"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.
Saturday, 13 August 2011
Friday, 12 August 2011
Days 17 and 18: R&R
"Tension is who you think you should be. Relaxation is who you are" - Chinese Proverb
After two days of being on the road, or more precisely on the railroad, I decided to take it easy for a couple of days. After all, I left my last job because I was constantly travelling, and here I am recording for posterity the minutes of voyages around the country, when I should be lounging in a deckchair and ordering in the Tequila Sunrises. Travel is mentally as well as physically exhausting - the brain needs a number of sleep cycles to process the new information received and create new paths and thought branches that allow us eventually to accept changes of environments. Though I'd hardly become Ranulph Fiennes overnight, voyaging as I had as far as the mystical lands of Nuneaton and Cambridge, I still felt I was owed a couple of days to myself to relax and to recuperate - finally finish Mass Effect 2, actually practice some piano, cook some amazing food, all those kinds of things we like to do when we are enjoying precious time off.
However, I was surprised by just how impossible I have found it to "relax" in the last two days. As I have a long-standing agreement with Jo that I would continue to produce tea and breakfast for her in the mornings while she showers (one of the few things that make me worth living with), I find myself, at 8.30 in the morning, in the uncomfortable position of being all dressed up (admittedly in pyjamas) with no place to go. Normally I would have thought that my body would allow me to return to bed, perhaps with a paperback and another cup of English Breakfast, and gently while the morning away. But even attempting to lie on the sofa for a few minutes felt weirdly uncomfortable. TV became unpalatable (there really is nothing on, even with Sky, during the day), the Internet unappealing, even reading was somehow unsatisfying.
Instead, the last two days have passed somewhat in a blur. I haven't quite relaxed, yet neither have I achieved anything. I have move from distraction to distraction, from piano to console to computer to kitchen to TV to book to radio to phone, and found I could spend no more than ten minutes on one activity before tiring and moving on. Almost at the midpoint through the journey of my days of freedom, I became panicked that without the shadow of work constantly threatening me, the light of rest and relaxation couldn't shine.
Perhaps I have spent so much time convincing myself that these forty-two days would be filled to the brim with ceaseless personal activity and constant growth - every second of every day packing in all the wonderful things I wanted to do that I couldn't before because of work. But what I have learnt now is that, just like good cannot exist without evil and black is useless without white, work is only a grind when you can't relax, and relaxation is only a joy when you know that work is around the corner. Quasi-work such as a quick trip to see relatives in Cambridge will not fool my body into thinking it has earned a day or so of hard nothing. As long as I remain in a state of employment flux - technically jobless but with a start date, a contract and pension forms to fill in - I'm condemned to remain in a parallel relaxation flux.
To those of you who can switch off, lean back and have nothing but your thoughts about you, I salute you. Either your work-life balance is perfect, or you are just very, very lucky.
After two days of being on the road, or more precisely on the railroad, I decided to take it easy for a couple of days. After all, I left my last job because I was constantly travelling, and here I am recording for posterity the minutes of voyages around the country, when I should be lounging in a deckchair and ordering in the Tequila Sunrises. Travel is mentally as well as physically exhausting - the brain needs a number of sleep cycles to process the new information received and create new paths and thought branches that allow us eventually to accept changes of environments. Though I'd hardly become Ranulph Fiennes overnight, voyaging as I had as far as the mystical lands of Nuneaton and Cambridge, I still felt I was owed a couple of days to myself to relax and to recuperate - finally finish Mass Effect 2, actually practice some piano, cook some amazing food, all those kinds of things we like to do when we are enjoying precious time off.
However, I was surprised by just how impossible I have found it to "relax" in the last two days. As I have a long-standing agreement with Jo that I would continue to produce tea and breakfast for her in the mornings while she showers (one of the few things that make me worth living with), I find myself, at 8.30 in the morning, in the uncomfortable position of being all dressed up (admittedly in pyjamas) with no place to go. Normally I would have thought that my body would allow me to return to bed, perhaps with a paperback and another cup of English Breakfast, and gently while the morning away. But even attempting to lie on the sofa for a few minutes felt weirdly uncomfortable. TV became unpalatable (there really is nothing on, even with Sky, during the day), the Internet unappealing, even reading was somehow unsatisfying.
Instead, the last two days have passed somewhat in a blur. I haven't quite relaxed, yet neither have I achieved anything. I have move from distraction to distraction, from piano to console to computer to kitchen to TV to book to radio to phone, and found I could spend no more than ten minutes on one activity before tiring and moving on. Almost at the midpoint through the journey of my days of freedom, I became panicked that without the shadow of work constantly threatening me, the light of rest and relaxation couldn't shine.
Perhaps I have spent so much time convincing myself that these forty-two days would be filled to the brim with ceaseless personal activity and constant growth - every second of every day packing in all the wonderful things I wanted to do that I couldn't before because of work. But what I have learnt now is that, just like good cannot exist without evil and black is useless without white, work is only a grind when you can't relax, and relaxation is only a joy when you know that work is around the corner. Quasi-work such as a quick trip to see relatives in Cambridge will not fool my body into thinking it has earned a day or so of hard nothing. As long as I remain in a state of employment flux - technically jobless but with a start date, a contract and pension forms to fill in - I'm condemned to remain in a parallel relaxation flux.
To those of you who can switch off, lean back and have nothing but your thoughts about you, I salute you. Either your work-life balance is perfect, or you are just very, very lucky.
Wednesday, 10 August 2011
Day 16: Cambridge
"The whole object of travel is not to set foot on a foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one's own country as a foreign land" - G. K. Chesterton
I have been lucky enough, or unlucky depending on your point of view, to have lived all over England. My Dad often need to travel with the bank (when I was younger, "the bank" was an omnipotent demi-god that controlled all it surveyed) and every three years or so we would embark on that well-spun merry-go-round: new house, new school, new friends, new surroundings. As an impressionable young boy I was convinced that such perpetual motion was merely human nature, and that being in the same house for more than a few years at a time was at best laziness and at worst stagnation. There would be periods of readjustment, certainly - friends would fade out of the metaphorical rear-view mirror, and be replaced by more exciting friends on the horizon - but I think I was young enough to take such cycles of uprooting in my stride.
In the course of my Forty Two Days (now elapsing at a worrying rate) I plan to revisit as many of these places as I can. For some I was young enough to have no permanent recollection (Cambridge, Ipswich, St. Ives), and for others I was old enough to know they are worth revisiting (Wakefield, Bristol, Durham). Having already conveniently ticked off Durham for the wedding, and reminded myself of quite why I enjoyed my life there so much, an opportunity arose to visit Cambridge when I found out my Mum was there visiting her sister and my Nan. A mere forty-five minutes from my favourite train station, I was delighted to tag along.
We lived just outside Cambridge, in Milton, for three years while I was attending primary school. Whenever I think of the city, I always think of a static photograph in my mind of the street where we lived (though I can't remember the house itself, nor my school, for the life of me), or visiting the good chunk of family that both my parents have stationed here. There was an annual ritual that continues to this day where we would haul a bootload of Christmas presents in whatever car my Dad had at that point (I always remember the Vauxhall Cavalier most clearly), drive along seemingly endless motorway and tour Cambridgeshire. We would stop at various relatives' houses to exchange presents and to gulp down tea or ham sandwiches, catching up on news and views and chattering excitedly about how much they've grown or what GCSEs they're taking. Through my teenage years I was reluctant to undertake this annual pilgrimage but now in my mid-twenties I look back on those times fondly - you only really appreciate family to the fullest when you realise how rarely they touch your life.
Pulling up to the station and being met by mother, grandmother and aunt, I was immediately at home. The fact that I only really saw that station platform, the road, and my Nan's house didn't matter a jot. Sitting in the sunshine with bacon rolls, Chelsea buns (as opposed to splodges) and tea made with love and care, chatting to family I hardly ever see, I was completely carefree. The world was outside somewhere - for one afternoon, at least, I could forget the riots and the unrest that are plaguing London, and relax where everybody knew my name. I can't wait to go back.
I have been lucky enough, or unlucky depending on your point of view, to have lived all over England. My Dad often need to travel with the bank (when I was younger, "the bank" was an omnipotent demi-god that controlled all it surveyed) and every three years or so we would embark on that well-spun merry-go-round: new house, new school, new friends, new surroundings. As an impressionable young boy I was convinced that such perpetual motion was merely human nature, and that being in the same house for more than a few years at a time was at best laziness and at worst stagnation. There would be periods of readjustment, certainly - friends would fade out of the metaphorical rear-view mirror, and be replaced by more exciting friends on the horizon - but I think I was young enough to take such cycles of uprooting in my stride.
In the course of my Forty Two Days (now elapsing at a worrying rate) I plan to revisit as many of these places as I can. For some I was young enough to have no permanent recollection (Cambridge, Ipswich, St. Ives), and for others I was old enough to know they are worth revisiting (Wakefield, Bristol, Durham). Having already conveniently ticked off Durham for the wedding, and reminded myself of quite why I enjoyed my life there so much, an opportunity arose to visit Cambridge when I found out my Mum was there visiting her sister and my Nan. A mere forty-five minutes from my favourite train station, I was delighted to tag along.
We lived just outside Cambridge, in Milton, for three years while I was attending primary school. Whenever I think of the city, I always think of a static photograph in my mind of the street where we lived (though I can't remember the house itself, nor my school, for the life of me), or visiting the good chunk of family that both my parents have stationed here. There was an annual ritual that continues to this day where we would haul a bootload of Christmas presents in whatever car my Dad had at that point (I always remember the Vauxhall Cavalier most clearly), drive along seemingly endless motorway and tour Cambridgeshire. We would stop at various relatives' houses to exchange presents and to gulp down tea or ham sandwiches, catching up on news and views and chattering excitedly about how much they've grown or what GCSEs they're taking. Through my teenage years I was reluctant to undertake this annual pilgrimage but now in my mid-twenties I look back on those times fondly - you only really appreciate family to the fullest when you realise how rarely they touch your life.
Pulling up to the station and being met by mother, grandmother and aunt, I was immediately at home. The fact that I only really saw that station platform, the road, and my Nan's house didn't matter a jot. Sitting in the sunshine with bacon rolls, Chelsea buns (as opposed to splodges) and tea made with love and care, chatting to family I hardly ever see, I was completely carefree. The world was outside somewhere - for one afternoon, at least, I could forget the riots and the unrest that are plaguing London, and relax where everybody knew my name. I can't wait to go back.
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.
Sunday, 7 August 2011
Day 13: Tagine
I wouldn't, at a guess, have though that Kingston-upon-Thames would immediately be associated in general with North African food. But interrupting a shopping trip (where I was practically forced at gun point to buy this bag) for lunch, we happened upon a lovely market just off Eden Street, where a rather gruff man sold me a wonderful wrap stuffed with marinated Moroccan chicken and a surprisingly moreish salad. Taken together with a mint tea that was literally hot water and green leaves, and served in a pretty glass mug, I was transported back to a trip to Damascus where I remember eating baba ghanoush and falafel for about 50p a serving, revelling in the simplicity of good food made simply, lovingly and incredibly cheaply.
In honour of our Moroccan lunch we decided to make chicken tagine, and though I'd never attempted to cook such a dish before, I was salivating at the prospect. Who can resist slow-cooked, aromatic meat, richly spiced with ginger and harissa and doused in thickened, honeyed tomato sauce and garnished with chickpeas and served with zingy couscous? Anyone with a moderately stocked spice rack and a few vegetables on hand can make this with modest expense, and I feel the results were so successful that I'd like to share the recipe here. I wouldn't dare try to undercut the professionals to produce an authoritative recipe with ingredients and methods and so on, so I've stuck, Nigella-style, to prose, but if you try it, do let me know what you think.
First of all, you need to marinate your meat. We used chicken thighs, skin and bone retained, and covered with a combination of olive oil, harissa, ground ginger, crushed cumin seeds, cinnamon, paprika and ground coriander (I would imagine you could substitue certain spices with whatever you have in the cupboard, but I feel at least the harissa, whilst the most obscure, is probably the most important). Once suitably bathed, we browned the thighs on a hot heat in a decent pan, and set aside.
Next up, the sauce. As with most dishes, it seemed appropriate to first chop a couple of red onions and garlic cloves and soften in the same pan used for the chicken, with more spices chucked in for good measure. Then add a good dose of tomato paste, a tin of tomatoes, a tin of chickpeas and a few spoonfuls of set honey. Fill the empty tin of tomatoes with water and throw in, then return the chicken thighs to the pan. A quick season and you can put a lid on, reduce the heat to low and simmer for as long as you can stand to wait. We waited an hour or so, I reckon you could get away with thirty minutes, but as seems to be the case with all tomato sauces, the longer you wait the better.
Then it's a case of finding suitable side dishes. We plumped unoriginally for couscous - cooked in boiling chicken stock and seasoned with lemon, olive oil, salt and pepper. We didn't have any flatbread to hand, but white pitta, brushed with oil and griddled on a hot pan (and rubbed with a cut garlic glove if you're so inclined) made a suitable substitute.
Weekends are made for experimenting in the kitchen, and with a bit of inspiration and a couple of Google searches, we ended up with a recipe that worked and was uniquely ours. I'm inspired now to push on to other global cuisines - if they work out, I'll share them here. Happy eating!
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)