Embassy Worries

 Travelled straight from work to the Polish Embassy for the annual reception commemorating Polish Independence Day. I left the car at the Ealing Broadway Centre car park. There was a technical hitch at the car park, so the electronic gates were open and parking was for free. I caught the Elizabeth Line, now that there is a direct link through Paddington, and I travelled to Bond Street in just 15 minutes. The only problem with that was that I emerged at Hanover Square, completely and utterly disorientated. It took me nearly 25 minutes to figure out how to get to the Embassy in Portland Place. It should have taken me 10 minutes. I felt ashamed. Me, a Londoner by birth, to be completely baffled by Oxford Circus. I could not distinguish Regent Street from Oxford Street and Regent Street North from Regent Street South. These streets display no road names at the Circus end, so I wonder what the tourists, busy photographing the Christmas lights (already!), would make of it. 

Once in the Embassy, I slipped the blue ribbon of my Commander's Cross Order of Merit around my neck. It is the only time in the year when I can display it. Consul Balcerowski came up to me suddenly and introduced me to Professor Wilczek, the Ambassador. Surprisingly, I had not yet been introduced to him so far, despite the fact he had been here nearly a year. He eyed me carefully and nodded, implying he knew who I was. As I had been chatting at the time to the new Secretary and Treasurer of POSK, I introduced them to the Ambassador. I mumbled my thanks for the invitation, and then he was off. Nothing to write home about, though I was hoping at some stage to familiarize him with the need to fully relegitimize the Federation of Poles as the main representative voice of Poles in the UK. They should be playing a more visible role in events such as the transfer of the 3 presidents. Another time, perhaps.

Familiar faces and strangers. It makes me feel quite gloomy as I recognize fewer and fewer people. In time they become a blur, as I cannot tell apart the familiar from the strange. This particularly concerns the young(er) women who accost me and chat away, while I nod and reply, desperately trying to recall who they were. I failed initially to recognize Alicja Donimirska, the head of the Polish YMCA, whom I always admired, as I was thrown by her new hairstyle. It was by her husky voice that I finally recognized her, and also from the topic of conversation that I twigged at last who she was. I pointed out to her that she had not yet finalized her membership of POSK, even though I had forwarded her application to the POSK office. Another lady, I finally recalled, was the poet Kasia Zechetner, whom I met through the Union of Writers. I was further approached by a youngish lady, who had been a Polish City Club official, had been working with me some eight years ago in activating participation by Poles in local elections. It was a complete failure but she was pleased by the impact we supposedly made. Yet I still could not remember her name. And then there is happy go lucky Monika Tkaczyk who is on my wavelength in so many ways, and who did a selfie with me. 

I remember older faces better than the younger one. The wrinkles and silver hair reveal that they have marched to the relentless music of time in parallel with me, and I could read from the expressions on their  faces what is their current activity and state of health. I can recall them in their younger apparition, when the future lay before them and their energy and ambition drove them to perform their tasks. These were older friends, from Solidarity, from POSK, from the theatre, from earlier marches past the Cenotaph. I can still recall and mingle with them, balancing a glass of white wine and a tasty Embassy canape on one hand, without the dire need to identify them and to seek an avenue of escape, Now is the time to fill the remaining empty spaces in our diaries, as we promise to attend their coming events, be they concerts or lectures, or just social events. 

At one moment, an Embassy official invited me to speak to a camera about what I thought of celebrating Independence Day in the Polish Embassy. A somewhat strange request. I said the obvious thing about celebrating it since childhood in London, but being unable to celebrate it at the Embassy until the old Communist regime had collapsed. I ended on a lighter note by saying that at least it gives me an opportunity to show off my Commander's Cross.

Here and there in the conversation comes a smidgeon of events in the outside world, Russians retreating from Kherson, silly Williamson resigning, even sillier Matt Hancock exiling himself to the Queensland jungle, Trump announcing the red wave and threatening to promote his odious self for a new run at the presidency. Much as I admire Biden for his courage and determination, he cannot allow himself to put his own name forward for a second presidency. He is too old, too stuck in his way, too worn out, and the electorae knows that. Let a younger person have a go, and preferably not Kamala Harris, as her impact on events is exactly nil. I let these matters churn over in my mind as I take my leave and head back to Hanover Square for the return journey. At least I did not get lost this time.