Late for Lil

‘You’re late,’ huffed Lil.

‘I’m sorry but I didn’t realise we had an arrangement,’ I offered. I racked my memory as I couldn’t remember making a specific plan with Lil. Armando scowled at me from behind the counter.

I checked the time on the mounted monochrome wall clock and it was 10.15 which was slightly later than I had come in the previous week. There were a few other patrons in the café who were watching our situation unfold from behind their newspapers, tea cups and toast.

I took a seat at the table next to Lil and looked at her in an apologetic manner.

‘How’s your week been?’

‘Up and down – I fell over on Sunday and I’ve had pain in my arm. I thought you weren’t coming.’ Lil looked a little upset.

‘I am sorry on both counts Lil.’ I turned to Armando ‘Could I please have an Assam and a bowl of porridge with blueberries Armando?’

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Armando nodded but was still not talking to me. I imagined he’d had 15 minutes of an unhappy and vocal Lil to contend with. I resolved to leave a generous tip. I do believe that a successful Boulevardier leaves a trail of satisfaction and warmth behind him wherever possible.

Lil looked a little more settled. She was wearing virtually the same outfit as the preceding week with the addition of a woolly hat with a faux fur trim to add a touch of glamour. She picked up a piece of buttered toast and dipped it in her egg. I smiled.

‘Do you have a big breakfast every day Lil?’

‘No. Only once a week when it’s discounted here.’

‘I thought the senior discount was Monday?’

‘It is but do you think I want to be here with all those old codgers.’ Lil broke out into the warm cackle I’d first heard the previous week. She was starting to soften.

Armando appeared with my tea. His facial demeanour suggested his flounce was abating.

‘Thanks. How’s everything Armando?’

‘Fine, but it could do with being a little busier. And it doesn’t help with customers moaning.’ He added the last part in a lower tone. Lil was too engrossed in the egg she had dripped on her dress to notice.

I smiled and raised my eyebrows in an understanding way. Crouch End rents were notoriously high and businesses regularly opened with promise only to close a few months later. I decided to make an effort to frequent more often.

‘I still want the discount though,’ Lil picked up where she left off, ‘I’ve been coming here every week for the last two years, since it opened in fact; anyway I looked at your blog.’

‘And?’ Lil had turned her attention back to the remaining items on her plate: half a sausage and a sliver of crispy bacon. She took her time and it felt like an age before she spoke.

‘You don’t arf bloody get around for a start.’

Armando spurted a laugh and almost dropped my creamy porridge.

‘I adore the arts Lil and it would be awful not go to lots when living in London. I saw Eve Ferret’s Fabaret at a cabaret bar in Piccadilly since I last saw you and it was great.’

‘I thought you’d already seen that?’

‘Yes. It was so good I wanted to go again, and it was different and fun with a few new songs to boot.’

‘The Finnish piece you wrote was all right too. I haven’t been there. I’ve only been to France. What’s the next blog about?’

‘I went to Hastings and interviewed the author VG Lee about what inspired her to start writing in her 40s.

‘Hmmm. Does she have inspiring ideas for writing when you’re 78?’ We both laughed.

Our rapport was increasing and I certainly felt drawn to this elderly lady who’d lived in my community a lot longer than me.

‘You might be inspired by what she says Lil. You’ll have to wait until next week to read it.’

Lil set down her cutlery and dabbed her mouth delicately with her white paper napkin and reached into the side pocket of her shopping trolley.

‘Here you go. Take one of these Club biscuits for later. I do love a Club biscuit.’ Lil was frantically poking the Club in my direction. I got up and took it.

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‘I hope you’re going to be on time next week. I hate people being late.’

‘I promise I’ll be here at 10am Lil.’

‘Good. In that case Armando I’ll take a slice of the strawberry Swiss roll you just brought out. Will you wrap it for me? I’ll have it with tea this afternoon.’

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Armando grinned as six new diners appeared at the door. Everything was looking up.

TNW

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Lil and Armando

A couple of weeks ago I popped into my favourite local café in Crouch End and it was virtually empty. It was 10am and Crouch End was still waking up. The New Year had only just passed and it can take a couple of weeks for thriving society to emerge after the excesses of its festivities.

I ordered a large Assam tea, and a raspberry muffin from Armando the Spanish owner and took my book from my new leatherette man bag (an indulgent Christmas present to myself).

‘What you reading?’ came a voice from the corner.

I turned to see an older lady seated at one of the old wooden tables. She was the only other patron and was looking straight at me awaiting my response. She was wearing a woollen pinafore style patchwork dress over a white halter neck sweater. Her pure white curls poked through a silk headscarf. She had a polka dotted shopping trolley by her side with a walking stick jutting out. Her hand shook as she lifted her tea cup from its saucer and raised its steaming contents to her rosy red lips.

‘It’s by Tove Jansen called The Summer Book,’ I responded and smiled back.

‘Never heard of it. Is she English, the writer?’

‘No she’s Finnish.’

Armando appeared from the counter and delivered my tea served in a pot for one with a mismatched vintage cup and saucer, small stainless steel milk jug and spoon. The accompanying muffin also arrived on a 1950s flower-patterned china side plate.

‘Ah that’s why I haven’t heard of her then. Are you reading it in Finnish?’

‘No, it’s a translation. It’s a really good book about a girl, her grandmother and their interactions across a summer on a small Finnish Island.’

Armando stood with his arms folded between us watching this fledgling conversation develop.

The lady nodded and looked rather pensive as she put her cup back onto its saucer, picked up the teaspoon and gave it another stir.

‘The sugar hadn’t completely dissolved’ she said and I nodded my comprehension.

‘I’m Lil by the way.’

‘I’m Wayne,’ I replied with a smile.

‘So what do you do?’

I realised I wasn’t going to get much reading done, so I put my book down, stirred my pot and poured a cup of strong tea.

‘I’m a Sales Director and a part-time writer,’ I said and took a large bite of my freshly-baked muffin while I had the chance.

‘I used to write; children’s stories – just after the war. What do you write?’

‘I’m working on a number of short stories and a novella and I write a weekly blog. A blog is…’

‘I know what a blog is,’ Lil interjected. ‘I might be old but I’m neither senile nor computer illiterate. They taught us how to use the internet at the age group I go to. What’s the blog about?’

‘Well I’ve created this character that is an accentuation of me. It’s called Introspections of a Displaced Boulevardier and it’s about events I go to, and about living in Crouch End and London.’ I felt quite proud as I relayed the details.

‘What’s a Boulevardier?’

‘It’s a man about town, although remember I said displaced.’

Lil’s whole body gently shook with a stifled laugh as she looked me up and down.

‘Man about bloody town,’ she squawked with increased jollity looking both amazed and bemused. She grinned and lifted her teacup rattling the saucer as she did.

I smiled back and shrugged.

‘For instance I wrote about a weekend I spent on a Finnish Island with friends that I was reminded about when I started this book.’

‘You’ll have to give me the link thingie’ Lil said as Armando returned with her full English breakfast.

As Lil picked up her knife and fork and speared a locally grown organic tomato, and I took another bite of my muffin, Armando smiled and walked back towards the kitchen muttering while he fiddled with his apron strings.

‘What was that?’ Lil asked.

‘I said it seems as if you have both made a new friend today,’ Armando asserted.

Lil and I looked up a little unsure and then beamed simultaneously.

‘I think we have.’

‘Yes and he obviously needs some help with his bloody blog, ’ Lil said.

Had the Boulevardier inadvertently set up a new writers’ group? Would Armando let go of the apron strings? Time will tell…

TNW

Finnish Archipelago

Reading is an incredibly important part in adding layers to the Boulevardier’s life. I am most drawn to fiction and like to immerse myself in the world authors create.

Following a recommendation posted on Facebook I ordered a copy of ‘The Summer Book’ by Tove Jansson, a Finnish author famed for her Moomin stories. This is a book however, written for adults. It follows a young girl and her grandmother as they spend a summer on a small island in the Gulf of Finland.  The chapters are short and provide snapshots of activity and simple experiences between the two, from sleeping in a tent to diving in the sea. The descriptions are stark yet beautiful.

As I was transported into the world of the book memories surged through me of a visit to an island off the coast of Finland with Finnish friends in 2007. I have sadly lost touch with this group of friends through the passage of time, but I shan’t forget the brief times we spent together in Helsinki and on this particular trip to a small Island near to the mainland town of Vaasa.

It was the last weekend in August and therefore a bank holiday in the UK and a great time to take a trip without having to utilise many days of annual leave. I had wanted to visit Helsinki in Midsummer so that it didn’t get dark. I wanted to go drinking and clubbing and put sunglasses on upon exit because I needed to, rather than the usual posing in the dark or trying to hide swimming eyes. I had conversely already visited Helsinki in December where the sun didn’t come up until mid-morning and it was dusk by 2.30pm.

My friends mentioned that it was customary to visit the islands on the last weekend of the summer (which it coincidentally was) when there would be firework displays. We set off early(ish) and arrived in Vaasa early afternoon. The drive was largely uneventful and a time to chat and listen to music for several hours.

I was expecting a nice marina as I was still in London mode. St Katherine’s dock was running through my brain. Instead I was presented with a simple wooden jetty with small motor powered boats docked alongside. There wasn’t even a wooden plank to walk, so to speak, to transition between the shore and the boat.

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I secured my safety jacket and launched from the shore to the boat. The boat dipped rapidly at my end as my feet landed and I had to be steadied by two friends. I honestly expected to be in the water and needed a quick shock of Sherry to regain my composure. I sat in what I told myself was a safe position in the centre of the boat with bundles of provisions either side.

The journey to the island removed the boat embarking trauma as we smoothly navigated picturesque wooded and reeded areas before our path became a little less protected and the sea a little choppier.

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We were, I was told, not out into the open sea but away from the mainland. We sailed past lots of small islands with wooden brightly-coloured cabins and each with its own small dock. The waves jumped at the boat but we had a skilled and experienced skipper who delivered us safely to the island. The dock for our island was less treacherous than our start point and there was a ladder leading up to the wooden jetty.

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I thought I was in a dreamlike state as I took my first few steps towards the red wooden building before me with white picket posts hanging from the roof to protect the porch from the elements. This was a smaller house where I would sleep that night. The bedroom was small but warm and comfortable. One of the Fins would sleep on a sofa bed in the lounge. I liked this idea of a sentinel providing protection in the event of a visit from passing pirates.

There was a sauna, which is key to all Finnish properties that I had visited. Even though my friend lived in a small apartment in Helsinki a sauna was integral to the bathroom.

Beyond that was the larger house where we would socialise and the other two in our party would sleep.

To the left of the main cabin was a wooded area and the gardens in front of the cabins were manicured. The wooden deck was furnished with a comfortable swing seat where you could take in the outstanding views. Towards the water a field of sea grass was vivaciously swaying in the wind. It really was something to behold and enjoy.

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I am not really an outdoorsy type of person and feel more comfortable surrounded by the convenience of the city, as I am sure is the way with most Boulevardiers. However, this was rather magical.

I had validated facilities with my hosts before we left Helsinki and was grateful that the lavatory was modern. I articulated this and my three fellow travellers smirked and looked at each other.

‘Well I did say there were facilities but I didn’t say they were modern and flushing,’ advised one of my friends with a friendly smile.

‘I specifically asked whether the facilities flushed’ I added in a concerned voice.

‘I’m pretty sure you didn’t and of course I wouldn’t have misled you’ retorted my friend; I thought I noticed a slight sarcastic tone.

I realised there was little point debating as we were on the island and I had obviously been duped to get me there. I resolved to smile but to only eat small portions to try and avoid the need to use these facilities before we got back to the mainland the following day.

The wind was starting to increase and whirled around us and the island. We decided to stoke up the sauna and enjoy a relaxing mid-afternoon session while the other two started dinner preparations.

We drank beer, put the world to rights and sweated our troubles away. The sauna interestingly doubled as the shower. This was all very quaint but not quite the comforts I was familiar with.

We opened the bottle of champagne I had purchased at duty free (my fine addition to island life) and feasted on the freshest fish and Finnish delicacies. My resolve to restrict food consumption was forgotten and I was soon sated, full of drink and food tasting all the better for its rustic preparation and charm.

The promised fireworks didn’t appear as the winds were too strong but it didn’t matter. The strong winds gave a mystical feel to each breath on the island cut off from the mainland and civilisation.

We were relaxed and full and headed to our sleeping quarters early and slept soundly indeed.

I felt quite sad the next day to be leaving so soon and would have relished a couple more days on the island, and having successfully navigated the round wooden holed facilities, once could perhaps have overlooked them for another couple of days.

Reading ‘The Summer Book’ has really brought back these fond memories and I salute and clink these absent friends for a great break on the remote island. The sparse prose mirrors the islands where simplicity allows delicious joy in modest experience.

I would not only recommend the book but also visiting a Finnish island cabin should the opportunity present.

Cabinsky

TNW

Collecting in the pursuit of pleasure.

I recently pondered over a magazine article where the writer spoke of a collection of lovely curios. I sat back, with a tasty Oloroso, and wondered whether I should in fact start a collection. I do try to keep chez Boulevardier as minimal as possible and have to fight my urge to retain every item which crosses my threshold and build large piles of everything everywhere.

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Recently discovering the treasure trove that is Of Special Interest in Crouch End hasn’t done much to aid my goal of minimalism. On each and every visit I have returned home with candle holders, boxes for matches and a variety of different heighted cake stands.  I could say I collect items from this labyrinth of beauteous and shiny objects d’art.

What is behind collecting as a hobby? Is it just for the hoarder among us?

There is interestingly a psychology of collecting…

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The monetary value of the collection is rarely the drive and emotional worth surpasses. Collections allow collectors to relive their childhood, connect to historic times, to lessen anxiety of loss of self and to keep the past present.

Some love the adventure of hunting down rare items and treat it as a quest which is unlikely to ever be complete. Accumulating may also provide psychological refuge by replenishing some missed part of self or void of rational explanation.

Is this a modern hobby however? I was all ready for there to be no evidence of contemporary collecting and a leisure pursuit confined to the past overtaken by our instant culture. I considered whether people previously collected for the thrill of the chase with items being harder to attain. Today we have over one and a half billion online pages to shift through. We can navigate to Amazon or eBay and find millions of items for sale and shop worldwide. Had the thrill of the chase been lost? I decided to ask my motley crew of friends on Facebook.

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It seems that my multifarious collection of contributors are still, on the whole, avid collectors with their personal assemblages containing: old foreign coins, theatre tickets, theatre programmes, biscuits, train tickets, Beano annuals, vintage Barbies, black and white postcards (Herb Ritts), Star Wars figurines, pop and rock memorabilia, old unusual teapots, and stamps.

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The less serious collectors mentioned empty wine bottles, excess weight, fleas and political enemies! I’m not certain these held the same motives…

I also thought to check in with Mother who always liked a collection or two and she did not disappoint.

Mum: I do have a collection of glass paperweights, but had to stop as I ran out of room to display them and could see no point in keeping them in boxes.

Me: How many do you have?

Mum: Eight really special ones and another half dozen. I also have my collection of chocolate Labradors.

Me: And how many of those do you have Mum?

Mum: Seven and they are all in different poses and all have different names. I would have more if again I hadn’t run out of space.

Me: What makes you collect Mum?

Mum: Well usually an item takes my fancy and then one is not enough. A random purchase has quite often become a collection for me. Remember all the brass ornaments I had when you were young?

Me: Quite.

Mum: (on a roll now) And Dad has his collection of small China birds. They’re Beswicks and he has twenty one.

It would seem that collecting is in your Boulevardier’s blood, and aside from a half-cocked attempt at stamps when I was a child, this habit has evaded me. I really should collect more than clothes and artistic experience…

I could collect Dolly Mixture or Sherry, but suspect that my enjoyment is much greater in the consumption than the admiring. I did hanker after my lack of gravy boat several days ago and I might therefore try and resurrect the joys of the gravy boat through a collection.

Now if you would please excuse me I need to re-quiff my hair and frequent the local charity shops and vintage flea markets in pursuit of my first gravy boat!

TNW