THE VISITORS

Daphne Poppins and baggage hit London

A locomotive chuffs to a halt. Through the swirling steam we see a young(-ish) man in flat cap, braces, kilt and hobnail boots, helping a highborn lady from the train with her bustle, parasol and steamer trunk. They enter the saloon bar of a public house opposite the station. The young man saunters confidently up to the bar, brandishing a shiny 5p piece.

McChe (for it is he):

Evenin' all! Awroit, me awld cock sparra?

Barman (with heavy Polish accent):

Yes, can I help you sir?

McChe:

Bob's yer uncle, Fanny's yer aunt. A pointer bitter me old chiner, an' a Babycham for the lydy.

Barman:

I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that?

McChe:

Yore avin a larf incha? A pointer ahzyer farver, an don’t spare the ‘orses! Oim gettin' married in the mornin', ding-dong the bells are gonna choime! Luvly jubbly! Come onDover, move yer bloomin' arse! We're gahn dahna frog an toad* fer a Ruby Murray** in a minute!

Barman (looking around desperately):

Ktoś rozumie po więgersku?***

McChe (undeterred):

An’ a bucket o’ green licker on the soide, guv’nor. 'Ere's a tanner fer yer trouble. Bloomey Mary Poppins,this is a rum old plyce and naw mistoik. Geezer don’t even speak the Queen’s English! Wot a plonker, innit Rodney? Chim-chiminee, chim-chiminee,Chim-chim-McChe....

Daphne:

I think I’d better take over. A pint of John Smiths, my good man, and a large gin and tonic with ice and lemon please.

McChe:

Moy treat, Datchess!

Daphne:

I think you’ll find 5p won’t even buy you a packet of pork scratchings. I should never have given you those Dickens novels to learn London dialect. How much is that please, bartender?

Barman:

Six pounds and forty-seven pence, madame.

McChe:

WHITTHEFECK???? HA’ YE FALLEN ON YER NOGGIN LADDIE? WE’RE NO BUYIN' THE FRIGGIN HOOSE!! JINGS, CRIVENS AN' A' THAT TARTAN SHITE!

Barman (delighted):

Och hey, ye’re no frae Glasgae? Why did ye nae say so? Hamish Makluski frae Govan! Y'awright pal, it's on me!

Pub pianist (Bill Bailey) with cockney intro

And the drinks are on the 'ouse!

All sing together, high kicks with chorus of pearly kings and queens who appear from nowhere:

"Consider yerself well in, we don't wanna 'ave no fuss,

For after some consideration we can say: Consider yerself - one of us!"

* Rhyming slang = road

** Rhyming slang = curry

*** Polish = Does anyone understand Hungarian?

KEEPING ONE'S END UP

Whatever your circumstances, you can never have too many bags

It is a sad fact that ageing is an expensive business for a woman. One must spend more and more on beauty treatments, orthopaedic shoes, heating, and gigolos. At our age we are no longer able to "rough it" as we did in our youth. We need five-star restaurants, crystal glasses and linen tablecloths. Anything less would be inelegant. In the current economic climate one should tighten one's belt, but middle-age spread makes it difficult for some of us.

Ageless Ena Sharples

Dropping one's standards is not an option when one has worked all one's life to keep oneself in the manner to which one hopes to become accustomed. The trick is not to acquire any new luxury tastes whilst maintaining one's acquis. My dear old friend Imelda, the Dowager Duchess of Southend, is a fine example. Now in her dotage, she maintains her ancestral council flat in SW1, but having got used to the little luxuries of life through her career as a cleaner in the House of Lords, where she would regularly lift delicacies from the members' ermine robes whilst they were sitting (in fact she even lifted an ermine robe, which she wears as a dressing gown), the thought of shopping at Asda fills her with horror. When I suggested that her weekly delivery of top quality wild Scottish salmon by DHL was perhaps a little extravagant, she cried in horror: "Do you expect me to slum it? If it's good enough for the cats, it's good enough for me." That's the mark of a true lady.

THE GREATEST BELGIAN OF ALL TIME*

Thursday 9th October was the 30th anniversary of the death of Jacques Brel, iconic crooner, poet, adventurer, sailor, pilot, actor and by popular vote* the Greatest Belgian of All Time. He was born about 10 minutes walk from Wayne-Bough Towers, and I am proud to share a postcode with the great man. He died, age 49, in a Paris hospital, of lung cancer, and is buried in the Marquise islands, where he spent his last few years, his grave a few metres from Gauguin's.

Jacques' grave on Hiva Oa in the South Pacific: nice view

I became a fan of Brel during my Paris days, when I would spend hours at cafe tables sporting a beret and black turtleneck sweater, smoking Gitanes and looking bored. I lived in a fancy apartment on the boulevard St Michel, where I kept my Rolling Stones records and a friend of ... oh hang on, that wasn't me. At the time, I could be reduced to tears by the words of "Ne me quitte pas":

Moi je t'offrirai Des perles du pluie Venues de pays Où il ne pleut pas

Laiss'moi devenir L'ombre de ton ombre L'ombre de ta main L'ombre de ton chien
Ne me quitte pas Ne me quitte pas

I will offer you pearls of rain from places where it doesn't rain .... I will be the shadow of your shadow, the shadow of your hand, the shadow of your dog, just don't leave me ...

And then one day, many years later, with the force of experience, it struck me that his poor wife, who was stuck in Belgium for years while he was swanning around being famous, would not have been impressed by his "pearls of rain". She didn't want him to be the shadow of her dog, she just wanted him to stick around and help with the kids. Fix the crack in the wall. Do the washing up occasionally. Put her first, for a change. And do you know, readers, I never cried again over that song. Call me unromantic if you will, but having seen interviews with Mrs Brel and her daughters, he wasn't the greatest husband and father. A genius, yes, but a bit of a sod.


Some new footage has recently been released of an interview where he talks about the political problems between the Walloons and the Flemings. He dismisses them as "la basse politique" and says that Belgium is worth more than a linguistic quarrel. He recorded some songs in Flemish, which actually bring beauty to a language which otherwise sounds like someone clearing their throat. (I'm certainly risking becoming permanently persona non grata in Antwerp for that, but where do you think the word phlegm comes from? Think about it).

I'm still a big fan of the rest of Brel's songs which are word-paintings, and my favourite is "Orly", a tender study of two young lovers saying goodbye at an airport. Many of his songs were about loneliness, failure and death. He was the Coldplay of his day, really. I've put up a little Brel-fest for you in the margin so you can hear some of his best songs, which have been recorded by everyone from David Bowie to Nina Simone, Scott Walker to Sting, Julio Iglesias to Rod McKuen and, er, Terry Jacks' appalling "Seasons in the Sun".

Here's old Jack singing "Les Vieux", for Mrs Pouncer, who is having a bit of a crisis over her lost youth. I dare say he'll wander home eventually. This'll cheer you up, old girl.

* according to the Francophone poll. In the Dutch-language poll he came in 7th behind Father Damien, a sort of Belgian Mother Theresa, and Ambiorix, a 1st century warrior and follower of Asterix in the business of Getting Up the Romans' Noses. There could be a message in there.

WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND

What a week! I've hardly been able to tear myself away from BBC World news to keep up with Eastenders. The financial crisis, the US elections, the Callum-Stacey-Bradley love triangle .... the embroidery has been cast aside as I need both hands to operate the remote with one and refill my small sherry glass with t'other.

When in doubt, do nothing is my motto. I have been doing nothing with a vengeance this week. Both my Belgian banks were nationalized within 24 hours of each other, before I even knew they were in trouble. It happened so quickly I didn't have time to worry about my life insurance pension plan invested in the one and my mortgage borrowed from the other. When it comes to money, I'm a bit of a Doris Day: Que sera sera, whatever will be will be. The best laid plans of mice and men, etc. Insh'allah. Après moi, le déluge! (particularly apposite here in Belgium). I have hardened myself to the shocking images of City bank workers shaking with shock over their £3.50 cappuccinos in Café Ripoff and wondering if they might have to trade down the BMW for a Ford Focus. It's every man for himself now.


Talking of Doris Day, girl next door Sarah Palin is going to give Barack Obama a run for his money isn't she? Mr McCain had better employ only middle-aged interns, a Monika Lewinsky at his age could be fatal. Remember The Amazing Mrs Pritchard, that story about the housewife who becomes Prime Minister by accident? Except I think Mrs Pritchard could read newspapers.


The current US election campaign is teaching us more about American politics than we ever thought we'd need to know, when I'm still trying to understand how Brussels works. How they expect to solve the Middle East situation when they have a pork barrel in the Senate I really don't know. Most insensitive. It's nice to know that they will start cutting back on weaponry, if the clause about wooden arrows is an indicator. They would certainly be cheaper than all the military hardware they're chucking about in Iraq and Afghanistan. And Pakistan, now.


Another bombshell struck at the end of the week: Mandy is pulling out of Brussels and rejoining the government. There is wailing and tearing of angora sweaters in certain nightspots here flying the rainbow flag. I heard them singing "I never realized how happy you made me, oh Mandy, you came and you gave without taking ..." as I walked past the Boys Boudoir last night. I'm sure his arrival at Downing Street sporting a pullover in episcopal purple was not accidental. I bet his socks were made by Wolsey. I never did get him to one of my candlelight suppers, he was too far down the waiting list. Too bad, he'll never get to taste my zuppa inglese now.

PYJAMA LAMA

Last weekend was no-car Sunday in Brussels, and a number of the more commercially minded establishments of this parish were maximising on the footsore and weary wandering the streets to draw attention to their services with the offer of a sit down and a beer or a cup of tea. One of the local pubs organised a street party with barbecue, beers on tap, raffle, bouncy castle, etc.

Even the local Tibetan Buddhist temple was at it. Really. I wouldn't normally have gone in, but as everyone else was having a nose around, I poked mine in too. It was very jolly inside, all bright colours, a bit like the Jackanory studio. It's situated in Olmstraat, which seems very appropriate. There weren't any Tibetan monks in attendance, they may have gone off on one of their weekend jaunts. I saw them piling out of their house into a luxury tour bus a few weeks ago, presumably to go and see their boss who was visiting Paris. Quarsan saw a bunch of them in Media Markt shopping for electronics (MBIAT of 3 September). The centre was being minded last Sunday by a number of nice elderly Belgian ladies, the Buddhists seem to have a joint venture going with the local WI. I ommed and ahhed around for a bit, picked up a few brochures, and departed with my most beatific I've-got-my-own-zen-garden-thank-you smile.

Om-megang? Nalanda Institute in Brussels

Now that Aunty Marianne has buggered off to Central America, I am angling to replace her as Domestic Goddess-in-Chief of Brussels. I was out sourcing material for curtains, and discovered THE most fabulous fabric store, dahlings. Les Tissus du Chien Vert is a veritable Ali Baba's cavern of cotton, linen, pure wool mixes, organza, taffeta, silks, satins, tweeds, ginghams, voiles, chintz, jersey, plaids, gabardine, and all manner of warp and weft. I am not much of a seamstress myself, but Brussels is full of little sewing shops where you can get everything done from a quick hem to a wedding dress, all you need to do is buy the fabric and throw in your own creative touch. The Chien Vert, or Green Dog, has two sister stores - Les Puces du Chien (the dog's fleas) or bargain basement, and Le Chien du Chien (the dog's bollocks!) where the very high-end stuff is to be found for evening gowns, wedding dresses etc. The inside of the posh store is worth a visit even if you're not shopping for cloth - it's quite a surreal experience in itself, with statues, boats hanging from the ceiling and floors designed like the decks of a sailing ship.

Le Chien du Chien - your dog would like it

I have something of the Nigella Lawson in me as well as Anouschka Hempel. My candlelit dinner parties used to be the high point of the Umbongo social calendar. Of course the conditions were much easier then, we had an army of servants to prepare, cook and serve the meal, and to clean up afterwards. Godwin was such a treasure. I wonder what happened to him? Tonight I am relaunching Daphne's Dinners, ably assisted by my Chinese cook Lee Ho McFook, although he has drawn the line at wearing the satin pyjamas I ran up for him with the leftover curtain lining, since, he says, pink isn't really his colour, and anyway he's making a point about Chinese militarism. If he wears his C.U. Jimmy hat while he's serving dessert, I'm sure my guests won't notice that the hundreds and thousands in the sherry trifle spell out "Free Tibet".