PianoForte: lessons learned and practice making perfect

Posted on January 27, 2015 by fortewinks

pianoforte_wallpaper_hdSome moons ago a dinner discussion with Beautiful Boyfriend touched upon the matter of artistic aptitude and my former piano-playing prowess was mentioned. I had triumphantly achieved Grade 6 in practice and theory, foolishly giving up when my teacher refused to allow jazz into my repertoire.

Wouldn’t it be lovely I murmured, to play again?

Reader, never underestimate the seduction of a murmur for in the week prior to that Christmas a long and slender box arrived at my door, its clunky black and white illustration announcing the arrival of a Sanyo keyboard. The first flush of excitement metamorphosed swiftly into sheer terror (be careful what you wish for).

Slender Box dwarfed our tiny Christmas tree. It winked playfully every time I passed by. Once opened and placed in situ however things seemed less friendly; at a loss to know where to start I realised that my former prowess had dissolved into mere PR. I may have been good once but now that memory declined to decipher anything more complex than the Scale of C … I was nothing.

Determination prevailed and I turned to my address book for help. Barney Green: the name pressed a key or few and I recalled that he played a superbly jazzy Happy Birthday for my sister’s 50th. He is also a sought-after and accomplished teacher of music to a host of local schools and leading light of several excellent bands.

An e-mail was sent: Dear Barney. Might you have the patience to nurture a middle aged woman’s musical ineptitude? Within two weeks my lessons began.

For just a year now, almost every two weeks Barney puts me through my paces, pieces and preludes. Scales are scaled and melodies memorised. Or so it should be for I found that despite having achieved a reasonably advanced standard aged 16 not a note had remained with me. I started from scratch and scratchy indeed it has been. Barney has the patience of a saint.

My determination arrives in fits and starts; there are weeks where practice is the highlight of my day and others where I pretend the piano does not exist. One day the keys may be lightly enticed into joyful tunery and others when my fingers cannot differentiate a black key from a white or a major from minor. Barney has introduced me to the stringent exercises of Schmitt, repetitive riffs that encourage the coordination and discipline much needed here.

Things are improving and some early pieces whilst clunky and amateur, have allowed me to reconnect with the keys and derive huge enjoyment from achieving a semblance of melody and mood. Right now I am working on Albumblat, the unusual central section being the most challenging and delightful. I determine to nudge perfection on this before my next lesson for I must move on; my sights are set on more magical music, pieces to conjure memories of my Mother and her ineffable ability to play by heart her favourite pieces, the theme tunes of my childhood: Moonlight Sonata, Lara’s Theme and of course, Air on a G String.

Thank you BB and thank you Barney; I am slow and far from perfect but this PianoForte will prevail. I promise.

© Giovanna Forte

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Feline frolics: an East End speakeasy and a cast of urban cats

Posted on October 12, 2014 by fortewinks

transparent-black-cat-mask-on-headband-26969-pIt was the shimmering pink feather that gave the game away, nestled within the fronds of her fur. Oro came home after a night out, an exhausted Max following slinkily behind, the coat between his ears curiously flattened.

The cat community around our neighbourly streets form a distinctive cast and after months of observation, the picture came into focus.

Oro, our golden-eyed cat with a seductively feline roll of the hips was not always thus. Her minxy mooch is the legacy of a kittenish fall from a high window. Now it stands her in good stead, for as the Moll of the Hood she couldn’t be any other way; her languorous limp makes Marilyn Monroe look understated.

Max was once a kitten so sprightly and beautiful that we asked our vet if his provenance was anything special. “Your cat is the feline equivalent of a London taxi,” we were advised. Unbeknown to us (and him) his future was sealed.

The secret lives of Oro and Max have now come to light and they make interesting reading. It is with great pleasure that I introduce you to the cast that makes up their mystery world of nocturnal feline frolics.

The first revelation and exception, took me quite by surprise. Shortly after arriving at our house Old Lara, the resident hound-across-the-road, used her lugubrious face and barely discernible wink to tempt both our cats to her open window. We thought she was merely extending an innocent invitation to partake of the ham her owner placed upon the sill. Oh no. Lara it transpires is something of a ringleader, the recruiting officer behind the decadent underground activities into which Oro and Max have been inevitably drawn.

The next surprise, was the identity of the lithesome roof-top cat on the adjacent streets. No ordinary mog, this is Surveillance; appointed as intelligence designate his slate-grey pelt serves as camouflage, whilst his parapet position provides the panorama from which he may warn the Pussy Posse of untoward threats to that evening’s events.

Moving to Columbia Road East, we find Boudoir, a mystery character. This supremely fluffy white pussy lies languorously atop car roofs. With heavy-lidded green almond eyes she exudes sensuality, is reputed to be great fun and much disliked by our own Moll, Oro. Boudoir is I believe a regular at the local speakeasy, the key to this whole mystery.

Upon Baxendale Street there is Tuxedo, a black cat with white bib who can be seen riffling through bins late at night, most notably those outside restaurants and take-away joints. A restaurant critic by day, Tuxedo is keen to work and once his culinary inquiries have been satisfied, he pads across to Durant Street where the underground speakeasy lies in wait beneath an upturned boat, abandoned in the garden of a house whose blinds remain forever drawn. Already appropriately attired, Tuxedo slips seamlessly into his second job as Security.

Max has already left the house and runs to a wall on Durant Street, where he dislodges a brick, in actuality a rectangular orange light which he fixes between his ears. The tile illuminates to reveal the letters M-A-X-I. Nose in air he concentrates momentarily, then trots away to meet a siren call from a street or few hence. His feline passengers dressed to excess will sit atop his broad back and be gently deposited a discreet distance from their underground destination. Free to collect the next party, MAXI once again pricks up his ears, tunes into another passenger cry and disappears into the night.

Oro meanwhile, wends her wonky way around the corner to a distinctive bin from behind which she retrieves her shimmering pink feather boa. Throwing it carelessly around her slender neck, she pads nonchalantly to the fence from behind which her destination calls. Belying her immobility, she scales the dizzy height and drops silently to the ground beyond, which is where we must leave her for what goes on here is not for our eyes or ears.

The hottest ticket in town, this feline Speakeasy is run by a personable panther whom no one has seen in daylight hours. The Invisible Impresario retains his anonymity admirably although rumour has it that he is of Scottish descent and founded his less than legal nightery from the proceeds of his Glaswegian Grocery family’s legendary potato empire. My enquiries into the activities that take place within Invisible’s underground gaff have yet to be satisfied.

And what of Oro and Max? As I write, they are asleep upon the bed, to all intents and purposes two perfectly innocent and insouciant cats. When I uncover more, dear reader, you will be the first to know.

Posted in Entertaining, Family, Friends, Life and romance, London | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Moving out, moving in: one street and a grand new chapter

Posted on August 11, 2014 by fortewinks

Rainbow

From old house to new: follow the rainbow.

“October,” he said. “I’ll need the house back for my daughter.” My landlord sounded vaguely apologetic but businesslike on the phone. I had been his tenant for nearly seven years, moving in a hurry to escape with my daughters from a toxic relationship to find peaceful refuge in this three-up-two-down East London terrace.

The house, Number 37, hosted the last of My Girls’ teenage years, bringing us together in an intimate and happy way that many mothers can only dream of; a luxury for which I am beyond grateful. Our house was a little like a return to boarding school, except that my housemates were my daughters and it was far, far more fun.

We were able to enjoy each others’ company without interruption, without undue male influence and demands. Sometimes The Girls would call to find out where I had gone for a drink after work and they would join me. Perhaps I would wander home to find in full flow a laid-back scene plucked from The Young Ones. We rubbed along pretty well. Once or thrice I might have had to text them from my bed or shout downstairs to “keep it down”; on other occasions my phone would ping with a demand that my friends and I lower the volume … “Its a school night, Mum!”

It was at 37 that FirstBorn, the Tornado slipped overnight from angst-ridden teenage hell-raiser into a considerate, feminine, intelligent and intrepid Adventuresse; here that my Exocet evolved from quiet, uncertain schoolgirl into the confident, dedicated and astonishingly talented Patisserie Chef she is today. I am eternally grateful to have witnessed close-up these remarkable metamorphoses, female transitions that circumstance gifted me to appreciate and celebrate daily.

The seven years at 37 are etched in my mind for their love, integrity and indeed, their brevity. In one of life’s deceptive nano-seconds, My Girls grew up and left home. The Tornado has traveled and taught, living first in Central America, then Caucasian Georgia; Exocet has flown across the world to determine her career in Melbourne. They will of course return now and again, if not to settle under my roof then to be Mothered a little while they revisit and retrench. All is as it should be.

In remarkable parallel with this most natural of maternal episodes was the gentle demise of my own mother who, the very month we moved into 37 quite literally fell into the last phase of her life, calmly passing away as Youngest Of All prepared to leave for Australia. Somehow, without notice, Nature set the scene for a whole new chapter, one I had barely seen coming but whose timing and script I could not have improved upon.

Thank you 37, your work is done. I moved last month into a lovely Old Bakery just one street away, without My Girls but with the Beautiful Boyfriend who arrived so unassumingly into my life as the final stages of the family evolution took shape.

Happiness prevails: My Girls are well-rounded, kind and confident women and I find myself with someone gentle, creative, clever and very handsome. Life ebbs and flows, it gives and it takes away and yet when the checks and balances are all accounted for, I put to you: isn’t it grand?

© Giovanna Forte

Posted in Family, Feminism, Friends, Health, Life and romance, London, Motherhood, Travel, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

The fine art of fashion retail or “we do that one in red”

Posted on June 12, 2014 by fortewinks

My Lanvin suit today.

My Lanvin suit today.

Frock shopping is not a loved pastime: browsing is anathema. If I need something new to wear, I work out what it is and where to find it.

The “where” is important because I am a fan of the independent boutique where the art of a good sale is not lost on the assistant, more often than not, the owner.

In the summer of 1982 aged 19, new to London and with a series of smart Autumn weddings to attend I wanted a suit, something timeless, something elegant. I trawled Oxford Street, Regent Street, Chelsea, Notting Hill, all the places an aspiring young woman might go. With a month of fruitless searching behind me, the Summer Sales arrived.

Heart in mouth, I ventured to Bond Street. Here I found nothing but rails of fancy, frilly summer stuff, not what I had in mind at all. In Beale & Inman, a furiously expensive woman’s store I was hesitant to enter, a kindly over-smoked voice asked what I was looking for. It belonged to a well coiffed blonde sales assistant, a lady of a certain age.

“I need a suit for a few weddings in the Autumn … you don’t have it here. …”
“Describe it,” she said. “I might be able to help.”
“Classic cut, nipped in waist, narrow skirt, elegant.”
“Go and have a coffee and come back in half an hour; it’s in our Autumn collection in a warehouse round the corner.”

Sipping coffee nearby, I considered whether or not I should return; a temp on temping wages could never afford anything from Beale & Inman. With trepidation I returned and dear reader, she had it. The suit, by Lanvin. It fitted like a glove; everyone in the shop said I must have it yet at £450 there was no choice but to hand it back. Feeling slightly sick, I told my Sales Lady I simply couldn’t afford it.

She steered us to the back of the shop and quietly asked for the date of the first wedding. She also asked how much I was earning each week. Then she scribbled something onto a scrap of paper and gave it to me with a wink. For the next few weeks I worked a lot of overtime and every Friday, visited Beale & Inman with my next installment.

I still have the suit; it is a thing of light and silken wool, berry red with a fine black herringbone. The fit is nothing short of crafted beauty and were the shoulders not quite so Joan Collins, I’d wear it today. I think of my kind and pragmatic Smokey Lady often and was reminded of her many moons later, in another boutique, this time a little independent place just off Carnaby Street.

I was due to attend The Races with a new boyfriend and sought something swanky. Black suede steel-heeled Charles Jourdan shoes came from Bang Bang on Goodge Street but the day before Race Day I was still bereft of a dress, one which came loaded with politics and a very particular agenda.

Devoting the afternoon to pursuit of the frock, the clock ticked towards 5pm and I began to despair. Entering a sassy looking boutique just off Carnaby Street I explained the occasion to a helpful assistant who without missing a beat passed me a just-above-the-knee, silk, pale grey shift dress, well tailored, simple, sexy.

It fitted like a glove but still I wasn’t sure. Doubt etched across my face.

“There’s something you’re not telling me?” said my assistant.
“There’s a woman going … one who I happen to know is after my man.”

She smiled.

“We do that one in red.”

With another many moons gone by since then, last weekend I explained to the manager in Future Vintage why a new dress was much needed. She picked out for me a black lace Diane von Furstenberg shift. Looking in the mirror that exhilarating perfect glove moment returned … oh joy.

Thank you Ladies. Thank you for your patience, your collaboration, your wisdom, your expertise and your wit all of which combine to create a message for purveyors of fine fashion everywhere, for service excellence is where the future of retail (and my happiness), must lie.

© Giovanna Forte 2014

Three of my local London boutiques where service and honesty also prevail:
Start London
11 Boundary
Dress for Less

Posted in Family, Feminism, Life and romance, London, Shopping, Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Face to a Name: the dementia care revolution unmasked

Posted on April 24, 2014 by fortewinks

Identi-Knits. Miss the pet you left at home? Here is a miniature twin to comfort you. Made for patients by Volunteers at Yeovil District Hospital.

Identi-Knit.
Miss the pet you left at home? Here is a miniature twin to comfort you. Made for patients by Nurses and Volunteers at Yeovil District Hospital.

One rainy January afternoon, I made my way West to meet up with a business colleague for a long overdue exchange of news.

Over coffee in the congenial surroundings of Soho House, Jake Arnold Forster described his work with organisations and inspired individuals to improve care for elderly and dementia patients.

Our musings prompted a memory from years earlier, the recollection of a very simple thing that had made my own elderly mother’s stay in hospital a far kinder one, after yet another hip operation. Mother used to sit up in bed watching the busy staff rush to and fro’ and, being a sociable sort, would occasionally attempt to engage them in conversation, for which there was little time.

To keep her occupied and her mind engaged we brought in photographs that she could look at; they might even prompt memories and make her smile. We selected one of her in younger days and propped it up on her bedside table. Implicitly, the hospital staff could see that her dementia and age were simply the most visible facets of the frail lady sitting up in bed, her real persona now less obvious. The photograph that reinforced her identity made a slight but powerful change to how she was perceived; her friendly manner and still sparkling smile were the visible manifestations of an interesting life lived well, something now acknowledged by those who cared for her.

Our idea to display her more youthful photograph very simply helped to present the face behind the name and its symptoms. When care staff is faced with unrelenting queues of elderly people it must be hard to recognise the vivacity and light of former years, hidden beneath a demeanour slowed by confusion and dimmed with age.

I described to Jake the concept of a simple protocol: ask relatives to provide a sheet of paper featuring a photograph the patient might like best of themselves in younger days. Add three things about them that could start a conversation or just an interesting exchange of words when routine procedures are taking place.

“That,” said Jake, “is a Campaign.” It came to pass, then, that one of his companies COBIC joined forces with Forte Medical to set up Face to a Name. We quickly constructed a Facebook page that immediately attracted followers, contributors and lots of support.

Four days later, The Times wrote about Face to a Name; the journalist Tom Knowles, having taken the time to sound out opinion from established Elderly organisations, wrote an optimistic piece that resulted in a marked increase in Facebook traffic.

People posted pictures of their elderly relatives, mothers, fathers, uncles and aunts. They wrote things about them that might help in the event of a hospital visit; they confirmed that having followed the idea, the photos and descriptions were helping carers to relate to their relatives with more compassion. The Campaign went viral on Twitter and was boosted enormously through direct contact by people in the medical profession already putting the idea into action.

The first was Dr Ros Taylor, CEO of The Hospice of St Francis, Berkhamsted. Here, highly enquiring and structured research is being conducted by by Sarah Russell, Director of Education and Research. Sarah is working on a very similar but more intimate protocol, the results of which are being monitored. The team here applies similar empathy to all other aspects of their work in the most practical manner. Ros and Sarah are keen to collaborate and to help develop the Face to a Name ethos using their detailed knowledge and understanding of a very specialist area of care.

Next, Jake reported that Yeovil District Hospital NHS Foundation Trust is also already using photographs and specialist software to improve the lot of Dementia patients in their care. The pilot for their scheme has been pioneered by Janine Valentine, Nurse Consultant in Dementia and Elderly Care and with the backing of Paul Mears, the entrepreneurial and inspired CEO of that Trust, is making amazing progress. A new Dementia ward was recently unveiled by Michael Eavis, whose mother enjoyed superlative care at Yeovil.

This new ward has been carefully planned and is astonishing in its light, bright simplicity. Pictures by local photographers grace the walls; a modest exhibition space shows mementos brought in by patients, bringing familiarity and warmth to a clinical setting. The initiative I liked most was the introduction of Identi-Knit dogs, hand made by volunteers to sooth and reassure those patients who have left a pet at home.

Last month I visited both St Francis Berkhamsted and Yeovil District Hospital and in both cases was mightily impressed by the thought, research, care and determination with which cleverly simple ideas are being tested, revised, tested and applied … and the cost? Given the seismic shift in quality of care that results from this work, the price tag attached to what both teams are doing is negligible, for it seems that putting a face to a name can make the difference between a sick and deteriorating patient and a happy and recuperating one.

So what next? St Francis Berkhamsted and Yeovil District Hospital have been introduced to each other and will share with Face to a Name the effects of their work. In just a few months we will have evidence to show the longer-term results of their simple but highly effective thinking and, more critically, their doing.

I am certain that the pioneering work of these Champion organisations is being mirrored by other centres of excellence up and down the land. We must now galvanise those in authority into listening and to implement Face to a Name wherever the elderly are cared for. Even the most basic system can so easily be adopted and adapted by every elderly care setting and woven into the accepted fabric of a standard admissions protocol.

The ultimate Face to a Name aim is to build a simple website, where anyone can produce their own document to be stored in a cloud library. The basic three-point information we recommend may be enhanced by the kind of information encouraged by The Alzheimer’s Society “This Is Me” document. When a patient arrives in the Elderly or Dementia Ward  their Face to a Name information can be quickly and securely accessed by nurses.

Now imagine yourself in hospital, aged and unable to communicate with those around you, unable to articulate what you need and when. Think of the dejection, the loneliness, the fear of knowing your wellbeing lies in the hands of someone who sees you only as a blank and wrinkled canvas.

If you want to support the national revolution in dementia care, please visit our Facebook page, upload the photograph and information that will help nurses of the future recognise the face behind your name, then “share”.

The pioneering work of our Champions and others means that Face to a Name has evolved from a Campaign to a Movement, a transition described again by Tom Knowles in yesterday’s Times. With your voice behind us too, we can ensure that our Movement translates into the vastly improved care of elderly patients long into the future.

After all, one day it could be you.

…….

If you are interested in the elderly and dementia care revolution, please visit some of the remarkable people and organisations I have encountered through Face to a Name:

  • CareScape: a groundbreaking scheme for dementia patients and their carers in Crawley
  • My Life Software designed specifically to assist people with dementia and their carers
  • Whose Shoes, blog by Gill Phillips catalyst for change in dementia healthcare
  • Many Happy Returns, inspirational dementia-friendly products by Sarah Reed
Posted in Business, Family, Friends, Health, Life and romance, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

UK Trade and Inspiration

Posted on March 12, 2014 by fortewinks

Flags of the World by Stephanie Marrott

An established oxymoron in my business book is the concept of sound, creative advice from a Civil Servant. This is a breed without entrepreneurial experience. They haven’t felt the pain, have they?

My company makes a very clever British invention that has set a new gold standard in urology diagnostics; so clever in fact, that in 2009 its first incarnation beat both Microsoft and Apple to Best of Show at the Design Week Awards. Not long after this accolade, we received interest from the USA. I called UK Trade and Investment and was allocated an International Advisor to help establish an appropriate strategy to tackle the healthcare market in this huge territory. A very young woman duly arrived and after much deliberation and musing about our medical device’s possible advantages at Festivals, she suggested that we put it on QVC. She was shown the door.

Times, it seems, have changed. Yesterday I met the new generation UKTI International Advisors and found them to be informed, experienced, considered and firmly rooted in the culture of enterprise, innovation and good business practice. More than this, they have surrounded themselves with entrepreneurs who have done it, done it well and who are happy to pass the baton of success to another wave of innovators.

Explore your Business Potential: this somewhat understated clarion call arrived via email, from UKTI a few weeks ago. Given the recent emergence of business openings for us in Spain and the USA, the call had pertinence and weight. I drilled into the invitation and liked what I found – this wasn’t just relevant, this spoke directly to me and to my business. This was serious stuff.

Classrooms and I have never been comfortable companions. Spying the rows of spindly chairs facing a large screen in the oddly ornate setting of the St Ermin’s Hotel, misgivings mounted and I gave myself until midday to stick this out.

Unwitting of the conflict in my head, the UKTI folk greeted me warmly. I blinked at this group of efficient women and affable men and wondered quite how the day would pan out. I was directed to an upstairs area where, observing my compatriots I considered my conundrum over an exceptionally good coffee. Coffee, I have found, is the bellwether to any occasion and this one augured well.

Of the modules on offer I had opted for four: The Road Ahead; Communicate Effectively Overseas; Maximise your Profit and Free up Resources. These may not excite you but they certainly tickled my fancy and kept their promises. Each hour was thoughtfully crafted with our Facilitators presenting insight, advice, new ways of thinking and a widening horizon that shifted into wonderful focus; they spoke to (not at) us, bestowing a vision of hard won but implicit success and gave us the tools to achieve it. By lunchtime I was fizzing with delight, realising that this remarkable resource was open for business not just today, but tomorrow, next week, next month and long after that.

My unlucky brush with an inexperienced Advisor five years ago destroyed any faith I had in Government support; the benefits lost to me since then are too many to mention but suffice to say, I will seize them now. For here are people who understand my company’s huge international potential and who want to help us achieve it; experts to guide us into our ripest territories, research and introduce prospective partners, help with business strategy, actuality and delivery.

The surprises didn’t end there; our Facilitators were really rather entertaining. Robert, the charming and erudite twin of Melvyn Bragg; entrepreneur David with his pearls of wisdom concerning the making of profit; and Andrew who brought alive the very real need for cultural and linguistic research around our intended markets.

Our fascinating and lively day was punctuated by a talk with supremo James Averdieck, founder of Gü, who took us on the seat of pants journey we all want to replicate, the tale of an idea come good, of precocious talent, stress, sleepless nights and ultimate success. From James we learned that anything is possible if you want it enough; an apt message for an ambitious audience.

The day drew to a close and I emerged into the sunny St James’s street with a spring in my step and plans aplenty. A firm strategy is now on the agenda; with next generation product launched, volume manufacturing underway, a highly experienced sales team for the UK and Ireland taking effect, Forte Medical can start to prepare itself for the world.

The right bits of it, in the right way, of course.

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A tale of clever women and country cottages.

Posted on February 24, 2014 by fortewinks

L_JOU19N_JOULES_WELLY_NAVY-FLORAL_AThe charms of a weekend in the country have largely eluded me over thirty years as a Londoner, mainly because I feel safe in these smokey streets. So when invitations to go there began to arrive, I thought long and hard.

Beautiful Boyfriend is from the countryside. My first nerve wracking country jaunt was to his very own natural habitat and I unexpectedly found it suited me rather well. I was happy to gaze at the green open space, I rather enjoyed the changeable weather and I very much liked the warm and welcoming people that live there.

On this visit, it came to pass that I met Z; blonde, vivacious, brain like a bandsaw. She is a long-standing family childhood friend with BB’s interests at heart and upon meeting an ostensibly arriviste girlfriend, had every reason to observe me carefully. As it turned out we got along fine. Z is not just sassy, smart and slightly scatty but also a successful self-made businesswoman, linguist and party animal.

Before too long, we received an invitation to her cottage in the country. This particularly picturesque panacea to London life is nestled in the Cotswolds, somewhere as yet unexplored by Fortewinks and therefore, of interest. More compelling still was the idea of a weekend with Z, who did not disappoint.

Our glamorous chauffeusse collected us from a misty station at the appointed hour and before long, we drew into a tiny drive. Her immaculate cottage had been thoughtfully crafted to squeeze the last millimetre out of its nooks and crannies, the result being spacious, elegant and deliciously luxe.

Saturday brought a trip to the nearby market town with its traditional shops purveying everything from sweets to suits, shirts to shotguns. Z pointed out the sights and airily waved her arm across swathes of hill and dale confiding that numerous A-listers had discreet places nearby: Ruby Wax, Kate Moss, The Camerons et al.

We visited delightful delicatessens and bought food for dinner that night; we were due to dine with Z’s neighbours. Rest assured, well connected though our hostess happens to be, our guests were none of the above but instead we were treated to the company of a remarkable, interesting and witty couple.

The Neighbours were academics: artistic teachers with well-honed, informed and utterly logical opinions on education, sculpture, technology, literature and the future of the generation destined to look after us in our dotage. Perhaps one day they will have the opportunity to impart these visionary views to their political neighbours. One can hope

Sunday involved wellington boots and dogs.

Those that know me even slightly will understand my brevity and tone here. Reader dear, the dogs were lively and outside was damp and muddy with bracingly cold air that wrested from my eyes tears of pure Sauvignon from the night before. But wait! The skies were blue, the grass super-green, the air fresh and yes, I thoroughly enjoyed our traipse through the fields and lanes of Oxfordshire. Indeed, I loved spending time with Z and my two and a bit days in the country. As luck would have it, another invitation was to arrive on the horizon within a few short weeks.

This time, it was K, another vibrant, smart, sassy, self-made and enterprising friend who extended an invitation to her country hideaway. BB and I drove out on a Friday afternoon to this most comfortable of cottages nestled into the Suffolk countryside.

Our first evening was spent chatting together at table, with soup, cheese, bread and a good bottle of Chianti. BB and I were installed into the “guest wing” of this tardis hideaway, our bedroom atop the narrowest stair that rose from our very own snug, itself attached to an en-suite bathroom; luxury indeed. Saturday morning arrived with blazing sunshine, blue skies and the most splendid views across fields of long undulating grass.

The afternoon that followed a lazy lunch in Aldeburgh was slow and mellow; we arrived back at K’s to find her wrist deep in ingredients for dinner to which were invited her friends from round about. This particular party of brains hailed from the world of enterprise: design, finance, publishing and media. The food was a joy and the conversation joyous, vivacious, interesting, challenging, funny. As K’s non resident guests peeled off into the night we too dispersed to our beds, happy and exhausted.

Sunday brought bacon toasties, coffee and newspapers. K and BB embarked on some ambitious gardening, ably assisted by your narrator, watching from under a woolly blanket, on the sofa within. Oh happy day.

Garden duly nipped and tucked, we drove to Orford for a bracing quayside walk before setting off on our return journey to The Smoke. As we wove our away through the lanes and byways of Suffolk, I felt a little wistful.

I also wondered at our luck in finding ourselves guests of two clever, independent, social and intellectual meteorites, who were happy to share with us their stimulating friends and beautiful country cottages.

When, I wondered, should we introduce them to each other … ?

Reader, I shall keep you posted.

Posted in Art, Business, Entertaining, Family, Feminism, Food and wine, Friends, Life and romance, London, PR, Shopping, Travel, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

High five to fingers and thumbs (and a wink to the limbs as well)

Posted on January 28, 2014 by fortewinks

Image

Tiny galaxy of pretty pots

The ceramics came first.  Last summer I happened upon a friendly neighbour who mentioned that her former-almost-daughter-in-law was involved in setting up an earthy new local venture.

Former-Almost had apparently joined forces with like-minded artists to create a ceramics studio within some railway arches in nearby Haggerston. Turning Earth is contemporary not just by way of construction, but also in concept as its flexible facilities welcome the beginner, the amateur and the professional potter alike.

The idea of getting down and dirty with clay somehow appealed, a welcome distraction from the graft of growing my own business. I explored and enrolled with younger daughter, The Exocet.  A few short weeks later, Exocet and I were working cheek by jowl on the Beginners Course within this marvellous enterprise.

Exocet demonstrated an innate understanding of the material in hand. She produced shapely pieces on the wheel; her coil pot was nothing less than accomplished. My own talent came by way of nurture rather than nature with ever patient Stuart-the-Tutor gently encouraging my efforts into recognisable form. An initial wheel-thrown piece was reduced to an eggcup by the time I had finished squeezing its curves; my coil pot required first aid on the wheel. Things improved slowly but surely and the five-week course yielded a tiny galaxy of pretty pots produced by my progeny and I, of which we are rightly proud. Most importantly of all, Mother and Daughter emerged from every two and a half hour session glowing like a couple of Ready-Brek Kids.

Another RBK event arrived just before Christmas. Having listened to wistful memories of my piano playing days and an apparent desire to tinkle the ivories once again, BB (blogs passim) arranged delivery of a Casio keyboard, stand and stool. Too big to fit under our tiny tree, this jauntily illustrated pack sat conspicuously in the kitchen until three days before Christmas when Piano was unpacked. We found a home for her in the sitting room and she was settled right there.

Then the fear set in.

Piano and I observed each other. I sat with her and fidgeted. I stared at her keys, which would not speak to me. I attempted a scale or two. It became abundantly clear that my six piano grades (including five of theory) were long gone. Having summoned Piano into my life, I knew not what to do with her.

Back from the New Year break I found that whilst at home, Piano’s stare followed me. I avoided her. I listened to music, watched endless detectives on telly, read newspapers in bed; but still Piano was able to peep upstairs, round corners and find me. It seemed however, that her looks were becoming less accusatory, more cheeky. Perhaps?

Perhaps. A little seduced, I sat with her again to try scales and simple tunes. Yes, maybe I could do this after all. Didn’t I have someone helpful in my address book? A scroll through to find the Piano Tuner from days gone by led instead to Barnaby Green, a highly accomplished musician I knew from those very same days. Barney is also a composer. He plays regular sold-out gigs. It transpires that he teaches within Hackney and lives not a mile away. Who can resist such serendipity?

Barney has accepted the challenge to turn a grown woman’s musical ineptitude into something that might make the heart sing.  He spends an hour a week with me, tutoring, nurturing, encouraging, bollocking. I practice daily. After half an hour I allow myself a glass of wine, only to be sipped when a set of scales or a piece is right. Tonight I got through two glasses. After the dispensing of new work, I suspect it will reduce to a half.

Piano and I are getting along famously now; in fact, I can hardly wait to conspire with her at the end of each day. My fingers become itchy; I thrum scales on my desk and in my head. BB has, through Piano, given me an unexpected new love and I am happy.

Less happy was I last November when bereavement and persistent ill-health conspired to run me down to levels so low I could barely leave my bed for a month. During the most traumatic days of loss I vowed to pick myself up and somehow shape up, to manage life’s future challenges a little better.

Two days after my Mothers’ funeral, unwell and far from ready for anything new I walked into the very local Moss Pilates and faced a stranger. “Are you alright?” enquired the concerned Helen. An unexpected question that released clumsily contained grief. “My Mother has just died.” Calm, sympathy and kindness prevailed. “You’ve come to the right place,” she said and after some mopping up, I was shown around this lovely, shining temple to Pilates.

For approaching three months now, three times a week I cycle there at lunchtime and take part in relentless, reviving and oddly relaxing Reformer classes. My teachers are diligent, thorough, friendly, funny and reassuringly super-fit. My walk is more erect, my limbs stronger, my back pain-free, my abs far ‘abbier and for the first time in many months I’m feeling fine.

This tale gentle reader, is told to reassure you that coming over all fingers, thumbs and limbs is not just better than good, it is wonderful. I can recommend it all.

Posted in Art, Family, Feminism, Friends, Health, Life and romance, London, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Sicily and the art of slow

Posted on August 24, 2013 by fortewinks

IMG_0911.JPG

Perfect view in Palermo

Mr Smart, Head of Art is ultimately responsible. Chatting last term to Beautiful Boyfriend (mine, not his) he recommended as the starting point for our imminent vacanza, a swanky Palazzo apartment owned by a Countess he happens to know.

Palermo
It came to pass then, that on a dreamy day in July we arrived at Butera 28. Here, our light and lofty rooms were laid out with such achingly beautiful symmetry that from the bed, one could gaze through the dining and sitting rooms to a perfect window that framed an azure sea, sky and slender horizon.

Lovely Mr Smart, himself in vacanza, took possession of our first night. Steering us through landmark Palermo piazze and strade, he took care to provide reference points for our future sorties around town. A bijou bar drew us in for the first delicious holiday Prosecco and to watch the very Italian goings on around us. We didn’t loiter long though, for dinner and Mr Smart’s Sicilian Partner both called. SP is a collector of Barbie dolls, owning some 5,000 original examples; excited conversations ensued about the groundbreaking Twist ‘n’ Turn model, which of course I owned back in 196hmff.

The essential London antidote, five days in Palermo gave us lessons in the art of slow. A late and lazy start to the day, with chilly watermelon and steamy coffee in bed would drift into a light lunch and hazy siesta, after which we might venture out into an abated heat, to seek Sicilian treasure.

Jewels and gems aplenty were to be found; the flea markets yielded a pretty, pale pink antique glass lens, ancient silver pencil sharpener and some lace. The food markets were a-brim with fresh fish, fruit, vegetables and herbs, not to mention floury and flavourful pane of every description. We’d return home in deep debate about … dinner.

Palermo: sighs and scenes aplenty, drawn from architecture, art and true Italian artifice. If you visit, make sure you take in the mosaic-rich Cappella Palatina and the Museo Internzionale delle Marionette – a curious collection of puppets compiled by clever curators with an eye for the arcane.
……..

Pasta pesto (10 minutes)
100g fresh basilico. 100g fresh rucola, 3-4 spicchii d’aglio, 50g pinoli, 125g parmegiano, 2 limone, 125ml olio di oliva vergine, sale e pepe. Pasta fresca.

Toast the pine kernels. Finely chop or crush anything choppable or crushable, grate everything else, throw it all into a large bowl, blend with the olive oil. Add chilli if you fancy some extra heat. Season. Serve with fresh pasta. Sprinkle some halved baby plum tomatoes around the side for a bit of tricolore action. Ecco.
…….

Cefalù
We found ourselves in Cefalù due to a tiny window of opportunity between Palermo and the next six nights of our holiday in a nearby spot further up the Northern Coast.

An early morning €20 First Class ticket-for-two took us to this lovely place. Cefalù did not disappoint; a seaside city founded by the Greeks (some ancient remains lie hither and thither) its population of 14,000 anticipates the summer arrival of several million visitors.

Within minutes of arriving we were beachside; the hot-sand-in-the-toes moment was well worth the Palermo pause. We splashed about in the sublime and oh-so-salty sea for hours.

Come late afternoon we sauntered through the streets unbelieving of our good fortune and the richness of our holiday thus far. After a reviver at the piazza we climbed steep steps into the beautiful Cathedral, apparently commissioned by King Roger II in gratitude to God for saving him from a violent storm at sea.

The most arresting sight in here is the monumental mosaic of Christ Pantokrator, whose face bears Roman eyes and nose, Arab mouth and chin. One hand is raised in benediction, the other holds a text that reads in both Greek and Latin: “I am the light of the world …” A lesson for today’s religious muddle lies perhaps, within this great work.

Campofelice di Roccella
Our longest sojourn was at Campofelice di Roccella, within a modest villa that lay just five minutes walk from a long, clean, sandy and under-populated beach. Here, our luck grew to almost indecent proportions (time now, to salute BB’s diligent planning methinks.)

It was here, too, that BB excelled himself. The heat in our bedroom that first night was less than comfortable; on waking, he disappeared up to the discreet sundeck that had persuaded us into renting the place. He returned and silently dragged the mattress upstairs. Asking no questions (I know better) I left him to his machinations, hearing only occasional muffled thuds and snatches of song.

The outcome of this mysterious episode? Our sleeping arrangements had moved aloft and we slept thereafter under a beautifully constructed mosquito net and the sparkling starlit sky. BB even pointed out my sign Taurus. I have never before slept under stars. I have never before seen Taurus. I have never been away with a man who just happens to bring with him the clips and other necessaries with which to construct a substantial and effective barrier against small fanged flying things.

Over these few days we witnessed every sunset and even a sunrise from the beach. Swimming under a palette of pink and orange is happiness indeed; the rhythm of our even slower days here also took in a regular siesta, a movie, Prosecco, a passeggiata and were yes, structured around food and fine wine.

Our prevalent luck extended to a daily circuit of mobile vendors who arrived with clockwork regularity, plump, juicy fruit and vegetables and an assortment of pane to die for. Regrettably, the ice-cream van came only on day two; in our excitement we failed to unlock the gate in time … I’m told the Roccella ice cream is really very good.
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Crushed watermelon ice
Fill 1/3rd of a 2ltr water bottle with water and place in freezer for 24hrs. Scoop the flesh of ½ large watermelon into a bowl and crush to pulp. Shake the frozen water bottle vigorously to break-up the ice and then add the juice. Shake again and return to the freezer for an hour or two. Repeat daily. Take to beach.
…….

Balestrata
The grand finale: a few nights in la bella Balestrata. This resort-in-waiting gave us a bohemian apartment within an ancient building close to the sea, which we often watched from our balcony. The days here unfurled gently with the sound of the street rousing us from slumber. We awoke to open french windows, sheer, pale golden curtains billowing in a kind breeze, rooftops only just visible under the bluest of blue skies all seen through slender wrought iron swirls.

There are three beaches in Balestrata.

The first is smooth and long, cliff behind and sea afront. Groups of sun seekers scatter across the broad sand; there is no crowd, no clutter, no café, no bar, for the people who come here are self-sufficient. They leave no imprint of their stay on this unspoiled beach.

The second is smaller and trickier to reach. More private, it is less rewarding for the sunbather and swimmer but a goldmine for the explorer, with rocks and pools, wondershells and shimmering stones.

Beach three is the Papa. Away from the centre, out of earshot from the town, rickety bars have been erected along the prom; music blares, boys strut, girls pout, mothers cluck and fathers gaze from under snoozy eyelids. Everywhere there is Italian chatter and song, for this Balestrata beach is Palermo’s playground. There are no tourists here, no Inghlese, no Francese. Just Italians doing what Italians do best.

Food was clearly pivotal to our holiday, food that we bought and prepared ourselves (slowly). Sunday however is all about pasta and today, I wanted mine cooked by a pro. We strolled out to Trattoria da Geronimo. Here, the eponymous, round, smiling owner purveys true Sicilian fare and the sweetest Panelle: a fried chickpea confection which, sprinkled with salt, is served as street food. But Geronimo knows how to woo his guests with Prosecco, panelle and perfect pasta. We loved Geronimo.

And so, Balestrata and its beaches took us gently by the hand to the end of our holiday and now, to the end of this story.

There are of course many more tales to tell, but not here and not now.

© Giovanna Forte

Posted in Art, Design and architecture, Food and wine, Friends, Health, Life and romance, Travel, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

The last week in April: 100 midwives and a 50th birthday

Posted on May 21, 2013 by fortewinks

Birthday cakes My Birthday Cakes by Giorgia Maria

Last month I fell in love. I fell in love with Midwives and with Edinburgh. The combination contrived a fitting warm-up act to my birthday celebrations. To be specific, that birthday celebration.

Edinburgh is a place through which I have only surfed, specifically at Hogmanay long ago when I was Mrs McAllister, accompanying Mr McAllister to first-foot in Largo, Fife. I had only seen this stately city on the cusp of the New Year, in the throes of crazy Celtic carousing.  In April, the place is a different proposition altogether; quieter, brighter albeit with remarkable architectural drama. I explored it more thoroughly this time; Edinburgh is a great beauty.

I stayed at the Roxburghe, thus far the most recommended hotel to enter the Forte Medical Business Travel Directory. Good value, exemplary staff, small but perfect room, crisp cotton sheets and Oh Joy! A bathroom bereft of previous guests’ hair.

Dinner with Nephew took my first evening. An aspiring comedian, this young man has moved to Edinburgh to make his dream come true, in support of which he is working a 9-5 day-job. Nephew is somewhat precariously balanced on the first rungs of success; the recipient of excellent reviews to date, he is honing his craft and has bagged some slots at the Fringe. He is bright but dark, funny in a way that twists the soul. But you laugh. You can’t help yourself. Me? I wept with mirth; I love his humour. I am Proud Aunt.

After dinner (and a largely successful “dry” runway to my birthday), I meandered into the hotel bar: “I could murder a Scotch.” The bar tender smiled and gesticulated across  shelves and shelves of bottles, each containing its own unique tint of liquid gold; that honeyed, dewy stuff of which the Scots are justly proud.  “Which one?” she asked, with gentle equanimity. “Oh. Yes. I’d forgotten where I was. Sorry.” Lovely staff, see?

Up early then, to the MaMa Conference, a gathering of Midwives and Champions of Good Birth, where we had taken a space from which to promote the Peezy msu to the invaluable people who help bring new life into the world. All pregnant women have to provide regular urine samples and the difficulty of delivering this is commensurate with the growing size of Mother-to-Be. Yet it is right now, that an accurate sample is absolutely essential. An undetected Urinary Tract Infection can lead to pre-term birth or a low-weight baby and has been linked to increased risk of foetal or newborn mortality. Peezy msu seems to be an essential piece of kit and the Midwives present seemed to agreed. Sample packs were dispensed, names given and orders taken. The cost of a 90p kit was deemed by all to be worth the myriad mother-and-baby health and hygiene benefits. And so say all of us.

That evening, picture if you will around 100 Midwives and Guests gathering for dinner and Ceilidh… of the few men present, one threw some rock ‘n’ roll shapes with his MidWife, another kept himself quietly aside whilst a third performed handstands. During dinner we chatted animatedly – these are gutsy and interesting women. Once the music began we were on the floor and to a lady we danced. Oh how we danced; nifty moves and bonhomie filled the room. Had an outsider witnessed the goings on, they would have assumed implicit drug use. And they would have been correct … one free drug floated us all. Take my word for it and beware: group Oestrogen is powerful stuff indeed.

And so it came to pass that on this remarkable female high I returned to London, and to my 50th Birthday celebrations, which took place the very next day.

I awoke with both Girls in the house, and Beautiful Boyfriend by my side. On waking, BB presented a bottle of Bollinger, breakfast in bed and a pendant crafted by his own fair hand; a Taurus to decorate my décolletage. A lovelier gift I could not have imagined or expected. Yet there was so much to overwhelm from him, from My Girls and friends throughout the day, all of it suffused with love. Thank you all. Very much.

The hours progressed in a blur. Nicky at 3Thirty made my hair bounce; David Eyre orchestrated his signature, perfect Paella and Tapas for the late lunch attended by 50 friends, each invited for their friendliness, kindness and just-being-there-for-me, across the myriad highs and lows of my life thus far.

Ali, the Tornado managed the day whilst Exocet Giorgia excelled in her chosen profession, producing a veritable solar system of perfect cakes and bonbons upon which we feasted post-Paella. Graham Farnworth (he’s the one in the middle) arrived complete with guitar to deliver Bluesy Blues (a coup, given he’s booked until next year) and around him we chatted, drank and danced. We eventually decamped chez-Forte for an after party. The final guest was shown out at 4.30am and I retired to bed, older and no wiser.

The upshot of The Last Week in April was an extraordinary affirmation of every aspect of my lovely life. God bless daughters, boyfriend, birthday, business – and my lucky stars.

© Giovanna Forte

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