This was my lunch today. I’m feeling a bit under the weather and didn’t feel hungry until I was over-hungry, meaning that by the time I’d got this made and the cheese had melted, I was all jittery and needed some sugar inside me, stat!

The surprise from Suzy yesterday turned out to be a trip up to London for very yummy Mexican food at Wahaca and then off to the Apollo Victoria to see Wicked.

We ordered the Wahaca selection to share, eliminating any need to make the difficult decision as to which dishes to order; this way we got a bit of everything. Now if a Wahaca chef could bring me a fresh huitlacoche quesadilla (chestnut mushrooms, melted cheese and huitlacoche) every day, that would be just dandy. A glass of that utterly drinkable wine would also be good.

After our leisurely nosebag we took the tube two stops to Victoria and it still wasn’t until we were stood in front of the theatre that I knew what my surprise was to be: the huge “Wicked” hoarding outside the theatre revealing the secret as large as could be.

It was a wonderful show and I was very jealous admiring of the powerful and impressive voices, especially that of the Wicked Witch herself. The finale of Act 1 was my favourite part. I thought it was incredible and it was pretty difficult to get to sleep last night with “Defying Gravity” running through my head over and over. Though admittedly I probably didn’t help matters by watching it in various versions on Youtube before finally heading off to kip.

On the train ride home at the end of the evening a pile of drunk boys literally fell into our carriage, singing, arsing about and generally being loud and, well, pretty funny. Their rousing anthem was that “Tonbridge boys are on the piss again”, which one or the other of them would then try to change to “Sevenoaks boys” in order - unsuccessfully - to cover their tracks. One boy settled down next to the family in front of us, which was fortunate for him as when we reached Tonbridge they were the only ones - eventually - able to persuade him that this was his stop and he needed to get off here. Meanwhile one of his friends was busy shaking hands with me and Suzy while we tried to shoo them off the train before it set off again for the next stop.

Mum and Dad were waiting in the car for us outside the station and as we drove off down the hill, Suzy spotted that one of the boys from the train was indeed keeping the promise he had loudly proclaimed back on the train. That he was “going to urinate everywhere“. Ah, the youth of today.

So, the third day dawned. We rose earlier than the day before, knowing that we were due to leave Hirschhorn about 8am, arriving in Heidelberg, where we would disembark, at about 10am. The musicians were, for the most part, still tucked up in their beds while we sorted ourselves out with some breakfast and watched the landscape pass us by.

We arrived on the outskirts of Heidelberg and sat for quite some time in a lock. Various other crew members were up now and keeping us company. There was no sign of the captain though. Should we get off here? Nobody knew. We weren’t in the city centre and it was thought that there was another lock further down. We stayed on board and eventually the ship continued on its way. Through the city … and then suddenly we realised that we weren’t exactly surrounded by civilisation and the opportunity for public transport links any more. No, this was more what you’d call being in the middle of nowhere.

“Err, Hannes, we needed to get off in Heidelberg.”
“Heidelberg was back there.”
“We noticed.”

The captain appeared. While he had known of our plan to disembark, I think his fellow nautical personnel hadn’t got the message. The big map was studied and pointed at, train times were researched online and it was arranged that we would leave the ship at Mannheim. Meanwhile the band and crew were gradually emerging from their beds, greeting us with bleary-eyed surprise: “You’re still here?!”

Second claim to fame for this holiday: I (accidentally) headbutted Xavier Naidoo’s guitarist, Andi. At Feudenheim lock the captain reappeared and told us we’d be getting off here. Andi was leaving the boat here too and tour manager Schrödi lifted me up to him on the wall of the lock. As Andi helped me up I gently headbutted him by way of a thank you.

We stopped on the bridge above the lock to watch the boat come through. A number of other people were already there, waiting to drop flowers down onto the deck for the band. After taking a few photos we hotfooted it down the road. Andi had told us we’d find a tram that would take us straight to the Hauptbahnhof.

Walking and walking, Suzy took my rucksack from me, turning herself into my very own pack horse. Damn, she’s a fine friend. With no tram in sight she asked a couple of natives where in God’s name we should be going and they pointed us back in the direction we came. Ah, that’s always a good feeling. Eventually we found the overhead cables for the tram. But the rails weren’t really anywhere to be seen, as the street was being dug up. Being educated ladies, we deduced that this did not bode well for the arrival of a tram to take us to the station.

A friendly shopkeeper called a taxi for us and while we waited we were advised that it would be best to get to Stuttgart Airport straight from Mannheim Hauptbahnhof. The trouble was, we were hot and sweaty and already had our train plan cemented in our minds. We wanted to go from Heidelberg to Stuttgart so that Suzy could buy a return ticket in order to get back to where her friends lived.

So we took a train from Mannheim to Heidelberg, where we bought tickets to Stuttgart. Then Suzy disappeared to talk to someone behind a desk and I discovered that standing in the middle of a station looking wide-eyed and wearing a rucksack that weighs as much as Hubert’s ship causes people to come and ask me if I need help. To which I answer that, thank you, I’m fine. My friend is … (wild flailing of arms) … irgendwo.

Suzy reappeared and it turned out that the tickets we’d bought were of no use in getting me to the airport before my plane departed. We went back to the “help” desk and were faced with BahnBitch, possibly the huffiest, least helpful railway employee ever to work for the German railway. We bought more tickets for a faster train, swore about BahnBitch and missed the train back to Mannheim by just a few seconds.

Back in Mannheim and with a bit of a wait ahead of us for the InterCity Express train, we took comfort in overpriced British chocolate bars from the vending machine. Once on board the ICE train we checked our onward journey. It’d be just about doable. We’d get to Stuttgart, make a run for the “tief” part of the station, from where we could get the next train at 18.28 hrs, with any luck arriving at the airport just a minute or two before check-in shut. Cue an announcement on board the train that there were delays and we’d be arriving at Stuttgart station at 18.29 hrs. Handy, thanks.

I leant across the aisle and asked a man if he knew Stuttgart at all - thereby impressing Suzy with my German. Oh, I know how to throw in a good “überhaupt”, baby. Would it be quicker to get the train to the airport, or a taxi? My neighbour wasn’t too sure, but confirmed that, yeah, we were screwed as we were going to be arriving after our next train had left.

Stuttgart. Suzy took my rucksack again (mental note: keep her) and we legged it through the station and followed the signs to the taxi rank outside. We fell into the back seat of a taxi, our probably somewhat manic expressions and inability to breathe indicating that we needed to get to the airport fast. Check-in was going to shut at 7pm. I’d originally hoped to be at the airport at 5pm. Our driver really knew what he was doing, changing lanes knowing which would come to a standstill, zipping in and out and gently cursing other drivers when need be. Along the way I spotted a poster for Hubert’s Stuttgart concert a few days before. Nice touch, universe.

We arrived at the airport, ran in and found German Wings check-in. Across the hall I could see a few people standing at the counter. This looked promising. Then as I walked towards them I spotted the time up on the announcement board. It was 18.45. We’d made it with 15 minutes to spare. Suzy and I fell on each other in the middle of the check-in hall, hugging and laughing. In spite of everything that had happened that day, I’d made it in time for my flight. Which was then delayed.

Click on our feet for the set

Making our way from home to Hubert’s concert boat in Germany Suzy and I used an impressive range of transport. In the early hours of the morning Mum and Dad took us by car to Stansted Airport, where we had to take the Stansted shuttle to get to the right gate for our aeroplane to Stuttgart. At Stuttgart airport we found the trains and took the S-Bahn to Stuttgart Hauptbahnhof. From there we took a Regionalbahn train to Heilbronn Hauptbahnhof. Then it was a taxi to the concert site (my foisting a carefully prepared map into the driver’s hand and saying “dorthin, bitte!” made Suzy laugh). At the venue we went on board Hubert’s concert ship - and here I’m going to count his manager, Hage, lifting me on board as another mode of transport. Early the next morning the boat set off to the next concert site in Hirschhorn, thereby adding another mode of transport to our list. Incidentally, our journey from the boat back to the airport will be a whole other blog entry, having turned out to be a much greater adventure than we had originally expected - and allowed time for.

Having last year sailed the Danube from Linz to the Black Sea, Hubert is now going west along the Rhine Main Canal and various other waterways, heading for the North Sea. Along the way the ship drops anchor and the stage on the concert barge is erected and concerts are given from the ship to the audience on land. Locally renowned artists come on board to collaborate with Hubert and his band and in the evening there will be sets from both lineups, as well as performance of the fruits of this collaboration.

The guest coming on board in Heilbronn was the famous jazz musician Klaus Doldinger with his band “Passport”. Klaus wrote the music for the film “Das Boot” - music I didn’t realise I’d heard until he played some of it during the concert. Hubert and his band introduced him to Hubert’s pieces “Kohler” and “i bi ån”, for which Hubert wanted Klaus to join him on stage. “I bi ån” is an absolute firework played live and, sitting across the table from Klaus, I couldn’t help joining in with the vocal. I made him laugh, catching his eye and singing “bow!”. (The very start of this video explains what I mean)

Rain clouds were gathering as the start of the concert approached and, sure enough, during Klaus’s one hour set we started to get wet. Very wisely Suzy went back on board to grab our macs - and discovered that someone had kindly moved our rucksacks under cover, but not before they’d been rained into. Joy.

The rain continued through most of Hubert’s set and we got completely drenched. We were sitting on the floor of the grandstand, making it beautifully convenient to soak up the puddles around us on the boards too. I managed a few shots of the great show taking place before us, but mostly kept my camera huddled against me under my coat. I felt like a chimpanzee sheltering her baby from the rain - a certain shot from a documentary bright in my mind.

As arranged Klaus Doldinger came back on stage to join Hubert & Co. for “Kohler” and “i bi ån”, coming up with some fantastic improvisations on his saxophone. As is traditional Hubert also called on the audience to echo his vocals. “I bi ån” (pron. “ee bee on”) means something like “I’m fine, I don’t need anything from you” and despite being wet, after a concert like that all three thousand of us were “on”, baby.

Click on the photo for the set so far

* I’m running away at the weekend. Ok, not quite true. I’m flying away. There, that sounds much better. Suzy and I are off to Germany for a couple of concerts from the Meister. I’m sort of hoping that my new lens won’t have arrived by then, so I won’t need to decide whether or not to take it with me. By the way, short of putting my head in a bag, is there any way to avoid Boat Hair while on a boat?

* I thinned out my carrots. I thought I’d try transplanting the thinnings elsewhere to give myself a little extra carrotage. The floppy pile of carroty uselessness I’m now left with tells me that this was not possible.

* Sam had her hen night last Saturday, which was a fine affair in London. We had lesson in how to make shots and cocktails before dinner and dancing. Let it be noted that I pour a mean B52. Let it also be noted that drinking a glass of champagne on a fairly empty stomach makes it difficult to get up the stairs to the bar to have the lesson. Then drinking a shot, a cocktail and various “sips” of other people’s cocktails makes it even more difficult to get back down the stairs for the meal. Should this happen, allow Lauren to order for you.

* I rang the police the other day. Very exciting. You park your car for sale so that it’s blocking most of the footpath - the footpath that leads to the primary school - and I will soooo tell on you, sucker.

I’m always ready to celebrate a Good Hair Day. Even if other people feel the need to ring me on my work line with their opinions about my cleanliness:

“Hello?”
Young boy, belligerent, with mouth much too close to the receiver: “Have you got my mother?”
“I think you’ve got the wrong number.”
“[Something about this being the one he dialled before - and possibly something about kidnap]”
“What number did you dial?”
“Your one, you dirty scab.”

Oh, touché! Let me bow down before the linguistic prowess of the coward who made sure to block his number before he dialled.

The Russian State Ballet of Siberia brought their touring production of Swan Lake to the theatre in Tunbridge Wells yesterday and Suzy and I were there in our (relative) finery, ready to enjoy the evening with the ladies and gentlemen of the town. UK readers may know Tunbridge Wells residents to be of a type; the sort of people who write indignant letters to The Times and sign their name as “Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells”. In short, posh people whom Suzy and I stand ready to mock. (For the record, my social class lies somewhere between posh and common, enabling me to see myself as far better than either.) We came to take our seats in the tiered stalls and found that Granny, Old-Looking Mother and Granddaughter of Tunbridge Wells were in our seats. No problem, we took theirs, putting us more central to the action, but seriously, was it really beyond them to look at the bloody numbers on the chairs? Observation was perhaps not a talent rife that evening, as exhibited by the woman I’d seen in the foyer trying to talk to someone on her mobile. Intent on finding a signal she had absentmindedly walked right up to the door of the disabled toilet and with her head practically resting on the wood, she was calling, “Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?”. And was then nearly knocked to the ground as the door was pushed open outwards by the perplexed person trying to leave.

Seated in the auditorium, with my linen jacket screwed up behind me so as to perfect the concertina-effect on the arms by the end of the evening, we took in our surroundings. The orchestra was warming-up and around us young girls in ballet gear and big fancy dresses were taking their seats with their mothers adorned in pearl necklaces. The Messrs Tunbridge Wells and their respective wives were out in force, sporting a variety of ill-advised outfits and hairdos, the best of which was to be found just a few seats away. Suzy noticed it first and it wasn’t long before we were both just staring (possibly open-mouthed), unable to fully comprehend its full awsomeness. The ‘do started as a ponytail, the tail then being pulled up to the front of the head and folded under, held in place there with combs and at the back with bright red hair clips - to match the bright red outfit.

Just before the house lights went down and the state orchestra began to play I heard Granny Tunbridge Wells chide her young charge in pained tones: “Please don’t talk about football at the ballet, Anya. I can’t bear it.”

So to the ballet. Ladies, have you ever been to the ballet? No, scrub that. Ladies, have you ever seen male ballet dancers in tights? That sight alone is worth the price of the ticket. I don’t really remember much of what happened, except there were men in tights leaping about and spinning. Oh, the spinning! There was a bloke in yellow - the prince’s wingman or something - and, if I knew who he was and how to contact him, I would scrape together whatever money I could find, buy him and watch him pirouette for me all day.

I didn’t read the story of Swan Lake before going to the theatre, because I didn’t want any surprises to be ruined. Quite what sort of devilish thriller I thought I was attending, I don’t know. Knowing exactly what was happening would have been more useful than “having an idea”, because the end took me completely by surprise. Suddenly everyone was taking their bows and the audience was clapping and clapping. I turned to Suzy and asked, “Were you expecting it to end then?” I had totally missed any sense of conclusion and was relieved to find that Suzy had felt the same. The white prince had disappeared off with the bad bloke in a clever whirl of fabric and then the gorgeous swan danced some more and suddenly that was it. Thank God for a Wikipedia synopsis, right?

The skill and athleticism of the dancers was mesmerising. The ballerina dancing the role of Odette had the longest, most graceful arms I’ve seen. When she first appeared she was lit by a spotlight from above, her movements exactly fitting within the shaft of light. You could quite understand the prince falling for her in that moment. Ah, the prince. Agile and strong. And wearing tights.