Felts, Films & Happiness

I have been needle felting for the past hour. I put this uncharacteristic behaviour down to pre race nerves. Two sleeps till I prove to myself I can finish a 10K course with good form. Oh alright just finish. Apparently sticking a needle into felt to create colourful woolen pictures is the way to go. Or perhaps, having been surrounded by the gilded serenity of Cincinnati's waldorf school where Sam was attending nursery, their whole earth loving artsy craftsy vibe has been absorbed by this impressionable Brit. Sam has revelled in his time there, and with it being a hefty cab ride away, I have chosen to hang out round the community table with other parents to sip good coffee and organic baked bits and pieces till the end of his morning sessions. That way I get to eavesdrop on discussions about the use or non-use of candles at the lantern festival come december seeing as the fire department has banned open flames from campus. One mum describes an "angel" from last year passing out over a couple of lit candles and of another waldorf school that has gone up in flames twice over. This is after I have joined in the morning sing practice, coughing, spluttering and doing my best impression of a strangled chicken through winter inspired peace spreading songs. The day before I was invited to the book club to join in with the discussions of a book, which I had not read, but enjoyed participating in none the less. One mum even gives boy and I a lift home. Along with her triplets. All in all the magical welcome we have received has been affirming to say the least. Hang around enough organically plant dyed silk scarves and natural fibre dresses and you too would consider needle felting.

The country roads training is sadly behind me. Now I tred the Cincinnati streets, dodging various characters that line the streets. The city is scarcely populated, in a period of significant transition from what I have observed, with new loft style living developed to entice life back onto the streets. I notice shop fronts being renovated alongside Victorian homes that in their day would have been echoes of European splendour. Like the promenade that runs the centre of Garfields Place a church at the end no less-in photos there would be nothing to say you weren't in a small German town. They certainly left their mark here. We have hibernated somewhat this past week. Recovering in part from the whirlwind that was our stay in upstate New York surrounded by wonderful family and friends but which left us nonetheless in need of recharging.

That said, our past week has been a whirl of celebration. Last Friday, come 10 0’clock, our doorbell rang and on opening we found a golden key, a hat and a clue. There began a birthday treasure hunt around the hotel, stopping in several of the troupe’s rooms whereupon they read boy more clues and gave out more keys till we were lead back to our room and “magically” the birthday fairy had left a treasure chest with his gift inside. Slippers. Rainbow coloured. Hand knitted. Few days earlier he told me that he really wished for slippers - his teacher has told him he ought to have them for pre school. I tell him to wish hard and maybe, just maybe, the fairies might deliver. Fast workers. Silently I thank my stars, secretly dreading him asking for something more garish and expensive. Post hunt troupe sips mimosas and scoffs cup cakes back in our room, all celebratory smiles and hugs despite them nursing severe hangovers from downing shots and riding mechanical bulls at Cadillac Ranch round the corner the night before. The crew present Sam with a luminous orange bike, complete with pads for every bony part of his body. They joke about giving him one every birthday, shipping out a motorbike for his 21st. He almost flips with excitement. Then nags me for the rest of the day to go out and ride it.

Moments later however we are all bundled into a coach, boy grinning for having been allowed into the “actor-bus” and a mystery journey begins. Twenty minutes later we are in Kentucky and pulling into the parking lot of a small cinema. I spy a red (plastic tablecloth) “carpet” stapled to the pavement leading up to it’s back entrance, roped off no less, flanked by two huge stand up posters for Harry Potter. Six folk from the troupe stand with flashing cameras (including a thirties-style prop one from the show) posing as paparazzi. Everyone cheers. At my feet a Hollywood star stuck to the concrete with my name. Birthday boy’s next to it. I am an uncharacteristically speechless leopard coated person, cheeks aching with grin. Twenty minutes into the movie, my face fills the screen. The troupe whoop and holler and applaud at the end of my two minute turn. Surreal. I quietly burst with gratitude, wondering how I will ever fall asleep that night.

I do in the end. Apparently you can't stay in a state of elation for twenty four hours straight. I catch sight of my grin in the morning reflection beyond my bed head though and realise it's one special day that will stay with us for some time.

Running Towards Winter

Underestimate not the comforting power of freshly baked brownies of a wet and blustery November day. So was the scene at my sister in law's earlier today. I have married well. Two of my sisters in law are master bakers, whipping up a myriad of baked, pickled and roasted delights with the same effortless perfection with which my mother procures her prize winning garden.

This morning I awoke in a Patricia frame of mind. That is to say, I whipped up breakfast lunch and dinner within half an hour and before the sun rose. Boy sits in sleepy confusion asking why we have woken up at night, and isn't that good and shouldn't we do that all the time. I do my best to convince him otherwise and that we are but for a short time on school schedule and that at no other time must night be taken for day. Worth a try.

We sip our tea, scoff our toast and ease ourselves into the autumnal day. Our four month long Californian summer is very much at its end. After I drop off boy (skipping) at pre school where his teacher suggests I bring in treats next week as an early birthday celebration before we pick up sticks, I take a quick jaunt to the local TJ Maxx for a brief turbo turn about the shop. Under the shower of cold rain I drive towards Webster, a town whose sign tells me is where "life is worth living" just next to the two or more vacant retail spaces up for lease. Along the way I pass a cemetery with a large "Now Leasing" sign above it. Took me a moment to realise the luxury apartments it was publicizing appertained to the apartment block nestled at the far edge of the graveyard rather than roomy coffins.

My father in law is glued to a shopping channel in the background as I type with a chef that looks and sounds like a made man if I ever heard one. He is making chicken soup and I am hungry all over again. I am blaming it obviously on my new running regime. Up to about 4.5 miles and resting on my laurels. Till tomorrow that is when I am attempting to do it all over again. 6 miles due by Thanksgiving. Boy oh boy oh boy. Least Ohio is relatively flat. I am training on the undulating landscape that is Walworth. Even bought me a bit more gear which is slightly worrying to me as my self equipping usually heralds the abrupt end of a new pursuit.

After school we chowed a roast chicken (almost but not quite as good as my late aunt's)and entertained the local pastor. In Italian families the equivalent would be being host to the priest which is one step away from meeting a saint and involves as much kow-towing as is possible. Not that the priest necessarily has a God complex as such,(beg your pardon) but more that the hosts are prone to showering the special guest with honours. Pastor Jenny however arrived in a cheerful outfit, smiles and plenty of time to listen to our son's ramblings through various universes. She is my age roughly, a runner, passionate about sailing and has travelled. I find it challenging to relate to her as another woman my age without fearing to appear too familiar. Catholic schooling is more entrenched than I had supposed.

Tomorrow antiquing is planned with my sister in law whilst boy cavorts with his uncle and cousin. After the excitement and adrenalin of last week a little retraction is just what the doctor ordered. Unfortunately boy's body reacted a little more violently to this need by delivering a brief dose of croup in the witching hours of sunday night. After a moment of indecision dad and I decide to brave the country roads for the hospital in Rochester to have him checked out by a doctor. Twenty minutes later he has been checked over, been fed a popsicle after a steroid dose, been sat infront of a television screen showing Toy Story, a magazine, crayons and stickers in hand. Dad and I looked at each other wondering whether the whole thing was not just a little bit too much like fun to make him want to make a habit of these late night escapades. When we return, boy buzzing somewhere above reality on steroids and E-numbers he announces that it is his waking time and he has decided this is his new morning time. Dad and I exchange looks judging silently who will stay up for the twilight rants. Luckily Napoleon is delirious and sleep overcomes before we can say goodnight.

In the morning monkey is jumping off the walls. I fear he may have inherited his mother's reluctance towards stillness. Perhaps I ought to send him out running. Nothing seems to quieten my mind like pacing these country roads. Not so for the two or three squashed racoons rigor mortis at the side of the roads. Next the squished frogs. And headless pigeon. Opposite side of the road corn husks rustle in the wind under the heavy grey fluffs of cloud. Occasionally a car passes me, swerving almost onto the other side of the road to give me space. I wonder whether I ought to take offence to this, then another hill hits me and I can think of nothing but surviving the climb to the top. I passed hushed homes, moulding leaves, Sherburne cemetery huddled under the leafy shade of ancient trees. Warning signs of tractors and later those of deer leave me wondering with each huff and puff what I will do if a Doe suddenly crosses my path. Or a buck for that matter.

Last night as I returned from the dance studio where Cory's dance teacher suggested Mariela take class and be filmed, I notice me clutching at the wheel a little too tightly as I weave through the countryside lashing with rain eyes wide for crazed wildlife I might harm by mistake. In the darkest stretches wondering whether a UFO might pay me a visit. The corn fields lining route 441 seem perfect for some such visitation. Watched too many movies.

As I squirrel towards winter I watch about me the frenzy that is voting season. Much disquiet on the home front. Frustration at the democrat voters many of whom, disillusioned with Obama have not turned out to vote and permitting Republicans to regain some power. A general malaise with the state of the country, from most of the folk I have met along the way. When I read home news my heart tightens when I read about yet more arts cuts. It certainly dulls any yearnings for home turf. Besides which, my home turf came to see me instead. Spending time with the folks was a great tonic.

I hibernate now whilst dad is out strutting Milwaukee, taking in beer tastings along the way (the emailed video of the troupe caterwauling in harmony was perfect). Soon he will head back new york state way, he and his hump entertaining half of his childhood.

Country living for just one more week. Think my mind will be well and truly cleansed in the deer trotted air by then. And if not, there's always the turkey trot come Cincinnati.

Vaudevillian Halloween

There has not been a performance in Ontario’s Masonic hall since the closing days of Vaudeville, or so the story goes. That was until husband had the bright idea of hiring it for the day in order for us to try out my one woman show for the second time. Our first attempt was in a tiny space of Detroit’s downtown run by the almost toothless Chris and his kindly one man-one eyed crew. His 100 seat venue home to my moustache’d Mariela chortled at by the 50 or so audience of cast and crew of Young Frankenstein.

This time my producer (I call him husband for short) had coerced 40 or so Walworthian friends and family into giving up their Friday night for a dose of my Sardinian creations. He laid out pizza before hand. They thanked us for our generosity post-show. I was quick to explain the food and beverages were merely bribes to make them laugh.

The “brother” who showed us around zealously described his ghostly encounters in the place. I clock myself checking over my shoulder more than once during rehearsals, wondering whether any vaudevillians would watch my show from the wings flanked perhaps by the apparition of a small Victorian child from the days when the hall was a school house.

Come “opening” night my nerves were such that I had little energy to expend on looking for spooks, spooked enough as I was by my own terror. Boy struts to the front of the stage and booms out the introduction, preceding my first entrance which was greeted by the sorts of confused-repulsed looks I had been frightened of. When husband runs back stage to help me with my quick change into the main character’s daughter (a crazed vision in muddy wedding dress and pregnant belly) I tell him I ought to quit now. He tells me the audience is enjoying themselves, keep up the good work, chin up and get on with it. I do.

By the time I make my entrance as sheep-woman (bunny girl meets lamb chop) their reassuring laughter means I actually begin to enjoy myself. At curtain down (you know you’re doing a one woman show when you have to operate it yourself) I delay crowd-greeting by de-rigging the hung bed sheet and flag “set” till I have summoned enough courage to go out and thank everyone. I am greeted with warm embraces and giggles and find myself grinning with gratitude from beneath my painted facial hair.

At the English family reunion next day, husband is unsurprisingly mugging at the camera as a four year old ham in the projected 16mm home movies. Boy discovered the joys of trick or treating following day, at the end of the legendary Englert’s long darkened drive, where he sang full voice to earn his candy (full size!). So the tradition goes. British Halloween is half hearted in comparison. Our November 5^th celebrations often upstage, commemorating the day Guy Fawke’s plot to blow up the houses of parliament in 1605 was foiled. Every year it is customary to “burn the Guy”, literally throwing a patched together dummy on a bonfire. We even let off fireworks. Sort of like building two cardboard towers and throwing burning toy planes at them for a September 11^th party in the year 2401. Sardonic British humour isn’t infamous for nothing.

Pa is in Milwaukee, my folks have returned to home turf and ma n’ boy recover from their week of theatre making. Just hoping I did those Vaudevillians proud.

On The Run

Running through the early morning mists wafting above the rolling hills of Wayne County is a beautiful way to start the day. Burnished golds of the fall about me a perfect distraction from my huffing and puffing up the inclines of Gananda Park. I have succumbed to peer pressure and, after Nicole (spotlight operator) and her convincing rhetoric, I too have joined the ranks of the Young Frankenstein troupe who will be running Cincinnati’s 10K Thanksgiving run.

I maintain my training whilst on our quick jaunt into New York City last week. Boy, Ma, Leopard Skin Coat and I strutted into Penn station of a Tuesday morning leaving Dad behind upon the beautiful Proctor’s Theatre boards in Schenectady. On day two I set myself the challenge of crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, joining the army of lithe disciplined New Yorkers overtaking me, speedy cyclists in the opposite lane racing to and from Manhattan. I dodge the tourists committing the bridge and it’s views to digital memory. The autumnal sunshine dancing on the waters of the Hudson, Ms Liberty in my peripheral and beyond, Ellis Island, whence my great greats moored ashore all those years ago. Here I am, sweating to Brooklyn and back for a slice of their dream.

Back at TriBeca HQ I find grandma on ground control patrol trying her best to make sure our son’s incessant mid air flips are executed with safety. Boy delighting in watching his upside down world swirl about him. I continue my blossoming love affair with the city; playgrounds, shops, more shops, more playgrounds - things to keep a three-something and sixty-three something happy. My Leopard Skin Coat and I fitting in perfectly with the uber trendy mamas and papas of downtown. My father arrived mid week, and, after a few minutes on the maze that is Google we tracked down an old friend from 40 or so years ago. Within ten minutes we had found his contact details, sent emails and left messages. A beat later and our day in New Jersey with him is planned.

Next morning I watch, moved by the warm reconciliation of two dear friends who have lost touch over the years. There are hugs, stories, the feeling, as with true bonds, of having been apart for a heartbeat not years. Turns out the man in question has done incredibly well, even been nominated for Man of the Year in England against the mogul Richard Branson. He explains that I am to contact him should I need help of any kind. Not the first time on our travels that kindly folk like this have openly reached out with helping hands. He questions me about our plans, citing the importance of stability for growth. I listen carefully - the man is paid highly by huge corporations for consulting work. When he describes his own life long yearning for a home, being a child of traveling parents, I turn to our boy, mouth covered with ravioli, holding court at the other end of our lunch table and consider.

Next day, surrounded by visiting former cast friends, back in daddy’s Schenectadian dressing room, boy twinkling with delight, reunited with both his dad and once-babysitters, I reflect upon how our journey is nurturing this bright young soul. We will give stability a whirl for the next few weeks - though I would argue the true meaning of the word does not necessarily mean living in one place. Sam is in pre school. Mama will be warbling with the choir.

Time methinks for a run at real life. Not just those photogenic hills.

From a Sardinian Corner of Miami with Love

The deco delights of South Beach are as delightful in all their wedding cake pastels as I had hoped. Easy to imagine this town in it’s roaring twenties as the American Riviera. The villas lining the back-waters, complete with private moorings, odes to Italianate grandeur. One family homes, once uber modern apartments blocks with alternate angular and undulating deco lines. In stark contrast, the new sprawling towers on the opposite side of the street jutting up along the oceanic landscape, resorts and condos, sparkle like urban dinosaurs in the bright Miami sun.

South Beachers are partiers. By lunchtime a palpable lilt to the promenaders, many of which clad in little more than incy wincy teeny weeny bikinis. After inhaling half a chicken wrap big enough to feed a family (South Beach diet anyone?!) I slunk into the granite bathrooms of The Clevelander, to transform myself into my Sardinian alter ego, a comedy character I am developing into a one woman show, filming her American adventures alongside ours. I catch a pair of sun lizards lounging poolside in their shimmery two-piece beside DJ’s podium where revellers will likely welcome the dawn. Back at the table a nearby customer excuses herself, explains she is nosey (takes one to know one) and asks me what on earth I am doing and why. I describe my project then coerce her and her holiday attired girlfriends to be filmed making friends with my strange Sardinian woman.

My boys and I (big on camera one, small on camera two) hit the streets coercing other revellers to dance, hit volleyball, throw football and generally cavort. South Beach-ers are good sports. One chap, Jamaica cool in tight white vest and ironed jeans insisted on taking several photos amongst the passing rollerbladers. A veiled muslim lady gives me a complicit nod of recognition. I think she has mistaken my headscarf for a veil. I feel like a fraud. At the waters edge it took no more than a moustache’d grin to persuade the lifeguards to pose. Just before I dove in. Fully clothed.

Later I strip down to my swimsuit, wipe off my painted facial hair and take in my surroundings, boy flip flapping in my peripheral at the feet of the mostly African American/Caribbean crowd. Much as it saddens me, I have never been around a group of Caucasian women so obviously happy in their skin. Of the gamut of body shapes I spy none tugging at their suit, hints of negative body image leaking out of their movements. Instead, laughter. Lots of it. Carefree beach behaviour I find deeply affirming. The Caucasians, inconspicuous not so much because of their taut frames (some on that diet after all), but more for the way they carried those frames along the beach.

Boy and I then make a mad dash to dad, who is holding up traffic on Ocean drive, jump into our car (along with half the beach) and pick up grandma at the airport. I waited eagerly at the arrivals window, my hair doing a fine impression of seaweed, whilst she patiently sat behind me, farcically looking in the opposite direction. Family tradition. Off Dolphin expressway, we then stop to snap a picture of Dad outside Joe Allen’s (favourite London/New York haunt) and stumble across a Sardinian restaurant on the opposite corner. Antipasti, pasta and myrtle liqueur later we have our Mediterranean fix. I have decided to take me some of that Miami buzz in my case to upstate New York next week. Along with as many mangoes as care to fall at our door.

The Playoff's the Thing

Playoff season heralds several things. Husband is permanently distracted, engineering our movements on the basis of where he will be able to catch the game. Luckily for him this appears to be almost everywhere, from the Mediterranean bistros lining sunny Las Olas boulevard Fort Lauderdale, to the local bar in our new home town of Schenectady. Secondly, perhaps more disturbingly, I too on several occasions have found myself clocking the scores on TV screens, thus beginning a complete immersion into the culture that has welcomed this Brit.

Friends back home wonder whether I am missing the British eccentricity. The kind of quintessential madness that can only be truly comprehended, loved and loathed by native Britons. Waves of this warped nostalgia are easily washed away when we meet people like Pedro, the half Belgian half Spanish waiter at our favourite haunt in Fort Lauderdale. Over our seafood linguini Pedro spoke at us for roughly half an hour (without commas) about his journey to Miami, becoming an accidental antique dealer. His first container load, of what he described in his Hispanic gesticulation and thick Flemish twang as 1960s Belgian junk, sold for $15,000 more dollars than which it cost him. Several years of similar sales and he was living the American Dream. Not so for Palm Man, as grey in pallor as Pedro was suntanned, hair clinging melancholically to the sides of his head baseball cap stuffed with the rest of the nesty locks, who comes to our table and begins a demonstration. Two folded palm leaves later, now looking remarkably like roses, we learn this gentleman has copyrighted the alphabet. On the back of “E”-sure and Ebay launches he set about securing rights for the rest of the letters. Must be a long term investment plan, what with the palm tricks supplemental income.

These folk are in the pink sun-setting distance. We have propelled through time into upstate New York’s fall. Descending through the clouds, hazy glimpses of rainbows, rolling forest covered hills undulating below us, rusty coloured fall foliage glowing in the late afternoon rays. The smell of crisp woody autumnal air greeted us at Albany airport, where driver Bill, took us through a stand-up version of Schenectady history. I have a new found joy in travel days surrounded as we are by bon vivant actors - bleary eyed on account of a middle of the night dip in the sea, crew – propping up the bar next the gate and wide eyed three year old - magicking the furniture into pirate ships. Troupe suddenly burst into a perfectly harmonised rendition of Happy Birthday to honour the company manager, spontaneous applause from all the nearby passengers at the final flourish.

On our first tip toe around Schenectady, deserted of a Monday night but for the odd passing SUV, we found a restaurant/bar on a picturesque main street. The brick buildings in their terraced turn of the century glory a world away from the swishing palm tree lined bungalow streets of last week’s tropical lands. Boy is now getting his beauty sleep, grandma much the same, husband has those worry lines upon his brow (top of the ninth and the Yankees are struggling) and ma tries to make her deadline before heading down to the big smoke tomorrow. We are deserting husband for the Big Apple because a. it is but a three hour train ride away (boy is very very excited) and b. my ma looks like she would enjoy a spot of shopping.

Have also, under oath, promised to bring husband back a Yankee win.

Lederhosen to Lizards

The crickets in the fern brush outside our white shuttered windows are singing their hearts out to the Floridian moon. Beside our front gate a mango tree is heavy with its dangling fruit. There are oranges on our license plate. So begins our stay in the sunshine state, so far very much living up to its name.

Arizona has been left in its dust. The last few days a flurry of fun filled days highlights including the ubiquitous Oktoberfest - the only one in the world to my knowledge that takes place in the middle of desert lands in an unforgiving 40 degree heat - and the Hawaian pool party thrown by the crew.

Cory arrives after work to announce the theme. I scrunch up my forehead looking at my colourful but Hawaiian free wardrobe then he throws me his palm tree shirt with the retro bikini clad ladies posing on it (given to him by one of the local stage hands in Michigan) I pop on some leggings and heels no less, scoop up our sleeping boy and head downstairs. Next the pool is Nicole's room in which she has made space for the Sam-man to rest whilst we mingle with the crowd. As we reach the pool we are garlanded. Cory is fitted with a coconut bra. Ukelele player croons out tropical ditties and chicken is on the grill. At the other end Austin's travel-bar is lit up and pumping out cocktails faster than you can say zombie on the rocks. I stop drinking after one seeing as by the end of it my heels suddenly feel very high. And wobbly.

When we take it in turns to check on the boy we intermittently find a slightly delirious chap who insists I return to the party and asks me why I have Dad's girlie shirt on and the plastic flowers. On my final visit in I find him sitting up singing and he launches into a middle of the night stream of consciousness at which point I scoop him up and bring him out to the party. It takes a minute or two before he lands into our reality but when he does he is the life and soul, right up until mum is thrown in the pool, fully clothed at which point he looks down from the edge, a mix of worry and excitement until he sees me smiling reassuringly back at him. Then it is a matter of minutes before he decides he will go in also, urged on by those of the party still bobbing about in the water. The crew gather around him and help him onto a huge inflatable turtle and takes it in turns to glide him across the pool to each other. Dad is dripping dry nursing a caiprinha at the waters edge. Mum is beginning to flag under the weight of dad's drenched shirt. We eventually make it back to bed around three after a hefty midnight snack for the boy who is convinced it's his breakfast.

If someone had told me that come the weekend I would be clinking steins at Oktoberfest in the midst of the surrounding desert lands of Tempe I would have accused them of delusional behaviour. Come three o’clock that Saturday afternoon however, boy and I were doing the polka (well one of us was, the other was doing an impression of a jumping bean) to the umpahs and yodels of The Sauerkrauts - German musicians squeezed into authentic lederhosen crooning mountain serenades, show stopping cow bell solo to boot. About us German looking descendants nodding their heads to the beat sipping their gallons of once cold beer. Even the rubber ducks at the carnival were suitably attired. Almost totally reduced to a puddle of sweat I lead boy to the splash park of Tempe Beach Park (minus beach on account of a leak and subsequent empty lake) where, demented with delight, he slid, splashed and cavorted in the water. Mum held out, like most of the grown ups, demurely side stepping the water, till I could bear the 106 heat no longer. Calling boy to watch our bag I put my fully clothed self under a suspended bucket and gasped with relief as it spat its contents down on me – and the gaggle of screechy five year old friends about me. Once drenched, my brain rebooted.

As the park cleared around what I presumed to be Arizona siesta time (only mad dogs and Englishmen stay out in this afternoon sun) I notice a couple of brothers brandishing huge plastic water versions of fire arms. The father, a Mexican fella with a pencil moustache and the kind of brooding gaze perfect for Westerns, approaches Sammy and offers him one to play with. Coaching session ensues, teacher and student fierce with concentration, the latter dwarfed by the sheer enormity of his chosen weapon. Water war breaks loose, up until Sam gets it straight in the face and bursts into tragic tears. I almost resist a live-by-the-sword-die-by-the-sword speech. When Dad joins us after his matinee we inhale Bratwurst, all the way from almost German Wisconsin and then polka once again. Sun dips down into the horizon and we notice the malevolent green grey clouds looming towards the festivities taking our cue to leave. Hopping into the first rickshaw at the exit a heavy-set African American chap has the tough task of cycling us home. I keep him talking on account of his velveteen accent and learn he is the sixth child of thirteen, born and raised in South Carolina, currently an ASU football scholarship student. He explains his strengths are his size and, surprising speed. Knowing he is of an athletic mind lightens my guilt for asking him to go on an almost 2 mile ride to the hotel under the ever darkening skies, wind shaking the gangly palms, flashes of lightning illuminating the heavy clouds. I catch sight of an African American busker dressed in a cowboy’s Sunday best, letting rip with almost country tunes on an electric guitar amongst several salubrious characters drifting about the sidewalks with that faraway look of folks who have spent too much time in the desert. Much like the man who sold me his homemade incense at the farmers market the other evening.

Desert living at its end, I write from our Fort Lauderdale home. When we first arrive at the bungalow our landlords greet us and show us about. The words lizards and racoons are bandied about. I perk up waiting for alligator and snake but thankfully in vain. Our new pad is a glorious two bedroomed home complete with a big kitchen, cosy living room, two bathrooms and all the amenities of real life living. The tiled floors, the shutters, the coconut trees swaying in the warm breeze set the scene for our tropical stay. On our first evening we drop our bags and despite a four hour flight, we are high on our usual first night excitement and head to Las Olas boulevard to soak up the street buzz about the open air restaurants and cafes. Moments later we are inhaling wood fired pizzas and sipping chianti. Homemade gelato finishes it off. Nothing about the street suggests anything but a Mediterranean summer's eve. Mafioso type (sssshhhhh) on the table next to us makes conversation, heavy new york accent, hard of hearing I supposed on account of his booming voice and the way he craned forward with a forehead of strain every time I spoke. He and his columbian wife, glittery in baby blue rhinestones tell us we are have our handfuls having a scorio boy. I would never have assumed the man to be interested in astrology. Just goes to show, you never can tell.

When the boys leave for the loo I notice a local leaving the establishment, high five-ing the brazilian waitress on his way, ironed jeans and thinning but highly coiffured red hair swept back. I find myself inadvertently edging forward on my seat as he negotiates the steps somewhat shaky on his feet. Then he totters on down to his enormous rolls royce and with a few manoeuvres safely makes it onto the road. The rest of the parked cars are of a similar style. The streets surrounding this main drag are lined with the kind of homes to match. And yachts. Hundreds and hundreds of them, each bigger and sleeker than the next. Prize for most foreboding goes to the oversized black number moored beneath a huge block of upscale condominiums. Something Batman would sail made entirely from black fibreglass and darkened windows. As we drive our heads tennis match from each side of the street three of us competing in volume with our ooos and aaahhhs. After dinner we did a brisk supermarket sweep on account of our bodies believing it was late afternoon and eventually we slipped into sleep.

Not for too long for the following morning mum had found a gymnastics class around the bend in Holiday Park. Sam, his usual easy going self was barely awake but at the mention of gym sprang into action like a limber chimpanzee. Miss Kelly and Miss Katy put the gaggle of three year olds through their paces. Sam tumbling down and around with gusto. After refuelling at home boys take off to the park and leave ma to reach her column deadline and catch up with her ma on skype. When they return they both have the woods about them, boy's face smeared with muddy fun, tales of pretending to be monsters with a gang of boys spilling forth at the rate of a caffeine junky on his tenth cup of the morning.

They wash up and we spruce up n' out for dinner at the 15th street fisheries, somewhat of an institution around here for, well, fish specialities. Opting for the "full dining" experience upstairs we take a window seat and sit back while the waitress presents an oversize framed menu which she perches on a tray stand for us to peruse. Rattling off the specials of the day, she relays colourful details of what "chef" does with one such thing or another and it all sounds fishy and delicious. Tastes fishy and delicious too. Amongst the delights were a rock shrimp chowder, crab cake, red snapper and mahi mahi. Boy sucks in taglitelle with shrimp and mum sips an apple martini.

The sea laps beside us and after some homemade vanilla ice cream with ganache and peanut brittle we catch the sunsetting rays dance on the water. Our faces pinkish purple with the closing light we make a dash for the beach. When we get there the waves are rolling in, the wind is whipping up the sand but our family soldier onto the shore and dip our feet, screaming of course, into the ocean. Warm as bath water. Hopping from foot to foot we cling onto each other lest the undertow carry us out for good. Beside us another family are doing much the same thing. As darkness creeps in we watch our silhouetted boy swing up and around the playground towards the street. A few other families similarly squinting in the twilight keeping their eyes on their climbing off springs. When even squinting is useless we take our cue to head back home. Eyes open for lizards and fallen mangoes when we arrive.

Following morning dad leaves for press engagements and boy and I hit the park just in time for several school groups coming out of the children's theatre on the other side. They swarm the playground, though I have little trouble keeping my eye on the boy on account of his incessant and incredibly loud singing and train impressions. Certainly does nothing by halves. When dad finally rejoins us I am mid natter with local mums who tell me glibly about Alligator alley, aka interstate 595, as well as a few nearby coves, perfect for children to splash about it. They tell me about the unusual weather they are having, revelling as they are at actually being able to breathe and be outside without looking like they had just stepped out of a washing machine. Usually this time of year is plagued with the tropical muggy heat for which this part of the world is famed. I try to gracefully receive the compliments on my accent, which my friends keep reminding me is being tarnished every day. I ask them whether I ought to do the day cruise to the Bahamas $80 round trip, food included? They nod energetically in the affirmative.

After lunch mum has the bright idea of heading to the beach for an hour or so of watery frolics. The first clue I missed was the fact that the turquoise water's edge was utterly void of human life. The second clue was the speed of the waves. When we finally reached the beach it took but a breath before the force of those winds was fully realised. Sand whizzed across needling any exposed flesh. Sam steps out of his flip flops but they are almost thrown away on the wind. In between the screams, this time of terror not delight, we coax ourselves towards the shore but the erratic waves criss crossing our feet are more rabid than inviting. We can't hear ourselves think over the boy's passionate protestations. Or the wind. Or the beautiful, wild seas, and so beat a swift retreat, stopping only to pick up a piece of dried out sea sponge which Sam nurses all the way back home announcing it will be a gift from him to our landlords.

Back at bungalow HQ I throw myself into unpacking and the boys kick a ball about. Tea is brewed and spirits are restored. When dad hits the hay for his regulation siesta (first night tonight!) I turn around to find boy draped in every chunky ethnic necklace I own (and I own quite a few). I watch him climb onto an armchair, lean back and shut his eyes. He holds out his palm towards me, and, still with eyes shut asks me to guess what type of coin he is holding. My cackle bubbles out. He joins in. Any attempt for me to gently point out that him shutting his eyes and holding the coin out for me to clearly see undercuts the aim of his invented game somewhat, falls on deaf ears. And I am glad. And overcome with a wave of love for this little chap sat, bejewelled, cross legged, smirking with closed but smiling eyes, looking like a cross between a psychedelic chief and colourful buddha. Later he asks me if chiefs take their jewels off to sleep. I tell him I am not so offay with the intimate nightly rituals of such men but for the sakes of our hut he might think it wise to do so.

Now its just me and the overhead fan whirring into the night. My producer will be home in an hour or so, cracking the whip. Tells me as he leaves for work tonight that a venue is almost secured for the Mariela extravaganza once we reach upstate new york and I'd bloody well have a show fit to fill it in three weeks time. That clammy palm feeling all over again. We worked late into the night yesterday throwing around ideas and then both went to sleep happy in the knowledge of having made a good start. Whichever way you look at it however, 15 extra minutes of show that includes a short film and two new characters is no short order. Then there is the task of inviting friends and family to come and laugh (hopefully!) at me in the hopes that my material does not offend to infinity. I suppose if you decide to live the vaudevillian dream you really ought to put in the work too no? It's not all cocktails and shutters and quick escapades on the beach in real life is it?

Or is it?