A proper summer holiday: sports days, birthdays, pyramids, bumper cars … and a subterranean mail train

Posted on August 15, 2026 by fortewinks

La Grande Motte: A Very French Holiday Destination

By and large, a Reception School Sports Day wouldn’t normally float my boat. But this was no ordinary Sports Day; this was Little Hurricane’s sports day to which I was invited by his mother, my daughter: The Tornado.

Picture if you will a large, flat, dry yet well-tended East London park scattered with individual zones delineated by cones, tape, buckets and anything useful to assist in said zone marking. Each space was colonised by an abundance of very excited, very small people and surrounded by equally excited larger folk, with a keen interest in seeing their particular small person disport themselves with aplomb at each of the games set up for that day’s competitive events.

Most events were familiar: (egg and spoon, relay, the good old running race) but I also had to get to grips with lesser known or understood activities involving hoops, buckets and what-not, all of which received loud, supportive cheering and whooping to encourage LH to his many triumphs. Of course, he excelled at everything, his ultimate achievement being the running race, which he won by several kilometres … We are all so proud.

A truly golden moment of the morning however, was watching Tornado and Father-of-LH show immense enthusiasm for the sack race … parents flocked to take ownership of a bag, the air abundant with mounting tension as they prepared for the whistle … and then they were off! Grown men and women each leaping determinedly within the confines of their sack, but with such serious intent that Father-of-LH dived head-first over the finishing line eliciting huge cheers from the assembled crowd. Marvellous.

The next Great Event of the week was the arrival of Youngest-of-All, The Exocet from Melbourne. With her partner Son-out-Law, this visit was the penultimate leg of a Grand Tour taking in France and Switzerland. They arrived in Brighton on Friday, the reunion accompanied by much emotion (me) and exuberant happiness (all). The Exocet’s birthday fell within this visit, so much celebration was on the cards.

A Saturday Family lunch preceded a Very Jolly Gathering of neighbours and local friends with a special visit from The Bethnal Green-and-Hackney Two, dear and long-standing friends who have known My Girls since they were very small. Amongst the guests were fellow Mewsketeers and neighbours plus new friends, the Monks-in-the-City who live not 200 meters from us and are attached to my brother’s old school.

I came to know The Monks when strolling past their Church recently, and saw a notice announcing Friday Hour of Contemplation. Here one can light a candle or few and generally absorb the joys of life, love and everything, in silence with occasional gentle music. As a Collapsed Catholic, this hour of peace and thought is oddly reassuring. The Monkish presence at our Gathering elicited not a little surprised interest from those assembled … but wine flowed and a fine time was had by all.

For the Exocet Birthday itself we meandered to Brighton Beach House for light lunch after which the Palace Pier and it’s siren charms called. My valued Resident’s Pass gained us free access and we headed straight to the amusement arcade, where 2p coins were pumped rapidly into the shove-machines eliciting regular coin cascades to refresh our modest allowance. My ultimate triumph won me a (very small) bouncy ball, now gifted to LH to doubtless cause havoc at home.

While Exocet and SoL frolicked on the Helter-Skelter and Water Slide, I slid some Great British Pounds to the Tarot Reader, who assured me that a Knight in Shining Armour was about to enter my life, that the future is sweet and that I am lucky (I concur).

All of this procrastination led ultimately to the Bumper Cars.

Here, Exocet adopted an expression last seen when aged four, she took the wheel of her Early Learning Centre car. The sheer determination to steer slap-bang into Mother was not just successful on many occasions, but also testament to her moniker. I retaliated of course, but impressive control of her car won the day – and me, a few bruises.

Another Birthday Lunch was booked into very new Kemp Town wine bar, The Vine House where the most delightful dishes were served together with some fine Cabanon de Viognier.

The practical talents of HH came good when we witnessed a new stove being delivered but unable to fit through the kitchen door. Strolling to the ensuing kerfuffle he offered his help, removed the legs and assisted a seamless oven delivery into The Vine House kitchen. A clearly relieved Partner of the place stood us a second bottle of wine and much appreciation. HH is jolly handy to have around.

My last few days with The Exocet and SoL were spent in La Grande Motte, half an hour south of Montpellier. This fabulous resort was built on reclaimed land when the 1960s French Government wanted to encourage affordable tourism and the working classes to take holidays. A single architect Jean Balladur was appointed to plan, design and build the new town. Reader, this is a most exceptional place if you love modernism … the buildings are inspired by pre-Columbian Mexican pyramids, designed to blend art, shape, and shadow. Not to mention influences of Corbusier and Niemeyer.

The beaches are glorious, the shops, bars and restaurants excellent and reasonable. A very French holiday destination, La Grande Motte is populated by … The French. No rubbish food in sight.

Walkways conjoin every part of the place; Exocet and SoL were in a lovely hotel overlooking the marina. My attempt to save money was highly successful at £83/night. Hotel, however, was a misnomer for the property at which I landed. It  transpired to be nothing more than student accommodation, with mop and bucket provided so you can clean the place yourself.  The property looked nothing like the photos shown on website or Expedia, who have been told.

Les Cyclades served as a quiet place to sleep however, and my annoyance abated. A five-minute walk to the Mercure ensured pool with balcony lunches and dinners overlooking the splendid architecture and ocean.

The trusty local 606 bus steered us to Montpellier, a most beautiful and ancient city. The Exocet navigated us to a bijou restaurant where Owner-in-the-Kitchen emerged to ensure the happiness and satisfaction of the clientele, with her truly exceptional food. If you find yourself in Montpellier, visit Coppia. It would be criminal not to. Then we walked and walked and before heading back to La Grande Motte found a superb farmer-bio-cooperative Epicerie Folle Avoine, where we bought good things for supper and lunch.

Back home, I met with The Tornado and Little Hurricane at The Postal Museum for a Fifth Birthday celebration, a simply magical few hours. The treat began with an excursion on the subterranean Mail Rail, a tiny train which, in days not long gone transported our post through deep tunnels that traversed beneath London, delivering to sorting centres where envelopes and packages were sent en route to destinations both near, far … and very far. The logistics behind this operation were astounding and the experience enlightening, with superb storytelling, history, compelling narratives and films shown at regular intervals along the ride.

Across the road at the museum itself one is taken back in time to horse drawn carriages, highwaymen and more. Artefacts, street furniture and items of yore are abundant, many (ahem) recognisable from my own youth. This museum is astonishing; its designers should be beyond proud. My liking for tourist “experiences” is pretty low but this one, I would happily embark upon again and again.

We rounded off the day with a delicious Lebanese lunch in Bloomsbury and some watery fun at Coram’s Fields.

As the summer evolves into August Bank Holiday, there is just one more Grand Event in store that falls upon that weekend; the 14th anniversary of my union with HH which, together with the arrival of My Girls is one of the happiest days of my life.

I’ll be back in the autumn … until then, Salute!

© Giovanna Forte 2026.

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Colin the Magpie and Other Flights of Fancy

Posted on May 26, 2026 by fortewinks

But Mum, that was G’s and my first home! exclaimed FirstBorn.
Well … I don’t think you’ll be getting back in there any time soon … I replied

The hysterectomy had been a long time coming, my Brighton NHS GP taking seriously the gynecological events that her Hackney and Great Portland Street counterparts had waved away, most surprisingly from the latter “expert”. I don’t know why you’re bleeding! exclaimed the apparently highly trained and very expensive HRT GP to whom I resorted when the Hackney GP simply shrugged. After spending thousands of credit card pounds on scans and investigations this was unexpected, annoying and frankly unprofessional.

At a loss (and broke) I came off HRT and from there things went rapidly downhill. The decision was based partly on receiving hopeless and expensive care and partly down to the HRT shortages at that time. Eventually, unable to cope either physically or emotionally I found Dr. Clare Phipps at London Gynaecology, whose spot-on assessment and treatment ameliorated the situation with a fresh and successful HRT approach. Dr. Phipps is calm, concerned, kind, highly experienced and, since the passing of Professor John Studd (blog passim), the best HRT consultant I have encountered.

Two years later and after our move to Brighton, the bleeding returned. From a prompt and thorough investigation at the Royal Sussex County Gynae Assessment Unit, a full hysterectomy was recommended and the date set six weeks hence.

I will skip over details of the surgery; suffice to say that at The Princess Royal in Haywards Health, the diligent and dextrous Mr. A dealt successfully with stuck-together organs and substantial interfering scar tissue around my old appendix and bowel cancer surgeries. Given a clean bill of health, I left for home the very next afternoon accompanied by HH who had ingratiated himself so well with the nursing team that not only was he was allowed into their tea and coffee area but invited to stay and keep the job.

The nursing team at The Princess Royal deserve a medal. I say this because there is much criticism levelled at this hospital (indeed at the entire Trust) and their capacity for delivering good care to women. My experience wasn’t just good, it was fantastic. Some women on my ward suffered with far greater problems than mine, but attention was given equally to all with efficiency, compassion, empathy and patience.

At home, HH helped me very slowly up the stairs and into the spare bedroom-with-ensuite, where we agreed that recovery would take place. My 9” abdominal wound prevented much movement and should I need to sit up, HH came to assist; he was indeed a saint for the entire duration of recuperation. Healthy food was delivered on a tray morning, noon and evening. Anything I needed was provided with love.

Those that know me will know that doing nothing isn’t really my métier, but for once I took advice from HH and the healthcare professionals and did … absolutely nothing. Well, nothing much. I read, slept, listened to audiobooks; I rested and …. I observed. For from my bed facing the picture window I had cinematic view over a wide rooftop across the road; during three full weeks of bed rest I came to know much more than expected about the daily doings of the birds that colonise this part of town.

First to make my acquaintance was a pair of Magpies who each morning hopped around the rooftiles and chimney tops; after three days only one appeared regularly every day. Colin, as I came to know him, danced and preened himself for a good half hour each morning. Occasionally he stood stock-still for minutes at a time, presumably focused on the allure of some glitter and gold that caught his gimlet eye.

By and by Colin flew away, occasionally to reappear in the afternoon … but not before others of his feathered friends had taken residence, apparently entirely for my benefit.

For Colin’s departure would herald arrival of The Pigeons; at least 20 would alight onto the roof, billing and cooing clearly audible from my bed. I came to understand that these were lady pigeons, whose communal activities were from time to time disrupted by the thick-necked males who came to bother their female counterparts.

Most botherings were summarily rejected, the females, pecking and shooing the boys away; hardly discouraged, the male would persist to try his luck with another. Eventually one of the girls tolerated his wicked way, only to shrug him off with her tail feathers once the deed was done, leaving her free to continue preening and gossiping with her companions.

The Pigeons provided much amusement and an hour or so would fly by … until they flew away themselves always in disorganised fashion, leaving the roof temporarily vacant.

Come early-afternoon The Crows alighted for half an hour or so, shouting at and shoving each other, flapping noisily up and down the roof, pecking at whatever delicacies they found inlayed between rooftile and gutter. Disappointingly, no wayward behaviour was exhibited by The Crows, presumably being partial to more privacy, but being large and noisy they provided solid entertainment for the duration of their stay.

By 3pm, rooftop tenancy was taken up by The Seagulls, the noisiest and most disorganized of my new avian acquaintances. Barely engaging with one another, each Gull would dart from chimney to tile and back again, screeching wantonly at nothing in particular. After dashing pointlessly from point to point, some flew away leaving a few to balance, utterly poised and proud upon chimney or gable, standing motionless for minutes at a time before spotting something tasty. Now they would fly a direct trajectory out of sight to whatever juicy morsel they were after … when one left, the rest would follow.

The vacated roof often tempted Colin to return. Hopping along the gutter, pausing only to peer down into the street, Colin seemed to enjoy having the place to himself, taking advantage of the space, occasionally perched atop the apex to admire the view before taking off again … until tomorrow.

Late afternoon and time for The Starlings to display their unique choreography. The dance began with a modest bevy diving down and up to conjoin with a second incoming bevy whilst cheeping their distinctive chorus. The circles and swoops continued while yet more and more Starlings added to their number creating eventually a Murmuration extending across the width of the roof, swelling and swooning in figures of eight until yet more joined the fringes of this splendid Starling cloud … and with a dramatic up and around and away they departed for the old West Pier, where their formations bring joy to Brightonians everywhere.

By now the sun was setting and darkness fell; the curtains were drawn, my evening sustenance delivered and I settled down to read, although sheer exhaustion allowed just a few pages at a time.

Supporting HH in his nursing capacity were the Good Ladies of The Mews (The Mewsketeers): our clean laundry taken away for ironing by Lady G and returned in impeccable condition; Mrs. Naughty cooked up daily soups to quench my modest appetite and alleviate the pressure on HH. The Angel and her husband down at weekends brought immense and colourful flowers that lasted forever.

Flower-power prevailed throughout the three weeks for dear friend Bad Alan arrived with an enormous bouquet of white blooms bought from our local florist Wendy Kelly whose regular deliveries brought colour and scent to my room and often from the most unexpected sources (you know who you are).

At the end of week three, I ventured tentatively downstairs and began once again to tackle work issues, of which I had been all but relieved thanks to the intervention of my brother Vincent and colleague OJ, without whom recovery would have been very tough indeed.

In all, feeling remotely normal took a full six weeks after which I was advised I could resume work but must avoid exercise for three months.

Now four months out of surgery I have returned to Reformer Pilates and the gym, feel fit and well, easily tired but healthy and happy. The hysterectomy will go down as one of the best things that has happened to me and my good health … and thank heavens for my wonderful GP.

Here’s to HH, to our NHS …. and to Brighton’s avian colonies, without which these flights of fancy could not have stirred such joy or encouraged a robust mental and physical recovery.

Recommended reading and listening

Book: There are Rivers in the Sky by Elif Shafak

Book: Seeking Rapture by Kathryn Harrison

Audiobook: Just Kids by Patti Smith (link to abridged BBC title)

Audiobook: The Complete Sherlock Holmes read by Stephen Fry

© Giovanna Forte 2026

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Loving life: then and now

Posted on October 5, 2025 by fortewinks

Reacquainting myself with the city of my childhood this year has been enormous fun. As the past Hoves into view, almost every street jolts a memory … although in truth I spend little time in that area where I grew up, having settled in the East of the city.

Here in Kemptown all of life exists cheek by jowl with a general contentment; live music punctuates the many pubs and – oh bliss! – independent shops prevail, although for how long we are unsure. With ever increasing rents, retail ends become more difficult to meet. The Post Office closed just before we arrived, the Butcher is due to disappear next August and there are rumours of other closures. But let’s not dwell on that now.

Still vivid in memory are the places to which we accompanied our parents as they went about their daily business; I will share some of my favourites with you now.

First and foremost is the Family Restaurant business, the flagship for which was at the Old Steine. My Father’s own restaurant was next to the Metropole. Lloyd Loom furniture and stripey parasols long gone, I still see him standing in the entrance, hands on hips surveying his world. Opposite Father’s cafe, was the West Pier a-brim with amusements and a music hall that hosted top glamorous and thrilling 1960s performers.

We loved the West Pier. After my lunchtime shift of table-clearing and washing up, Father and I would visit the game-hall together and play the one-armed bandits … don’t tell your Mother, he would warn. At the end of the pier Danny La Rue’s glittering name illuminated the path for the colour and diversity Brighton boasts today. Taking an afternoon stroll, Mother’s kitten heels would become stuck in the boardwalk, Father gently rebuking her for wearing such impractical footwear – but Mother never went out looking anything but glamourous; hat, gloves and red lipstick de rigueur until the day she died.

The top of Preston Street featured Jack the Butcher, whose windows displayed carcasses and myriad meaty marvels, sawdust on the floor, always a queue. Jack in his butcher’s apron, jolly, hail-fellow-well-met and a cheery word, always had ready the weekly blade-bone used for the Sugo we enjoyed on Sunday.

Sunday featured a regular and familiar pattern; we would pile into the car for 10 o’clock Mass at St Peter’s on Portland Road, after which Mother stopped at home to complete lunch while my Brother and I accompanied Father to The Factory where the Famous Forte’s Ice Cream and cakes were confected.

While Father and Brothers discussed Business over Espresso, Cousin P and and we ascended and descended the Factory floors in an ancient pully lift, permanently stacked with trays of cherry-topped iced cakes, Bakewells and more. The whole place was imbued with the scent of Vanilla, an essence that always takes me back there. To this day no other ice cream flavour will do.

Hills of Hove was a lush department store fronting Western Road; thick, soft dark green carpets muffled creaky floorboards; lifts with ancient gates that snapped shut to elevate customers to the upper floors. This retail emporium featured deferential, polite, uniformed staff (think Are You Being Served). If Mother proffered a five-pound note – a huge sum in those days – The Manager was called to check it and provide change.

Sometimes if Mother required in-store privacy she might leave my brother and I locked in her Triumph Herald for twenty minutes. We cowered within as local boys kicked the car and spat at the windows; we were terrified of The Hooligans … I wonder where they are now?

Mother knew an army of Antique Dealers who courteously allowed her to pay for purchases out of the weekly housekeeping; when paid in full, they would deliver when Father was playing golf, helpfully lifting the coveted item into the loft. Whatever it was, some months later it would mysteriously teleport downstairs and appear as if a long-time fixture in the living or dining room.

Puzzled Father: I haven’t seen that before?

Insouciant Mother: Oh Nino! It’s been in the house for months …

Mother told me it was a sin to lie to my Father and as you can appreciate, she never did.

Old Mr Moseley’s ancient shop featured regularly in Mother’s antique dealings. Opposite the Dyke Road petrol station Mr Moseley had very few items in his dusty window, the state of which belied a view into the shop anyway. We enjoyed visiting Mr Moseley; he was a big, slow slightly stooped gentleman with white hair and big features. His kindly demeanour and twinkling eyes gave us to feel we were always part of the conversation, a great trick to prevent childish boredom leading to a diminished visit by Mother. On calling the house, his slow deliberate well pronounced words would crackle through the line:

Mrs Forte …. something has just come in… that I think you might like …

And so to the present, where HH and I find ourselves in The Mews (blog passim).

At the end of The Mews resides Lady G; within this attractive diminutive new friend bursts forth anecdotes of a life well lived. We have been glued to vivid tales of her Air Hostess experiences in the 60s, encounters with intellectuals and ne’er do wells during a career within the Embassy of a major, Western Power … and so much more. Lady G is a raconteur par excellence and enthralling narratives can elicit gales of laughter and gasps of incredulity.

Two doors down live The Naughty Neighbours, actors and writers both. Of a Saturday night – any Saturday night – a 10pm knock on the door may deliver them into our living room for jolly, raucous conversation … and most likely a much later night than planned. The NNs came into our lives the very day we moved in, as a Welcome to The Mews card dropped onto the doormat followed by swift introductions to other Mews and local folk. What would we have done without them?

Let’s pop next door where reside The Younger Ones. In their 20s this home comprises a CID officer, microbiologist, joiner and Occupational Therapist, all of them conversational, fun and as we discovered when they came over for dinner, very clever.

Towards the back of The Mews, The Weekenders land here most Saturday and Sundays; these DFLs have been Brighton Part-Timers for decades, joining in Mews Events with vivacity and sparkle, adding even more conviviality – and jolly good wine – to proceedings.

All convened at the Summer Party a few short weeks ago, a great success as everyone produced something to eat and drink. Lady G provided a canopy to protect the buffet from Weather, HH entertained with a Fire Show … Youngest of All and Husband-to-Be were on their annual visit from Melbourne and after this sweet event and a last-night dinner at The Reading Room, concurred that we have indeed landed on our feet.

Reader, in this little gated Mews I have found my tribe. Indeed, I am just back from a beachside Sunday Stroll with Naughty Neighbour and Lady G to enjoy coffee, natter and gossip at the clifftop Temple cafe. With sunshine warming our shoulders, the sea swelling and crashing below, our vignette of conviviality was rounded off with a gusty walk home via Seed N Sprout, our tiny organic grocer, a community meeting place for many.

The privilege of creating wonderful new memories in middle-age is unexpected and joyful. Looking to Eartha Kitt’s famous number –  and my theme tune – I can confirm very happily that I have All I Want.

The And Then Some will be the success of my business; with a Backed By Doctors Award received only last week, I have a hunch that this is at last, building nicely.

I’ll keep you posted.

© Giovanna Forte 2025.

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Old town, new life.

Posted on March 2, 2025 by fortewinks

But I can’t! All my ballgowns are in Sussex! Seated at the end of a long dark office spotlit by an Anglepoise lamp, my worried words spoken into the telephone were overheard by TV Eye Reporter Denis Tuohy. It was 1984 and this was Thames Television.

I bumped into Denis some years ago on a train and he regaled me with the story, still chuckling after the long intervening years. Presumably in my move to London from Hove, all my ballgowns got left behind?

Having recently returned to Sussex, I can report that my very first ballgown is here; a black slub silk frock with tailored bodice from which flows a full skirt that when walking or dancing, reveals underlayers of shocking-pink edged black tulle.  This beauty was made by Laurie, a talented tailor based in Hove. Yes indeed, Hove Laurie made all my ballgowns.

Brighton really hasn’t changed much since I left. Having grown up in Hove actually I had no desire to relive my youth but to explore the area that in my childhood I considered to be bohemian and where even then, I found the architecture impressive. The very air of Kemptown hinted at mischief, a far cry from our quiet, safe Hove Park haven.

Laurence Olivier and Joan Plowright lived in conjoined centre houses of The Royal Crescent; in my young imagination, this confirmed that Kemptown was the domain of actors, creatives … and undoubtedly many goings-on. Unlike the Regency and Georgian facades that surround our new home, my fond memories of the area have never faded. Indeed I am grateful for the place, for in my teenage years Kemptown’s Brighton College gave me Big Bad John with whom I discovered first love.

Now I am here, in the very place I yearned to know as a child and with ample time to explore my old town the only disappointment has been the sheer quantity of chain cafes, restaurants and stores that have displaced the independent shops of my youth. These are now concentrated in the North Laines, less populated in the late 70s but even then colonised by vintage boutiques where I bought snakeskin stilettoes, 50s and 60s suits and frocks – maybe even a ballgown or two?

The people of Brighton however, have not changed; conversations strike up in the street and smiles are exchanged in passing, people working in shops are helpful and friendly. Walking home last night we passed a pub-related incident; police were chatting to a small group of older folk, one of whom was lamenting; but Beano wouldn’t do that. Not Beano …. There’s a mistake, not Beano … he sobbed gently, the arm of a sympathetic policewoman around his shoulders.

The handful of people we know here have gone out of their way to welcome us; a convivial dinner at the home of Schoolfriend Sarah, a hilarious Comedy Night with BA and new friends introduced by musical Cousin V who also gave us the heads up for Sunday night jazz in a local pub. It transpired that this was no ordinary pub jazz but a live session by the 18-piece Sussex Jazz Orchestra, with which Cousin V was playing that night. For two hours the most incredible sound of these talented musicians brought joy to a happy audience and quite literally swelled the walls of The Round Georges pub.

When The Tornado and The Little Hurricane came to stay at half term we visited Booth’s Natural History Museum, barely changed from my childhood and bursting with taxidermy from the 18thC. More recent exhibits are displayed with a notice reassuring visitors that nothing was killed to make this diorama with confirmation of how each animal died.

The Hove Museum of Creativity was a revelation; here, beautifully designed and themed exhibitions span the creative arts past and present, a glorious testament to design and curatorial excellence.

When weather permits, HH and I take a stroll to watch the sunset illuminate the beach, the sea, the Pier and the starling murmurations that embellish the sky; we still have some settling in to do in our Georgian Stable, but there’s no rush.

Life is sweet; we look forward to more capers over coming weeks, people to meet, Cousins to track down and old friends to hook up with. Each day dawns bright, putting a welcome distance between me and the regular, dark and deep depressions that bedevilled me in London, seemingly implicit to life.

The return to Sussex is wonderful and to my delight, after 40 years The Last Ballgown has come full circle with me; whether I will need it any time soon remains to be seen.

© Giovanna Forte 2025.

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The Big Move: back to my roots

Posted on January 30, 2025 by fortewinks

Do you really want to grow old in Hackney? This question from The Exocet (Youngest of All) came through the phone from sunny Melbourne and over following days echoed within my head. Then the Tornado (First Born) returned from a work trip to Thailand with a gift of beautiful seashell earrings. As I looked at them, the echo fluttered again … but I dashed it away.

Shortly thereafter I dreamed I was with my Mother in our childhood home in Hove. We visited each room, remembering lovely and funny things that happened within those walls. We laughed, exchanging anecdotes until outside the laundry room I told her You know the people who bought the house changed everything. They knocked down this wall, moved the kitchen there …. She stopped me in my tracks. Ma, Giovanna! We must write and tell them not to do that.

From her old bureau we slid her blue Swiss writing paper out of its drawer and she began the letter. They won’t read your writing! I said. She passed me the paper and pen and I began to write. Che diamine! They won’t read yours! Where is my typewriter? asked Mother. I thought hard and with puzzled expression explained: Its at my house in London …

The collision of past and present perplexed us and then, suddently my sister appeared through the wall … What are you two doing? She laughed … You’re not supposed to be here! I woke feeling happier than for a very long time.

Fast forward a week or few when HH and I visited friends and family on the coast and walking through oh-so-familiar streets the penny dropped: this is where I belong. Having been in The Smoke for some 40 years, somehow it no longer made me happy. I turned to HH: Would you mind if we moved to Brighton?

Thrilled by his unexpected, affirmative reply we took advantage of our rental status and not six weeks later, just before Christmas the most esteemed Rumsey & Son moved us from the old Hackney Wick bungalow to our converted Georgian stable by the sea; bigger, brighter and dear reader, considerably cheaper than we are used to. D, a journalist friend of old who lives nearby came along to our third viewing: Party kitchen! he said. Take it.

The night before meeting our lovely removals team at the new house, we returned to Sea Spray where we stayed when visiting prospective properties. Ready for our arrival – and exhaustion – the Manager announced an upgrade to The Suite, replete with outside hot tub. Oh bliss! The fierce, hot jets melted the ache from our limbs and a deep, deep sleep ensued.  The following morning, we upped early to watch the sun rise over the calm English Channel, which ebbed and flowed sleepily in the morning light. With happiness coursing through every vein I realised that at last, I was Home.

The interim six weeks were intense but with workplaces closed we settled in without taking time out. On Christmas Morning many more parcels and boxes were unwrapped than anyone else will have enjoyed; at 3pm an amnesty gave way to a modest fridge-emptying lunch. Internet-free, we curled up to a DVD fest and opened some wonderful wine. We could not have been happier.

Life by the sea is different; we are but one block away from the front and on a gusty day, in place of a low growl from the A12, while I work, the sound of waves crashing onto the shore reaches me. Seagulls wake us, their cries a sonorous contrast to the magpies and parakeets of Hackney.

The air here has a clean, salty quality I hadn’t realised I missed so very much. The Regency and Georgian architecture a daily reminder of our good fortune; people spark up conversation in the street. The swell of independent shops includes the grocer, wine-cellar, family-run bakery, butcher, cheese shop, hardware store and dry-cleaner all within a few minutes’ walk. If the hour is late, a trusty bijou (but surprisingly cavernous) Co-Op occupies a handy corner site.

Temptation presented by the well-stocked Flea-Market and Trading Post has been replaced by a desire to sell things that have no place here. My Pilates studio is across the road and many exemplary owner-run restaurants and coffee shops the cherries on our Kemp Town Cake. Indeed, together with a customer, the Barista at Portland coffee nearby helped transport the eight beverages I bought for our removals team. Where else does that happen?

On our first day entering the courtyard within which sits our front door, a rather handsome gent followed us in and on learning that we were The New Neighbours, shook our hands. His cherubic missus later popped a Welcome To The Mews card through the door and when we saw them pass by that afternoon, invited them in to toast our new home. Within two evenings we were at theirs, meeting and clinking glasses with them and other near-locals. A couple of nights later we reciprocated, adding to this crew a couple of our own very local friends; a small gathering of neighbours who didn’t mind the semi-chaos of a spontaneous new-home invitation.

Yes indeed, we have landed on our feet. As I tap this blog, HH is at a carpentry event, meeting like-minded woody folk. Finding himself in the area, cousin T called by last week and soon we’ll swing by to see cousin V.  I have shared a pot of Earl Grey with school friend S who lives close-by and after moving in, a ceremonious pizza was enjoyed with Bad A who lives just ten minutes away. This weekend The Tornado, her partner S and my grandson come to celebrate her birthday.

Memories of teenage romance abound, landmarks of family life lie in wait here and there and the pier with its Arcade temptations glitters enticingly less than half a mile away.

Near daily strolls along the prom are simply glorious; last Sunday the place was deserted due to high winds and it was upon this gale that my words were swept into the heavens, for in a moment of sheer joy I threw back my head and at the top of my voice let the world know … I’M SO HAPPY!

People are calling now to find out when they can come to stay; if that’s you, just hang on a while. We may take some time to prepare the spare room …

© Giovanna Forte 2025.

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British hotels: Midlands, North and eventually, South

Posted on December 12, 2024 by fortewinks

It’s a while since I shared travel tales but in the latter part of this year I traversed the length of England. Dear reader, please sit back and enjoy the narrative for at best I may raise a smile and at worst, you’ll know where not to stay in the UK.

A woman travelling alone can encounter a variety of difficulties and a careful balance must be sought to find a hotel that is reasonable… and safe. In June as Forte Medical prepared to relaunch after three grisly years, our factory unexpectedly went into Administration. Any entrepreneur or businessperson will understand the difficulties this presented, but with customary zeal and ambition we have prevailed. Our ongoing success requires promotion of the business involving occasional travel. I invite you now to join my encounters with a few hotels.

Let’s start in Coventry, where the company was invited to accept the National Product Innovation Award from the estimable Bladder and Bowel UK – an honour we were thrilled to receive. The Royal Court Hotel and Spa looked like a pretty decent place at a reasonable price; the critical detail I missed however, was the owning brand of Britannia Hotels. Oh dear. You can read about their Manchester premises in Tales from a Travelling (Female) Business Executive. Reader, I should have known better.

The friendly reception staff provided the key to my Superior Room, a modestly sized and even more modestly furnished room, imbued with the scent of many, many former guests. I returned to reception to query the Superior description; the manager was adamant that this was one of their best Superior rooms.

If that’s a superior room, I quipped … then I’m Sophia Loren. Unmoved, he offered apparently better accommodation should I decide to stay an extra night. I politely declined and settled instead for a free pass to the “Spa”. This comprised a shabby tiled area, with small steam room and sauna separated by a chipped, faded jacuzzi bubbling with suspiciously opaque water and occupied by six well-upholstered gentlemen enjoying a good old natter. Well at least they were having a nice time.

The grim, stale public areas of this hotel led me to the threshold of the formal restaurant, where I was accosted by a diffident woman who, on establishing that I was dining solo wordlessly took my elbow and steered me into the adjoining Bar announcing to staff She’s on ‘er own, she’ll eat with you. Speechless and stunned I watched 100 new guests disgorge from two coaches from which they were apparently enjoyng a Tour of The Midlands. Then I watched them head towards the Bar.

I quickly found a couple who welcomed me to their tiny table, both charming folk, as appalled as I at the state of the place. A 20-minute wait to order barfood found me behind a woman loudly ordering white wine. Around 250ml of said liquid was carefully measured into a glass. Glaring at the bar tender, the woman slowly ran her finger across the rim of the vessel, tapped it loudly with the edge of a long luminous nail and declared with not a little menace: I. SAID. A. LARGE. GLASS. The very young, alarmed server filled her vessel to the rim; she walked away, pleased with her pint of Pinot.

Things did get better further North where I was due to deliver a lecture. Come with me to the Earl of Doncaster, a very reasonable “Art Deco” establishment, within which every surface spangles and sparkles, abundant with flounces and flourishes. Not quite the modernist ideal of choice, but never mind the froufrou, it was fun and my room here excellent – clean, odour-free and blessed with good cotton bedding.  I ate appetising food within a vast dining room, attended to with gentle diligence by the Maitre d / waiter / bar tender, a kindly gentleman who made me feel very special, pampered – and not alone. Good work, Earl of Doncaster!

A week later arranging travel to a healthcare event, faithful Expedia provided me with a very reasonable room at the Leeds Marriott, designed for the High End Travelling Executive. The five-star luxe factor flowed into hotel restaurant, Gino D’Acampo. It was Sunday and Sunday is pasta day … Bingo! Soon, a substantial plate of seafood tagliatelle was en route with a glass of something crisp and white on the side. Reader, this dish was utterly, indescribably sublime; the price commensurately eyewatering … ma, che diamine! when it comes to pasta, you get what you pay for. Leeds is a beautiful City and I regret not having time to weave and wander my way around its sandstone streets but with business travel, purpose lies elsewhere.

The following week, I booked a room at the Tyneside Copthorne Hotel in Newcastle and within seconds received two grumpy emails, the first telling me how much I must pay for parking and the high fine should I forget to pay and the second, advising that smoking was prohibited and dire consequence would arise if that rule was broken. I emailed the Manager: I am quite accustomed to being told off, but usually only when I’ve done something wrong. These emails are all very well but surely they should begin with “Thank you for choosing us for your stay”?

The Manager responded with alacrity: We’ve outsourced the booking system and I didn’t know this was happening, I’m so sorry. Thank you for letting me know. I’ve upgraded your room.

In Newcastle I was due to attend a Small Claims Hearing to put right the actions of an “investment professional” who has targeted and defrauded around 60 small businesses and individuals and who continues to weave a rich tapestry of ongoing fraud and theft, generating substantial unearned income. The story will be shared when all is said and done, but right now let me tell you about the beauty of this Great Northern City.

If you are quick and lucky, the railway approach to Newcastle may reveal The Angel of the North, the sensational, spectacular and striking statue by Anthony Gormley, impressive when viewed on the page. In real life however and even from a distance, it is a thing of immense beauty and grace.

The taking of breath is something to which the Newcastle visitor must become accustomed; the scale of the River Tyne, the architecture and buildings is immense. The Tyne begins its journey just south of the Scottish border, briefly running parallel to Hadrian’s Wall; it flows through the Pennines, east to Northumberland, playfully dividing Gateshead and Newcastle before moving on to the North Sea. My sunny pre-breakfast morning walk along the Tyne was a joy and from the Millennium Bridge gazing at the immense power of this river, I wondered at the stories it might tell … if it could speak.

Desipte revelling in the unexpected luxury of a vaulted top-floor suite with spectacular views and tempted to stay a little longer, there really was no time to explore this noble city. A return visit is on the cards and maybe then I can truly appreciate its grandeur.

The last hotel to which you must be introduced was encountered not for work but for house-hunting on the South Coast, where HH and I will be moving soon. With viewings spread over a couple of days, we had the good fortune to land a room at Brighton’s Sea Spray. A series of townhouses make up this wonderful hotel where the meaning and intent of the word hospitality underpins the ethos of the place and everyone who works there.

Our late arrival was met by a cheerful night porter; opening the door to our gorgeous room we found a bottle of chilled Prosecco on a table by the window through which – oh joy! – there … there was the sea. As we hunkered down, the pleasure of luxe bedding embraced us while beyond our duvet the autumn chill was abated not only by extra covers, but an electric under blanket, something I’ve never encountered in any hotel, big or small.

Sea Spray breakfast is legendary; every review cites the quality of the morning spread, for a spread it is, putting hotels corporate or private to shame. We spoke to guests who return again and again because apart from being so wonderfuly located and served on every level by a devoted team, the breakfast here is so good. The Sea Spray also boasts a separate Spa where guests or locals will find beauty treatments and a hot tub … well, it so happens our new home is a short walk from Sea Spray so my mani-pedi-pamper-needs are already met.

Our move to Brighton is imminent and there is much packing to be done … excitement builds as after 40 years a Londoner, I prepare to go Home to the seaside town where I grew up. When we’re settled, I’ll send you a postcard.

Meanwhile … thank you for joining me on my travels.

© Giovanna Forte 2024.

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Happiness is the Good Morning walk.

Posted on August 26, 2024 by fortewinks

Around 07:30 each morning, I wake and consider … shall I step out today, on my morning walk? Mostly, the answer is yes; with cat fed, breakfast prepped for action upon my return I cross the threshold of our home and into our covered porch where I press my sorry body into some much-needed stretching; calves, ankles, back, neck … and so begins the day.

Warm up over, I cross our front garden. There may be someone sitting on the bench adjacent to our home. Good morning, I say. Looking slightly surprised they usually smile and return the greeting. Solitary folk like that bench for sitting, thinking and looking. I walk to a gate that leads to the Wick Riviera. My neighbourhood stretch of the Lea can be still with algae one day, ebbing and flowing populated with geese and ducks another. Often I will see a bird or two atop the river wall or a barge roof, bills nestled into their breasts, still snoozing.

My pace quickens now and I spy D the street sweeper who looks after this stretch; bins and litter cleared daily to make the path immaculate for those living here and others passing through. More often than not, we stop and chat; D’s big smile and welcoming demeanour put a spring in my step. I continue to the school bridge at the base of which is a riverside bench sheltered by overhanging branches; a perfectly peaceful and private place where I manage deeper stretches, crunches, rotations, bridges and downward dogs, the water lapping gently not one foot away.

From here I cross and walk alongside the barges and boats that line the river; alert to every sound, moving aside when I hear the thud, thud, thud of the early morning jogger or whoosh of the cyclist behind or in front of me.

Usually I meet my first compatriots on the next bridge. Good morning! I say. They might look up and smile, they may return or ignore the greeting, the latter more common with younger folk. Those with landfill in their ears don’t respond at all; indeed, with ears blocked to the world around them, they hear nothing, the rich sounds that abound here are dead to them. No sound of ducks, geese, swans, birds. No gentle lapping of the water against boat hulls. They stare at their phones, so they miss seeing nature too, they miss the wider environment and small sights that make being here feel so good, like the wagtails that colonise this part of the river; jolly little things whose antics I often stop to watch.

A while ago, I met an elderly gentleman walking slowly towards me, his head bowed. Good morning! I offered. He looked up, his face creased into a huge smile, eyes brimming with warmth. He bent low from the waist and upon rising, lifted his arms to the sky and cried … Good Morning to you! Thank you! Thank you! Good Morning! You have made my day! Still smiling, we nodded and parted company, both happier for the brief encounter.

The man and his missus with two white dogs are often about, ready for a chat; he is Italian, she an Eastender always with a ready observation or two about the neighbourhood. I have only seen them together once; usually just one or other responsible for the early morning walking of dogs.

On the home stretch I cross Hackney Bridge and smell sizzling bacon on the breeze. At the base of the steps sits the breakfast truck; if Bacon Man is street-facing, he nods his greeting … Good morning! I say.  

Closer to home the Lollipop Lady makes a distinctive figure from afar; she waves as she sees me approach. Good morning! we say in unison. If it’s not raining and there are no children to see safely across the road we have a short chat about the weather. Not three months ago, she produced the Oyster card I had lost; on finding it in the road nearby, someone had given it to her. Recognising my photograph, she kept it until we met again a day or two later. After seven years I still don’t know her name – is it too late to ask?

I meander towards home now and with the village green on my left I might see C approaching with her dog; she waves and calls Alright babe? You alright? I reply in the affirmative and ask after her, she is closer now, next to our house. Blooming tired, she says. Blooming tired babe. I wish her well and as I open my front door, she grins broadly, one last wave before moving towards the Lea for her own solitary, grounding morning walk by the water.

For we are locals; the Wick Riviera belongs to us.

Let the day begin.

© Giovanna Forte 2024.

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Integrity: a word too many people in business and finance can’t spell

Posted on August 18, 2024 by fortewinks

My advice would be to pre-pack your company, said a business advisor – not the first to suggest this by any means. It has been a challenge for Forte Medical to raise investment through those apparently appointed to provide such a thing to entrepreneurs.

The vast majority of Forte Medical shareholders are friends and family with one industry investor and a sprinkling of footballers and musicians who believe in our work – commonly known as Angel Investors. The sheer number of them are anathema to larger investors but they have remained loyal and supportive over the years.

More often than not Entrepreneurs are funded by Angel Investors, which implicitly means smaller amounts from individuals who support the both the founder and the principles or aims of the business. Those advisers who feel it is acceptable for a founder or business to turn their back on those who have enabled its existence clearly haven’t learned anything about integrity. To my mind it’s a no-brainer that you don’t pull the wings off an Angel.

A pre-pack is an arrangement under which the sale of all or part of a company’s business or assets is negotiated with a purchaser prior to the appointment of the administrator and the sale contract executed on the appointment of the administrator or very shortly afterwards. (Parliament: Commons Library)

My first encounter with pre-pack came from a ‘serial entrepreneur’ who loaned us £30,000 while he spent six months conducting due diligence on the business, continually confirming pending investment. When the company’s bank balance became precariously low, he invited me to a meeting with a friendly administrator, who will pre-pack the business, sell it to me for very little. We’ll get rid of all your shareholders, I’ll give you and your brother some shares and run things from there. I declined.  A winding up order landed on my desk shortly afterwards, swiftly followed by investigations by HMRC and the VAT man who had been tipped off that I was not running the business properly. Our shareholders helped me to repay his loan and, after thorough investigations by both Government Bodies, I was given a clean bill of financial health. Indeed, the VAT man took some Peezy Midstream packs home for his wife, who suffered from regular bouts of Urinary Tract Infection.

Pre-pack has reared its head again recently by four different investment or financial advisors. You have too many shareholders. Let’s pre-pack and start again with you and your brother taking more shares. It will be good for your business and encourage the Venture Capitalists to support you.

Our patient and supportive shareholders have ensured we remain not only alive and kicking, but eminently investable. Protecting their investments from the Vulture Capitalists is non-negotiable. These kind offers to pre-pack have prompted us to “clean up” our cap table with the right legal folk appointed to implement a nominee structure to represent all our smaller shareholders. This will ensure that all our investors will be rewarded as Forte Medical scales and ultimately exits.

Oddly, I am not motivated by the idea of stealing the investment provided by those who have supported my business over the years, leaving them with nothing to show for their trust and faith in my perseverance. Defrauding them would keep me awake at night. And I quite like my sleep. I’m told this attitude is not business-like. I am not being realistic. Forgive me but authorised and legitimised theft and fraud are not part of my personal lexicon of business.

Lack of integrity – or greed – abounds across the business landscape. In July our manufacturer (and shareholder) went into administration; the director who looked after us was texted whilst on holiday celebrating his birthday. To paraphrase the message he received: the company is in administration. You have no job and we’re not paying you for June.

Reading the Sunday papers this morning, I have encountered more examples:

  • Private Equity owners of veterinary services with an estimated value of £3bn paying below the living wage, with 80% of staff resorting to food banks and loans to make ends meet;
  • Public Sector workers purchasing from Carpetrite with a Blue Light Card were denied delivery of their purchase by the company who bought it from Administration. By default are they not now in possession of that customer’s funds? Presumably that’s not the way business works;
  • A woman whose car was impounded by the council but not informed for a whole year – even when she reported the vehicle missing to police – was eventually informed and advised that unless she paid £12-a-day storage (£4,400) for that period, her vehicle would be destroyed;
  • Of course, thanks to Andrew Malkinson we now know about the board and lodging cherry on the cake that is miscarriage of justice

I’m sure those reading this can add many more examples to the list.

The problem here is greed, whether Governmental, Corporate or individual. Why are shareholder dividends prioritised above the services they provide and the interests of employees and customers? These are the very people that make the engine work and accelerate company success; yet it is deemed more important to achieve sometimes eye-watering profit over their own wellbeing and the interests of their customers. A happy team member is a productive and loyal team member and a healthy life-work balance will positively impact their performance as well as company success. A happy customer or client will return again … and again.

I read recently about the Banca Monte dei Taschi di Siena, a financial institution whose original tenet was to use profit to the benefit of the citizens of that city, has been shattered by external influences encouraging growth and ultimately greed. This leads me seamlessly into banking. Instead of rewarding its executives with x10 of their already substantial salaries in bonuses, should banks not apply a lesser reward and use at least some of profits to support the towns and cities in which their customers live, work and pay charges, perhaps even eliminating the need for their poor relation the Food Bank? My money sits with a Mutual because its ethos contributes to society rather than bleeding it dry.

Someone once described me as a Utopian, which is not entirely correct although the moniker has merit.  Anyone who has read Utopia will know that contrary to popular interpretation it enjoyed a leadership system, whose inate distate for greed led them to use riches such as gold and precious stones to adorn those deemed to be criminals. Quite simply, the weight of those garments served as penance for wrongdoing, would exhibit them as wrong’uns – and also stop them from moving very fast or very far.

In an era of such intense corporate greed, there’s something quite compelling there …

(c) Giovanna Forte 2024.

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HFG: the place that slows down time.

Posted on June 9, 2024 by fortewinks

Entrepreneurship is something I would recommend to many, but with the Good comes the Bad … and the Very Bad; the last three years of entrepreneurial life have been the most difficult, frustrating and challenging across 35+ years of business. This story will be told, but not here and not now. Suffice to say, come the end of May I found myself bedraggled, beaten and broken.

Thanks heavens then that CrowdCube helped us raise the funds needed for Forte Medical to look to the future with confidence, courage, motivation … and money, allowing me to step back for a much-needed pause before our relaunch programme really fires up, and a second, bigger fundraise for global scale.

Over this tumultuous time, just one week holiday each year was not nearly enough to sustain the stress and trauma involved and an investment in myself and my good health was long overdue. Two days of rigorous internet research led me to the Mind Body Restorer with Homefield Grange.

Arriving one sunny afternoon I was trepidatious about the five days ahead; the juice option meant I had of course gone for the hardcore detox rather than the small meals choice.  Having rolled rather puffily into the programme on Sunday, I looked forward to emerging swan-like, smooth and sensational by Friday.

Those who know me know that food and wine lie the centre of my world – but I also enjoy a challenge and a challenge did indeed lie ahead. Rather than leave me feeling empty, the HFG juice diet left me full – full of relief for I had at last given myself permission to mend and I could feel it working.

Day One, up at 06:45 for hot water and lemon, progreens shot and juice – 80% vegetable, 20% fruit – before joining the 07:00 Nordic Walking ensemble. Introductions made, we strode out in jolly mood, surrounded by the beautiful undulating Northamptonshire countryside. Unused to early starts, I marvelled at the quality of the light and the ease with which our walk ushered our first glorious day.

Next on the daily agenda: exercise.  Each class was led by a qualified professional; Functional Training, Core and Arms, Body Blast, Legs Bums and Tums, Resistance … every curve and crevice could be honed this week, but most of all this early rousing of body led to a more receptive and open mind for what was to follow. Evening sessions focused on Yoga and Pilates and these proved a perfect dusk to each full, yet rewarding day.

Ensuring our tummies were not overlooked, a celery stick was on offer at 11:00 and dear Reader, let me assure you that this modest snack was most welcome, eaten slowly with a target 30 chews to ensure the food was properly broken down to encourage a diligent digestive process. Known for inhaling my food, even I got used to this recommended way of eating and yes, everything really does taste so much better. We were invited to daily talks about wellness in all its guises and our tutors knew their onions.

On the food front, our juices evolved during the day, all vitamin and fibre packed and frankly absolutely delicious – apple, courgette, celery and broccoli; apple, cucumber, beetroot or ginger; pear, avocado, spinach, parsley are just a few examples of the fuel that introduced us to the day, which also sustained us for lunch before enjoying a savoury soup for supper.

Our 16:30 afternoon glass of health came with a folded paper advising timing for our treatments the following day. Of course, I took full advantage of the HFG offerings and high-five-to-self for so doing.

Each therapy exceeded expectation, carried out by experienced professionals. What I thought was bone in my back massaged into soft-tissue muscle. My face rejuvenated with an anti-ageing facial, leaving it lifted and luminous. My reflexologist identified and helped ameliorate long-term issues with my digestive system, the legacy of a Brief Skirmish with Cancer.  

Hypnotherapy provided the tools to deal with serious stress and a sometimes less-than-healthy lifestyle adopted to deal with it. Having last year been diagnosed with clinical depression and prescribed well-meaning but limited NHS Talking Therapy, I can vouch for the impact of this session. The empathy and understanding of my therapist together with her gentle, firm approach – and a steady supply of tissues – left me feeling dazed but optimistic and much stronger.

To combat the effects of those less-than-healthy habits, I enjoyed two caster-oil liver treatments. This restful process involved the application of an oil-soaked pad to the liver area, covered by a hot towel and 20-minute rest; it took place on a massage-enhanced water bed, the mention of which allows me to introduce you to the Spa.

People, this is not just a Spa. This is the Homefield Grange Spa. Like nothing I have ever seen, comprising enormous hydrotherapy pool (think jacuzzi on steroids), Himalayan Salt Steam room situated next to a funnel delivering crushed ice to rub into the body. The Herbal Sauna located conveniently adjacent to a (very) cold outside plunge-pool.  Hot and cold power-showers of course, plus the aforementioned water-beds and a long bench upon which guests enjoy and benefit from the joint-healing rays of infra-red lamps. All of this rounded off with the thoughtful provision of sofas necessary for recuperation, following the toil involved in such unrelenting spa luxury.

Of course, the expansive Hydrotherapy Pool became something of a meeting place for genial chatter, exchanges of views, encouragement and often hilarity, for my fellow guests were quite simply a joy.

And what of these guests? A leading concern prior to arrival was: who will I be with for five whole days? My unqualified assumption was that these companions in health would be perfect in every way, leaving me to feel somehow inferior. Would they all be slender, glamourous young things? Would they all lead superior and enviable lives? The short answer is: no.

My counterparts arrived in all shapes and sizes aged from 30s to 70s, from comfortably upholstered to slender, with every conceivable bodily nuance in between. How reassured was I to find a bevy of utterly normal, friendly women and men there for the overriding and common purpose of recalibrating good health.

The two couples, one man and the rest of us women in residence had a jolly time becoming acquainted; I generally peeled away early after our soup supper as solitude was one of the reasons for being there. Plenty of day-time opportunities to chat arose however, the most memorable when J and I luxuriated in the pool, putting the world to rights, covering myriad topics and troubles.

Look at us,  I said. Two privileged middle-aged women casting judgement over the world, whilst soaking in a luxury hydrotherapy pool. There’s a Private Eye cartoon right here … She nodded in amused agreement.

A highlight of the week, and one of which I failed to take proper advantage, was the series of chef demonstrations that revealed the simple art of making good, nutritious vegan dishes designed to incorporate into our own established diet whether vegetarian, pescatarian or carnivore. No one way of eating was proscribed, but the tools to support a healthy approach to food very simply prescribed.

Happily, we have received a pdf of recipes, many more than we experienced and many of which I will make on a regular basis. What’s not to like about cauliflower fritters after all? Other delights include Sri Lankan butternut squash and sweet potato curry, red lentil dahl and falafel burgers. Easy and light condiment creations such as cashew-nut mayo rather excited my interest too … quite frankly, yum.

An abiding feature of HFG is its setting, which is both visually and aurally restful. Morning birdsong of joyful chirps and chirrups evolve into a melodious chorus which as dusk descends, relax into notes of calmer lullaby. The HFG gardens are beautifully landscaped bursting with plants of sensory scent, the boundary lined with picture perfect mature trees: oak, copper beech, birch. Embarking on a walk, one wanders past a calf feeding from its mother while two Alpacas observe your progress with lugubrious expression, clearly accustomed to the curiosity elicited from guests.

There is so much more I could say, but you get the picture. Homefield Grange restores mind and body; it will help you recalibrate and revive. It is a haven for mental and physical rest, to come to terms with past troubles and prepare for a positive future. The trick will be to keep up the good work because I am happier, healthier and 8lbs lighter, a condition I wish to improve upon and maintain.

HFG has made me ready to return to work with all guns blazing. Or as my darling brother and Co-Director advised, Please, Giovanna. Just one gun at a time from now on.

© Giovanna Forte 2024

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Signs, signals, swearing and sighs: London on two-wheels

Posted on April 15, 2024 by fortewinks

I am on my moped at the front of the traffic lights, pulling up to a silver executive saloon so I can tap tap on the driver’s window. He lowers it and looks at me with a mix of annoyance and enquiry.

Excuse me, I say with winning smile. It seems your indicators are not working. He checks them. Yes, they are working … he looks puzzled. Well next time, can you use them before you pull out into the road without looking and almost put someone like me in hospital? Thank you so much. I nod appreciatively and on the green light, leave him standing. Or sitting. Certainly, not quick off the mark at moving on.

This is The Riders Code of Etiquette; no shouting or swearing or unfeminine hand gestures. For I have learned over the years that this gets one into trouble.

Once upon a time, I was almost knocked off my bike when a driver changed his mind about turning right and without warning turned left. His car clipped my moped; I swore, made a rude hand gesture and hurled at him a name associated with onanism. The face of this rather muscular gentleman became impressively red; I rode on, only to find he had taken chase. I accelerated – not easy on a 50cc restricted to 30mph – escaping into a pedestrianised housing estate. Reader, I have changed my ways and now employ calm words to wage this particular war.

On my pushbike some years ago, an impressively well-upholstered lady driver pulled alongside, lowered her passenger window and issued a stream of loud, foul invective about bicycle riders generally – I had done nothing untoward. Somewhat affronted, I calmly pointed out very politely that if she did more of this she may not look so like that. Cruel, but when faced with such unprompted, insulting and unprepossessing behaviour … fair.

Another day, another set of lights. This time a car drew up behind and nudged my moped again and again, pushing me dangerously off-balance. I turned and raised my hands and eyebrows enquiringly. Another lowered window another stream of invective …  MOVE OVER! YOU’RE IN MY WAY!

Other encounters can be more entertaining … and how these are dealt with influences what happens next, for men can become threatening if advances are rudely rejected, however insulting their comment:

Lucky saddle! provoked a gale of laughter from me, leaving the gentleman concerned oddly disappointed.

You look great on that, darling. Would you like to ride me? I asked the (much younger) enquirer if he always hit on 60-year-old grandmothers. He apologised profusely, whilst bowing and backing away.

From a Pimlico Plumber: You look sexy on that moped, darling. If I wasn’t working, I’d ask you out for a drink. I smiled, if I wasn’t married, I might even accept. The look of confusion accompanied by the buzz of a rapidly closing window was most satisfying.

My favourite by a long way still makes me smile:

I do hope you’re behaving yourself,  from a deep and gravelly voice. I looked up at the lorry beside me to find the smiling face and crinkly eyes of Trucking World’s Robert Redford. I smiled back: now why would I want to do that? He laughed, I laughed and we both wended our happy way.

Lesson one: if fanning a fight, pick someone your own size.
Lesson two: the passive aggressive approach is profoundly persuasive
Lesson three: polite observation when alluding to another’s bad driving cannot be faulted
Lesson four: the receiving of abuse or sinister suggestion can be dealt with calmly
Lesson five: a bit of mild old-fashioned, polite flirting can lift one’s spirits.

Here’s to you, Robert Redford.

© Giovanna Forte 2024

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