There is nothing more frustrating that dedicating your free time to taking the piss out of Londoners and the English (please note that these are different races), only to find that when you pop home for a visit you miss the bastards.
This week I find myself back in Australia, although it is obvious to everyone (especially to me,) that I have brought a little bit of London back with me. In attitude, beliefs, the rain and even my hairstyle...although I doubt any city will put up their hand to take credit for my latest follicle creation.
Most of my racial intolerance back home seems to be coming from what I will dub ‘speed issues’; everything seems to move a little bit slower here and ironically despite the two stone that my frame could do without, I am used to things moving a little faster.
I have rediscovered that friendliness is likely to impede speed of service. I am so unaccustomed to someone talking to me when they take my order (or speaking English for that matter,) that I feel almost uncomfortable by the pleasantries. All I can think of is that if the waiting staff persist on enquiring how I am, they will reduce the likelihood that I am going to get food before I chew off my arm…or someone’s ear.
The government has ensured that the pace of life remains somewhere between ‘coma’ and ‘dead’ by providing internet speeds that would make Bulgaria blush. Australia, as a result, is eleven hours ahead and yet ten years behind. It would be faster to do a global reconnaissance, than to type something into Google and get a response. That is if you can access the net in the first place; for some reason the phenomenon of wifi seems to have escaped an entire continent and most Australians believe that you have to be tied to a wall to use the net. I am happy to report that they do have microwaves…they are just waiting for electricity.
Hell, even the speed limits for motorists are slower than in London. This is probably for the best, as it is unlikely that the Asian cars that the locals here drive would survive another 20kms per hour.
I heard this morning on the news that over 300,000 people have been rescued off the coast of NSW since the introduction of surf life saving back in the 1940’s. I am tempted to joke that these poor bastards were just immigrants from London trying desperately to get back. Then I look at the mountain of Sydney souvenirs that I am going to try and cram into my suitcase for my flight home. I will do this maybe in an attempt to remind me of my roots and the country that I annoyingly love so very much…even if it does drive me insane. The locals will tell you it is a short drive anyway, even in an Asian compact.
Showing posts with label Sally Beerworth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sally Beerworth. Show all posts
Sunday, 14 February 2010
Monday, 8 February 2010
Foreigner in London column: Contagious Customer Service
I discovered today that it is possible to catch English.
As I checked in with Thai Airways I was told that the seat I had requested had not in fact been reserved. This was an interesting turn of events, as I had confirmed my seat via the phone just a few hours earlier. My inability to identify the name of the call centre person I had spoken to meant that I was essentially accused of being delusional by Thai Airways. They seemed to conclude that I suffered from a rare strain on mental illness where the only symptom is imagining contact with call centre staff.
The airline could not give me an explanation. Nor did they apologise or make any effort to fix the situation. Am I am a gold card carrying member of Star Alliance…I feel really sorry for the rest of you. At least I have junk mail to look forward to that doesn’t involve the local pizzeria or mini cab company. At this moment I am struggling to identify any other perks that go with the card.
Whilst waiting in yet another queue to try and get someone to help me at Heathrow I suddenly realise that I am not dealing with Thai Airways employees. The people checking me in describe themselves as ‘contractors.’ I have concluded that the definition of a contractor is someone who is not contractually obliged to take any responsibly for problem solving. I look forward to making a significant impact in a similar role myself one day. It may also not surprise you to learn that these contractors who were proving to be entirely usless were English natives.
So apart from feeling sorry for the non gold card customers, I felt sympathy for Thai Airways who have just lost a customer (one who has done no less than four return trips from London to Sydney with them.) Actually I don’t feel that sorry for them, as they have seated me next to a man who may or not be Hagar the Horrible. I let him take the armrest in case he tries to club me.
I start to think of all the other global brands that have left their reputation in the hands of English customer service.
Getting Benetton to take back a faulty jacket last year took up one too many hours on the phone. Had these phone calls not given me a valid reason to excuse myself from meetings at work I would have most certainly held a grudge.
Then there are the folks at McDonalds who at 10.31am become entirely unable to fry up my beloved Sausage & Egg McMuffin because the clock tells them so…whether you have been waiting in line to be served for 10 minutes is of no consequence to them.
As I type this I am advised by the flight attendant (sorry in this case there title does not warrant capital letters), that they have a record of me reserving my seat on my return flight. When I ask why I might do that rather than reserve a seat on my outbound flight, I have a piece of paper waved in my face and am told that this is ‘evidence.’ Yes, evidence that this flight attendant has spent too long a stop over in London and caught a bad case of English.
Another attendant then rushes over and says that my seat has been given to a last minute booking, and therefore I cannot have my seat. I am unsure how this last piece of information is likely to achieve anything other than make more order even more gin. I make a metal note to investigate the correlation between alcoholism and flying Thai Airways.
If only Newton was alive to see the airline turn gold back into a non precious metal.
Until there is a cure, I guess the best thing for global brands is to quarantine their staff after any time spent in the UK, or dedicate a proportion of profits to finding a cure for being English.
As I checked in with Thai Airways I was told that the seat I had requested had not in fact been reserved. This was an interesting turn of events, as I had confirmed my seat via the phone just a few hours earlier. My inability to identify the name of the call centre person I had spoken to meant that I was essentially accused of being delusional by Thai Airways. They seemed to conclude that I suffered from a rare strain on mental illness where the only symptom is imagining contact with call centre staff.
The airline could not give me an explanation. Nor did they apologise or make any effort to fix the situation. Am I am a gold card carrying member of Star Alliance…I feel really sorry for the rest of you. At least I have junk mail to look forward to that doesn’t involve the local pizzeria or mini cab company. At this moment I am struggling to identify any other perks that go with the card.
Whilst waiting in yet another queue to try and get someone to help me at Heathrow I suddenly realise that I am not dealing with Thai Airways employees. The people checking me in describe themselves as ‘contractors.’ I have concluded that the definition of a contractor is someone who is not contractually obliged to take any responsibly for problem solving. I look forward to making a significant impact in a similar role myself one day. It may also not surprise you to learn that these contractors who were proving to be entirely usless were English natives.
So apart from feeling sorry for the non gold card customers, I felt sympathy for Thai Airways who have just lost a customer (one who has done no less than four return trips from London to Sydney with them.) Actually I don’t feel that sorry for them, as they have seated me next to a man who may or not be Hagar the Horrible. I let him take the armrest in case he tries to club me.
I start to think of all the other global brands that have left their reputation in the hands of English customer service.
Getting Benetton to take back a faulty jacket last year took up one too many hours on the phone. Had these phone calls not given me a valid reason to excuse myself from meetings at work I would have most certainly held a grudge.
Then there are the folks at McDonalds who at 10.31am become entirely unable to fry up my beloved Sausage & Egg McMuffin because the clock tells them so…whether you have been waiting in line to be served for 10 minutes is of no consequence to them.
As I type this I am advised by the flight attendant (sorry in this case there title does not warrant capital letters), that they have a record of me reserving my seat on my return flight. When I ask why I might do that rather than reserve a seat on my outbound flight, I have a piece of paper waved in my face and am told that this is ‘evidence.’ Yes, evidence that this flight attendant has spent too long a stop over in London and caught a bad case of English.
Another attendant then rushes over and says that my seat has been given to a last minute booking, and therefore I cannot have my seat. I am unsure how this last piece of information is likely to achieve anything other than make more order even more gin. I make a metal note to investigate the correlation between alcoholism and flying Thai Airways.
If only Newton was alive to see the airline turn gold back into a non precious metal.
Until there is a cure, I guess the best thing for global brands is to quarantine their staff after any time spent in the UK, or dedicate a proportion of profits to finding a cure for being English.
Monday, 1 February 2010
Foreigner in London column: Un Australia Day
I couldn’t enjoy a beer to welcome in Australia Day this year as the staff at A&E didn’t have a bottle opener.
I was with a friend who had taken ill, and whilst I did have a couple of bottles of beer in my handbag I had no way of opening them. (Please note I did make several attempts to take off the cap with the aid of an oxygen bottle.) To avoid being conscious on my country’s national day I did ask one of the nurses for morphine, but was told that there was none to spare…even though I flashed my private health insurance card at them.
Embarrassingly several days earlier I had had to Google ‘what date is Australia day?’ to remind myself when I should adorn myself in green and gold. It is easier to remember the date if you are living in Australia, as they quite rightly celebrate with a day off. A ‘day off’ being a euphemism for the largest piss up an island has seen…until the next year.
When I first moved to London, I did try to explain to my office that I needed to be able to celebrate Australia Day (ideally with a day off) or at the least with some decorations on my desk that may or may not include a blow up marsupial. Sadly this outburst of national pride is something that the locals don’t really understand, and not just because it was my national day I wanted to celebrate and not theirs. Unless national celebrations are in some way linked to their beloved football team, the locals in London don’t seem to get that worked up about very much at all. This is made all the more worse by the fact that their team is pretty dismal. This is not based on opinion just observation that there has been over 40 years between trophies. Even my school hockey team boasts a better track record.
So I didn’t drink beer, I couldn’t remember what date I was supposed to be drinking beer on and after 8 hours in A&E I couldn’t even face the thought of having to find where I last left my alarmingly gaudy rugby jersey to wear to the office.
I could only describe myself as Un-Australian. This is perhaps the greatest insult that you can pay to an Australian. You either stand for all that is Australian or you don’t… we are pretty black and white about things. Being Australian means celebrating Australia Day unashamedly, not understanding why Marmite has the edge of Vegemite, self combusting if you don’t get on a plane at least once every two weeks and making everything you say sound as though it is a question.
Was I starting to lose my Australianess? Had four years in London finally robbed me of most of my savings as well as my identity? Just as I start to panic I glance at my mantle piece, which shows off flowers that I borrowed from the garden next door. Now if ignoring a fence or too isn’t Australian I don’t know what is.
I was with a friend who had taken ill, and whilst I did have a couple of bottles of beer in my handbag I had no way of opening them. (Please note I did make several attempts to take off the cap with the aid of an oxygen bottle.) To avoid being conscious on my country’s national day I did ask one of the nurses for morphine, but was told that there was none to spare…even though I flashed my private health insurance card at them.
Embarrassingly several days earlier I had had to Google ‘what date is Australia day?’ to remind myself when I should adorn myself in green and gold. It is easier to remember the date if you are living in Australia, as they quite rightly celebrate with a day off. A ‘day off’ being a euphemism for the largest piss up an island has seen…until the next year.
When I first moved to London, I did try to explain to my office that I needed to be able to celebrate Australia Day (ideally with a day off) or at the least with some decorations on my desk that may or may not include a blow up marsupial. Sadly this outburst of national pride is something that the locals don’t really understand, and not just because it was my national day I wanted to celebrate and not theirs. Unless national celebrations are in some way linked to their beloved football team, the locals in London don’t seem to get that worked up about very much at all. This is made all the more worse by the fact that their team is pretty dismal. This is not based on opinion just observation that there has been over 40 years between trophies. Even my school hockey team boasts a better track record.
So I didn’t drink beer, I couldn’t remember what date I was supposed to be drinking beer on and after 8 hours in A&E I couldn’t even face the thought of having to find where I last left my alarmingly gaudy rugby jersey to wear to the office.
I could only describe myself as Un-Australian. This is perhaps the greatest insult that you can pay to an Australian. You either stand for all that is Australian or you don’t… we are pretty black and white about things. Being Australian means celebrating Australia Day unashamedly, not understanding why Marmite has the edge of Vegemite, self combusting if you don’t get on a plane at least once every two weeks and making everything you say sound as though it is a question.
Was I starting to lose my Australianess? Had four years in London finally robbed me of most of my savings as well as my identity? Just as I start to panic I glance at my mantle piece, which shows off flowers that I borrowed from the garden next door. Now if ignoring a fence or too isn’t Australian I don’t know what is.
Saturday, 23 January 2010
Saatchi Sister
I have decided to become an ‘art baron.’ Please note I made up this new title, but it truly feels like what I want to do with my life after my two recent visits to the Tate Modern.
I am unsure whether I am qualified. If it does involve having large amounts of cash, it may be a slow climb to the top. As I look around my sitting room I also hope it doesn’t involve actually having good taste. I say this specifically with reference to the framed takeaway menu on my wall (if you had eaten there you would understand.) I might have to settle for being less than an art baron, maybe just an ‘art bar,’ which on the upside might mean I get free membership to the Members Bar on the Tate top floor.
A girlfriend asked me to go all arty on the day that London got down to -11 Celsius. As it was -15 in my basement flat I decided a stroll along the Thames would warm me up.Upon arrival she asked me what I wanted to do first. My response was ‘Bathroom, bookshop, then art. In that order.’ This also does not bode well for my baron potential. Yet within 2minutes of being in the ‘Pop Life’ exhibition I knew that no matter how stacked the odds are against me I wanted to be involved with art. The fact that I draw like an epileptic and can barely dress myself is a minor detail.
Having met Tracey Emin last year and subsequently developed some kind of career role model crush on her, I spent most of my time hovering over one particular glass case. In there were obscenities scrawled across everything she could get her hands on. If writing the word ‘fuck’ on every texture provided by God isn’t art then I don’t know what is. I cannot bring myself to say the same thing about a calf in a vat of formaldehyde, and I was tempted to offer to get in there myself for several million pounds. My friend most certainly would have obliged.
What I did next however does lead me to believe that I do in fact have potential: I went on a bar crawl that started in the Tate Modern and wound up somewhere near Tower Bridge. I say ‘somewhere’ as the only record I have of the last place we went was is my camera and the shots involve a bowl of what is hopefully olive oil. I will leave this one to Colombo, but I like to think that these shots are a testament to my ability to find and even create art. I wonder whether out of professional courtesy I should offer the shots to Charles Saatchi before someone else snaps them up.
When I sober up the next day, I decide to go back and start my collection of work that shows ever slightly more potential than my own: I buy a Tracey Emin print. When I get it home however I realize that it will have to stay in a drawer, as it doesn’t really go with my framed menu.
My spell check has just advised me that I am unable to spell the word 'exhibition' without assistance, so I may after all have to take a glance at the job section to see if there is something more appropriate than ‘art baron.’
I am unsure whether I am qualified. If it does involve having large amounts of cash, it may be a slow climb to the top. As I look around my sitting room I also hope it doesn’t involve actually having good taste. I say this specifically with reference to the framed takeaway menu on my wall (if you had eaten there you would understand.) I might have to settle for being less than an art baron, maybe just an ‘art bar,’ which on the upside might mean I get free membership to the Members Bar on the Tate top floor.
A girlfriend asked me to go all arty on the day that London got down to -11 Celsius. As it was -15 in my basement flat I decided a stroll along the Thames would warm me up.Upon arrival she asked me what I wanted to do first. My response was ‘Bathroom, bookshop, then art. In that order.’ This also does not bode well for my baron potential. Yet within 2minutes of being in the ‘Pop Life’ exhibition I knew that no matter how stacked the odds are against me I wanted to be involved with art. The fact that I draw like an epileptic and can barely dress myself is a minor detail.
Having met Tracey Emin last year and subsequently developed some kind of career role model crush on her, I spent most of my time hovering over one particular glass case. In there were obscenities scrawled across everything she could get her hands on. If writing the word ‘fuck’ on every texture provided by God isn’t art then I don’t know what is. I cannot bring myself to say the same thing about a calf in a vat of formaldehyde, and I was tempted to offer to get in there myself for several million pounds. My friend most certainly would have obliged.
What I did next however does lead me to believe that I do in fact have potential: I went on a bar crawl that started in the Tate Modern and wound up somewhere near Tower Bridge. I say ‘somewhere’ as the only record I have of the last place we went was is my camera and the shots involve a bowl of what is hopefully olive oil. I will leave this one to Colombo, but I like to think that these shots are a testament to my ability to find and even create art. I wonder whether out of professional courtesy I should offer the shots to Charles Saatchi before someone else snaps them up.
When I sober up the next day, I decide to go back and start my collection of work that shows ever slightly more potential than my own: I buy a Tracey Emin print. When I get it home however I realize that it will have to stay in a drawer, as it doesn’t really go with my framed menu.
My spell check has just advised me that I am unable to spell the word 'exhibition' without assistance, so I may after all have to take a glance at the job section to see if there is something more appropriate than ‘art baron.’
Monday, 11 January 2010
My unfair lady
It has just occurred to me that I talk funny. I don’t have an accent when I talk in my head (and believe with the volume of conversations that go on in there, I would know.)
Having lived in London for four years I sort of assumed that I would now be mistaken for a local…the upside down smile and the fifteen additional kilos I am carrying not being enough. Yet I was taken aback on the phone today when, after announcing to the person on the other end that I was an Australian, back came ‘no shit’ as the response.
I must point out that thousands upon thousands of Australian dollars (approx £2) was wasted on elocution lessons in high school. My mother wanted to ensure that even in Australia I wouldn’t sound Australian. Had these lessons not been taught by a nun who was convinced I was the anti-Christ, I may have turned up to a few more of my Wednesday morning lessons. Believe me, after six years it becomes harder and harder to explain how it is possible for the public transport system to be thrown into turmoil at exactly the same time every Wednesday morning, or how every one of the 127 goldfish you claim to have had during high school seems to meet its maker on a Tuesday night.
I should not be that surprised that my accent can be detected; hell I can tell when the author of an email is Australian. The first clue is that words are shortened. It has always surprised me that a race of people considered to be hardworking (settling a wild island does tend to take it out of you,) are so lazy that they cannot even be bothered to finish the words coming out of their mouth. Afternoon becomes ‘arvo’ in most cases, in my case because the faster I finish talking about going to the pub in the afternoon the faster I can get on with getting there.
One morning on the tube (my beloved BMW has not coped with the cold spell and alas is not even a tasty enough model to be served up as a frozen dessert) I try and listen into the different accents around me. It is then that I realize I do not even know what a Londoner sounds like (apart from angry.) There are only a handful of people who do sound like they may be on their way to sell fruit or fish at the local market, the rest are Eastern Europeans and Americans (they may be Canadian and if so are they not just known for being almost American anyway?) Another clue that the six-figure sum spent on my education was not entirely fruitful.
So I realize that every Londoner sounds a bit foreign, it’s just a question of how foreign you are? And if it was between sounding like the call backs for Eliza Doolittle or a baddie in a James Bond flick or Danni Minogue I think I would chose the later anytime. Ideally my breasts would be more like hers as well.
Sister Sonia, if you are reading this, I must confess that the goldfish body count between 1988 and 1993 was zero. Although there really was a Mexican Walking Fish whose demise broke my heart. If it’s any conciliation my penance, it seems, is to one day, many years from now, end up sounding like I am selling them.
Having lived in London for four years I sort of assumed that I would now be mistaken for a local…the upside down smile and the fifteen additional kilos I am carrying not being enough. Yet I was taken aback on the phone today when, after announcing to the person on the other end that I was an Australian, back came ‘no shit’ as the response.
I must point out that thousands upon thousands of Australian dollars (approx £2) was wasted on elocution lessons in high school. My mother wanted to ensure that even in Australia I wouldn’t sound Australian. Had these lessons not been taught by a nun who was convinced I was the anti-Christ, I may have turned up to a few more of my Wednesday morning lessons. Believe me, after six years it becomes harder and harder to explain how it is possible for the public transport system to be thrown into turmoil at exactly the same time every Wednesday morning, or how every one of the 127 goldfish you claim to have had during high school seems to meet its maker on a Tuesday night.
I should not be that surprised that my accent can be detected; hell I can tell when the author of an email is Australian. The first clue is that words are shortened. It has always surprised me that a race of people considered to be hardworking (settling a wild island does tend to take it out of you,) are so lazy that they cannot even be bothered to finish the words coming out of their mouth. Afternoon becomes ‘arvo’ in most cases, in my case because the faster I finish talking about going to the pub in the afternoon the faster I can get on with getting there.
One morning on the tube (my beloved BMW has not coped with the cold spell and alas is not even a tasty enough model to be served up as a frozen dessert) I try and listen into the different accents around me. It is then that I realize I do not even know what a Londoner sounds like (apart from angry.) There are only a handful of people who do sound like they may be on their way to sell fruit or fish at the local market, the rest are Eastern Europeans and Americans (they may be Canadian and if so are they not just known for being almost American anyway?) Another clue that the six-figure sum spent on my education was not entirely fruitful.
So I realize that every Londoner sounds a bit foreign, it’s just a question of how foreign you are? And if it was between sounding like the call backs for Eliza Doolittle or a baddie in a James Bond flick or Danni Minogue I think I would chose the later anytime. Ideally my breasts would be more like hers as well.
Sister Sonia, if you are reading this, I must confess that the goldfish body count between 1988 and 1993 was zero. Although there really was a Mexican Walking Fish whose demise broke my heart. If it’s any conciliation my penance, it seems, is to one day, many years from now, end up sounding like I am selling them.
Saturday, 2 January 2010
Xmas miracle
Given the subject matter covered in my blog, I am always tremendously relieved that my family doesn’t read it, this post being no exception.
I know they won’t be reading it because they suffer from a severe case of technical retardation. Symptoms include a lack of desire to work out how to get online. This is common disability amongst Australians, who cannot imagine that everything they need to know is not found in their local paper. Happily what they won’t find in their local paper is this confession; I think I had my best Xmas ever in London, despite no one at the table swimming in my gene pool...for the best really, as it is rather shallow.
Now the fact that I was terribly intoxicated by 1pm obviously had nothing to do with it. Nor did the fact that with my neighbors away, I was able to dance naked to Madonna with the blinds up before I went off to lunch. I am joking of course: I dance naked to Madonna with the blinds up even when they are home.
Am I the only one who had never worked out that Xmas is far less stressful when you spend it with people you don’t know that well? No one cares what you do; because there is a very good chance you will never see each other again…that, and the fact they are just as hammered as you are. So there is no judgment when you ask for a vodka and coke at 11am, or a second vodka and coke at 11.03am.
There is also no judgment passed when whilst watching The Sound of Music you reveal to this room of strangers that you are sexually attracted to Captain Von Trapp. Admittedly after five bottles of Veuve and Moet the Captain is making everyone tingle…even the blokes.
The other bonus of Xmas with strangers is that because everyone brings a dish, you inadvertently reduce the odds of sitting down to a meal that leaves you rushing to find if there is a McDonalds open. Even if there is one dish that you would rather slip into a pot plant, the rest is pretty darn wonderful. If my host is reading this, I am sorry I really should have mentioned the incident with the pot plant sooner.
The only culinary drawback of Xmas with strangers is that you finally get confirmation that as you always suspected your mother overcooks her carrots. ‘Overcook’ being an uncharacteristically polite euphemism for ‘murders.’ The massacring of vegetation is not really such a travesty; you didn’t eat them at home, and when you are with strangers you don’t have to clean your plate. In fact on reflection if I had asked for a bucket of gravy and a snorkel instead of a knife and fork, no one would have battered an eyelid.
Even the presents are better. No one attempts to second guess what you might like, and so they just buy you something that anyone with a pulse would like; in my case a set of wine glasses. How did they know? Santa Claus never contributed to my liquor cabinet. This is how I knew he wasn’t real; anyone who really knows me would have slipped me some crystal and ideally a cocktail of lets say legal stimulants, instead of a Cabbage Patch Doll.
By the time I get home from Xmas at almost midnight I was so drunk I could barely walk, again nothing new for the neighbors. Well, except for the bit where I started undressing before I got the door open. Which I can report lead to a rather unfortunate case of frost bite, given the below freezing temperature.
So next year I am just going to wander into someone else’s house and see if they will have me, but not before I dance around naked. For old time's sake.
Here’s to the people who are no longer strangers: Amanda, Em, Jo, Peter, Tim and the two little girls who made me fall back in love with Xmas.
I know they won’t be reading it because they suffer from a severe case of technical retardation. Symptoms include a lack of desire to work out how to get online. This is common disability amongst Australians, who cannot imagine that everything they need to know is not found in their local paper. Happily what they won’t find in their local paper is this confession; I think I had my best Xmas ever in London, despite no one at the table swimming in my gene pool...for the best really, as it is rather shallow.
Now the fact that I was terribly intoxicated by 1pm obviously had nothing to do with it. Nor did the fact that with my neighbors away, I was able to dance naked to Madonna with the blinds up before I went off to lunch. I am joking of course: I dance naked to Madonna with the blinds up even when they are home.
Am I the only one who had never worked out that Xmas is far less stressful when you spend it with people you don’t know that well? No one cares what you do; because there is a very good chance you will never see each other again…that, and the fact they are just as hammered as you are. So there is no judgment when you ask for a vodka and coke at 11am, or a second vodka and coke at 11.03am.
There is also no judgment passed when whilst watching The Sound of Music you reveal to this room of strangers that you are sexually attracted to Captain Von Trapp. Admittedly after five bottles of Veuve and Moet the Captain is making everyone tingle…even the blokes.
The other bonus of Xmas with strangers is that because everyone brings a dish, you inadvertently reduce the odds of sitting down to a meal that leaves you rushing to find if there is a McDonalds open. Even if there is one dish that you would rather slip into a pot plant, the rest is pretty darn wonderful. If my host is reading this, I am sorry I really should have mentioned the incident with the pot plant sooner.
The only culinary drawback of Xmas with strangers is that you finally get confirmation that as you always suspected your mother overcooks her carrots. ‘Overcook’ being an uncharacteristically polite euphemism for ‘murders.’ The massacring of vegetation is not really such a travesty; you didn’t eat them at home, and when you are with strangers you don’t have to clean your plate. In fact on reflection if I had asked for a bucket of gravy and a snorkel instead of a knife and fork, no one would have battered an eyelid.
Even the presents are better. No one attempts to second guess what you might like, and so they just buy you something that anyone with a pulse would like; in my case a set of wine glasses. How did they know? Santa Claus never contributed to my liquor cabinet. This is how I knew he wasn’t real; anyone who really knows me would have slipped me some crystal and ideally a cocktail of lets say legal stimulants, instead of a Cabbage Patch Doll.
By the time I get home from Xmas at almost midnight I was so drunk I could barely walk, again nothing new for the neighbors. Well, except for the bit where I started undressing before I got the door open. Which I can report lead to a rather unfortunate case of frost bite, given the below freezing temperature.
So next year I am just going to wander into someone else’s house and see if they will have me, but not before I dance around naked. For old time's sake.
Here’s to the people who are no longer strangers: Amanda, Em, Jo, Peter, Tim and the two little girls who made me fall back in love with Xmas.
Thursday, 24 December 2009
Santa's very little helper
They say that charity begins at home. Sadly this year it can’t find its way out of my front door.
This week I discovered just how hard it is to be kind to my fellow Londoners. Several months ago I decided to volunteer with the Salvation Army on Christmas Day. After years of snorkeling in vats of gravy on the 25th, it felt like it was time to help serve up lunch to someone who might otherwise go without.
My newfound thoughtfulness may have had something to do with the fact that everyone I knew in London (all six of them) were fleeing the city for Christmas, but suspend your scepticism and assume that my intentions were entirely honorable.
After putting my name down to be a volunteer I waited for my call back. The call never came, and so last week I called to check where I was needed and at what time. Needless to say I hoped that they would understand that it would be ever so inconvenient if I was expected to be anywhere before midday.
‘Oh no, it’s too late to volunteer, you needed to file an application and we have to do a police check on you which takes 10 days to come through.’
‘But I put my name down weeks ago and gave you all my details, no one said anything about filing an application. What do you think I am going to do anyway? Steal the baked potatoes?’ This was in fact exactly what I intended to do. I had spent all my free time in the weeks prior trying to calculate the best way to walk away from the Salvation Army with a large volume of gravy on my person.
I cannot tell you how bad it is for one’s self confidence to be rejected by the Salvation Army on Christmas Day.
So I called Crisis; a London based charity involved with helping the homeless. Surely these guys would need some help on Christmas Day.
‘Sorry but we have enough help.’ Said the voice on the other end of the phone.
Remember this is a charity we are talking about here.
My last hope was to type into Google ‘I have no where to go on Christmas Day.’ Another charity popped up, but it turned out they would only take my help if I committed to working from 7am to 3pm. Happily by this stage I had been invited to a Christmas lunch, so my goodwill for mankind needed to be wrapped up by around 1pm. This apparently didn’t work for them.
So I sit here wondering whether Londoners have bigger hearts than I thought and that just maybe the bureaucracy here makes it hard for us to use them.
Then I realise that someone has swiped the notebook which was perched next to me in the pub where I am writing this. I think my charity and belongings are better off at home whilst in London.
This week I discovered just how hard it is to be kind to my fellow Londoners. Several months ago I decided to volunteer with the Salvation Army on Christmas Day. After years of snorkeling in vats of gravy on the 25th, it felt like it was time to help serve up lunch to someone who might otherwise go without.
My newfound thoughtfulness may have had something to do with the fact that everyone I knew in London (all six of them) were fleeing the city for Christmas, but suspend your scepticism and assume that my intentions were entirely honorable.
After putting my name down to be a volunteer I waited for my call back. The call never came, and so last week I called to check where I was needed and at what time. Needless to say I hoped that they would understand that it would be ever so inconvenient if I was expected to be anywhere before midday.
‘Oh no, it’s too late to volunteer, you needed to file an application and we have to do a police check on you which takes 10 days to come through.’
‘But I put my name down weeks ago and gave you all my details, no one said anything about filing an application. What do you think I am going to do anyway? Steal the baked potatoes?’ This was in fact exactly what I intended to do. I had spent all my free time in the weeks prior trying to calculate the best way to walk away from the Salvation Army with a large volume of gravy on my person.
I cannot tell you how bad it is for one’s self confidence to be rejected by the Salvation Army on Christmas Day.
So I called Crisis; a London based charity involved with helping the homeless. Surely these guys would need some help on Christmas Day.
‘Sorry but we have enough help.’ Said the voice on the other end of the phone.
Remember this is a charity we are talking about here.
My last hope was to type into Google ‘I have no where to go on Christmas Day.’ Another charity popped up, but it turned out they would only take my help if I committed to working from 7am to 3pm. Happily by this stage I had been invited to a Christmas lunch, so my goodwill for mankind needed to be wrapped up by around 1pm. This apparently didn’t work for them.
So I sit here wondering whether Londoners have bigger hearts than I thought and that just maybe the bureaucracy here makes it hard for us to use them.
Then I realise that someone has swiped the notebook which was perched next to me in the pub where I am writing this. I think my charity and belongings are better off at home whilst in London.
Saturday, 12 December 2009
Gobble Gobble
I have just survived my first Thanksgiving in the States unscathed, however now I do walk around under the impression that consuming just three meals a day is for people who lack ambition.
When I was there I had to eat something I didn’t want to, which for me is saying something. I had to eat my words.
For some time it has been a sport for of mine (and most Londoners) to slag off Americans. Maybe the participation rate of this sport is so high because it is pretty darn easy to win a place in the finals. Three words: war on terror. But our cousins across the pond do have something over us Londoners: a genuine capacity to relax and enjoy themselves without artificial stimulants (yes this includes X Factor.)
The joy that radiates from Americans during Thanksgiving is almost thermonuclear. At first I just assumed that the saturated fat had finally triumphed to become the number one ingredient in their brain. Then I realised that these jolly people were just genuinely happy. This emotion was difficult for me to recognise after living so many years in London. Their joy was also contagious. I even eventually gave in and found myself saying ‘happy holidays’ to every person who crossed my path. The odd poodle also had to endure my new found desire to spread goodwill. I didn’t even know what my annoying new greeting meant...admittedly I should've been able to crack this verbal code.
I only truly understood its meaning when Thanksgiving Day itself came around.
Never in one place have I seen so many potatoes, and I have been to Ireland on several occasions. Happy holidays indeed. My first task of the day was to peel all 20lbs of them for my hosts. Manual labour has never brought me so much pleasure.
Had I had an understandable heart attack at that moment, I would have died a happy woman. Nothing could have topped the sight of all those potatoes sitting in the pan, waiting for greatness. That is until I saw the cooking appliance in which my gravy was being made. I say ‘appliance’ deliberately, because anything that needs to be plugged in is surely an appliance. My gravy was being housed in the world’s largest crock-pot: undoubtably the two sweetest words in the English language.
Now I finally understood my host’s insistence that I wear sweat pants to lunch. This meal called for clothing without boundaries.
As promised the day consisted entirely of eating, drinking and watching TV in comfortable trousers that could sleep two. The genius of Thanksgiving being that unlike at Christmas time there is no requirement to make a pilgrimage to church, and no pressure to spend money on others (when you would obviously rather be spending on yourself.)
So I wondered why us London folk have not adopted this truly transformational holiday, after all our love of lard based products would make it easy for us assimilate. When it comes down to it, I am convinced it is simply because Thanksgiving would require us to relax to a point that would make us feel uncomfortable; loose clothing, spontaneous displays of affection and the decision to set a straw next to the knife and fork to aid gravy consumption. What if someone saw us? Making an arse of ourselves is reserved only for reality TV shows. Reality is something else.
So sorry Londoners, the Americans have got at least one thing right (please note that Americans have got the following things wrong: The Amish, cheese products in a spray can, any member of the Bush family, American Football, Dr Pepper and Britney Spears.)
I do wonder however whether I would be so happy to eat my words if said words weren’t smothered in gravy.
God bless the gravy makers: The Moore, Zajac and Plunkett families.
When I was there I had to eat something I didn’t want to, which for me is saying something. I had to eat my words.
For some time it has been a sport for of mine (and most Londoners) to slag off Americans. Maybe the participation rate of this sport is so high because it is pretty darn easy to win a place in the finals. Three words: war on terror. But our cousins across the pond do have something over us Londoners: a genuine capacity to relax and enjoy themselves without artificial stimulants (yes this includes X Factor.)
The joy that radiates from Americans during Thanksgiving is almost thermonuclear. At first I just assumed that the saturated fat had finally triumphed to become the number one ingredient in their brain. Then I realised that these jolly people were just genuinely happy. This emotion was difficult for me to recognise after living so many years in London. Their joy was also contagious. I even eventually gave in and found myself saying ‘happy holidays’ to every person who crossed my path. The odd poodle also had to endure my new found desire to spread goodwill. I didn’t even know what my annoying new greeting meant...admittedly I should've been able to crack this verbal code.
I only truly understood its meaning when Thanksgiving Day itself came around.
Never in one place have I seen so many potatoes, and I have been to Ireland on several occasions. Happy holidays indeed. My first task of the day was to peel all 20lbs of them for my hosts. Manual labour has never brought me so much pleasure.
Had I had an understandable heart attack at that moment, I would have died a happy woman. Nothing could have topped the sight of all those potatoes sitting in the pan, waiting for greatness. That is until I saw the cooking appliance in which my gravy was being made. I say ‘appliance’ deliberately, because anything that needs to be plugged in is surely an appliance. My gravy was being housed in the world’s largest crock-pot: undoubtably the two sweetest words in the English language.
Now I finally understood my host’s insistence that I wear sweat pants to lunch. This meal called for clothing without boundaries.
As promised the day consisted entirely of eating, drinking and watching TV in comfortable trousers that could sleep two. The genius of Thanksgiving being that unlike at Christmas time there is no requirement to make a pilgrimage to church, and no pressure to spend money on others (when you would obviously rather be spending on yourself.)
So I wondered why us London folk have not adopted this truly transformational holiday, after all our love of lard based products would make it easy for us assimilate. When it comes down to it, I am convinced it is simply because Thanksgiving would require us to relax to a point that would make us feel uncomfortable; loose clothing, spontaneous displays of affection and the decision to set a straw next to the knife and fork to aid gravy consumption. What if someone saw us? Making an arse of ourselves is reserved only for reality TV shows. Reality is something else.
So sorry Londoners, the Americans have got at least one thing right (please note that Americans have got the following things wrong: The Amish, cheese products in a spray can, any member of the Bush family, American Football, Dr Pepper and Britney Spears.)
I do wonder however whether I would be so happy to eat my words if said words weren’t smothered in gravy.
God bless the gravy makers: The Moore, Zajac and Plunkett families.
Sunday, 6 December 2009
Sticks & Stones
I knew I had been in London too long after I found myself explaining to a perplexed ambulance driver that he would have to wait to take me to the emergency room until I had moved my car.
It was a great inconvenience to me that the night I had woken up in agony was the same night that I had failed to park in a residents bay. If my car was still there at 8.30am I was looking at a £60 fine, and if it was still there 24 hours later it would be towed away.
To put my dilemma in context; I was unsure whether my BMW was worth £60, and I was damned sure that I would never bother to recover it from the police pound; as it would undoubtably mean driving outside of Zone 1 to Zone 2 or god forbid Zone 3.
I didn't want to risk the altitude sickness.
In the end, I gave into the stomach pain that had me reaching for the phone in the first place, and I begrudgingly agreed to get on the stretcher.
Mainly really for the sake of the neighbours: it was after all only 3am, and as a result of all the screaming from me and the sirens, one by one the lights in the neighbouring houses had gone on. My prioritising the avoidance of further embarrassment over and above anything else at that moment was also surely a sign that I had been in London too long.
I don't remember much of my journey in the ambulance. Regrettably I do remember announcing to the paramedic that I needed painkillers, and that if I had had the foresight to bring my wallet would have happily paid him for them. I even went so far as to offer to buy him a little stash for himself. He thanked me for my not entirely unpleasant offer, but said I would have to wait for the doctor before I took anything.
Surely there is no better sign that I am a failure in my chosen career of advertising: I am unable to score drugs even in the back of an ambulance.
After spending several hours in A&E and being given no less than three shots of morphine (and warned that if I didn't keep the screams to a minimum I would have to be gagged,) I was wheeled into the 'Critical Decisions' ward.
I think the London hospitals would benefit from spending a bit more time brainstorming the names of their wards. I mean if my new ward had been called the 'Double Cheeseburger' ward or the 'Saturday Morning' ward, I would have been more optimistic about how I was doing. A sort of verbal poker face if you will.
I would still be in that ward had an incredibly kind girlfriend not come to visit me, and asked me why I had not been transferred to the private section of the hospital. The truth was that after 18 hours of morphine I could barely move my hands let alone negotiate a bed transfer. The NHS had successfully managed to take my blood, urine and my spirit.
So with some much needed help from a friend I found myself in a private room with all the luxuries not available to the patients on the NHS: water, food, a shower, and visits from a doctor. A doctor finally diagnosed my kidneys and gallbladder were not functioning; somewhat of a story anticlimax given my performance started at 3am.
The rest of my stay was a bit of a blur: I was in a self induced Ribena & 'Antiques Roadshow' coma. It was several weeks before I could look at vase without being tempted to swipe it.
After my first day back at work I came home to find a letter from my health insurance company; they were seeking payment for the excess on my hospital stay.
I am glad my car wasn't towed away: I may now have to live in it.
A NOTE: The author of this blog would like to thank everyone who visited me armed with cupcakes and jelly. I am now considering using the leftovers to build a second bedroom.
It was a great inconvenience to me that the night I had woken up in agony was the same night that I had failed to park in a residents bay. If my car was still there at 8.30am I was looking at a £60 fine, and if it was still there 24 hours later it would be towed away.
To put my dilemma in context; I was unsure whether my BMW was worth £60, and I was damned sure that I would never bother to recover it from the police pound; as it would undoubtably mean driving outside of Zone 1 to Zone 2 or god forbid Zone 3.
I didn't want to risk the altitude sickness.
In the end, I gave into the stomach pain that had me reaching for the phone in the first place, and I begrudgingly agreed to get on the stretcher.
Mainly really for the sake of the neighbours: it was after all only 3am, and as a result of all the screaming from me and the sirens, one by one the lights in the neighbouring houses had gone on. My prioritising the avoidance of further embarrassment over and above anything else at that moment was also surely a sign that I had been in London too long.
I don't remember much of my journey in the ambulance. Regrettably I do remember announcing to the paramedic that I needed painkillers, and that if I had had the foresight to bring my wallet would have happily paid him for them. I even went so far as to offer to buy him a little stash for himself. He thanked me for my not entirely unpleasant offer, but said I would have to wait for the doctor before I took anything.
Surely there is no better sign that I am a failure in my chosen career of advertising: I am unable to score drugs even in the back of an ambulance.
After spending several hours in A&E and being given no less than three shots of morphine (and warned that if I didn't keep the screams to a minimum I would have to be gagged,) I was wheeled into the 'Critical Decisions' ward.
I think the London hospitals would benefit from spending a bit more time brainstorming the names of their wards. I mean if my new ward had been called the 'Double Cheeseburger' ward or the 'Saturday Morning' ward, I would have been more optimistic about how I was doing. A sort of verbal poker face if you will.
I would still be in that ward had an incredibly kind girlfriend not come to visit me, and asked me why I had not been transferred to the private section of the hospital. The truth was that after 18 hours of morphine I could barely move my hands let alone negotiate a bed transfer. The NHS had successfully managed to take my blood, urine and my spirit.
So with some much needed help from a friend I found myself in a private room with all the luxuries not available to the patients on the NHS: water, food, a shower, and visits from a doctor. A doctor finally diagnosed my kidneys and gallbladder were not functioning; somewhat of a story anticlimax given my performance started at 3am.
The rest of my stay was a bit of a blur: I was in a self induced Ribena & 'Antiques Roadshow' coma. It was several weeks before I could look at vase without being tempted to swipe it.
After my first day back at work I came home to find a letter from my health insurance company; they were seeking payment for the excess on my hospital stay.
I am glad my car wasn't towed away: I may now have to live in it.
A NOTE: The author of this blog would like to thank everyone who visited me armed with cupcakes and jelly. I am now considering using the leftovers to build a second bedroom.
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