Sharon Feinstein

I know. There’s a communal sigh. But one simply can’t help it. I’m being that mother again, proud, puffed up and just want it all to go in the right direction for a very lovely and hard-working young girl. She says – ” Please Subscribe to my you tube channel! Username laraf11 and check out my new photos on my space. Thanks guys!!!! xxx”
So anyone who wants to get on my good side, please support my daughter, Lara Danielle Feinstein, as she keeps going trying to reach her stars and fulfil her personal dream.

It’s a perfectly preserved miniature city frozen in the 15th century and particularly wonderful in springtime. From one of only 30 small boats allowed on the winding canals, you can come up close to the gabled medieval buildings, some of them with Venetian glass windows and some with faded wooden frontage. We loved the boat, in and out of the banks with swans nesting amongst the sprawling daffodils. Bruges is incredibly stylish, the interiors have that perfect blend of old wooden floors, slate grey walls, beautiful art works and big, bold vases of flowers. And then there’s the chocolate. Every second shop is filled with exquisite hand made chocs, in the shape of dinosaurs or beer bottles or even macabre-looking breasts. But never mind that, it’s the melt in the mouth tastes that win you over and get you in a swoon as they wave these little silver trays towards you piled up with pieces of chocolate. Try one, see if you like it, they say, so you kind of give in, forget about cholesterol, and think, What the hell, let’s just hop from shop to shop and gather momentum until we work up an appetite for lunch. We sat outside the little hotel drinking a lot of Chardonnay, just where Colin Farrel jumped out the window and into the canal in that pretty gruesome and not very funny movie, In Bruges. Later Colin’s friend jumps out the medieval Bell Tower and splat onto the cobbles in the exquisite Market Square, but we didn’t venture up there because I’d had too much wine by then and was worried I’d end up the same way. It’s a great few days and we drove there, after that lovely ferry crossing from Dover, and it only took an hour from Calais to Bruges. Didn’t even know when France became Belgium, it’s all the Eurozone these days, and before I’d learn’t how to say thank you in Flemish we were back in London and it was all over.

I know it isn’t cool to tell everyone how wonderful your daughter is, especially on Mother’s Day, when sentiment and emotion are running high. But Lara has been working like a Trojan to become a singer, originally a violinist and pianist, and she has done this on her own in a faraway city which her family have never even visited, Toronto. So there she is practising and practising, and nursing her dreams of one day being the new Maria Carey or born again Britney Spears, and we can only support her from afar and pray that she fulfils herself and isn’t swallowed up by nasty, callous people. She’s just posted two of her songs on MySpace at www.myspace.com/laradanif and for all of you who support my blog, perhaps you’d like to listen and support her too. We do love our daughters, after all, and this one is very special.

Lara with pony

Lara with Dad

I never imagined I’d be battling against a wind chill factor of minus 6 when I set out across the white cliffs of Dover this weekend. It’s a spectacular walk and the outline of France was brilliantly clear, the big ferries moving slowly and silently across the Channel, and foamy waves crashing down on the shingle beaches below. For a while the sheer beauty and effort of battling against the bracing wind obscured how incredibly cold it was. We brushed past yellow gorse, and up slopes of mossy grass pitted into strange shapes that seemed to mirror the choppy brown sea shapes below. But as we carried on the wind picked up and started to roar with an iciness that sliced into my ears, down my neck and held my sunglasses so tightly to my face the pressure became unbearable. There was nothing we could do except battle on. How weird that we’d just been discussing a book called The Third Man Factor, which describes how explorers pushed to their absolute limits often seem to hear a voice out of nowhere guiding them to safety and keeping up their spirits so that they don’t lie down and die. I’m not comparing our trivial hardship on the cliffs of Dover to Reinhold Messner on Mount Everest or Shackleton in the Antarctic, before you start scoffing. But seriously, it was so bitterly cold, with a raging wind pounding against us and making each step seem as though we were pummelling through a wall of water, that I nearly started crying at the thought of all the miles we still had left to walk. No Third Man came to me, that sudden presence that can appear when a person is overcome with weakness and hopelessness in the zone between life and death. But the experience has occurred many people, 9/11 survivors, mountaineers, divers, polar explorers, prisoners of war, solo sailors, aviators and astronauts. All have escaped traumatic events and told similar stories of having experienced the close presence of a helper or guardian.
Maybe it wasn’t such a coincidence that this extreme walk was happening across the famous white cliffs, within which lies a huge network of military tunnels in use since Napoleonic times. It was from these tunnels in May 1940 that the evacuation of British and French troops from Dunkirk was directed and 338,000 men saved .Throughout World War 2 the tunnels were used as command headquarters, controlling naval vessels in the Straits of Dover. There are so many people who’ve died and so many been saved on this spot, it’s not surprising that the theme carries on.
We survived, and headed for a fabulous pub on the beach called The Coastguard where I consumed a bottle of Chianti, a Dover sole of course, plate of chips, vegetables, bread, a huge cheese platter and around 20 oatcakes without stopping, during which we barely spoke a single word.

I am going to South Africa for my mother’s 80th birthday on February 13th. It’s a celebration, a party, but of course it brings the inevitable fear of ones mother ageing and moving towards death. So amongst the bright lights, music and laughter there lurks the thoughts of darkness and loss. With the coming of 80 is the cold sliver of ice, the shadow behind the door. Once in a while we take these thoughts out of the box and turn them over in our minds. At airports, on planes, in between places, when there’s time to ponder. For me, as I prepare to go to my mother’s 80th birthday, those thoughts are sliding around. The grandchildren are doing a big card with past photos and loving speeches. The family are gathering around the celebratory tables. Friends are trying on their dresses and buying presents. How do you mark the passing of so many years ? It holds up a mirror to the most important of human experiences, loving ones mother, watching her get old, flying across the world to see her again, even just making her a cup of tea. There’s a happiness and solidity about still having ones mother in the world and I know it won’t, can’t be, forever. So in the morning when I wake up and the time ticks towards her 80th birthday, and I go downstairs to open the shutters and make a cup of coffee, every day feels like a gift. My mother is still in the world and one day, not that many years after 80 I imagine, the world will turn on its head and she will be gone forever.

For a long time Haiti has been a grim and desperate country. In The Comedians Graham Greene said, Impossible to deepen that night. Tragically, with unfolding horror, the night in Haiti has deepened further and this time it’s not even the underbelly of corruption and violence, that acted as a backdrop to The Comedians. It’s an extreme act of nature, as with the tsunami in Thailand, where the earth is taken from under people’s feet, and in a matter of hours all previously known life shatters into a million pieces.
Homeless and helpless, a million people are wandering the streets.
5000 prisoners have broken loose from the jail in Port au Prince and are out there.
The descent into anarchy is unravelling, as desperation erupts into anger
Hospitals are overrun. The pace of the Aid Operation is painfully slow.
Oh the darkness and deepness of Haiti’s terrible long and unending night.
How blessed are we, and how much we need to bear their agony in mind, and our gift of the still ordered life.

New Year’s Eve and things were going so well in the restaurant. On our 9th course, 2nd bottle of wine and 20th resolution, the atmosphere was warm, cosy and loving. There were still more courses to come, different wines to try, and ideas to discover. But panic set in because it was already 11 o’clock and the dreaded cab had come to fetch us for London’s most amazing firework display fireworks on the Thames. Half of us said, Let’s give him a tenner and send him away. This is too much fun, we’re warm, relaxed and in the groove. But there’s always this little worm in our heads which says, It could be even better. There’s more out there. What if we aren’t having the best, biggest, most dazzling time and we miss out on something. Isn’t that part of all of our lives in this 21st century Western world ? Stand up if it’s not you. Because of this, New Year’s Eve went downhill from there, but I am hoping it has taught me a lesson on life’s journey of lessons. We were happy, laughing, feeling close, but NO, we wanted more. So we left the rest of the food, and bundled into the taxi. Within ten minutes we were in a Bangkok style traffic jam, and then discovered the quote we’d been given for the taxi was only half the real price. Roads were cordoned off everywhere, so we thought we would just get out and walk, but the streams of people looked like the million pilgrims pouring into St Peter’s Square on Christmas Eve. Tension mounted, and ah, blame began, who booked this taxi, why did we leave the restaurant, what the hell should we do now, whose fault is this. I pointed out it was 10 minutes to 2010 but the accusations and stress levels were now aflame. Don’t really need to say much more. We did, in fact, return to the restaurant and skulked back to our table and sheepishly ordered more wine. We did kiss each other Happy New year and try to pick up where we left off. But the calm warm roll we’d had was gone, and it’s taken till today to come back. Happy New year to everyone out there. I, for one, am going to appreciate what I DO have in 2010 and not constantly push myself to have ever so much more.

Just a thought, after reflection, during the first few days of the Christmas holidays. Often we make things worse when we do our very best to make things better. Have you even realised that ?

On Christmas Eve, when goodwill is supposed to be replacing all that competitive, snarling, mean-spirit, the vicar’s wife stunned me. She reached new heights of neighbourly nastiness, even for her. And considering they live as grace and favour occupants in the Church’s house in this otherwise lovely Islington square, you would think she might try and spread the message of tolerance and kindness just a little.
This is the story, it has to be told. My best friend, a leading landscape gardener, brought round the turkey today and her pressies, two beautiful flowering Amarylis, and other surprises. In her excitement, she forgot to buy a parking ticket. Along came two Nigerian wardens bearing Christmas parking fines. But being rather sweet souls they examined her van, realised she may be loading and legitimately has 20 minutes loading time, and stood beside her vehicle quietly minding their own business and waiting for the driver to return. The vicar’s wife, ever on hand, shot out and snitched, She’s been there an hour, I can vouch for it.
Shocked that a member of the public was actually urging them on, they had no choice but to write a ticket for £60. At that moment we realised the little party had gathered and rushed out to explain that Diana was indeed loading and had only been 20 minutes, and that there was absolutely no need for the Christmas Eve ticket. But, we can’t have that, the helpful vicar’s wife was in full swing now. Tolerance, forebearance, and peace for all mankind being her philosophy, she came out on the steps, not at all minding her own bloody business, and said, Sharon, she’s been there an hour, she’s been there an hour. In fact she repeated it so many times that it was a bit like Chinese water torture. She does know I wouldn’t dream of listening to her, and on this occasion I wouldn’t have actually believed my ears if not for what happened next. The nice Nigerian men looked at us and said, Sorry, we have already written it or we would not have given you a ticket. We can see you were loading. Thankfully, those sorts of horrible people don’t exist in Nigeria. Only here. Well I never. The thing I want most for Christmas is new neighbours. With vicars like that, let’s all have a revolution.

I’ve been learning how to play Soul serenade- David Sanborn- and is Frank Walden the best saxophone teacher ever ? I think so. He doesn’t really have to bother with the likes of me and my struggle to practise and keep up with his incredibly fast mind and nimble saxophone fingers. but he does, and he doesn’t appear to be giving up.It’s officially been two years this Christmas and I have to say I didn’t even know what a reed was, a sling, a mouthpiece, how to read music properly and certainly not how to make a saxophone sound somewhat tuneful. He has painstakingly brought me to the point of David Sanborn- we’ve skipped by Van Morrison, my old favourite, as Frank thinks his sax playing leaves a whole lot to be desired, and in the end we had a laugh about it and I had to agree. One minute Frank’s backing Amy Winehouse at Coachella, or on tour with Tom Jones, or playing in a West End musical, and the next here he is in my study going through long notes, helping me get my embouchure stronger and discussing how I should structure my practise. We also head downstairs to the piano room and duet to pieces I’m learning and I get to improvise and play the blue note rather a lot. It’s a whole lot of fun in an otherwise grim journalistic day. Thanks Frank, you’re one in a million. Don’t let me give up.

The following video clip show Frank performing at Castle Stririn in the Czech Republic 14 months ago: