Day 345: Dwarves Not Yetis

A trawl up the motorway, an hour spent in the Jasper Carrott Suite at Birmingham City Football Club, and then a trawl back down the motorway. 

The day definitely needs some livening-up.  Fortunately, as I radio channel-surf, I tune into a news story that scientists have done tests on HAIR found in a Siberian cave (promising).  It is not a match for normal cave-dwelling types - bears, wolves, goats (even more promising).  It belongs somewhere on the monkey/human DNA spectrum, closer to the human end.  Yes - the implication is that this is YETI hair.  (Bingo!  Day enlivened.)

An internet search reveals that there have been 'sightings' in the area since the seventies.  My favourite incident involves a couple of 'yetis', walking up a hill, carrying rudimentary implements, and 'making a whistling noise'. 

I'm no scientist, but surely this is a case of mistaken identity?  Carrying tools?  Whistling?  Oh, come on!

I want to believe. Truly I do.   But unlike these so-called 'scientists', I cannot ignore the facts. 

Day 344: Admin Eggman

Administrative duties.  Tax return signed, sealed, delivered.  It's yours (assuming you are HMRC).  Trips to two postal depots - one to pick up two parcels; one to send eight.  The Beatles famously said  'The love you take is equal to the love you make.'  It seems that this equation does not extend to parcels - at the moment I am six down. 

Probably being hasty.  Remind self that The Beatles' love equation is prefaced by the words 'And in the end' - which implies an end-of-days reckoning.  Perhaps by that stage the parcel imbalance will have righted itself.  (And in the end, the parcels you tend, are equal to the parcels you send.)

Remind self that The Beatles also famously said 'I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.'  So, by this reckoning, the parcels coming in and the parcels going out are one and the same.  One big universal parcel, man. 

Remind self that The Beatles also famously said 'Semolina pilchard, climbing up the Eiffel Tower, Elementary penguin singing Hari Krishna, Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Allan Poe.  I am the eggman.  They are the eggmen.  I am the walrus.'

Disregard Beatles as a credible philosophical/mathematical source. 

Reconsider.  I am the eggman.  The parcels are the eggmen.  We are all eggmen. 

I do not like administration. 

Day 343: Tripod of Sluggery

I smell of bonfires.  My voice has dropped about an octave, thanks to smoke inhalation and red wine.  It is not a day for singing anything with high notes, or doing anything that requires energy.  I need to be a sofa slug.

Hot shower.  Sunday papers.  Tea.  The Tripod of Sluggery*. 

(* Shower, papers and tea - these are the supportive legs.  I am not talking about an actual tripod (see left).  Although if I had one, I would use it.  Probably for my elbow. 

Day 342: Conkering Hero

Leave the house early to beat the half-term caravans on the drive down to Dorset.  There's a thin layer of slushy snow settled on the car, and the temperature gauge is reading only one degree.  A taste of things to come.

The disease that is ravaging horse chestnut trees means that supplies for this year's Conkertition are down.  But as any conker-botherer know, you cannot use a juvenile if you want any chance of success.  You need a hardened, wizened two-year old.  And there is a biscuit tin full of them.

There is no room for concessions.  Freddie (aged four) weeps hot tears of rage as his conker splits in two.  'I feel really bad that I've made Freddie cry' says his rival (a forty-something cardiology consultant).  'But - you know, it's still a WIN!' 

Cold hands, cold hearts and bruised knuckles.  You've got to be hard to succeed.  As hard as a wizened two-year old. 

Day 341: Maximalist

I am slightly overwhelmed by my desk.  Looking left to right, here is an inventory:-

Packet of painkillers (one remains)
Post-it notes (classic pale yellow)
Pile of receipts (dull)
Boîte à Prunes (tin - specifically designed for, but not containing speeding tickets)
Parcel tape (three-pack bargain)
Three-pin to two-pin plug adaptor (Euro-rover)
Missed parcel notice (annoying)
A spaghetti squash (unexpected gift)
A string bag of plastic balls (a ball bag, if you will)
A candle (smells of cedar wood)
A small cigar box containing a false moustache and some spirit gum
Some tracing paper (A4)
A flyer for the Black Garden Tattoo parlour (inky)
A tangle of unmatched clean socks (quite dusty now)
A mug (empty)
A glass carafe filled with loose change (five, two and one pence pieces)
A Filofax (old skool)
A plastic mushroom (don't explain, don't justify)
Booking confirmation for Glastonbury (hooray)
A calculator (Tippexed with my initials)
A compass from the Lost Gardens of Heligan (I am sitting due South East)
Headphones (Sennheiser and big - like Chelsea buns strapped to my swede)
Fortnum & Mason's stilton jar full of pens (thoroughly washed before use)
Scalpel (dangerously sharp)
Atomiser of hippy juice to promote mental clarity (unverified claim)
Garmin Forerunner 305 (the Drill Sergeant)
Stapler (for the pile of receipts)
Various pads liberated from corporate meeting rooms (perks)
A twelve-pack of pocket tissues (snotty)
A pattern for a skirt (one day)
A fleece (practical)
Four bananas (potassium)
An ancient lemon (wise)
Three pairs of sunglasses (optimistic)
A lamp (let there be light)
Five bank statements (filing is not a priority)
A packet of Blu-Tak (for small desk-modelling project - especially snails)
A hagstone (averting evil)
An Ordnance Survey map (so I know where I am)
A water bottle (hydration)
Phone (communication)

I think it's fair to say that I could not be considered 'minimalist'. 

Einstein's desk (see right).  Maximalism justified.  Relax. 

Day 340: Shoes Not Leaves

Plant-mister rain. 
If I had leaves, they would be pleased. 
But my shoes are made of leather, and they stain,
Dark with Soho's gutter wees.   

Day 339: Autumn Montage

I am living an autumn montage.  I rake fallen leaves which are blanketing the garden, and admire the acer, which has turned Chinese dragon red.  Some enterprising spiders have created a maze of zip wires between all the shrubs. 

Then a long conker-strewn run to my favourite destination - the Tudor ruins of Gorhambury Manor, which are spookily shrouded in mist.  On the grass where the cloisters once stood there are fairy rings of toadstools.  The bark on the trees is black with damp.  Back home I cook a pumpkin curry.  A witchy black cat steals into the garden and then sits on the window sill, peering into the kitchen nosily. 

The only way this could get any more Hallowe'enish is if a gaggle of small ghosts and skeletons was to arrive at the front door, expecting chocolate and armed with eggs and flour if none is forthcoming.  Roll on, next Wednesday. 

On Thursday I will be washing my car.  The annual autumn wash. 

Day 338: Sublime to Ridiculous

Few things are guaranteed to move me to tears, but anything involving veteran World War II pilots is a pretty good bet.  As it proves to be when I watch the footage of ninety-nine year old William Walker, taken shortly before his recent death.  Frail, but still upright, astute and articulate, and so very quiet and self-effacing about his bravery.  In a culture dominated by individualism and celebrity, it's the grace of this old-fashioned humility that makes me weep.  Slowly all the remaining veterans are being snuffed out, and the world is a darker place for it.  'Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.'  Quite. 

Meanwhile, in Birmingham, three men stand accused of plotting acts of terrorism.  Plans apparently included turning a monster truck into “The Ultimate Mowing Machine” by welding butcher’s knives to it and driving it into crowds.  Is it just me, or does this sound like something from a Chris Morris film?  Surely the whole driving-a-truck-into-people bit makes the butcher's knives rather redundant?  All smacks of over-excited ten-year old boy war games.  But a great deal uglier.   

Day 337: Noc Speak

Dank, dark Monday.  Enlivened no end by the audio clip of Noc the Beluga whale imitating human speech.  Initially I think - as I'm sure many do - that it is a hoax.  Somebody playing a kazoo.  But no.  It's the real deal.  And you can clearly hear the whale-approximation of human speech, blah-ing on and on.

Belugas.  What's not to love?  They are the unicorns of the sea. 

Day 336: Return To Crumble

Pale and wan

I am having Tarte Tatin issues. These issues are interlinked, and have a knock-on effect.  The first is the colour of my pan.  It is black, so it's very hard to see when the caramel is the right colour.  Cowardice means that it's not quite as brown as it should be.  (I am not the only one with caramel issues - see right.  This is the pallid chap that appears on the BBC recipe website.)  The second is the apples.  Once they are introduced to heat (necessary), they make so much juice that they dilute the already slightly feeble caramel.  Too much liquid means that the pastry is likely to go soggy. 



Bronzed god

This recipe is apparently based on the happy results of a salvaged accident - apples overcooked and sticking to the pan, and then pastry shovelled unceremoniously on top without much hope.  Given that this is its provenance, I really don't think it should be quite so exacting and moody. 

I shall make one more attempt.  In which I will try to channel the slatternly approach of the Tatin sisters.  I think it may be one of those less-control-better-results situations.

If there is no improvement, I shall return to crumble.  The kindest of all puddings. 

Day 335: Shyster

 Down into the depth of witchy Sussex to help a friend out on a job.  It's dinner theatre for a hen night - a blast from the past.  As is my preparatory foray into the costume boxes in the loft.  Unearth my moustache (that's an odd combination of words) - still stiff with spirit gum from the last time I used it, which must be a good seven years ago. 

Very odd to return to something you no longer do - half remembered, familiar but hazy.  I'd forgotten the awkwardness of the drinks reception bit, where many of the guests are crippled with self-consciousness and will do anything to get you out of character, and onto safe ground.  The tedium of the inevitable 'So, how often do you do this?' question.  My friend Peter used to circumnavigate this by playing a range of eccentrics who would start conversations with inanimate objects (pot plants, statues etc).

Halfway through the starter, the vast majority of people are into the swing of things, several going above and beyond the call of duty.  The spirit gum holds up, and my moustache stays on firmly - even through soup.  Other (less professional) moustaches droop or smear off, but their presence still allows for the sort of overt sexism that is only allowable from women pretending to be men ('Bless 'em - just don't let them drive!').  Much ogling and chat about 'bird watching'.  Cigars being dropped deliberately in front of any of the female characters - 'Could you pick that up, my dear?  I have a very stiff knee' (cue more ogling). 

There is one person who stands on the side-lines.  She's not wearing a costume, and she doesn't make any effort to talk to anyone else.  She asserts in a lacklustre, unsmiling (not particularly shy) way that she's 'shy'.

We manage to wrap up and ship out just before things get out of hand.  There's a fine line between drunk enough to let go of inhibitions, and drunk enough to be unmanageable.  Still - I find drunk far preferable to 'shy'.

Day 334: Alarm Alarm

I have been sleeping badly for the last couple of days.  Because I have alarm clock anxiety.  On Wednesday, although set and double-checked, it remained silent.  Fortunately it didn't matter, because I woke up anyway.  The next day, the alarm worked fine.  But I was already tensely awake - as I had been for an hour.  The damage has been done - the trust is gone.  

I have the same situation with the timer on the cooker.  Sometimes it goes off; sometimes it remains mute.  Capricious inconsistency. 

I can live with the cooker.  I have a watch, and a sense of smell.  But the alarm clock's days are numbered.  Replacement is ordered and on its way. 

I used to live in a flat where you couldn't rely on an alarm clock.  Because despite the time you set it, by morning it would be set to something completely different.  I'm not going to attempt an explanation.  I've no idea.  It just happened like that.  Different alarm clocks.  Multiple alarm clocks.  Same thing.  Just came to accept it as an irritating inevitability. 

Fortunately I suspect that my current situation will be under control by early next week.  Fingers crossed.

Day 333: Gatekeeper or Bookkeeper?

The woman sitting opposite me on the train has exactly the same laptop bag as me.  Mine is stashed on the left in the gap between the seats.  Hers is on the right.  In a film, this would obviously herald a bag mix-up, leading to horrific, adrenalin-fuelled, or hilarious consequences, depending on genre.  In real life, a mix-up, although possible, is not probable.  And if it were to happen, the consequences would be panic, followed by inconvenience.  Leading to resolution (if lucky) or additional expense (new laptop) and more inconvenience (trip to PC World, plus cautionary resetting of all passwords).  Not a plot that's likely to get the studio green light.   

The mix-up does not happen.  We both pick up our respective bags and go our separate ways.  Most days I see a jump-off point for a film.  Frequently I convince myself that the filmic possibilities will become reality.  Last week there was a woman in front of me on the escalator.  I had two jobs that day in different bits of London.  I saw the same woman TWICE more.  In different locations.  London's a big place.  This was freaky.  And totally random.  But I didn't want it to be.  With massive human self-importance, I wanted it to have meaning.  I wanted the woman to have a message for me.  To be the recruiter for an undercover agency.  Or to be the gatekeeper to a different world.  Not to be an admin assistant from Hertfordshire who happened to be in the same place as me, three times in one day. 

Perhaps this is all a test of initiative, and she actually IS the gatekeeper.  And it's down to me to make the next move.  If I see her again, I'm going to ask her.

Me: Are you the gatekeeper?

Woman: You have passed the test.  I am Meldraga.  We have been waiting for you to face your destiny.  It will not be easy, but the Key of Truth and the Sandals of Speed will help you through the perils that lie ahead.  Beware of the   No.  I'm the bookkeeper.

Maybe I won't ask.
 

Day 332: Wee Fee

The public toilets in Covent Garden piazza are no longer free of charge.  It costs FIFTY PENCE to get in.  For that I'd want a guided tour, and a leaflet.  Plus tea room and gift shop.  Plus limitless refills. 

Free Weiwei.  (Sorry.)

Free weeing is fast becoming a thing of the past.  Still possible at Blackfriars station, but only because the turnstiles aren't properly up-and-running.  There's a toilet at City Thameslink that seems to have fallen off the radar.  It's pretty ancient, tucked away in a corner and forgotten, but gloriously free.  As are, amazingly, the toilets at St Pancras International - but I can't imagine they will remain that way.

Sign of the times.  Free wifi?  Yes.  Free wee wee?  No.   

Meanwhile we are still being told to drink more water for health reasons. 

I for one will only be hydrated around free wee areas.  Otherwise I will be limiting my fluid intake on economic grounds.

I foresee an increase in wild weeing. 

Day 331: Ball Room

Today I am at the Landmark Hotel in Marylebone.  Which has the most geographically confusing atrium, with its Riviera palm trees.  It's like a set for a camp* production of 'The Boyfriend'.  (*Is there any other kind?) 

I'm in the Grand Ballroom.  Which is huge.  And feels vaguely familiar as I walk up onto the stage and start speaking to the vast sea of faces.  When there are this many people, it's easy for them to remain detached.  They sit.  Neat, passive and demure.  Too demure.  So I get them to throw balls of paper at me (not just for the hell of it - there is a reason as well). They oblige.  It is surprisingly enjoyable to make yourself the target for five hundred balls of paper.  (And very appropriate, given that we are in the BALL room.)

As I kick paper off the stage in the slightly less demure atmosphere, I suddenly realise why this room is so familiar.  It was the setting for one of roughest nights of corporate dinner theatre that I've ever been involved in.  It was for a very fussy client, who had demanded that we bespoke the plot especially for them.  Utterly pointless since all the guests were shit-faced, heckling and throwing food.  I was all for abridging things, but I was with an actor who was determined that the show would go on as designed.  I still remember his dogged expression, as he worked his way through a speech, with jeers and bread rolls flying.

Interesting to find myself here, ten years on, asking people to throw things at me.  Feels like something's come full circle.  Not sure what it is, though... 

Day 330: Disgusting Normality

A free Monday.  After the pressure of the last few weeks, I have no compunction whatsoever in having a double-film day.

'Disgusting

'Tiny Furniture' is the Lena Dunham's low budget 'mumblecore' debut that hooked her an HBO series.  The big fuss around it is that Lena spends much of the film stumping around in her pants being crap and awkward and NORMAL.  While this is celebrated by critics ('ground-breaking), the response from audience* leans predominantly towards the 'Ewww!  Gross - this is one ugly bitch!'  It seems that a less-than-perfect physical specimen (ie 99% of all people) elicits disgust.  Weird.

(* Admittedly, those who are prepared to post comments online - so always going to be troll-heavy.)

But on any beach you will see the 99%.  And people are not shrieking or retching.  Why?  I think it boils down to empathy.  We are not required to empathise with the nameless beach 99%.  The powers-that-be have decided we can cope with 'normal' people on screen, if they are comedy characters or background contrast to the beautiful protagonists.  But a main character who is rawly and unflatteringly naked (ie NORMAL), and who asks us to identify with her NORMAL life?  Too close to home.  We must be protected from our own insecurities. 

When you see footage of naked people in the seventies, with body hair and normal tits, they somehow seem way more naked than any polished, plucked and oven-ready porn star.  Weird that the latter is now becoming a bench mark for 'normal'.  And that 'normal' is 'ground-breaking').  Can we not face ourselves any more? 

Don't get me wrong.  I like watching beautiful people as much as the next person.  I think there is space for artifice and fantasy and escapism.  But if it means that normality is seen as disgusting, then we have gone too far.

More Lena Dunhams, please.    

Day 329: How Small?

This morning is the first time this autumn that there's been frost on the car.  In line with this hint of winter, there are some dark intimations of what lies ahead.  There are already Christmas displays in the shops.  Not centre stage - that is currently reserved for Hallowe'en shit goods.  But in the wings, waiting to take over as soon as November arrives.  A bauble or two, casually positioned.  A small tree, subtly placed at the edge of your visiual field.  The odd shelf of mince pies.  It's a softening up process.  Get you accustomed, so you will accept the full onslaught without a murmur. 

Meanwhile, a man stands at the doorway of a capsule more than 128,000 feet high in the atmosphere, and pauses for a moment, before letting go and hurtling back down to earth faster than the speed of sound. 

'Sometimes you have to go up really high to understand how small you are.'  Felix Baumgartner.

Mince pie, anyone?    

 

Day 328: Familiar Stranger

To the market for a replacement watch strap. 

The Chinese man who runs the stall is a strap wizard.  It takes him about ten seconds to fit - and that includes reinstating the original buckle.  Done and dusted for seven pounds.

I've bought similar straps in jewellers before, at triple the price, and without the option of retaining the buckle (apparently not possible).  Not everyone can be a strap wizard, it seems. 

My familiar watch sits awkwardly on my wrist, made a stranger by the stiff new leather.  I look forward to the time when the strap arcs itself  sympathetically around my wrist, my preferred buckle-hole established and marked in the leather.

Day 327: No Lady Boots

Double violation

For some weeks now my boots have been giving me notice of their intention to resign.  Stitching going, insides breaking up, structure collapsing.  I've worn them hard for three years, so I'm not outraged.  But now I need to think about recruiting replacements.  I've kept an eye out - nothing has caught it.  I am specific in my boot requirements.  There are two rules.  Firstly - they must be flat. Secondly - they must not be fitted at the ankle.  (Essentially, I am not interested in anything resembling a lady boot.  I want something that looks like it might have come from an historical costume drama.)  

At the moment, it's easy to find something that fits the first rule, but not the second.  There are a lot of ankle-fitters in the shops.  I do not like an ankle-fitter.  Probably because my German teacher at school used to have a pair which made her feet look like massive bananas. 

Today I wander aimlessly into a new and tiny shoe shop that I've not been into before.  Limited stock - and all the boots do not comply with rule two.  As I'm about to leave, the woman behind the till asks what I am looking for.  At this point, if she'd asked (as is normal) whether I'd like any help, I'd have said no.  But given that she asked me specifically, I tell her.  Pretty much exactly as in the first paragraph (but without the lady boot diss).  She disappears out to the back of the shop and comes back with the boots I would have made for myself, were I a cobbler.  Sold. 

Know what you want.  Be specific.  Put it out there.   

Day 326: Louder Than God

Right sort

Wrong sort of wedge

A foggy, grey day at London Bridge.  The Shard reaches up, disappearing into thick cloud like Jack's beanstalk.  On the train I try to disappear into my table seat corner.  I am enjoying the conversation of my table companions so much that I do not want them to start stranger-censoring.  They are roadie geeks, all working for the same production company.  Big tours, and big names.  Rolling Stones.  Kasabian.  Muse.  They are talking people - nightmarish road managers, difficult venue administrators, violent promoters.  But their real passion is reserved for kit talk - wedges, PRO6s, flight cases, Thunder Audio, SSE Triple Showtechniek, Clair Brothers, and Andrea Bocelli's custom-made goose-neck microphone stand (only two exist in Europe).  The micro-detail of a different world is irresistible. 

My favourite of the three has aggressively red hair, and a long Amish-style ginger beard.  Pierced nose, and band T-shirt.  He's asked for his opinion on a particular sound system.  Finger-rakes his beard as he considers.  Then announces in ringing tones - 'Louder than God.  No feedback.' 

Not that Amish then.

Day 325: Balloon Carrot

What I should have
but don't

A cold edge to the morning.  Have to force myself outside for a run.  Despite the first long-sleeved shirt of the season, my teeth ache and my fingers turn white.  There are other people running.  Except for the man with the shorts and the weight-laden backpack, everyone else is fully togged up in tights, fleeces and beanies.  I feel less wimpy (but obviously not as hardy as shorts/backpack man).  Twice round the lake and up the hill to the Abbey, and I'm no longer conscious of the temperature, just my lungs threatening to explode.

For all the cold, the run is worth it.  Sun slanting across the park, catching a chevron of Canada geese, and a Virgin hot air balloon, which is drifting low in the sky.  I'm not keen on the conspicuous marketing message, but I like the slow, dreamy progress of the balloon, which pulls my eyes irrestistably skywards. 

 Back home the warm shower feels burning hot on chiller cabinet skin.  When I plug the Garmin monitor into my laptop, I find out I have made my fastest time yet, increasing my pace considerably in comparison to my average.  Wasn't aware I was going faster.  I think it must be a combination of balloon distraction (carrot) and cold (stick).

Stick got me started, carrot kept me going.  Needed both. 

Day 324: Whose Pig?

Pig boards

Consequences of pig boards

Today I found out that those boards you use for herding pigs (pigherding?) are called... pig boards. 

Pigs are bright and will resist herding, looking to escape through any available gap.  The idea is that you use the boards to create tunnel vision for the pig (bright, but not that bright), who will then head for the gap between the boards.  As long as you keep the boards moving along with the pig, in the direction you want, you will have compliance.   

Which begs the question... whose pig are you? 

Day 323: Victorian Gothic

An unremittingly dank day, all Victorian Gothic in its chilly gloom.  We appear to have skipped the 'mellow fruitfulness' bit and cut straight to late November. 

An afternoon for trailing around a cemetery, reading crumbling inscriptions.  And testing the old, forgotten names out loud on the air, wondering how long it's been since anyone gave breath to them.   

 

Day 322: SpongeBob Job

Glastonbury tickets go on sale today.  We are ready.  Both logistically (a spreadsheet has been circulated around our group of eight - we've added registration numbers and postcodes) and psychologically (we know the drill - it will be long and frustrating).  At nine o'clock sharp we sit at our respective computers, alternately refreshing the overloaded URL and redialling the busy phone line.  Constantly.  An hour in, and there are tantalising glimpses.  Entry onto the holding page.  Hope dawns, but is dashed in ignominious ejection.  Back to square one.  Finally, breath-holdingly, I get as far as entering all our details.  It's happening!  Cruelly, I am cast out before reaching the payment processing page. 

All it takes is one person to get through.  And it happens.  With only nine minutes to go before all of the tickets are sold.  And after an hour and a half of tedium, we are free to go about our respective Sundays. 

Lots of people are not so lucky.  Twitter is flooded with those who have got as far as registering names multiple times, but never made it any further.  Some who never even made it through to the holding page.  Of course, statistically, there must be some who sailed through on their first attempt, and who are utterly bemused by all the angst and teeth-gnashing. 

Sunday is also enhanced by the sight of a man standing on the reservation of the Finchley Road, holding a sign promoting a carwash.  He's wearing a SpongeBob Squarepants costume.  It's a bad one - cheap-looking and droopy, with a slot cut out so he can see.  He gets a thumbs up (obviously), and waves back in a slightly weary but resigned way.  As you would - if you were stood in the middle of the Finchley Road, dressed as a cheap SpongeBob. 

Most people have had the eqivalent of a SpongeBob job in their lives.  Dispiriting at the time, but character-building (in this case, literally).  The grimmer it is, the more cheering a comparative future yardstick it becomes.   

Anything that comes too easily is hard to value.      

Day 321: Dark Marketing

Although it is Saturday, I am wide awake at half five in the morning.  Brain still busy from the week, not registering the freedom to slow down.  Sleep will not come back.  So I get dressed in the dark, and sneak out of the house to buy a paper.  As the garage has been razed to the ground in a radical rebuild, it means walking up to town.  The residential side streets are empty, except for the odd purposeful cat streaking across the road, but on St Peter's Street the first fruit and veg traders are starting to set up.  Stalls line the street - mostly just metal skeletons, but a few have come to life, with striped awnings, fake turf, and serried ranks of produce - all monochrome in the faintest of morning light.  There's the odd hoarse shout and ribald quip, but in the main it's quiet focus.  This is a well-rehearsed dance - the way the van is packed and unpacked, what goes where, which goes first.  These are the professionals.  Things are displayed carefully in vegetable slopes designed to catch the eye. 

Later the other stall holders will turn up.  Their job is easy in comparison.  Their goods do not bruise, or squash or roll.  Belts, books, bags, clothes.  Durable and biddable.  Some make an effort, with velvet drapes, and hanging displays. 

No point polishing a turd

Some do not.  The foam rubber man wantonly heaps his ugly foam rubber lumps on the bare trestle. 

It's an arrestingly unattractive stall.  I love it.    

Day 320: Stand And Deliver

Early start - on the station platform in the inky dark.  Head full of the pilot session I have to run today - it's brand new material, specially designed for a demanding client and there's a massive deal riding on the back of it for my favourite salesperson, who's also going to be there, watching and hoping.  The stakes are high. 

Several hours later, and it's all behind me, and I'm at a celebratory lunch on Bishopsgate. 

Hard fought, hard won.  All the sweeter for it.  Time to lie on the sofa with my eyes glazed and my mouth slightly open. 

Day 319: Masonic Mice

Today I am in The Grand Connaught Rooms.  Which are, indeed, far grander (post £7M refurb) than they used to be ten years ago, when they were called the New Connaught Rooms and were going through a particularly shabby patch.  There was a bad mouse problem.  You could smell it in the corridors. 

First built as the Freemason's Tavern in 1774, this warren of glittering dining rooms has been added to and embellished over the years, and each era has left its mark.  Eighteenth century plaster swaggery.  Edwardian panelling.  Masonic symbols on door handles and carved into woodwork.  But the overriding feel is Art Deco.  There is a sense that if you turn a corner quick enough you might just catch the swing of a beaded dress or the snap of a metal cigarette case.

Circumstances bring me here infrequently, but regularly - about every five years.  And every time I've been here, I've been doing something different.  First time was a company meeting - long ago, when I worked for a publishing company.  Second time - I was playing an alcoholic Irish nun in a piece of high camp dinner theatre.  Third time, shooting with Tim Vine for an improvised comedy film.  Today I'm in front of a hundred people talking about the psychology and behaviour of great leaders. 

Like the Connaught Rooms, each era has left its mark on me.  Along the way I've picked up some swags, some panelling and some symbols. 

Wonder what I'll have acquired in another five years?  £7M refurb?  A bad mouse problem?  Or maybe a leather apron? 

 

Day 318: Over The Limit

The Wing (do not want to see The Bird) 

Today takes me to Silverstone.  I've got a job for a big old luxury car firm - hence the location.  Silverstone has its own private road system, linking all the circuits, stands and hospitality suites.  The place is built on a massive scale - it's a good five minute drive from the entrance to The Wing, where I need to be.  I drive past helipads - there are traffic lights to stop you if a helicopter is landing, bearing Alonso or Schumacher (or Clarkson...).  And a bridge that goes over the track.  I see F1 cars doing laps, and then sports bikes.  It's quite exciting in a detached, toe-dipping way.  It's not a world I know in the slightest.  The closest I've got before this was watching the film 'Senna'. 

Everywhere there are 20mph speed limit signs, and everywhere there are boiler-suited lads in hot hatches flagrantly ignoring them.  If you've landed your dream job working at Silverstone, I doubt you'll be interested in driving slowly...   

Gambon

It's an appropriate location for October - a speedy month.  As the trees turn colour, and the conkers appear, I feel like I should be slowing down, contemplating, kicking leaves.  Driving at 20.  Instead, I find myself, pedal to the metal, gritting my teeth and hanging on, knowing that there will be a few 'Gambon' corners to take before the lull of December.  Strap in.