to the bustling bungalow what is mate's pad. On one evening, when dinner plans fell through with a friend I was left downtown wondering what to do with myself. Boy unexpectedly conked out which I always take as a signal to grab a coffee and loose myself in a book. This is what I did, finding myself all of a sudden in an unexpected harrowing part of the story. What a sight we must have been. Me, iced coffee and book in hand, dark shades, tears trickling down from underneath, boy drooling. When Dad calls to say he is done with work I take it as a queue to jump back on the train to North Hollywood and, finding a hungry husband, we decide to do a quick about turn at Universal City.

Uphill we drove till we came to Universal Studios that stretches out to a "main street" electrified in neon, back to back shops and restaurants for the over stimulated tourist. After humming and haring over where to eat we ended up in an Italian chain, where Sammy chatted up the lady that takes free pictures of you for $15. After dinner we rolled back out onto the street to watch two grown men being blown up with mega jets of air towards the sky enclosed in a see through plastic tube. They were wearing skydiver's suits. Goggles. Helmets. They flip, high five, smile through the g-force agony. If I hadn't eaten so much chicken parm I too might have joined them. We stroll on just in time to catch the maniacal samba ladies jiggling into oblivion around the tables at the Brazialian steak house dressed in a handful of rhinestones and the entire plumage of a luminous ostrich. Their bosoms defying gravity. And reality, Cory suggests. I fold his tongue back into his mouth and walk on, catching a glimpse of the almost empty restaurant, the few customers there utterly unaware of the feathery action in their peripheral. The dancers jiggle carry on unfased. I recognise a couple moves from DanzMundo. Never pictured the samba as a background dance somehow. Towards the end of the strip I take a look in It'Sugar (not my typo) and indulge the boys and myself in a few candy trips down memory lane. Boy, open mouthed at mum saying yes to a little of everything. It has the desired effect, after two gummy bears, a yoghurt covered pretzel and a pretend strawberry he has had his fill and is more interested in the busker from New Orleans who is trumpeting, tapping and crooning his way through the forties, his Ma, all beaming proud smiles, sat at the Starbucks next to him sipping one of those multi-syllable drinks. I wonder at those skilled servers; by the time a customer ahead of me has finished their paragraph of order I can hardly remember what day it is.

Our time in LA was trickling away, and, as is usual, we left the filming of my moustached Sardinian character-lady to the absolute last minute. With literally, one hour to spare, we sprinted our way around Hollywood Boulevard. Me, moustache sprouted with the miracle of eyeshadow (I didn't have the patience or lack of vanity to grow out my own), boy, sweaty with summer humming loudly under his fedora, and dad, camera in hand. We found us a busker for me to dance behind, I hung out with the yoot by the subway, frolicked in the fountain and strutted down Rodeo Drive. I even got her name put on a star with the help of photoshop. All the while, noticing the wary stares from the american public alternately avoiding eye contact and directly staring at Cory and fedora Sam wondering what they saw in the orthodox muslim tag-along. With a wool cardigan in August. It's good to wear a mask. Least until your sweat starts to melt your facial disguise...

Back home I hammered out my first column. Yes, my submissions have been accepted by The Times. Of Wayne County. I said to Cory I ought not mention my editor in the blog lest she misinterpret something and become offended. He told me that she is not Sardinian and I absolutely must. Every week I will be offering a 400-600 word piece inspired by weekly events. I typed into the evening and read it out to the husband, who, brow scrunched suggested I make it more of a travel piece. I tell him cramming a short paragraph or three with our exploits reads like pure gloat. Then I give it a go. It reads like pure gloat. He reads my initial article again and says he likes it. I send it with fingers crossed, dreading the email from the editor saying thank you very much but no thank you very much (ah, how the acting profession prepares you for rejection) but instead get a very pleasant email and what would my subtitle be please? A few days later I am pirouetting around the flat delighting unashamedly in seeing my first few words in print so to speak. Cory looks at me and asks if we will have to weather this emotional up and down and up again every week of a sunday night. I say probably. Till I get better at it. He sighs off into the kitchen for a beer.

The mountain that is packing was surmounted, relatively painlessly, though I am utterly out of practice, and before you could say route 405 we were headed down the Pacific Coast Highway to Costa Mesa. Just before our exit a hummer past us plastered with advertisement for some film or other, all hip hop cool. As it overtook us I caught sight of the driver and recognised him as the actor/musician plastered on the side of his vehicle. Hollywood baby. Onwards along the beachfront we past Salon Shag and several number 6 buses from North London. Their roofs, cut off to absorb the Californian rays. Retirees to the sun, the overcast workdays of Queens Park and Oxford Circus in their rusty pasts, hiring out to parties in their sunny winter of their years.

Till I get the hang of feeding a family out of a tiny fridge again we have taken advantage of the lobby's happy hour, scoffing great food despite the signs under the bar stating that food and beverages served may contain chemicals that cause cancer. I come to the conclusion that there may have been law suit situations in their past. Not the most comforting read in your peripheral over roast lamb. During dinner we nodded our hellos to the Bulgarian/Utahan couple we had met in the hot tub earlier. He all tan and blue eyed salesman, she, answering my unabashed nosey questions with eastern european guard. Obviously I decide she is a spy. I am a product of my 80s education after all. Cory explains that a real spy never arouses suspicion. My imagination and I arch our eyebrows up at him.

Now with Dad in 12 hour technical rehearsals for the next ten days, boy and I are left to our own devices to explore our new town. Festival of Children was in full swing at the mall across the road so we decided to take a peek. Half an hour into a queue for free face paint, boy stoic throughout with determination to become a lion, Sam is finally painted. Everyone we pass congratulates him on his tiger face. I don't have the heart to explain that the lady only knew how to do tigers not lions. He roars through the afternoon except when we sit to watch the Children's theatre performance in the atrium of Aladdin. All the leads are 16 or under and the boy is spellbound. Up until the sultan comes on when he shrivels back to my lap from the front row. Later he has a similar effect on a tiny asian boy. "Wait!" he says, "It's not real, it's just paint." This endears the dad to him right away and we fall into effortless chit chat, as is always the way when Sam is in tow and there are friendly americans around. His wife comes to join us, a very glamourous, trim young asian lady and they probe me with questions about my experience in America. They ask me where have the friendliest people been? Has life been ok here? Do I intend to live here? It's like my green card interview all over again. I pray I am answering correctly this time. I suddenly have a realisation of what it is like to have a conversation with me - usually I am the one doing the prodding, and it is, in effect, a little unnerving. After the man saves Sam from a near fall off a short wall where he is showing off his climbing skills (Sam not the dad) he tells us his father was an actor who appeared on Star Trek numerous times and here is his card should we need help again. Turns out he is a sergeant with the LAPD. Vice squad. Handy. When it is time to go we pass a young couple with a slightly unusual looking stroller. On closer inspection I see it is made for dogs. Pet logo on the side and everything. Fluffy white pooch sitting under the gauze canopy. I wonder if they cover it with those cheesecloth things when it is time for its nap. Whatever happened to using your handbag? At the second atrium we catch the tail end of a performance from a deaf/learning disability community group passionately signing Land of the Free. An enormous American flag suspended over their heads. The tinkle of the carousel clashing with the swelling chorus. One lady is signing the action for freedom so passionately she narrowly misses decapitating her colleague. People watch intently. It is moving despite the overstimulation of a mall on a saturday afternoon humming around them.

And so to bed. Cory has just returned from the theatre across the street, Orange County's impressive arts centre surrounded by manicured gardens. In the rehearsal room next to Young Frankenstein's space the Bolshoi Ballet are rehearsing. This means lobby meals have been punctuated with the occasional pause to gawp at the sultry lithe ballerinas and the muscular balladeers all russian drama about them, leaving their table mid course to smoke yet another cigarette, feet permanently in a loose first position. One of Cory's colleagues has bagged a free massage from their touring masseur. I can bet half the cast will be trying the same tomorrow. I wonder fi we might squeeze in another impromptu breakfast trip to the beach again tomorrow, where, dive bombing sugar levels after coffee we eventually found a surfer's shack from which we purchased breakfast sandwiches and huddled over an outdoor table under the morning mists of Newport beach. Um, not sure. Cory looks like he has worked for his money today. I'm staring at a mound of belongings that need urgent organisation. Boy dreaming of act 9 and peanut butter crackers perhaps.

We're back on the road.

Overcome somewhat with gratitude for these privileged touring travails....

Bat Mitzvahs, Parrots and Other Stories

What a sight we must have been to Cory this evening when he came to pick Sam and I up at Studio City Recreation. Sam blackened with sand, sweat and play, Mum utterly unsuitably dressed for running about a playground in an uncharacteristically prim flowery summer dress screaming out coach commands to a mottley crew of children learning the ropes of baseball. That's what happens when you come across the likely lad Lucas, who but a few days ago caught on to the tail end of Cory and Sam's conversation. He swaggers over and asks,

"What'd he say?"

"He asked me to tackle him." Dad answers.

"I'll tackle him." he offers with an unmistakable glint in his eye.

Cory quickly distracts him and a breath later the three of them are tackling each other. Yesterday when I said goodbye to him he tells me I will never see him again. That he is starting school. I tell him I will see him again. This afternoon when he bundles over to us I give him the I-told-you-so and he gives me his story about preparing to move to India for 6 years. His ma always sits far away so I haven't had a chance to chinwag with her but our family has adopted him as our playground mascot. I did not try to hide my enthusiasm for playing with the ten or so kids who gravitated towards us tonight. Lucas with his wooden bat, Sam with his glove were like pied piper to the tykes scurrying about the sands. I was nine again. Same height. Just as bossy. Only this time I could actually catch the ball. By the time we left Sam was barely standing we managed a swift inhalation of pizza and pasta at the local, surprisingly mom and pop Italian joint, before sleep conquered.

Not surprising really, the last few days have been strewn with parties and visits. The one which tops is a last minute invite to a Bat Mitzvah. Our cousins were in town for the big event and at the last minute space opened up and the mum and dad of the young girl, having seen the show with a quick backstage tour from Cory and a hello to the sleeping Sam under the dressing table, were happy to have us come along. Our cousins explain that it is being held at CBS studios. As supremely rational folk we obviously came to the logical conclusion that with it being our joint fourth visit to the place, we were clearly destined to work there some day. Down we walked, past the offices where we had had meetings over the past few weeks, onto Gilligan's Island Ave onwards with studios 2 and 3 to our right and just beyond, the beginning of a red carpet and the set of a New York street, as used in one of our favourite shows Seinfeld. Along the "street" were tables, laid in black and fuchsia with empty film reels adorning the centre and a white dance floor laid half way down. People and much food milling around. The perfect beginning of the cool summer air. We thank the hosts for including us in the party and offer congratulations to the young Hannah, beaming from ear to ear balancing precariously on her high heels. After meeting several welcoming family members we are all called to the dance floor. Under the midnight blue, barely night sky, we are then herded through a number of dances where our MC for the night governs over the crowd and the uber happy hired partiers who have been directed to direct us all into the boogie. Sam, all fedora and eager red converse boots is boggle eyed at the proceedings and takes every bit of direction to heart especially when we get to the horah and ladies are bounced on top of chairs. Call me sentimental but there was definitely a part of me that started to imagine my great grandma in the same position jumping about. How proud would she be of me now?

After our houre d'oeuvres of cardio we move on to abundance of food feasting on salads, veggies, fresh roasted beef and a taster from the pasta bar where an almost happy chef sauteed your choice of ingredients to order. Sam liked their hats. Almost more than their pesto. Dips into the chocolate fountain followed and soon after the dancing started. In Earnest. Sam kept telling me he was going throughout the dinner, we had all we could to convince him to finish enough to get him through the night. Eventually he takes off at a sprint toward the dance floor. Fedora firmly in place. He calls back for me, but when I join him I find our boy already ensconced in some serious interpretive dancing. Wind up toy meets 80s club with a bit of soft shoe thrown in. Dad bounds along soon after giving it some. He didn't work the Samantha Fox videos for nothing. Our cousins jump about with infectious abandon and we zoop bop turn twirl jiggle and jump for the next couple of hours. Interspersed are regular visits from the "partiers" who gradually don us with every which thing of neon and l.e.d derivation most of which we pass onto Sam so that by the end of the night he looks like a christmas tree at a club. Between the glowy wotsits about his hat, the flashing rubber rings on his fingers, the rubber studded (flashing) bracelets he is a whirling dervish of plastic. The next day he relays to our friends how it was so great to be able to see in the dark, what with all the lights and everything. What we saw as decoration he interpreted as practicalities. He carried it well, I must say, though I perceived a remarkable difference between the verve with which he pulsed to Billy Jean and the significantly more reserved interpretations of Ms Gaga. Thriller appeared to throw him over his personal edge, what with the whole dance floor moving in unison like zombies. It wasn't me. The MC told us to do it. So we all did. Miss.

I took the cue and picked the fella up, he all l.e.d, flashed his way into a sleep oblivion at the back of the dance floor drooling over my shoulder. I stayed swaying about just long enough to catch Papi (90 in April) doing a jig with his grandchildren. Neon glowy necklace about him. Smiling from here to eternity. He tells Sammy he wished he knew how much he loved him. And when are we going to make another? And wouldn't I look good pregnant? And what a good fella Cory is. All this brings a smile to my face. Then I want to cry a little. Being around several generations of family makes me come over all weepy for my own. Especially my aunt, now floating somewhere in my peripheral at all times but still so sorely missed it hurts. I flood the collar of my dress a little. When we sit to watch Hannah's bat mitzvah slideshow compiled by her dad it is soaked. Cory jokes me out of my tears. My cousins give me a squeeze. Then we dance more. Obviously.

The next morning we took our ramshackle party selves to another friend for a waffle sunday party, which, basically involves a lot of delicious waffles and children running happy. It took some effort to leave what with the Sam man so happy and all, and what with our friend's sofa being so inviting and all but away we left with a quick pit stop into a grocery store and onto an old mate of Cory's from New York days. At his pad were an unusual mix of characters including a northerner turned Californian head of entertainment for a cruise line company, his partner, all earthy New York dance and verve and their beautiful daughter. Also joining us is our host's lodger a beautiful young lady with wolf eyes, her three hounds and his date. Then there is the three of us and you have yourselves a party. The boys dive in the pool. I offer assistance to the ladies running about preparing foods. I think I manage to cut the cheese into two pretty triangles and lay out a packet of crackers before retiring to the pool side and eating most of it. Sundays are for lazy, this is the bottom line. It would seem from the past week I know only two speeds. Too fast or too too slow. And thats ok with me.

Now we have entered Cory's rehearsal period (blocking of the show changing somewhat to accommodate the cuts in set and so on), so our days are a mother and son affair. This ultimately involves much fortress building, paddling pool filling and general slow mo activities. When Cory asked me if I would like to join some of the old timers at a fabulous cafe up the road for dinner last night however, I obviously relinquished a cosy night in for an aperitif and dinner with some of our old troupe (3 of which are in the show the others who have stayed ona little while lonegr). It was like the first day back at school after the holidays. Everyone was talking at the same time and full of happy eyes and stories. Sam managed a cheese sandwich before conking out in my arms and spending the rest of the evening straddling a couple of chairs out to the world.

Much time is also spent at the playgrounds obviously. It is my favourite people watching time of the day, especially when you get to spy naked chest men walking down the street with a parrot on each arm, for example, or when you sit next to a chatty Israeli grandmother who spins tales of her Yemeni parents whilst knitting, occasionally stopping to yell like a banshee across to her ADHD grandson doing 50 mph on his scooter without a helmet. By the end of the evening he was one of the most gung ho players in the out field. And I was a demure catcher on account of being supremely overdressed. Again. I think I must be turning into one of them mums who always dresses like she has been to an audition. Then again, there's no better way for me to feel like a kid than to play dress up. Just ask my ma.

One of my closest friends back home sent me a parcel of goodies for my birthday which finished the evening off in perfection. It goes without saying that secretly I celebrate it for the entire month of August, prone to excess as I am. As I type I am nursing a very posh cuppa made in a pyramid silk tea bag thanks to her. I am also eyeing up her box of trendy british toffees and admiring the little tub of fig and rose lip balm. This is the friend that has almost been solely responsible for creating my home library and I always look forward to her buying me books. She always knows what I will like. I feel a twinge of nostalgia. Again. Hey ho. Bright side is, without being away you don't often get to receive parcels.

.....Or see parrots being walked down the street.

Stardust in My Eyes

"We are made from material that was created in stars."

This is the cherished quote I took away with me which I had read just before we left the Griffith Observatory atop a hill in Griffith Park Los Angeles. Our friends had told us to make time for a visit at some point, then on one sunny tuesday afternoon they called us up and invited us to join them at Trails cafe for a coffee to start with. We found the tiny little kiosk, surrounded by hanging fairy lights and trees. There was nothing about the tiny little hut that would suggest it would be pumping the immediate air with mouthwatering smells of home cooked goods. Organic, vegan, home cooked goods. Mouthwatering, must-try-one-of-everything goods. Great coffee to boot. After we had scoffed in the afternoon sun we began our climb up to the breathtaking views of Los Angeles and its surrounding mountainous, palm dotted rockiness. The sun was getting ripe for setting casting that luscious summer early evening glow across everybody's faces. We climbed the steps of the observatory, all white Deco stark lines - a temple to science. From the top terrace we take turns to look at the moon from telescopes, making a mental note to return one evening to gaze at the stars from the enormous telescope inside. For free! This place was what Griffith had intended to be a place where all folk could aim for the stars. What better place than Hollywood? I don't think you can spend even a little while at a place like this, perusing the exhibits inside attempting to cast light on the abstract mathematics that make our worlds turn, without leaving pondering on the mechanics of our universe. Suffice it to say I had that faraway look plastered over my face well into the next few days.

How different the view of the world from up there on those wonderful hills to the sun parched world of Disney where we had spent the morning. Yes tuesday saw the clan get mickey mouse printed passes to enter part of the empire of the mouse. Once again, meeting some of the friendliest security guards who directed me beaming from ear to ear to a place where we could park our vehicle. In the shadow of seven stone gigantic "dwarfs" arranged to appear as if they were holding up the entire office building. Picture the columns of a Roman temple and you're half way there. Through the doors to an open courtyard and then up to the second floor where we were greeted by a kindly receptionist. Walking past several imposing framed posters of recent movies she tells us to wait on the comfy chairs and then brings us hot chocolates juices and water. Sammy hops up and down like its Christmas and asks me if I would like to be in a movie and which one and point to the picture of the one I want to be in. I quickly turn the conversation around to him. I have a feeling I may start waxing lyrically on my ambitions just as the casting director pops around the corner and that's not part of my big plan. No you see, in my fantasy plan, casting lady pops out from around the corner all smiles and maternal joy takes one look over my 5ft something form has a moment of inspiration and casts me as in a roving gypsy movie currently in pre production. What actually happens is a lady pops out from around the corner all New York joy sporting New York Yankee sneakers which Cory immediately catches and strikes up conversation about (takes a true fan to know a true fan). She flashes me a big grin, one to Sam and off we go into her office. It is strewn with Yankee regalia and comfortable. We chit chat on this and that and nothing and everything, she unhurried and curious, straight talking and helpful in her advice. She tells me to find an agent. To move here if I really want to work here and that she could see me playing a young mum. She also tells me I don't look quite as ethnic as I think and that America is a melting pot (actually the official more inclusive term is salad these days) and so I could be one or other of many things. A spring onion perhaps? The garlicky vinaigrette? At the end of our chat she asks me how old Sam is and I notice the faint glint of Mama Rose way way back in my mind. I just don't think we could fit his own movie schedule into both of our at the moment. At least in our parallel lives that is. She also leads me towards the employee store so as to spoil the little tyke a bit. when we eventually do find the little shop, up on Goofy drive there at the junction with Mickey ave by the topiary mouse there, the boy has been so sheltered form the Disney hype that the bits and pieces mean very little to him. He looks at and touches almost everything and leaves without a fight. I wonder how long this reluctance to children's marketing will last. As long as possible me hopes.

We walk out into the midday sun, watching all the Disney-ites hit their lunch hour but think better on staying to eat at the cafeteria lest we over stay our welcome. I take in the twenties cream painted brick building surrounding the stages and am zapped back to that golden age of Hollywood. There certainly is still a little stardust in the air here. We say our au revoirs to a bronze Mr Walt suspended in the middle of a heart to heart with the mouse himself. I click a few pictures of the dwarves for prosperity. Sam announces he wants to be Grumpy. I tell him give me half an hour stuck on the freeway and he'll be a natural.

We narrowly screeched into the Farmer's Market car park with just enough time to get something to eat and send Cory on his way to his meeting of the day. Sam and I queue up for Indonesian delights, Daddy inhales a slice and is off into the afternoon sun. Boy and I wile away the time gawking at everything, buying a little bit of everything from stickers to dried pineapple. After half an hour of dipping our cooked feet into the cool waters of a fountain we indulge in a free trolley ride up and down the outdoor mall called The Grove. The drivers are all a-dandy with their grey suits and hats, calling out "all aboard!" to the young passengers sat with their feet barely touching the ground faces reflected in the sparkling brass finishes on the wooden vehicle. We pass up along the tracks. Stop for a minute and then come back. The ride takes all of 10 minutes. Of pure joy, especially for the boy. Dad bounds back an hour later all excitement after the meeting concluded with the managers saying they would love to work with him. A possible passport to Hollywood. Cory dons his serious lets work out a plan face and for the next few days we talk about what this would entail, whether it is something we truly desire or merely the buying into the fantasy world Hollywood magics. Are we just under the sprinkle of its dream fest or is this really a place we could live a great life, amongst like minded friends, lovely children, fabulous outdoor spaces to frolic in and sunshine for our souls? Third date infatuation stage. Fun while it lasts.

All of twenty hours as it turns out. For the next morning we receive an email from the managers effusively apologising for not being able to represent Cory at this time in view of his nomadic work at the moment. In all intents and purposes they are saying that it is not worth them selling him in the build up to pilot season because he is not as of yet, definitely coming back here in the new year. All this before coffee. Ay-yai-yai. Hows about that for a dose of reality? The ups and downs of our business certainly force you to find your metal. I received similarly direct advice from another casting director this morning, when she told me that to work in this town I need me an agent and a union. Homework time.

In I waddled to her offices and found a quiet spot to wait. In the fifteen minutes or so in which I distracted any nerves with people watching I counted about ten stunningly beautiful women all one foot narrower and two feet higher than me strut in every know and then, headshots in hand, scripts scribbled with notes. Hair ironed excruciatingly straight. Heels. Lots and lots of them. Way way way up to the sky. They are all dressed like a mafioso's doll including the lady next to me. Blue Eyes Blow Dry pokes her head into the office door (despite the signs all over the room that say please wait to be called) asking for scissors and sorry to be a "pain in the butt." She returns to attach her three different headshots onto her resumes. She then uses the return scissor journey to try and make an impression. On the third pop in she asks whether she is indeed in the right spot. She is here for a general she says and is lead back to her seat. Her Mafioso look is not for a part after all. She's probably wondering why the woman next to her is a. staring and b. dressed like a gypsy. It's all part of my gypsy plan I tell Cory when he looks at me a little puzzled when I shimmy'd out in my outfit of choice for the meeting earlier this morning.

"What?!" I ask, in that mine field tone of a woman that lets anyone know whichever answer she hears will inevitably be the wrong one.

"It's very...specific." he offers. Very very hesitantly. I Half yell back that today I feel like a gypsy so why don't I bloomin dress like one with the sequinned skirt and all and that's that.

"I should dress how I feel!" I exclaim

"How do you dress PMT?" he answers calmly.

I would have thrown something had it not been so near the truth. Or so funny. I throw on a crazily huge bangle for good measure instead. Thank you Patricia.

I think something about hanging around the Getty museum has jangled the free spirit within. I have never been to a more beautiful museum. It began with a ride aboard a two car white tram which glided us up the hill to the main entrance through the craggy countryside past a sweeping view of Los Angeles in the near distance below hazy in the lunchtime smog. Leaving the tram we were ushered to a huge stone terrace with the buildings of the museum all glass, stone and modern art surrounded us. The hot stone underfoot and the familiar Mediterranean fauna about us filled the air with gorgeous smells. The bright blue of the sky crowning the caramel stone and the luminous greens of everything growing about us was simply beautiful. Onward we went accompanied by our cousins from Cory's mother's side to meet their Granpa who tells me with a cheeky giggle that he will turn 90 in April. He cracks jokes until we leave some hours later. Sammy at this point is sound asleep and remains so through our lunch in the most lofty cafeteria I have ever been in stocked with an impressive choice of freshly cooked loveliness. We all catch up a little over food and then feast on the photographic exhibition. I drink in the images of Mexican Menonites before Sam finally wakes needing some lunch. We head back out to the warm afternoon and watch the folk go by instead. Many of whom stroll up and fold up the free parasols before entering the gallery. There are purposeful Japanese groups, loquacious Italians, Texan families and boy. Face smeared with good ole fashioned peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

We spend the next hour strolling the grounds. I gaze up at the bouganville trained to climb up and out of the top of huge iron wig wam structures. I stop and listen to the water cascading down the stone creek down to a waterfall that flows into a moat surrounding a huge winding hedgerow maze. Curving arund the sides of which are little pockets of english garden all dahlia and arched trellis. A pang of homesickness. Wendy, my cousin and I, whose Dad has been entertaining us all, sit on a bench to enjoy the floral air whilst her daughter Jess (last seen in the back alleys of the University of Michigan) frolics uphill with the boy and Cory chats with Barry, Wendy's husband. Reluctantly we begin the walk back, so peaceful is the little enclave we have found, just in time to squeeze in an ice cream. We sit slurping under a triple height ceiling that creates a lofty terrace with vast views of the pacific and the blue blue sky. It is nothing short of a religious experience to be in this place.

I think Cory felt something similar watching all the auditionees leave after their auditions this morning, struts and blow drys still perfectly intact, or when we arrived at the park later this afternoon for an impromptu run about just as the entire city's worth of yummy mummies were having their monthly get together. It was like watching a commercial for motherhood. I had to take off my sunglasses and wipe them what with it being in soft focus an' all. I don't think I have ever seen so many happy babies and mummies in one place. Ever. I gazed away the rest of the afternoon watching father and son wrestle about, collect little friends and leave not without several tears from both for a spot of dinner. Boy all sand and filthy hands and feet. Dad, all sand and filthy hands and feet. Mum, all wannabe filthy hands and feet somewhat handicapped by the bloomin gypsy skirt. Still, got to run about a bit, nosey on the Russian family doing their quiet reading practice next to the playground (I felt for those jiggling kids!), admire the toned mamas of studio city and attempt and royally fail to complete one pull up on the metal gym equipment (a.k.a grown up playground).

Tomorrow we plan to head back to the Griffith sanctuary for breakfast with Sammy's favourite little lady and a spot of tree hugging with our friends. In the background Cory is cackling to the roasting of David Hasselhoff on tv. Boy is conked out to the world dreaming perhaps of American football, flips and his favourite little girl. Me? I'm enjoying the fact that I have not set the oven a light like last night or had to listen to Cory murder a giant Californian cockroach. As we stepped into bed last night I catch him looking at me like he has bad news and does not know whether to tell me. I obviously ask him to tell me. Actually I think I just ask if it's under the bed. he nods. "Spider? Rat? Tell me it's not a beetle..."

I barely catch the beginning of his nod and I am out the door barking out orders for him to usher it out far far far away from hysterical old me. They touch a prehistoric phobic nerve within. I don't like to admit it, but at midnight I am not in the best place to address and conquer fears. I just want to go to sleep. I hear Cory brandish what sounds like a sword then his tip toes punctuated with loud swoops of what i realise must be the poker (now I remember hiding the fireplace tools in the closet at our last party away from the three year olds). Many swipes needed it would seem for those who survive nuclear explosions. The victim is then swept through and up into the waste disposal. It's not humane. It's nothing to be proud of. I just hope the extended family have not moved in by mistake.

I've got to stop writing. The Hoff has started singing and someone needs to take charge of that remote....

Dancing LA style and Other Tales

"I'm not going to go to sleep." boy whispers conspiratorially as we cosy up in bed, black eyes twinkling up at me from under the tip of the sheet. Man of his word that one. In the end I did something I never do and invited dad in to take over. He's is in there now all hush hush in the middle of Mr Jeremy Fisher. When you read a Beatrix Potter like that it has the uncanny knack of making it sound like an espionage novel. We're trying to convince the slightly feverish lad to get some well needed rest. I think the weekend was almost more then his little body could take. There were girls involved. Nuff said.

It began with a short jaunt down to Manhattan Beach where we had been invited to spend a couple of nights with one of Cory's friends from high school. It was another gloriously sunny day as we found their little patch of suburban paradise off of route 405. Cory's friend's wife's father, a first generation Slovenian mason had built the roomy home, and, as we came to find out, many of their neighbour's too. It was wonderful to be back in somebody's real home again, especially with a garden and homemade tacos on the table and a little girl of 4 to play with. We tucked in, home made margaritas to boot and the tykes played easily. For the rest of the afternoon the three of us went down to the beach whilst our friends were at a previously arranged party. The first thing that strikes me as we approach Manhattan beach is the steep narrow hill that leads down to the shore lined with coffee shops and boutiques the latter laden with swimmy, beachy gear all tropical colours and summertime. It was like being in the Med. Palm trees along the front, everyone doing the sandy shuffle. Especially the sensationally energetic volleyball players bouncing and flouncing on the twenty-some courts along the sand. A pier jutts straight out into the ocean with a bohemian cafe and an aquarium. At least that's what the sign said. The cafe looked more like a good ole pier fry-up to me but I digress, creature of habit as I am.

The wind whipping up more of an early spring temperature to the place had us almost fully clothed. The oldies at least. Boy insisted on stripping down into his regulation body suit speedo outfit hopping in and out of the water collecting friends on the spray. It took some convincing to get him wrapped up in a towel even though he began, after an hour or so to shiver like an arctic explorer the wrong side of hyperthermia. We swaddled him in towels, and whilst dad dug himself a recliner in the sand I held the boy and fed him pretzel nubs, his little salty face opening up like a baby bird, eyes half mast. I filled the air with Buster Keaton stories just learnt form his autobiography which Dad gave as a birthday gift. I linger on the part where he describes an actress travelling in her own rail car, flat bed attached at the back for her limo and red carpet laid from the wings to her dressing room. Even the tyke expresses surprised delight. That's the way to tour. Too late to negotiate that I'm s'posin'

But you know, for all my failed attempts at grandeur I am more disposed to comedy in the end, as witnessed by the members of the Zumba and Danzmundo classes I attended on the same day earlier int he week. Obliques have not been right since. That's because both classes involve copious amounts of zhhuzzh and hippy flicky twirly jumpy stuff. In the first class, Danzmundo, I had a moment of perfect enlightenment praising the universe for endowing me with the kind of bum and hips one absolutely needs for the kind of Bollywood Persian African combinations the smiling Claudia was demonstrating. I always had a hunch that they were absolutely useful for something. My lower body, finally, has found its true calling. Swimming pool of sweat later, my friend Michelle who had invited me to go along, also let me keep her daughter's coined and belled little hip scarf whatsit, all wannabe ethnic. I am almost not embarrassed to say it made me very very happy. Dress up and dancing in one morning = happy mama.

In I jingle to the homestead, boy and dad mid stooge song thanks to You Tube that has provided a never ending resource of old time stuff with which to fill our three year old's imagination. The song in question is one where the three are trying to teach a girl's class the alphabet and they do so, in their characteristically ramshackle nonsensical way. The two of them have been singing it ever since. In the middle of the night last night, when our boy woke up slightly feverish they sang it to the three o clock moon to get back to sleep. In the car it's at full volume. In the bath. In the kitchen. On the loo. Suffice to say I know my stoogey alphabet inside and out. Finally.

But back to mama and her shakey bootay. After a few more shakey shakey in the kitchen, we were all fed and ready to hit Hollywood YMCA for boy's dance class. Our friend's wife is teaching there and has invited Sam to take part at no cost. In he waddles tap shoed and eager to make some noise. Jazz plays on the stereo. Donald O' Connor dons his serious dance face eyeing our friends shoes with the concentration of a viper about to attack. He shuffles, taps, stamps roughly five beats behind everyone eyes alive with happiness. Quick about turn and it's into ballet shoes for a few plies and such. Our friend asks the children what their feet smell like (nice ruse to get them to touch their toes with their noses). Sam announces his are the flavour of cream cheese and whips back to check if all the parents are laughing. Later in the car he asks us whether he saw how he got the laugh on cream cheese. Been listening to his dad's comedy dissections a little too carefully methinks.

After his pirouettes we head back to our friend's house and their delightful little girls all songs and make believe and mother hens. We heat up the food Cory and I have brought (a little Sardinian pasta sauce for the soul and such) and just about when its time to clear up I leave with our friend to take Zumba. Apparently it is officially taking over the world. I know that in a corner of Hollywood the class is so packed you can barely flick a hip without flicking someone else's out of joint. Just a risk you take when you are being taught by a 5ft something musular lizard man who is high on life and such things. He heated up that room with his larger than life Latino personality effeminate machismo oozing out of every wiggle and whoop and teethy smile. I don't think he stops for breath. At the end of each track the room bursts into spontaneous applause. Congratulating one another for surviving the gruelling cardio hoop-la. I cast my eye around the room. Cat woman is to my far right, talons four inches long, false eyelashes, chocolate skin glowing with exercise though she is probably in her early fifties. Dennis, the leathery chap next to her stays his ground, hips a wiggle, though he is probably in his late sixties. Women all shapes and sizes giggle about me, middle aged, teenagers, lean, round, muscular, fleshy, sweaty. Happy all of them. Ladies at the back in late middle age, demure in their undulations, mexican women feeling the beat, a couple of teenagers to my left launching themselves into the routines with unadulterated energy. The place is pulsing with real life. Especially the dear lady with wispy hair sporting her fisherman's hat and clashing layers of eighties throwback clothing. This is real people LA. I feel like I am home again. After a near miss with exercise nirvana we head out to the starry night and take a stroll back to their house. In the time we have been gone, the children have painted all the big rocks that line their sandy path to the house so that it looks like a place that would fit in perfectly on haight street. Their work matches their psychedelic ledge on their porch painted every colour and encrusted with rhinestone gems in rainbow shades. I want to take it home. Obviously.

Though weary from a day's worth of socialising and exercising mum and dad, decide, hours from dinner, that it would be a great idea to invite a few friends round for an impromptu dinner for dad's birthday. When everybody says yes we do an about turn in the store and come home laden with ribs and drinks and almost everything in between. I could have made a lasagna. Instead I decide to create six or seven dishes for folk to graze on. I always forget I don't travel with a sous chef and that chopping always takes longer than I give time for. This would despair my late aunt, especially when I made the salads for dinner. When tired of chopping I would (still do) throw in veggies a little too close to whole. That's what teeth are for right? Not so if you have dentures. However expensive they may be, you can't crunch a whole carrot without a little worry. "You forget to chop again?" she would ask. Every, single, time. Sometimes I think I would leave in the big pieces just so she could say her favourite retort. Worked a charm.

It was fantastic to be able to have folks over, only downside was that tyke was overtired to say the very least, and greeted his little friends with the warmth of Attila just before battle. Noise quickly escalated, young'uns skillfully steered to calm by unfazed parents chit chatting in between outbursts. After food the boys began their display of acrobatics with the little girl following suit in her best Isadora Duncan impressions. Wine, cake, ribs later we had a cosy vibe in our little place, despite the occasional 3 year old alpha male clashes.

Next day, the boys went to let off steam at the park after a quick round of bowling at the local PinZ place. In we went from the harsh sunshine passed the Men-Z and Women-Z loo to collect our funny little slidey shoes and join the neon lit throng of ball rollers. Or lobbers as is the case with Sam. Who would think his little arms could throw a 6 pound ball. Someone forgot to tell him shot putting was for tomorrow. Dad showed off his ballet technique with some delightfully graceful rolls. Mum bent down and hoped for the best. Occasionally I hit quite a few of those white wotsits down. On the whole, the game is a little stop starty for me. Too much sitting down and waiting. I like the hustle. The jib jab of hockey. The quiet but energised dance around the pool table. Up and down under the spotlight is not my thing. Still, the boys were happy campers to say the least. Not so for the young Korean next to us who, loudly berated himself every time he didn't get a strike. I fear for his puberty years. At barely nine he has adopted the frustrated angst of an almost grown genius. Apparently the teenager to our right was exhibiting the same kind of behaviour. Are we putting too much stress on our young I wonder?

Speaking of stress. Dad has thrown in the blanket. The two of them have abandoned Potter for American football. I think the fever reducer elixir has given the tyke a little delirium, He's sat with his papa on the sofa with a cold compress around him talking end lines or something with the big boy. Thank goodness for the blog or I would most likely be forced into some such sports schooling.

That is what most children were engaged in at the concert we attended last night on our Manhattan beach weekend. Every sunday during the summer the Manhattanites gather at the park for free concerts. Yesterday it was a Neil Diamond tribute. The crowds filled the hill rising up from the large duck pond superbly equipped for a night in the outside. Mini pic nic tables just the right height for sitting on the grass, laden with nibbles and Californian wines sipped from wine glass shaped plastic. Fruit, laughter, children, babies, grannies and everyone in between out for the late afternoon rays and music. In the end, the volume of the band was such that it became more of background music to the general putting the world to rights talk going on at our camp over flowing red wine and spanish cheese. Boy gathered friends under every tree. A little baseball with one fella over here, a bit of running with girls over there, hop skipping about the place, a few minutes on dad's shoulders. The music wrapped up at 7 o clock (definitely one for the families!) and we headed back in the californian sunset, our friend's little girl's natural hair highlights glinting in the glow, Sam hovering around her determined to hold her hand. There were tears before bedtime when she decided she would prefer to sleep in her own bed rather than share his futon on the floor. His face red into sleep and again during the night when he awoke a little out of sorts.

Suffice it to say that our full week deserved another chicken-soup day, hibernating and nesting and generally trying to do things to re-balance the travelling souls. No better way than to take the wrong turning off the 101 on our return home only to discover a farmer's market. Crops grown one side of the road and sold at a very large tin roofed open sided shack on the opposite. I don't think I've tasted strawberries quite like it other than freshly picked on a warm June day at the plot. We ladened ourselves with corn, the sweetest of the year yet, and a plethora of fresh delicacies which I rustled up for us tonight. Further down the road something caught our eye. I joked that it looked like an allotment and after some questioning of our amiable farmer's market owner she tells us that for $25 you can have a little patch of the community garden to grow your own. We tell her about our allotment. You would have thought we were talking of our first born. I stop myself going into anymore details when she gets that slightly glazed look in her eyes. How she would not be as excited about our asparagus patch is truly beyond me. Suffice it to say I insisted on giving it the once over. Nothing much different to ours other than the crops of cactus and the palm trees in the distance. Other than that there were the regimental dahlias, tomatoes, basil, Russain male gardners with red braces. A man dressed in muddy shorts was tending to his tomatoes. I take a quick jaunt through the plots each tomato pricking me with a little nostalgia for the Britain land. Quick sniff of a plot was just enough to keep me going for a little while anyhows. It may seem inconceivable with all the to and fro of the last few sunny weeks but homesickness is rearing its grey head a little. I look forward to visits from folks over the coming months. Till then there's always radio 4, and friend's facebook updates about the Edinburgh festival. My cousins are celebrating Ferragosto in Italian lands, my folks put up with some dreary summer rain in London, and here we three soak up the sun. All in each other's thoughts dancing across the morning-night skies. I come from nomadic stock. This way of telecommunication is something I, and all the travellers before me, have been born with methinks.

Boys are still on about the end lines. Night has fallen. I plan on some serious beauty sleep, I am meeting with the casting ladies at Disney tomorrow. Perhaps they are casting a well rounded Iranian, capable of some seriously comedic Zumba moves, best friend role? If not, I can always suggest writing in the character of a stocky heavily moustached Sardinian widow, known to roam the open mic nights stateside, into their next big movie. Or small movie.

Gotta start somewhere people....