BORN AND BRED

A Londoner parks his brand new Mercedes in front of the office to show it off to his colleagues.

As he is getting out of the car, a lorry comes speeding along too close to the kerb and takes off the door before zooming off.

More than a little distraught, the Londoner grabs his mobile and calls the Police.

Before the Police Officer has a chance to ask any questions, the man starts ranting and raving hysterically: " My Mercedes, my beautiful silver Mercedes is ruined. No matter how long it's at the panel beaters it will never be the same again."
After the man finally finished ranting the Police Officer shook his head in disgust.
"I can't believe how materialistic you bloody Londoners are" he says. "You lot are so focused on your possessions that you don't notice anything else in your life."
"How can you say such a thing at a time like this?" sobs the Mercedes owner
The Police Officer replied: "Didn't you realise that your left arm was torn off when the truck hit you?"
The Londoner looked down in horror.
"F*****ing hell!" he screamed. "Where's my Rolex?"

One thing I am not is materialistic. I was not born with a silver spoon in my mouth. No silver mercedes ever adorned the roadside of that little council flat in North London where I spent the best part of my life growing up and though London can be a city that seems alien, confusing and unfriendly to those who have never lived there, for me it will always be 'home.'

"A village of Palaces" is how seventeenth Chelsea was once described - an area in West London - home to investment bankers and film stars - a trend which has continued today as a centre of innovation and influence.

I knew I had been living in London too long when I used to tell people I was going up to 'the city' and expected everyone to know which one. The closest I ever came to 'royalty' was standing at KINGS CROSS station every day - waiting for the outward bound journey to my workplace adjacent to St.Paul's Cathedral.

That was back in the seventies but London nowadays is a place where 'call girls' and the homeless seem almost common place and where people of today consider themselves to be multi-lingual if they are able swear at others in their own languages. A city where people think nothing of paying £1100 a month for a studio apartment - considering it to be a 'real bargain.'

The only PALACE I would frequent as a child and then a young woman was that which was famous for its' iconic radio tower and which, even today, is referred to as 'The People's Palace' - not a million miles from where I was born.

Just as, for me, eating fish and chips out of an old newspaper was a 'must' back in the 60's/70's so too, as a londoner, it was compulsory to support Chelsea Football Club. In its day, the team was glamourous, talented and flamboyant - all part of the swinging sixties (though I was just a little too young to appreciate the era to it's full extent)- referred to back then as the Blues. Peter was the 'in' name in those days, three which emerged from the great team by way of Bonetti, Osgood and Lorimer. But I had set my sights on Charlie Cooke for some unknown reason and collected PG Tips cards with him on it to stick in a collectors album.

Referred to as the Pensioners also back then, as the years catch up with me, alas, I can feel an even stronger connection. Whilst my siblings and I continue to support the boys in blue, visits to the games are few and far between these days.

A londoner I may be but a ladette I am not. I have never tried to emulate laddish behaviour by being boisterous, assertive or crude and have never engaged in heavy drinking sessions just to impress my fellow supporters. Unless the odd glass or two of vino blanc counts!

Instead, I am considered to be a feminist - pretty, intelligent and kind it has been said of me. My personality is one of charm and wit. My art to please a man is through the ears as well as the heart. But I am a little too soft for my own good. To a man, I guess his ideal woman would be one that is firm as a rock yet sweet as a flower. Best he pop along to the next CHELSEA flower show then!!!

In BELLYDancing movement of the eyes, hands, arms and hips are all charged with sex appeal.

Whilst the Chelsea FC megastore promotes hip flasks, it is a Chelsea hip scarf I crave to increase my physical appeal as a dancer, that in accentuating every shake and shimmy for the pleasure of my audience I may also be a walking advertisement for the best team in London.

My mission (as I choose to accept it) is to check out e-bay for this special find and if in my pursuit I should stumble across one by chance then the blue moon above me will turn to gold. Let the quest begin!!


Plato once said: "Dancing is the art that most influences the soul."

Bellydancing has been the 'open sesame' to me of a most satisfying pastime with ever extending boundaries should I continue to pursue them. There are times (not often I may add) when I close my eyes and imagine I am lost in the deserts of Arabia. The desert wind blows fiercely and unrelentless in my ears as the sounds of a wailing flute echoes the room. Far off, in the distance I see a gypsy caravan silhouetted against the dark lit horizon and sorrowful voices can be heard gliding on the breath of the wind singing of hope and redemption on this unkown land of mine. I am somewhat of a voyer's witness to the conduit of playfulness and intensity that is displayed within the dance of the gypsies who set out to redefine the sacred feminine archetype that turned modern day bellydancing into something evocative and innovative.

Just as Alice wondered what her world would be like on the other side of a mirror's reflection so too I was 'curiouser' and 'curiouser' to find out what was so special about this kind of dance and as I stood in front of my looking glass for one day a week I didn't see boring old me. I saw a mystic princess adorned with gold coins around her waist off on her little adventure. As one who is ordinarily quite staid, this was my one chance to break the rules and define authority with unique costumes and sublime music. A chance to interpret the rythms of the drum solo, to explore percussive music with either sharp percussive accents such as hits, pops, locks or spins - or simply with fluid grace.

The moral of the story is never judge a book by it's movie (hmm, I mean cover) and even if no-one can read this girl like a book just once in a while it would be nice if someone at least thumbed the pages!

My imagination is only permitted to run wild for such a short time as the sound of the key in the door and the less romantic version of 'Hi Honey, I'm home' has me reach for the keys that turns off Youtube and shuts down my faithful friend, Monsieur Laptop, until I next find myself alone.

Somewhere Over the RAMbow that's me. My Random Access Memory is not what it was but I refuse to give up on romance. There is a magnetism in the word itself which continues to stir my imagination. I will get there in the end. Time is just nature's way of keeping everything from happening at once.