"We used to build civilisations. Now we build shopping malls." - Bill Bryson
When I was very young indeed, the concept of buying clothes was completely alien to me. I used to wonder why a country-wide uniform hadn't been imposed on us from on high, We-style, that would have relieved us all of the stresses and strains of having to choose clothes that not only could we afford, but also looked vaguely stylish and, most importantly, actually fit me. I've since realised two things - that we're not actually as far from the uniform idea as I thought (pick any commuter train and you'll see the same suits, shirts, tie, cufflinks, shoes, belts and iPads throughout the carriages), and that I'm not as averse to shopping as I thought I was.
At some point at the turn of the millennium, some bright spark decided that whilst London certainly boasted a good deal of historical monuments and cultural attractions and all that, what it definitely needed was a million square foot of places for people to buy things, presumably because the city could up till then only boast such pathetic shopping precincts as Oxford Street, Regent Street and Knightsbridge. The opening of Westfield in 2008 passed me by somewhat - I'd already experienced the likes of Meadowhall and White Rose and wasn't particularly keen to visit a London version, believing it would simply be a hyper-inflated, ultra-expensive shopping Mecca that had far too many pilgrims already without me joining the queue. I relented last Christmas though, deciding to go on the proviso that I arrived early, in the middle of a working week. In a state of panic a month beforehand I had booked an entire week to do my Christmas shopping, a ridiculous decision in hindsight, but somehow I ended up completing the whole lot in three hours, a feat seemingly unthinkable on the train to Shepherd's Bush with a bulging wallet and a seemingly never-ending list of gift ideas.
Since then, Westfield has become a failsafe destination for me. Go in all guns blazing without a clue about what you want or need, and you'll be overwhelmed, if not by the layout then by the crowds that will inevitably gather around you, but with a couple of obvious tricks you can make a mockery of a potentially horrendous shopping experience.
To start with, travel on a Tuesday or Wednesday and avoid, for the most part, hordes of screaming teenagers or toddlers, and dithering couples wandering zombie-like through the arcades. Then, arrive early - ideally at 9 o'clock - and head straight for Ca'ppucino. Whilst I don't enjoy coffee, I do enjoy comfortable chairs, excellent tea, granola with yoghurt and berries for breakfast, and, crucially, silence (the place is usually empty, even during lunchtime). You've got time to spare - I wouldn't leave until ten at the earliest - so enjoy the quiet and prepare mentally. Perhaps you have a list of items you need to purchase. No? Then make one - borrow the waitress' biro and use a napkin if you need to. Otherwise, I just read - I'm particularly enjoying Trollope's Chronicles of Barsetshire, all the more ironic for a pre-shopping experience given the author's fixation on money's incredible effects on society.
I fortunately only needed to purchase a pair of trousers, which I found relatively speedily and cost twice as much as I thought they would, and satisfied myself with a cursory glance in Foyles and HMV before realising I needed to cool my credit card before making any other purchases. It only remains for me to provide my final tip - get out of there before lunchtime. Not only will the crowds rise and swell uncomfortably about you, but in general the food court is overpriced and generally average quality. After all, if you are celebrating a pain-free shopping experience, you may as well enjoy a decent meal back at home.
Showing posts with label London. Show all posts
Showing posts with label London. Show all posts
Wednesday, 17 August 2011
Tuesday, 16 August 2011
Days 20, 21 and 22: Yorkshire
"What do yer want to go to London for? It's nowt but twenty Doncasters end to end" - Derek Garrett
Any right-minded born-and-bred Yorkshireman, a leashed whippet in one hand and a pint of Tetley's in the other, would sooner swim the River Calder then pronounce me a bona fide son of the White Rose. I don't have the doughty demeanour, the taste for real ale, the fanatical interest in Rugby League, or the unmistakable (and occasionally impenetrable) accent. Or, if you prefer stereotypes - my extended family don't live within five miles of the street I was born in, I've never eaten chips with gravy, I don't own a tweed jacket or cap and I've never been found comatose halfway along the Westgate Run. Everything about me is the antithesis of an authentic (as opposed to a stereotypical) Yorkshireman, but the county is my home, and Wakefield, even if some commentators would consider it more a primordial soup than a city, is my home town.
I left London early on a Saturday morning. Once again I had to brave the never-ending tunnels and ever-present rabble of fellow escapees at King's Cross, but by eleven I was at Wakefield Westgate station. For all the flak that Wakefield has to take from seemingly more highly esteemed cities, the rail approach to Wakefield is still quite something, with a great view of the lovely cathedral as the ageing East Coast trains wheeze over the bridge. Plus, as the station boasts only two platforms, there's no confusion over whether you might have accidentally boarded the train to Edinburgh instead of Eastbourne. Going to London? Platform 1. Leeds? Platform 2. Clearly laid out and easily understood - not characteristics you would normally associate with Yorkshire.
I'd actually travelled oop North to go walking my Dad, something I do frighteningly irregularly given how much time he spent trying to interest me in the great outdoors and in rambling in general. I'd purchased some walking shoes (in the sale, mind) only 24 hours previous, much to the chagrin of the sales assistant who was extolling the virtues of weatherproofing and breaking in and other such outdoors-y things I had neither the time nor the inclination to deal with. Fortunately, though, my Dad decreed that the walking would not commence until Sunday, as England were about to complete a thumping of the Indians at the Test Match, and gleefully we sat drinking tea (not coffee for us Yorkshiremen, you see) and waiting for the inevitable crushing victory. If sitting at home with your family, drinking tea and watching your country's cricket team top the world rankings isn't the best way to spend a Yorkshire Saturday, then I'd like to hear what is.
Our destination on Sunday was the village of Bradfield, a classically Northern parish outside Sheffield. I imagine that if you were a fly on the wall on one of David Cameron's Big Society briefing meetings, you would see the greatest social pioneers in the country prostrated, in wonder and amazement, before a framed photograph of Bradfield in the summer. Village green? Check. Beautiful Gothic church? Try classic 15th century. Quiet but well-appointed pubs? More than you could shake your cap at. And for bonus points, there were pensioners stood Last of the Summer Wine-style in groups, bridges over gently rippling streams, and cricket and bowls matches in progress. With the pictures of the devastating London riots still fresh in my mind, I must admit I thought of tearing my return ticket in two.
Dad and I walked about fifteen miles in all over six hours. I'm certainly no Wordsworth - the peaty soil of the Peak District moorland did not appear to me "apparell'd in celestial light" - but to breath Northern air, to walk on open moorland and vault narrow stiles and intrude on fields of confused sheep, I felt half a world away from the rat race. It didn't really matter that my feet were blistering with every step in those accursed boots, and that the last mile was a horrific ascent that worked the calves far harder than any resistance exercise in the Kingfisher Leisure Centre, I was truly grateful for the chance to break out of the M25 and explore on a far greater scale than I've tried in these past few weeks of freedom.
At King's Cross the next evening, tired and incredibly stiff, the barriers didn't accept my ticket, I hauled myself yet again through more ridiculous tunnels, and waited in vain for a train from Vauxhall that didn't turn up. Much as I love London, and couldn't for the moment see myself anywhere else, sometimes I wish the South was just a little more like the North.
Any right-minded born-and-bred Yorkshireman, a leashed whippet in one hand and a pint of Tetley's in the other, would sooner swim the River Calder then pronounce me a bona fide son of the White Rose. I don't have the doughty demeanour, the taste for real ale, the fanatical interest in Rugby League, or the unmistakable (and occasionally impenetrable) accent. Or, if you prefer stereotypes - my extended family don't live within five miles of the street I was born in, I've never eaten chips with gravy, I don't own a tweed jacket or cap and I've never been found comatose halfway along the Westgate Run. Everything about me is the antithesis of an authentic (as opposed to a stereotypical) Yorkshireman, but the county is my home, and Wakefield, even if some commentators would consider it more a primordial soup than a city, is my home town.
I left London early on a Saturday morning. Once again I had to brave the never-ending tunnels and ever-present rabble of fellow escapees at King's Cross, but by eleven I was at Wakefield Westgate station. For all the flak that Wakefield has to take from seemingly more highly esteemed cities, the rail approach to Wakefield is still quite something, with a great view of the lovely cathedral as the ageing East Coast trains wheeze over the bridge. Plus, as the station boasts only two platforms, there's no confusion over whether you might have accidentally boarded the train to Edinburgh instead of Eastbourne. Going to London? Platform 1. Leeds? Platform 2. Clearly laid out and easily understood - not characteristics you would normally associate with Yorkshire.
I'd actually travelled oop North to go walking my Dad, something I do frighteningly irregularly given how much time he spent trying to interest me in the great outdoors and in rambling in general. I'd purchased some walking shoes (in the sale, mind) only 24 hours previous, much to the chagrin of the sales assistant who was extolling the virtues of weatherproofing and breaking in and other such outdoors-y things I had neither the time nor the inclination to deal with. Fortunately, though, my Dad decreed that the walking would not commence until Sunday, as England were about to complete a thumping of the Indians at the Test Match, and gleefully we sat drinking tea (not coffee for us Yorkshiremen, you see) and waiting for the inevitable crushing victory. If sitting at home with your family, drinking tea and watching your country's cricket team top the world rankings isn't the best way to spend a Yorkshire Saturday, then I'd like to hear what is.
Our destination on Sunday was the village of Bradfield, a classically Northern parish outside Sheffield. I imagine that if you were a fly on the wall on one of David Cameron's Big Society briefing meetings, you would see the greatest social pioneers in the country prostrated, in wonder and amazement, before a framed photograph of Bradfield in the summer. Village green? Check. Beautiful Gothic church? Try classic 15th century. Quiet but well-appointed pubs? More than you could shake your cap at. And for bonus points, there were pensioners stood Last of the Summer Wine-style in groups, bridges over gently rippling streams, and cricket and bowls matches in progress. With the pictures of the devastating London riots still fresh in my mind, I must admit I thought of tearing my return ticket in two.
Dad and I walked about fifteen miles in all over six hours. I'm certainly no Wordsworth - the peaty soil of the Peak District moorland did not appear to me "apparell'd in celestial light" - but to breath Northern air, to walk on open moorland and vault narrow stiles and intrude on fields of confused sheep, I felt half a world away from the rat race. It didn't really matter that my feet were blistering with every step in those accursed boots, and that the last mile was a horrific ascent that worked the calves far harder than any resistance exercise in the Kingfisher Leisure Centre, I was truly grateful for the chance to break out of the M25 and explore on a far greater scale than I've tried in these past few weeks of freedom.
At King's Cross the next evening, tired and incredibly stiff, the barriers didn't accept my ticket, I hauled myself yet again through more ridiculous tunnels, and waited in vain for a train from Vauxhall that didn't turn up. Much as I love London, and couldn't for the moment see myself anywhere else, sometimes I wish the South was just a little more like the North.
Saturday, 13 August 2011
Day 19: Proms Redux
"I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'"
- Shakespeare, Henry V (III.i.1-34)
After yesterday's rather somber post about the labours of dragging a body accustomed to action through the tension and discomfort of relaxation, I'm glad to say I was somewhat more animated on Friday. Two days of R&R had proved more than enough, and now a wall of errands of admittedly varying levels of dullness stood before me, the pith and peel that required careful and methodical unwrapping before I could get at the juicy flesh - pizza at the amazing Rossopomodoro, and the hugely anticipated Film Music Prom at the Royal Albert Hall (my third this season).
I will spare you the details of my multiple voyages to Kingston, to attend the gym and to find some walking shoes for my weekend in Wakefield, and of my haircut in Surbiton - if you are desperate to hear the ins and outs of these trivialities then you can always find me on Twitter. I did, however, enjoy the feeling of once again being busy, of performing tasks and enjoying their results, even if those tasks were hardly Herculean labours. Striding from house to town to bus with the Test Match in my ears and what I liked to think was a steely visage of determination on my face, time ticked quickly and fruitfully, so much so in fact that before I knew it I was in Covent Garden, mooching slowly around the various shops and stalls awaiting my slightly-delayed girlfriend. By this point, with only a hastily consumed Waitrose salad inside me, I was ravenous.
I never cease to witter on about Rossopomodoro (on Monmouth Street) to everyone I know. It is the most authentically Italian restaurant I have ever visited in London - in that the service is attentive yet incredibly patchy. I asked for two beers, yet received only one glass. I gave our usual pizza order to one waiter, who shrugged in what I believed was grudging acknowledgment, before his colleague returned in five minutes to say could we please repeat our order as he seems to have forgotten it already. Once your mains have arrived you are condemned to restaurant limbo, so that you have to practically wave your wallet in someone's face before you are allowed to pay.
All of this sounds awful, but they are just some of a number of reasons why this place is so real, so authentic. We English Londoners, used to clipped confidence and smart service, visit Rossopomodoro and experience a new methodology, one where patience and humour is required, because the staff are simply enjoying their jobs, having fun, and smiling and joking with regular customers (many of whom appear to be Italian). And once you have sampled their simply divine La Verace pizza - for which all ingredients, including the water for the dough, come from Naples - then you won't care an ounce about what hurdles you may have had to leap to get that far.
Dinner digested and, eventually, paid for, we took a Number 9 Routemaster bus, one of the few still working in London and as such a gloriously retro experience, and sauntered to the Royal Albert Hall. We arrived perhaps a couple of minutes before 7, to be greeted with a ringmistress of a ticket inspector who insisted we marched on the double to our seats as the performance was about to commence. I had rather banked on a gin and tonic and a peruse through the programme first, having mistakenly believed the concert wasn't due to start until 7.30, but instead we were herded like disobedient sheep to our 2nd Tier box just as the conductor made his way onto stage.
The concert itself was mixed but on the whole extremely successful. It tried to cover almost every base imaginable, and couldn't help falling flat at times (including a particularly turgid performance of Walton's Henry V suite, which despite stirring narration from Rory Kinnear of the key scenes, sounded woefully out of place), but overall it was a real triumph of a night. The usual favourites were all out in force - Star Wars, Psycho, Murder on the Orient Express, the main themes from Out of Africa and Schindler's List - but two other arrangements really stood out.
Firstly, and rather surprisingly given I've read none of the books, was the performance of Hedwig's Theme from Harry Potter (I'd previously confused Hagrid and Hegwid before, much to Jo's consternation), which is a real masterpiece of mystery and suspense. John Williams' haunting opening melody, chimed gently on celeste, is magical enough, but the swooning string scoring and staccato brass betray a real sense of ingenuity in the construction of the score.
Secondly was a rousing collection of highlights from the James Bond films, with all the main themes covered, but what struck me was how much the BBC Concerto Orchestra really seemed to be enjoying themselves - at one point, during a particularly important mid-bar rest, the string players as one twirled their instruments full circle before continuing as if nothing had ever happened. I was in fits of laughter at its sheer audacity and comic timing.
As I've said before, the Proms should be praised for consistently aiming away from of elitism and cultural snobbishness and instead embracing allcomers to appreciate top-class music making. Yesterday's concert was simply another example of that theory being put effortlessly into practice.
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'"
- Shakespeare, Henry V (III.i.1-34)
After yesterday's rather somber post about the labours of dragging a body accustomed to action through the tension and discomfort of relaxation, I'm glad to say I was somewhat more animated on Friday. Two days of R&R had proved more than enough, and now a wall of errands of admittedly varying levels of dullness stood before me, the pith and peel that required careful and methodical unwrapping before I could get at the juicy flesh - pizza at the amazing Rossopomodoro, and the hugely anticipated Film Music Prom at the Royal Albert Hall (my third this season).
I will spare you the details of my multiple voyages to Kingston, to attend the gym and to find some walking shoes for my weekend in Wakefield, and of my haircut in Surbiton - if you are desperate to hear the ins and outs of these trivialities then you can always find me on Twitter. I did, however, enjoy the feeling of once again being busy, of performing tasks and enjoying their results, even if those tasks were hardly Herculean labours. Striding from house to town to bus with the Test Match in my ears and what I liked to think was a steely visage of determination on my face, time ticked quickly and fruitfully, so much so in fact that before I knew it I was in Covent Garden, mooching slowly around the various shops and stalls awaiting my slightly-delayed girlfriend. By this point, with only a hastily consumed Waitrose salad inside me, I was ravenous.
I never cease to witter on about Rossopomodoro (on Monmouth Street) to everyone I know. It is the most authentically Italian restaurant I have ever visited in London - in that the service is attentive yet incredibly patchy. I asked for two beers, yet received only one glass. I gave our usual pizza order to one waiter, who shrugged in what I believed was grudging acknowledgment, before his colleague returned in five minutes to say could we please repeat our order as he seems to have forgotten it already. Once your mains have arrived you are condemned to restaurant limbo, so that you have to practically wave your wallet in someone's face before you are allowed to pay.
All of this sounds awful, but they are just some of a number of reasons why this place is so real, so authentic. We English Londoners, used to clipped confidence and smart service, visit Rossopomodoro and experience a new methodology, one where patience and humour is required, because the staff are simply enjoying their jobs, having fun, and smiling and joking with regular customers (many of whom appear to be Italian). And once you have sampled their simply divine La Verace pizza - for which all ingredients, including the water for the dough, come from Naples - then you won't care an ounce about what hurdles you may have had to leap to get that far.
Dinner digested and, eventually, paid for, we took a Number 9 Routemaster bus, one of the few still working in London and as such a gloriously retro experience, and sauntered to the Royal Albert Hall. We arrived perhaps a couple of minutes before 7, to be greeted with a ringmistress of a ticket inspector who insisted we marched on the double to our seats as the performance was about to commence. I had rather banked on a gin and tonic and a peruse through the programme first, having mistakenly believed the concert wasn't due to start until 7.30, but instead we were herded like disobedient sheep to our 2nd Tier box just as the conductor made his way onto stage.
The concert itself was mixed but on the whole extremely successful. It tried to cover almost every base imaginable, and couldn't help falling flat at times (including a particularly turgid performance of Walton's Henry V suite, which despite stirring narration from Rory Kinnear of the key scenes, sounded woefully out of place), but overall it was a real triumph of a night. The usual favourites were all out in force - Star Wars, Psycho, Murder on the Orient Express, the main themes from Out of Africa and Schindler's List - but two other arrangements really stood out.
Firstly, and rather surprisingly given I've read none of the books, was the performance of Hedwig's Theme from Harry Potter (I'd previously confused Hagrid and Hegwid before, much to Jo's consternation), which is a real masterpiece of mystery and suspense. John Williams' haunting opening melody, chimed gently on celeste, is magical enough, but the swooning string scoring and staccato brass betray a real sense of ingenuity in the construction of the score.
Secondly was a rousing collection of highlights from the James Bond films, with all the main themes covered, but what struck me was how much the BBC Concerto Orchestra really seemed to be enjoying themselves - at one point, during a particularly important mid-bar rest, the string players as one twirled their instruments full circle before continuing as if nothing had ever happened. I was in fits of laughter at its sheer audacity and comic timing.
As I've said before, the Proms should be praised for consistently aiming away from of elitism and cultural snobbishness and instead embracing allcomers to appreciate top-class music making. Yesterday's concert was simply another example of that theory being put effortlessly into practice.
Tuesday, 9 August 2011
Days 14 and 15: Hampton Court/Nuneaton
"Keep calm and carry on" - British Second World War Poster
As London implodes around me, my indulgence of freedom as I enter Week 3 must remain unfettered - I don't intend to let the horrific actions of an imbecilic few keep me locked in my flat, and in any case South West London seems to have escaped the majority of the trouble. So in a bid to escape the Armageddon-style glut of rolling news and harbingers of doom, my itchy feet continue to direct me well away from my home, and in the last forty-eight hours I've taken in the glorious historic attraction that is Hampton Court Palace, and the slightly less glorious and palatial but still highly enjoyable Nuneaton.
The journey to the former was made by boat. I'm not known, frankly, for my love of water - I like looking at it, but am less keen on interacting with it - but I was pleasantly surprised by the serenity of the service from Kingston Pier to Hampton Court. Frankly, with the choice being between a uninspiring ten-minute Southwest train journey, or a leisurely half-hour cruise along the river, past astonishingly large houses and pretty bank-side pubs in Thames Ditton, I think we made the right decision. As boats of all sizes, from tiny punts to gleaming white yachts, sailed past us, they all without fail waved at us as we cut a path towards the Palace. Sometimes, when the TV is angrily declaiming the end of civilisation as we know it, falling back on these seemingly inconsequential details renders their verbiage flat and lifeless.
Being cheapskates and penny-pinchers we didn't actually go in to the court itself, simply wandering the informal grounds (the "Formal Grounds" were behind the paywall) and taking in a summer Sunday. I couldn't help notice that the head of one of the statues in the rose garden was covered in rather un-Tudorish clingfilm (or was Henry VIII simply very much ahead of his time?) but the place really was a perfectly encapsulated time-warp. It would be difficult to state with a straight face that, at the time of the construction of the palace, England was settled and stable, but even a cursory wander allowed us to be transported away from financial meltdown, civil unrest and political rebellion.
The next day, I had an unmistakable sense of "deja vu". I woke up early on a Monday morning, left the house before my girlfriend, and fought my way past commuters to Euston from where I was going to take a Virgin train to the north. If I'd been on auto-pilot, I would have quite easily mistakenly climbed into First Class on the next train to Preston, instead of cattle to Rugby, but fortunately I had my wits sufficiently about me to remind myself I was simply heading out for the day to visit a good friend of mine from university days, now living in Nuneaton.
I didn't see a great deal of the town itself, as Dave decided wisely instead that we should see a little of the Midlands countryside. Indeed, tramping past the quarry at Hartshill and along narrow, winding canals (I of course took the opportunity to wave at more boats), we managed to visit three separate counties - Warwickshire, Staffordshire and Leicestershire. I was at times hopelessly lost underneath the canopied forests and the endless rolling hills, but my guide knew his way expertly, even if the odd wrong turning (leading to another hill) occasionally flummoxed us. There was even a time for a quick visit, in the name of amateur dramatics, to Tamworth Castle, to scout out potential rooms for a production Dave will be involved in for Hallowe'en. Overall it was wonderful to escape into the countryside, as even in Durham I was still technically in a city, and while I'm no Wordsworth, I believe it is only possible to enjoy nature to the full when you have experienced so much contrasting urbanity that you feel suffocated by its weight.
Fortunately we managed to counteract the healthy exercise and appreciation of God's green earth with a couple of ciders in Spoons and a chicken kiev dinner at the Old Malt Shovel. Life is, after all, about balance.
As London implodes around me, my indulgence of freedom as I enter Week 3 must remain unfettered - I don't intend to let the horrific actions of an imbecilic few keep me locked in my flat, and in any case South West London seems to have escaped the majority of the trouble. So in a bid to escape the Armageddon-style glut of rolling news and harbingers of doom, my itchy feet continue to direct me well away from my home, and in the last forty-eight hours I've taken in the glorious historic attraction that is Hampton Court Palace, and the slightly less glorious and palatial but still highly enjoyable Nuneaton.
The journey to the former was made by boat. I'm not known, frankly, for my love of water - I like looking at it, but am less keen on interacting with it - but I was pleasantly surprised by the serenity of the service from Kingston Pier to Hampton Court. Frankly, with the choice being between a uninspiring ten-minute Southwest train journey, or a leisurely half-hour cruise along the river, past astonishingly large houses and pretty bank-side pubs in Thames Ditton, I think we made the right decision. As boats of all sizes, from tiny punts to gleaming white yachts, sailed past us, they all without fail waved at us as we cut a path towards the Palace. Sometimes, when the TV is angrily declaiming the end of civilisation as we know it, falling back on these seemingly inconsequential details renders their verbiage flat and lifeless.
Being cheapskates and penny-pinchers we didn't actually go in to the court itself, simply wandering the informal grounds (the "Formal Grounds" were behind the paywall) and taking in a summer Sunday. I couldn't help notice that the head of one of the statues in the rose garden was covered in rather un-Tudorish clingfilm (or was Henry VIII simply very much ahead of his time?) but the place really was a perfectly encapsulated time-warp. It would be difficult to state with a straight face that, at the time of the construction of the palace, England was settled and stable, but even a cursory wander allowed us to be transported away from financial meltdown, civil unrest and political rebellion.
The next day, I had an unmistakable sense of "deja vu". I woke up early on a Monday morning, left the house before my girlfriend, and fought my way past commuters to Euston from where I was going to take a Virgin train to the north. If I'd been on auto-pilot, I would have quite easily mistakenly climbed into First Class on the next train to Preston, instead of cattle to Rugby, but fortunately I had my wits sufficiently about me to remind myself I was simply heading out for the day to visit a good friend of mine from university days, now living in Nuneaton.
I didn't see a great deal of the town itself, as Dave decided wisely instead that we should see a little of the Midlands countryside. Indeed, tramping past the quarry at Hartshill and along narrow, winding canals (I of course took the opportunity to wave at more boats), we managed to visit three separate counties - Warwickshire, Staffordshire and Leicestershire. I was at times hopelessly lost underneath the canopied forests and the endless rolling hills, but my guide knew his way expertly, even if the odd wrong turning (leading to another hill) occasionally flummoxed us. There was even a time for a quick visit, in the name of amateur dramatics, to Tamworth Castle, to scout out potential rooms for a production Dave will be involved in for Hallowe'en. Overall it was wonderful to escape into the countryside, as even in Durham I was still technically in a city, and while I'm no Wordsworth, I believe it is only possible to enjoy nature to the full when you have experienced so much contrasting urbanity that you feel suffocated by its weight.
Fortunately we managed to counteract the healthy exercise and appreciation of God's green earth with a couple of ciders in Spoons and a chicken kiev dinner at the Old Malt Shovel. Life is, after all, about balance.
Saturday, 6 August 2011
Day 12: A Tale of Two Postcodes
"East London is a vampire,
It sucks the joy right out of me"
- Bloc Party, Song for Clay (Disappear Here)
Over the last couple of days, partly because of rain and partly because of an increasing personal sense of laziness, I've been rather immobile of late (although I must guiltily admit that Commander Shephard has now clocked up a few thousand light years in saving the galaxy from those nasty Reaper types). While I have various travel plans for next week, all of them are out of town, and with my quest to explore London still a bold-type heading in the Freedom Manifesto, I resolved to place another pin in my mental map of my hometown, and headed East.
East London is a bit of a question mark for me. Friends of mine have spoken of its ramshackle markets and trendy bars as a veritable treasure trove fit for Ali Baba's thieves - others would sooner hang themselves than be seen on any street with an E in the postcode. I myself must confess that I only really know Dalston, an area being "regenerated" within an inch of its life and witnessing hordes of sharp-suited professionals homogenising the streets left, right and centre, but beyond snippets of Hackney and a little Canada Water, I'm clueless. Besides, I'm sure my daily wardrobe wouldn't pass muster in even the least exclusive of Hoxton's cocktail bars.
In a flash of inspiration, I thought of Brick Lane - surely one of the most famous streets in London (of course I'd never been there). Home to 93 Feet East, Rough Trade Records and more curry houses than you can shake a peshwari naan at, I headed directly there, though the journey from quaintly genteel Surbiton was hardly straightforward. Stepping after an hour of underground and overground hell out of Shoreditch High Street, where I could already feel my street cred rising rapidly, I passed along Quaker Street (spotting a hilariously formal "No peeing" sign outside an otherwise innocuous wall) before turning onto Brick Lane itself.
The moment I hit the street I received a woefully poorly timed phone call from my gym asking if I was at all interested in their incredible Customer Referral Scheme. As if my magic, effortlessly coolly dressed teenagers sauntered casually past, staring incredulously at this shorted-and-T-shirted suburbanite shouting down his iPhone, as if I wasn't already feeling markedly out of place. However, things picked up as I strolled past the old Truman Brewery, and passed onto the curry house battleground. It's clear that this a dog-eat-dog world for any aspring restauranteur, with multiple banners exclaiming why a tourist should part with their cash for a phaal at their place rather than the outwardly identical house next door. The poorest advert I could find was a particular establishment proudly declaiming that its chef was "runner-up in the Brick Lane Curry Festival"...in 2005.
Before I knew it I reached Whitechapel Road, and in the distance I saw the faceless giants that are the skyscrapers of the Square Mile. It seemed only minutes ago that I was fighting past groups of laughing students outside All Star Lanes, and suddenly I was a banker's briefcase's throw from the City. I couldn't resist the temptation to revisit, if only briefly, the streets that had been part of my working life every since I moved here, and so E1 bled smoothly into EC3, the rough-hewn newsagents and stalls of Brick Lane replaced by airbrushed, overpriced bars and restaurants.
Yet immediately, the tension, even unease I felt in such a culturally significant part of London melted away. Walking down Leadenhall Street, poking briefly into its famous Market before shaking my head at the ugliness of the Lloyds building, the metallic buildings and the sanitised streets imbued a sense of familiarity and comfort. I walked almost automatically, ticking off places I'd visited in what I now regard as a previous life (Caravaggio, Abacus, the old Fuzzy's Grub that still hasn't been replaced), and chided myself for feeling that the cool austerity of EC3 could warm me more than the fierce independence of E1.
But this is the London I know, that has made me who I am today, and for all the time I have dedicated to pushing my personal boundaries, it was ironically soothing to return to the postcode that has chewed up and spat out so many before me.
It sucks the joy right out of me"
- Bloc Party, Song for Clay (Disappear Here)
Over the last couple of days, partly because of rain and partly because of an increasing personal sense of laziness, I've been rather immobile of late (although I must guiltily admit that Commander Shephard has now clocked up a few thousand light years in saving the galaxy from those nasty Reaper types). While I have various travel plans for next week, all of them are out of town, and with my quest to explore London still a bold-type heading in the Freedom Manifesto, I resolved to place another pin in my mental map of my hometown, and headed East.
East London is a bit of a question mark for me. Friends of mine have spoken of its ramshackle markets and trendy bars as a veritable treasure trove fit for Ali Baba's thieves - others would sooner hang themselves than be seen on any street with an E in the postcode. I myself must confess that I only really know Dalston, an area being "regenerated" within an inch of its life and witnessing hordes of sharp-suited professionals homogenising the streets left, right and centre, but beyond snippets of Hackney and a little Canada Water, I'm clueless. Besides, I'm sure my daily wardrobe wouldn't pass muster in even the least exclusive of Hoxton's cocktail bars.
In a flash of inspiration, I thought of Brick Lane - surely one of the most famous streets in London (of course I'd never been there). Home to 93 Feet East, Rough Trade Records and more curry houses than you can shake a peshwari naan at, I headed directly there, though the journey from quaintly genteel Surbiton was hardly straightforward. Stepping after an hour of underground and overground hell out of Shoreditch High Street, where I could already feel my street cred rising rapidly, I passed along Quaker Street (spotting a hilariously formal "No peeing" sign outside an otherwise innocuous wall) before turning onto Brick Lane itself.
The moment I hit the street I received a woefully poorly timed phone call from my gym asking if I was at all interested in their incredible Customer Referral Scheme. As if my magic, effortlessly coolly dressed teenagers sauntered casually past, staring incredulously at this shorted-and-T-shirted suburbanite shouting down his iPhone, as if I wasn't already feeling markedly out of place. However, things picked up as I strolled past the old Truman Brewery, and passed onto the curry house battleground. It's clear that this a dog-eat-dog world for any aspring restauranteur, with multiple banners exclaiming why a tourist should part with their cash for a phaal at their place rather than the outwardly identical house next door. The poorest advert I could find was a particular establishment proudly declaiming that its chef was "runner-up in the Brick Lane Curry Festival"...in 2005.
Before I knew it I reached Whitechapel Road, and in the distance I saw the faceless giants that are the skyscrapers of the Square Mile. It seemed only minutes ago that I was fighting past groups of laughing students outside All Star Lanes, and suddenly I was a banker's briefcase's throw from the City. I couldn't resist the temptation to revisit, if only briefly, the streets that had been part of my working life every since I moved here, and so E1 bled smoothly into EC3, the rough-hewn newsagents and stalls of Brick Lane replaced by airbrushed, overpriced bars and restaurants.
Yet immediately, the tension, even unease I felt in such a culturally significant part of London melted away. Walking down Leadenhall Street, poking briefly into its famous Market before shaking my head at the ugliness of the Lloyds building, the metallic buildings and the sanitised streets imbued a sense of familiarity and comfort. I walked almost automatically, ticking off places I'd visited in what I now regard as a previous life (Caravaggio, Abacus, the old Fuzzy's Grub that still hasn't been replaced), and chided myself for feeling that the cool austerity of EC3 could warm me more than the fierce independence of E1.
But this is the London I know, that has made me who I am today, and for all the time I have dedicated to pushing my personal boundaries, it was ironically soothing to return to the postcode that has chewed up and spat out so many before me.
Friday, 5 August 2011
Day 11: House husbandry
"A place for everything, and everything in its place" - Isabella Beeton, from Mrs. Beeton's Book of Household Management.
From the outset of my short career, I travelled. It was par for the course - time in your home office, whether that was London or elsewhere, was generally limited to a Friday, and for the rest of the working week, you were expected to schlep your way to wherever your client was based. The firm took great pains to let their graduates know that this was normal behaviour, that personal mobility and flexibility was a given, and I inked my name of the dotted line fully expecting to spend my life on the road.
I know former colleagues who went to great pains to chain themselves to within the Square Mile, shaking their heads at fantastic roles outside of the M25, and I know those who have racked up so many airmiles that they were practically on first name terms with Border Control. Some people had family lives they wished to protect, others openly believed that London is the centre of the universe (clue: it isn't, by any stretch of the imagination) and couldn't believe that business could possibly be conducted outside of the capital. Still others grasped the opportunity to see the world on the company dime and worked in Spain, the Czech Republic, India, even Australia.
Me, I was somewhere within the middle, fortunate enough to mix time in London with time away, but at one point, I visited the London office three times in six months, as I worked my way along the South Coast (a far from unpleasant experience in the summer of '09). I stayed in ten different hotels in that period, always aiming for small independent boutiques (within budget of course) rather than the faceless chains that knew you by number rather than by your favourite gin, and I would be lying if I said I didn't rather enjoy the plumped up pillows, the attentive service, and the endless, needless supply of three-course dinners.
But I was coming home every Friday night, shattered from another two-hour train-plus-tube journey from Cosham or Totton or Worthing, and finding that my housemates were becoming increasingly, worryingly accustomed to my absence. I'd be left out of house dinners, not maliciously, but simply because I wasn't expected to be available. I'd wake up on a Saturday morning and find a fully stocked wine-rack, but no bread in the cupboard. I'd be faced with the choice of either braving the Holloway Road on a Saturday and raid the supermarket, or eat out, or worse convince myself that I didn't even really need to three proper meals a day. I'd try to do my laundry, and find that my housemates had already block booked the machine throughout the weekend. I'd be invited out to dinner and resent the fact that this was something I'd actually have to pay for myself rather than simply waving a corporate credit card. I'd be invited to a gig or play on a weeknight, and would have to reluctantly turn the opportunity down as I knew I would be in a hotel room instead, either working, eating, or sleeping.
In short, I was slowly, but surely, forgetting how to live life.
Fast forward to the present day, where Jo now quite reasonably assigns me tasks to carry out during the day while she is actually earning money. She asked me to wash the towels - I managed to wash none of the dirty ones and all of the ones she had washed the week before. She asked me to cook fajitas - I'd have to check with her exactly how long rice took before it became edible and not toxic. I've taken on, willingly, the mantle of house husband, but I'm about as useful as a chocolate fireguard.
Fortunately, I'm learning, and I have an extremely patient girlfriend who is dragging me back to the real world. I'm determined to stay there, and earn my keep.
From the outset of my short career, I travelled. It was par for the course - time in your home office, whether that was London or elsewhere, was generally limited to a Friday, and for the rest of the working week, you were expected to schlep your way to wherever your client was based. The firm took great pains to let their graduates know that this was normal behaviour, that personal mobility and flexibility was a given, and I inked my name of the dotted line fully expecting to spend my life on the road.
I know former colleagues who went to great pains to chain themselves to within the Square Mile, shaking their heads at fantastic roles outside of the M25, and I know those who have racked up so many airmiles that they were practically on first name terms with Border Control. Some people had family lives they wished to protect, others openly believed that London is the centre of the universe (clue: it isn't, by any stretch of the imagination) and couldn't believe that business could possibly be conducted outside of the capital. Still others grasped the opportunity to see the world on the company dime and worked in Spain, the Czech Republic, India, even Australia.
Me, I was somewhere within the middle, fortunate enough to mix time in London with time away, but at one point, I visited the London office three times in six months, as I worked my way along the South Coast (a far from unpleasant experience in the summer of '09). I stayed in ten different hotels in that period, always aiming for small independent boutiques (within budget of course) rather than the faceless chains that knew you by number rather than by your favourite gin, and I would be lying if I said I didn't rather enjoy the plumped up pillows, the attentive service, and the endless, needless supply of three-course dinners.
But I was coming home every Friday night, shattered from another two-hour train-plus-tube journey from Cosham or Totton or Worthing, and finding that my housemates were becoming increasingly, worryingly accustomed to my absence. I'd be left out of house dinners, not maliciously, but simply because I wasn't expected to be available. I'd wake up on a Saturday morning and find a fully stocked wine-rack, but no bread in the cupboard. I'd be faced with the choice of either braving the Holloway Road on a Saturday and raid the supermarket, or eat out, or worse convince myself that I didn't even really need to three proper meals a day. I'd try to do my laundry, and find that my housemates had already block booked the machine throughout the weekend. I'd be invited out to dinner and resent the fact that this was something I'd actually have to pay for myself rather than simply waving a corporate credit card. I'd be invited to a gig or play on a weeknight, and would have to reluctantly turn the opportunity down as I knew I would be in a hotel room instead, either working, eating, or sleeping.
In short, I was slowly, but surely, forgetting how to live life.
Fast forward to the present day, where Jo now quite reasonably assigns me tasks to carry out during the day while she is actually earning money. She asked me to wash the towels - I managed to wash none of the dirty ones and all of the ones she had washed the week before. She asked me to cook fajitas - I'd have to check with her exactly how long rice took before it became edible and not toxic. I've taken on, willingly, the mantle of house husband, but I'm about as useful as a chocolate fireguard.
Fortunately, I'm learning, and I have an extremely patient girlfriend who is dragging me back to the real world. I'm determined to stay there, and earn my keep.
Thursday, 4 August 2011
Day 10: Retrospective #1
"'I don't have time to sharpen the saw,' the man said emphatically. 'I'm too busy sawing!'" - attributed to Steven Covey, from The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People
At my old firm, we had a strange fascination with the concept of "Lessons Learned". After a particular project or phase of work, enlightened managers would ask the more junior staff to gather together their thoughts on what had been successful, and what had, frankly, been a bit of a disaster. We would toddle off and produce an exhaustively peer-reviewed, smartly formatted document or "deck" (PowerPoint presentation to most mortals), deftly presented to our bosses and our bosses' bosses using terms such as "joined-up approach" and "enhanced collaboration". Copies would be distributed to the team, efficiently filed in a detailed folder structure on a shared network drive, and we would pass serenely on to the next phase of work.
And we would make the same mistakes again.
I'm perhaps slightly over-dramatising for effect, but the core concept holds true. The world turns at such a terrific rate of knots that we have neither the time nor the inclination to reflect on what we have achieved - or to use Covey's analogy, we continue to labour through our wood-cutting without resting to sharpen our saw. These "Lessons Learned" dossiers were a good start, if overly formal and sanitised, and I only wish that on my particular project we took that process further.
So as the beautiful sunshine London has enjoyed this week makes way for torrential downpours, and as I realise I have reached the quarter-way mark of my allotted period of freedom, I feel I should act on my own advice. So, what do I feel I have achieved since I woke up on Monday 25th July and foolishly set out for that first run?
At my old firm, we had a strange fascination with the concept of "Lessons Learned". After a particular project or phase of work, enlightened managers would ask the more junior staff to gather together their thoughts on what had been successful, and what had, frankly, been a bit of a disaster. We would toddle off and produce an exhaustively peer-reviewed, smartly formatted document or "deck" (PowerPoint presentation to most mortals), deftly presented to our bosses and our bosses' bosses using terms such as "joined-up approach" and "enhanced collaboration". Copies would be distributed to the team, efficiently filed in a detailed folder structure on a shared network drive, and we would pass serenely on to the next phase of work.
And we would make the same mistakes again.
I'm perhaps slightly over-dramatising for effect, but the core concept holds true. The world turns at such a terrific rate of knots that we have neither the time nor the inclination to reflect on what we have achieved - or to use Covey's analogy, we continue to labour through our wood-cutting without resting to sharpen our saw. These "Lessons Learned" dossiers were a good start, if overly formal and sanitised, and I only wish that on my particular project we took that process further.
So as the beautiful sunshine London has enjoyed this week makes way for torrential downpours, and as I realise I have reached the quarter-way mark of my allotted period of freedom, I feel I should act on my own advice. So, what do I feel I have achieved since I woke up on Monday 25th July and foolishly set out for that first run?
- Blog: You may have gathered that I love writing, and the desire to keep posting interesting and thoughtful entries has motivated some of the activities I've been undertaking these last few days. I'm extremely grateful for the comments I've received so far, and for those who have taken the time to read this - thanks for your interest!
- Gym: I wouldn't want to bore my readership with tales of squats and lat pull-downs, but I've rather bizarrely enjoyed rejoining a gym and dedicating time each day to put myself through pain and misery on various torture devices.
- Travel: I've been out and about more than I thought I would when I was first dreaming of my freedom a few days before I resigned - Durham, Wimbledon, the O2, the Proms, plus that brief but fulfilling visit to South Bank. I have more exploration planned, as I persist in believing that only through widening horizons can you hope to understand yourself and others.
And what has not gone so well?
- Piano: I stated in my first post that I want to take my Grade 8 exam in November, but these first few days I have done barely anything to make that ambition reality. I've braved some of the easier scales, and looked at some of the pieces, but if I took the exam tomorrow I'd be laughed out of the room. Must. Try. Harder.
- Spanish: I also wanted to start learning a new language. No progress on that front either, although I'm starting to think that with my new-found enthusiasm for the gym, and the piano exam looming, I may be biting off more than I can chew. Still, half an hour day is surely achievable, especially if the rain continues to pour.
- Cooking: My girlfriend will certainly testify to the fact that I have not spent enough time sharpening my culinary saw (a kinfe?). The Chelsea Splodge aside, I resolve this week to push on with this - I'm no Heston Blumenthal but I'm sure I can make a curry.
Those are my 'lessons learned' for the first ten days of my freedom. But overall, I'm enjoying every minute of being away from work and I'm in no hurry to return - that at least goes some way to validate that decision to "strike the board and cry, 'No more!'"
Wednesday, 3 August 2011
Day 9: Pink Floyd
"Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way.
The time has come,
The song is over,
Thought I'd something more to say..." - Pink Floyd, Time
In 1995, two seemingly unrelated events took place. My school in Bristol started giving me 'prep' (homework to pretty much every other school in England) and my loving parents bought me a Sega Saturn for Christmas. (A Sega Saturn! What a way to show my age!) I'd never owned any previous consoles, having only experienced them wonderingly at neighbours' and friends' houses, but as the occurrences of the first event became rather more regular as the school year dragged on, I found myself unable to enjoy the second event as much as a ten-year old boy should. When you have a demon of a maths teacher like Mr. Evans, you don't dare turn in your algebra a day late just because you were trying to set the Mountain course record in the Lancia Delta in Sega Rally.
However, by pure accident, I managed to combine the two. The Saturn was stationed in the 'playroom' by a charmingly clunky Acorn CRT monitor, a hangover from our old Atari ST, not far from a battered old sofabed which I would wearingly unfurl every evening and cover with old-fashioned exercise books and ring binders. One evening, when I was particularly frustrated with an English essay that had started but simply refused to end, I took a break and started rooting around the desk, toying with the idea of taking on that ridiculous fifth boss from Panzer Dragoon again. (I was so close!)
Instead, though, my eye caught a glimpse of a CD cover lying on the desk. I hadn't remembered putting it there, and had only vague memories of my Dad mentioning it. It simply bore a stylised ray of light shining into a glass prism and refracting into a rainbow. It was undeniably striking, especially to a ten year-old, but it didn't even reveal the artist or the album title. Intrigued, I turned the Saturn on, let it run through to what was then the thoroughly modern CD screen and slipped the disc into the tray. I pressed C on the joypad and returned reluctantly to the essay.
That night was the first ever time I had listened to music on the Saturn, and it became a ritual that I adhered to for as long as I remember grappling with homework. I eventually added other CDs to the roster - Billy Joel's An Innocent Man and its brash reworking of soul and Stax; Dire Straits' easy-listening giant Brothers in Arms - but those records were in the rather unfortunate position of having to follow Dark Side of the Moon. I'd never before heard alarm clocks or cash registers or disjointed voices layered together in music. I'd never heard an instrumental, much less one with a single female voice improvising a horrendous yet melodious cry to heaven (or with titles like "The Great Gig in the Sky"). And I'd never heard anything so fatalistic and final as the closing song cycle of "Any Colour You Like", "Brain Damage" and "Eclipse". My small childish brain was simply blown away by what I still consider the greatest (non-classical) album ever committed to disc, and I have spent the rest of my life trying to find something to equal it (and have some fairly close with The Who's Who's Next and the Floyd-esque Ten Silver Drops by Secret Machines).
I had the opportunity to revisit those early memories when my girlfriend surprised me with tickets to see Brit Floyd at the London O2 yesterday evening. Various extenuating circumstances meant we could only see the first half, but they were note perfect from the outset, sensibly dividing guitar and vocal duties across the band and keeping the inter-song chat to a minimum. Particular highlights were the monolithic "Welcome to the Machine" and a sensitive, studied "Us and Them", although both Jo and I found the visuals, while appropriate, slightly disconcerting at times.
I left feeling as if I had rediscovered a small part of myself, reaffirming my faith in music and its power not only to delight in the present but also to transport to the past as well as any sepia-toned photo album or battered train ticket. My Saturn may have bitten the dust a long time ago, but it opened the door to my current obsession with music, and to lose that would be to lose a part of me too precious to replace.
The time has come,
The song is over,
Thought I'd something more to say..." - Pink Floyd, Time
In 1995, two seemingly unrelated events took place. My school in Bristol started giving me 'prep' (homework to pretty much every other school in England) and my loving parents bought me a Sega Saturn for Christmas. (A Sega Saturn! What a way to show my age!) I'd never owned any previous consoles, having only experienced them wonderingly at neighbours' and friends' houses, but as the occurrences of the first event became rather more regular as the school year dragged on, I found myself unable to enjoy the second event as much as a ten-year old boy should. When you have a demon of a maths teacher like Mr. Evans, you don't dare turn in your algebra a day late just because you were trying to set the Mountain course record in the Lancia Delta in Sega Rally.
However, by pure accident, I managed to combine the two. The Saturn was stationed in the 'playroom' by a charmingly clunky Acorn CRT monitor, a hangover from our old Atari ST, not far from a battered old sofabed which I would wearingly unfurl every evening and cover with old-fashioned exercise books and ring binders. One evening, when I was particularly frustrated with an English essay that had started but simply refused to end, I took a break and started rooting around the desk, toying with the idea of taking on that ridiculous fifth boss from Panzer Dragoon again. (I was so close!)
Instead, though, my eye caught a glimpse of a CD cover lying on the desk. I hadn't remembered putting it there, and had only vague memories of my Dad mentioning it. It simply bore a stylised ray of light shining into a glass prism and refracting into a rainbow. It was undeniably striking, especially to a ten year-old, but it didn't even reveal the artist or the album title. Intrigued, I turned the Saturn on, let it run through to what was then the thoroughly modern CD screen and slipped the disc into the tray. I pressed C on the joypad and returned reluctantly to the essay.
That night was the first ever time I had listened to music on the Saturn, and it became a ritual that I adhered to for as long as I remember grappling with homework. I eventually added other CDs to the roster - Billy Joel's An Innocent Man and its brash reworking of soul and Stax; Dire Straits' easy-listening giant Brothers in Arms - but those records were in the rather unfortunate position of having to follow Dark Side of the Moon. I'd never before heard alarm clocks or cash registers or disjointed voices layered together in music. I'd never heard an instrumental, much less one with a single female voice improvising a horrendous yet melodious cry to heaven (or with titles like "The Great Gig in the Sky"). And I'd never heard anything so fatalistic and final as the closing song cycle of "Any Colour You Like", "Brain Damage" and "Eclipse". My small childish brain was simply blown away by what I still consider the greatest (non-classical) album ever committed to disc, and I have spent the rest of my life trying to find something to equal it (and have some fairly close with The Who's Who's Next and the Floyd-esque Ten Silver Drops by Secret Machines).
I had the opportunity to revisit those early memories when my girlfriend surprised me with tickets to see Brit Floyd at the London O2 yesterday evening. Various extenuating circumstances meant we could only see the first half, but they were note perfect from the outset, sensibly dividing guitar and vocal duties across the band and keeping the inter-song chat to a minimum. Particular highlights were the monolithic "Welcome to the Machine" and a sensitive, studied "Us and Them", although both Jo and I found the visuals, while appropriate, slightly disconcerting at times.
I left feeling as if I had rediscovered a small part of myself, reaffirming my faith in music and its power not only to delight in the present but also to transport to the past as well as any sepia-toned photo album or battered train ticket. My Saturn may have bitten the dust a long time ago, but it opened the door to my current obsession with music, and to lose that would be to lose a part of me too precious to replace.
Tuesday, 2 August 2011
Day 8: Wimbledon
"The All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club...reserves the right to refuse entry to anyone adopting unreasonable social behaviour..and/or commits any action against the spirit of The Queue" - AELTC Wimbledon Website
In this inter-connected, smart-phone-dominated world, it amazes me how much sway paper still has over the national consciousness. As the summer holidays grind into gear, and thousands of families flock to airports, Dad might at the check-in desk smugly whip out a tablet that contains the flight tickets, the boarding passes, the travel insurance and the kids' dental records, but they'll still all need to glumly root through their oversized baggage to track down the tiny red book that ultimately grants passage through Terminal 5. All the technology in the world can't help you if your passport is still in the sock drawer.
I remark on this because yesterday saw the official opening of the All England Lawn Tennis Club Public Ballot for Wimbledon 2012. Being unemployed and a (gentle)man of leisure, I thought I could probably clear a few minutes in my packed calendar to fill in the online application form. Except, I couldn't find one. I couldn't even find a link to download a PDF, or, heaven forbid, an RTF file. It turns out that the first stage in applying for the ballot is to send a stamped, self-addressed envelope to a PO BOX address in SW19. The gentry at the Club will then check that the envelope is the correct size and of the self-sealing variety (those AELTC tongues have far more important things to do than lick your SAEs), that the address is legible, that the stars are aligned, and then they might, MIGHT send you a form. And all this to qualify for a glorified raffle, with the prize being the chance to give a tennis club a lot of your money.
What I thought would take a few minutes eventually took a morning, as I scoured the flat for envelopes, broke two biros, covered myself in ink as I resorted to fountain pen to scrawl my address, and then trudged to Sainsbury's to buy stamps. It says something about our current attitude to letters, too, that at the checkout the lady was so surprised that I wanted stamps she had to ring a supervisor and ask him to unlock a drawer within which the offending bits of gummed paper lived. I hadn't realised that in the eyes of supermarkets, stamps were now controlled goods.
But in the end, I had to give the Wimbledon people credit. After all, we are the only country in the world that believes that the queue to witness a particular sporting event is as enjoyable as the event itself. In an age where buying a flight to New York would take less than five minutes, I applaud the organisers of one of the most well-respected tournaments in the world in standing by their old-fashioned yet quintessentially English processes, and insisting that for attending one of their tennis matches, obeying paper-related rules is as important as handing over the cash.
So taken was I with this wonderfully traditional process that I decided to spend the afternoon in Wimbledon itself. I'd never been before, though I have friends who love life there, and thought this was as good a time as any to pay my respects. Outside the train station, it seemed that the area hadn't completely escaped the onslaught of modernisation, as Alexandra Road was covered for half a mile in extensive roadworks, but fortunately I'd heard good things about the Village, so I hurried my way there first. Climbing Wimbledon Hill Road, I could indeed feel the crowds of Frappucino-slurping students and honking car horns behind me, and I reached the quaint High Street in good spirits.
As I approached Wimbledon Common, however, I could see that the searingly hot sunshine that day imbued the whole place with a kind of stale, staid immobility. The grass was faded to a limp straw colour, there were small clumps of teenagers slumped sweatily here and there, and even a group of enterprising Frisbee players looked lethargic and defeated. The paths around the Common were little more than dirt, and in the oppressive heat the stones and pebbles seemed to glint and shimmer. I didn't last long before I turned around - I'd spotted a Pain Quotidien on the High Street and lurked there for an hour or so with tea and a tartine.
Mid-sip I was struck with a sense of familiarity. Just as the hill lead to a beautiful High Street and untamed Common, so did Holloway Road lead to Highgate Village and Hampstead Heath, my favourite stomping grounds of a few months ago way up in N6. London may be a patchwork of many patterns, but look closely and you'll see the same cloth repeated over and over again. Perhaps I'm starting to make sense of this city now - starting to make the connections. If days of freedom aren't intended for us to make sense of the world we live in, I'm not really sure what they're for.
In this inter-connected, smart-phone-dominated world, it amazes me how much sway paper still has over the national consciousness. As the summer holidays grind into gear, and thousands of families flock to airports, Dad might at the check-in desk smugly whip out a tablet that contains the flight tickets, the boarding passes, the travel insurance and the kids' dental records, but they'll still all need to glumly root through their oversized baggage to track down the tiny red book that ultimately grants passage through Terminal 5. All the technology in the world can't help you if your passport is still in the sock drawer.
I remark on this because yesterday saw the official opening of the All England Lawn Tennis Club Public Ballot for Wimbledon 2012. Being unemployed and a (gentle)man of leisure, I thought I could probably clear a few minutes in my packed calendar to fill in the online application form. Except, I couldn't find one. I couldn't even find a link to download a PDF, or, heaven forbid, an RTF file. It turns out that the first stage in applying for the ballot is to send a stamped, self-addressed envelope to a PO BOX address in SW19. The gentry at the Club will then check that the envelope is the correct size and of the self-sealing variety (those AELTC tongues have far more important things to do than lick your SAEs), that the address is legible, that the stars are aligned, and then they might, MIGHT send you a form. And all this to qualify for a glorified raffle, with the prize being the chance to give a tennis club a lot of your money.
What I thought would take a few minutes eventually took a morning, as I scoured the flat for envelopes, broke two biros, covered myself in ink as I resorted to fountain pen to scrawl my address, and then trudged to Sainsbury's to buy stamps. It says something about our current attitude to letters, too, that at the checkout the lady was so surprised that I wanted stamps she had to ring a supervisor and ask him to unlock a drawer within which the offending bits of gummed paper lived. I hadn't realised that in the eyes of supermarkets, stamps were now controlled goods.
But in the end, I had to give the Wimbledon people credit. After all, we are the only country in the world that believes that the queue to witness a particular sporting event is as enjoyable as the event itself. In an age where buying a flight to New York would take less than five minutes, I applaud the organisers of one of the most well-respected tournaments in the world in standing by their old-fashioned yet quintessentially English processes, and insisting that for attending one of their tennis matches, obeying paper-related rules is as important as handing over the cash.
So taken was I with this wonderfully traditional process that I decided to spend the afternoon in Wimbledon itself. I'd never been before, though I have friends who love life there, and thought this was as good a time as any to pay my respects. Outside the train station, it seemed that the area hadn't completely escaped the onslaught of modernisation, as Alexandra Road was covered for half a mile in extensive roadworks, but fortunately I'd heard good things about the Village, so I hurried my way there first. Climbing Wimbledon Hill Road, I could indeed feel the crowds of Frappucino-slurping students and honking car horns behind me, and I reached the quaint High Street in good spirits.
As I approached Wimbledon Common, however, I could see that the searingly hot sunshine that day imbued the whole place with a kind of stale, staid immobility. The grass was faded to a limp straw colour, there were small clumps of teenagers slumped sweatily here and there, and even a group of enterprising Frisbee players looked lethargic and defeated. The paths around the Common were little more than dirt, and in the oppressive heat the stones and pebbles seemed to glint and shimmer. I didn't last long before I turned around - I'd spotted a Pain Quotidien on the High Street and lurked there for an hour or so with tea and a tartine.
Mid-sip I was struck with a sense of familiarity. Just as the hill lead to a beautiful High Street and untamed Common, so did Holloway Road lead to Highgate Village and Hampstead Heath, my favourite stomping grounds of a few months ago way up in N6. London may be a patchwork of many patterns, but look closely and you'll see the same cloth repeated over and over again. Perhaps I'm starting to make sense of this city now - starting to make the connections. If days of freedom aren't intended for us to make sense of the world we live in, I'm not really sure what they're for.
Thursday, 28 July 2011
Day 3: South Bank
"By seeing London, I have seen as much of life as the world can shew." - Samuel Johnson
September 2007 was the first time I travelled to London without a return ticket. Indeed, I didn't even have a single - my Dad drove me from West Yorkshire to North London, with most of my life tucked away neatly in cardboard boxes in the boot. I remember clearly drinking lukewarm, overly strong tea in the Welcome Break at Watford Gap, still trying to convince myself that despite having never stayed in the capital for more than a night, I was relocating permanently to this ultra-city, this gigantic monument to urbanisation, commerce and tourism. I was convinced that all business in London was conducted by suited-and-booted charlatans who carried on like candidates in The Apprentice, in a cut-throat city that would envelop me in its shadowy folds and crush me to nothing.
I had two weeks from moving into my shared flat in Holloway before I started work, and so I sought to get my bearings as best I could. I remember performing a hilariously incompetent trial commute to The City, disembarking from the 271 at Finsbury Square and traipsing backwards and forwards across the Square Mile in desperate search for my new office, finding only endless sandwich shops and identi-kit glass offices with bored receptionists and shifty security staff clock-watching to stave off the immense boredom of guarding these corporate conglomerates. But I also remember enjoying immensely an inescapable sense of anonymity that I had never found anywhere else, a sense of being one person against the vastness of an unlimited but uncaring city. And perhaps it was an attempt to recapture that feeling that led me to walk from Waterloo to Charing Cross Road, via the South Bank, yesterday evening.
I timed my trek for early evening, yet again finding myself pushing against the flow of commuters hauling themselves down Victoria Road after ticking off another Wednesday workday. Leaving Waterloo and strolling to Jubilee Gardens, I experienced again that sense of forfeiting your identity. Already the space and the noise rendered my body insignificant, as crowds enjoying the late evening twilight sought to squeeze every last second from the attractions surrounding them. I fought my way beyond the London Eye and headed left, past the National Aquarium and the imposing facade of County Hall, and with every step I found myself distracted by the flash of cameras and smartphones solidifying the South Bank onto memory cards. As I began to cross Westminster Bridge, gaggles of giggling schoolchildren darted in zig-zags from tourist traps to overpriced Japanese restaurants, and their sighing parents handed over banknotes to the desperate tricksters inviting you to choose under which matchbox the coin was placed.
But passing over the bridge and heading down Parliament Street and Whitehall to Trafalgar Square, I reflected on, in reality, how little different I was from these clueless tourists convinced that all of London's glory lay at the feet of a mime or a magician. I may have paid my council tax to the Greater London Authority for nearly four years, but as I've barely worked here, I found myself in that chilled grey space between tourist and native. London is both familiar and utterly intelligible to me - I might be able to tell you where the best pizza is (here) or my favourite bar for a mojito (here), but for me, living here is like staring at a pitch-black sky with faint pinpricks of light that catch the eye. I need to turn those stars into constellations, those constellations into galaxies - if that's not a noble mission for these days of freedom stretched out before me, I don't know what is.
September 2007 was the first time I travelled to London without a return ticket. Indeed, I didn't even have a single - my Dad drove me from West Yorkshire to North London, with most of my life tucked away neatly in cardboard boxes in the boot. I remember clearly drinking lukewarm, overly strong tea in the Welcome Break at Watford Gap, still trying to convince myself that despite having never stayed in the capital for more than a night, I was relocating permanently to this ultra-city, this gigantic monument to urbanisation, commerce and tourism. I was convinced that all business in London was conducted by suited-and-booted charlatans who carried on like candidates in The Apprentice, in a cut-throat city that would envelop me in its shadowy folds and crush me to nothing.
I had two weeks from moving into my shared flat in Holloway before I started work, and so I sought to get my bearings as best I could. I remember performing a hilariously incompetent trial commute to The City, disembarking from the 271 at Finsbury Square and traipsing backwards and forwards across the Square Mile in desperate search for my new office, finding only endless sandwich shops and identi-kit glass offices with bored receptionists and shifty security staff clock-watching to stave off the immense boredom of guarding these corporate conglomerates. But I also remember enjoying immensely an inescapable sense of anonymity that I had never found anywhere else, a sense of being one person against the vastness of an unlimited but uncaring city. And perhaps it was an attempt to recapture that feeling that led me to walk from Waterloo to Charing Cross Road, via the South Bank, yesterday evening.
I timed my trek for early evening, yet again finding myself pushing against the flow of commuters hauling themselves down Victoria Road after ticking off another Wednesday workday. Leaving Waterloo and strolling to Jubilee Gardens, I experienced again that sense of forfeiting your identity. Already the space and the noise rendered my body insignificant, as crowds enjoying the late evening twilight sought to squeeze every last second from the attractions surrounding them. I fought my way beyond the London Eye and headed left, past the National Aquarium and the imposing facade of County Hall, and with every step I found myself distracted by the flash of cameras and smartphones solidifying the South Bank onto memory cards. As I began to cross Westminster Bridge, gaggles of giggling schoolchildren darted in zig-zags from tourist traps to overpriced Japanese restaurants, and their sighing parents handed over banknotes to the desperate tricksters inviting you to choose under which matchbox the coin was placed.
But passing over the bridge and heading down Parliament Street and Whitehall to Trafalgar Square, I reflected on, in reality, how little different I was from these clueless tourists convinced that all of London's glory lay at the feet of a mime or a magician. I may have paid my council tax to the Greater London Authority for nearly four years, but as I've barely worked here, I found myself in that chilled grey space between tourist and native. London is both familiar and utterly intelligible to me - I might be able to tell you where the best pizza is (here) or my favourite bar for a mojito (here), but for me, living here is like staring at a pitch-black sky with faint pinpricks of light that catch the eye. I need to turn those stars into constellations, those constellations into galaxies - if that's not a noble mission for these days of freedom stretched out before me, I don't know what is.
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