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. 

Day 317: Doe, A Deer

Mine's brown, not silver

New running route.  Which takes me through ancient Batch Wood.  Every wood has an atmosphere.  Some are genial.  Some are sinister.  Some are wild.  Some - like this one - have me spooked.  In that synaptic all-systems-on-full-alert way.  I am hyper-aware of my surroundings. 

A slight noise to my left.  It's a doe.  Expecto Patronum!  I stop.  We look at each other.  I carry on running, and realise that she is still alongside, pacing me.  Definitely Expecto Patronum.  (I am like Severus Snape.)

Then a dog comes crashing through the undergrowth and the doe shoots away into the depths of the wood.  

Oh dear.  It seems that my Patronus is cowardly, easily spooked, and scared of dogs.  (Not like Snape, then.)  Disappointed, if not entirely surprised...   

Day 316: Easily Bruised

A day of random entertaining moments.  I'm in Marylebone when it starts raining - so dash into the nearest shop (Space NK - this is Marylebone, not Kilburn), only to hear this:-

Bucking the trend

Terrifying Sales Assistant: 'When you apply fragrance, it's important that you do NOT rub your wrists together.  This can BRUISE the perfume molecules.' 

It seems we are a nation of molecule-abusers.  And I am one of them.  I fear the guilt may show on my face, so I brave the rain and make for the more comfortable-looking Barnardo's charity shop.  As I'm skimming through a rack of clothes, all donated by Dame Shirley Bassey (as their labels thrillingly announce), a voice trills 'How do I look?'  I look round - a small blonde woman is looking directly at me for feedback.  She is wearing a skirt that BRUISES the molecules in my eyes.  She catches me on the hop - surprise makes my expression more truthful than I would choose to be, but she says she welcomes honest feedback.  I make general noises about the skirt pattern being overly large for someone with a small frame.  This goes down well, and she asks me to hang on while she changes into a black frock - she wants my advice.  I am put in a terrible position as she emerges, squeezed into a short, flippy skater dress that a twenty-year old with an impeccable figure might just about manage to pull off.  (She is the wrong side of fifty, and well-covered.)  I cannot lie, so the dress takes the heat.  I suggest that it is poor fabric, which has shrunk lengthwise - you can tell because the waist is too short, which is probably why somebody gave it away.  Blah, blah, blah.  Again, she seems grateful.  I look around, ready to spot a Beadle-esque hidden camera, but she appears to be genuine*. 

The lobby (this is as close as I got)

Now running late for a meeting in Durrants Hotel (snobby, boutiquey, difficult) I arrive to find my way barred by a doorman.  'No!  You can't come in - we're polishing the floor.'  I explain that I'm meant to be meeting people in the lobby, so he takes me round to a side entrance and deposits me in a sitting room.  I explain again that I'm meeting people IN THE LOBBY - he says that this is not possible because of POLISHING.  I sidle as close as I can to the verboten area (he's watching me, ready to take direct action), and hear voices.  There are people trying to access the lobby from the other side - they are being barred too.  With some waving and bawling over noise of the polisher I establish that these are the people I'm meant to be meeting.  But we cannot get to each other because of the gate-keepers.  Then I notice a chamber maid picking her way across the floor with her shoes in her hands.  So I do the same.  It seems that shoes can BRUISE the molecules in polish...

* She may have been playing a good game on a dull day.  Try on item you know will look maximum grim.  Perkily ask for stranger feedback.  Enjoy shock>confusion>subterfuge attempts.  If this is the case, I salute you, lady. 

Day 315: Inky Depths

The London Tattoo Convention.  It's at Tobacco Dock - which sounds suitably Jack Sparrow piratical, but is really very civilised.  As is the event.  Hell's Angels are in charge of parking, and have taken over the local NCP - taping up any ticket machines, and charging a very reasonable flat £5 cash fee.  Their event organisational abilities have come on in leaps and bounds since Altamont. 

Inside lots of inky people respectfully admire other inky people's ink, and gather in knots to admire the inky skills of the inkers (and their ink, too - all inkers are inked).  The majority of people here look like they're still making the effort.  They're still going for a look - whether it's rockabilly, death metal, or Japanese silk painting.  Irrespective of whether you like it (or not - eg the man with the horn implants), it's taking a commendable stand against bland. 

The Fuel Girls - you get the general idea

Entertainment is a combo of raunchy dancing, and actual stripping, which is slightly out of place for a Sunday afternoon.  Firstly, The Fuel Girls, a tattooed collective, perform a selection of writhings, some of which are successful (belly- and pole-dancing), some of which are unconvincing (tentative aerial hoop-swinging, and slightly pedestrian fire twirling).  Next up is a stripper, who describes herself as 'nerdy'.  By which she means that she has some comic strip/sci-fi tattoos, and is wearing big prop 'nerd' spectacles.  Along with her corset and teeny knickers.  (She's got this wrong.  Proper nerdy would be big pants, plus vest.)  She is almost too energetic - doing a great deal of strutting and splaying and thrusting.  There is something dispiriting and exhausting about her performance.  It's interesting to analyse the difference between the acts.  They're all doing versions of a similar thing - some are technically better but the biggest differentiator is the quality of their presence in front of an audience.  Whether it's stand up, presenting or taking your clothes off, it boils down to the same thing. 

It's like a tattoo.  May be only skin deep, but how you wear it comes from within.     

Day 314: The Swish Of the Curtain

A day devoted to constructive frittering.  Finally replace the broken hooks and runners on the curtains in the bedroom.  Finally repair the broken lid of the pottery jar in which stray Euros live (currency, not refugees).  Finally speak to the friend who I've been meaning to contact for weeks. 



Deluxe Glider.  Who knew?

Disproportionate pleasure gained - from the curtains, in particular.  I now understand how the modular rail system works (curtains, not locomotives).  Although I think it counts as vintage (had to get spares on the internet), so unlikely to benefit me in the future, but still - I like to know.

Which isn't to say that the pot-mending and the friend-contact didn't give me pleasure.  They did.  I just never doubted them, as I did the Swish system.  Conversion is a much more interesting narrative journey. 

Day 313: Price Tag

A game that involves a blend of skill, co-operation and luck.  The context is a session looking at the psychology and behaviour of 'lucky' people.  The prize is a scratch card, with the (fat*) chance of winning £100,000.  I know one team are cheating.  They win, and I duly award them the scratch card, betting on the odds (*) that it is unlikely that they will (unfairly) win anything beyond £1.00.  My gamble pays off.  They win nothing and then cheerfully admit that this is completely fair given that they have cheated. 

How far would you go?

Why didn't I expose them as cheats beforehand?  Because I was way more interested in the discussion that followed the card award, and confession.  What if they'd won, and won big?  Does creating your own luck include cheating, and denying others what is rightfully theirs?  And do you actually 'win', when what you also get, alongside the money, is a sense of guilt and low self-worth that ultimately erodes any pleasure you might get from your prize?  

It reminds me of all those fairy stories and myths that are variations on a theme of getting what you wish for, but at a price you never expected to pay. 

Because everything has a price tag.  Some things are worth paying for.  Some are not.