London's Women's March

 Last weekend, as tensions around the inauguration of DJT mounted, we decided to rearrange all of our plans and join thousands of others at the London Women's March.  The march was a sister march, in solidarity with marchers in D.C. and, as an American, as a woman and as the mother of two daughters, I felt I had no choice but to be there.  Jim, who, obviously, wants his girls to have every opportunity and works hard for equality for women in a male dominated industry (construction), joined us and took pictures.

Walking in the Women's March brought up lots of questions for our girls.  The first of which was 'What is a pussy hat?'  I tend to address these kinds of questions without beating around the bush, but didn't consider that my older daughter would then be armed with a word that is definitely not appropriate for an 8 year old to be saying.  Despite our insistence that she never actually say 'pussy,' unless she is talking about a cat, she spent the next few days angrily declaring that 'Donald Trump thinks he can just grab a woman by the pussy!' Eventually, I put that kibosh on that by making her pay money into our 'bad words' jar at home and insisting that, until she's an adult, she can just call them 'privates.'

We arrived on Oxford Street fifteen minutes before the walk was scheduled to start and found ourselves surrounded by like minded marchers, with signs and smiles, determined to show the world that DJT and his ilk have messed with the wrong sex!

But we only made it about a block before there was a log jam of people and we couldn't go any further.  As the crowds packed in, we had the opportunity to read our fellow marchers' signs.

 

And to be entertained by this woman, who was very likely drunk and also very likely to lose control of her enormous breasts, which were pushing her bra to its very limits as she hung out of the window yelling down to the crowd. Eventually, a man pulled her back inside, which, Evie remarked, was 'Quite rude. He shouldn't be telling her what to do!  She can make her own decisions!'  I assured her that probably he didn't want his funny friend to fall out of the window onto the crowds below.

After about an hour of standing there, the crowd finally took action, chanting, 'Walk THAT way!' and we headed off in the opposite direction from where we should have gone, blocking Oxford Street and the side streets with our heaving masses.

 'What do we want?!' 

'Equality!'

'When do we want it?!'

'Now!!!'

Our little girls walked proudly and chanted loudly! 

It was an inspiring and heartening day, which left me feeling like I want to do more to make sure that we are not divided based on our race, sex, who we love, what religion we are...and to bring up girls who know their worth in this world. 

Hampstead Heath--by Aggy Brown (Beagle Extraordinaire)

Humans.  It has come to my limited attention that I have been discussed and exposed on this blog without input or consent.  I have spoken to my lawyers, but, in the meantime would like to set the record straight.  First of all, I am not fat. I am beagle shaped.  Secondly, I am not just the family dog. I am the family MASTER.  Through my actions, I control many, many things. I control sleeping patterns, by increasing or decreasing my snoring. I control moods by choosing when and where to poop (inside proves very disruptive, especially if someone steps in it). I control eating by sitting by the family dinner table and staring lovingly into the eyes of whoever is closest to me.  If I am sitting next to a child, I usually just take their food, but I have mastered the art of mind control and can usually get the adults at the table to hand over their morsels too.  If I catch the morsels in mid-air, I get more, so I have perfected this 'trick.'

So, humans, do not doubt my vast knowledge or dismiss me as a 'dumb dog' or a 'cuddly beagle.'  I am a liberated and modern day bitch and I also have a powerful nose, which tells me more than you'll ever know.

Today I would like to enlighten you with some information about my favorite local green space: Hampstead Heath.  I spent my formative years in the English countryside, where I frequently lolled about in the sun and rolled in cow pats.  I roamed free of collar or lead and howled with my brothers and sisters.  Ok, so THEY howled and mostly I lolled in the sun. I never was one to follow the pack, being stubbornly independent.  I also never agreed to poo and pee outside of the house and occasionally I destroyed small pieces of furniture for sport.  It was this that led me to my current situation--Life in London.

Now, don't get me wrong. Life in London isn't all bad.  Once I got used to the collar and the lead and the buses and riding in the car, I actually grew to like it.  In London, I still am able to loll about--on the couches!  I am still quite liberated and way more modern.  I am quite the city bitch, actually, riding the bus and standing outside of the school gates as children and adults shower love and affection on me.  It's a good life.  But I have to admit that, occasionally, the country calls.  And I still am on the fence about peeing outside of the house.

So, Dear Human Readers, let me take you on a tour of my favorite urban countryside, Hampstead Heath. Sadly, Kenwood House and its grounds don't allow dogs off of leads, so I can't recommend them, although my family does seem to like to use their toilets a lot and, if the queues aren't too long, to drink their coffee.  They have nice flowers...and occasionally good scraps of food are dropped.  And I hear there is some pretty incredible artwork inside.  But that is of no interest to me! Food is my top priority and  I have much better luck with food when I am free of the lead and can barge right up and steal it from unsuspecting small children or lovestruck couples having picnics.  This is always quite embarrassing for my family, particularly when the child I have stolen food from shrieks in despair. 

 Something you should know about Hamptsead Heath is that it is pleasant no matter what the time of year.  There are always intriguing things to look at and to smell and there is no shortage of fox poop to roll in or eat, if you are so inclined (I am).  There are open fields to run in, ponds to swim in and hills to climb.  There are rather vicious swans about and lots and lots of mud to run through.  If you happen to be the type of dog who likes to cause your family great anxiety by disappearing and not coming when they call you, Hampstead Heath is the place for you! 

Hampstead Heath is also full of the most exhilarating smells!  On my last walk I smelled rabbits and hot dogs and smelly socks, urine and fox poop (but was prohibited from rolling in it by my overly attentive humans). I smelled sweat and the scent of tulip bulbs beginning to unfurl under the earth. I smelled quite a few rats and moldy bathing suits. I smelled dirty nappies and lots and lots of dog bums. The heavenly scent of swan poop drew me towards the pond and the sultry smell of fungi emanated from under a log.  

 And, I smelled the undeniable scent of my own kind.  A beagle! Perhaps a long lost relative or at least a kindred spirit!  One mustn't waste time when it comes to these rare chance encounters and so I took off at high speed to find her, my ears flapping in the wind, my nose in the air, my tail at attention!

My nose first led me to an unsuspecting pack of inferior types, who sniffed around the recently renovated ponds area listlessly and with no purpose.  Clearly, no self-respecting beagle would have mixed with that crowd, but they did take time away from their bum sniffing and incessant barking to confirm that, yes, there had been a rather elegant looking beagle walking by a few minutes earlier.

I carried on over hill and vale (the Heath has a very lovely area called the Vale of Health, which I highly recommend), nose to the ground, determined to find the other beagle.  I searched at all three swimming ponds (off limits to dogs, but open to people. Not that I swim.) and climbed to the top of Parliament Hill, where I took in a breathtaking view of the city, despite the fog.

 The mud was a little bit of a hindrance, masking the trail, ever so slightly...and I also must admit that I got distracted by an empty crisp packet, which some litter bug had left on the ground. There was also the distinct scent of fried dough,  which I was certain was a sign that I was headed in the right direction, but which led me, ultimately, to the Hampstead Heath caravan park, where there carnival people were having a break between stints.

 The fog was getting denser, but my nose always knows...and we were gaining on the other beagle. My heart was beating with excitement!

 And suddenly...there she was!  Clearly she's not the master of the food in her house, given her scrawny state, but it was a joy to connect with one of my kind.  Together we sniffed the perimeter of the pond, careful to get just enough smelly mud on us to ensure we stunk up our cars on the way home, but not so much that we would have to have a bath.  We shared our best locations for fox poo and barked and howled melodiously together. It was great fun!  She chased the swans, but I am aware that they are strictly off limits after nearly having been pecked to death by one last year for looking too closely at it.  Sniffing with another beagle was a lovely way to end the day.

Oh, yeah. And here are some pictures of my family, who also enjoy Hampstead Heath immensely, despite their inability to actually smell anything much.

The End

Camden Market (with kids)

 When we first moved to London, Camden Town was a place where we went to see people with piercings and multicoloured mohawks.  We wandered around, buying junk at the colourful stalls, eating street food and trying on 'vintage' clothes.  We went there for Halloween costumes and to hear music.  We ate at the Green Note, a vegetarian restaurant featuring, among other good music, a bluegrass band from Hastings. We wandered through en route to Whole Market and bought fairy lights  and rag rugs for our first baby. We dangled our feet off the bridge over the canal and skirted around vomit and other unsightly things left on the ground.  Camden is not a clean place. Camden is not a kind place...and now Camden is a place where we take our kids.  

On our last day before school started again and the coldest day of the year so far, we took the tube to Camden for a visit to Camden Market with friends.  Camden Market is pretty much the opposite of Selfridge's.  It answers Selfridge's unattainable luxury with pretty much all the crap you can ever imagine crammed into maze-like stalls that go above and underground.  Where at Selfridge's the attendants are cool and aloof, in Camden Market, everyone, from the enthusiastic sellers of Chinese food to the guy who really wants to convince you that the inappropriate belly shirt is perfectly appropriate for your seven year old, hustles.  

We started our Camden visit off with lunch at a New York Style bagel place, which luckily had a glassed off, separate space where the kids could conduct their lunch in chaos.  The adults, above, enjoyed our bagels and coffee while pretending that we couldn't hear our offspring causing havoc down below us.  The 'everything' bagels were divine and the staff were not American in any way, shape or form, which I found kind of funny, considering their schtick was the New York bagel.  But they were nice and tolerant of our hyper children, for which we were grateful.

There really is only so long you can keep five kids confined in a bagel cafe, so we headed out into the cold weather to let them burn off some of their cream cheese induced energy.  The original idea was to tour the Camden street art, but we got distracted by the call of Camden Market and that really never happened.  Here is the only picture of street art that I actually took:

It doesn't have to be summer to lounge in lawn chairs in Camden Market.

(photo by Aviva Raichelson)

And you don't have to eat overpriced, imported cereal to stick your head through the Cereal Killer Cafe sign either:

Dancing outside a Vintage Shop is absolutely acceptable as long as you don't touch the display (or expect anyone to smile or think you're cute):

 Horse butts are hilarious (especially when their genitals are anatomically correct):

 And if you're more into dogs than you are into horses, there is a plastic St. Bernard to cuddle outside of a bar set up to resemble those you would find on the slopes in the Alps. 

 There are secret messages written in the handmade clothing:

Really, with all this in Camden Market, who needs to go skiing, to visit real horses or to contemplate your relationship?!  You can also get hippy clothes, rave accessories, overpriced, but worn out overalls, wigs, piercings, old books, 'antiques,' tiny balls that grow with water, incense, jewellery, tee-shirts, candles, art, essential oils, alcoholic beverages, doughnuts, drugs*, lemonade (in January), lights, furniture, interesting, if not particularly happy looking people....and pretty much anything else that may or may not be your heart's desire.

Eventually, we got overstimulated and just had to leave.  But not before we met Muthy at the Hammer Silver (https://www.facebook.com/thehammersilver/).  Friendly and talented, he made us a handmade necklace for a friend while we stood there, patiently answered all our questions, happily let the girls help themselves to far more small bags than they needed and cheerfully offered to let us come and watch him at work anytime. I spotted more than a few of his pieces that I am lusting after, so another Camden Market visit is in my future soon!   

Until next time...

*for the record, no one associated with this blog has ever bought or been offered drugs in Camden Market....