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.
Saturday, 12 December 2009
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.
Sunday, 1 November 2009
High priestess of London
This morning I walked past an ad for a church called ‘The Church of London Reality.’ Ironically it had been posted on the frontage of a Foxtons. It tempted me to attend mass for the first time in years. Confession at school had put me off as I had found myself constantly lying to the priest about things I hadn’t done just so I could get out of there as fast as possible.
According to the poster the service started at 10.30am. I was embarrassingly unable to work out what time it was, as the clocks had changed at midnight. Despite having several degrees under my belt I was unsure whether the clock had gone forwards or backwards. I mentally drafted a letter to the two universities in question for a full refund for my education.
I wanted to go to the church out of sheer curiosity: I mean what happens in the Church of London Reality? I had images of kids shooting up in the pews and images of just plain old shootings. I wondered most of all who the priest would have been. I answered my own question as I recalled the Tracey Emin lecture I had attended a few weeks back.
Thinking about the lecture, I became convinced that Tracey Emin would be the priest at my new favourite church. At this same moment she also found her way onto my hypothetical list of people who I would like to invite to my fantasy dinner party, (fantasy, firstly because I don’t cook and secondly because I had also planned on inviting loads of corpses.) I am still undecided whether it would be more dangerous to seat Emin next to Napolean or Cleopatra. Perhaps she is best next to Cleopatra; I don’t want to scare Napolean off home before the main course.
Emin arrived to her lecture late. Parking, traffic and public transport surely are three of the vices that the Church of London Reality will warn us all against. Her first words into her microphone were, ‘Can we get a bottle of wine up here?’ As a result, throughout the interview whenever she was asked a question there was a good chance she had a mouthful. The benefit for the audience was one less obscenity.
When she did speak, her answers (regardless of what the question was) invariably involved underage sex, abortion, smoking, drinking and poverty. It was like listening in to an NSPCC helpline call. She was a woman who had literally seen everything…and as an audience member, I can now say I have heard everything.
Emin was a woman of the people in not only speech but dress, dressed in black and wearing heavy cowboy boots. The outfit would have made it possible for her to disappear into crowds at Tesco, and yet gain her entrance to any restaurant or club in London. The greatest benefit of living in London is that black tie just means ‘please look arty.’ As I listened to her talk I kept trying to ruffle my hair to give the impression that I too might be on the brink of artistic greatness (if my bed was anything to go by, I was mighty close.) She was also bronzed like any other Londoner in September. Those than can afford it have been to the South of France or to Spain, whilst the rest of the locals settled for a sun bed.
At the end of the lecture she offered to sign copies of her new book ‘One Thousand Drawings’, a book (as the creative title would suggest) which contains one thousand drawings. Most of these involved vaginas. It was a bit like flicking through Hugh Hefner’s second grade exercise book.
I had selected the exact drawing within the book that I wanted her to sign (vagina count: zero.) The drawing was, in fact, about writing and she herself, on being asked what her favourite genre of art was, had replied ‘writing.’ I was ready to worship her, in church or otherwise. When it was my turn to present the book for signing she asked, ‘Don’t you want me to sign the front? I explained that I wanted this particular page signed so that I could frame it and hang it above my desk.
‘You’re going to tear up my book?’ She asked. I repeated my plan and again she asked, ‘You’re going to tear up my book?’ The penny finally dropped. I realised what she was saying was ‘Don’t tear up my fucking book.’ She repeated herself and in the end all I said to her was, ‘I’m a bit scared of you right now, so I’ll do anything you want.’ She laughed. I wasn’t kidding.
So I could think of no more qualified a priest for The Church of London Reality than a scary, cowboy boot wearing, foul mouthed, wine guzzling, and highly creative woman…especially if she is somewhat preoccupied with female genitalia.
As I sit and type, I look up at my framed, signed Tracey Emin drawing hanging above my head. She’d understand. She’d know that the reality of London is that no one listens to anyone else. In church or otherwise.
According to the poster the service started at 10.30am. I was embarrassingly unable to work out what time it was, as the clocks had changed at midnight. Despite having several degrees under my belt I was unsure whether the clock had gone forwards or backwards. I mentally drafted a letter to the two universities in question for a full refund for my education.
I wanted to go to the church out of sheer curiosity: I mean what happens in the Church of London Reality? I had images of kids shooting up in the pews and images of just plain old shootings. I wondered most of all who the priest would have been. I answered my own question as I recalled the Tracey Emin lecture I had attended a few weeks back.
Thinking about the lecture, I became convinced that Tracey Emin would be the priest at my new favourite church. At this same moment she also found her way onto my hypothetical list of people who I would like to invite to my fantasy dinner party, (fantasy, firstly because I don’t cook and secondly because I had also planned on inviting loads of corpses.) I am still undecided whether it would be more dangerous to seat Emin next to Napolean or Cleopatra. Perhaps she is best next to Cleopatra; I don’t want to scare Napolean off home before the main course.
Emin arrived to her lecture late. Parking, traffic and public transport surely are three of the vices that the Church of London Reality will warn us all against. Her first words into her microphone were, ‘Can we get a bottle of wine up here?’ As a result, throughout the interview whenever she was asked a question there was a good chance she had a mouthful. The benefit for the audience was one less obscenity.
When she did speak, her answers (regardless of what the question was) invariably involved underage sex, abortion, smoking, drinking and poverty. It was like listening in to an NSPCC helpline call. She was a woman who had literally seen everything…and as an audience member, I can now say I have heard everything.
Emin was a woman of the people in not only speech but dress, dressed in black and wearing heavy cowboy boots. The outfit would have made it possible for her to disappear into crowds at Tesco, and yet gain her entrance to any restaurant or club in London. The greatest benefit of living in London is that black tie just means ‘please look arty.’ As I listened to her talk I kept trying to ruffle my hair to give the impression that I too might be on the brink of artistic greatness (if my bed was anything to go by, I was mighty close.) She was also bronzed like any other Londoner in September. Those than can afford it have been to the South of France or to Spain, whilst the rest of the locals settled for a sun bed.
At the end of the lecture she offered to sign copies of her new book ‘One Thousand Drawings’, a book (as the creative title would suggest) which contains one thousand drawings. Most of these involved vaginas. It was a bit like flicking through Hugh Hefner’s second grade exercise book.
I had selected the exact drawing within the book that I wanted her to sign (vagina count: zero.) The drawing was, in fact, about writing and she herself, on being asked what her favourite genre of art was, had replied ‘writing.’ I was ready to worship her, in church or otherwise. When it was my turn to present the book for signing she asked, ‘Don’t you want me to sign the front? I explained that I wanted this particular page signed so that I could frame it and hang it above my desk.
‘You’re going to tear up my book?’ She asked. I repeated my plan and again she asked, ‘You’re going to tear up my book?’ The penny finally dropped. I realised what she was saying was ‘Don’t tear up my fucking book.’ She repeated herself and in the end all I said to her was, ‘I’m a bit scared of you right now, so I’ll do anything you want.’ She laughed. I wasn’t kidding.
So I could think of no more qualified a priest for The Church of London Reality than a scary, cowboy boot wearing, foul mouthed, wine guzzling, and highly creative woman…especially if she is somewhat preoccupied with female genitalia.
As I sit and type, I look up at my framed, signed Tracey Emin drawing hanging above my head. She’d understand. She’d know that the reality of London is that no one listens to anyone else. In church or otherwise.
Sunday, 18 October 2009
Driving test
When I told a friend I was planning on buying a car she told me that having a car in London was a luxury. I laughed at this. Having checked out the prices of second hand European cars I knew that I could get a BMW for less than a meal at some restaurants. So with brutish stubbornness I picked up a nice little 318. More specifically I bought ‘Leroy’, a black model who in a previous life looked like he had been used to sell crack to kids.
Almost immediately I discovered that my friend was, in fact, annoyingly right. She was not warning me about the toll it would take on my wallet, but rather my mental health. Having now lived in London for almost four years I was hanging by the thinnest of threads as it was.
I find it impossible to believe that the wonderfully optimistic Wombles of Wimbledon could have hailed from anywhere near the DVLA head office. I left there in floods of tears after being forced to use my married name on my new license. Even though I no longer use the name and every other government organisation recognises my legal right to use my maiden name, the DVLA wasn’t having any of it. As the man serving me ate his own ear wax as though he was tasting some kind of sample menu, it seemed unlikely that he would be familiar (let alone interested) in my constitutional rights. For the record I was not the only one in tears that day in Wimbledon. The man being served next to me found it to be all too much that the man serving him spoke less English than he did. This was quite an accomplishment given he himself may actually have been the voice of the Swedish Chef in The Muppets.
On the way back from the DVLA in my new car I realised that I lived in the congestion charge zone. Whilst I understand that you may find it hard to muster sympathy for a woman who has to suffer the stress of living so centrally, regardless of where you live in London you should be able to empathise with the notion of being ripped off. I was unable to drive my new car home unless I paid £8. This was more than my bumper bar was worth. As it turned out I was able to apply for a resident’s discount. Not much consolation as I was already paying £80 per month council tax in order that I may NOT use the local schools, doctors or any other community service Kensington & Chelsea offered. I actually joined the Notting Hill library to feel like I was getting my money’s worth as a resident. I might even start ripping out some pages to even things out.
The next test on my nerves was applying for my parking permit. This step came the closest to breaking me, and I have shopped at Primark on a Saturday. It started out well enough; I had got there early so I could experience the thrill of being the first person to take a numbered ticket. In Australia we do this in delicatessens, so you can imagine my disappointment that no one offered me any small goods. My ticket joy was short-lived when I discovered that my insurance papers (a pre requisite for a permit) had not come through via fax to the council as promised. After repeated phone calls begging the insurance company to fax the papers and sprinting every 30 minutes to throw more coins into the parking meter outside, (I didn’t yet have a permit) a council worker finally came up to me and said, ‘You know our fax isn’t working, right?’
So I left without my permit, £6 worse off and still unable to park my car anywhere.
The act of slipping into my car spot at work however made my attempted murder of a council worker seem like a distant memory. The thought of being able to get into the car at the end of the day got me through some of the unnecessarily long meetings that come with my job. As I walked back to the car I fantasised about picking up groceries on the way home and so avoiding having to cross Notting Hill Gate with an eight pack of toilet roll under my arm. I looked at the driver’s door; there was a massive dent in it. London - 1. Sally - 0.
Almost immediately I discovered that my friend was, in fact, annoyingly right. She was not warning me about the toll it would take on my wallet, but rather my mental health. Having now lived in London for almost four years I was hanging by the thinnest of threads as it was.
I find it impossible to believe that the wonderfully optimistic Wombles of Wimbledon could have hailed from anywhere near the DVLA head office. I left there in floods of tears after being forced to use my married name on my new license. Even though I no longer use the name and every other government organisation recognises my legal right to use my maiden name, the DVLA wasn’t having any of it. As the man serving me ate his own ear wax as though he was tasting some kind of sample menu, it seemed unlikely that he would be familiar (let alone interested) in my constitutional rights. For the record I was not the only one in tears that day in Wimbledon. The man being served next to me found it to be all too much that the man serving him spoke less English than he did. This was quite an accomplishment given he himself may actually have been the voice of the Swedish Chef in The Muppets.
On the way back from the DVLA in my new car I realised that I lived in the congestion charge zone. Whilst I understand that you may find it hard to muster sympathy for a woman who has to suffer the stress of living so centrally, regardless of where you live in London you should be able to empathise with the notion of being ripped off. I was unable to drive my new car home unless I paid £8. This was more than my bumper bar was worth. As it turned out I was able to apply for a resident’s discount. Not much consolation as I was already paying £80 per month council tax in order that I may NOT use the local schools, doctors or any other community service Kensington & Chelsea offered. I actually joined the Notting Hill library to feel like I was getting my money’s worth as a resident. I might even start ripping out some pages to even things out.
The next test on my nerves was applying for my parking permit. This step came the closest to breaking me, and I have shopped at Primark on a Saturday. It started out well enough; I had got there early so I could experience the thrill of being the first person to take a numbered ticket. In Australia we do this in delicatessens, so you can imagine my disappointment that no one offered me any small goods. My ticket joy was short-lived when I discovered that my insurance papers (a pre requisite for a permit) had not come through via fax to the council as promised. After repeated phone calls begging the insurance company to fax the papers and sprinting every 30 minutes to throw more coins into the parking meter outside, (I didn’t yet have a permit) a council worker finally came up to me and said, ‘You know our fax isn’t working, right?’
So I left without my permit, £6 worse off and still unable to park my car anywhere.
The act of slipping into my car spot at work however made my attempted murder of a council worker seem like a distant memory. The thought of being able to get into the car at the end of the day got me through some of the unnecessarily long meetings that come with my job. As I walked back to the car I fantasised about picking up groceries on the way home and so avoiding having to cross Notting Hill Gate with an eight pack of toilet roll under my arm. I looked at the driver’s door; there was a massive dent in it. London - 1. Sally - 0.
Thursday, 10 September 2009
Group Therapy
If London were a person, it would have been diagnosed with multiple personality disorder a long time ago. The therapy bill from Harley Street would have just about been affordable, if we split it 7 million ways. I make this observation after two very different pieces of junk mail were pushed through my letterbox this week. The first was promoting a local cab company, which proudly claimed; ‘If the driver is not wearing a tie, there is no charge.’ The second was a promotion for the NSPCC, claiming that one in seven kids in London are victims of domestic violence. The only consolation for these kids appears to be the fact that their dads are likely to be well dressed and will say ‘thank you’ after giving them a good belting. How can any city have such two very different sides to its personality?
Take my local area for starters.
I had a hunch that I had moved into one of the better areas when I went to my local butcher and discovered that they handed out postcards of the shop to customers. I had only come in for a kilo of sausages. This is the same kind of service you would expect to find an expensive hotel offering over paying guests, (Sadly my butcher didn’t extend to getting me an escort for the night.) The printing costs they incurred explains why my lamb & mint sausages cost £8.99 a kilo, at that price I had wondered whether ‘mint’ was a euphemism for a more aromatic and illegal substance. I confirmed that it really was mint after conducting an experiment whilst cooking, which involved me putting my head under a tea towel and frantically sniffing.
Yet on the same day that I went to the butchers the London papers were reporting on a very disturbing survey, conducted by home delivery giant Ocado on the capital’s shopping habits. It turns out that my neighbourhood buys the least amount of deodorant per capita in the whole of London. This includes the areas where the residents can’t even spell the word deodorant (this doesn’t really narrow things). There are two possible reasons for our seemingly poor hygiene: firstly we know that the more money you have, the more likely you are to try and subject people to your scent; Britney, Kylie and Jade being exhibits a, b and c. Perhaps more plausibly the locals in my area may just be just rubbing their underarms with fifty pound notes in lieu of having a bottle of ‘Sure’ (that’s ‘Rexona’ to you antipodeans) to hand.
The rest of the city provides other symptoms synonymous with multiple personality disorder to support my diagnoses. Take life North and South of the Thames. Very simply the difference is that there is no life South of the Thames. This is not my opinion; it is the opinion of the town planners who came up with the aptly named 'Dulwich.' Never did two such different places exist or evoke such rivalry (slight exaggeration if you take into account the whole West and East Berlin thing). I once had a heated row with a girlfriend when I pointed out to her that there was nothing worth crossing the river to go south for. She reminded me that the member’s bar at the Tate Modern was South of the river. I agreed to concede that this was indeed a reason to cross, if she would concede that the cocktails served there would have to be pretty strong, to numb the pain of being mugged at the end of the night. I passed out before I heard her reply…the hand luggage size handbag she swung at my head, was faster than my vodka affected reflex to duck.
Then there is the East end of London which has an entirely different personality to the West end of town. Apparently the East end is cool. Again I struggle to see this as I rate coolness and access to weapons after nice restaurants on the list of things I am looking for in a community. A guy I work with proudly wears an ‘I love Hackney’ t-shirt. I think that it came free with his 100th gram of cocaine, as there is no other way to explain pride in an area where a London Transport worker once explained to me that ‘you can’t get the black cab where there is the black people.’ Apparently arty people need to live in the East as it enhances the tortured, creative souls. Maybe if they moved West they would feel less tortured. They tend to, but only after they have sold a diamond-studded skull to an art collector for 50 million pounds. The artist in question probably had to take out loan for the rest of the deposit he would need to buy a two bedroom flat in the Royal Borough of Chelsea and Kensington. And he is probably still saving up to be able to buy a local residents parking permit.
I am told that the first step towards psychotherapy is recognising that you need help, but I have a feeling that there are 7 million people perfectly happy to embrace the madness that is London. We just don’t want professional help. As I sit typing this I notice that another flyer has been slipped through the letterbox on my front door mat. It is a timetable for church services asking me to come and ‘repent’ this Easter in order to save my soul. I will think about it, but they had better give me a free postcard.
Take my local area for starters.
I had a hunch that I had moved into one of the better areas when I went to my local butcher and discovered that they handed out postcards of the shop to customers. I had only come in for a kilo of sausages. This is the same kind of service you would expect to find an expensive hotel offering over paying guests, (Sadly my butcher didn’t extend to getting me an escort for the night.) The printing costs they incurred explains why my lamb & mint sausages cost £8.99 a kilo, at that price I had wondered whether ‘mint’ was a euphemism for a more aromatic and illegal substance. I confirmed that it really was mint after conducting an experiment whilst cooking, which involved me putting my head under a tea towel and frantically sniffing.
Yet on the same day that I went to the butchers the London papers were reporting on a very disturbing survey, conducted by home delivery giant Ocado on the capital’s shopping habits. It turns out that my neighbourhood buys the least amount of deodorant per capita in the whole of London. This includes the areas where the residents can’t even spell the word deodorant (this doesn’t really narrow things). There are two possible reasons for our seemingly poor hygiene: firstly we know that the more money you have, the more likely you are to try and subject people to your scent; Britney, Kylie and Jade being exhibits a, b and c. Perhaps more plausibly the locals in my area may just be just rubbing their underarms with fifty pound notes in lieu of having a bottle of ‘Sure’ (that’s ‘Rexona’ to you antipodeans) to hand.
The rest of the city provides other symptoms synonymous with multiple personality disorder to support my diagnoses. Take life North and South of the Thames. Very simply the difference is that there is no life South of the Thames. This is not my opinion; it is the opinion of the town planners who came up with the aptly named 'Dulwich.' Never did two such different places exist or evoke such rivalry (slight exaggeration if you take into account the whole West and East Berlin thing). I once had a heated row with a girlfriend when I pointed out to her that there was nothing worth crossing the river to go south for. She reminded me that the member’s bar at the Tate Modern was South of the river. I agreed to concede that this was indeed a reason to cross, if she would concede that the cocktails served there would have to be pretty strong, to numb the pain of being mugged at the end of the night. I passed out before I heard her reply…the hand luggage size handbag she swung at my head, was faster than my vodka affected reflex to duck.
Then there is the East end of London which has an entirely different personality to the West end of town. Apparently the East end is cool. Again I struggle to see this as I rate coolness and access to weapons after nice restaurants on the list of things I am looking for in a community. A guy I work with proudly wears an ‘I love Hackney’ t-shirt. I think that it came free with his 100th gram of cocaine, as there is no other way to explain pride in an area where a London Transport worker once explained to me that ‘you can’t get the black cab where there is the black people.’ Apparently arty people need to live in the East as it enhances the tortured, creative souls. Maybe if they moved West they would feel less tortured. They tend to, but only after they have sold a diamond-studded skull to an art collector for 50 million pounds. The artist in question probably had to take out loan for the rest of the deposit he would need to buy a two bedroom flat in the Royal Borough of Chelsea and Kensington. And he is probably still saving up to be able to buy a local residents parking permit.
I am told that the first step towards psychotherapy is recognising that you need help, but I have a feeling that there are 7 million people perfectly happy to embrace the madness that is London. We just don’t want professional help. As I sit typing this I notice that another flyer has been slipped through the letterbox on my front door mat. It is a timetable for church services asking me to come and ‘repent’ this Easter in order to save my soul. I will think about it, but they had better give me a free postcard.
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
Heathrow injection
If someone were to find my wallet they would be forgiven for thinking two things: firstly that I could use a little more cash and fewer credit cards. Secondly they may believe I was Colonel Sanders in a past life – my wallet is literally filled with restaurant cards and vouchers for food...and often covered in grease, despite the hoards of moist towellettes I keep in my handbag.
Whilst it is perfectly natural for a woman to be besotted by food, I live in a city where most of us don’t even walk up escalators unless they are the moving kind and therefore we cannot possibly burn off all the discounted food we eat.
If you are planning to move to London you will invariably be warned that on arrival you will be given the infamous ‘Heathrow injection.’ It is even more painful than it sounds. This term describes what happens to people who move here: as soon as you get off the plane you will almost immediately put on weight. This is true for most of us; I do spend far too many work hours pondering how it is that Elle McPherson has managed to escape this fate. In the vain hope that her skinny genes are contagious I recently moved into a flat around the corner from her. It appears I have not been able to prove my ‘slim by osmosis’ theory. As I look down at the zipper on my jeans, I note it resembles a python that has just swallowed a large marsupial. I am definitely more Colonel Sanders that Charles Darwin.
There are over 6,000 restaurants in London. People may wonder how they all survive. That is easy; as obsessed as we are with food, the one thing we will never do is cook. Many new build flats are not even being built with kitchens, just enough room for a fridge and a hot plate. This suits me perfectly as it gives me more room to store my cookbooks. I own 12 cookbooks and haven’t used one. This is somewhat fitting as these books have all been written by chefs who have TV shows rather than kitchens. Chefs in London are now of the same social standing as rock stars, apparently whipping up a hollandaise is up there with penning the lyrics to ‘Hey Jude.’
The increase in cookbooks written by cooks who don’t cook has increased the number of organic stores, which are now scattered around London. It has also fuelled our need to drop the word ‘organic’ into every sentence we utter. Not buying organic is more frowned on in London than adultery; shag your brains out, but for God’s sake make sure that carrot came off a traceable farm.
Every week I buy a vegetable that I don’t even recognise and leave it on the sideboard in the kitchen as decoration. People comment and I feel as though I have impressed them with my knowledge of exclusive, funny looking vegetables. I used to be peer pressured into smoking, now I feel pressured into buying aubergines. I have a three a week habit. Despite all this, when I am alone I secretly trawl the local fast-food joints looking for my next culinary hit. The choices are endless. Anything you could hope to find in polystyrene or plastic wrap is at your fingertips.
Since it came to light that the banks had been lending cash to anyone with a pulse (I don’t think they checked), more and more cash strapped Londoners are turning to junk food for comfort. Every major fast food chain has reported increased profits and there isn’t an organic radish in sight. So the upside to the recession is that in addition to blaming our parents, our moods and the weather, we can now blame the economy for our poor eating habits.
I am not sure whom we blame for the store ‘Iceland.’ During my first week in London I decided to show off my domestic skills and had a dinner party. I cooked a lamb roast, as winter was rapidly approaching and as an Australian I am obliged to consume at least a herd a year. My guests had a little trouble cutting through the meat on their plates but were too polite to comment. One finally asked where I bought the meat from. When I replied ‘some supermarket called ‘Iceland’ all five off them dropped their cutlery, one so violently that they cracked their plate. I did not know that Iceland was called Iceland because everything was frozen (could have guessed) and that Kerry Katona was chosen as the spokeswoman because she was the MOST respectable of their customer base. The rest can't afford her crack habit. The store survives because that lamb roast cost me £3…. it also cost me a dinner plate and several knives. So I gave up cooking, no need to cook when there are so many other culinary options for Londoners – Pot Noodle has just launched a kebab flavour noodle. The only downside is that I can't claim to have burned off any calories walking to the kebab shop anymore.
Caesar once said that his army was unstoppable because his men were always well fed. If we Londoners are full of something as unnaturally sounding as ‘popcorn chicken’ what will our fate be? I will ask the banker begging on my street corner what he thinks.
Whilst it is perfectly natural for a woman to be besotted by food, I live in a city where most of us don’t even walk up escalators unless they are the moving kind and therefore we cannot possibly burn off all the discounted food we eat.
If you are planning to move to London you will invariably be warned that on arrival you will be given the infamous ‘Heathrow injection.’ It is even more painful than it sounds. This term describes what happens to people who move here: as soon as you get off the plane you will almost immediately put on weight. This is true for most of us; I do spend far too many work hours pondering how it is that Elle McPherson has managed to escape this fate. In the vain hope that her skinny genes are contagious I recently moved into a flat around the corner from her. It appears I have not been able to prove my ‘slim by osmosis’ theory. As I look down at the zipper on my jeans, I note it resembles a python that has just swallowed a large marsupial. I am definitely more Colonel Sanders that Charles Darwin.
There are over 6,000 restaurants in London. People may wonder how they all survive. That is easy; as obsessed as we are with food, the one thing we will never do is cook. Many new build flats are not even being built with kitchens, just enough room for a fridge and a hot plate. This suits me perfectly as it gives me more room to store my cookbooks. I own 12 cookbooks and haven’t used one. This is somewhat fitting as these books have all been written by chefs who have TV shows rather than kitchens. Chefs in London are now of the same social standing as rock stars, apparently whipping up a hollandaise is up there with penning the lyrics to ‘Hey Jude.’
The increase in cookbooks written by cooks who don’t cook has increased the number of organic stores, which are now scattered around London. It has also fuelled our need to drop the word ‘organic’ into every sentence we utter. Not buying organic is more frowned on in London than adultery; shag your brains out, but for God’s sake make sure that carrot came off a traceable farm.
Every week I buy a vegetable that I don’t even recognise and leave it on the sideboard in the kitchen as decoration. People comment and I feel as though I have impressed them with my knowledge of exclusive, funny looking vegetables. I used to be peer pressured into smoking, now I feel pressured into buying aubergines. I have a three a week habit. Despite all this, when I am alone I secretly trawl the local fast-food joints looking for my next culinary hit. The choices are endless. Anything you could hope to find in polystyrene or plastic wrap is at your fingertips.
Since it came to light that the banks had been lending cash to anyone with a pulse (I don’t think they checked), more and more cash strapped Londoners are turning to junk food for comfort. Every major fast food chain has reported increased profits and there isn’t an organic radish in sight. So the upside to the recession is that in addition to blaming our parents, our moods and the weather, we can now blame the economy for our poor eating habits.
I am not sure whom we blame for the store ‘Iceland.’ During my first week in London I decided to show off my domestic skills and had a dinner party. I cooked a lamb roast, as winter was rapidly approaching and as an Australian I am obliged to consume at least a herd a year. My guests had a little trouble cutting through the meat on their plates but were too polite to comment. One finally asked where I bought the meat from. When I replied ‘some supermarket called ‘Iceland’ all five off them dropped their cutlery, one so violently that they cracked their plate. I did not know that Iceland was called Iceland because everything was frozen (could have guessed) and that Kerry Katona was chosen as the spokeswoman because she was the MOST respectable of their customer base. The rest can't afford her crack habit. The store survives because that lamb roast cost me £3…. it also cost me a dinner plate and several knives. So I gave up cooking, no need to cook when there are so many other culinary options for Londoners – Pot Noodle has just launched a kebab flavour noodle. The only downside is that I can't claim to have burned off any calories walking to the kebab shop anymore.
Caesar once said that his army was unstoppable because his men were always well fed. If we Londoners are full of something as unnaturally sounding as ‘popcorn chicken’ what will our fate be? I will ask the banker begging on my street corner what he thinks.
Wednesday, 29 July 2009
Culture clubbed
I cried last week for the first time in months. I wasn’t crying for the two million unemployed people in the UK, or crying because Foxtons has opened one of their multicoloured real estate showrooms right around the corner from me. (A tip for Foxtons: I won’t pay 100k extra just because you offer me a latte.) I cried because my Sky TV box wouldn’t work.
At the risk of making myself sound even more pathetic you should know that I didn’t cry because I injured myself trying to repair the box, or because I was frustrated at my inability to repair it. I cried because I felt lost. I didn’t know what I was going to do with myself for the rest of that evening. It was raining outside so I couldn’t go for a walk. Not that I should have to, if Sky was working there probably would have been a great show on about walking.
When you ask most people why they moved to London their answer will invariably involve one of three things; work, love or a chance to live in one of the cultural hubs of our time. London’s status obviously coming into question this week as Dixie Fried Chicken opened up their 50th store here. Another sure sign that London is losing its status is that visitlondon.com listed this shrine to lard as a ‘restaurant/brassiere,’ as opposed to the place you go when you are so drunk that even the local kebab shop won’t serve you.
I came to London for all three of these things, well four if you count the Dixie Chicken experience. Let’s just say that I have since discovered that the first two can’t satisfy me (the jury is still out on whether the Fried chicken can nourish my soul), so I am relying on culture to enrich my life. Yet I realised this week that my idea of culture is an overpriced pay TV subscription, I didn’t even take out the optional ‘culture’ package. How is it possible that anyone who lives in London can end up so void of culture?
A contributing factor to my shallowness (apart from just being thick) maybe that like all Londoners I often simply find it hard to make my way around the city to go culture hunting. We spend so much time travelling underground --that eventually life at street level becomes a little disorienting. This is the reason that you see people scrambling for the tube stairs so quickly; there is something comforting about signage that tells you where to go, where to stand and even how you should hold your handbag. Life above ground has become far too complicated.
The tube has also messed with our sense of direction, and ability to gauge distances. Most tube stops are only hundreds of yards apart, but the tube map was designed by someone who wanted passengers to be convinced that they were travelling great distances to justify the extortionate ticket prices. As we fear getting lost (or fit) if we walk further than 100 yards, we will gravitate towards anything close to the tube station. How else can Primark at Marble Arch or Leister Square be explained? So no matter how amazing the Imperial War museum may be, unless they move it half a mile I ain’t going.
You also have to look very hard to find actually find culture in London. London is a bit like one of those holiday brochures that mislead you by getting you all excited looking at photos that are thirty years old. When you get there things aren’t quite as the photos led you to believe.
Postcards of London feature all the wonderful traditional things that one might expect to find - Beefeaters, Palaces, scones and pots of tea. All these things do exist and are wonderful, but you have to look at little bit harder to find them. They are hidden behind chain stores. Chain stores are an architectural cancer that is ravaging the city of London.
Every High Street in London looks exactly the same as the next; the only thing that varies is the number of muggings. The exception to all this is the truly magical Primrose Hill. Primrose Hill is notably the only town in the UK to successfully oppose the opening of a Starbucks. Not surprising when you know who the locals are: Robbie Williams, Sadie Frost, Kate Moss and Jude Law. I am not sure though why these people, of all people, would say no to an espresso.
I read this week that Starbucks was planning to expand further around London. There are currently eight Starbucks within a ten-minute walk of my flat. So I can only imagine that they have planning permission to build stores in people’s lounge rooms. Maybe they thought it necessary, as so many of us are left house bound by our Sky subscriptions.
Just when I think I am being a bit harsh on us Londoners I recall the woman I saw the other night at the pub. A well-dressed middle-aged woman was snuggling up to the fire with a book. She had a smile on her face, the kind of smile which only comes when two characters finally get together after hundreds of pages of agonising unrequited love, or when you have solved a murder that would have had Miss Marple dialling 118 118. Then I realise that this woman is reading a copy of ‘Tesco Spring/Summer Catalogue.’ I now no longer question the study released recently, which claims an immigrant’s grasp of English actually decreases after spending time in London.
After my incident with my Sky Box I took out a weekly subscription to London Time Out magazine. If ever I was stuck for something to do again I would be able to refer to this social bible. Maybe I would even make an effort to turn my Sky off more often. My first copy arrived this morning after what seemed like an eternity. I tore it open with the enthusiasm of a four year old at Christmas one who had eaten its body weight in sweets. I flicked through the glossy pages and then I sat down on my sofa and not surprisingly read the TV guide first.
At the risk of making myself sound even more pathetic you should know that I didn’t cry because I injured myself trying to repair the box, or because I was frustrated at my inability to repair it. I cried because I felt lost. I didn’t know what I was going to do with myself for the rest of that evening. It was raining outside so I couldn’t go for a walk. Not that I should have to, if Sky was working there probably would have been a great show on about walking.
When you ask most people why they moved to London their answer will invariably involve one of three things; work, love or a chance to live in one of the cultural hubs of our time. London’s status obviously coming into question this week as Dixie Fried Chicken opened up their 50th store here. Another sure sign that London is losing its status is that visitlondon.com listed this shrine to lard as a ‘restaurant/brassiere,’ as opposed to the place you go when you are so drunk that even the local kebab shop won’t serve you.
I came to London for all three of these things, well four if you count the Dixie Chicken experience. Let’s just say that I have since discovered that the first two can’t satisfy me (the jury is still out on whether the Fried chicken can nourish my soul), so I am relying on culture to enrich my life. Yet I realised this week that my idea of culture is an overpriced pay TV subscription, I didn’t even take out the optional ‘culture’ package. How is it possible that anyone who lives in London can end up so void of culture?
A contributing factor to my shallowness (apart from just being thick) maybe that like all Londoners I often simply find it hard to make my way around the city to go culture hunting. We spend so much time travelling underground --that eventually life at street level becomes a little disorienting. This is the reason that you see people scrambling for the tube stairs so quickly; there is something comforting about signage that tells you where to go, where to stand and even how you should hold your handbag. Life above ground has become far too complicated.
The tube has also messed with our sense of direction, and ability to gauge distances. Most tube stops are only hundreds of yards apart, but the tube map was designed by someone who wanted passengers to be convinced that they were travelling great distances to justify the extortionate ticket prices. As we fear getting lost (or fit) if we walk further than 100 yards, we will gravitate towards anything close to the tube station. How else can Primark at Marble Arch or Leister Square be explained? So no matter how amazing the Imperial War museum may be, unless they move it half a mile I ain’t going.
You also have to look very hard to find actually find culture in London. London is a bit like one of those holiday brochures that mislead you by getting you all excited looking at photos that are thirty years old. When you get there things aren’t quite as the photos led you to believe.
Postcards of London feature all the wonderful traditional things that one might expect to find - Beefeaters, Palaces, scones and pots of tea. All these things do exist and are wonderful, but you have to look at little bit harder to find them. They are hidden behind chain stores. Chain stores are an architectural cancer that is ravaging the city of London.
Every High Street in London looks exactly the same as the next; the only thing that varies is the number of muggings. The exception to all this is the truly magical Primrose Hill. Primrose Hill is notably the only town in the UK to successfully oppose the opening of a Starbucks. Not surprising when you know who the locals are: Robbie Williams, Sadie Frost, Kate Moss and Jude Law. I am not sure though why these people, of all people, would say no to an espresso.
I read this week that Starbucks was planning to expand further around London. There are currently eight Starbucks within a ten-minute walk of my flat. So I can only imagine that they have planning permission to build stores in people’s lounge rooms. Maybe they thought it necessary, as so many of us are left house bound by our Sky subscriptions.
Just when I think I am being a bit harsh on us Londoners I recall the woman I saw the other night at the pub. A well-dressed middle-aged woman was snuggling up to the fire with a book. She had a smile on her face, the kind of smile which only comes when two characters finally get together after hundreds of pages of agonising unrequited love, or when you have solved a murder that would have had Miss Marple dialling 118 118. Then I realise that this woman is reading a copy of ‘Tesco Spring/Summer Catalogue.’ I now no longer question the study released recently, which claims an immigrant’s grasp of English actually decreases after spending time in London.
After my incident with my Sky Box I took out a weekly subscription to London Time Out magazine. If ever I was stuck for something to do again I would be able to refer to this social bible. Maybe I would even make an effort to turn my Sky off more often. My first copy arrived this morning after what seemed like an eternity. I tore it open with the enthusiasm of a four year old at Christmas one who had eaten its body weight in sweets. I flicked through the glossy pages and then I sat down on my sofa and not surprisingly read the TV guide first.
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