Krefttik 2.5: Krefttik thwarted

Drove over to the East End today for dinner with Adrian and Margaret so thought it was the perfect opportunity to pop into Klein's on my way to try to find some Krefttik. But no, even though kosher shops are *always open* on Sundays (it's a quirk of the Sunday trading laws: if you close on Saturdays for religious reasons you're allowed to treat Sunday as a normal trading day) Klein's was closed. Damn them. I stood outside and shook my fist at the sky.

Instead, and because I had loads of time to spare before my dinner, I made a short detour to Hackney where my grandmother Lily who died in 2006 lived when I was a child. I hadn't been back until earlier this year when I spoke at Hackney Limmud but I found it oddly comforting just to stand on the street outside the house, thinking about what it used to look like inside, about how it felt to be there. I took some pictures (worrying all the time that the people who live there now would come out and shout at me) and ran my hand along the rough brick wall outside: a very physical childhood memory.

Unlike some of the houses on that street, my grandmother's house hasn't been gentrified yet. This pleased me. The plants she grew in the front garden are still there, grown tall and wild. The chequered-tile front step is still there, the mouldings above the front door are still thickly coated with paint just as they were in my childhood. I hope they keep it like that.

Tired and emotional

I find it hard to throw things out. Other people love it - they gaily chuck stuff into the bin and then revel in all the beautiful space around them. Me, I find it hard. I don't mean like, throwing out crisp packets. But things that have meant something to me. Or might have meant something to me. Or if I can't really remember whether they meant something to me or not, but who knows, maybe they did! Anyway, today has been a throwing-out day, so it's been hard. I did go to a new place - it was the new promenade and bay at Seaham Harbour. Here is the bay in the evening:

But because I'm really a bit too tired and emotional to write much more, here instead are some images from late-80s copies of Just 17 and Smash Hits. Michael Jackson, Christian Bale and Philip Schofield, as they used to be.

 

North to the Future (or in this case, to the past)

I am in Seaham, County Durham, for the first time in 14 years. It is peculiar. I feel like I'm in 1991.

To explain more fully. In 1988 my parents bought a little two-up, two-down miner's cottage in Seaham, at that time, one of the most depressed areas of the UK. My dad has links to the area; he and his mother were evacuated here during the war and she remained good friends with people around here all her life. She used to enjoy coming up for visits to her old friends. I spent pretty much every summer here between the ages of 13 and 19, and then stopped coming. (Got too old to want to spend summers with my parents, really...)

But now my parents want me to clear out the relics of my childhood that are still here. It is very very odd to be here. The house is full of old furniture from my parents' house, sofas from my grandma's house, my old schoolwork, books I read as a child... there's a Proustian madeleine everywhere I turn, essentially.

Anyway, more of this tomorrow. On the way up, my mum and I stopped first at Boundary Mills discount clothing outlet which was marvellously full of old ladies looking for polyester mother-of-the-bride trouser-suits and also some awesome hats:

For dinner, we went to what is apparently the best vegetarian restaurant in the UK, The Waiting Room in Stockton-on-Tees. It is very quirky, with an incredibly peaceful atmosphere, old schoolroom furniture, and cute waitresses with good hats:

Also, the food was pretty nice.

Now, I have driven about 300 miles today, and had my senses assailed by objects from my past. I think it's time for bed. As a final word: last Tuesday I went to hear the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain at the Proms. If you haven't listened to the concert yet, do it before it vanishes from the website, cos it was lovely.

A wilderness of monkeys

Did you ever wonder what award-shortlisted authors do the night before the ceremony? Do you imagine some glamorous evening, perhaps, sipping champagne on a terrace? Or settling down between smooth white sheets on a lavender-filled pillow for an early night? Or, stoic and professional, working on the new book just like every other night? Well, perhaps Olga Grushin and Yiyun Li (both excellent writers, incidentally, whose books I can unreservedly recommend) are having evenings like that. As for me, I've spent my evening up to my rubber-glove-clad elbows in a black rubbish bag. Oh yes, my life is full of glamour.

It's been a difficult day - many phonecalls trying to make last-minute arrangements for tomorrow, getting myself sorted out after a weekend away, work to get on with, novel to get on with, dash to Brent Cross to buy essential supplies. And in the middle of it all, I discovered that I wasn't wearing the star-of-David necklace my grandmother gave me when I was five years old, and which I've been wearing constantly since she died in April.

So, trying not to panic I looked in the sensible places. Bedside table, desk, bathroom shelf. Then the slightly less sensible ones. Under the bed, between the sheets, under the bedside table, in amongst toiletries. Then the downright ridiculous ones. Between the pages of books, in the sweater drawer, amongst the cutlery. Nothing. And so, inexorably, I was drawn to one conclusion. I went to the outside bins and retrieved the rubbish bag I'd thrown out in the morning.

I shied away from going through it - after all, thinking you've thrown something out by mistake is usually just a panicked reaction. I went through all the sensible places, and the less sensible ones, and the ridiculous ones, one after the other. And then I tackled it. I sat in the middle of my living room, pulled on my rubber gloves and went through my bag of rubbish, carefully tearing open every envelope and plastic bag, poking through the mouldy food and the unspeakable squishiness, thinking all the time what an amazingly foolish thing this was to do.

But, I found it. Covered in mushed salmon and mouldy avocado, there was my necklace. I can honestly say I have rarely accomplished anything so satisfying. I might win this prize tomorrow, or I might not, but, most importantly, whatever happens I won't have inadvertently thrown out my grandmother's necklace. As Shylock says of his dead wife's ring which Jessica swapped for a monkey: "I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys." It was worth the fishing around in disgusting squelch.

(Oh, and, in case you were wondering, no none of us will have been spending this evening toasting our success in advance. We don't find out until the ceremony tomorrow night.)

Salmon

My grandmother died yesterday. She was 89 years old and had been ill, but I'm still sad. It's funny how that works: even though logically I knew that it was inevitable, there's still no way to anticipate the sadness, to deal with it early or reason yourself out of it. I'm sad. I miss my grandmother. There it is.

The good thing about the Jewish mourning process, though, is that it gives you plenty of things to do. So that although I'm feeling sad, it's not all I'm feeling.

The funeral is tomorrow, and my family asked if I could arrange for some food to be at the house after the service to feed the mourners. So I called a caterer. Now, my parents had said to me that they didn't want any smoked salmon as part of this meal - they feel it's a festive food, the kind of food you'd have for a simcha and it's simply not appropriate after a funeral.

This is how my conversation with the caterer went:
Me: So, I'm looking for some simple sandwich platters - cream cheese, tuna, egg, that sort of thing. And no smoked salmon.
Caterer: No smoked salmon?! But that's everyone's favourite! Let me tell you, the salmon goes faster than anything else.
Me: Yes, but my family don't think it's appropriate for after a funeral - it's more of a simcha food.
Caterer: Salmon? A simcha food? It's an everyday food! People eat it on weekdays, all the time!
Me: Well, possibly. But my parents have requested not to have salmon, and I'd like to respect their wishes.
Caterer: [pause] You know, this is a difficult time for your parents. They might not be thinking clearly. It's up to you to convince them; they have to have salmon.
Me: [longer pause] OK. Well. Thank you for your time.

Salmon: it's what's important at a time of bereavement.

(In case you're wondering, I subsequently called a different caterer who agreed to provide platters without salmon with no quibbling.)