HAPPY BLOGMANAY

I dislike New Year's Eve. I put it down to my childhood, when I was subjected year upon year to the torture of Andy Stewart and the White Heather Club Hogmanay Party on black and white telly. For the first seven years of my life I thought I lived in Scotland. I never could work out how we could be at Trafalgar Square in half an hour on the train. As a result of this trickery I know all the words to "Donald Where's Yer Troosers" and have a morbid fear of sporrans. This year the Powers that Be have cancelled the fireworks (thanks to Flying Rodent for that last-minute news) so it'll be just me, Jools Holland and perhaps a small sherry to welcome in the New Year. If I can stay awake that long.

Following an invitation to dance from Doctor Maroon, who is admittedly a Scottish gentleman, though one who would not, one hopes, presume to thrust a sporran in my direction, I will be pitching a new idea to Bruce Forsyth in the New Year. Strictly Bloggers Come Dancing! The last series of "Strictly" was tedious, I didn't know who half the D-list "celebrities" were, they're really scraping the barrel now. Who is Alesha Dixon? Let's face it, how do you follow Mark Ramprakash? (His wife's detective agency may be able to help here). I think it's time to take reality TV into cyberspace. There is hidden terpsichorean talent in the blogosphere. We know Sam cuts a mean Highland Fling, and I'm sure Pat would be able to turn her dainty feet to anything, but can she be persuaded to dust off the WLA uniform and dance le rock with Crabtree? Che is practising his Argentinian tango in the cellar, Cream our own son of the desert is surely a maestro of the sand dance, while Spanish Goth is odds on to execute the perfect pasadoble, making elaborate use of his cape. My speciality is of course Latin American, and I bet you can't wait to see my cha cha. Yes, I think this could be a new direction for "Strictly". Even Gorilla Bananas is working on a new production of "Riverdance", as illustrated in this film clip:







I wish you all a pain-free Blogmanay, and see you all on the other side.

DOOMED, DOOMED, WE'RE ALL DOOMED!!

Nothing like a bit of Celtic gloom to see you through the festive season. Personally I'm rather sorry Malcolm didn't make no.1.

A CHRISTMAS MESSAGE

with plenty of






and


But don't forget why
we put ourselves through this every year:

THE SUBTLE KNIFE

Readers, I have been under The Knife.

I didn't want to tell you before, as I was nervous enough about it anyway and I know some of you might have found it amusing to scare me even more. Also, I am somewhat superstitious. The thought of general anaesthetic was the part that scared me most. I wrote my long-overdue Will. I made my peace with God, just in case He exists. I said a prayer to St Barbara. Of course I knew the chances of not making it were infinetisimal. But, you know, it's not a reason for not being prepared. I wrote down phone numbers, bank account numbers and put them in an envelope with instructions in the event of my you-know-what, which I carefully placed in my handbag the night before the off. I left Wee Scottie sleeping in his basket, vaguely concerned about who would look after him if I were no longer around. Would he stand guard over my tomb for years like Greyfriars Bobby? Or would the disloyal little mutt run yapping happily to the first stranger who offers him a Bonio?

The surgery was practically dental but had to be done under anaesthetic as it was a bit tricky, involving SAWING off the pointy ends of teeth (i.e. the ends INSIDE the jaw). The Belgian outpatients hospital was spotless, and did not even smell of carbolic. The nurses all wear practical pyjamas, instead of ridiculous starched uniforms and stockings. All very ER. The hospital also seemed to be not terribly busy. Lots of empty corridors, half-empty waiting areas, either the Belgians are very healthy or they manage their waiting lists very well.

I had never been in an operating theatre before, in any country. This one was nothing like on telly. It was spacious, all white, and had automatic doors so the staff didn't have to touch anything, just nudged a pad on the wall with their elbow to open the doors. The surgeon was in pyjamas too, and wasn't wearing an Anderlecht flag as a bandanna or playing heavy metal music. Sometimes you wonder if that Holby City is really a documentary. Sadly none of the doctors looked like George Clooney, but maybe that's just as well, I'd hate to have someone I fancied poking about in my mouth before we'd been properly acquainted. If Anton Meyer had walked in I think I wouldn't have needed any anaesthetic.

I don't know what it is they use to knock you out these days, but I had no memory of feeling sleepy or drifting off. One minute I was wide awake staring up at the big lamp and feeling a bit tearful, and the next minute the nurse was shouting at me in the recovery room and I've got tubes up my nose. Following maxillo-facial surgery, I have six stitches in my upper jaw over the gum, and one side of my face is puffed up like a hamster. But I can eat soft food (thank God I had some foie gras in the fridge!), and can drink, although my throat is still a bit sore from the tubes. I dare say my teeth will fall out shortly after the stitches anyway and I'll have to puree my Christmas dinner. But the good news is, I don't go back to work until January, so I'm finishing Vol.3 of His Dark Materials in bed, where I will remain until my face returns to its naturally fine-boned contours - hopefully before Vera Slapp's annual visit next week, although after a few banjos with her and Cyril down the Christmas market I probably won't care anyway.

Peel me a grape, Scottie.

THE LIVES OF THE SAINTS - 2: BABS

Today is the Feast of St Barbara. Of all the saints in the Catholic pantheon, St Barbara is certainly among the A-list. Born in about 280 A.D. in either Roman Egypt or Roman Turkey, depending on which hagiography you prefer, she was a beautiful girl with very long hair, who had three windows put in her bathroom to remind her of the Holy Trinity. History does not tell us if they were double or triple glazed and whether she put up curtains or Venetian blinds. Her father (a heathen) was most put out to learn that she had become a Christian and was flashing her bum at the world, and chopped off her head. As you do. He was immediately struck by lightning and killed. Which is why you never have an electrical point inside the bathroom any more.

Barbara became a cult in the 7^th century, and has a global following that the modern day Madonna would kill for. The Catholic Forum website lists her as specializing in insurance policies for the following mishaps or professions:

against death by artillery; against explosions; against fire; against impenitence; against lightning; against mine collapse; against storms; ammunition magazines; ammunition workers; architects; armourers; artillery; artillerymen; boatmen; bomb technicians; brass workers; brewers; builders; carpenters; Colleferro, Italy; construction workers; dying people; explosives workers; fire; fire prevention; firefighters; fireworks; fireworks manufacturers; fortifications; founders; geologists; gravediggers; gunners; hatmakers; hatters; lightning; mariners; martyrs; masons; mathematicians; military engineers; milliners; miners; Montecatini Terme, Italy; ordnance workers; prisoners; safety from storms; sailors; saltpetre workers; Santa Barbara, California; smelters; stone masons

So that’s got everyone and everything pretty much covered. Except bathroom glaziers or window fitters, oddly enough.

The mining industry all over the world reveres Saint Barbara. In Poland, where miners have special status, although for how much longer is debatable, the miners wear a special black uniform with a red plume on their hat in honour of the “Babórka” or Barbara Feast. In the UK the redundant miners are still praying for Margaret Thatcher to be struck by lightning.

When the African slaves were shipped to the Caribbean and had Catholicism forced upon them, they secretly transposed their own gods into the images of the Catholic saints they were told to worship. Hence, as St Barbara rang bells with slaves from West Africa who were familiar with Shango, the ancient Yoruba god of thunder and lightning (the Nigerian national electricity board NEPA used to have a statue of him outside their Lagos HQ) she became a top idol in the Santeria cult which they created out of a rather confused mix of Catholicism and voodoo. Babs herself would have totally disapproved this bowing to graven images and undermining of Christianity.

She is also a popular subject for so-called “miraculous” medals. The US military has an Honorable Order of Saint Barbara, which awards medals of distinction to artillerymen who have shown outstanding valour. In Paris there is a “Chapel of Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal” (nothing to do with our Babs but worth a mention) tucked away on the rue du Bac, behind a department store, which commemorates St Catherine Labouré’s vision of the Virgin Mary, who told her to go and have this medal mass-produced, which would make loads of money for the church. Unfortunately it was ordinary people who were doing the genuflecting; the priests, bishops, cardinals and Big Ben should be the ones thanking her for financing the Vatican’s spiffy new website among other things. (Goth and Tippler - don't go there. It'll just make you mad.)

The Catholic church is allegedly parodied by Philip Pullman in his trilogy “His Dark Materials”, the book behind a newly-released film starring Daniel Craig and Nicole Kidman. I read this trilogy about a year ago, after recommendations from Aunty Em and others. I laboured through Vol 1, tore through Vol 2, and lost interest halfway through Vol 3. I didn't really see the Magisterium as the Catholic church, simply as any controlling establishment which wants to suppress free speech. It could just as well have represented the Burmese government. So I’ll probably have to go back and start again if I want to understand anything about this film. It sounds a bit more racy than Harry flaming Potter though.

In the meantime, a happy Babórka to all Barbaras, especially the British ones:

The late Barbara Castle, in a straight fight with Thatcher
I'd have put my money on this Old Labour battleaxe

The divine Biba, proof that Polish immigrants
are good for Britain

Ooh-er, what a carry-on! The merry lives of
Barbara Windsor, our favourite pub landlady

Style icon and something of an inspiration to moiself,
the late Dame Barbara Cartland. You've got to admire
a woman who can put on make-up without a mirror

COMMISSIONER USES STRONG LANGUAGE

Last night I was glitzing it up at trendy PR venue The Centre for the launch of Zoe's magnum opus, "My Boyfriend is a Tw@" - the book. It was quite a bash, with journos, celebrity bloggers, even a European Commissioner, which outranks real royalty in Belgium. The fragrant Margot Wallstrom (for it was she) actually announced the full title of the book without batting an eyelid, and then used the T-word again - twice, and correctly - when talking about certain visitors to her own blog. I do hope someone has briefed her that it's not a word you should go bandying around the Berlaymont willy-nilly. If Commissioner Mandelson heard her say such a thing he might have a fit of the vapours. Zoe has recently been asked if she would agree to the blog being studied for GCSE meedja studies or something. I can foresee some apoplectic parents when young Chardonnay comes home with her homework.


Anyway, Zoe was looking lovely in royal purple, as befits the Queen of Blog, the Tw@ himself looked spiffy in a suit and signed my copy of the book under the disclaimer "It's all lies". Rather postmodern canapes were passed around and inhaled in seconds, and it was all terribly well-behaved. The bloggers scrubbed up quite well, Spanish Goth was in his best opera cloak and I met some friendly Belgian blogging fans of Zoe and the Tw@, one of whom, Bibil, has posted a photo of the happy couple on her blog.

Apparently my new hairdo is knocking everyone sideways. Can't imagine why, I only popped in for a quick wash-and-blow-dry the other day and have apparently come out looking like Angelina Jolie. At the time I complained about having to pay 8 euros (5 quid!) for a dollop of hair conditioner ("a treatment" they call it), but judging by the amount of compliments I have received, I now think it was a wise investment.


Today is St Andrew's Day. In Poland, all chaps with the first name Andrew (Andrzej in Polish) are entitled to have an "Andrzejki" party. It's like having two birthdays, unless of course you were born on 30 November, which is just tough turkey. The only two saints who get to have a special party named after themselves are Andrew and Barbara, who are very important to the Poles for reasons too long to look up on Wikipedia right now. Saint Andrew was the brother of Saint Peter, and bits of him are buried in Patras, Greece. Babs' feast day is next week (4th December) and I shall be telling you all about her then.

So happy Andrzejki to all you Andrews, Drews and Andys, out there, and to all my admirers in bonny Scotland. St Andrew is also, as you all know, the patron saint of Scotland (as well as of Romania and Russia) and his feast is also the Scottish National Day. Sadly I couldn't find any pictures of a famous Scottish Andrew to post up, but here are some reminders, ladies, of why we love those rugged hairy sporrans north of the border (except when they come down south and move into 10 Downing Street) :

The Big Yin

The even bigger Yin. Does Sir Bond keep his moneypennies
in his shporran, I wonder?

Honorary Scotsman Liam Neeson, as the virile Rob Roy McGregor.
Also a Big Yin, if the stories are to be believed.

Yet another Big Yin, Robbie Coltrane. There wasn't
enough tartan in Scotland to make him a kilt

Hamish Clark (Duncan from Monarch of the Glen).
A wee yin, but beautifully put together.

Ewan McPhwoarr. Well, his head anyway.

Doctor McWho


Wee Jock and his co-star in "Hamish MacBeth"

Paolo McArroney Nutini


And my personal favourite:

JOHN (WE'LL SET ABOOT YA) SMEATON
The hero of Glasgow airport

Ye can set aboot me ony time, big man

SOMEWHERE OVER THE WAYNE-BOUGH

As you can see I've had the decorators in. I've been experimenting with various options on Blogger's templates tab. I fear I may need some help. Do Trinny and Susannah do blogs?

I just don't have a thing to wear. I needed to change the template to one with a wide banner heading, as the Tech Guru is going to do something clever with it one of these days. Of course now he's got a blog of his own, my needs have to come second while he addresses his public. I really don't think he needs to wear a toga to do it, but whatever. I feel a bit like James Mason to his Judy Garland. In more ways than one. Anyway, the old template didn't cut the mustard.

Mustard. Hmm.


However, the new wallpaper is perhaps a bit garish. Even for Christmas. I'm trying to find a combination that reflects the true me. Something that conveys my innate good taste, my essential finesse and understatement while at the same time hinting at my Celtic passion, and my tropical sense of rhythm. Not to mention my appreciation for the very occasional chocolate.


Chocolate, mmm.

I have also added a few toys, whilst reducing my output. I'm afraid pressures of rehearsals with the KNOB.*, mah-jong parties with the Woluwe branch of the W.I. and writing restaurant reviews for UpYours** (see new link in sidebar for online versions) not to mention having to keep up with East Enders, Heroes and Jonathan Ross, and get my full beauty sleep, mean that I really can't manage more than one post a week. Yes, I hear your roar of protest, but you'll have to settle for less quantity and more quality.

I've added a musical widget which requires a not inconsiderable investment of time, to keep you amused while you're waiting for my next pearls of wisdom. I've also updated the blogroll and added some interesting new links, such as Tom Joad, whose pieces on language and wordplay are most edifying, and I Love Belgians, a touching visual demonstration by our Flemish and Walloon friends that this country is not on the verge of a civil war, although it has now been a whopping 170 days without a federal government, about to overtake the all-time Belgian record of six months with no captain at the helm. As a way of getting Belgium into the Guinness Book of Records, there must be easier ways, like eating the most chips in under 10 minutes or something.


I was at a loss to find a colour scheme or a template that brings to mind a tea room in Cheam or a chintz chaise-longue, rather than the present ensemble which reminds me of the Ubongoland market lady who sold me the elephant's foot umbrella holder - carved from wood, not from a real elephant, of course - wherein sits my favourite gay umbrella, subject of my most popular post to date.



But of course! (Slaps forehead in realization of the obvious). By George I think I've got it. Take it away, Toto.



* Kurt Nachtnebel Oompah Band

** Tippler's freesheet for discerning expats

A BEAR SPEAKS

Hullo. Teddy here. The old girl's still catching up on her beauty sleep (God knows she needs it), so I thought I'd just tell you about what she did to me last night. I think you should be told.

I don't get to watch much television, as I'm usually gathering dust under Daphne's bed or shoved away in a suitcase en route to some godforsaken corner of the world. But exceptionally she let me - well, made me - stay up and watch BBC 'Children in Need' last night.

Well if that's the famous goggle box that you all talk about all the time, I can't see what all the fuss is about. I'd have had more fun rooting around in next door's bins. That tubby Irishman in charge got steadily drunker as the programme went on, with sporadic interruptions from a series of pasty-faced and talentless youngsters, egged on by an obviously drugged audience who grinned and clapped more and louder, the worse it got.



There were a few things I liked, such as that big lady doctor from Holby City who made a fair soul mama. She was bearable. Little Kylie, who reminds us bears of Goldilocks, was quite sweet, although she really needs to eat more honey. A bunch of five middle aged women - only one of them pleasantly plump - did some appalling karaoke, and a scraggy old blonde pranced about like a superannuated polar bear and then couldn't read the telephone number properly. Embarrassing really. Later it got even worse, with some very old men off the radio making fools of themselves playing air guitar. After that I fell asleep.

When we bears get old and doddery, we're taken off active duty and shot, which is a long overdue solution for that Wogan fellow. This was all in aid of charity. To help abused and deprived children. A worthy cause, second only to the renovation of elderly bears' feet (see photo above). But the broadcasting of programmes such as this almost constitutes abuse in itself.

I'm a very old bear. In fact I'm Daphne's age, having been with her since she was a wee tot. But frankly, I'm too young to watch drivel like that. Next year I'm going out clubbing with Barbie.

AND THE WINNER IS ...

A little detective work will win you first prize. Could these two chaps be related?

The winner of my deviously intriguing puzzle is the damn clever dicky Doctor Maroon !! who wins a box of lovely chocs. Belgian chocolates have to be eaten within three weeks of purchase, so hurry up and send me your address Doc, or I shall be forced to dispose of them in the time-honoured fashion. And for anyone who thinks Belgian chocolates are "sickly", you have never tasted these ones I have ready to send to the good doctor.

Followed by

2. Brian Roberts
3. Ché l'Ecossais
4. Dip-Dop-Crabtree
5. ExAfrica
6. MKWM
7. Mr Farty

I can't run to consolation prizes, but heartfelt congratulations to all the runners-up, and I salute your indefatigability. I will let the rest of you rack your brains a bit longer before I put you out of your misery. Unless you send me a large amount of money, and I'll tell you straight away.

I go to enormous efforts to keep my readers entertained. You will notice the addition of a musical box on the left where I have gone to great lengths to find songs appropriate to the subject of the current post to share with you. I don't know if some of you have even noticed it is there.

Pearls before swine. (Sigh)

THE WAR TO END ALL WARS ... (to be continued)

A LAST HURRAH

Five days ago

This morning

After a frankly rubbish summer, the autumn has been spectacular. The cherry trees on my street have shown off their triumphant autumn collection, the leaves turning gold and red in a final blaze of glory before departing for the winter. When I started writing this a few days ago, the wind was blowing gently and the leaves were fluttering to the ground in a gentle but constant rain of gold, leaving evenly-spaced pools of colour on the pavement. Today they are stripped bare, and winter has really begun. We wait, huddled around our chimneys and radiators, for the spring, when the street will turn into a wonderful catwalk of pink fluffiness.


Talking of pink fluffiness, Christmas is six weeks away, and Mattel seems to have bought all the Belgian TV channels. Pink fluffiness is back in fashion, it seems. Germaine Greer, it was all for nothing.




I have always loved to see a tree outside my window. In Africa I would watch the lazy swaying of the palm fronds as I lay down for my afternoon nap. Godwin the servant said shaking that palm tree was the cause of his sciatica, but it gave me lovely peaceful dreams. In Poland we had an apricot tree which dropped 200 kilos of fruit the very first summer we were there. I have never been able to stand apricots since.

Back in Guildford we had a huge lilac tree that was as tall as the house. It was lovely to sit in its shade during the summer, but it was getting much too leggy and needed cutting back. One day Harold came into the back garden and said there was a chap outside with a chainsaw and a flatbed truck offering to prune trees. The chap, who spoke in a dialect that was reminiscent of Brad Pitt's character in "Snatch" (although sadly didn't bear any physical resemblance) and was visibly a member of the ancient and venerable travelling community, said he'd chop down the dead cherry tree in the front and prune my lilac for £40, which seemed reasonable. I was loath to tell the gentleman how to do his job, and assumed he would take off the very high branches carefully starting from the top. I disappeared into the kitchen to let him get on with it.

After a brief bout of chainsaw noise I heard a sickening cracking sound followed by an earth-shaking thump. I rushed outside to find my beloved lilac had been split in two vertically - one half still standing, the other half lying in agony on the lawn. He had simply sliced the biggest branch at the base, and the upper branches which were entangled at the ends with another tall branch, had brought half the tree down with it. I burst into tears. That will teach me to trust a bloomin' pikey.

In an unguarded moment I revealed in the last comments box that there is a portal in this blog leading to the Supreme Knowledge, which has sparked off a flurry of interest. It has been there for months and none of you has had the gumption to find it! I will only tell you that it is not a piece of clever techno programming, not an Easter egg, waving your mouse about hopefully will not help you. Even the Tech Guru has not managed to find it yet. It is a straight piece of detective work, and devilishly simple. If you find it, I will know. First one to find it wins a box of Belgian chocolates.

Off you go.

JUDGE NOT, LEST YE BE JUDGED

La nostalgie de la boue?

I was making my bed yesterday, planning what I was going to do with my long weekend, having narrowly escaped from a potential nasty flu, when SNAP! My back went. I am now hobbling around my bijou apartment in great pain. Someone suggested I lie down on the floor, but I daren't in case I can't get up again. I had been scornfully criticizing the Brussels conference flavour of the month, MSDs, or musculo-skeletal disorders, bad back to you Vera (she's not good on medical terminology), and now here I am struck down. I assure you it is causing me no small amount of discomfort to sit here and address my subjects. Are there any osteopaths out there?

Visitors to this blog have been a bit thin on the ground lately. This could be because I cast nasturtiums upon blogging in a recent blog post. It's IRONY, stoopid!! It might also be because I appeared to have deleted my blogroll. The reason was that I decided to update it, and inadvertantly posted it back in white font on a white background. Thanks to a slightly scathing remark by Peter of Naked Blog I noticed the error and have now rectified this problem, got rid of some dead wood and have added a few new names, but my favourites remain (yes that includes you, Peter). If you feel you have been unjustly (or accidentally) deleted and would like to feature on the blogroll of the world-renowned Daphne (visits currently running at 33 per day), please make a formal application via the appropriate channels.

Or perhaps it is my subject matter. I appreciate that my jet-setting lifestyle may elicit a fair amount of envy. Travelling all over Europe as third triangle with the Kurt Nachtnebel Oompah Band (K.N.O.B.) or strolling along the leafy boulevards of Brussels eating chips go hand in hand with a life of a privileged globetrotter. But I must remind my readers seething with jealousy that it was not ever thus.

I am a gel who worked her way up to where she is now. I studied hard at school, had a Saturday job, and married well. Many people think I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth because I first saw the light of day in the Lanesborough Hotel on Hyde Park Corner. Now that Harold has passed on and I no longer have to keep up the pretence of being a high-born lady, I can reveal to you that my mother was a modest waitress. I was born in the pantry while she was serving dinner to Lord McMilky and his party. I arrived between the main course and dessert, which is why my middle name is Pavlova. It could have been worse. The Duchess of Bridport's favourite dessert was Spotted Dick.

As a child I helped in the kitchens of the hotel as a lowly kitchenmaid, bossed around mercilessly by two ugly sisters. But I had a talent for entertaining. I danced like Marlene Dietrich, and I sang like Zizi Jeanmaire. One day, while polishing a silver gravy boat, there was a puff of smoke and a lovely fairy godmother appeared, brandishing a Eurostar ticket. "Go to Paris, Daphne, and seek your fortune!" she told me in a voice that tinkled like stardust and a strangely false French accent.

I duly arrived in Paris shod in my ruby slippers, and headed on pointes down the Rue de la Brique Jaune towards the Opera to start my career as a petit rat. Sadly, there was a strike that day and I had to take a job as cloakroom attendant at the Chat Qui Pue, a revue bar on the left bank. Thanks to my beauty and youth I was adopted by a friend of Sacha Distel, and before I knew it I was keeping my Rolling Stones records on the Boulevard Saint Michel. Yes I did.


But when I was alone in my bed, I was plagued by the words of a god-awful song by some moustachioed Englishman strumming a guitar badly. I started to have my clothes made by Balmain, and put diamonds and pearls in my hair. I went to Juan-les-Pins for my summer vacation and got an even suntan. The Aga Khan sent me a racehorse for Christmas and I kept it just for fun, for a laugh. Damn thing ate me out of house and home, and never won a race.


The glamorous lifestyle couldn't last. Before long I was ruined and living in a council flat in Clichy, forced to find work as a chambermaid in the Ibis hotel at Porte de St Ouen. That maudlin song was still going around in my head: "Where do you go to, my lovely ..." I prayed for another song, any song, to knock it off the no.1 slot in my mind. And then, one day, I heard a guest at the hotel whistling a catchy tune. It was jaunty, upbeat, and I found myself humming it as I hoovered the threadbare carpets. When I sang it to Boutons, the bell-boy, he identified it as the theme from "Match of the Day".

Reader, I married him. The whistler, that is, not Boutons. Harold, my dear late husband, lifted me out of the gutter and drove me away in a pumpkin-coloured Ford Fiesta. He introduced me to a glittering world of Ferrero Rochers and diplomatic skullduggery. When he passed on two years ago I once more had to fall back on my own resourcefulness and paddle my own canoe. Within two years I have worked my way back up to the lifestyle to which I had become accustomed. Well I have a new set of Rolling Stones records, that's a start.

My story is an salutory tale. What goes up can come down. The wheel turns. When I see a homeless person in the metro, I think "There but for the grace of God ..." and I give them a signed photograph of myself in my dancing days. They can barely express their gratitude.