Saturday 4 December 2010

The New Flatmate

You may remember that I mentioned the new rule of thumb for finding flatmates – ie, that would I like to have a beer with this person, had resulted in me finding just the right flatmate? Yes, well he was a recent-ish graduate who was looking to move into London. Well I’m not going to talk you through the viewing, but he liked what he saw and wanted to move in. He said that it was just what he was looking for, although there was a slight issue. This was that he wouldn’t be able to move in for two weeks but he paid me a £500 deposit to keep the room. This worked out quite well as the ex flatmate still had a week to go before moving out and so I’d have plenty of time to give the room a clean. The ex-flatmate by the way, you know, the one who was asthmatic and wanted to clean her freshly cleaned room when she moved in? Yes her - as it turns out she didn’t clean her room at all during her two month stay. She didn’t dust, didn’t change her sheets, didn’t vacuum and when you looked at the window sill, you’d be forgiven for thinking that the room had passed through an Icelandic ash cloud.

And then suddenly my first flatmate had gone and I was relieved to come back from work to find the spare room my own again as I threw my overcoat onto the spare bed. The new guy would be moving into the flat in a week’s time. That’s plenty of time to indulge in naked cooking time free of interruption.

So moving day came, and I realised that the flat was less tidy than I thought and so I went through the same backbreaking and sweat ridden cleaning routine that I went through before – well, first impressions and all that, and he didn’t turn up. He texted to say that he’d had to go abroad with work for two weeks but that was he really looking forward to moving in when he got back. Oh well, at least I had a clean flat and wouldn’t have to worry about putting my pants on to make a cup of tea in the morning for the next fortnight.

I took advantage of the two week period and had friends over to stay. I never really had friends stay over before I had a flatmate, but now that the spare room looks rather pretty, it sort of seems rude not to. So much so that I almost began to resent the impending moving in date, which came around in the blink of an eye, and he didn’t turn up. He texted to say that he flew back the day before and was organising stuff and he was sorry to keep me hanging on, but was looking forward to moving in and would pick the key up in the week – he didn’t.

I almost wanted to call him and tell him to fuck off and that I was letting the room to someone else. I spoke to G though who reassured me that he was probably just having a manic time of it, “I’ve been like that before and he did leave you a £500 deposit don’t forget”. Maybe she’s right I thought and maybe I was being slightly harsh, but I wanted reliability though and I had a nagging doubt. In my mind a conversation was playing over and over which went something like “Oh hi, er.. sorry. I’m a bit brassic this month, can I pay you extra next month.”

He texted me to say he’d be over on the Saturday afternoon, but I was out and so suggested that he stopped by in the week. He didn’t reply. By this time I knew that I was going to resent him living with me and resent his ugly girlfriend staying over at weekends, eating off my plates, drinking coffee in my kitchen and generally breathing my air. Ok, I don’t know she’s ugly, but she’s going out with him and he was proving himself to be a dick and she obviously likes going out with a dick, which means she’s ugly. I all but decided that life would be much easier and more pleasurable if he didn’t move in and I gave him back his deposit. There was a problem though – I’d spent his deposit and so any handing back of monies meant dipping into savings as I hadn’t been paid in the new job yet. My phone rang.

“Oh h..hi. it’s Andy. I’m afraid that I’ve had some bad news today. I’ve been made redundant with immediate effect and I won’t be able to move into the flat now.”

I knew it, I fucking knew it.

“You just found out today? Is that why you’ve been unreliable?”

“Er... It’s my boss. He’s gone into meltdown and everyone’s been made redundant. You can keep the deposit if you like”

“Can I? that’s very sweet of you. Do you have any idea how many people I turned away because I said the room was taken? Do you have any idea how stressful it is and...and....”

I wanted to be angry and even slightly nasty. Truth be told though I wasn’t desperately angry. You can’t really fake anger, you have to mean it and I didn’t and so I opted for sarcasm and emotional guilt. I was annoyed at his unreliability but also relieved. The man had paid me £500 to ensure that I live on my own for a month - part of me even felt faintly smug.

Will I get another flatmate? Perhaps, but for the moment I am enjoying the fact that I am working again and have discovered a new found love for enjoying the uninterrupted space of my own little castle.

Saturday 13 November 2010

The Interview

Hmm.. Blue or red perhaps, I thought as I held up two ties against my collar in front of the mirror. I settled on one which was a fairly conservative mix of both against a white shirt and a navy 3 piece suit. I had done my prep and was relaxed and ready to go. I was now in a pragmatic frame of mind regarding interviews. Experience had taught me not to get ahead of myself.

Things were different a month earlier. Then I had had three interviews in one week and I’d submitted an application for a job which was the permanent version of a role I did as a contractor two years earlier. The job was mine surely. I knew a lot of the people there and I knew the processes and everything that it involved. It must just be a shoe-in mustn’t it? I was feeling optimistic that one of the interviews was bound to come through and go my way. So much so in fact that I had decided to buy some new shirts and was making plans for when I started one of the roles. I’m cringing even as I type at the naivety of it. One by one the phone calls came in. “I’m sorry, but they thought you lacked experience of x and y”, “They liked you but they really want someone who’s a certified practitioner of blah”, “They thought you lacked knowledge of certain particular stuff”. I couldn’t believe it, as I walked in the rain and ended the third call. I was almost home and would check my emails and boil a kettle. I consoled myself that at least I still had the shoe-in role which would be just a matter of getting through the interview. This would be quite straight forward, I thought seeing as I’d already done the job.

I made a cup of tea and logged into my email. A response came in regarding my application just as I was scrolling through the latest updates from job sites. “Thank you for your recent application. Unfortunately on this occasion blah blah...”. The possibility of not even being called for an interview hadn’t entered my mind. I was devastated and furious and slightly numb at the unfairness of it. I paced the lounge and berated myself for being so stupidly over optimistic and complacent. I started to feel sorry for myself, before literally slapping myself across the face and going for a run. However low I felt, I was not going to cry – I had done that on red letter day.

Red letter day was a month or so before and came in the form of a tax demand. At that time I was nervous of hearing the clatter of the letter box in case it was someone demanding money. I opened the envelope to discover the letter with ‘DEMAND’ in red and 10 days to pay it. I couldn’t. I didn’t have the money. I was frightened and panicked and couldn’t think straight. In my mind I would lose my house and be declared bankrupt. I visited a friend to talk and ended up blubbing on her shoulder.

Going back to the interview though, I was feeling relaxed as I headed out of the tube station and walked towards the shiny new offices ahead of me. The recruitment agent phoned me just before I entered the building to make sure everything was ok and that I knew where the place was – apparently someone had got lost the day before. I reassured her that I was fine and she told me she’d phone the moment she had feedback. I finished the call and went in.

An hour later I was sitting on a tube train on my way home. I was reasonably content with how I performed. I didn’t think there was anything I could or would have answered differently or any alternative questions I would have asked. It felt as if it could have gone either way and I didn’t have a clue as to which way that was. If I didn’t get it then I would take it on the chin and move on. One thing this whole period had given me is a thicker skin. Tomorrow would be another day.

I stood on the platform waiting for a tube connection as my phone rang. A train pulled into the station as I answered. People got on board and the train pulled out again, leaving me alone on the platform as I ended the call. I took a deep breath and looked at my phone and sobbed.

They loved me and wanted me to start on Monday.

Monday 8 November 2010

The Flatmate Part 2

I knew that there was a chance that she might move out. She had told me that she had holiday to take in November and wouldn’t want to pay a month’s rent when she’d only be here for two weeks of the month. However, I thought, or hoped at least that she’d change her mind after she’d moved in and it was plain that we were getting on quite well. I had let my optimism run away with me though which is why it felt like a shock when she told me she was moving out.

I spoke to a friend recently who told me that the moment one of her employees decides to resign, that she hates them almost immediately. They may have been a great employee, but the employer now just feels a sense of disloyalty and rightly or wrongly hears the message that “I would rather work for someone else”. The employer is also faced with the embuggerance of having to find a new employee and so in their mind they are faced with a double negative of hassle and rejection.

In my case, the hassle element was also spiked with a ladle full of fear – an irrational fear that I wouldn’t find another flatmate as good as her. That I would be faced with an army of no shows and po-faced spinsters dragging their miserable fingers along work surfaces for inspection. I must have inadvertently conveyed all of this in my look, as the flatmate spent the rest of the evening in her room. Well, almost the rest of the evening.

She popped her head around the door about 20 or so minutes later. “It’s not you, you know, you’ve been great.” Oh my god, not that old chestnut! If I hadn’t felt rejected before, then I certainly felt like I was now being dumped – and in my own house as well!

With the end of all relationships though, there is a time for reflection. I spoke to a friend of mine last week who broke up with her ex boyfriend last year. She had met him for lunch recently and couldn’t believe how different he seemed now that she was no longer going out with him. “He’s just so fucking annoying. I can’t believe I didn’t see it at the time” she said.

It got me thinking. Just over a week ago I had been walking through the City and noticed that Stephen Fry’s new autobiography, The Fry Chronicles, (which I am loving) was on discount at Waterstones. I bought it and put it on the coffee table when I got home as I checked my emails. The flatmate got back from work shortly afterwards and sat on the sofa.

Flatmate - Oh, have you bought yourself a book?

Me - Yeah, it’s Stephen Fry’s latest autobiography.

Flatmate – (munching on crisps) Who’s that? Some politician?

Me – it’s Stephen Fry, the comedian. You know.. Fry and Laurie? Blackadder? QI?

Flatmate – What are they?

Me – (thinking, What the fuck!!??)

Me – You seriously haven’t heard of Stephen Fry or any of those programmes?

Flatmate – No, they must be pretty old.

And with that she went to her room to finish her crisps, leaving me incredulous at the conversation we had just had. This wasn’t to be a one off though. A couple of days later we were watching the evening news as the story broke concerning Lady Ga Ga giving her ‘Prime Rib’ speech in protest at the US policy towards gays in the military. “Because I’m gay, I don’t get to enjoy the greatest cut of meat that my country has to offer.” She said.

Flatmate – Is Lady Ga Ga gay then?

Me – It would seem so.

Flatmate – Oh. Why did she decide to be gay?

Me – (rolls eyes) It’s a new LA thing. That’s why she wore a meat dress last week.

Flatmate – Really?

Me – Absolutely, Madonna came out last week too and she wore a meat trouser suit yesterday at a press conference – didn’t you see it?

Flatmate – No, I didn’t buy a paper yesterday.

Me – Oh well, I hear that Topshop are reproducing it and using Heston Blumenthal as a consultant in case you get bored wearing it.

Flatmate – Really?

Me – No.

When I first decided to get myself a flatmate and rent the spare room, it was done out of necessity. I decided that it was the wise thing to do, given the fact that I was out of work. With no job offer in sight I had to consider how I was going to pay the mortgage. I was concerned and anxious and even more so because the advert I placed, initially at least, did not yield the responses I had hoped for. So when the first person who showed interest said, “I’d like to take the room” I bit her hand off all the way down to her ankle. It’s been an interesting experience but ideally I want someone who has an outside chance of being a mate as well as a flatmate.

I re-advertised. This time however London’s student community being back at university has resulted in many more people looking for places to live and responses have been very good this time. I’d like to say that I now have a screening process of sorts. “Would I like to have a beer with this person?” is the new rule of thumb and having used it, I think I may now just have found the right person.

Wednesday 20 October 2010

The Flatmate

I started to write this little update a few weeks ago but then I sat on it after I was interrupted by the subject matter at hand – namely my flatmate. Yes I have a flatmate and not the one I expected to be won over by my amateur impression of an all knowing landlord. She hardly said a word as I showed her around the flat, just nodding her head and with the occasional "uh huh" as I showed her each room. Her vocabulary didn't increase as I pointed out the local amenities from the balcony. So when she nodded again and said "Ok, well I’ll call you and let you know", I assumed that it was a dead sale. "I'm never going to hear from you again, am I!?" I wanted to say, which is why I was surprised to answer her telephone call later that night. "Hi, I liked your place, is it ok to move in next week?" I took a deep breath. It was an intense weight lifted. The pressure of not working and wondering where the next mortgage payment is coming from now greatly relieved – at least for the moment.

The day for her to move in came around very quickly. I wanted to create a good first impression and so decided to clean the flat from top to bottom, and that’s before I even started on moving my things out of the spare room.

I have never before been so thorough when cleaning. My mother and my ex girlfriend especially would be proud and in the case of my ex, would more likely have been slightly put out that I was never this thorough in the past. I opened windows and dusted and vacuumed and moved furniture and climbed over furniture and lifted furniture and cleaned under furniture and sweated and ached and coughed and sneezed – the price for not being thorough in the past.

Finally it was done. Everything that needed packing was packed, everything moved, everything cleaned and polished. The whole flat was gleaming and pristine in a way that it hadn’t been since... well since before I bought the place anyway. I’ve never been so proud of my hard work or more satisfied at having a bad back.

And then she arrived, with a big smile and a “Hiiii”. I popped into the kitchen for a well earned cup of tea and to get out of her way as she moved her things in. I had just put the mug to my lips as she joined me in the kitchen. “Hi, do you have a mop at all?” “A mop? No I don’t actually. Why?”. “Oh it’s ok, I’m just a bit asthmatic and I wanted to give the room a bit of a clean.”

She has been a perfect flatmate though. A perfectly benign flatmate actually. As the weeks have passed she has been very easy to get on with. She doesn’t make any noise – she just comes home and checks her emails and watches television and that’s it. She doesn’t eat apart from cheese and crackers which means that the only person messing up my pots, my pans and my kitchen, is me. She visits family every other weekend which allows me to take full advantage of having the place to myself. All in all it has worked out very well and has given me the space to concentrate on looking for work and free my mind from a certain degree of worry. I will admit that’s it’s also been pleasant to sit at home on an evening and have someone to talk about the day with who is easygoing and quite pleasant company.

Then one night just over a week ago I was sitting on my sofa with a cup of tea. I had just sent off another CV and was watching the evening news, feeling reasonably satisfied at having had a productive day. She popped her head around the door of the lounge. “Hi” she said.”You know my rent’s due tomorrow?” “Uh huh” I said with one eye on the news . “Well I just thought I’d let you know that I’m giving you a month’s notice and I’m moving out”.

Thursday 16 September 2010

Waxing Lyrical

I never used to listen to song lyrics. It sounds silly doesn’t it, but if something sounded nice and it stuck in my head then that seemed to be enough. I had a conversation with my brother earlier this year about this very subject. He couldn’t believe that I didn't really put a huge amount of emphasis on lyrics and urged me to listen to them a lot more.

This I did and oddly enough, or obviously enough you may think, the way I looked at some songs had totally changed. For example, I used to assume that Sting's Every Breath You Take, was written about his new born child. It sounds nice when thought of in those terms doesn't it. Well I have since discovered that the song is actually about a stalker. Now listen to it again and tell me how nice it sounds.

Well a couple of nights ago I was playing around on You Tube before going to sleep and looked up different pieces of music that I hadn't heard in years. The beauty of You Tube is that half the people who post music tracks and videos, also seem to feel compelled to post the lyrics. I’ve no idea why, but to be honest I am not complaining.

I listened to the music and took in the lyrics. The result was that I had to listen to them again and again. The music becoming more resonant, the lyrics having more meaning than ever before, mainly because I hadn't really listened to them in the past, not in any meaningful sense anyway. What they did however was to take me back to memories of people, relationships, loves and places from a different time. Admittedly, with rose tinted spectacles, but the memories and the emotions they evoked were vivid. I even had to wipe a tear at one point.

I started writing. The words and the music creating clarity in my mind as my fingers hit the keyboard. Word followed word without a break. I smiled as I typed, the music playing in the background making me recount a fondness for the past and a passion for certain times. There were no pauses, no silences, no gaps between typing sentences as the words seems to flow effortlessly. It was as if I was on autopilot as I spilled everything I wanted to say on to the electronic page.

It was very late as I sat up in bed typing away, but I had to finish. I was just about there. A few more sentences and I would have it and be able to tell the tale I wanted to tell. I wasn't really looking at the keyboard as I typed and suddenly I hit three keys at once.

Restore, Minimize, flashed the tab. Fuck, what have I done, I thought. But there was nothing I could do. The screen had frozen. Nothing would move, save for the mouse arrow, not that it was highlighting anything of course. I tried clicking on a couple of icons - nothing. The internet is not responding, flashed the pop-up before the screen faded and the internet restarted. I searched and scoured but it was no good. Every word that I had put into the laptop, uninterrupted, had now gone. I hadn’t saved any of it. In the next few moments, my reaction to what was unfolding on the screen in front of me could and may for all I know, have woken up the neighbours.

I tried re-writing, but it was no good. The moment had gone. It may come back, who knows, but that's for another day. For now you'll just have to wonder at what you might have been reading now instead of this.

C’est la vie...

Saturday 28 August 2010

First Viewing

My friends, the combination of not working, together with the current economic climate has resulted me making the ultimate sacrifice. I have decided share my valuable living space and take on board a flatmate.

Those who know me would be proud. The flat has been cleaned from top to bottom. The spare room itself has been cleared out and everything rearranged. Multiple trips have been made to buy furniture for the spare room, which has resulted in it looking like a very cosy and welcoming place to live. Part of me wants to swap bedrooms it looks so nice. I'm even feeling slightly sad that some ugly stranger is going to reap the fruits from all the hard work of yours truly.

The first viewing was planning for 6.30pm and she arrived right on the dot. "Hellooo" she said with a grin. First impressions were good. She seemed friendly and outgoing and unattractive. If I am going to be sharing my flat as part of a professional arrangement with someone who I want to pay regular rent, then the less potential complications, the better. "Wow, it's a lovely view, It's quite historical this area isn't it" she said, pointing at Tower Bridge. "Yeah it's not bad is it" I replied. I pointed out where the local supermarket and the local gyms are. "Would you like to see inside?" She did and I started to show her around.

I leaned against the fridge freezer with my arms folded watching her nodding silently as she walked around the kitchen. First impressions of optimism turned out to be short lived however as she ran her little pinky along the kitchen top and looked at it covertly (or so she thought). She looked around the lounge "Cosy" she said, before moving onto the bathroom. She looked but said nothing, the air of disdain conspicuous by the invisible turd under her nose.

"And here's the room I'm renting" I said as I led her into the spare room. She looked around but didn't say much. She opened and closed drawers and cupboard doors. Was she interested? If she was then she wasn’t giving anything away. It felt like the moment after an exam when wonder how you did and know that it could have gone either way.

I walked her to the bus stop as a way of showing her around the nicer parts of the area. "So what do you think?" I asked. "Well I like the area. The flat's not very modern though". The sale was about to flat line and needed a defibrillator. In that moment I just wanted the room rented so that I'd have one less thing to think about. I remembered her comment on the historical nature of where I lived and so broke into a monologue on the history of the flats in the area. I started with the building having character, how it had lived through the blitz and then moved onto a short history of the London docks. I told her about how generations of dockers used to live in my building. Not only that, but it was symbolic today of the changes going on locally. Today, retired dockers and new city money lived next door to each other in a characterful old building, sturdy on the solid foundations of the local heritage. I was winging it, but it sounded quite good and by the end I had myself convinced that I should be a local tour guide.

Her bus arrived. "You're a good salesman" she said "I still prefer a new build though" and with that, she got on the bus. A neighbour walked out of the flat adjacent to the bus stop, just as she boarded and came over to join me as the bus drove off.

Neighbour: Hello mate, who was that?

Me: Just an unattractive woman with no soul or sense of history.

Neighbour: So she didn’t want your spare room then?

Me: Nope.

Neighbour: I wouldn’t worry about it mate. I’m sure there loads of ugly women out there, just waiting to live with you.

Me: Here’s hoping mate, here’s hoping.

Tuesday 20 July 2010

Recruitment

My friends, I have mentioned before, that there is a reason for myself being less than forthcoming with updates on recent events. Well the reason, ironically is that I have more time on my hands. You see I am between roles at the moment and so I am spending all my time looking for a new job.

Now there are many aspects to this, but one of the most tiresome can be the daily dealings with recruitment consultants. Now you may have heard a few horror stories concerning recruiters. All I can say is that some can be quite accurate, whilst others tend to be urban legends. I have experienced a few myself though. Some recruiters will try to push you into roles that you clearly aren't interested in or are even capable of doing. Then there are the unreturned telephone messages and the non replies to emails. There's more too. Depending on who you speak to, a lot of recruiters can range in tone from smarmy estate agent, to Vicky Pollard, both of which leave you vexed and relatively impotent, in the knowledge that they are an inevitable part of finding a new job.

So it may surprise you to learn that last week I applied to become a recruitment consultant. I was told that I would have to attend an assessment centre and upon arrival was led through to a conference room with eleven others who were all going through the same process. Now, I had been warned that these were likely to be new graduates and this did indeed turn out to be the case. We said our casual hellos around the table before formal introductions started. A young chap nervously said "Hi, I.I..I'm Peter and I graduated in M.mmay", shortly before another voice of youth piped up with "Hiii, i'm Jane, I graduated in June and I like fluffy kittens". Actually she didn't say the last part, but I'm sure she was more than capable of it. One by one they went around the table. I was starting to feel very self conscious of the fact that I graduated in 2002 and even then, it was as a mature student. The eleventh person spoke "Hi, I graduated in June" and then everyone looked at me. "Hi, I graduated in Politics".

After the assessment centre, we had to go through a series of interviews. I had three on the day of the assessment centre and six the following day. I felt like one of the candidates from The Apprentice as I went from interview to interview."Sell me a telephone" said one - which I did. "Why are you here?" asked another. "Your CV isn't like any of the others I've seen" was something I heard 4 or 5 times. "The guys here mainly come straight from university, how would you feel working for a younger boss?" “Well, you yourself mentioned that you are 29" I said "but to me you are a guy who is interviewing me and could potentially be my boss and so your age doesn't come into it." Off we went again with more questions, "why do you want a career change?", "what motivates you?" and so on. Each interview was like a game, a sparring match to be followed by another round with a different contender.

"Ok, that's great, stay where you are though and I'll send someone else in to interview you" It was the end of the fifth interview on the second day. I was feeling tired but with plenty in reserve. The age thing had come up time and again and yet I had managed to bat it away at each turning point. I stood up to stretch my legs and walked over to peer out of the window and down into the hurly burly of London's west end. I turned around and noticed a rather diffident looking teen, seemingly lost in the reception outside the meeting room. I smiled inwardly and remembered my own time doing work experience when I was at school. I peered my head out of the door, "Are you alright, you look a little lost" I said. "Ah there you are. Hi I'm Tom, one of the team leaders.”

Wednesday 9 June 2010

Shop Story

I had a yes thing going on for most of last year – let me explain. It was born from reading the novel, Yes Man by Danny Wallace and watching the film of the book. I was struck by the optimism that the concept of saying yes to things more often, conveyed. I thought about this last weekend when a friend complained that I’d been fairly slack of late with blog updates. “Why did you start to write a blog in the first place?” he asked. And so I told him...

I had wanted to write for a long time. What I lacked though was a self belief in my abilities to do so and in some ways it felt like a bit of a pipe dream.

About a year ago I was working in an office in south London. I was having a stressful time for one reason or another and had got to the stage where I loathed going to work in the mornings. One lunch time, after a particularly stressful morning in the office, I decided that I needed to get out for a walk and to clear my head.

I walked down Bermondsey Street towards Tower Bridge Road, taking in the buildings and atmosphere that give a village feel to that part of town near London Bridge. I was slightly lost in my thoughts about the afternoon ahead. My stress levels had started to build as I saw the hands on my watch ticking down towards that point when I would have to go back to the office. I turned in to Tower Bridge Road, and was not entirely looking where I was going when a man walked out of a shop doorway and almost bumped into me. “Sorry” he said, as he walked on. My eyes scanned the shop window. It was a lighting shop. As luck would have it I had been looking for a lamp for my flat. I wandered in and looked around, eventually setting my eyes on a box in the corner with a picture of a tall standing lamp on the side of it. The lamp in the picture was exactly what I’d had in mind to go against the wall in the corner of my lounge. I spoke to the girl behind the counter about it. As we talked, I made a passing comment on the unexpected discovery of the shop. “It belongs to my mum and dad. It’s only a part time gig for me though and not really what I want to do.” she said. “What do you want to do?” I asked. “I want to be a writer” she replied.

It turned out that she had been writing a blog on life working in her parent’s shop. Not only that, but her blog had been picked up by a publisher, was being turned into a book and also into a short film. I was enthralled. To my mind, the only people being published were chefs and celebrities who got other people to write their novels for them. However, here was someone who within a few minutes of conversation, had made writing sound accessible and achievable and was something that could become a reality. I told her I’d wanted to write for a while. I was excited and full of questions that I wanted to ask. “To be honest” she said, “all you need to do is start writing and the more you write, the better you will get.”

Needless to say, work and the afternoon ahead were now further from my mind than I could possibly have imagined an hour earlier. I felt newly inspired, energized and full of ideas. I told the shop girl that I would be back at the weekend for the standing lamp and left, in a far more optimistic frame of mind than when I’d first walked in. As I stepped out of the front door a large Western Union poster on a bus stop was staring me in the face. It was carrying their slogan in big yellow letters – yes.

Months and a few blog entries later I was standing in my kitchen making a coffee when I heard the clatter of the letter box. Amongst the collection of take away menus and junk mail for the previous occupant, was a hand written envelope addressed to me. It contained an invitation to a book launch – Shop Girl Diaries, by Emily Benet.

Thursday 29 April 2010

Story From A Diary

I found a diary last weekend whilst clearing out my spare room. I don’t usually read diaries once I have written them, but the sense of curiosity had got the better of me. What caught my attention was the story of my first attempt at internet dating. It was a memorable evening, for more than one reason...

I was 5 minutes late to the arranged meeting place at Leicester Square tube station and found my date looking less than happy. She was a petite American girl of 30 and was checking her watch. “Hi” I said. “Hi, you’re late” she said with her arms folded. “Oh, sorry about that, I was engrossed in reading and went way past my stop”. “Well I’ve done that before myself, but even so..” She can’t be serious, I thought, it’s 5 minutes, not 50. I asked her if she’d like a drink. “Yes that would be nice” she said.

We walked to a pub just off Shaftsbury Avenue. It was a cosy place with sofas upstairs and a clientele that was slightly less touristy than a number of bars in the area. We had just ordered drinks and were standing at the bar. She was in the middle of talking about her job as a project manager in a bank, when I accidentally yawned. “Am I boring you?” she demanded. The realisation that I had just yawned in her face suddenly dawned on me. Shit, “I’m sorry” I said. “I was at a close friend’s birthday party last night and it didn’t finish until very late” (8am to be honest). “Hmm ok” she said, sounding unsure.

We moved to one of the sofas and carried on our conversation. She started to talk about how she was finding life in London, having recently moved here from Manhattan. Now I like Manhattan and so we found a bit of common ground. From a bit of a shaky start, this didn’t seem to be going too badly.

A girl walked over and asked if the sofa opposite was free. “Er, yeah, sure, help yourself” I said. “Thanks”, she said with a smile as another girl and a guy joined her. I turned back to my date who had now crossed her legs, folded her arms, and was checking her watch. “Er, are you ok?” I asked, sensing hostility. She snorted. “Well you’re obviously only here with me because you can’t go home with her!” The girl on the sofa overheard and raised her eyebrows. I was stumped. “Huh? – She asked me if she and her friends could sit on the sofa, I said yes. What’s the matter?” I’d hoped that she might be reasonable, but she simply raised her tone. “Well nothing, if it wasn’t for the way you were flirting with her!” I had never heard anyone use the word flirting with such vitriol. “Are you serious? She asked a question, I answered, that was it” I said, incredulously. She looked at me, legs still crossed and arms still folded. “Well I’m not going to have sex with you now!” she spat. The girl on the sofa coughed into her drink.

“I’m gonna go” she said, standing up. “Really? I thought we were just starting to hit it off.” “Are you kidding me? I’m not sure I want to see you again” she retorted, zipping up her jacket. I was tempted to make a W with my fingers and thumbs. That would have been too much of a red rag though and instead I mouthed “WHATEVER” as she reached down to pick up her handbag. “Well are you at least going to walk me to the station?” “What do you mean, at least. You’re the one who’s leaving early”. I said, standing up. “Oh, so I’m walking on my own then am I?” Bile was oozing from her every pore. I sat down again slowly and smiled at her before confirming “Yes, pretty much”. She turned and seconds later she was gone.

The girl on the sofa leaned forward. “Excuse me, but I don’t think she was all there . You’re probably well rid of that one”. Her two friends agreed with her. “Would you like to join us?” “Thanks” I said and for the next two hours we talked dating horror stories, relationships and politics – not sure how we moved onto the last topic, but it was a lively discussion. We got to the end of the evening and the girl on the sofa and I exchanged numbers. We are still friends to this day and I have mentioned her a few times before in this blog. Regular readers will know her as G, and this was the bizarre tale of how we first met.

Thursday 8 April 2010

Childhood Nostalgia

I have many fond memories of my childhood years. Some of the fondest though are based in Clacton on Sea. It was the place where my grandparents on my father’s side lived. We were not terribly wealthy when I was growing up. Many school friends would talk about their summer holidays in Corfu or places in Italy. Their trips all seemed very grand and beyond our reach, and yet it didn’t seem to matter. From being a toddler through to my teenage years, my brothers and I would spend at least one week a year at Clacton on Sea and we loved it. We would walk from my grandparent’s house, past a very large mock Tudor house that supposedly housed a pop group (whether it actually did or not, we never found out). It had a big sign on the door warning of a Doberman patrolling the grounds, although we never saw it. We would walk excitedly towards the sea front, eagerly waiting for the moment when we would catch our first glimpse of the sea. When we finally got there, we would marvel at the pier in the distance. The walk along the sea front seemed to go on for miles. We would become more eager the closer we got to the pier, watching it grow on the horizon line. Once there we would scour underneath it for any discarded remains of the fishermen's catch that morning.

I make reference to all of this because I travelled to Clacton again last week, to visit a friend who has recently bought a house there. I am a sucker for nostalgia and can be prone to sentiment. So I decided to revisit the childhood stomping ground of those early years. One of the first things I noticed was the chav nature of the town centre. It was most likely always that way in hindsight and such is the innocence of the young mind that we probably just used to see through such things. The amusement arcades in town, once seemingly like a mini Las Vegas, now looked small and provincial and used by pensioners and a few hoodies. The pier no longer seemed to go out for miles to sea and the amazing rides we used to go on were now closed down until late spring. When we were very young, we used to wonder what might be out to sea in the distance – Sharks? Treasure? Pirates perhaps...? Now I know. It’s a wind farm and is 5 miles off shore.

The details of the road my grandparents lived on are so clear in my mind. The imagery from childhood so vivid that it was like comparing photographs of now and then. To my mind it was exactly the how I remembered it, even down to the colour of the paintwork above the garage door next to the house itself. I looked up the driveway and was overcome with an urge to walk up to the front door and call on the new owners, wondering what the house looked like now. I got halfway, paused and then turned back. I decided that some memories are probably best left in the past.

So you may be thinking that the passage of time has taken the sheen of a once favourite place by the sea. The truth however, is quite the contrary. What actually happened last week when visiting Clacton was that I walked some old walks and drove the roads my father and grandparents used to drive. I ate in cafes by the beach where previously my mother had bought us buckets and spades and for two days I was taken back to the memories of one of the happiest times of my life.

I popped into my local pub to meet a friend, upon returning to London. We hadn't seen each other for a little while and he asked what I’d been up to. “I’ve just spent a few days with a mate in Clacton” I said. “Clacton on Sea? He asked "That’s a bit bloody boring isn’t it?” "Only a bit mate" I told him, "only a bit".

Friday 19 March 2010

First Date Politics

We had first met a week earlier, at a leaving party for a mutual friend. We hit it off reasonably well and exchanged numbers, agreeing to meet for drinks.

"I'm not going to kiss you" she said. Two minutes earlier we had been talking about tapas. The only thing we had discussed passing our lips was the chorizo on the specials board.

"Really... Why do you say that?" I asked "Because then I'd end up sleeping with you" she said. "Is that the new rule? Kiss someone and you have to sleep with them?" I said. She laughed and poured out the remainder of the bottle of rose. "I just thought I'd put it out there" she said. "Look, a kiss is a kiss" I said, "and it doesn't have to be followed by anything ok, so let’s just chill and enjoy the Rose”. I raised my glass “Cheers”

Five minutes later we were kissing. "I thought you didn't want to kiss me". "I didn’t but I liked what you said". With that she got up and walked to the ladies room, leaving me scratching my head, trying to remember what I’d said – if ever there was a time to write something down etc.

I was finishing my drink as she came back. “Let’s go somewhere else.” she said, finishing her drink. It was only after we had left that we saw the time. It was gone 01:30 and any of the bars nearby would be closing shortly. “Do you have anything to drink at your place?” she said “Yep, wine, gin, take your pick” I said, as I hailed a black cab.

Once in my flat I opened a bottle of Rioja left over from Christmas. I was pouring the glasses in the kitchen when she joined me and kissed me. We started drinking the wine and 5 minutes later we were in bed. So far so wet you might say.

We kissed as she lay on top of me, naked as the day she was born as our legs entwined and then...

Her – I can’t do this

Me – I’m sorry?

Her – No, I can’t do this

She pulled away and paused, and then moved on top of me again, kissing me as her hand reached down to discover how happy she had made me.

Me – Are you sure, because it doesn’t really feel like you can’t from here... or there (as she continued stroking mini me with her fingers)

Her – Well I shouldn’t. .. Oh but I could so easily have sex with you now.

Me – Knock yourself out

We kissed again, our bodies a tangled collection of limbs as we moved under the duvet. The momentum was building, our hands searching each other as she broke the kiss again.

Her – No I can’t. I don’t like sleeping on the first date.

Me – So stay awake.

Her – I shouldn’t.

Me – But we’re here now and this feels great, and we’ve had a lovely evening, so why not just relax and enjoy it.

She kissed me again before saying “ I can’t, but I’d love to”. And with that, she rolled off me.

“That’s fucking outrageous!” said G when I told her the next day. “It’s women like that that give the rest of us a bad name, you should have called her a cab and told her to leave”. A girlfriend of G’s was with us (we’ll call her G2). She said “You know what you did wrong don’t you? You should have gone downstairs and teased her, she obviously just needed coaxing.”

And herein lies the problem for us guys. We are forever being told that a girl has a right to say no whenever she chooses – period! Surely though if a woman wants to say no, then it should really be before she undresses and starts playing with the old chap. What’s a guy to do - should he leave well alone if she’s in two minds, or as G2 said, to go downstairs and wait until the volume changes?

On the night in question we slept on opposite sides of the bed. She caught the tube home in the morning. I agreed with G however and probably should have called her a cab. It’s not always easy though. When you’re pitching a tent under the duvet, the last thing on your mind are taxis.

Thursday 11 March 2010

Relationship Trouble

Upon returning to the UK, the first thing to note is the sudden change in temperature. The grey and cold of the weather in London is reflected in the tone of my mate M who calls me to see if I fancy a beer and a chat.

We meet in a pub just off the Embankment. Apparently the on/off relationship of the past 7 months with the accountant is now off again. In all the years I have known M, I haven't known him to be quite this hung up on a girl. Usually he is gregarious and good fun. Today however he is quiet, fidgety and looking like a confused child.

Me - So what's the story mate.

M - Oh i'm just feeling a bit down. It's the accountant. It's not happening.

Me - Really? To be honest, we've sort of had this conversation a few times before.

M - I know, but i've had enough now. I'm crazy about her but it's all me and i'm the one making all the effort.

Me - In what way?

M - It's always me who arranges things when we go out. It's me who calls her. I always have to go to her neck of the woods and she's only been to my place twice. She's interested and then she's not and then she is again. It's just doing my head in.

Me - Am I right in guessing that you're always available for whatever date or time she suggests?

M - Not necessarily.

Me - Honestly?

M - Ok, maybe.

Me - I was in a similar situation with someone just over a year ago, you remember? I received advice from my teenage niece of all people. Guess what she said.

M - No idea.

Me - She said shag her and then don't call her for a week.

M - And did you?

Me - Well no, but that's not the point.

M - Huh?

Me - The point is that you're too available. You're at her beck and call and she can reel you in anytime she wants.

M - So what would you do?

Me - Personally I think i'd draw a line in the sand and move on. Anyone who makes you this unhappy can't be worth it surely.

He looked forlornly into his beer and for a moment I had a horrible feeling that he was going to cry. With women crying in public, I usually feel a protective streak to make sure they are ok. Men crying at a funeral are in a bonding and sharing experience. But a man crying in a crowded pub on a Saturday afternoon is just.. well.. slightly embarrassing. Yes I know, that sounds harsh. Although that's probably because the person whom the tears are for, doesn't seem to be worth a single one of them. If I were to be protective as if he were a girl, then that would prolong the melancholy.

Me - Mate you're not going to cry are you? No one's ever going to shag you if you cry in a crowded pub.

M - No, I'm just thinking. I'm going follow your niece's advice.

Me - My niece is a teenager.

M - I'm still going to follow her advice.

He won't though. In reality, he'll follow the first part of my niece's advice and negate the second part, call her 2 days later and we'll have a similar conversation to this one in about 2 - 3 months time.

I'll tell you something my friends. I am always hearing stories about men being bastards - be it my friend G and the latest bad boy she is dating. Or be it the media circus surrounding the pantomime villainy of Ashley Cole. But seeing a grown man close to tears in a busy pub on a Saturday afternoon, makes you realise that when it comes to being a bastard, there is no monopoly between the sexes.

Friday 5 March 2010

Bangkok Bar

Aware that I was travelling on my own, I popped into a bar at the end of Kao San Road. I remembered going there when I was last in Thailand about 7 years ago and where I had met some single travellers.

It was crowded as I walked in. Thai girls were playing pool with western travellers. Elsewhere football fans were watching the premier league on the big screen in the corner - I had forgotten it was a Sunday.

Standing at the bar drinking a beer, I suddenly felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a Thai girl. She was pretty, petite and about 28 years old.

TG - Hello, where you from.

Me - England

She blew me a kiss and started to dance in front of me.

"I think you're in there mate" said a voice from behind me. I turned around to see a young guy on his own. "You reckon?" I replied. His name was Paul, he was 19 years old, on his first trip to Thailand and his mates had deserted him.

She walked up to me again and tugged on my t-shirt. "I like you" she said, before dancing some more. I chatted to Paul in between bouts of having my t-shirt tugged. We talked about where we were planning to travel to and what we planned on doing. I wanted to scuba dive in the islands. Paul wanted to have a few suits made as he was starting a job upon his return to the UK.

The girl tugged my t-shirt firmly as she walked up to me again.

TG - you, me boom boom, boom boom.

Me - Boom boom?

She grabbed my t-shirt, gyrated against me and grinned.

TG - Yeah boom boom, boom boom.

She whispered in my ear "Two Thousand bart"

I looked around at Paul, who was now talking to another Thai girl, and he gave me the thumbs up.

Me - I'm sorry, but no thanks.

TG - Boom boom, boom boom.

Me - Er.. still no i'm afraid.

She walked off as I looked at the girl with Paul. She was gyrating against him and he had his hands on her bum. She was quite tall as Thai girls go. Paul lapped up the attention as she kissed him and whispered in his ear. Seconds later he reached for his wallet and looked through the contents just as she turned to look at me and smiled. I could see where this was leading, and so I tapped him on the shoulder.

Me - Paul mate, are you doing what I think you're doing?

Paul - Yeah, why not, when in Thailand and all that, plus it's only Forty quid.

Me - She's not very petite like the other one.

Paul - Yeah but I quite like that. My ex was taller than me.

Me - Have you seen her Adam's apple? It's bigger than my fist.

Paul - What does that mean?

Me - Mate, it means that she's got a big cock.

He was aghast, as he took a fresh look at "her". Needless to say that he saved his money and bought me a beer instead. "Live and learn eh" I said. "Aye mate, cheers".

Friday 12 February 2010

Music

People around me are tapping their feet or banging their knees whilst wearing over sized headphones that seem to cover half of their heads. I'm lying here on Power Beach - not very Thai sounding I grant you, but apparently that's what it's called - probably by some oiky property developer from Dagenham.

I knew that the holiday packing seemed to go just a bit too smoothly. Well I forgot something. I forgot my ipod and now that I don't have it, I want it more than ever. I feel like an addict in need of a hit and I even want to borrow someone else's. That's a bit ridiculous though of course, I say to myself. Why would anyone want to lend a stranger their ipod - I know I wouldn't. That said of course, even if I did let a stranger borrow it, I'd be certain to get it handed straight back to me in disgust before you can say 'Apple'.

You see, I have no music taste - that is nothing which could be called new or cool. I haven't a clue about the current music scene and pay no attention whatsoever to lyrics of any kind. I can usually bluff my way in a group discussion on the subject, by mentioning the name of something I've heard on the radio whilst tuning between stations. Occasionally though I get found out.

A couple of years ago I went to the Reading festival with my friend S. So far so cool you may think, and some people did. In reality though, all I wanted was an escape. I had just split with A and moved out of the flat we shared. I was miserable and living in a strange place and needed a break - something, anything to take my mind off recent events in London. So when I was asked if I was interested in a spare ticket, I was like a child snatching free sweets and couldn't grab it fast enough.

I hardly knew any of the bands at the festival. Kate Nash, The Klaxons, Razorlight - who the fuck were they? S would say to me "Oh you must recognise this song". Nope, haven't a clue, I'd think, before saying "Oh yeah I think I know it". She knew though and called me on it, much to my embarrassment.

S - You know when I asked you if you recognised that song earlier and you said yes?

Me - Yeah?

S - Did you really know ir?

Me - Er, No, sorry

S - Thought so

We went to the tent where the Klaxons were playing. We'd been there for about ten minutes when a small boy of about 12 tugged me on the arm. "Have they played Sheila yet" he asked. At least I think that's what he asked. But how the hell should I know, I wanted to say. I should have just lied - he'd have known no different. Instead I hesitated, only to have S lean across me and in motherly fashion, reassure him that "No, don't worry, they haven't played Sheila yet". Only then to look at me despairingly as I returned a sheepish grin.

All of which has made me realise that I don't want to borrow an ipod after all. What would be the point - I wouldn't have a clue what I'm listening to anyway.

Wednesday 3 February 2010

Bangkok Swimming Pool

I'm on holiday - Thailand to be more specific and for 3 whole weeks. Well it's sort of a late summer holiday really, but I thought I'd give you all a brief update on the first day here, seeing as I won't be home for nearly another two weeks.

It normally takes me a few days to relax when going on holiday. The trials and tribulations of London living refuse to escape me and it's usually an effort to let go. I decided that the first day will be one of doing nothing - that is nothing but to try and relax, read, plan where to go next and generally soak up a lot of what was missing from my life for most of last year - sunshine!

Luckily, the hotel where I stayed for the first couple of nights, in Bangkok had a swimming pool on it's roof. After a lazy lie in, following my flight, and a proper breakfast, I made my way up to the roof terrace. There was only one sun lounger left, which I hastily claimed. The view over Bangkok is spectacular, a mixture of temples and tall modern skyscrapers, which rise above the smog (which explains why I saw so many people wearing surgical face masks), congestion, smell and general hubbub of the tut tuts, taxis and street eateries.

I've been to Thailand once before and one thing I noticed this time were the fewer number of single travellers. In fact around the pool, I noticed that everyone was in couples. Well they might just have been travel buddies for all I know, but my paranoia was telling me on first sight that they were loved up couples. That said however, three of the couples were caucasian men with Thai girls, and so probably more of a business deal, I told myself. I was drifting between writing, reading and working out what I want to do in the next few days, just as the couple on the lounger to my right started kissing. She looked like Natalie Portman. He looked like the milky bar kid on the atkins - go figure!?

Oh God, there must be some other single people around here, I thought as I reapplied the factor 35. Just then 3 large guys walked up on to the terrace wearing football shirts and spotless white addidas trainers. I looked up at the sky, that's not exactly what I had in mind, but thanks for trying, I muttered to myself.

Guys - (loudly, in scouse accents) "Does anyone know where da game's playin tonight?"

I spotted the TV in the corner. What fucking game, and why would you want to disturb my peaceful attempt at relaxation?

Me - "I think the bar next door is showing it"

Guys - "Cheers mate"

They walked off in search of the bar next door. Milky looked over to me. "Sorry mate, which bar is playing the game?" I looked at him with a half grin and in lowered tone, said "No idea mate".

Natalie Portman giggled as I went back to my book, feeling slightly more relaxed than I did ten minutes earlier.

Sunday 24 January 2010

Birthday Deadline - Part 3

Galloping down the escalator, I try to work out the quickest way home. The central Line followed by the DLR, that's it. A train is waiting to leave as I make it to the platform. I rush forward and just manage to make it through the doors, less than a second before they close, almost catching my left foot in the process.

The tube train is quite full of people. They're a mixture of last minute Christmas shoppers and workers, who have finished work at midday and spent the entire afternoon in the pub - although looking at some, the may have been there all day. I check my watch again, impatient at the speed of the tube. We seem to be delayed at every station "to reduce the gap in the service" according to the announcement. I quietly grumble and seethe.

We reach Bank tube station. The doors open and I leg it up the escalator as at full pelt - well as full pelt as you can get when armed with bags of Christmas presents. Where's the DLR? I mumble to myself - the signage seems to be about as useful as a snooze button on a smoke alarm. I find a member of staff and ask the way to the DLR. "Oh it's stopped running from here until 5th January" she says,(incidentally, it's still not running, even today). Turning, I leg it back down the escalator, checking the time as I go - it's 5:45

Following another tube ride and a bus ride, I arrive back home. It's 6:30. The gift wrapping will have to wait until later, as I rush around the flat, throwing clothes into a holdall. I grab more things, toothbrush, deodorant, wrapping paper, phone, sellotape... What have I forgotten, I think as I scratch my head, watching the minutes count down. My car keys! Where are my fucking car keys!? Oh yes, in my pocket.

10 minutes later and I am squealing the tyres as I race out of the car park. The traffic should hopefully be ok, i'm thinking as I gun it along the roads leading to the motorway, slowing down for the cameras and flooring it again afterwards. Eventually I hit the motorway. It's not too bad and i'm thinking that I should be able to make it in an ok time.

I haven't accounted for the main roads after leaving the motorway though. Why is it that I always end up getting stuck behind a Rover 400, driven by someone old, or with big ears, or both!? "Come on!!" I shout as we pootle along at 28mph. He seems to stop for no reason at all "MOVE IT!!" I shout just as I look around to see a couple in the car next to me staring in my direction. Embarrassed, I tap my fingers on the steering wheel and mime to some make believe song playing on the radio - which doesn't work incidentally. I'm dangerously low on petrol and so pull into a petrol station. My phone beeps. It's a family member, "Where are you, we are all starving", I sigh. I am about 30 minutes away but i'm wondering if I can speed it up. "I'm 20 minutes away", I text back. The tyres squeal as I leave the petrol station - it's now 7:15.

I reach the country lanes and i'm driving a bit too fast and treading a fine line between getting there in one piece and not getting there at all. Thankfully the lanes are quiet as I turn the last couple of corners before finally turning into the driveway. It's nearly 8pm. Everyones car is there except mine and any hope that someone else might be later than me has all but evaporated. Leaving the Christmas presents and luggage in the car for the moment, I grab my jacket and thunder around to the side entrance. Everyone seems to be wearing a scowl as I walk past the kitchen window. Walking through the door I fear the worst. They all turn and look at me...

"Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you,......."

Tuesday 19 January 2010

Shine

I was sitting opposite her as she talked about Christmas and the hardship of getting back into work after the holiday season. She, is a friend of my mate T. He and I used to work together and had arranged for a post new year catch up. He'd said he might bring someone with him and I had a sneaking suspicion that it might be a new flame. He had hinted as such but not confirmed anything under questioning.

She was older than his usual girlfriends I thought to myself, maybe 40 or 42. She was no less fun though and on the contrary, was quite engaging, if opinionated. There was something about her though that I couldn't quite put my finger on. Was she pretty - Check! Was she fun - Check! Was she bright - Check!

Then I realised - she was shiny. Now I don't mean greasy, as in she had the oily skin of an acne ridden teenager or anything like that. It was more shininess, as if her forehead had been made from plastic padding - smooth as a baby's whatsit and without a hint of a crease. Is there ever a polite time to ask someone as to whether they've ever played with botox? The short answer is no. But the thought having popped into my mind, just wouldn't go away. It was like being in an interview with someone who has a large boil on the end of their nose. You know you shouldn't stare, but something always draws your eyes to the unlanced growth on the end of their conk.

And so it was this time. It got worse too, as I found myself trying to make her laugh, just to see if her facial muscles would move. I couldn't really tell if they did or not and so I tried a different tack. Would she frown if we started talking politics - err no, or if she did then I couldn't tell.

I was snapped out of my train of thought by T, complaining that he hated the snow and that the bitter cold outside made his face feel dry. "You should use the cream I bought you" she said. "The cream?" I asked. "Mmm yes, the Clarins cream" she said, "oh, you should try it too, it's great for laughter lines." "You think? I said jokingly, "Maybe I should just try botox".

Not a flinch...

Saturday 16 January 2010

Birthday Deadline - Part 2

I walk out of the shoe shop and head to Regent Street checking my watch as i go - it's 1:15. I keep reminding myself that in order to get to Hertfordshire on time, I will need to have left my flat by 5pm. On my Christmas shopping list are clothes for family members and books. The crowds in Regent Street seem to be slightly prettier than in Oxford Street for some reason, although no less busy. Tourists seem to be the mainstay of the hold up as they stop to look at the Hamley's window display, holding everyone else up in the process. Elsewhere, more tourists (well they could be from North London for all I know) huddle together in the cold air and point to the Christmas lights. Oh come on, you've seen Christmas lights before, I think as I try to get through.

I spot a branch of Banana Republic and duck in to avoid the crowds. I'm thinking, It's my birthday and so why not see if there's anything here I like, as a saunter around the mens section. I end up trying on and choosing two t shirts and sweater, just as I receive a call from my friend J. He is local and wants to buy me a birthday lunch. Great, I say, as I make my way to go and pay. The queue for the checkout seems to be longer than the queue outside Hamleys, made worse because everyone seems to want their purchases gift wrapped. I check the time - 2:15. I get to the front of the queue. The sales assistant looks miserable and plainly wants to be somewhere else.

Sales Assistant - Would you like it gift wrapped?

Me - Nope, this is an entirely selfish purchase as it's my birthday.

Sales Assistant - Good for you!

Me - I know, thank you.

I meet J for lunch. We talk about the morning so far, bemoaning the fact that everyone else has left their shopping to the last minute and filling up the pavements in the process. I check the time. It's 3:15. I'm really going to have to get a move on if I'm going to leave London by 5pm.

Next stop Waterstones on Piccadilly. This is one of my favourite shops in London. It is the largest bookshop in Europe and stretches over 5 floors. At the top there is a chic little cafe bar which is great for a rendezvous.

I get carried away with myself and start reading a copy of Table Talk, by AA Gill, before eventually buying it along with the Christmas presents. As I queue at the checkout I notice a man reading a copy of Yachting Monthly, who looks like he's just stepped off his own boat - complete with thick Gortex jacket, thick woolly hat, beard and leathery face - although he may just like a drink..

I've taken too long. I check my watch - it's 4pm! I'm looking for a clothes shop, the name of which I cannot remember. I pop into Boots and walk up to the perfume counter.

Sales Assistant - Hello, is there anything in particular you are looking for?

Me - Directions actually. I'm looking for a clothes shop around here but can't really remember the name. I think it's called West something or North something.

Sales Assistant - (Calls out to colleague across the shop) Sally, do you know of a shop called West something or North something?

Sally - Eh? West something or North something? Naaa.

Sales Assistant - (looks back at me) she says naaa.

Me - (Remembering the name) All Saints, that's the place!

Sales Assistant - Try Debenhams.

My phone rings. It's a family member "Have you left yet, you should have left by now". "I'm leaving shortly" I say. Too long spent buying clothing items results in a rush as I hurl myself down Oxford Street to the nearest station. I run in and out of the road armed with Christmas presents and dodging pedestrians. I finally reach Oxford Street Tube, sweating from my run, and check my watch - it's 5:15.

Thursday 14 January 2010

Christmas In The Country

I have found that it can be a bit of an effort at this time of year, ie, winter, to visit the gym. During the summer it's a piece of proverbial piss - broadly speaking. During spring, summer and even autumn, the evenings are long and light and the mornings are bright and early. I can easily get myself out of bed and go for a run before work. At the end of a day, it's easy to get in 30 minutes at the gym or go for a swim. In this weather though, it's a loathsome task to do either, but there's a guilt at the heart of it which forces you to go. knowing that if you don't, then you may be mistaken for someone who has eaten Vanessa Feltz.

This is why Christmas was a relief. Come my birthday, (part 2 of which will follow shortly) I decided that my plan was to have a period of complete relaxation and indulgence over the Christmas period. I would consciously resign myself to the process of consuming endless food and drink that is part and parcel of the time of year. And this is what I did, as I visited family in the country for a few days, eating like an American who hadn't seen a burger in two years and drinking as if in a contest with Olly Reed (circa The Word).

I love the countryside. The reason I love it so is probably because I live in London and so enjoy it more when I'm there. The Hertfordshire villages tend to be effected much more by the snowy weather than we ever are in London - well, unless you happen to be in charge of London's public transport system, in which case it all goes up the swanny at the first mention of the word, frost.

The Hertfordshire countryside looks quite beautiful after a snowfall. Even more so when seen from the vantage point of walking the dogs across the snowy fields to one of the locals pubs for lunch and a pint (me, not the dogs). Lots of conversations, putting the world to various right, dinners, lazy watching of DVDs in front of the fire and walks ensured that project, have a very relaxing and indulgent Christmas, went entirely according to plan. The only sad point however, came the day before I left. A fox, a nasty malicious (please don't tell me they're cute or i'll vomit) piece of beagle fodder had killed the chickens in the yard. It didn't eat them. It just killed them - all of them, or so I thought. One sprang into life as I tried to pick it up, making me and a relative jump. Just then we looked around to see one of the dogs walking with a dead chicken in it's mouth - we had to laugh at the dog, if nothing else.

So Christmas has now come and gone again for another year. And now for the aftermath - getting ones arse back into the gym.

Thursday 7 January 2010

Birthday Deadline Part 1

Christmas Eve – one of the most exciting times of the year you might think. Well for some more than others. You see, Christmas Eve also happens to be my birthday. Not as bad as a Christmas day perhaps, unless you're a hippy with a beard, in which case you're immensely popular (just kidding JC). With Christmas Eve, no one is around to celebrate with and you end up, if you are me at least, spending your time buying presents for other people. This brings me to this year.

All I knew was that I had a deadline to meet in the form of a family dinner in Hertfordshire for 7pm. In fact I’d been told that this was a false deadline (always a mistake to share this sort of information with me) and that 7:30 was the absolute deadline to be there. In my mind I knew I had to leave London by 5pm in order to get there in good time.

Not a problem I thought, as the postman delivered two Christmas cards, one for me and one for the previous owner of my flat (which now also looks good on my fireplace) and three birthday cards. My phone had started beeping with Happy Birthday texts, which immediately lifted me out of the slight melancholy of being a year older, just as I was beginning to get used to the age I was last year.

A hearty breakfast and the morning papers ensued at the local cafe. "Happy birthday" said the cafe owner and said that the tea was on the house. I munched my way through bacon and scrambled eggs and smiled as I received two more birthday texts. It was getting on for midday and I was going to have to get a move on if I was going to be on time later.

One of the advantages of late Christmas shopping is that everyone else has usually done theirs already - not so this year, or so it felt. Oxford Street can be the ugliest of places to visit and today was no exception. Primark must have started their sale, I thought, as I ducked into Bond Street to avoid the huge crowds.

I checked my watch and saw that it was 1pm. I spotted a cool looking shoe shop I hadn't seen before and popped in. Now being single at Christmas has a benefit in that there is extra money to spend on one's self - and what better excuse than your birthday. I heard a voice call over to me as I started to muse around the shop. "Last minute shopping?" she asked. It was the manageress. "Yes, there's nothing more lovely than Christmas shopping on your birthday" I mused "Awww Happy Birthday, bad luck about the shopping" she said. She was adorable and over the next 20 minutes we discussed everything from Christmas shopping to birthdays, to food and shoes - her favourite topic. My phone beeped with another birthday text. I looked down to read it and noticed the time on my phone. I was going to have to get a move on. "Listen I’ve got to get on with this shopping, but I’d love to carry on this conversation. Can I take your number and maybe meet for a coffee sometime." "Yeah, why not" she said as she punched her number into my phone. I headed out the door, ready to brave the crowds.

This was starting to look like a good birthday...