Day 153: Default Browser

Marylebone to meet a friend.  There is no plan - the only thing that has been mooted is 'swanning about'.  Which is exactly what we do. 

Up to St Christopher's Place, where we poke about in clothes shops, and gag at price tags.  Into a 'art' gallery/shop - a terrible mishmash of daubs, mainly chocolate-box erotica (misty eyed nudes in loft apartments), and cloying sentiment (children with trembling lips).  I feel free to comment, because the member of staff is safely behind the counter, over the other side of the shop.  Unfortunately there are TWO members, and I haven't noticed the other one, who is sitting quietly on a stool about a metre away from me.  Whoops.  We leave quickly.   

It's an awkward dynamic when a shop is small.  There's none of the anonymity you get when you wander into a big high street outlet, where nobody notices whether you're there or not.  There's a tension.  Are you going to buy or not?  Is there going to be conversation?  I often know, within seconds of walking in, that there is NOTHING there for me, and I need/want to leave immediately.  But convention constrains me to do a full loop around the shop.  I feel sleeves, pick up books, have a sage look at a label.  All bollocks.  All a game.  Just waiting until I can decently walk out, leaving the impression that the shop is full of lovely things, and perhaps I may come back.  Sometimes, I am even cowardly enough to ask 'What time do you shut today?', to add to this impression (but actually just to oil my exit route). 

That's normally when I feel bad for the shop owner.  I don't today.  Anyone who peddles this sort of terrible shit is more to be punished than pitied.   






   

Day 152: The Greatest Love of Small

Today I pay a flying visit to my home town.  It feels as if it has shrunk since I was a teenager.  Like the crisp bags I used to miniaturise in the oven at a low temperature.  Quavers for goblins.  KP Skips for elves. 

I was a fan of small.  Babybel used to be a medium-sized cheese that you cut into wedges.  Then mini versions arrived.  Still the same bland, slightly sour, milky rubber.  Horrible.  But small!  And therefore unbearably exciting. 

In the same vein, I used to like those mini-Hovis rolls.  The ones shaped like a tiny loaf.  I didn't particularly like the flavour - wholemeal is the driest and foulest of all breads - but that was insignificant next to the incalculable delight of cutting tiny slices, and making stupidly small sandwiches.  Inevitably filled with pointless Babybel.  Hooray.

It's quite a relief that Heroes and Celebrations weren't around when I was growing up.  I know that I'd have been an avid fan (MINIATURES!), and would have wolfed them down.  Iced Gems were far safer - off-puttingly sweet icing, hard as plaster, on top of a dubiously hamsterish biscuit.  Three or four and you'd have to stop, with a mouth as dried out as the Gobi. 

Just as well there was an inherent deterrent.  Because my love of small did not extend to portion control...

Not then.  Not now. 

Day 151: Rain

A day with no work.  The luxury of a long run, with no time constraints.  I notice the fields are looking August dry, and the river is far lower than I've ever seen it.     

Finally it rains.  Not enough, but it's a start.  The air smells of damp earth and bluebells.  As it should in April. 

Time for a trip to the woods. 

Day 150: The Joys of Perry

This morning I have a meeting at the bank with Perry, the man in charge of investments.  I lack a financial chromosome (and a pension plan) but I do try to make up for it.  Every couple of years, I force myself to go to the bank and I throw what I can spare into an ISA.

Sort of like Frodo casting The Ring into the fires of Mordor.  It's a painful job, and I don't really understand the forces at work, but I hope that the outcome will be the future security of The Shire.

The last time I did this, my opponent was Vishal.  A pin-sharp young gun, with a smooth line in sales chat.  He quickly understood what he was facing, and managed to get my agreement and my money in a painless half an hour. 

This year I am up against Perry.  Which fills me with some confidence, as it's a name that has positive associations for me.  Delicious and lethal pear cider - my Glastonbury fuel of choice.  I remember the first time I became fully aware of the Brother's tent, because of the visual impact - the centrifugal splatter of cups and spreadeagled people, like a blast radius from the bar.  It is a legendary fixture. 

So it's with high hopes that I go to my meeting.  Maybe it will be refreshing and I'll get through it surprisingly quickly.  Like the first pint of Brother's on a sunny afternoon by the Pyramid Stage. 

No.  It is not to be.  Perry's approach is stodgy.  He's a stickler for detail and paper work, and doggedly tries to map out my lifestyle and objectives, even though I already know what I want to do. 

Perry: 'What are you hoping to achieve with your investments?'

Me: (Vaguely but hopefully) 'Being able to afford to buy bread when I'm old?  Is that the right answer?'

Perry: 'What is your five year plan?  Any projected expenditure?'

Me: 'Don't have one.  Probably.'

We dance round the financial mulberry bush for an hour and a half.  I have my head in my hands.  Perry prints out a lot of stuff I am never going to read, and don't want.  Finally I think we're done.  At the place that we could have reached in twenty minutes tops, if he'd stopped filling in forms and actually listened to me.  Then he says I have to have another meeting with him.  It's policy.

This evening I get a call from the bank.  My second meeting with Perry is cancelled.  He's been signed off work on sick leave.  Long term. 

Sorry, Perry.  I hope I wasn't the straw... 

Day 149: Thin Line

A morning spent in Shoreditch, people-watching.  I am delighted to spot Mark Petty, one of Hoxton's noted trendsetters and characters.  He's in pink and red today.  Not as glorious as his outfit in the picture, but still a cut above the average punter on Brick Lane. 

I also see a man in a kilt, who looks wrong.  He's wearing it very neatly with white tights, lace-up granny boots, white jumper and fur jerkin.  His hair looks City investor.  It's horrible.  That said, I am truly delighted to see it, just so I can revel in its unpleasance. 


Afternoon slumped in front of 'The Wire' - there's been enough of a break for me to be ready to watch it again.  And it is so very, very good.  'Thin line 'tween heaven and here' - the epigraph for one of the episodes I watch.  It's an observation made by Bubbles, reminding McNulty that he may live in a middle-class neighbourhood, but with a broken marriage and an alcohol problem, he's only ever a step away from the street.

The thin line is everywhere.  Take note, fashionistas.

Day 148: Prick

Hate (Prick)

Today I get to go into a tattoo parlour.  I've never been in one before, so I'm not sure what to expect.  This one's in Old Street.  It's called 'Prick', and it's run by a man called Henry Hate.  He's a big character, imperious and with a touch of the diva.  He sweeps through the shop, ordering people out of his way.  It's a tiny shop, and he's a bulky man - so the likelihood is that most places you can stand will be WRONG.  His assistants look on edge.  I suspect Mr Hate may be an exacting boss.

I once saw a man who'd had his entire scalp tattooed like leopard skin.  His hair was bleached and short - a number one all over.  It looked good - like velvety fur.  He was young.  A definitive gesture, meaning that he'll have a shaved head for life.  The merest hint of receding hairline would mitigate against the option of growing his hair as a cover-up.  Perhaps he did it deliberately, as a career safeguard, to prevent passage through any door marked 'business dress'.  I can see the appeal. 

Or perhaps he just didn't think about it too much.  Like the man in my hometown who had a spider's web tattooed on his face.  Around the eighties, I think there was one of those in every town in Britain.  Ours was called Spider.  Original. 

Rhod Gilbert has the best tattoo ever.  A flaming battenberg cake on a display cushion.  Can his new show really live up to the title (or the tattoo)? 

Day 147: Packed Up

The end of a very long week.  All duties have been discharged.  I am now in the exact moment that I have been envying my future self for the last five days.  It's good.  My mind is empty.  It feels like a house when you've packed up to move out.  Echoey and expanded. 

Nothing more to say.  Everything's in boxes, wrapped in newspaper.