SMUG TREES

Mother Nature (for it is She) is playing malicious games with us. This unseasonal good weather has brought the trees into bud much too early. I've been trying to encourage restraint in the local flowering cherries by hissing "not yet! get back in!" at them as I walk past, but one took it upon itself to burst into blossom the other day, and of course the whole neighbourhood followed suit. So of course last night it was cold, wet and blustery and the blossoms were being picked off the branches as soon as they'd emerged. If you listen carefully you can hear those few fruit trees who were a bit behind smirking and acting like the Wise Virgins. "More haste, less speed," they're simpering, "Slow and steady wins the race," and other trite cliches. I think a flowering cherry would simper, yes. An old oak has a deep authoritative bass baritone, rather like Brian Blessed. And a weeping willow sounds a bit like Joanna Lumley. I'm really looking forward to my new home close to the big park, I'll make lots of new friends.

Just a second, there seem to be some men in white coats at the door, I'll just see what they want.

American fashion designer and florist Smokin' Squaw McGraw paid me a visit last weekend, on her Grand Tour of (the bars of) Europe. Smokin' Squaw is of mixed race - Scottish and Comanche - and she certainly lives up to her name, puffing away constantly at a hand-rolled cigar. I expect she is communicating with her ancestors.

Smokin' Squaw and I go back a long way. I once modelled her award-winning "satin bananas" hat in Paris, in hommage to Josephine Baker, sadly the photographic record was lost in my recent peregrinations. After many years studying fashion in Paris from the vantage point of a bar stool somewhere in the 20th arrondissement, she has now returned to her ancestral teepee in Taos, New Mexico, on the banks of the Rio Grande, sometime home to D.H.Lawrence, Pueblo Indians and Donald Rumsfeld, where she is known to the locals as "Madame Chapeau". Her professional name, Katy George, does not sufficiently convey her exotic heritage. Check out her creations on her website here.


I picked her up from Murphy's Law, the Irish bar at the Gare du Midi, where she had already started her sampling of Belgian beers. I asked which one she had chosen. "Watney's" she replied happily. She drew many an admiring look in her synthetic leopardskin coat ("Hundreds of acrylics died to make this, honey!") and outsize fake D&G white sunglasses. The locals called out "Regardez! C'est la soeur jumelle de Michel Polnareff!". She flashed her new ceramic teeth like a movie star at the Oscars and waved her Corona in acknowledgment.


Belgian trains are half price at weekends so on Saturday we headed up to Antwerp, fashion capital of Belgium, where we strolled around the boutiques. My goodness it's frightfully cutting edge up there, and there are some fab designer homewares stores which I will be back to visit as soon as I am settled in the new Wayne-Bough Towers. Where else would one find lime-green or tomato-red toilet roll? We took a break in a pleasant cafe on the Grote Markt called Ultimatum for some mid-afternoon refreshment, where I tried a local ale called Bolleke Koninck. Just for the name really.


On Sunday I took my creative friend for a rummage around the flea market at Place du Jeu de Balle in Brussels, and then around the furniture and antique shops of the Marolles. Of course we had to visit my favourite furniture shop, Fins de Siecles, which is full of 1900-1920 restored and reproduction pieces. We lounged around on the art deco sofas like Dorothy Parker and Lillian Gish. We lunched at Brasserie Ploegmans, which is a charming olde-worlde typically Bruxellois little restaurant, serving basic Belgian fare such as "meat cake" and stoemp, before wandering on to finger fabrics, frills and furbelows at New De Wolf.

After a restorative libation at a terrasse on Les Sablons, where I tried to explain to my companion the ongoing Belgian political impasse, we went for a stroll around the old town and watched some Native American pan pipe musicians in the Full Wigwam. Smokin' Squaw looked daggers at them. "Navajo scum", she snarled. When one of them came around with the hat, he scuttled past her with a scared look. I pointed out to her that it was illegal to wave tomahawks around in Brussels unless you worked at NATO. She had no trouble understanding the Belgian dilemma, and suggested a pow-wow in Amsterdam with a pipe of peace, preferably filled with some home-grown, might help them sort out their differences. The alternative was to be invaded and decimated by a foreign power, and it had to be said, Belgians did pull together during the war.

Smokin' Squaw headed off on Monday back to Paris, enjoying a last Grimbergen in the smoking bar at the Gare du Midi. I was worried she might miss her train when she slithered off her bar stool, but she then knelt down on the floor and put her ear to the ground. "About five minutes," she pronounced, "Enough time for one more." She left me with a unique Katy George original piece, which has already been much admired, and a promise to send me a new fruit basket hat.



And finally, as Trevor Macdonald would say, it is unusual for me to race through a novel in 24 hours, even rarer a detective story, but Nicholas Royle's "Antwerp" is such a gem that I even missed Thursday night's episode of East Enders to finish it. Unlike some we could mention (Dan Brown hang your head in shame) Mr Royle really has done his homework, there is some useful background information about Belgium and his descriptions of Antwerp and Brussels are absolutely spot-on. "Antwerp" is in fact a sequel to "The Director's Cut" which should be read first, if you can get hold of it -- but it's out of stock at Amazon -- and both books will appeal to the Ffyllum-Boughs (distant relatives of my late husband).

BOYS BOYS BOYS

My flamboyant friend Tarquin de Folle fell off the Eurostar last Saturday in a cloud of feathers (from his leaky puffa jacket, even Tarquin wouldn't travel in a feather boa). He had spent rather too many of his pink pounds in the champagne bar at St Pancras, I fear, and was in full Judy Garland mode when we came out (if you'll pardon the expression) onto the Grand'Place, which for some reason was crawling with boy scouts. Tarquin thought it must be bob-a-gob week. (His expression, not mine, I hasten to point out). We had great fun seeing who could chase them the fastest, and Tarquin nearly grabbed a venture scout's woggle.



We spent the weekend doing all the Brussels sights: at the Atomium he almost exhausted his supply of innuendoes. We also visited Ghent, which is a delightful town a mere half hour from Brussels on the train. We followed the recommended walking trail, starting with the Cathedral of Saint Barf (really!) which is stuffed with art works including a Rubens, had lunch outdoors in the Friday Market Place, and then ambled back along the canal. No tacky tourist shops, no lace, just lots of cafes, restaurants and chocolate shops. As you can see, the weather was wonderful, which was a shame in a way, as it meant I had no excuse to dig out my gay umbrella.


Back in Brussels we hit the shops. How many chaps do you know who would drag you into a lace shop? It was such fun sharing tips on moisturizers and perfumes, which is impossible with McChe who has an ideological aversion to soap. We also did a lot of eating and sampling as many of Belgium's 400 beers as we could. I shared with him my excitement over the apartment which I am about to buy. I will tell you more about that later, but suffice it to say that the new Wayne-Bough Towers is extremely well situated, in the Brussels equivalent of Kensington. I will have the city's major green space, the Parc du Cinquantenaire, on my doorstep, and I can see I am going to have to take up gentle jogging, or at the very least buy a pink Hermes track suit for Sunday morning cappuccinos on the terrace of Chez Martin, the bijou little bistro just by the park gates.

Civil partnerships are accepted everywhere

THE LIVES OF THE SAINTS - 3: VALENTINE

Valentine's Day is still going strong, at least here in Belgium. The restaurants are all booked up well in advance every year offering overpriced menus, and it is one of the three peak sales periods in the chocolate year (the others being Easter and, to a lesser extent, Christmas). Godiva, Leonidas, Neuhaus, Corne, Marcolini et. al. all bring out a special Valentine's range each February, usually in the traditional red heart-shaped box and involving passion-fruit soft centres and other supposedly aphrodisiac fillings. My favourite, in case anyone feels like sending me a late Valentine, is the raspberry-flavoured heart by Marcolini, pictured above, which if you turn it upside down looks more like a shiny little red bottom. Marcolini chocolates are so chic, I can never bring myself to throw away the packaging, and so I have a collection of their carrier bags and boxes in all shapes and sizes. Would that their chocolates could last that long in my house.

A few famous Valentines were Val Parnell, the British impresario who first signed Julie Andrews, Dickie Valentine (not his real name) the 1950's crooner, twenties heartthrob Rudolf Valentino (also not his real name), and Italian fashion house Valentino, a favourite with Liz Taylor and moiself. Shirley Valentine was a woman after my own heart who talked to the wall and wouldn't be bossed about. There is a rude French rugby song about someone called Valentin, of which I am sure our friend Crabtree will give us the full text if he happens to be passing. Troll-like Italian biker Valentino Rossi is a pin-up in Middle Earth. And who remembers Valentina Tereshkova, the first woman astronaut?

The most famous Valentine's Day, and possibly the reason for the abiding link between the colour red and the celebration of this saint, was in 1929 when Al Capone's boys despatched seven of Bugs' Moran's hoods to oblivion, much to the satisfaction of the Chicago police department. This is why you should never go on a blind date on Valentine's Day.


About Saint Valentine himself nothing is known, although I suspect he may have been a seller of old rope. As patron saint of romantic love he was unheard of before Geoffrey Chaucer invented him, but of course, like Mayday, Rites of Spring, it's really about reminding the young people to keep procreating (yeah, right, as if they needed, like, reminding, man. D'oh!). Even in Roman times the whiff of fertility was in the air as soon as the first buds started to swell. Around this time of year the Romans celebrated Lupercalia, when, if we can believe Plutarch:

"... many of the noble youths and magistrates run through the city naked, for sport and laughter, striking those they meet with shaggy thongs. And many women of rank also purposely get in their way ... "

Of course Rome in February was a lot warmer than Brussels, even in those days. In these days of top-heavy demographics, I can only encourage the youngsters to go forth and multiply, my well-being in 20 years' time depends on it.


As it turns out, I celebrated St Valentine's twice last week: once with Bert, the last of the German Romantics (cough!) and one with Scouse Doris. Both glittering occasions will be reviewed on my food blog Daphne's Dinners.

MORE DRY ICE, VICAR?

Widow Twanky

It's nothing but religion, religion, religion these days. Everybody's talking about it, be they faithful or infidel, mono- or pantheistic, trad or new age, speaking with quiet dignity or mad as a box of fervent biscuits. Tom Cruise and John Travolta along with their Scientologist brethren believe we all originate from the planet Zog. The American primaries are fronting a Mormon, a Methodist, a Christian with a Moslem name, and a Southern Baptist. And the Archbishop of Canterbury appears to be a closet Moslem Fundamentalist. Even Gorilla Bananas is taking an unhealthy interest in nuns and pornography this week.



But it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good. The building trade is booming thanks to the contracts for mosques, temples, basilicas and converting Anglican churches into restaurants. The Neasden Hindu temple completed in 1995 is the largest outside India, and Our Lady of Peace at Yamassoukro in Cote d'Ivoire, erected by the late potentate Houphouet-Boigny in his home village in 1990, is modelled on St Peter's in Rome and is said to be the largest church in the world.


The Church of England professes to be neither Protestant nor Catholic, which leaves it wallowing in a welter of indecision. Many famous harrumphers left the Church of England over women priests - and some of them were women! (Anne Widdecombe, the Duchess of Kent). I approve of female priests, who must be better qualified than men to offer succour and guidance to the flock, if only by virtue of having nice comfy bosoms to lean on. Now the Archbish seems to think the Church can advise the government on legal matters. I think his boss should have a word in his mitre, and tell him to zip it. I mean, Her Maj is the actual Head of the Church and she doesn't stick her nose into ecclesiastical matters, does she?

Being a deeply spiritual person of Celtic extraction, I puzzle over the concepts of sin, redemption, forgiveness and absolution. My own Irish-Scots-American Catholic grandfather, I am sorry to say, saw the confessional as a sort of car-wash, where he could have his sins removed within the hour and start again by opening time. Islam is even better – thanks to one magic word “Insh'allah”, it’s never your fault to start with. “Allah made me do it, Miss!” - brilliant! The Hebrews, on the other hand, have no escape-hatch, and have to carry their sins around with them their whole life. The Buddhists and Hindus have perhaps the healthiest attitude to sin: if you commit a sin, you get demoted appropriately in the next life, coming back as anything from a person of a lower caste to a cockroach. A slightly more effective deterrent than three Hail Marys. And perhaps an explanation of why there are so many cockroaches in New York.

What the CofE seems to have overlooked is the need for religion to be entertaining. Pope John Paul II’s funeral proved that Rome can still put on a hell of a show. If you’ll pardon the expression. Even the Hare Krishnas put a smile on the face of high street shoppers on a Saturday afternoon. Going to church in Africa is like going to a dance, without the beer (but with plenty of spirit!). In Ghana I saw churches like the one in the Blues Brothers with James Brown as the preacher, and if I was ever going to have a road to Damascus experience, it would have been on the road to Accra. And by the way, if I did believe in God, which I’m not saying I do and I’m not saying I don’t, I would also believe in Satan. Fair do’s, like. You can’t have one without t’other.

You’ve only got to watch Songs of Praise on a Sunday to see that 50-odd people droning “The Lord is my Shepherd” is not going to make Satan put down his pitchfork and turn the thermostat down. Hymns should be rousing, uplifting, and if you can't pass out dramatically, you should at least be able to shout on the last word. The Anglican church need look no further than the Christmas panto for inspiration: goodies, baddies, scary bits, funny bits, men dressed up as women -- well, they've got those, but they need the demon king bursting out of a trapdoor with a bang and a flash, and a bit of audience participation along the lines of "Et in spirito tuo" or "He's behind you!".

A fine but disturbing film about Catholicism and redemption, also involving nuns and pornography as it happens, as well as New York and reincarnated cockroaches, is Abel Ferrara's "Bad Lieutenant" starring Harvey Keitel, shown here repenting heartily for about four and a half minutes. Brace yourself, Doris. (No it's not the rude bit).

SALE * SALE * SALE * SALE * SALE

I nearly missed the Vatican's special offer: a free indulgence if you pray at a church dedicated to Our Lady of Lourdes by 11th February. Hurry, hurry, everything must go!

CHERCHEZ LA FEMME

Mesdames et Messieurs, I give you .... France's new first lady, Mrs Sarkozy, doing what she does best. I listened to some of her own songs and frankly, I wouldn't impose that on my worst enemy. It appears she has an album due out this year produced by pop svengali Dave Stewart. Now call me cynical, but the lengths some people will go to to get publicity. Even Michael Jackson wouldn't do that.

Of course if she's been planted by the Socialist party, she is a national treasure, and may have saved France. The pistol firing gesture may be to demonstrate what she has just done to Sarkozy's popularity ratings.