10 Things You Didn’t Know about Hampstead

I didn’t know half of them myself till recently – and I live in Hampstead. This part of London is full of surprises.

1 Hampstead is chock full of delightful architecture, much of it Georgian, Victorian or Edwardian. Then there’s 2 Willow Road. Designed by architect Ernő Goldfinger in the 1930s, this modernist home was only made possible thanks to his wife’s great wealth.

2 Willow Road NW3

Goldfinger was a champagne socialist, which is why he concealed the servants’ bell. You could say that he wasn’t popular with everyone. Ian Fleming, you may recall, named the ultimate villain after him.

2 Nightclub hostess Ruth Ellis was the last woman to be hanged in the UK. Her crime? Shooting dead her cheating lover David Blakely in 1955 outside the Magdala Tavern. If you wander up South Hill Park in Hampstead, you’ll still be able to see the bullet holes on the wall of the pub, mainly because they’ve been enlarged with a drill.

Magdala Tavern, NW3

For a thought-provoking novel set around the Ruth Ellis story, I can highly recommend Jane Davis’s brand-new book At the Stroke of Nine O’Clock

3 The Whitestone Pond at the top of Heath Street is the highest point in London. It’s a man-made pond with ramps to let horses wash in it. A bit later, it was used for floating model boats and for paddling, earning it the name Hampstead-on-Sea. Now fringed with rushes, nobody much goes into the pond at all, but they do wander up here, and probably tell each other it’s the highest point in London.

4 Hampstead Heath covers 790 hilly acres and has something for everyone, with magnificent views over London as well as woodlands and a string of ponds, three of them for swimming (if you don’t mind cold water). The Heath enchanted author C.S. Lewis, inspiring him to write The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe

Hampstead Heath

5 Fancy a bite to eat? Hampstead has not one Streatery, but two. The Belsize Village Streatery opened for summer 2020 on the paved area of the village to help keep a wide range of local restaurants and cafés running. It brings a continental vibe to this corner of London and is an excellent place to meet friends or celebrate a special occasion. The floor is clean enough to eat off, as the saying goes, but the socially distanced tables and chairs in the square are a better bet.

Belsize Village Streatery

Following on from the success in Belsize Village, there’s also a second Streatery at South End Green.

6 Hampstead is awash with celebs. Do you know Mrs Newbie? She and her cob lived together in bliss on the Heath, until Mr Newbie died in 2016. At some point, the grieving Mrs Newbie flew off and hurt herself on a nearby roof. While at the swan sanctuary for treatment, she met fellow patient Wallace who had come from Waltham Forest. Their relationship blossomed.

pair of swans

Once both of them were well enough, they were released to Hampstead Heath’s Number One Pond and have since raised seven cygnets. Mrs Newbie had to return to the swan sanctuary earlier this year after she was attacked by a dog, but is now back with Wallace and their cygnets. Vive l’amour! 

swan with one cygnet

7 Originally from Suffolk, painter John Constable relocated when his wife developed TB. At the time, the air in Hampstead was considered a lot healthier than elsewhere. Unfortunately there were no anti-TB drugs at the time and Mary didn’t improve. Most of the family is now buried in the family tomb at St John-at-Hampstead.

Constable family tomb

8 The Royal Free Hospital in Pond Street was founded in 1828 to give free treatment to those unable to afford it. To begin with, the Royal Free was in central London, and then moved near the site of the previous Hampstead Fever Hospital, a name which inspired the title of my novel Hampstead Fever.

For years, the Royal Free was the only London teaching hospital in London to train women doctors. The Royal Free’s pioneering heritage continues. It was the first UK hospital to have a high level isolation unit (HLIU) for infectious diseases like Ebola.

Royal Free Hospital

9 Hampstead has cats. Many, many cats. This busy fluffball knows exactly where she is going. You’re lucky the others moved too fast for me to photograph them all.

long-haired Siamese cat

10 You don’t have to go into the Freud Museum to see a fine statue of Sigmund Freud. Here he is outside the Tavistock Clinic in Fitzjohn’s Avenue, leaning forward in a pose suggesting period pain. I call it womb envy.

If you know Hampstead, please leave a comment with your favourite fact about the area. Meanwhile, until September 9, you can download a copy of Hampstead Fever for just 99p/99c. 

 

The Cheat’s Guide to Cambridge

Whether you’re about to start your studies at Cambridge or just want to know a bit about this ancient university, here’s the low-down in 7 easy steps.

View of Clare from King’s Bridge

1 Cambridge is a collegiate university and, no, the 31 colleges are not all the same. The oldest is Peterhouse, founded in 1284, while Robinson only dates from 1977.

Inside Caius College (full name: Gonville & Caius)

There are postgrad-only colleges (Clare Hall and Darwin), four colleges specifically for mature students, and two only for women (Newnham and Murray Edwards).

Newnham College

Mixed colleges are a fairly recent introduction. Until 1972, the vast majority of colleges were all male. With a sex ratio of 10 to one, it was much harder for a woman to get a place. If she wanted male company once she got into Cambridge, however, all she had to do was show up and breathe.

Each college has a bespoke woollen scarf in college colours. Whichever college you attend, the scarf is very scratchy.

Newnham Bear in college scarf

2 There are no mountains between Cambridge and the Urals, so winters can be chilly. Thanks to the easterly winds, most students sport a cold wet nose by November. It’s said to be a sign of good health in animals, though not in undergraduates.

3 Geography is generally ignored. Most people still call Cambridge a town though it’s actually a city. Although it is very flat, one still goes UP to Cambridge and DOWN to London. Nobody ever mentions Oxford, or they simply call it ‘the other place.’ Should you be forced to write it down, it’s traditional to use a lower case O for its name. This petty snobbishness is totally misplaced because Cambridge University was founded by scholars who fled Oxford.

Outside Great St Mary’s Church

4 The Cambridge Union is not a union. It’s a debating society. There was no students’ union at all until 1971, and even then it had no premises for its members, just a tiny office for those who ran it. It was in Round Church St, an address many dossers knew well as they turned up regularly for handouts.

5 You’re here to learn? Oh, right. Well, in that case you need to know that the Faculty or Department arranges your lectures, seminars, and lab work. Your college arranges small group sessions called supervisions which take place in the college, or in university buildings. And accommodation is almost always within college.

Where the atom was split

Each broad subject area is called a Tripos, eg Economics Tripos, Natural Sciences Tripos (which includes subjects from Physics to Cell Biology). These are divided into parts and students complete a number of parts in one or more Triposes to qualify for the BA degree. Yes, the basic degree is BA Hons whether you’re reading sciences or arts. Hold on to it for another few years, and it upgrades to an MA without any further study.

The word Tripos is so popular that end of year exams are also called Tripos. The name comes from the three-legged stool exam candidates used to sit on.

In BA gown & hood on Degree Day

6 From April to about October, cattle graze on picture-perfect common land within the City of Cambridge. It’s all very well wandering about with your nose in the air and your mind on higher things, but watch where you put your feet. Best look behind you now and again too, in case you’re being followed.

This cow wandered into a stream to cool off and she’s now munching watercress while a man serenades her with his violin.

7 Pets aren’t generally welcome in College, though, especially not dogs. When Lord Byron was forbidden to keep a dog, he got himself a bear for his room in Trinity. More recently, the Master of Selwyn was only allowed his basset hound when the College Council ruled that Yoyo was, in fact, a very large cat. I don’t know what they thought of its ears.

Welcome to Cambridge!

King’s College Chapel seen from the Backs on a frosty morning

Memories of Beirut

Explosions are nothing new in Beirut. My childhood visits to the city were punctuated by car bombs. I’d grab my mother’s hand and ask why. Usually there was an election on. Lebanese elections were not always orderly, and the many factions were particularly competitive in the 1960s.

But none of those explosions came close to this week’s huge blast, said to have been felt as far away as Cyprus. It was the very last thing this debt-stricken country needed.

Photo by H Assaf from FreeImages

My grandfather’s family came from Ehden, then just a small mountain town in North Lebanon, not far from Tripoli. The Arabic name for Tripoli is Troublos which tells you a lot about the country. The history of Lebanon has been nothing if not turbulent. And yet there was so much to admire and enjoy, as any Lebanese person will gladly tell you, in great detail.

Photo by <a href="/photographer/timot-37385">Csaba Moldovan</a> from <a href="https://freeimages.com/">FreeImages</a>

This tiny country boasts (I use the word advisedly) snow-capped mountains and bright blue sea. Why, you could ski in the morning and water-ski in the afternoon. And did you know that St George slayed the dragon right near the centre of Beirut, in St George’s Bay?

Until civil war began in the 1970s, Beirut was the Paris of the Middle East. The main cultural influence was French and the city was famed for its night life, restaurants, glamour, intellectual society, and tourism. Scratch that. It was the Paris of the entire world.

Photo by José A. Warletta from FreeImages

I’ll bet you never realized that the Lebanese invented online shopping. Why, even 50 years ago, I saw housewives lowering their baskets on a line from their balconies down to street level, their order either written on a list in the basket or, more often, relayed at full volume to the shopkeeper below.

As for taxis, Beirut pioneered the ‘service’ type which is a shared cab and much cheaper than regular taxis. To find a service, all you do is stand at a corner and a service driver will screech to a stop and carry you off, even if all you wanted was to cross the street. You might share a ride with a Maronite priest, a tourist, a student, a huge housewife clutching bunches of herbs, or whoever happened to be standing there. The drivers all drive with one hand out the window, the other giving you back your change, and the head turned back to see if you are happy. You’d better be, because if you’re not, they’ll sing along with the music on the radio and never look at the road again. There are fewer accidents than you’d expect. Every chauffeur has a string of blue beads hanging over the mirror to keep the Evil Eye and other drivers at bay.

I recall being disappointed with the Cedars. There were only about 40 of them left, and locals happened to be using them at the time to hang carcasses of various animals they were selling. But not far away there was a magnificent picnic spot by a stream. I drank from it with my hands and it was the iciest and best water I had ever tasted.

Photo by Edith Hdz from FreeImages

There’s no shortage of historic sights in Lebanon, so it puzzled me that for many years their postage stamps bore not photos of ancient monuments but images of fruit. Then again, the Lebanese are big on food. Nothing in Lebanon is small, except the country itself which is half the size of Israel.

Over the years, many Lebanese have left the country for bigger pastures. New York has long been a favourite. The city never sleeps and everything in the USA, especially the steaks, are twice as big as they should be, so it’s the natural destination for a young person making their way in life. The Lebanese have a deserved reputation for being good at making money, and a great many of them have succeeded in the New World.

I won’t even try to unpick the current economic situation which was dire even before this massive explosion. There’s no hope of ever recreating Beirut’s former glory, but there’s every reason to save as many lives as possible. My own cousins living near Beirut are safe. Thousands weren’t so lucky.

If you can, please help. The Lebanese Red Cross is non-partisan and is a good place to start.

What I Did on My Staycation – a Day Out in Norfolk

Never mind how newspapers and magazines use the word. In line with the real meaning of staycation (staying at home and making day trips), we set out with a full tank and a vague sense that we might end up in North Norfolk. I’m married to a Norfolk boy, and I hasten to add that I am not his sister.

“Think bike,” I said as we left home. I was only repeating what I’d read on a road safety sign but, with my OH, it triggers dreams of his beloved Bonneville and Suzuki V-twin, along with reminiscences of his speedway days. I woke him from his reverie before we hit a hapless pedestrian.

How I’d missed the sights and sounds of rural Britain during lockdown – and the smells. First stop Lakenheath where USAF fighter jets were about to take off. We’re merely opportunistic spotters, but lined up against the chain link fence were all kinds of spotters and their cars, plus a mobile snack bar to sustain life during a long wait.

The air, heavy with the scent of aviation fuel, throbs when the F-15s come to life. Their roar is unlike anything outside Cape Canaveral and I defy anyone not to feel stirred as the planes gather speed.

I tried to capture the excitement with my Huawei which, I’m told, beams every image direct to China. Sorry to disappoint you, Beijing, but all I got was a high-res view of galvanised metal fencing.

To save you the trouble of going all the way to Lakenheath, this video gives you an idea, though it’s only a tiny sample of the experience. You’ll need to imagine standing a few hundred yards away with your fingers rammed in your ears.

By way of a complete contrast, the second stop of the day was a Norfolk village where ducks outnumber humans and reading seems popular, if the phone box is anything to go by.

I won’t reveal the name of the village, but this little clip might recreate the duck pond for you without using any petrol.

On to Burnham Market, a postcard-perfect town where Hunter wellies are de rigueur, which made sense as it was raining by then. Hungry by then, we stopped at Tilly’s café for lunch. With no free tables left inside, we hunkered down beneath a shrubby honeysuckle.

I can never go to Norfolk in the summer without buying samphire. It grows around tidal creeks and estuaries, but I usually get mine at a stall by the side of the road, where you can pick up a small bag of the stuff in return for a few coins left in a well rusted honesty box. The first bunch I bought this week turned out to still have its roots attached, which unfortunately means that picking it sacrificed the whole plant. The other bunch I bought came in a plastic bag full of water. Although you can sometimes buy samphire in supermarkets, freshly picked bunches taste much better and you also get the experience of salt water sloshing in your Converses as you drive home.

In the spirit of sharing my day out, here’s a recipe for hot samphire and potato salad from the Easy Cheesy Vegetarian. It even works without the potatoes.

We then stopped at one or two of our favourite beaches for a paddle in the sea. The Med it ain’t, but it’s the epitome of a British summer. This is a three-wheeler we saw in Cromer. Looked like a Morgan, but it’s more probably a kit car enjoying an outing.

We headed home for samphire and salmon after a happy day.

How to Plunder Your Memories to Write a Book

For some people, a life story emerges as an autobiography or memoir. My aim was more modest. I planned to use some of my oldest memories to write a novel set in Egypt. It was never intended to be all true. While a convent education taught me not to lie, I used to be pretty good at embroidery, if I say so myself.

To aid my recall of fading memories, there were all the old photos that my mother had left me. I therefore dived into the cupboard under the stairs for the afternoon, finally emerging not with leather photo albums from 1955 but a mountain of dust and a couple of old cat toys.

In my experience, recollections have a habit of surfacing on their own now and again, usually in the small hours. Experience also tells me that, if I don’t jot it down at the time, I won’t remember it in the morning, hence what I call my amnesia pad on the bedside table. It’s not that easy to find in the dark and I’m apt to send water glass flying as I scrabble about for paper and pencil. There! I need only scribble a couple of words to nudge me in the morning and I can go back to sleep.

When the alarm goes off a few hours later, I make out the words Magic Marker

Which make no sense. I don’t think we even had Magic Marker in Egypt back then. Over a strong coffee, I try to work it out. The two words I wrote evoke the heady smell of a pristine Magic Marker and the hot tears I cried when I accidentally hit my mummy on the forehead with it. We both thought I’d marked her indelibly. At the time, neither of us quite understood how skin works. I was seven years old. I don’t know what Mummy’s excuse was.

Neither of those reminiscences is quite what I’m after. I resort to Wikipedia as an aide mémoire but, although I learn the history of the Magic Marker and the reason it smelled as it did (early versions contained xylene and toluene), it doesn’t help. I may as well have scribbled wild goose chase on my amnesia pad.

When my own recall lets me down, I sometimes consult my beloved aunt with whom I have a close bond. She clearly recalls what happened years ago, even if her version of events often contradicts mine. “At Suez, your mother was desperate not to be evacuated,” she tells me. “And Papa pleaded with the authorities for her to be allowed to stay in Alex.”

Which is totally weird since I remember with crystal clarity that Mummy had packed our bags and we spent all day at the docks in Alexandria. While she begged to leave on the US Sixth Fleet, I clutched my teddy bear and kept whining to use the bathroom. My mother’s negotiations were partly successful. Our suitcases made the trip.

Timing goes AWOL too when delving into memories. “You never know your mother’s dog, did you? Boogie got run over before you were born.”

My aunt sounds very sure, but this time I can prove her wrong simply by rolling up my sleeve and displaying a scar that’s still there more than half a century later. I had got up too quickly from my potty and accidentally stepped on Boogie’s tail. No wonder he bit me on the elbow.

Aunt is unconvinced, but I have a trump card. It’s a photo of Boogie with me and my best friend (also called Carol).

My aunt studies the picture. “That doesn’t even look like Boogie.”

From this joyous collaboration come as many as three lines of writing, most of which I cross out.

So my book The Girls from Alexandria will have no dogs and no Sixth Fleet. Even so, it will still be redolent of the Alex I knew, with vendors selling charcoal-grilled ears of corn by the sea, the seafood restaurant at Abukir, next door’s cockerel with his random commentary on the day, trams laden down with human cargo both inside and out, handsome men wearing a fez even after President Nasser banned its use, and the eternal cries of “Roba bikyaah!” from the rag-and-bone man touring the neighbourhood with his donkey and cart.

The novel won’t be out till early next year, but here’s what my new publisher has to say so far.  Introducing: Carol Cooper

 

How Was IKEA for You?

The thing with going to IKEA is that it invariably takes three hours, which still isn’t enough to shop and to scoff a bargain plate of meatballs or fish and chips in the café.

IKEA Wednesbury was no different. The shop has everything, mostly things my son and I didn’t know we needed yet soon realised we couldn’t live without.

PS 2014 light. Image from ikea.com

The PS 2014 light is a case in point. By pulling its strings, you can make it open and shut, just like a transformer. Although, unlike a transformer, it is still a lampshade whatever you do. Bargain at £60 and would look great in my son’s new home. Now, what were we here for?

I get distracted by a couple arguing about the configuration of wardrobes and whether they really need a sofa bed (and which set of in-laws they can stand having as guests). Meanwhile, their kids have a pillow fight.

The cognoscenti may take crafty shortcuts through the store, but my son and I prefer not to miss anything, and the trolley soon filled up.

I’d brought my IKEA Family Card, which is why I got an email a week or so later asking for feedback on TYSNES, VILDKAPRIFOL, FLITIGHET, and TOKIG.

I’m not sure where IKEA get their product names, but then I don’t know a word of Swedish except Volvo and that’s Latin. Turns out they use many Scandinavian languages and place names in naming their wares, as this post explains

TYSNES. Image from ikea.com

TYSNES is a village in Norway. It’s also perfect for the bathroom windowsill, especially at just £19. As for the VILDKAPRIFOL, sorry, but, despite the attractive blue pattern, they’re still in the carrier bag.

VILDKAPRIFOL. Image from ikea.com

The FLITIGHET are great, but then what could go wrong with plain white side plates? Alas, I can’t comment on the TOKIG. I’d wanted a salad spinner for ages, but had forgotten that I’d taken the train, so the thing had to stay at my son’s in Birmingham instead of coming home with me.

The thing is, you can forget a lot after 90 minutes in IKEA, and common sense goes out the window. Perhaps that’s why, when nearly leaving the store, it’s almost impossible to ignore the Bargain Corner. The trolley is never quite laden enough to resist the charms of knock-down prices for knocked-about products, like a coat rack with a couple of hooks missing.

IKEA neglected to ask for my views of the humble RӦRT, a fine wooden spoon with endless possibilities. Have you never made spoon dolls? Admittedly my children have long grown out of such rainy day activities, but all you need for this wholesome fun is a Sharpie (or, better, a Magic Marker with a scent that takes me right back to the sixties), and then some fabric for a dress. Why, I could even use one of those pretty VILDKAPRIFOL tea towels.

IKEA also forgot to solicit my opinion of the BӒSTIS. I deem it 75p well spent as it prevents everything I own from turning ginger. It’s well named, too, as Bast was the Ancient Egyptian goddess of cats and her cult centre was Bubastis.

MISHMISH. Not available from IKEA

Far and away my best buy was, on that occasion as on most others, only 50p. Aptly named, the FRAKTA is generally purchased by the checkout when everyone is a bit fractious, even they’ve managed not to drop a BILLY bookcase on their foot.

The FRAKTA after deployment

It may not look much, but it is a workhorse. As the catalogue has it, Be it shopping, doing laundry or going to the beach, it goes wherever you go.”

Except it doesn’t. I always leave mine at home and having to buy another carrier bag at the store.

We caught up at the checkout with the quarrelling couple and the bouncy children, by then pacified by the promise of ice cream. Shopping at IKEA can be stressful, but it doesn’t detract from the chain’s iconic status.

Do you have a great IKEA story? Perhaps you even know someone who met their partner there, as opposed to just arguing with the one they went shopping with. I’d love to hear from you.

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You may also enjoy this post on Feedback Frenzy.

Is Your Classic Car a Sex Symbol?

On a sunny summer day, the grounds of Burghley House proved a good place to ponder this question. The occasion was the annual rally of the Rolls Royce Enthusiasts’ Club on the 100th anniversary of the marque, no less. Some of the visitors seemed of similar vintage. But, if the setting of England’s greatest Elizabethan House didn’t evoke lust, the Flying Lady (aka the Spirit of Ecstasy) probably would. 

FreeImages.com/Artur Szeja

Arriving in my neighbour’s Arnage, I thought we fitted in rather well. OH and I posed in front of cars like this classic green Bentley.

If you’re wondering about the definitions of classic, vintage, and veteran, here’s one widely accepted version. Classic is over 20 years old, while vintage is 1919-1930, and veteran is pre-1919.

Some of the motors we saw were for sale, but most were for show, closely guarded by their owners as if their charges were entrants in a teen beauty pageant.

Some, like this Corniche, were watched over by dogs.

The atmosphere seemed designed to prompt extravagance. Sunshine, free fizz, and John Timms’ Jazz Band make such an intoxicating mix that a 1962 Silver Cloud begins to look a steal at just £395,000.

I had my eye on a sky blue Bentley, but doubt I could have afforded its dinky little brother.

Exploring stalls with items for sale, we admired shiny cylinder heads, members’ spares, and picnic sets for a mere £3,000.  I turned away from a perfectly lovely Louis Vuitton suitcase. It was £2,800 and it didn’t even have wheels!

Perhaps the less car-related merchandise would be within my budget. I tried on a splendid coat by Gabriela Rose Ltd. The mirror told me it fitted perfectly. The label told me it was £995.

In the Gallery Marquee, I enjoyed an affordable piece of fudge before wandering off again among the rows of cars. We traipsed as elegantly as one can in a field. Turned out to be easier without shoes. Who knew?

Owners were only too happy to tell everyone about their pride and joy. As it happens, I know something of their fervour. I did own a classic 1973 Beetle for over 25 years. It might not have swanned about stately homes, but Sauerkraut and I clocked up plenty of miles on camping trips to France and Spain.  And Wales. Mustn’t forget Wales. The speedometer gave up the ghost on the way back.

Lacking even the most basic cocktail cabinet, Sauerkraut was a tad low-tech by Rolls Royce/Bentley standards. Did it have air con? Only if you opened the quarter-lights as far as they would go and kept up a steady speed of 70mph. As for heating, what’s wrong with a coat and gloves? My very first Beetle didn’t even have a fuel gauge. Instead there was a lever for deploying a reserve tank when you were out of petrol.

Was my classic car a sex symbol? It was probably more of a fertility symbol, especially with three child seats across the back, a double buggy shoved haphazardly into the front, and a random assortment of toys meant to keep little boys quiet on long journeys.

You won’t find my beloved Beetle standing in front of Burghley House, but it has graced some of the finest NHS hospitals in the land. Here it is at the Canadian Red Cross Memorial Hospital, in Taplow, Berks.

When I went into general practice, Sauerkraut and I got to know every single street in Borehamwood. I recall one particular patient who called for a visit for back pain. When I examined him, I told him his back didn’t seem too bad. “I know,” he replied. “But I want to buy your car.”

Many years later, I sold Sauerkraut to a lovely family from Liverpool who renamed it Carol.

Go on. Give it a wave if you see it.  

Happy Birthday to Hope Hospital

April 5 is the end of the tax year, but, if you’re hoping for a side-splitting post about ISAs and tax returns, you need to look elsewhere. This week it’s a serious message about sick kids.

Just over two years ago, the People’s Convoy set off from London on an overland journey, taking with it supplies to build a new children’s hospital in Syria.

War has devastated Syria

After six years of war – with the deliberate and outrageous targeting of hospitals – the humanitarian situation was dire. There was no children’s hospital left in Eastern Aleppo, leaving about 250,000 people without medical care.

Hope Hospital, enabled by the People’s Convoy and run by the Independent Doctors’ Association, literally rose from the ashes of oblivion. As the world’s first crowdfunded hospital in a war zone, Hope is a triumph of humanity.

It took 8 dedicated organisations, over 5,000 generous people and £246,505 to open Hope Hospital. When the hospital was damaged by a car bomb, it was repaired. And when funding ran low last year, people raised an additional £480,505 to keep the light of Hope on.

Hope Hospital has now provided 98,707 consultations, checked 26,309 children for malnutrition and given specialist treatment to 52,846 children – children like Hanan, shown here.

Young Hanan’s story

Hanan’s mother suffered hugely during Hanan’s birth in October last year, not least because she had to travel for more than 60 km to reach hospital. Then, at 10 days old, Hanan developed a fever which wouldn’t respond to initial treatment.

Dr Hatem, Hope Hospital’s Director and lead paediatrician says, “Hanan came to the hospital suffering from convulsions… A CT scan showed cerebral oedema, which can cause irreversible damage and even death.” 

Thanks to Hope Hospital’s specialist care, Hanan improved enough for her to be discharged, to the great relief of her mother. She needs to continue with treatment and have ongoing hospital check-ups at the hospital, but is expected to make a full recovery.

Thousands of children need medical care

Dr Hatem says, “We receive dozens of cases like Hanan’s monthly. We are so grateful for the unique presence of this free hospital. Despite the dangerous environment, we are able to save the lives of thousands of children annually.”

Friday 5th April will mark two years since Hope Hospital officially opened its doors. To celebrate, CanDo – one of the lead organisations of the crowdfunding campaign – and the Independent Doctors Association of Syria are sending messages of thanks, hope and humanity.

Dr Rola Hallam, co-founder of CanDo who travelled with the People’s Convoy, says, “Hope Hospital is a shining beacon of what we can do when we believe in our shared humanity. The amazing staff there are saving lives every day thanks to people-to-people care, action, and hope.”  

Hope Hospital is a beacon in a dark world

My grandmother’s family was Syrian, and I’m often glad so few of them are left to see what the conflict has done. But, in a war that has been raging for over eight years, has killed hundreds of thousands and displaced over six million people, the story of Hope Hospital is a rare and precious positive. So I thought you’d like to hear this uplifting story.  You can watch a short video celebrating two years of Hope Hospital.

And here’s where to find out more from CanDo

You too can send a message

Many happy returns to Hope Hospital. If you too would like to send a personal message for #2yearsofHope, it’s easy to do on this link Happy Birthday to Hope

A Cambridge Christmas (and this year Carol’s at King’s!)

This year marked the 100th anniversary of The Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols at King’s College Chapel. And, before the grammar Nazis pick me up on the extra apostrophe in the title, this Carol was there too.

While I normally watch Carols from King’s on TV, glass of fizz in hand, this Christmas we made an early start to attend the real thing. 

Mishmish

Why are the hoomins up at 2.30am?

Because, dear Mishmish, this is what the queue for tickets looked like at 3 am.

Yes, it really was that early, and tickets weren’t going to be handed out till 7am.

Not that I’m complaining. Some people had camped outside the college for three days, despite the rain.  The weather was fine when I got there, if a little chilly. No wonder people had their warmest coats, hats, sleeping bags, sheets of tin foil, etc.

The motley crowd had more than a touch of the Canterbury Tales, with people from all over. Originally a gift to the people of Cambridge, the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols is now a gift to the world.

The queue is finally on the move.

And here’s where the precious tickets are handed out, but only if you remembered to bring ID.

Now it’s time for the hardy types to pack up and go home for a few hours’ rest.

It’ll be a doddle.

Totes got the hang of this.

It must all fit.  Although…  could be worth turning the bike around.

Maybe a couple of minor adjustments.

Nailed it!

And here’s yet another happy camper, complete with dining chair.

No idea who this was, but they were a lot more stylish.

Outside King’s Chapel around 2pm.

Building started on the chapel in 1446 under Henry VI and took over a century to build.

It has the largest fan vault ceiling anywhere, and some of the finest medieval stained glass.

Just before the service began, it looked like this.

As always, the opening carol is ‘Once in Royal David’s City’, starting with a spine-tingling solo voice from the back of the chapel. There’s always a new, specially commissioned carol. The 3pm service is not the Carols from King’s, which is pre-recorded for BBC TV earlier in December, and broadcast a couple of hours later on Christmas Eve.

You can see the 1918 Order of Service here.

The crowd files out into the dusk.

Mist had already descended over the Backs.

By contrast, we slept well into Christmas Day.  Christmas dinner was at Six, a restaurant with 360⁰ views of the city.

This view shows Charlotte and Harriet asking the waiter whether the gravy is vegetarian.

This shot of St John’s Chapel didn’t turn out quite as planned, but it’s jolly all the same.

Here’s hoping you all had a wonderful Christmas. See you in the queue next year?

#TBT Coping with Summer Heat in the 1960s

If you consider summer a tad too warm in the UK, spare a thought for those who spend this time of year in Washington, DC.  The suburbs are tolerable but the city is hot and humid, as I well know from the years my mother and I lived there in a cramped apartment in Foggy Bottom.

Nobody much considered the environment in the Sixties, and most buildings were fiercely air conditioned at the time. The outside, of course, is not, until evening sets in and the scent of honeysuckle fills the air.

It was just as the Lovin’ Spoonful described in their 1966 hit Summer in the City.

The mercury regularly hit the mid to high 90s, or about 34⁰-37⁰ C. I took my driving test one August around midday in a VW Bug aka Beetle (no air con). The Dept of Motor Vehicles takes your photo for the licence just after you pass, and for the next five years my sweaty physiog was a glamorous reminder of the occasion.

FreeImages.com/Jeramey Jannene

The Potomac may look inviting, but it’s polluted. If you wanted to cool down, you had to head to a pool. One of our favourites was the public pool on Volta Place, Georgetown, which is still open. The queues were often long, but entry was free though I think the rudimentary lockers required a dime. There wasn’t much there about from the pool and concrete all around. I remember a couple of Egyptians who loudly admired my 14-year old derrière, until my mother yelled at them in fluent Arabic.

Rock Creek Park runs across the NW segment of DC. It now has a lot more organized leisure facilities than it did back then, when it was little more than a haven of shade. My best memory of the park was a summer day camp run by the recreation department. It was free for city kids and my mother wangled three consecutive placements for me, so I spent six happy weeks identifying leaves, creating shoe racks out of fallen branches, and singing the campfire classic We Ain’t Got the Money for the Mortgage on the Farm.  Inexplicably, we also put on a nativity play. Yes, in August. It was as hot as hell wearing the Virgin Mary’s cloak.

I don’t plan to go back to DC just yet, but I will be visiting my US family as usual later this summer.

Meanwhile I’d love to hear your summer memories and great suggestions for keeping cool.

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You may also enjoy The March on Washington.