Day 312: Damage Limitation

Today I am on Portland Place.  The Falun Gong man sits on his mat as the traffic rushes past, silently protesting against suppression by the Chinese authorities.  I sign his petition, before entering the still and spacious halls of the Royal Institute of British Architecture.  I am in the Aston Webb room, which is Grade II listed Art Deco.  Leather walls, pale Indian Maple woodwork, and large glass lightshades like shallow, suspended fruit bowls.  It is complete and perfectly preserved.  There is a small notice asking you not to do anything that might damage the surfaces.  Fair enough.  I comply without question. 

Dangerous

This in contrast to large investment bank in Canary Wharf, whose rules include a ban on sticking anything to the windows with Blu-tack because, apparently, Blu-tack 'stains glass'.

I've had a fair bit of experience with Blu-tack, and I do not believe it poses a staining threat to glass.  I think that the bank in question is extremely controlling, rigid and untrusting. 

Glad I signed that petition.  (Don't panic, it's not a swastika.) 

Day 311: Living Vicariously

Venue for today's job is a massive modern church in Milton Keynes.  Altar hidden by a projection screen.  Full-scale bodily-immersion font concealed behind a Marler Haley pop-up display board.  Evidence of religious stuff (crosses, candles, hassocks etc) is minimal. 

But still remains in the Cornerstone Cafe, an annexe attached to the side of the church.  Staffed by doughty matrons wearing aggressively large crosses and cardigans in pastel colours, it is defiantly slow-paced and school dinnerish.  And clearly a refuge for many.  There are tiny frail bird ladies, slowly crumbling scones.  A man with facial tattoos and tics, whose barky dog waits impatiently outside.  A woman in a stained anorak, ploughing furrows in mashed potato with her fork and humming to herself.  I buy a bottle of water.  It appears to be a unusual request - a matron has to go 'out to the back' to find it.  Dog man loudly offers to 'watch the till' while she is away, and takes his duties seriously, looming menacingly and proprietorially.

Not me

Back in the church auditorium I find myself, absurdly, talking to two hundred people about a psychology experiment based around the parable of the Good Samaritan.  I comment that I am fully aware that this is as close as I'll ever come to being a vicar.  At this point, my laptop starts playing up in a off-the-scale display of temperament.  The timing is interesting and very entertaining for all concerned - is this divine intervention?  Is it money-lenders and temples all over again?  May be I have crossed the line? 

Back home, my lap top recovers its equanimity, secure in secularity.  Clearly I am not meant to be a vicar. 

Day 310: Blood Glove

I feel compelled to write about how much I love The Great British Bake Off.  (Even though today's episode isn't quite as dramatic as last week, when John put his hand in the Magimix, and then tried to make a strudel with a 'glove full of blood'.) 

It's not just because of the competitive element.  It's something to do with the suspense - the gap between the plan and the outcome.  All the pitfalls to steer past - too much salt!  Underproved!  Over-baked!  Tasteless!  Even if it looks OK as it comes out of the oven, there's still danger (buns can be dropped; icing can melt).  Time slows as Paul and Mary chew, blank-faced, before pronouncing their uncompromising verdicts. 

It's every facet of the human condition.  With cake.   

Day 309: Cardigone

This is the first morning I leave the house in real darkness.  Cannot pretend anymore - it is definitely autumn.  The heating is on and I've dusted off my boots.  Good.  I'm always pleased when September cranks in fully.  More stuff happens, better films released etc. 

Unfortunately, to coincide with the arrival of colder weather, I manage to shrink my favourite cardigan.  Don't understand how this has come about - I use a low temperature on the mollycoddling cycle.  It emerges, horribly stiff and unyielding.  Like a rigid two-year old.  Sleeves now finish a good six inches above the wrist on my long, monkey arms.  I try to cajole and stretch it (no good), then try to convince myself that it's fine - just more jacket-y than it was (fail).  It's properly ruined. 

I can live quite happily with holes and thin patches.  I cannot live with this felty inflexibility. 

Life philosophy via the medium of the cardigan. 

Day 308: Within Tent

The enabler (it's not a jerry can't)

Rain starts in the early hours of the morning, drumming hard on my tent, which is brilliantly leak-proof.  I know it's not to everybody's taste, but I love being in a tent when it's raining. 

Particularly when you are well-equipped.  I have a properly-cushioned sleeping mat, a double sleeping bag, and a fleece blanket.  Plus lamp, reading material, water and apples. 

And an in-tent sanitation system - jerry can and funnel in the porch area.  This is a game changer.  I am never going back to pre-ISS days. 

So I am an island.  Self-sufficient and content.  When I was a child, my favourite haunt was up in the branches of an apple tree, hidden away with a book.  Particularly at harvest time (snacks to hand, no need to leave tree). 

I once did a personality profiling test, where my scores for autonomy were off the chart.  Who knew?       

Day 307: Incampetent

Down to Dorset for a go-kart challenge.  It's with the same group of people that I met back in June - the alpha campers, who knock up elderflower fritters from scratch on a campfire, whilst weaving hammocks and strumming guitars.  Which means that the go-kart challenge is hippyish but SERIOUS.  The Healing Fields meets Robot Wars. 

Broom, flags, epic view

One team have made an exact replica of the Flintstone's car.  Another team have welded the front of a bicycle onto a wheelchair, and have installed a sound system with speakers, playing Mexican music.  I am crew for my friend's kart - a garden trolley which we hastily pimp into a Plantagenet war cart, trimmed with swags of yellow broom, and the replicas of the flags that Henry V flew at Agincourt.  Given the lack of effort (no welding or crafting) it looks pretty decent.  It cannot compare, however, with my favourite - The Black Rooster. 

Black Rooster swoops

Three stages of the competition - beauty parade, straight downhill time trial, and a slalom course (speed and accuracy marked).  The Planatagenet war cart is not built for speed, but is sturdy and reliable, and the flags look ace.  Overall we come fourth out of nine - far more respectable than we could have hoped. 

Back to the camp.  As I'm changing out of my war cart costume, I overhear this:-

'Yes - I'm doing bread.  I've got the dough rising on the front seat of the van.  I'm going to make some butter and jam as well.'

I'm not altogether surprised by the first bit, but I think I've misheard the second.  I haven't.  Butter is churned (seriously).  Jam is made.  From foraged blackberries.  Obviously. 

Fourth in the go-karts.  Definitely last in the campetency stakes.  Pot Noodle, anyone? 

Day 306: Hot Wheels

Retiring Champion

The Contender

Walking home from the station, dragging my laptop wheelie case behind me heavily, like I'm Jacob Marley weighed down with chains. 

As I trawl up the hill, I draw level with a woman and her small son.  He has a little suitcase on wheels.  I overtake.  He eyes me, and my bag.  He breaks into a determined trot.  He overtakes.  I hang back a bit.  He waits for me.  This is not about overtaking.  He wants to RACE. 

We're on.  I stage-manage things carefully.  After a couple of nail-biting moments, he wins, and is beaming at me in delight.   

I know my bag isn't any lighter, but it feels like it is. 



     

Day 305: Alexandra the Great

A friend's band is playing a gig at The Alexandra on Fortis Green.  It's been years since I've been in this pub, and I've forgotten how much I like it.  It's a proper boozer, with good bar staff and a decent juke box.  The toilets are stinky, and when the door to the gents swings open, the backdraft takes your breath away.  As I say, a proper boozer. 

Old friends, great music, beer and piss.  Hooray.   

 

Day 304: Coldfinger

Today I miscalculate on the clothes front.  Arrive at the station at stupid o'clock.  All the other earlies are wearing coats.  I am in shirt sleeves.  The minute I realise this, I feel considerably colder.  Train arrives.  I am in a carriage with a window-flinger - a man who makes ventilation his primary duty.  Not only establishing but also MAINTAINING extreme ventilation (woe betide any person getting on at West Hampstead, who fancies shutting a window, because that WON'T BE HAPPENING!  Not on his watch.)  Secondary duties include knee-presence and whistley nostrils.

It is seriously cold.  In tribute to the drop in temperature I have my first A/W12* case of dead finger (*topical nod to fashion week in my season speak). 

Coldfinger. 
He loves only cold
Only cold
He loves cold
He loves only cold
Only cold
He loves cold

(Q:  What does Coldfinger like?  A:  Repetition)
 

Day 303: End of Civilisation

The Wallace Collection cafe - the result of a search for somewhere different to drink coffee. 

High ceilings, leafy palm trees, clean and starchy waiters, and space.  It is civilised and interesting.

And completely appropriate.  The friend I am with is also civilised and interesting. 

I drift home afterwards, still feeling civilised (if not particularly interesting).  In the kitchen, I am rootling around in the back of a high cupboard, when a long-forgotten tub of cocoa powder chooses to leap off a shelf, making a bid for freedom.  It explodes on the work surface in a cloud of chocolatey dust, covering everything in sight.  Large-scale clean up operation is required.  As I pick things up, their negative images remain behind, silhouetted in cocoa.  The blast radius is considerable.  On the plus side, the kitchen smells nice. 

Later, in the bathroom, I catch sight of my reflection.  I am somewhere between this (left) and this (right). 

Interesting - yes.   Civilised?  No. 

Day 302: Plum Duff

Ever get a day when you thoroughly dislike yourself?  Including the horrible self-indulgence of disliking yourself? 

Today I can just FUCK RIGHT OFF. 

Day 301: Irritable Bowl Syndrome

Thanks to a combination of insufficent crockery investment and butter fingers, this is a one-bowl household.  If more than one person wants cereal, it will be a staggered, bowl-tag business.  Limping along on two bowls has been tricky.  Inevitably at least one bowl will be in the sink, tagged with dried muesli.  But one bowl is ridiculous.

So I have bought FOUR new bowls.  I know, I know.  Most people probably have matching sets of six different kinds of bowl - cereal, soup, pudding etc.  But for me, four bowls is progress.  I do not own 'matchy' crockery.  And these new ones are pristine - white, perfect and unchipped.  They look out of place in the cupboard, next to their mongrelish, raffish neighbours. 

I'm not worried.  I give them days before they get that lived-in look.  Hours, possibly. 

Bowl movement. 

Day 300: Accidental Beating

This morning my run takes me through a country estate.  It's private, but there is a concessionary path which I often use.  Today the path is closed, so I'm running on the public bridleway that borders the River Ver, but is still on the estate. 

Soz

It soon becomes clear why the concessionary path is closed.  I can hear rifles.  It's pheasant shooting time.  Suddenly the shots start sounding closer.  I realise that by running this route, I am inadvertently beating for the guns, as I startle birds into flight.  And also making myself an indirect target.  Not sure I particularly trust the marksmanship of a bunch of pumped-up City boys with weekend passes and itchy triggers. 

Relieved to get onto the road.  Apologies to any pheasants that I flushed in the direction of death and destruction.  I hope you made it out alive.  I reckon your chances were pretty good. 

Day 299: More Balls Than Most

This morning I experience a new level of apex predator disrespect during my run.  I am thundering along a very narrow piece of pavement that borders a park - it's a downhill slope, so I'm picking up a fair bit of speed.  An orange cat is sitting (cat-on-mat style) right in the middle of the pavement.  Wide-faced, so I'm guessing this is cattus intactus.  As I bear down, he regards me boldly and coolly.  Soon he will move.  Soon. 

He doesn't.  He simply doesn't.  He holds his ground.  Like that student and the tank in Tiananmen Square, but without the politics.  I have no choice, thanks to parked cars and railings.  I have to jump over him.  He STAYS PUT. 

This cat has more balls than most. 

Or no legs. 

Day 298: Space and Light

Today I get to visit the house that was home to Sir John Lavery, the Irish painter.  The upstairs room that he used as a studio is breathtaking.  Vast, high-ceilinged, with the largest sash windows imaginable on both sides of the room, letting light flood in.  Just walking into a space like this is enough to slow your pulse and calm your mind.

Back in 2007, on a course, I was asked where I saw myself in five year's time.  It wasn't an interview.  I didn't have to square my shoulder pads and shout 'Sitting in YOUR chair, Mr Yesterday!'  But even outside of an interview, it's a difficult question.  Before I had a chance to think it through, my head was full of an image of a room just like Sir John Lavery's.  Huge, completely empty and full of light that filtered in gently through open windows that stretched from floor to ceiling.  I was walking through it, barefoot, and wearing old, soft, frayed clothes - shorts and a shirt.  There was nobody else there, no furniture, no ornaments.  It was so vivid and unbidden that it startled me.

I kept it to myself.  I think the questioner was expecting wildly ambitious outcomes (a published novel, a Nobel prize, a successful start up etc etc), and I thought I might have seen a portent of my own death.  (Probably because the light was very reminiscent of 'heaven' in the Nespresso adverts with John Malkovich and George Clooney...)

Either that, or the vision proved I was a total slug, with absolutely no ambitions whatsoever, except for a desire to not wear business dress.

Now from the five years on viewpoint, it's quite clear to me that I just time-travelled, and caught a glimpse of my future random visit to Sir John Lavery's studio.  Good.  Much more comfortable than a) death and b) slug-brain.    



 

Day 297: Yes, Madam?

A job in Paternoster Square.  I am ushered up into an imposing room with a picture window from which London is displayed like a tapestry of landmarks.  If the Green Goblin were London-based, this would be the view behind his swivel chair of power.  The receptionist leaves me with the terrifying words 'I'll send the butler in to serve you.'  She exits on my weak 'No.  Please, please don't.'  Too late.  Butler arrives and to save a wasted trip I feel forced to have a coffee.  Butler stalks to the far end of the room, pours a coffee from a completely-accessible-to-me jug, positions it with great precision, is disappointed that I do not have any breakfast requests, and leaves.  I feel torn between discomfort and laughter.  Discomfort wins. 

Please go away

I am not at ease with this sort of status theatre.  Which is what this is.  Ostensibly hospitality, the real meaning of this display is a message of wealth and power.  While others may be cutting back on the meeting room biscuits, here you will get a butler on a special trip to serve you coffee you could easily pour yourself.

They have a vending machine for gold.  Seriously.

Think it's safe to say that I will never be troubling the seven star Emirates Palace Hotel in Abu Dhabi*.  I could not cope with the private butler stress.  I get awkward when room service arrives in a bog standard Jarvis.  (And yes, I pretend to be on the phone, just to bring a third person into the room to break the tension.)

* Fortunately this decision is completely in line with my budgetary restrictions.  All is well.  

Day 296: Sevens and Eights

In which I finally buy some new work shoes.  (When I say finally, I mean almost.  They are on order, and will be arriving (allegedly) within a couple of days.) 

Fail

Impressed by the commitment that sees me go into two separate shoe shops.  In the first, I find a possibility (ie a shoe), and ask to try it on in a seven and a half.  The man comes back, dully holding a seven and an eight.  I try the seven.  It is too small.  I try the eight.  It is too large.  I am not surprised by either result.  BECAUSE I AM A SEVEN AND A HALF (hence initial request).   

Win

In the second shop I visit, there is a similar dearth in my size.  Here an assistant shows presence of mind, nimbly suggesting I try a seven and a half in a unpopuar colour (beige) - purely for size, and then I can order it in black.  This piece of sheer strategic brilliance secures a sale for her, and peace of mind/shoes for me.  It's a SHOE-IN.  (You're welcome.)

You can keep your sevens and your eights.  I need half measures.  But not in salesmanship.  Just in shoes. 

Day 295: Nuts in a Mutton

A day spent in a letterpress studio in rural Essex.  This is a complete indulgence.  I've always wanted to have a go. 

Trays and trays of beautiful old type.  Wood block, metal.  Black iron handpresses, solid but beautifully decorated with mermaids and eagles.  Inky smells.  Archaic language - I learn how many nuts there are in a mutton*.  Everything is painstakingly done by hand, and packed into a chase (frame) with coins (expanding braces) that hold the letters secure.  Ink mixed on glass, and rollered on.  Image pressed. 

Eight hours melt away.  I am not thirsty.  I do not go to the loo.  I am utterly focused.  I end up with this (see right).  The letter blocks are antique.  I like the fact that there is a big notch bitten out of the 'O' in HEROIC.  I like the patchy contact with some of the ink.  The 'T' of ACTION refuses to print initially.  I have to raise it by sticking some masking tape on the back, and hand-buffing the contact after pressing. 

I arrive home proudly bearing my print, like a child from nursery school, tired but pleased.  Of course, it's not exactly as I want it.  Letterpress rarely is.  That's how it hooks you in...  The tantalising charm of almost.   

Day 294: When I'm Cleaning Windows

Bright sunlight is exposing my shameful approach to window cleaning.  (Once a year.  Ish.)  My excuse has traditionally been that the windows are so fragile that they simply cannot take the trauma of a damp cloth (true).  But now the windows are solid again, there is no excuse. 

I clean the windows.  It is amazing how disproportionately a room is improved once the windows are clean.  Everything looks better.

On this basis, I wonder whether I should clean my glasses more regularly? 

Day 293: Reasons to Keep On Sanding

Move away from the paintbrush.
You are not ready. 

Saturday.  Jim and Brian are STILL finding reasons to keep on sanding. 

The spectrum of painting and decorating is a very broad one.  At one end there are people like my ex-flatmate, Sally - who once painted her bedroom orange, but only to her short arm's reach (no step-ladder or desire to stand on a chair) and only one thin, scanty coat with lots of show-through (lack of commitment plus cheap paint). 

At the other end there are people like Jim and Brian, who do things properly.  That means sanding down, filling, more sanding down, then and only then undercoating (more sanding), then two top coats.  Which must dry perfect.  Any spots of rain will mean slight pitting in the gloss surface.  This will mean more sanding, and a re-application of the top coat.  Their quote - which initially seemed rather high - now seems almost embarrassingly low, when ranged against the number of man hours they've put in. 

It is a brilliant thing to see a job being done well.  Whatever it is.  No skimping.  No corner-cutting.  When talking to Brian it is quite clear that he gets an immense sense of satisfaction from what he does.  Is that why he does such a good job?  Or does the fulfilment come from the effort invested?  The knowledge that he could not have done any more?   

Hard to separate the two.  Note to self. 

Day 292: Display Buns

The best sort of morning for a run.  Crisp air, bright sun, dew sparkling on the grass.  So lovely that I'm not surprised I hit my fastest average time yet (yes, I am still in thrall to the GPS slave-driver). 

By afternoon any crispness has long since disappeared, to be replaced by proper summer heat.  The Abbey orchard is full of people lolling in the heat.  Ice-creams, and vests and indolence.  Down one of the paths comes a youth - top off, jeans precariously hanging at half-buttock, boxers proudly displayed. 

'Pull 'em up, mate!'  Surprised and amused to hear this loudly and clearly shouted by a lad in a group sitting behind me.  His tone is admonishing and pitying in equal degree.  Youth-on-youth heckling. 

On the whole you don't hear much street heckling these days.  When I was a teenager, if you were fat (as I was) you were an immediate target. 

These days my teenage self wouldn't even register as a contender.  Fat standards have changed.  More and bigger. 

The youth in St Albans have got used to fat.  But I'm proud that they're still holding out against buttock-riders. 

Day 291: Not Fit For Business

The sun is shining down brilliantly on Chancery Lane, which is full of people dressed to do BUSINESS.  The current fashion if you are a (young) man is to be on the point of dangerously exploding out of your shirt and trousers.  This does not mean you are fat.  Far from it - this is a style for the properly 'hench'.  The shirt and trouser (deliberate tailor-style use of the singular here) should look one size too small.  To me it looks uncomfortable and sweaty. 

For women (young and would-be-young), business demands stripper heels and a unforgivingly tight tailored dress.  To me it looks even more uncomfortable and sweaty than the male version.  At least the men can wear flat shoes (albeit ridiculously pointy). 

I wonder how many people enjoy dressing like this?  Perhaps many do, because they feel fashionable. 

And the arbiters of fashion?  Skinny stick men made from ketosis and bitchery (see Karl Lagerfeld). 

No thanks.  (And with this I justify my old and battered work shoes, still not replaced - see Day 88, back in February...)

Day 290: Maximus Decimus Pineappleus

A perfect September day, with warm sun and a clear, fresh breeze.  London is sort-of back to school, but reluctantly.  I wonder how many people are desperately hanging on to the tail ends of work-from-home-for-the-duration-of-the-Olympics.  The City certainly seems emptier than normal.  In the relative peace, I wander up Ludgate Hill freely, not having to dodge any suits barking into mobiles.  Recently-cleaned St Paul's looks at its absolute best, bone white against the blue sky.  I cannot find a picture that does it justice.     

EARTH has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty

Pineappley

More Pineappley

Apparently the two towers are topped off with a pineapple apiece. Not because Sir Christopher particularly enjoyed fruit salad (although he may well have done), but because the pineapple is a symbol of peace, prosperity and hospitality. 



That explains the pineappleyness of so many wallpaper designs and finials.  I'd always wondered. 

Maximum Pineapple

Some may say that it's possible to go too far with the whole pineapple thing, though. 

Not me. 

 

Day 289: Getting Wood

A day of industry and movement.  The sash window in the sitting room is removed completely, fixed and put back.  There is new architrave on the front door.  New skirting board.  Rotten window sills chipped away and replaced.  There are swear words and many cups of tea. 

I am despatched to a trade timber yard, which appears deserted until a man zooms up in a forklift truck.  He grunts at me.  I tell him what I want - 1.2m 75 x 75 PAR (yes, obviously I want it PAR - I may be a civilian but I can pretend I'm not).  He nods, and accelerates away, beckoning me to follow him.  I trot after the forklift obediently like a dog in a farmyard.  In the office, where I pay a stupidly small amount for my piece of timber (never again, B&Q), I am eyed with suspicion.  I'm not about to divulge that I'm running an errand for Mick the carpenter.  By my silence I am implying (worryingly) that it's quite possible that I, a lady, am replacing a window sill myself.  (This is pure fantasy on my part - I'm happy to attempt most DIY jobs, but window carpentry is just a step too far.  Know your limits.)

The house smells of fresh wood.  Exciting.   

Day 288: Web-Wrecker

A spider has decided to set up web around the recycling boxes, in such a way that to open any of them means instant web-destruction.  As has happened three times so far, but this spider is committed to rebuilds, and a delusional optimist.  'Oh, it'll be fine this time around.  Hey ho - just feeling lucky today!' 

Or possibly, the web-breakages are being taken as positive proof that this is rich feeding ground - unable to hold the magnitude of the catch.  You're gonna need a bigger web etc. 

Or maybe, just maybe, spiders are really thick, and don't understand recycling policy. 

Day 287: Roast Wars

A klutz day.  Which makes a simple Sunday roast a dangerous thing.

1.  To remove the cooked chicken from the roasting pan, it is not recommended that you stick a fork up the bird, head-on-pike style.  Leverage will result in molten cooking juices and cavity steam burning your fork hand, and serving it right. 

2.  When adjusting red-hot oven shelves, do not use your bare hands.  Skin tends to stick and blister.  Somewhere in the kitchen there should be an ovenglove*.

3.  It is fine to parboil potatoes for roasting.  It is not a good idea to balance the parboiling pot, filled to the brim with soaking water, on top of the grill pan which is in turn balanced on the ovenglove* on the lid of the bin.  It is likely that when you are crouched at the freezer, seeking peas, you will catch the handle, and bring a clattering Jenga tower of metal and a tsunami of starchy water over yourself, and the kitchen floor, right at the crucial moment when gravy is boiling and broccoli threatens to over-steam.

4.  If you are sloshing around the kitchen, bruised, wet and burned, do not attempt to cut corners by turning roast potatoes with your fingers.  You have turned the heat right up to 'crisp them.'  And this is what will happen.  To the potatoes and your fingers.

5.  If you are unlucky/incompetent enough to complete steps 1-4, please ensure you have a plum crumble for pudding.  This will make everything alright.